Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  “But could she have been guilty as well?”

  “There was no evidence for it. She wasn’t on the security tape that night, Eddy was. Going in and coming out ten minutes later. He wore a jacket, so there was nothing to say he’d removed anything from the office. Of course, this would have been cash and therefore unaccounted for, but I objected every time it was brought up as biased and unsubstantiated.”

  I thought of a secretary’s wages, her part-time work as a piano teacher and her Social Security. It was obvious from both her home and her lifestyle that, if she did have the stolen money, she hadn’t spent any of it. But something didn’t add up and it was becoming an itch on the back of my brain that I couldn’t ignore.

  “The burglar at Patience’s house. I’m sure now it was Eddy poking me in the back with that gun, insisting that Garth and I had taken what wasn’t ours. It has to be the stolen money.”

  The judge shrugged, bored with the subject. “I think you’re confused, my dear.”

  “But the paper said Hollander was involved with smuggling drugs up from the border; that could’ve accounted for the amount of money he was holding.”

  The judge gave the sash on his robe a hard twist. “Alleged drug smuggling. Bill’s involvement was never proved. I certainly never saw any evidence of it. Yes, yes, I knew Bill, like I knew your dad. Modesto was a small community of businessmen, just as it is today. Trust me on this, if there was money from any drug deals, his two children, who later drifted back home, would’ve found it. I tell you, there was nothing. His children talked their mother into selling his business, and that was the end of it.”

  I thought of something else. “What about the way he was killed; strangled with a piano wire?”

  The judge leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Garroted, not strangled, my dear, as a piano wire between two sticks is called a garrote. The newspaper referred to it as Eddy’s calling card. But there were no prints on it, and I clearly demonstrated that Eddy couldn’t have had the strength to get the upper hand on a two hundred fifty-pound man like Bill Hollander and subdue him long enough to strangle him to death.”

  “Then what about the gangster connection?”

  Amusement twinkled behind his glasses. “I did tell you that this was a small town, didn’t I? Perhaps someone at the news room was led to consider it a mob hit.” He leaned forward and winked. “I was counting on the morning paper, you see. The jury wasn’t sequestered, only admonished not to read any news accounts or listen to radio or TV. This was the biggest murder case we’d had in years.” Looking at a space over my shoulder, he seemed to see the final words that would send his client to prison printed on the wall. “We should’ve gotten an acquittal!” he said, slamming his fist into the other palm.

  “So he loved her too much to implicate her then, but a month shy of being released from prison, he breaks out of jail to come home and murder her? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Who knows what drives a man to murder? Eddy’s wife was an attractive, but not a very sensible, woman. She should have divorced the man and left town long before this tragedy.”

  “If you weren’t friends with either Patience or her husband, then why take Eddy’s case?”

  “You don’t know?” He leaned forward, looking into my face, like he wasn’t sure if I was hiding something from him to make him slip up and say something foolish. I, however, only had a sinking feeling that his next words were going to make me wish I’d never asked.

  “I’m sorry. I thought surely by now your father would have told you.”

  “My father would have told me what?” I asked, my breath anxiously hitching up a notch.

  “It was your father who paid my retainer.”

  I knew my mouth was hanging open, but I couldn’t seem to help it. “What?”

  He shook his head wearily and stood up. “I’m sorry, my dear.”

  I remembered my dad, thoughtful at the mention of Patience McBride, as if it had brought back an old, if not unpleasant, memory. I’d never known my father to date. If anything, his gloomy demeanor would scare off most women. But I’d been wrong about men before.

  “Noah paid for their attorney?”

  He held up a wrinkled finger. “Only the retainer. Mrs. McBride mortgaged their house to pay the rest of my fee, which included the private investigator, not that we came up with much.”

  “So Noah did this for Patience?”

  He avoided looking me in the eye, and instead, stood and went to stand at his fireplace mantel and gaze sadly at the picture of his dead wife holding someone else’s children. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’d rather you asked your father. It’s simply not for me to say.”

  I glanced down at a scrapbook that he’d left open to a page with a yellowed column at the bottom left. It was the photo of an old Stearman, the bi-wing airplanes my dad started with. This one had ended up one wing torn off, nose burrowed deep in the fragrant dirt of an onion field. The caption said, Bob Norquist¸ Major Witness in Murder Trial, Plows into Onion Field.

  A snoot full of onion… Greedy pilots… Where had I heard this before? Noah. Brad reminded him of another pilot who got in trouble from greed. Doubt twitched its ugly tail around my thoughts. I could feel my face flush with the knowledge of it.

  The judge gently took the offending scrapbook out of my hands and closed it. He was eyeing me carefully over his glasses, as if afraid I might faint. “Terrible thing, that incident. I suppose it reminds you of your own recent forced landing. Poor man wasn’t so lucky.”

  “When… when do you think this will all come out?”

  “You mean the connection between your father and the McBrides?”

  “Yes.” I swallowed. “What will you say to the police?”

  “I’ve already spoken to the police. I’ve said nothing, nor will I, that would incriminate your father. I’m still his lawyer.” A light twinkled behind his glasses, or maybe it was the glittering reflection from the late afternoon sun. “Now that Cadillac of yours; there’s an interesting coincidence for you. Bill bought his wife a new model every two years, just so she could keep up with the Joneses.”

  “You aren’t saying…?”

  “Yes. I know that Bill’s widow sold it to Halverson Motors because I offered to buy it from her. It sat on his dad’s back lot for most of twenty years before Ricky got hold of it. His dad told him it was bad luck, but Ricky never let a little thing like parental advice get between him and something he wanted.”

  If I had to pile on one more coincidence to this mystery, I was going to run out of room to move. I shoved myself up out of the chair, and with slow, measured steps, made it to the door.

  “How long do you think I have before the police come looking for my dad?”

  Judge Griffin quietly took my hand between his own wrinkled paws. “I really don’t know, my dear, but even if they do, try not to compound this tragedy with any more digging. It can only bring you heartache.” He opened the front door and led me out to the steps, then quietly closed the door behind me.

  I clung to the railing, gulping in huge draughts of air and trying to get my feet back under me. Stumbling blindly for my car, I fumbled the keys and finally got into the rental. Not generally a superstitious person, I wondered if perhaps someone beyond the grave wasn’t trying to send me a message: Perhaps Bill Hollander, or Eddy’s wife, Patience? If McBride really killed Bill Hollander, why was my dad involved? I shivered in the heat and glanced back at the judge’s house. He was standing at the window, holding back the edge of the curtains and looking out at the car. Feeling foolish that I was still sitting in front of his house, I put the car in gear, and backed over rotting leaves piled up in the gutter, and hoped that if a ghost was sending me messages, it was at least a benign one.

  ELEVEN

  I drove away from the judge’s home, sure that I was going home to confront Noah and demand that he tell me the answers to this damnable mystery, except I simply couldn’t point the car in that direction.
I got as far as the city park on Sycamore, where I left the rental and hobbled around the perimeter of the park, matching my off-beat stride to my own cockeyed thoughts. Finally, sweaty and breathless, I leaned against the cool and soothing weight of the block bandstand and thought about what I would say to my father. How to start? Should I have been surprised that he hadn’t confided in me? I was one to talk, as I was by no means guilt-free here. After all, I still carried around my own heavy guilt of omission.

  Instead of going home, I drove aimlessly through the city streets, down McHenry, the four corners, where four streets actually met and the city fathers erected a monument to hometown boy George Lucas for putting Modesto on the map with American Graffiti. Except for the monument in his honor, George stayed mostly in Marin, where he kept busy with his production companies. I wandered down J Street, glancing at the fading sun gleaming off store windows. It was close to closing time and dinner would be waiting for me at home, but before I could go there and talk to Noah, I thought it would be best to run some of it by Roxanne.

  ~*~

  The windows of Roxanne’s Truck Stop and Café vibrated to the air conditioner trying to keep pace with a twenty-four-hour parade of truckers and farmers and crop dusters, and since August is our month for sidewalk cooking, today had been hot enough to melt American cheese slices on the pavement.

  I sat on a well-padded stool and waited until Roxanne drifted my way.

  “Did Caleb come in today?” I asked, hoping I’d catch him on his way back from interviewing Garth’s ex-wife.

  “He asked the same thing about you. I wish you two would text each other like the kids do and leave me out of it.”

  “Sorry.” I would have to remember to add Roxanne to the growing list of people mad at me. “Can we talk?”

  “I got time,” she said, softening somewhat at the plea in my voice. “Take a booth at the back and I’ll be right there.” She put the coffee back on the burner, saying something to Leon as she passed the kitchen and, wiping her hands on her apron, settled her big bottom comfortably on the bench seat opposite me. She gave me that very expectant look, the one demanding an immediate response.

  I opened my mouth, closed it and tried again. “Today, I found out two things. One: Patience McBride isn’t a widow, which may explain who was holding me at gunpoint yesterday. He’s been in prison for killing her boss, and I also learned that my dad’s ol’ fly-fishing buddy, Judge Griffin, was Mr. McBride’s attorney, who suggested I leave it all alone, but after the bombshell the judge dropped in my lap, I doubt that’s going to be an option.”

  Roxanne put her hands on the table and said, “Slow down.”

  I put my face in my hands. “It turns out my Caddy may be the connection to the whole thing! Patience’s boss used to own it, and then Ricky had it and then I had to go and take it away from him, and then Eddy McBride escaped from prison to murder his wife, dumping that problem in my lap. And guess who paid the lawyer’s retainer?”

  When my chin started to quiver, Roxanne reached across the table to cover my hand. “Uh-huh, it’s okay, sweet pea.”

  I couldn’t get the words out without blubbering. “Bill Hollander may have sold more than chemicals to crop-dusting companies, and I don’t know how I’m going to keep all of this from the police without one of us Bainses going to jail.”

  “One of you? You mean your dad? Why?”

  I looked up, tears in my eyes. “My dad paid his fly-fishing buddy to defend Eddy McBride. So how do you think that’s going to look when that smarmy detective gets wind of this connection?”

  “Whoa. That’s a leap you don’t want to take yet. So your dad paid for Eddy McBride’s defense, but you don’t know really know why yet. What’d the judge say?”

  “He wouldn’t. But he did imply my dad was sweet on Patience. As soon as I can pull myself together, I’m going to go home and ask him. Oh boy, I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  She patted my hand. “Some of what you just told me was in today’s paper. Not the part about the judge being Eddy’s attorney, and there’s nothing linking your car to Patience’s boss, at least not yet.”

  I thought of Jan Bidwell again. “It’ll only be a matter of time until the police connect the dots and it leads back to my dad. Drug smuggling Ag pilots, a dead chemical company owner, Eddy McBride; my dad was smack dab in the middle of it.”

  Smoothing the Modesto Bee out on the table between us, she tapped a finger on the front section. Squared nice and neat in the middle of the front page were two photos. One was a fuzzy publicity photo of me from my heyday in New York. Next to it was a clearer picture of my Caddy up to its windows in the shallow end of Turlock Lake.

  “Newspaper has been busy throwing out all kinds of silly stuff,” she said, turning to the back page. “Might as well include alien abduction.” She snorted and added, “Of course, Boyd Lincoln says you look like a good suspect, since it’s well known you’re a sore loser.”

  “That’s pathetic. When this is over I’m going to make Boyd Lincoln eat those words!”

  “It was a joke, Lalla. An itty-bitty joke. You can’t take all this to heart or you’re going to keel over, girl.”

  “Pardon me if my sense of humor has left the building, but right now all I can think of is how to keep me and my dad out of jail,” I said, scrubbing at my sore neck. “I guess I thought you might have some ideas.”

  Turning her head to make sure we weren’t being overheard, she said, “I should tell you something.” Roxanne hated gossip. You couldn’t pry a secret out of Roxanne with a tire iron, since she still held to all that doctor/patient privilege. She only practiced in the café, but I could see something was making her reconsider. She cleared her throat, looked up at the ceiling, at the cracks in the upholstery, at her husband happily scrubbing pots in the kitchen—anywhere but at me. I followed her wandering eyes, worried she was winding up to tell me something else damaging about my dad.

  She said, “I met Eddy and Patience a long time ago, oh, must’ve been a year before his troubles. They were looking to buy a home around here, maybe with a little land. He was a sweet little guy, very attentive to his wife. They sat on the same side of the booth and he had his arm around her.” She sighed. “I always thought that sort of thing cute. Leon and I never could sit in the same booth and actually eat; we’re too big.

  “They finally bought something in Stockton. But when the trial was over, Patience moved back here. She begged me not to tell anyone, said she was afraid no one would hire her if they knew about Eddy being convicted of killing her boss, and then there was his…”

  “His—what?” I asked, twitching my shoulders.

  “I’m getting to it; don’t be so impatient,” she said. Roxanne went back to examining corners for cobwebs.

  I started to prod her with my fork, but she got the hint before the tines touched her skin.

  “Eddy McBride came in here, I can’t seem to recollect if it was before or after Bill Hollander was found dead. Certainly it was before he was charged with murder.”

  By this time I’d picked up a paper napkin and was doing a twisty thing with it, wishing I could stick her with the fork, a spoon, a knife, anything to hurry up this story. Not likely. Not without the chance of her smacking me with that big square hand. I’ve seen her use it very effectively on kids’ bottoms, her husband’s big shoulder and waitresses’ backsides. So I waited, and twisted, trying not to let her think anything she said would upset me.

  She looked down at my hands and continued. “It must have been around ten at night. We were well into a heavy evening of hungry truckers, so I wasn’t paying much attention to who was coming or going. Eddy walked in and took a seat, over there, on a stool right by the register.”

  I followed her finger back to the place and imagined the small, well-groomed man from the newspaper clipping sitting at the counter, waiting for his coffee.

  “I didn’t recognize him at first and it wasn’t because he didn’t have Patience with him.”


  I twisted the napkin some more, making it into a little white rope.

  “I wanted to tell you about this sooner, but what with your brother and all, I thought better of it. But then, with everything happening…”

  My brother, having reached the height of his ambitions as a set designer for the San Francisco light opera had died years ago, the result of a hit-and-run. What did he have to do with this? “Roxanne, spit it out, will you?”

  “Eddy McBride was dressed in women’s clothing.”

  I flinched, as she probably knew I would. My brother, much to my father’s distress, was gay.

  She was in a hurry now, as if speed would lessen the blow. “He had on a really nice outfit. Something I would have liked to wear, if I had the figure for it. You’d be too young to have worn those cute little Jackie Kennedy suits, but you know the kind?”

  “Chanel,” I said. “I’m not that young, and vintage Chanel is considered very cool.”

  “If you say so. Well, there I was and I said to myself, ‘Sumpin’s up here. The girl’s white and dressed like a sister.’ If you went to church with me on Sundays, you’d know what I’m saying. Sisters like their shoes, purse, gloves, hat, even their nail polish, to match. But I almost spilled the pot of coffee right on his lap when this dainty li’l ol’ thing spoke and I realized who it was. Are you okay with this, sweet pea?”

  “I’m fine.” I was as uncomfortable with this subject as with popcorn kernels between my teeth, but except for the napkin strangling one of my fingers, I thought I almost didn’t show it. “What did he say to you?”

  “Not much. Just thanks for the coffee, and no thanks, I won’t need a refill. Then he opened up his purse on the counter to rummage through it for his wallet, and I have to say, I peeked to see what a guy would put into a woman’s purse. It had all of the usual stuff we all put in ours—a trim wallet, a lacy blue hanky, a tube of Revlon lipstick, and a smart little jeweled compact, to check his powdered nose, I suppose. He paid for his coffee and tottered out on those damn high heels. I could tell the shoes were made special. I was scared to death for him. If the truckers got wind that this cute little lady with the blond streaked pageboy was a man, they’d have torn him to pieces. Where do you think he got all that stuff?”