by R. P. Dahlke
I said, "You may wonder why I would be interested in the murder of Billy Wayne."
"Oh, no I understand very well. You had a special friendship with Billy Wayne," he said, pulling out a news clipping from his white shirt pocket.
"Uh, well, maybe not quite that special. I mean, that is me in the photo but only because Billy Wayne was sending unwelcome gifts. The snow flakes. He wrote poetry to me, but I found it a bit embarrassing."
He nodded. "Yes, I understand."
I was a bit surprised to hear a barely perceptible accent in his American English, but pleased that Grace had decided to trust me enough not to blow her dad's cover—his English wasn't a problem unless he was talking to the police. "Well, then you understand when I say that I am concerned that some people might think I had something to do with his death, because of that newspaper reporter, Del Potts."
He nodded again. "Of course. You were unfairly accused."
"Not really. I mean, nobody who knows me really thought I killed him. I mean, I wouldn't have hurt him, but others might think I did, because of this newspaper reporter."
He looked down at the printed page, painful lines appearing around his wrinkled eyes. "The proletariat always lie. It was much the same in Vietnam."
"Uh, yes. That's it, at least, it is in this case."
"What will you do?"
"I need to clear my good name."
"Ah!" He smiled brightly. "I understand. Your honor is at stake. How can I help?"
"Do you remember anything about that day? Perhaps something that you didn't tell the police?"
He looked over my shoulder, a faraway expression in his eyes. "Ah, Miss Bains, to be able to have such a future as yours. I would do anything to be able to go back, clear my good name. Unfortunately, it is too late for me. I was in prison for many years in Vietnam, and it is said that once a man has been in prison he will not take kindly to closed doors. I know of this, because I would rather take an open door to a smelly alley than a closed one. I did not lie to the police, Miss Bains. If they did not believe me, I have done my duty and there is no more that I can do."
His gaze tracked the shadows along the wall, and then his black eyes blinked back to the present.
"I told them about the ghost at end of the alley. I hoped one of them would look but they all had the same nothing faces."
I could see that racist clodhopper Rodney discounting Mr. Kim's ghost as superstitious nonsense. "Sheriff Stone believes you. Unfortunately, the killer, whoever he is, has sent me a message much like the one you gave me when I was here a couple of days ago."
He blinked. "Ah, when I recommended that you to stay away? Yes, very good advice." He nodded thoughtfully, taking in the tight strain of my face and my hands gripped together on the table.
Then he changed the subject. "I gave Billy Wayne a book, Japanese Haiku. Do you think his mother would give back this book?"
"You talked to Billy Wayne?"
He leaned away, now wary of my intense interest. "Some days, yes, other times, no. He stayed in my alley and wrote poetry. Sometimes, he read to me while I chopped. Sometimes we discuss philosophy."
"Did you see him that day, before he was killed?"
"Yes and no. After he ate, I closed door to the alley so I do not disturb his work."
"You gave him food? Did he often beg food from you?"
The wrinkled skin around his eyes tightened in distaste. "I always offered him a rice bowl with vegetables, but many nights he refuses, how you say, politely? He does—did not sleep well, so he did not eat. His dreams were always bad, from the war. He was very troubled."
"Did he ever mention anyone who might have had a grudge against him?"
"Billy's heart cast no shadow for friend or enemy. No, no grudges. Do you not want to know about the ghost?"
"Oh, sure. Tall? Short? Man or woman?"
Much like my father, his eyebrows bounced. "That is all the police think to ask. I could feel ghost eyes, but it was too dark to see if it was a man or a woman. Then nothing." He lifted his hand and flicked his fingers at the vanishing apparition. "Besides, you needed my help."
"How about before I knocked? No garbage cans turning over? No arguing?"
"No, that is why I closed door. I had radio on. I like western music."
The veil of suspicion lifted for a moment, but our sparring was getting me nowhere. How was I to pry, prod, or chip away at his defenses if I couldn't understand what it was that I was missing?
"Could your 'ghost' have been another homeless man? Perhaps he ran when you looked out?"
His eyes shifted away thoughtfully and then back. "Yes, it is as you say—a homeless person."
I knew a dodge when I saw it. "You know Sheriff Stone is my dearest friend, don't you? If you need protection, he can see that you get it."
"No, no," he answered too quickly. "There is nothing else to tell." He held up a knobby forefinger. "Perhaps later." He stood, indicating that our interview was over. "If I remember, I will have Grace call you."
We bowed to each other once more, and I turned to go.
Grace walked me to the door. "Pops tell you about his ghost?" She smiled sadly. "You know how it is with old people. More than likely, it's his failing eyesight."
"I understand, but if he thinks of anything else you'll let me know, won't you?"
"Sure," she said. Her smile lasted for the few seconds it took for her to open and close the door on my back.
Mr. Kim had orchestrated our few minutes of conversation with all the finesse of a maestro or a magician. He dropped hints about Billy that could be clues, that is if I had the intelligence to use them correctly. At least he hadn't discounted me as a dumb blonde.
Someone was leaning against the door of my car. Detective Gayle Rodney lifted his head. Was it simply my bad luck that he'd found me here, or had he followed me? I slowed my walk to a lazy stroll, poking my nerves back under my skin. "Detective Rodney, fancy meeting you here."
"Anything interesting from the old gook?"
Though I bristled at the racial slur, I kept my answer light. "I came for the food. Gotta eat sometime."
He pushed off the side of my car and said, "A little late for lunch, too early for dinner, and this place is a crime scene."
"The alley is a crime scene, Detective, the restaurant is open for business, and I happen to like the food." I thought about backing up another step, but it would give him reason to think I might have something to hide.
"That so? You left yesterday in such a rush we hardly had time to get reacquainted."
"I told you, I was here to eat. Do you have something to tell me about Miss Cook? Has something happened to her?"
His amused laughter said I'd got it wrong again. "You don't call, you don't come by, now what's a guy supposed to think? You're not dumping me already, are you?"
He was baiting me, but I wasn't going to let it show by responding in kind.
"Is there, or is there not, a body?"
His heavy-lidded stare confirmed my suspicions.
"Right. Didn't think so. A false alarm, a crank call. Which means you're barking up the wrong tree again. See you around, Detective."
He leaned on the Caddy, letting me know he wasn't finished. "I got a lotta respect for that boyfriend of yours. Too bad you don't feel the same, 'cause if you did you wouldn't be so willing to make trouble for him."
Now he was beginning to rile me. "I think that should be between Caleb and me, Detective."
He came around the back of the Caddy, trailing his fat fingers across the tail fins, caressing the pointed chrome tips, running a thumb along the glossy red paint of the trunk, and stepping around the side to close in on me.
My heart was racing for cover, but the rest of me was stuck to the side of my car unable to move.
He propped a heavy arm on the top of my car, giving off a smell like a nuclear weapon detonation. "Women don't usually find me so unattractive, but you don't seem to like me. Why do you think that is, Eula May?
"
His eyes left wet slug trails on my skin until I folded my arms over my breasts and broke the connection. Snickering at my defensive posture, and sure that he had me completely intimidated, he said, "You know what I think? I think we're just the same, you and me. Except you keep thinking I'm the enemy. I'm not, you know. I'm on your side."
"You mean the side of justice? Where the innocent at least get a trial before proven guilty, that sort of thing? What do you want, Detective?"
"I thought I was making that clear. All I want is a little cooperation," he said, giving me another slow once-over.
He was probably thinking I was using Caleb for cover, and he couldn't be more wrong. It was men like Rodney who used their position to bully women that brought out the disrespect in me.
I turned away to grip the door handle. If he took one more step I could yank it open and hold it like a shield between us.
"Lalla?" Grace called, walking toward me, holding up a white bag. "You forgot your order."
I awkwardly backed up and with jerky little side steps, put some distance between me and the detective. Unable to stop myself, I called at him over my shoulder, "I'll let you know about that cooperation, Detective."
Then I smiled gratefully and took the bag out of her hand. It was too light to hold anything but empty boxes. Clever girl.
"Thanks, Grace," I said, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. I put the engine into drive, and for once didn't forget to take the emergency brake off, smoothly pulled out into traffic and actually looked good doing it.
Chapter ten:
Still jittery from my encounter with Detective Rodney, I may have exited the freeway a bit hastily. Behind me, horns honked and fists waved in the air. I stuck my hand out the window and returned the salute, then pulled it back inside. Unfortunately, instead of my typical middle finger salutation, I'd given them all a nice, big, happy thumbs-up.
I flexed the traitorous fingers in front of my face. "What's the matter with you guys?"
Talk about uncooperative. But then I was rattled, frightened, and spooked to the core. That Neanderthal, Rodney, that troglodyte, with his hairy arms and cold fish eyes, the beefy leer and his dirty insinuations. I felt a shiver twitch up my neck at the thought of him getting close enough to touch me. How could any woman stand having him touch her? He wore a gold band on his ring finger, so some poor woman must have thought him cute, at least long enough to say, "I do."
Inside Roxanne's cafe, I did what I do best when nervous, I ordered food. "BLT on white, and don't go light on the mayo, fries, a glass of Roxy's sweet ice tea, and a nice big piece of that chocolate chip pie, please."
Linda served my food with a sweet smile to those of us too dumb or too stubborn to eat at home. "How're you holding up, Lalla?"
"Fine, fine," I replied, clutching my hands tightly on my lap to keep her from seeing the shaking. "Bring some mayo on the side will you?"
I like mayonnaise with my fries instead of ketchup, but if I continue to eat like this I'm going to have to start doing my shopping in the full figured section of Macy's.
I was mopping up the plate with a scrap of bread when Roxanne showed up and basically asked the same question. "I see you got your appetite back. You hungry, or just eating on nerves?"
"Better than smoking, isn't it?" Between Roxanne and Caleb, I'd quit smoking and only after days like today did I still regret it.
"Uh-huh," she said, watching me pick the last of the pie crumbs off the china plate with my fingers.
"Other than being accused of murder," I said, "by the newspaper, the victim's mother, and the entire populace of Modesto, I'm just fine and dandy." I wiped a dollop of mayonnaise off my lips. "Let's see, what else? Oh yeah, my dad's dating my third grade teacher, my job may be in the toilet if that elementary school goes in at the end of our runway, and Caleb had a young and beautiful new police officer to interview me about Billy Wayne's death. Like I said, I'm fine."
"No, you're not. Your hands are shaking," she said, reaching over and covering my trembling fingers with her own warm, brown hand.
"Yeah," I said, flexing my fingers in front of my face and willing them to behave. "Some of me seems to be on strike today."
"What happened?"
I took a deep breath and told her everything. "I don't know why I feel compelled to go off half-cocked the way I do. First I try to warn Billy Wayne off so he won't get into trouble with Caleb, so much for that good deed. Now every time I turn around Detective Rodney is there leering at me."
Roxanne reared back and snapped, "Say what?"
"His words may be completely by the book, but it's the delivery makes me feel like I've been slimed."
"Then tell Caleb."
Feeling around my back molars for a little more of that comfort food I'd just wolfed down, I said, "Can't. I think—I think we just broke up."
"Now what did you do?" Roxanne, knowing my penchant for backpedaling, made sure I understood that it was a rhetorical question.
I ducked my head and blushed. "He asked me to marry him."
"Oh, yeah, that'd do it for me. Best looking, smartest white boy in town been mooning after you for half your life—and you dump him? Your emotions get into motion again, Lalla Bains?"
"Yeah, okay, but you weren't there to see how he proposed; in his cruiser, in front of half the sheriff's department milling around wondering why I wasn't already behind bars."
"Billy Wayne's murder?"
"Not exactly," I said, then told her the rest of it; getting the phone message and a note that Billy Wayne's aunt wanted to talk to me, and how I thought maybe she had been kidnapped.
She looked away for a minute, then said, "We'll get back to Miss Cook in a minute. You love him, but you're scared to become Missus Caleb Stone. Think you'll disappear behind his back, become a nobody, did I get that right?" She waggled a forefinger at my nose. "Fine by me, don't marry him. Just remember, you keep turning him away, he's going to start looking elsewhere."
I thought of Pippa Roulette and how she filled out her uniform so very well. "Yeah, well that new deputy at the police station would step into my shoes in a hot minute, though she'd bust out of anything else I own. You should see her, drop dead gorgeous and all of twenty-nine. What sane man wouldn't want a twenty-nine year old? I'm about to be forty-one, and married so many times they ought to revoke my license."
She rolled her eyes. "Not that old tape again. You have the same birthday as Caleb, an' you don't see him pouting, do you? Think of the alternative: Had you come up on Billy Wayne a few minutes sooner and you might be dead, too. Then that pretty young deputy would have Caleb on her arm. That what you want?"
I did a mental squirm, but plowed ahead. "I've been single now for four whole years, if you don't count the six months I lasted with Ricky Halverson, and maybe it ought to stay that way. Besides, I've been through a lot to be able to take back my maiden name."
"Then keep it. Lots of women do these days. It's not a name that makes a marriage."
I looked away. Everything she said was so right and yet so scary. "You're right about one thing. It's my mouth that gets in the way, and I don't seem to be able to stop myself."
Roxanne snorted. "Don't you think he knows that by now? Like I said, if it isn't right, don't do it. Don't stop long enough to let somebody love you. Just you remember, it won't only be Caleb's heart that'll be broken, it'll be yours, too. Now, tell me 'bout Miss Cook... that would be Margery Dobson's sister, you know. What'd she say about Billy Wayne?"
"Never got the chance to ask. When I got there, the front door was open, a kettle whistling on the stove, and a plate of homemade cookies on the table. So, I'm munching on macaroons and the troops arrive, led by none other than my future ex-fiancé, because he got a report of gun-shots and a vintage red Cadillac that doesn't belong in the neighborhood."
"And you think she was kidnapped?"
"I think so, but why would the kidnapper take the time to call it into the police?"
"Oh
, I don't know, maybe for the simple fun of it? There was that DOA note on your dad's door that you chose to ignore. So maybe the killer is using this opportunity to tell you again. And speaking on behalf of your godchildren, I sure wish you'd pay attention and leave it for the police to solve."
"Too late," I said, and blithely added, "In for a penny, so to speak. After I turned down Caleb's offer of marriage, I also told him I wouldn't stick around to wait for another of Rodney's lame interrogations, but Rodney must've followed me to Mr. Kim's 'cause he was waiting by my car when I came out."
I told her what I'd learned, that Mr. Kim had been friendly with Billy, enough that he fed him, loaned him a book of poetry, and last but not least, confirmed what Caleb said; that he'd fleetingly glimpsed someone at the end of the alley.
She reached across the counter and removed the empty plate. "Okay. So, what do you think this detective is up to?"
"Other than scaring me? I suppose he expects me to crack under the pressure and spill everything I know."
She looked down at my hands working the paper napkin into a twisty little knot. "I'd say he's doing a bang-up job of the scaring part."
"I shouldn't let him get to me. I just wish he'd lay off."
"You got Mr. Kim to tell you things he hasn't told the police. But, if you're not going to give that to the detective, what're you going to do with it?"
"Caleb is now part of the investigating team, and he's a lot more sympathetic to someone like Mr. Kim than Rodney. Soon as I'm over him proposing to me at a crime scene, I'll call him."
Roxanne nodded. "Don't you wait too long on that. What Mr. Kim said might be important." Then she looked over my shoulder and grimaced. "Uh-oh. Don't look now, but I think Del Potts is sitting in that booth over there."
I froze. "The reporter? Since when has he started coming here?"
"Since he wrote that front page story connecting you to Billy Wayne's murder. I've been telling him you only come in nights, and dang if you ain't here to prove it. I think you got more than that detective to worry about. Yeah, now I'm sure of it 'cause he's up and walking this way. Want to jump the counter and run out the kitchen door?"