by Lois Winston
Noah’s bushy gray eyebrows went up a notch. “Wouldn’t hurt to mind your tongue, either, young lady,” he said, wiping his mouth and getting up from the table. “Come on, Spike.”
The dog perked up his bat-sized ears and trotted after his best friend.
“Who’d have thought my dad would’ve taken to this dog?”
“With Noah’s heart condition, he needed something. So as I see it, they both got a good deal.”
“You’re not the least bit curious about my day?” I asked, sarcasm making my point. It didn’t help my growing anxiety to think Caleb might have also come out to interrogate my dad.
“I don’t know how I’m going to get through this week,” he said. “Seems every time I turn around, you’re in some sort of trouble.”
“I’m fine. Really. Except for ruining my rent-a-wreck and scaring the hell out of me, it was a totally uneventful single-car accident. You didn’t have to come all the way out here to check on me.”
Two red spots bloomed on Caleb’s cheekbones. “You want me to leave?”
Horrified that I’d stepped my foot into it again, I grabbed his wrist as he rose to leave. “No! Don’t go. I’m sorry,” I said, holding a hand up to my forehead. “I’ve got this headache, and I’m just a little out of sorts.”
Caleb threw down his napkin and shoved the plate away. “You do not have a headache. Your pupils aren’t dilated and your color is good. So that excuse won’t fly. Know what burns my hide?” he snapped, pointing one of his long fingers at the general direction of my nose and waggling it. “I’m off duty, okay? Did it ever occur to you that your dad might actually want some company?”
“Oh,” I said, my voice echoing my need to tone it down. I asked meekly, “So, what did you talk about?”
“What do you think we talked about?” he said, rolling up his shirtsleeves and turning on the hot tap. “So, what were you up to today before you ran off the road and slammed into Richard Johnston’s orchard?” he asked, adding soap and holding out a hand for the first of the dishes.
I could see he was trying for a more neutral tone of voice while his blood pressure slowed and the red spots on his neck subsided. I’d never seen him this emotional. Of the two of us, I was the hothead. I was the one who flew off the handle. I was the one who was impetuous.
The question was: Should I tell him my suspicion that I’d been broadsided by either my part-time stalker or one of John Machado’s henchmen? I took a deep breath and went with the easier answer. “I went to see another Ag operator on some business.”
“Whose business, yours or Machado’s?”
“You followed me?”
His hands went still under the soapy water and he snorted. “Not me, but I promised you surveillance, remember?”
“Did he follow me all the way home?”
“His shift was over, and Jerry’s not one to miss out on his supper, so he missed out on seeing your car plow into the trees.”
“If you’d just throw me a crumb once in a while, maybe I wouldn’t have to go asking for trouble.” I slid another plate into the sink. “I didn’t step on your toes, did I?”
“Not mine,” he answered, rinsing the plates and putting them in the rack for me to dry. “The FBI’s maybe. The government has a hard-on for Machado. Interestingly enough, his file starts about the time of Eddy McBride’s trial.”
I bit at the corner of my lip. “That explains a few things.”
“Okay, spit it out. What’d you find?”
“My dad mentioned that Machado had bought Hollander Chemicals, which got me thinking: Where’d his money come from to be able to buy a company like that? Of course, it may have been a fire sale forced by Hollander’s two kids, but I was curious, so I went to thank him personally for giving me permission to land on his airstrip. Even if I didn’t make it, he should know I was grateful. Then I went to talk to a guy today who worked with Machado and thinks he’s running drugs.”
“What guy?”
“Machado’s office has a photo gallery that’s a running history of pilots. Bobby Norquist and Buddy Rutland, who Machado said owns Bud’s Place in Turlock. So, I went there and asked him about Norquist.”
“Yes, Norquist was supposed to testify against Eddy McBride in the Hollander case. What else?”
I told him about Bud and how the police had never questioned him and what Bud had to say about the likelihood Norquist had plans to turn on both Machado and Hollander, so Machado sabotaged his plane.
“You got it almost right. I hope you didn’t corner Machado,” he said. “You didn’t flash that little fake badge at him, did you?”
Caleb, against his better judgment, once showed me how to kludge one together. I found a police supply company, bought a simple badge with no number on it, a leather case for it, and added a photo from a line of snapshots taken at the booth in the Greyhound station. From a distance it looked official. I needed it, I said, to flash at guys who messed with me on the freeway, though these days, it may have more to do with my erratic driving than the blond hair.
I lifted my chin and said, “I don’t need to use that old badge anymore. And what do you mean, ‘almost right’?”
He wiped his hands off on a kitchen cloth and motioned me outside to the porch. We sat in the wicker chairs on the cooling veranda, and he said, “None of what I’m going to tell you was ever going to be in the morning papers because it’s part of an original and ongoing FBI and DEA investigation. Bob Norquist wasn’t going to testify against Eddy McBride or anybody else, because the Feds got to him about the same time the trial started. In exchange for immunity, his testimony at the Hollander trial would be null and void, a win-win situation for Norquist and the Feds, but a sorry end for Eddy McBride. Loose ends all neat and tidy, except that Norquist was killed the day before that information was given to prosecution and defense, and to this day they don’t know how it leaked.”
“Couldn’t they arrest Machado?”
“Machado had an alibi for Bill Hollander’s murder. And after Bobby Norquist conveniently bought the farm, the case went on the back burner.” He rubbed a hand across the one-inch stubble he allowed to grow on his head. “Machado got really busy after the trial and after all this time, the investigation is now on again.”
“Marijuana?”
“Not pot, Lalla. Black tar heroin. It’s transported in small, compact, and sometimes heavy packages. A small aircraft like a Cessna can’t carry the load. But a souped-up Stearman could, or for that matter, one of those Ag-Cats out there.”
“Uh, wait a minute. Are you accusing me, or my dad, of drug smuggling?”
“All I’m saying is, who’s going to notice a working crop duster moving up from the Imperial Valley to here? It makes smuggling as a sideline to crop dusting look like a natural. So you see, you walked into a potential hornet’s nest with Machado.”
“Do you think it’s possible? Machado killing both Hollander and Norquist, then setting Eddy up for the fall?”
“It’s been suggested that Eddy might have been in on it with these guys.”
“But if Eddy’s guilty…” I almost said, then my dad could be guilty, too. “All I know is, when I told John Machado Eddy was out of jail and packing a gun, he broke out into a cold sweat. I think he now has something else to worry about besides getting arrested for trafficking dope. Bud told me Machado came into some money after the trial was over and then bought Hollander Chemical. What if Machado killed Hollander, picked up the cash that Hollander was going to pay Norquist, pinned it on Eddy and then killed Norquist?”
Caleb rubbed his jaw. “Maybe. I’ll talk to Homicide tomorrow. It’ll go to the Feds and then we’ll see.”
Considering the subject closed, I said, “Roxanne has volunteered her place for Patience’s wake. She said there may be people showing up from Stockton.”
“That’s nice of her.”
“Can’t say I feel much enthusiasm for a party,” I said listlessly. “Is there anything else you can tell me
?”
“Did you ever see Patience wear high heels?”
“Never. She always wore white high-tops. Patience was a fashion disaster, but she knew how to be comfortable.”
He shrugged at my answer and scratched a path across his day-old beard. “That makes sense then. The prints on the windowsill at Patience’s house belong to none other than Alexandra Graham, aka Autumn O’Sullivan.”
“Autumn? That’s Garth’s girlfriend.”
“You know about her, huh?”
“Said he was engaged to her. He thinks she’s the one who called the cops on him.”
“Garth certainly manages to piss off the women. We got lucky with the prints ‘cause she had a little run-in for illegal nude dancing. As soon as we can locate her, we’ll pick her up for questioning.” He yawned loudly, stretched and said, “We traced Garth with cell phone records for these last four days. Though nothing yet confirms he was in Modesto before his aunt was murdered, he certainly was in California. I’m going to hypothesize here, so don’t jump on this like it’s gospel. It’s obvious Patience had a soft spot for her nephew. Besides Eddy, Garth was her only beneficiary. Suppose she lets it slip she’s been hiding all that loot her husband stole from Hollander for all these years. It’s a motive.”
“Then how did he drive her, the motor home and my Caddy to the lake?” I asked.
“His girlfriend, of course. Autumn, the nude dancer? If that money hasn’t been found, I’ll bet she’s waiting around for it to show.”
“That gold pendant you brought me. It’s hers! There’s just one little hitch. Garth doesn’t appear to be the least bit nervous that Eddy is on the loose and carrying a gun, certainly not like Machado was—that guy all but lost his lunch at the mention of Eddy with a gun. Garth thinks Eddy’s a nutcase, but if Garth killed his aunt, why isn’t he jumpy at the mention of Eddy?”
Caleb stood up and yawned. “Okay, let’s just pin it on the Hollander brats. If I were Eddy, I’d hate ‘em enough to shoot ‘em. They kept him in prison without parole for the whole twenty years. I gotta get some sleep. We’ll get an arrest warrant for Autumn and see if we can’t get her to talk.”
He absentmindedly kissed the top of my head and then walked off the porch. As he opened the door of the cruiser, he turned and called to me, “Lock your doors, Lalla Bains.”
I assured him I would, and after sliding the deadbolt on the front and back doors and closing the TV room door where my dad and his dog were contentedly sleeping, I headed upstairs.
I crawled into bed, uneasy nerves rattling around with more questions, and it wasn’t just because I had a growing list of people I had pissed off. I was a terrible friend to Caleb. I hadn’t done anything to make it up to him for forgetting our birthday. I hadn’t gotten him a present, certainly not like last year when I stuffed so many balloons into his cruiser he couldn’t get into the car. I’d forgotten our birthday, not without reason of course, but still, what sort of friend had I been to him lately?
Tomorrow, I would send flowers to Isabel Norquist’s funeral, and then I intended to get busy, do something… something that would steer suspicions of the police away from this family. I was going to do what I’d promised Caleb I wouldn’t do. I was going to bend the rules again, which would really annoy him, should he find out.
Then I tucked my pillow under my head with a resolve for courage over fear, closed my eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
EIGHTEEN
I awoke to a mouth full of fuzz and a sun smudged with gray. It went with my jittery dreams. All night long, Eddy McBride stood in the foyer of our home dressed as a man, then as a woman, the outfits growing progressively more bizarre as I was introduced to yet another new Eddy McBride. When Brad appeared wearing designer outfits from the sixties, I figured it was time to wake up. Brad—what was it about Brad I couldn’t put my finger on?
I got up, scrubbed the sleep out of my eyes, stepped into my jeans, added a T-shirt and sighed at the emotional letdown. Why couldn’t I just happily stick Garth with the murder and be done with it? Caleb could. But then, I was getting the idea that Caleb would happily use any old excuse to stick Garth in the eye with a sharp stick.
I passed through our kitchen, grabbing a cup of coffee, and was relieved to see that there were no blinking lights on the answering machine, but then my father could have either answered or deleted them before listening. Knowing my dad, it was the latter. I went to watch him tunelessly whistling as he kneeled by the jagged narrow broken sidelight with a putty knife, chipping out the last of the broken glass. Was it only two nights ago that Eddy broke into our house? My dad seemed to be enjoying himself, so I patted his bony shoulder and said nothing about Eddy McBride.
He looked up and said, “Judge Griffin says hello.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yup. Said to tell you, ‘Leave the investigating to the police. That’s what they get paid for.’” He looked up at me, the bushy eyebrows getting a workout. “I told him I’d pass it on,” he said meaningfully.
I cleared my throat and made agreeable noises, then let the screen door slam behind me and headed for the office. I needed the routine of work chores to sort out my plan. I would spend the next few hours moving paper around, clearing out old order tags, and billing while I worked up my nerve. Then I intended to do something that would tip the scales of mounting evidence away from Eddy and my dad.
The phone rang once, I picked it up and said, “Hello?” Nothing. “Hello?” Wrong number. Only when I hung up, it started ringing again. This time, I tried a louder, “Hello?” Maybe the connection was bad.
A whispering voice asked, “Is this Lalla Bains?” Was this the whispering Eddy from the other day at Patience’s house?
“Eddy?” I whispered back. When there was no answer, I wondered if he’d hung up on me.
The receiver coughed at me a couple of times, and then a clear soprano said, “This is Autumn O’Sullivan.”
The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. “Garth’s girlfriend?” Caleb would want to talk to this young lady, and I had a few questions of my own.
I heard the hissing intake of breath and then she spit out, “Garth’s ex-ex-ex-girlfriend, you mean!”
“What can I do for you, Miss O’Sullivan?”
“You kin call me Autumn, ever’body else does,” she said. But then her hold on phone etiquette dissolved into tears. “You gotta help me—if he finds out I’m here, he’s gonna kill me!”
The prints at the windowsill, the high heel marks next to it and the gold pendant. The police would love to talk to Autumn, but then I had some questions of my own. “Of course I’ll help you. I’ll pick you up and we can go to the police together.”
She bleated some sheep noises at my ear. “It won’t do no good. I tried to get the police to pa-a-aay attention to him, but he wiggled his way outta that. He finds out I was the one who turned him in, he’s gonna get me fer sure!”
Garth had been right about one thing—she’d been the one who called the cops. “Look, I have a friend in the sheriff’s department, he’ll listen to you.” Not that I could see Caleb allowing me along for the interview, but if this girl was involved, it could clear my family.
“No! No cops, not yet.”
“Then let me come to you, and we’ll come up with something to do for you, okay?”
“I’m in a phone booth in Turlock. I gotta get me a lawyer, find some way to put that cheatin’ bastard away before he fi—finds me.”
I would talk Autumn into turning herself in to the police, and get that thanks Caleb owed me. “I can help you, Autumn. Just tell me where you are.” I patted the little digital recorder I kept clipped on my jeans. “I’ll record your story, take it to the police. I’ll even get you a lawyer.”
She sniffled and giggled at the same time. The girl was close to hysteria. If I could only get to her before she bolted.
She gave me the name of a pancake house in Turlock and I hung up, grabbed the truck keys, and raced the clock dow
n the freeway. Even if every other word was a lie, she knew something that could help me break the stalemate on this case. It also meant that I, and not that bonehead Detective Rodney, had the scoop on Patience’s killer.
I parked the car and went in the front door.
She sat alone in a booth, hunched over a steaming mug of coffee, doing her best to look inconspicuous. Didn’t do her any good, as there wasn’t a man in the place with a drop of testosterone in his veins who wasn’t leering in her direction.
Autumn O’Sullivan was a looker, all right. A curvy little pigeon, with artfully tangled red hair falling in a curtain around bare shoulders, the décolleté on her sleeveless blue dress deep enough for most of the crowd to watch as her bosom jiggled in time to a nervously swinging foot. She was wearing very white, very high heels, the kind Playboy models wear in centerfolds when they don’t wear anything else.
“Hi, Autumn,” I said gently. She jumped, but then smiled nervously when I held out my hand. “I’m Lalla Bains.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said, patting pink nails over the deep curve of her breast and somewhere close to her heart. The heart-shaped face, I noticed, was remarkably devoid of tears. I was beginning to wonder if she had one—heart, that is.
Leaning across the table, she said, “I forgot to describe myself. I was afraid you wouldn’t know what I look like.”
I had to work at keeping a straight face at the idea that I wouldn’t have been able to find her in all this testosterone. I said, “Garth gave me a brief description.”
She gave a little shudder at the mention of his name.
I sat down across from her and pulled out the small recorder. “Do you want to do this here or in my car?” I said kindly, but not giving her the option to back out.
She looked around at the twenty or so drooling men and decided to chance the seating arrangement here. The tip of a pink tongue flicked out to lick the corner of her red lips. A sexy little gesture entirely wasted on me, but I doubted if she was giving it much thought. “This will do, I guess.”