A Dead Red Heart

by R. P. Dahlke

  Chapter eight:

  My dad was either in jail thinking how best to punish me for getting him involved with a gun-waving crazy woman, or he was trading high fives and beers with his pals at George Winston's wake. Either way, I couldn't do anything about it unless I got a call from Caleb telling me to come and retrieve my old man.

  I walked into the house to the sound of the phone, and expecting Caleb, picked up. I should have known better.

  "I'm crushed," the voice said on the other end of the line.:Why would you think I called you a murderer."

  "Who is this?' I growled into the receiver, but my bet was on Del Potts, that crackpot newspaper reporter. He was probably going through the cell phone images from my humiliating encounter with Billy Wayne's mother at the funeral home while he talked.

  I may have said something that sounded like, "Bite me."

  "Honey, baby, is that any way to talk to your lovin' hunka man?"

  "Bad Elvis, Del. Want me nicer? Then stop accusing me of murder."

  "Not me, baby."

  "Yeah, you. First you incite Billy Wayne's mother to say that I was responsible for her son's death, then she threatened to shoot me in front of a crowd of mourners at George Winston's funeral."

  "George Winston, the musician?"

  I sighed. "Not that George Winston. My dad's barber. I was at his funeral when I narrowly escaped being shot by Billy Wayne's mother and it's all your fault."

  "We should talk. Say over lunch? You can have me on rye, wheat or white?

  "Not on your life, asshole. Go crawl back under your rock!" I slammed the phone back on the wall, the bell tingling from the unexpected jolt. I felt bad for the phone, it wasn't responsible for my bad moods.

  I looked around the kitchen for something to throw, but decided against it since I'd just have to clean it up. Instead I went to look in the fridge for comfort food. No leftovers, of course, but there was a jar of pure, unfiltered, natural no-sugar almond butter, another part of dad's new diet.

  In all the years since I quit New York, I hadn't gained an ounce. Then I hit forty and all of a sudden things jiggle when I walk. I suppose I could join Caleb at the gym, but I was too lazy for that. Softball once a week, when I could spare the time, was all the exercise I needed.

  I opened the jar and stuck my finger in, pulling out a sample. It tasted like wallpaper paste and stuck to the roof of my mouth. Whatever happened to good ol' Jiff? Never mind my dad's new take on diet food, the changes around here were making me nuts.

  Hearing the floor creak upstairs, I went to stand at the bottom of the stairwell and yelled, "Dad? That you?"

  Juanita came to the landing with a load of laundry clutched to her chest. "He's still in town, chica."

  This could be a good sign, or a bad one. If he was in jail, not so good, but right now I needed to eat. "Is there anything to eat besides that healthy crap in the fridge?"

  She sniffed. "Don' let your daddy hear you talk that way. He's on a tear lately. He wan's me to make some kinda tofu thing instead of my seven-layer enchilada casserole."

  At the mention of her seven-layer casserole my mouth watered.

  "Any chance you're doing your casserole tonight?"

  She shook her head at me. "No, sorry, hon. Your daddy tol' me he was eating out tonight, an' I figured you would be with Caleb, you know, so I didn' plan nothin'. If you thin' Señor Bains will be home soon, I can stay, make him some tacos. You wan' me to make you some, too?"

  I preferred to hold onto the thought that my dad was right now sharing a plate with a nice woman who wasn't my third grade teacher instead of sitting behind bars.

  Caleb should be off duty by now. Didn't I see steaks in his freezer last week? We'd grill and snuggle in front of the TV. "Uh, thanks, but I'm sure Dad's out for the evening. I'm going over to Caleb's after all, so go home, have a nice evening."

  "Okay, but you got a lot of messages on the answering machine, and there's a letter for you on the kitchen table."

  "Are any of those messages from my dad?"

  "No, hon. Newspaper and TV people and a whole lotta hang-ups. Some people are so rude. How am I supposed to get my work done with all these hang-ups? Oh, and one nice lady. At least she left her name and phone number. I wrote it down for you. I thin' you should call her back and forget about the rest."

  I shuffled through the mail, tossing most of it into the trash until I got to a note-sized envelope addressed to me with no stamp; which meant hand delivered to our mailbox. I should leave this for Caleb. But, it wasn't sealed, so maybe just a peek. An embossed note card with the initial M and a handwritten note from the same caller—Merriweather Cook. It said, "Please come to my home today any time after five p.m. I'd like to talk to you about my nephew Billy Wayne Dobson."

  It was signed, "Miss Merriweather Cook" I lifted the notepaper to my nose and smelled lilacs. The address was one I recognized as being on the edge of suburbia. A cautionary voice in my head said, This is no longer interesting to you, Lalla Bains.

  I pushed the note card around and around—hadn't I already decided to stay out of this investigation? I fast forwarded through twenty-six messages listening to the last one from the "nice" lady who said her name was Merri Cook, and she was inviting me to come for a chat about her nephew; and this time she sweetened the deal with coffee and cookies.

  This really should be left for the police. If Merri Cook had something to add to Billy Wayne's death, the police should be talking to her, not me. But, then I'd have to go through that disgusting Rodney.Besides, she was asking me, not them.

  For a moment I actually felt sick to my stomach then remembered I was just hungry. I would get cookies, and maybe some inside information that would lead to a break in this case.

  I wondered if Miss Cook made her own cookies, or if they were store bought; then picked up my car keys and closed the door behind me.

  In the Caddy, I dialed Caleb's private line and got his voice mail. I hung up. This was okay, really it was. I would see what she had to say. Maybe she would give me a clue, something that would help this homicide investigation and give me my life back. I was also hoping for oatmeal raisin—with walnuts. They're my favorite.

  Merriweather Cook's house was in a newish housing development that when first built looked so far outside the city limits as to appear marooned. Not any more, it didn't. Housing developments now coated the landscape all the way to Stockton.

  Since it was early evening, children played basketball in the cul-de-sac and a man lifted his hand from watering his lawn and waved as I passed. I parked, got out and walked up the paved driveway to the small tract home she listed as her address. I rang the bell and then noticed that the front door was ajar. Pushing the door open, I called, "Miss Cook? Merriweather? Hello-oo-oo… Anybody home?"

  I stepped inside. "Hello-oo-oo?"

  Nothing. Did I even have the right house? I backed out the door, and looked again at the house number again, then at the street sign. Right house, right street. But no Miss Cook. Inside the house, I peeked into the kitchen, the stove held a gently whistling teakettle. And there was a plate of homemade chocolate chip, and big fluffy haystack macaroon cookies, complete with paper doily.

  So as not to feel completely foolish, I checked out the two bedrooms and a single bathroom off the hall, then stepped out the back door. Rose bushes lined the fence, a sprinkler arched water across a neatly trimmed lawn, and a colorful fabric-striped patio set was parked on a postage-sized cement pad.

  Definitely nobody home, and no body lying dead on the floor either, thank God. She'd probably gone next door to borrow a cup of sugar to make more cookies. I ought to move in. I took a cookie and sat down on the couch to wait. Then, too impatient to sit still, I got up, and with a cookie in one hand, I tucked a soft and chewy macaroon into my cheek and ambled over to a side board crowded with framed photos.

  The first was of two young women, one thin and one heavy-set. I recognized a younger version of the terrorizing harridan from the fune
ral home: Margery Dobson. Amazing to think one woman could hold such a sour expression for so many years. The other one had a round face and a placid, agreeable countenance. This, I assumed, was my new best friend, Miss Merriweather Cook. The next photo showed the same women with two boys between them, one tall lanky teenager next to a short, round boy. I swallowed the macaroon and stuffed the chocolate chip cookie into my mouth. With both hands free, I pulled the photo out from its frame and looked at the back. Sure enough someone had written on it: "Merriweather, Margery and the boys." Boys? Didn't her note say, Miss? Maybe like me, she'd taken back her maiden name after her divorce. But did women take back their maiden names if they had a child? Would I, if I had had a child, have taken back my maiden name?

  Billy Wayne was recognizable, even with the sulky typical teenager "Why me?" look. But there was no way to tell who might be the younger one There were no grown-up photos of the boys, and just as I was about to pick up another picture frame, in walked Caleb trailed by a couple of uniforms.

  "Lalla," he said, his voice resigned, if somewhat pained.

  "Caleb? What're you doing here?"

  "Please," he said, the painful tone turning to aggravation. He took my arm, and just like a few days ago, turned me for the door. "Let's go outside and talk."

  "She asked me to come," I protested as he pulled me out onto the porch.

  Caleb said something to the uniforms, then nodded at the row of houses on either side, and his deputies went to work, ringing doorbells, asking questions.

  "So why are you here?" I asked.

  "Because dispatch said there was a red car outside with big tailfins, loud arguing, and gunfire."

  "Right. And, mine is the only red Caddy in town?"

  He did a slow head shake, like I shouldn't have to ask. "Fortunately, it's my jurisdiction. Come on sweetheart, better me than Detective Rodney, right?"

  Caleb's cruiser, I noticed, was hastily bumped up onto the sidewalk. It was sweet of him to hurry on my account, still. Something was off. "This is a load of horse-crap," I said, waving prettily at the guy with the watering hose. "Gunshots, huh? Look over there. Do you think parents in this neighborhood would let their kids stay out and play if there were shots fired? So, how long ago did the call come in?"

  "Ten, fifteen minutes," he said, herding me towards his cruiser.

  "I've been set up," I said, the macaroons now burning a hole in my stomach. He opened the passenger door, and I slumped down into the seat.

  "Okay, maybe you're right," he said, going around to the driver's side. Settled, he put an arm along the back of the seat and tugged at my ponytail. "Where you been all day?"

  I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him the short version. "I called you. You could've returned any of the messages I left."

  "I tried. Your cell out of juice?"

  I pulled my cell phone out of my purse. Sure enough, the battery was dead. "I went to a funeral with my dad, met Billy Wayne's crazy mom, and got the business end of her forty-five aimed at me. But I guess nobody called the cops about that. But I did get a call from that newspaper guy, Del, and soon as somebody arrests a suspect, I'm suing his dumb-ass for libel, maybe defamation of character, something. Then I get this letter addressed to me from Billy Wayne's aunt. Said she had something to tell me about his murder."

  "You got this letter with you? No? Okay, what's her name?"

  "You don't believe me!"

  "Of course I believe you."

  "Merri—Merriweather Cook. This doesn't look good for me, does it? If it turns out the lady is dead, you think your psychic deputy could help me get off a murder rap?"

  "This isn't a joke."

  Caleb's sense of humor didn't stretch to the macabre where dead people were involved.

  We both watched through the car window as the patrolmen unsuccessfully canvassed yet another house down the block.

  "What's going on, Caleb? You don't think she's dead too, do you?"

  "I think we shouldn't jump to any conclusions. Listen, I know this probably isn't the best time to bring this up, but I needed to talk to you anyway."

  "Yes?"

  "I think we should get married."

  My eyes blurred, and I heard bees in my head. However a migraine wasn't the reason—it was panic. What was he saying? When we talked about our future together, which we seldom did, marriage was never mentioned. Besides, what was he doing proposing to me like this? I looked out at the cluster of five or six couples standing with arms folded while they rapidly tossed back and forth their own theories as to why the police were parked on their quiet street.

  He was proposing to me in front of a missing woman's house with a complete stranger staring at us from behind his watering hose–wait a minute. I knew what was wrong with this picture.

  "You're hoping you can rope me in with a ring, aren't you? Like if we're married, I'll suddenly become this meek little wife who'll never cause you any grief? Surely, after all these years you know me better than that, don't you?"

  He was silent for a moment, then he cleared his throat and said, "I didn't do this right, I know. Work has been hectic and we've both been too busy to really spend any time together this summer, and I thought I'd take you out to dinner, give you a little black velvet box…."

  "Have you got the box?"

  "What?"

  "You heard me, bozo, you haven't got a little velvet box with a ring in it, do you? You just now thought of this brilliant plan. All of which means, this was completely off the top of your pointy li'l head."

  I opened the door and got out. "She called me, Caleb! And I wouldn't marry you, Caleb Stone, if you had Rock Star printed on your forehead. If you were the last man on earth!"

  I shouldn't have shouted—it was drawing attention away from the search for Miss Cook, but I was steemed. I slammed the door and flounced back to my Caddy. By the time I got the keys out and started it, I was shaking with rage.

  Caleb reached in and put a restraining hand on the wheel. "Lalla. Don't leave like this."

  I felt my heart sink. Our first fight, and I felt sick about it. I was close to crying, though I wasn't about to let him see it.

  "I mean it, Lalla. Rodney's on his way, and he insists he be here to take your statement."

  So, that was it? He wasn't here to beg my forgiveness for the faux pas he'd just committed? He was only trying to restrain the suspect should she try to escape?

  "Get your damn hands off my steering wheel," I said, doing my best to sear him with the heat of my fury. "Admit it, Caleb, you were told to keep an eye on the little woman, weren't you?"

  He flushed red under the deep tan. "Mad at me isn't going to work, Lalla. Come on now, turn off the engine."

  "I'm not mad Caleb, I'm done. Detective Rodney knows where to find me." I punched the gas pedal and the car bucked into forward; then I remembered to release the brake, and hitting the gas, burned rubber for half a block before I thought to look into my rearview mirror.

  My future coulda been, shoulda been, was standing in the middle of the street, arms crossed, feet spread—as if braced for the impact should I care to back up and run him over.

  Chapter nine:

  I took the freeway and cruised towards town while I sorted through what I knew was fact—as opposed to my hurt feelings. It didn't matter to Caleb that I'd been invited to Miss Cook's house for coffee and cookies. And who but Caleb would come up with a marriage proposal at a potential crime scene? What a doofus! Did he really think I was going to fall for that bit of subterfuge? I tried to contact him, didn't I? Was it my fault he didn't answer his phone? It would've been a nice, quiet chat with coffee and cookies if some crankster hadn't decided to call the police, identify my vintage red caddy and mention gun-fire. Where, oh where was Miss Cook? And, why did she feel the need to call and send me a letter, if she was only going to disappear before I got there? The chances that this was simply a coincidence of letter, phone call, and the police showing up all at the same time was beginning to look like
another set-up.

  I felt the nervous tension of my dust up with Caleb slowly seeping out until I was no longer angry, only puzzled about the whole episode. Sweeping aside my annoyed and disappointed feelings, I decided to do something that would give me some answers.

  Exiting the freeway onto Kansas Street to 9th Street. I parked in front of Mr. Kim's Chinese Restaurant and thought about Mr. Kim's daughter, Grace. In high school, we quickly appraised each other's faux Goth look and decided what we both knew to be true: we were simply a couple of deeply inhibited loners. And thereafter, whenever we saw each other, we crossed to the opposite side of the street.

  Ignoring warning signals now blinking like an unanswered message machine in my head, I automatically tried to call her on my cell. The battery was as dead as it was when Caleb asked about it. I plugged the cell into the cigarette lighter and called Mr. Kim's.

  Fortunately, Grace was on duty, and she met me at the door wearing the standard waiter uniform of bow tie, white shirt, and black pants. I noticed that she may have shed most of the Goth look from high school, but her lace-up Doc Marten's said shedding the Goth look didn't include letting go of comfortable footwear.

  She warily eyed me and said, "He's been through a lot, Lalla, and he's leery of getting involved. I assured him you're not working for the police. You're not, are you?"

  "Of course not. Do you want to sit in with him, translate for us?"

  She chewed at the side of her thumbnail, looking me over while she considered. Her decision made, she shook her head. "Won't be necessary. Just go easy on him, will you? He's had a tough time of it."

  Mr. Kim smiled nervously, and indicating that I should take a chair, joined me at the table. His feet, however, aimed for the safety of his kitchen.

  "Mr. Kim, did your daughter explain to you that I'm not with the police?" I didn't want there to be any misunderstanding about my status. I'd done as promised and retired my fake badge to a bottom drawer. However, I still kept my little brown leather notebook. Very official looking, I thought. Mr. Kim gave it a glum look as I flipped it open and licked my pencil.