Who Killed Rudy Rio?

by Lee Bellamy

  I clenched my jaw and kept on going. Was I a cream puff? I mulled it over. Dammit, he was right. From now on, I'd get tough. Velia and Tyler joined my suspect list. No more judging someone innocent because they were nice.

  Out in the parking lot, I was unlocking my car when Perez rolled in on his motorcycle.

  "What are you up to?" He stood looking at me, relaxed, yet alert and waiting.

  "Hi, Gil. I don't have time to talk." If he thought I would fall into his arms he was wrong.

  "Where are you going?" He appeared only mildly interested.

  Had we really engaged in a steamy embrace last night? "To St. Agnes," I said coolly. "Tyler's conscious. I want to talk to him."

  "You be careful." Employer to employee.

  "I will, but with Crystal gone—"

  "Maybe Crystal's gone, but there could still be a murderer running around out there."

  ***

  Velia was right about Miss Lovelady. When I walked into Tyler's private room on the third floor of St. Agnes, I found a starched, pinch-faced nurse standing beside his bed. She was all in white, even her stockings. Perched atop her head was a skinny cupcake of a cap that was very English, very Florence Nightingale. Miss Lovelady had a lot of mileage on her. If she'd told me she and Florence worked the Crimean War together, I wouldn't have been surprised.

  "I'll give you five minutes," said Miss Lovelady.

  I told her five minutes was fine. I wished she would go away, but she stationed herself at the foot of Tyler's bed, glaring suspiciously, as if maybe she'd seen me profiled on America's Most Wanted but wasn't sure.

  A lump rose in my throat when I saw Tyler, his face white as the covers, an oxygen tube up his nose, his arm strapped to a board so that an IV hanging on a pole could drip a clear solution into his vein. He lay totally still, eyes closed, his blond hair spread over the pillow. I bent over the bed and whispered, "Tyler?" He didn't move. Louder, "Tyler?"

  His eyelids fluttered open, revealing pupils glazed from whatever pain killer they were pumping into him. Blankly, he stared at me. "Hi, remember me? I was at the demonstration last night, standing next to you on the corner."

  From a million miles away he mumbled, "Oh, yeah...Holly...you were there..." His lids slid down. Off he floated to narco dreamland.

  "Tyler?" I nudged his arm. "You wanted to tell me something, remember?"

  He opened his eyes halfway. "Oh, yeah...I wanted to tell you..."

  "What? Tyler, what?"

  "It's so damn shitty—" He choked. Tears sprang to his eyes.

  I took his hand and squeezed it tight. "Tell me about it. Whatever it is, I'll handle it, okay? You stop worrying and just get well."

  "I wasn't prying. I wanted to dig out the cans and bottles."

  "Cans and bottles?" He wasn't making sense.

  He almost drifted away again before he came around and answered, "From our garbage...the deposits. She wasn't giving me any money." Despite his grogginess, his resentment came through crystal clear.

  I made a stab at guessing what he was trying to say. "Velia wouldn't give you any money, is that what you mean? So you were poking through the garbage for cans and bottles you could get a refund on."

  "Yes."

  "This was the garbage in your own back yard? He nodded. "And you found something?"

  "I found...I found..." He choked up again, and turned his face towards the window.

  "Tyler, can't you tell me?"

  "It's in my tackle box," he whispered, still turned away from me.

  "Where's your tackle box?"

  "In my closet on the shelf. It's..."

  "Tyler... Tyler?"

  No use, he had drifted off again. I didn't want to bring him back. He needed to be out of the world for a while.

  Fine with Miss Lovelady. "Time's up," she announced briskly. She marched around the bed and started fiddling with the I.V. "You may come back later." She didn't bother to look at me.

  "Yes, I'll do that." I didn't leave, though, just stood there stalling for time, wondering what Tyler had found that so upset him. I would have to get into his bedroom, but how? I considered calling Barnicut and asking what to do. Then I thought, are you loony, Keene? No way! I would rather go through bankruptcy than give him the satisfaction.

  Break in maybe? Jimmy the door with a credit card? Dump that idea, I wouldn't know how. Besides, with my crummy luck I would surely get caught.

  I couldn't be up-front with the Champions, either—explain that I needed something out of Tyler's room. He spoke to me in confidence. If he wanted Jay and Velia to know, he would have told them.

  What then? How could I get to that tackle box without getting arrested and without blabbing everything to Tyler's parents?

  I remembered his keys. Tyler would have been carrying a house key. I checked the room. The corner held a small built-in closet. If his clothes were in there...

  I would have to outfox Miss Lovelady.

  The occasion called for authority, making me wish I wasn't wearing Grandma's no-power sweater. What I needed was my corporate black suit. I'd make do, though, with what I had.

  I reached into my purse, pulled out my wallet, and psyched myself into my role. Holly Keene was out of there. Now I was Angelina Jolie facing the assassins. Drawing myself up, I flipped the wallet to my P.I. license and shoved it under the taciturn nurse's nose. "I'm a private investigator." My voice rang loud, clear, and an octave lower. "I'm working on this case. I will require your cooperation."

  Miss Lovelady's fingers flew to her throat. "Mercy me, what did you want to know?" Poor woman, her tough facade had crumbled instantly. Too many years of buckling to despot doctors.

  "I need to check his clothes." I nodded towards the tiny closet. "They're in there?"

  "Yes indeedy, let me get them for you."

  Miss Lovelady trotted to the closet, pulled out Tyler's bundle of clothes, and dropped them in a chair. My heart sank as I rummaged through them. His jacket wasn't there. Of course it wouldn't be. The police would have kept it because of the bullet hole. Only his Adidas, socks, and jockey shorts were there, along with his ratty old jeans. But maybe? I reached into the right deep pocket of his jeans, encountered something metal and pulled out his keys.

  An "all right!" leaped to my lips, but I squelched it. "Hmmm," I murmured for Miss Lovelady's benefit, "I'll have to take these." I dropped the keys in my purse and gave a perfunctory search to the rest of his pockets. "That's all. You may put the clothes away now, Miss Lovelady."

  I got out of there fast. Got back to the parking lot. Rolled out of there, buoyed up by my little triumph. I checked my watch. Twelve-thirty p.m. If the Champions were lunching at The Athenian, they'd be long gone from home by now. All I had to do was unlock the door with Tyler's key, walk in, and find Tyler's room.

  My right foot had a mind of its own. It kept pressing hard on the accelerator, making me surpass the fifty-mile-an-hour speed limit. Keeping the speed down was almost hopeless. I was too anxious to find whatever was in Tyler's tackle box.

  Chapter 17

  No sense sneaking. I swooped boldly into the Champions' circular driveway and parked the Camero close to the big red and yellow banner welcoming Jay. My scenario was ready. If by chance they were home, I had simply dropped by for a visit. If they were not, I'd zip in, zip out, horribly embarrassed if I got caught. Otherwise, home free.

  I stood on the wide front portico and rang the doorbell. Silence inside. No one appeared to be home. For the benefit of the neighbors, I yawned, waited, and rang again. Impatiently I glanced at my watch. Hand on hip, foot jiggling, I acted out a hurry-up-and-answer-the-door routine of Academy Award quality. After a minute, maybe longer, I decided I'd waited long enough. I looked around swiftly—no one in sight—slipped Tyler's key into the dead bolt lock and turned it. It clicked and I twisted the knob. The door swung open. Like a nervous doe about to flee, I poised on the threshold, peering tentatively into the dim, winter afternoon light of the foyer. My heart raced. My
palms got sweaty. I came close to bolting, thinking, this is madness. Holly Keene doesn't do this sort of thing.

  She didn't, but she was going to. Trespassing might be a crime, but curiosity alone would have driven me to break the law. I stepped inside and shut the door, acutely aware that as of that moment, I was a criminal.

  Don't waste time. I hustled up the front stairway to the second floor. I knew where Jay and Velia's bedroom was, I'd been there. I found Tyler's room farther down the hall. It was instantly recognizable, furnished with a lovely walnut bedroom set—what you could see of it—but otherwise, so trashed out it could easily qualify for every mother's worst nightmare. Unmade bed...compact disks lying around, grubby shoes, dirty laundry, assorted stuff littering the floor...posters of heavy metal rock groups covering nearly every inch of the walls and ceiling. Way to go, Tyler. Great job. Must drive the impeccable Velia nuts, as well as Jay.

  I sped across the deep pile carpeting to an open closet. Inside were shelves piled high with junk, and clothes jammed every which way on tacky wire hangers. I searched the shelves, looking for anything that resembled a tackle box, keeping in mind the green hinged box that belonged to my father. I spied it at the back of the closet on the highest shelf—a green hinged box, just like Dad's, only smaller.

  I climbed upon a low stool, reached for the box, and brought it down. I carried it into the bedroom, set it on the floor, knelt and opened it. Inside were hooks, sinkers, flies, lures, blue nylon fishing line, etcetera...all stored neatly in plastic trays. What a contrast to his room. Tyler was neat, but only where it didn't show. One item in the box appeared out of place—a plastic bag marked "Thriftys," jammed in a corner.

  I pulled out the bag and peered inside. Nothing breakable that I could see, just a small pink and white box and two sales slips stapled together. I turned the bag upside down and dumped the contents onto the carpet. The slips fell out, along with the box. I picked up the box and took a look. Printed on the side was: First Response.

  A pregnancy kit? I rocked back on my heels. Pregnancy kit? I read the sales slip. Dated two weeks ago, it listed aspirin, ice cream, and the First Response kit for a total of $22.55. A VISA charge slip was stapled to the sales slip. The total on the VISA slip was $22.55. It was signed by Velia Champion.

  "Good afternoon, Holly."

  My heart jumped. I gasped and looked up. Velia stood in the doorway. As usual she looked beautiful and impeccably turned out in a wool dress of light cream with a velvet-trimmed collar and oversized buttons of luminescent pearl. The turned-under ends of her blonde, smooth hair brushed against the velvet. A choker of pearls circled her neck. Her expression was quizzical, but otherwise serene.

  "Hi there, Velia." I felt myself turn red. I stuffed the contents back in the bag and scrambled quickly off my knees. "I...I..."

  She interrupted: "I wasn't feeling well so I left the luncheon and came home." She sounded defensive, as if she were the intruder, not I.

  "I'm sorry you're not feeling well."

  A soft smile curved her lips. "Why don't you come downstairs for a cup of tea? We'll talk."

  "Sure."

  She started down the stairs, me following, clutching the bag, thinking if it were me, and I'd found someone had broken into my house, I'd be screaming my head off, demanding to know what was going on here, threatening to dial 911. But Velia was a lady. She would rather die than create a scene, lucky for me.

  A scene... a pregnancy kit... Jay gone overseas for at least five months... Murder in Three Acts by Agatha Christie...

  Suddenly I knew. One after another, the answers tumbled into my head, and in the time it took to go from Tyler's bedroom down the stairs to the family room, the whole affair came clear. The facts were undeniable, and though I kept telling myself they couldn't possibly be true, I knew they were. I wasn't sure yet who shot Tyler, but I knew who killed Rudy, and who informed on Crystal, and who committed an outrageous murder that no one had even suspected. I felt no elation that I'd solved the mystery. Rather, a numbing bewilderment, because it was difficult, if not impossible, to comprehend the dark machinations of Velia Champion's twisted mind.

  By the time she brought the tea, I had collected myself somewhat, and was sitting on the couch in the family room where I'd sat before. The setup of the tea tray was typical Velia—the pot and sugar and creamer fashioned of gleaming ornate silver; china cups and saucers eggshell-thin, painted with delicate pink flowers. She gently set the tray on the glass coffee table between us and inquired, "And what do you take in your tea? Cream? Lemon? Sugar?"

  "Nothing, thanks." She poured. I leaned forward to pick up my cup and saucer. "How lovely."

  She settled herself across from me and crossed her legs, careful to arrange her skirt. Not hurrying, she took up her own cup and saucer and sipped her tea. Finally, with gracious congeniality, she said, "Well, Holly, if you wouldn't mind, I'd rather like to know why you're here."

  "Yes, I'm sure you would." I spoke slowly, borrowing time. All the puzzle pieces were present, but still scattered in my mind. I must bring them together, difficult though it would be, and present them calmly, and in some semblance of logic, to this cold blooded killer who sat across from me.

  I took another sip of tea, smoothed my jeans, tugged at the neck of my sweater. And when I knew I'd run out of time and excuses, I looked her squarely in the eye. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"

  Only the quick rattle of her tea cup gave her away. "Well, really!" she answered, even managing a tinkling laugh. "My goodness, what a question! Whatever makes you think that?"

  "This." I dumped the contents of the bag from Thriftys on the coffee table next to the tea tray. "It's the pregnancy test you used. Tyler found it in the garbage. He wasn't snooping. You weren't giving him an allowance so he was rummaging for bottles and cans."

  "Oh, my," she whispered. She set down her cup and shrunk a little, back into her chair. "But why do you—?"

  "Here's the charge slip." I picked it up and waved it at her. "Signed by you. How many months had your husband been in Afghanistan? Excuse the indelicate question, but who's the baby's father?"

  She sat staring at me, still as stone, eyes wide, fingers at her throat, hanging onto her pearl choker for dear life, as if it could save her.

  "Who's the father, Velia? Shall I give you an educated guess?"

  She stirred at that, reached for a pink Kleenex and started to shred it. "Really, Holly," she told me in a tiny voice, "I don't think this is called for."

  "I didn't think so either, until about five minutes ago when suddenly it dawned on me what you've done. Want to hear?"

  "No!" she answered, spunky at last. "Perhaps you'd better leave."

  Not a chance. Nothing would stop me now. "Here's how I've got it figured. Help fill in the gaps. It began when Jay's reserve unit was suddenly shipped to Afghanistan. There was no one to run the office on such short notice, so you had to pitch in."

  "So? Is there anything wrong in that? A lot of wives have done the same."

  "Nothing wrong with it, no. You were being a good sport—doing your bit for your country, only..." I hesitated, knowing all I had was my educated guess, but chancing it all the same. "Bill Hatcher is a smooth, slick, master con man. From what I gather, you've led a rather sheltered life, so it's not surprising he would get to you. I've seen his record. A woman doesn't have a chance when he turns on the charm." With some exceptions, I thought, but nothing would be gained by mentioning my own encounters with the disgusting letch.

  "Bill Hatcher?" Velia looked astonished. Vehemently she shook her head. "You are very, very wrong. I've never loved anyone but Jay."

  "You don't have to love a man to screw him."

  She flinched at my bluntness but didn't deny my accusation. I continued, "That snake charmed the panties right off you, didn't he? I'll bet you were working late one night and he invited you into his office. Offered you a drink. Told you how beautiful you are—how much he desired you—how all these years he'd worshipped
you from afar. He sweet-talked you right onto that big leather couch of his, didn't he?"

  Her mouth dropped open. "How did you—?" She stopped abruptly, but she had turned so pale that I knew I hit the truth square-on. Tears formed in her eyes. By now her Kleenex was in shreds so I passed her another. She took it automatically, hardly aware of it. And then she sobbed.

  Had she buried her face in her hands, or turned away, it would have been more tolerable, but instead, she sat staring at me, tears gushing down her cheeks, crying harder and harder until I, not able to stand it anymore, got up and went to a window where I stood with my back to her, staring into their backyard.

  I don't know how long I stood there, admiring the pool, the cabana, the redwood spa, but at length her sobs lessened. I looked at her sideways. She had wiped her eyes and was trying to pick up her tea cup, but her hand shook so violently that most of the tea sloshed into the saucer. Finally she gave up and set it back on the table. I went back to the couch again and handed her another Kleenex. "Tell me about it," I said, and sat down.

  She got up, walked to the wet bar and took a glass from the shelves behind. She disappeared for a moment, bending down, coming up with a full bottle of Jim Beam. She poured the glass nearly full, added a splash of water, and opened a small refrigerator—also below—where she pulled out a couple of ice cubes and dropped them into her glass. She stirred the contents of the glass with her finger. "I never do this," she said to me, and brought the glass to her lips.

  I spoke up fast. "Not good for the baby."

  She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, "My God, you're right. The baby. I've got to think of the baby." With a desperate "Damn!" she dumped the liquid down the sink and hurled the glass against the wall. I flinched when it shattered, but she hardly noticed and didn't seem to care.

  I repeated, "Tell me about it."

  Calmer now, she came and sat down again, and took a deep breath that was more a shudder than a sigh. "It was late, almost midnight," she began. "I was at the office working on the books. I was tired...and lonely, with Jay being gone. It's as you said. Bill came in. He kept telling me how beautiful I was—how much he admired me. Then he invited me to his office for a drink. I said yes, to be friendly, I guess...oh, I don't know. But before I knew what was happening..." She put a hand to her eyes and bowed her head. "He didn't force me. I wish he had. Then I could call it rape and at least have an excuse for...what happened. God forgive me, it was only the once." She started to weep again.