He said nothing, but he did sigh again; it sounded a little like a wheezing furnace.
Mother sat forward, her hands folded in her lap. “Sheriff, I’m disappointed. I had believed you and I had come to an understanding—a silent agreement to do each other favors.”
“I am doing you a favor.”
“What, specifically?” Mother asked.
His tiny smile was nasty, the upper lip curling like a dog about to growl. “I’m not going to check for pick marks on the lock. Now go home, you two.”
I said, “But Chief Cassato said he wanted to talk to me.”
“I’m sure he knows where to find you. Go home!”
But we didn’t go home, instead driving to the shop.
Midafternoon now, we found Joe—in tan-and-green speckled desert fatigues—hard at work, boxing up items marked for the upcoming white elephant sale, cartons stacked in the foyer, ready for transport to the Serenity Food Bank, whose facility we’d be using in exchange for receiving part of the proceeds.
My friend went to the same mental health clinic as Mother and me—he was being treated for his PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). But every summer Joe made a habit of going off his meds, and packed up his survivalist gear to live in a cave at Wildcat Den State Park until fall (occasionally sneaking home to collect food set out by his mother). That’s why we only could use him at the shop for another month or so.
“How’s everything going?” I asked him.
“A-okay,” he replied, standing at attention.
Joe was tall and lean, with nice features that were a tad wrong: eyes slightly off kilter, nose leaning left (though he leaned right), mouth a mite too wide, and thick, sandy, unruly hair that refused to surrender.
“Provide coordinates,” he said, “and I can convey some of the boxes in my Jeep.”
“Thank you, Joe,” Mother said. “We could use your help when the time comes.”
“Roger that.” Then: “Noted police activity down the street.”
I nodded. “Blake Ferrell . . . janitor at Sunny Meadow . . . took his life, apparently. Know him?”
“Negatory. But picked up some scuttlebutt about him.”
“In what regard?” Mother queried.
“His connection to drugs.”
I asked, “Connected how?”
“Dealer.”
That was about as detailed as Joe got.
Risking a nonmilitary smile, he asked, “Would you like me to stay and take over, Brandy? Mrs. Borne? Otherwise I have gear to pick up.”
Joe was already prepping for his summer cave vacation.
“No, you can go,” Mother said. “Dismissed! . . . And thank you.”
He nodded. “Want me to open up tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred?”
“Yes, please,” she said. “I’m not sure what our mother-daughter itinerary will be as yet.”
After my eccentric friend had gone, Mother moved to the stool behind the counter, where she sat, frowning.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Dear, I’m still perplexed about why Harriet gave me that photo of Gabby Hayes, and was so insistent that I keep it.”
At the moment I didn’t care. I was hungry.
“Maybe she was just being nice,” I said, and went back to the kitchen and got the cookie dough out of the fridge, fired up the stove, and started some coffee going.
Mother continued talking as if I were still with her.
“Maybe his name contains a clue,” she said out there, never hard to hear from a distance thanks to her stage training.
Her fingers could be heard clicking on the computer’s keyboard, and I knew she was probably using one of the anagram sites.
Too impatient to wait for the oven to preheat, I put the tray of dough inside—knowing I’d probably have burnt cookie bottoms—and set the timer.
I returned to Mother. “Well?”
“Zip, zally, zilch.”
She looked the actor up on Wikipedia, and when she started to read his biography out loud, I pulled up the extra stool. Nothing jumped out from the bio, but Mr. Hayes had led a long and interesting life.
“What about his movies?” I asked. The biography mentioned Gabby had appeared in over one hundred and fifty films, but didn’t list them.
Mother went to IMDb.
The oven buzzer sounded, and I hopped off the stool.
Yep, burnt bottoms. Better theirs than mine.
Her voice reached me from the other room. “I’ll read them. Don’t Fence Me In, Along the Navajo Trail, The Man from Oklahoma, Under Nevada Skies, Song of Arizona, Rainbow Over Texas . . .”
I got myself some coffee.
“. . . Badman’s Territory, Return of the Bad Men, Home in Oklahoma, Trail Street, The Untamed Breed . . .”
I ate a cookie.
“. . . Mojave Firebrand, The Big Bonanza, Tall in the Saddle, Tucson Raiders, The Man from Thunder River . . .”
I had another cookie.
“. . . Overland Mail Robbery, Death Valley Manhunt, Wagon Tracks West, Man from Cheyenne, Sons of the Pioneers. . . ”
And a third cookie.
“. . . Hidden Valley Outlaws, Lights of Old Santa Fe, Marshal of Reno, Red River Valley, bring me a cookie.”
For a nanosecond I thought—Bring Me a Cookie, what an odd name for a western.
I put a few lesser burnt-bottomed cookies on a plate, poured coffee in a cup for her, and rejoined Mother.
Settling back on the stool, I said, “We’ll be here for hours if you read out all of his films—what was the one mentioned in the letter of provenance?”
“The Cariboo Trail.”
“What’s it about?”
Mother looked it up. “ ‘Two ranchers, played by Randolph Scott and Bill Williams, drive their cattle from Montana to Canada along the Cariboo Trail, but one night the herd is stolen from them, stranding them in the wilderness. They then try to earn money by panning for gold with the help of an old prospector, played by Gabby Hayes. But soon their gold is stolen, too.’” She nibbled on a cookie. “Admittedly, it’s not among Randy Scott’s finest movies, but Gabby Hayes gives one of his best performances, says here. When are you going to learn to preheat that oven?”
Ignoring her question, I said, “Maybe a map of the Cariboo Trail will tell you something.”
Okay, so maybe I was just making trouble again. But that was better than Mother getting into real trouble—there could still be a murderer out there, you know.
The bell over the door tinkled, announcing a visitor, putting a temporary end to this nonsense.
Tony came in.
“Vivian, Brandy,” he said, businesslike, and approached the counter.
“Hello, Chiefie,” Mother chirped, using the silly nickname that always made his eyes tighten a little.
Those eyes went to me. “I’d like a private word with your daughter.”
Uh-oh.
I slid off my stool. “How about some coffee? I’ve got a fresh pot going in the kitchen.”
“Fine.”
Mother, looking miffed that she hadn’t been included, said, “Don’t be concerned about me. . . . I’ll just take a trip along the Cariboo Trail.”
Tony shot her a quizzical look, then followed me.
He sat at the vintage Formica-top table, while I got us both some java (a fifties expression at a fifties table), then joined him.
“What’s this about the Cariboo Trail?” he asked.
I waved a dismissive hand. “Just a silly false lead I tossed Mother to keep her occupied . . . If this is concerning how we got into Blake’s apartment . . . ?”
“It isn’t. I’m in no mood to be your conscience right now. And, frankly, that won’t make any difference with the evidence we’ve found.”
“Oh.” I waited.
Tony took a sip of coffee, then sat back. “I want to know when Vivian is going to resume her campaigning.”
I frowned at this apparent non sequitur. “You mean, when is she going to be th
rough investigating?”
He nodded.
“Well, I think Mother is satisfied that Blake killed Judd Pickett, and Wanda, too, and then took his own life. But she’s hung up—sorry, bad word choice—on who might’ve murdered Harriet.”
“Is she.” It wasn’t exactly a question.
I nodded. “According to Rudder, Mrs. Douglas’s oxygen tank had been tampered with, and Mother won’t stop till she finds out who did it.”
Tony expressed his disgust with a cross between a grunt and a growl.
“Then,” he said, and sighing (lot of that going around), “you’d better call her in here.”
But I didn’t have to, because she’d been listening just outside the doorway.
After Mother had settled in to the chair across from Tony, he asked her, “Have you met Emma, our new dispatcher?”
What did the new dispatcher have to do with the price of coffee beans?
“Funny you should mention her,” Mother replied, innocently. “I was planning on dropping by the station to get acquainted. To wish her all the best in her new endeavor.”
Mother, of course, had never met Emma.
With his eyes narrowed and his smile narrower, Tony said, “Perhaps you’d like a little background on her.”
“Please.” Mother folded her hands primly. “Any information would be helpful in forging a friendship.”
Such as, did Emma like Godiva chocolates, small parts in plays, or photos autographed by movie stars?
The chief said, “Emma is perhaps the best dispatcher we’ve ever had, and it’s just the beginning for her. Her husband gave up an excellent job in Indiana just so she could get her start in law enforcement. Their two children were pulled out of private schools to be enrolled here, and they just bought a house with a hefty mortgage.”
Those were more words than I’d ever heard Tony string together.
“How delightful,” Mother said.
“Yes, and I’d hate to have to fire Emma for giving you confidential information after all the sacrifices her family has made.”
Mother, instead of being offended, sat forward, eyes gleaming. “What deal are you offering me?”
Now Tony formed a sly smile the likes of which I’d never seen from him. “First—Emma. I don’t want her compromised.”
Holding up her hands, fingers splayed, Mother might have been surrendering, or possibly demonstrating that her fingers were not crossed. “I’ll never pressure the woman for information,” she stated flatly.
“Brandy,” Tony said, his eyes still on Mother, “you’re a witness.”
I said, “I will do my best to see that Mother keeps her word.” For what good it would do.
“All right,” Tony said. He regarded us both. “A stun gun was used on Blake before he was hanged.”
Mother’s mouth dropped open—mine, too—like the trap door on a gallows.
“He was Tased?” I asked. Mother had once accidentally shot me with her Taser gun and I was paralyzed for about half an hour. Good times.
Tony shook his head. “A Taser and a stun gun are slightly different weapons. They both use an electrical current to render a person helpless, but a Taser can be activated from a distance, while a stun gun has to be held right against the person. The marks of a stun gun were found on Blake Ferrell’s back.”
I felt the hair on the back of my neck tingle. “So he knew and probably trusted his attacker.”
“And once Blake was helpless,” Mother said, her eyes slitted but glittering, “some person unknown set the stage to make a murder look like a suicide.”
“Didn’t it have to’ve been a man,” I asked, “to lift Blake up high enough to . . . ?”
I shivered and Tony shrugged.
“The victim didn’t weigh that much,” he said. “A woman, with adrenaline going, might be capable.”
“A stun gun is more of a female’s weapon, isn’t it?” I asked. “Something to use for close contact? Like mace?”
Tony shrugged again. “Not necessarily. Some of our male officers prefer a stun gun to a Taser. Different strokes.”
For several seconds there was no sound but the tick tock of our Felix the Cat clock.
Then Tony stood, eyes on Mother, unblinking and hard. “Vivian, I want you to stop any investigating you’re doing—or plan to do. I know such requests in the past have fallen on deaf ears, but this killer is obviously dangerous, and getting more desperate. Let Rudder and me do our jobs.”
She nodded. Tony, like the sheriff, long since learned to ask Mother for a verbal agreement.
“Say it, Vivian,” he said.
“I will let you and the sheriff do your jobs.”
This, of course, did not really exclude her investigation from continuing, but Tony pushed no further.
He thanked us for the coffee, then left. For once I did not follow him to the door. I was trembling and afraid—don’t mind telling you.
I said, “He’s right, you know.”
But Mother didn’t reply—never a good sign, when Vivian Borne turns untalkative. Those wheels were turning. You could almost hear the clank.
The phone in the other room rang, and I left the table.
“Trash ’n’ Treasures,” I answered.
“Brandy?”
The voice was female and I recognized it. “Hello, Della. What can I do for you?”
This near closing time, I hoped whatever it was wouldn’t keep me from getting home to a neglected Sushi.
Her voice sounded urgent. “I must see you and Vivian.”
“When?”
“Now. It’s important.”
Sushi would have to wait. Or if she didn’t, I would have to be prepared to clean up the mess.
“Are you at the gallery?” I asked.
“Home. I didn’t work today.”
I recalled she lived in Stoneybrook, the same housing development where Daryl had his home, and was about to ask for the number when she said, “But I don’t want you to come here. And I don’t want to meet at your shop or house.”
A note of unease had crept into her voice.
“Do you know where the Cinders is?” she asked. “It’s a sort of a bar on Main Street.”
“I’ve been in there a few times.”
“They won’t be busy now, and way in the back are little private seating areas.”
“Cool,” I said. “See you there right away.”
As I hung up, Mother asked, “What was that, dear?” She’d just come in from the kitchen.
I relayed the conversation.
“I wonder what could be so important,” Mother said, clearly relishing the mystery of it. “And why the secrecy?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” I replied.
We locked up the store and left.
* * *
The Cinders, located on the first floor of another box-car-style Victorian brick building, had been in the same family for decades. The current owner was Renny, a lady in her early fifties, with a bubbly personality, long blond hair, pretty features, curvaceous figure, and a preference for leopard-print attire on loan from SCTV’s Edith Prickley.
An avid collector of oddball collectibles, Renny had filled the bar with hundreds of such items, all for sale, although nothing was marked, and a customer who’d gotten a little tipsy might be seen leaving with a life-size standee of Mr. Spock, a velvet painting of Muhammad Ali, or a colorfully jacketed album of 78 rpm records by Gene Autry.
Without knowing it, or perhaps sensing a coming trend, Renny had, in her years of indiscriminate collecting, made the bar a magnet for the local hipster crowd, twenty- and thirty-somethings who hung out there.
I had been inside the establishment a few times, but this was Mother’s first visit, accompanied by her eyes popping as they took in a huge dollhouse, completely furnished, and a vast collection of Elvis memorabilia, just inside the door.
Along the left wall stretched a bar along which were spaced lava lamps, providing ambiance, with seating at the c
ounter consisting of a dozen red vinyl bucket-seat chairs, all empty at this early hour. In fact, we seemed to be the only customers.
Hugging the right wall, and nearly as long as the bar, was a shuffleboard-by-hand game, with little round tables and chairs provided for players to keep score.
The owner, behind the bar, looked up from drying a glass, and gave us a smile. “Welcome, ladies. Remember, everything’s for sale . . . almost.” And she winked at us.
I said, “Hi, Renny. Thought I’d show Mother your place—she’s never been here before.”
“Sure, kids, have a look around, and if you see anything you want, make me an offer. In the meantime, can I get you something to drink?”
I ordered a white zinfandel, and Mother requested her standard fare—a Shirley Temple—and informed our hostess that we’d be in the rear seating area.
Mother and I continued on, past a vintage sixties juke box, several eighties video game consoles, a table containing a half-finished jigsaw puzzle, a junior-size pocket pool setup, a collection of sombreros and boa feathers on a coatrack, more tables and mismatched chairs. The walls were covered with movie posters, sports memorabilia, mirrors of all kinds, framed movie and TV glossies, and everywhere were lighted roping and twinkle lights—Christmas in Peewee’s Playhouse.
Through a hanging beaded curtain, we reached the last area, a cozy place made up of an assortment of kooky seating and side tables, arranged in little nooks of privacy, separated by fake palm trees with stuffed monkeys in their branches. We had the place to ourselves. Except for the monkeys.
I sat on a black chair shaped like a high heel (the chair, not me), and Mother settled on what had once been the front seat of a fifties car with blue tuck-and-roll upholstery.
“Well!” Mother said. “I’m certainly impressed. Everything including the kitsch and sink!”
“Don’t get any ideas. We have enough stuff in the shop and at home as it is.”
“There’s always room for Jell-O, dear,” she said, nodding toward a framed magazine ad with Jack Benny hawking the stuff circa 1942.
Renny appeared with our drinks, in glasses with cartoon characters (me, Daffy Duck; Mother, Bugs Bunny) and placed them on the little table between us.
“We’re expecting a third,” I said. “Della, from the art gallery? Would you send her back when she comes?”
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