by RP Dahlke
A DEAD RED OLEANDER
By RP Dahlke
#3 in the Dead Red Series
When a late in the season emergency forces Lalla Bains to accept a greenhorn ag pilot for her dad's cropdusting business, she sighs in relief. After all, he comes highly recommended, his physical is spotless, and with a name like Dewey Treat, what could possibly go wrong?
Then her quirky relatives arrive from Texas and things go south in a hurry: Dewey Treat drops dead, his tearful widow claims he was murdered, clobbers Sheriff Caleb Stone with his own gun, and makes a run for it. Lalla, convinced the widow is innocent, sets out to prove it—against the express wishes of fiancé Caleb Stone.
Feds, local law, suspicious ag-pilots, nutso relatives, and her daddy's new sidekick, Bruce the goat, make life a living hell for Lalla. Will her nosey nature solve the crime and save the day? Or put them all in mortal danger?
© 2012 RP Dahlke. ver 4.22.13
Published in the USA by Dead Bear Publishing
A Dead Red Oleander is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are entirely the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, transmitted, or recorded by any means whatsoever, including printing, photocopying, file transfer, or any form of data storage, mechanical or electronic, without the express written consent of the publisher. In addition, no part of this publication may be lent, re-sold, hired, or otherwise circulated or distributed, in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher.
NO GOATS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS BOOK
(never mind the book cover)
Credits:
Modesto and Stanislaus County Law: courtesy of Joe Maxwell and "Hey Ray!"
Goats and why they do what they do, courtesy of Ron & Marilyn Anderson, Hereford, AZ
WitSec-Inside the federal Witness protection Program," by Pete Early & Gerald Shur ISBN #987-0-533058243-7
Retired FBI Agent and author of the Alec Santana books, Ernesto Patino
Medical information provided by Dr. DP Lyle from his paper on the myth of oleander
and Google Web on poisons.
Editors: Christine LePorte. http://christineleporte.com
Lisa Cox, PhD, Kaylin O'Gorman
Cover Art: Karen Phillips:
Beta Readers and good friends who kick my butt and still make me smile:
JoAnn Bassett, author of the Pali Moon Mysteries
Ellis Vidler: Author of suspense
Polly Iyer: Author of romantic suspense
Beth Phillips Englehart
Elizabeth aka Jinx Schwartz, Author of the Hetta Coffey series
Special thanks to Carol Sanger, friend and poet for the use of a line from one of her beautiful poems.
Thanks to my very dear friends, Robert and Jinx Schwartz, for the allowing me to disparage their good names for my nefarious purposes.
Dedications:
Dedicated to my forever son, John Shanahan, whose cheerful advice and stories about the aero agricultural business in California made this series about a woman ag pilot possible.
Daniel John Shanahan II: 1964-2005
And to my granddaughters: Simone Winter Shanahan & Hanna Summer Shanahan
<><><><>
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face; the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.
Traditional Gaelic blessing
Chapter One:
The world is flat. I know it is, because for the last five hours the view has been exactly the same. Only the sun has done any traveling, working its long shadows through straight lines of harvested cotton. A few crows shop the furrowed rows for worms, weevils, and grasshoppers. One hops over to inspect the truck I'm lying under, cocks a beady black eye, probably attracted to the shiny metal police-issued handcuffs, my hand in one of the cuffs, dangling from wrist to arm, and finally down to me, Lalla Bains, aero-ag pilot, sometime busybody, meddling where I shouldn't—again. I'm dirt smeared and sweaty, thinking if I get out of this alive, if the killer doesn't return to finish me off, I'll foreswear all future sleuthing. My dad, Caleb my fiancé, my best friend Roxanne, and half of Stanislaus County will be pleased to bear witness to that promise.
I will, this time. Really, I will.
I waggle my grubby, unpainted, and unadorned fingers at the crow. Too bad I didn't have on my engagement ring; maybe I could get him to peck at the lock mechanism and open it. Yeah, right, and while I'm hallucinating, maybe get him to bring me a nice cold Pepsi.
I never wear the ring when I'm working, and I'd worked today, starting at three a.m. as I usually do during the long hot season of flying cropdusters. I spread chemicals over cotton fields like this one to keep the aforementioned weevils from devouring the plants. Today was my last flight, and probably my last job as an aero-ag pilot, since my dad's business will soon be absorbed by another, larger outfit in Merced.
The crow is unimpressed with my status—after all, I'm the one recumbent under a truck, unable to move. His sharp black eyes take in the cuff and then my hopeful face. Any interest he may have had in my predicament is answered with a fluff of wings, and I swear—a wink. Then he flaps up on to the hood and his sharp claws rat-tat-tat across the top of the cab. He lands in the empty bed of the truck and a quick, sharp, whistle says he's found that wadded up McDonald's bag from yesterday. Yesterday, when I still had a life that didn't include murderous suspects. He fusses at the paper bag for a few more minutes until it's agreed there's nothing left but a greasy wrapper. I hear his wings flap again, and wheels up, he flies off to the freedom I can only dream about.
I roll onto a shoulder so I can look out from under the truck. North. We're facing north, where I've been hooked up and alone for most of the day, without water, a cell, or hope.
I follow the tracks as they roll over the berm, cutting twin ruts in the banked up earth, the crazy, jigsaw pattern of my reckless descent. Trucks and drivers intent on dinner, home, family whiz past—I wish I were one of them.
Someone could notice. I think. There are those lines leading down through the harvested cotton and finally to me under my dad's old Ford. That is, if the driver in one of those big semis took his eyes off the road, and turned his head for a quick glance at the dry, flattened, and totally unappealing two hundred acres. I'm sure he would see the hump of a faded blue cab sprouting like an odd weed in the sea of cotton. I sure wouldn't give it a second glance.
A car slows and rolls to a stop. A door slams. My heart quickens and in the heat of late summer a feathery light shiver of fear runs across my skin. I lie waiting.
I hear dirt clods tumble as footsteps make their way through the ruined plants, a curse as one sticks to his pant leg. A pair of brogues—black, with enough shine on them to reflect part of a tan pant leg with a navy blue stripe. His knees pop as he squats, and he eyeballs my cuffed wrist to the bumper, and finally to the rest of me, snuggled in between the row of cotton under the 1958 rusted bucket my daddy refuses to part with.
He removes the California Highway Patrol cap, and first thing I notice are the stripes on his sleeve—a sergeant, maybe someone bright enough to figure out I'm not a criminal.
My blonde hair, which usually counts for a few points with most men, is presently adorned with cotton stems and fluffy balls. The rest of me is streaked with dirt. Not my best look.
We stare at each other for a minute.
&nb
sp; I'm parched. My lips are cracked, my tongue is dry, and it sticks to the roof of my mouth. I need that Pepsi, maybe a rum and Coke, before I can possibly say a word. I swallow, thinking nothing will come out.
But then he does the one thing guaranteed to fix my pipes.
"So," he drawls, "what's your story, little lady?"
Chapter Two: Six Weeks Earlier
Summer progressed as it always does: tires go flat, trucks break down, oil lines in the big Lycoming engines split. In which case, I'm on it—not about to let another split oil line trigger a forced landing, not mine or anyone else's. I still can't tolerate the smell of tomatoes, too close to the snootful I got a couple of years back when I was forced down into a field of them. That led to a whole lot of trouble I couldn't have avoided, but tomatoes and I are still not on speaking terms.
We are in our final season as Bains Aero Ag Service and my dad and I agreed that with my upcoming wedding to Caleb Stone, it was finally time to sell the business. Unfortunately, my second pilot's bum knee decreed he wasn't going to make it through this last season. Short-handed and neck deep in work, I was desperate to find a replacement. So naturally I was happy to hear from my dad's best buddy, Burdell Smith, who was calling to tell me he had just the man for the job.
"The guy may only have one season under his belt," Burdell said, "but Dewey's a hard worker, a self-starter, smart as a whip, and won't be back-sassing just because a woman's running the show."
"Done," I said. "How fast do you think he can get here?"
<><><><>
With a name like Dewey Treat, I was thinking cowboy, broad shoulders, plaid shirt, and too much facial hair. I would have to talk to him about the facial hair. Chemicals cling to beards, get absorbed into the skin, even with the showers and a scrub brush. Flight suits and helmets can't keep it all out, and I'd be damned if I was going to have a sick pilot to deal with before the end of this season. I'd have to insist he shave. Okay, he could keep it as long as it was just a mustache, or that little comma thingy on the chin; that was doable.
So when I heard a motorcycle rumble into the driveway, I knew our new pilot had arrived. Booted footsteps approached and I stood, expecting the big man to duck under the door, filling the office with too much testosterone and sucking up all the oxygen.
What I got was a short, thin-shouldered man with the uncertain nearsighted squint of someone who's just had laser eye surgery. Maybe there was some extra swagger in his walk, since he must've known I was desperate for the help, but his handshake was firm, dry, and on closer inspection, the gaze was steady, intelligent, and sure.
"Ms. Bains," he said, pumping my hand, "I sure appreciate you taking me on this late in the season." He squinted, looking to see how I was taking it so far, and added, "Burdell Smith said to say hi to your dad."
That's right, bucko, tip the scales why don't you, since Burdell and my dad were old buddies in a dying industry. "No worries in that department, Dewey. I may run the show, but if Burdell vouched for you, you're in. That way, if you crash and burn, he has no one to blame but himself."
Dewey's face blanched and I had to remind myself to back up on the humor. "Just kidding, okay?"
"Oh, sure. You do know Mr. Smith retired soon after I left."
"I heard that too. Have a seat?"
I passed over the medical information and didn't add that he was leaving one sinking ship for another. Then I explained our percentage numbers and medical insurance, and handed him the W-2 form and a pen.
"Sounds fair enough to me," he said, filling in the W-2 and sliding it back to me across the dusty surface of my desk.
That finished, we stood and shook hands. "Your e-mail said you can start this week. Got a place to stay?"
"Yes'm. Wife and I found a nice rental in a fairly new subdivision between here and Modesto. I hear house sales are suffering from the recession, so if the job works out, that is, if you like my work, we'll buy it."
I cringed. Sometime soon, before he heard it from our other pilot, I'd have to tell him he should start looking for next year's job. "Then let's get you a look-see at your aircraft. Burdell said you knew your way around an Ag-Cat, right?"
"Yes'm. Easy, peasy."
"First names only here, boss lady included. So call me Lalla, okay?" I wasn't going to ask if he and the missus had kids. I had my own merry-go-around with my dad on that subject.
We stepped outside as Mad Dog Schwartz rounded the corner and saw us. His ginger brows went up a notch when I introduced Dewey as the new pilot. When the two men shook hands, Mad Dog nodded at us and turned to leave, but not before I noticed the tweak of smug satisfaction on his face. I think the name Dewey Treat got the same reaction from Mad Dog as it did with me, and for once he was pleased to have gotten it wrong.
We were both wrong on that score.
Chapter Three:
As for our new pilot, Dewey Treat, he was as advertised—hard working, self-starter, showed up on time, and didn't have to be told anything twice—which annoyed my senior pilot, Mad Dog Schwartz, to no end.
I was signing pilot checks for triple digits and lots of zeros and tuning out Mad Dog's grumbling about his newest teammate. We were going to end this last season in the black and I could write checks while I daydreamed a renegotiation on our sale to Merced Aero-Ag—maybe squeeze a few more dollars out of them for Dad's retirement and my honeymoon. I rolled my engagement ring around on my finger, admiring the twinkle of the small stone. Caleb, in a gesture of his love and commitment to a woman who had two strikes against her in the marriage department, had put it on my finger, and except for the days I flew or worked on engines, there it stayed.
Knowing I was going to regret it, I looked up from my paperwork.
"There's something hinky about that boy."
"And if you keep calling him 'boy,' he's going to ruin your pretty face."
"He can try," he said, puffing out his chest. "I'm telling you there's something wrong. He's simply not as advertised and I think you should look into it."
The last time Mad Dog had a beef with a pilot, I chalked it up to the need to flex his alpha-male muscles as top dog in our small aero-ag business. Especially since the pilot in question was a hotshot but hardworking pilot. Only problem was, Mad Dog had been right—the pilot had needed a platoon of little soldiers that came in illegal prescription bottles to keep up with all that hard work.
I sighed and put down the pen. "Let me finish signing these checks and we'll talk about that suspicious nature of yours."
<><><><>
With Mad Dog's complaints still ringing in my ears, I left the office for home, which fortunately for me is no more than a three-minute stroll from office to house. I stamped off a layer of dust from my work boots, opened the screen to our kitchen, and got a whiff of burned pancakes.
My dad was hunched over his plate, glum-faced and dour—not anything unusual about that, but I got the distinct impression he was hoping I'd take on the dark cloud threatening his breakfast.
Juanita was miserably banging the pots and pans around in the sink. Surely Dad wouldn't have said something to hurt her feelings. After all, this was the one woman in the world who had managed to keep on his good side—what there was of it—and so far, not counting the few years I was gone to New York, or married to husband number two, I'd never heard a cross word between them.
They had a deal. She did the laundry, fixed supper, played Bingo from two to four on Wednesdays, and left every day at three to pick up her grandkids from school.
All he had to do was to keep her on the company payroll, take care of her share of the withholding taxes, pay her health insurance, and include a Christmas bonus large enough for her to treat her grandchildren to a fun-filled holiday.
Fine by me, since Christmases hadn't been any fun since my mom died. From the time I was eleven until I turned sixteen, and refused to go any longer, Dad shipped me off to Great-Aunt Eula Mae's ranch for holidays. For the last couple of years, Caleb and I spent Christmases w
ith Roxanne Leonard and her family.
So, what could possibly be wrong with Juanita—menopause? Let's see, how old was Juanita — sixty? No, she and my dad were the same age, they were both sixty-eight. Too late for that diagnosis.
"Hi," I said, looking for one of them to fill me in.
My dad rolled his eyes in her direction, clearly hoping I'd take it up with the other occupant of the kitchen.
I picked up a dry towel and wiped the water off the pan she'd put on the drying rack. Seeing the tears tracking down her wrinkled cheeks, I put down the pan and laid a hand gently on her shoulder. "Juanita, what's wrong?"
She took the towel from my hand and used it to wipe her tears. "My daughter-in-law is moving to Bakersfield to live with her sister."
Uh-oh. Juanita doted on her grandchildren. "Divorce?"
"Sí. And there is nothing I can do to stop her. Ay, Díos, it will break my poor darlings in two. No papi at night, no abuelita to pick them up every day after school. She knew I was saving for Disneyland this Christmas and now she says they can't go." Juanita put her hands over her face and keened. "What am I saying? If I can't have my grandbabies, I will die of lonesome."
Juanita's son was American born, but his wife wasn't. I never asked if she had her visa, but Juanita's grandchildren, her only grandchildren, were American born and raised. I wasn't about to ask, but what if his wife decided to take them back to Mexico?
"Surely your daughter-in-law will let you take them to Disneyland. And Bakersfield isn't so far away."
She looked over my shoulder as if counting the miles and the gas money it would take for a round trip. "Está muy léjos de aquí."
"Yes, I know it's a pretty long trip, but we'll give you some extra in your paycheck—won't we, Dad—and fill up your gas tank before you go, that should help, won't it?"
My dad coughed into his coffee cup, but at least he didn't voice his objections in front of Juanita. Something told me that the extra would come out of my paycheck, since it was my idea.
Juanita's smile trembled. "You are so kind, míja. But the distance is not the only problem. She hates my Juan and since I am Juan's mother, she hates me too. How can I talk to my babies if she won't answer the phone when I call?"