by Sue Grafton
“Ruel’s out back. Won’t you come in? I’m Edna, his wife.”
She opened the door for us. We did a round of introductions that included the McPhees’ granddaughter, Cissy, who skipped on ahead of us in her Mary Janes. Edna led us through the house, saying, “We’re about to frost cupcakes for Cissy’s birthday. Six years old today. She’s having a little party with her kindergarten class this afternoon.”
Cissy said, “My grammaw made me this dress.”
Dolan said, “Well, that’s real cute. I like that.”
As usual, I played the silent sidekick, prepared to fly into action if Edna or the child suddenly went berserk.
Cissy had climbed onto a kitchen chair and was now perched on her knees, inspecting the baking project. On the table, there were two muffin tins, each containing twelve freshly baked cupcakes in paper liners with little golden-brown domed heads. I could see the yellow-cake mix box on the counter by the sink where the mixing bowl sat.
The room was decorated in a patriotic flurry of red, white, and blue. The kitchen paper was done in Revolutionary War motif, a repeating pattern of battle scenes, complete with cannons, ships, and soldiers in various heroic poses. The woodwork was white, the counters red, and a window seat built into a side bay was filled with plump pillows and a neatly folded quilt, all in coordinating hues.
Crayon and fingerpaint projects were fixed to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like fruit. There were also school pictures of two additional girls, ages about eight and ten, who might have been Cissy’s sisters. All three had the same blond hair and features reminiscent of Cornell’s. Cissy lowered her face, her nose a mere centimeter from a cupcake.
Edna said, “Cissy, don’t touch. You wait until they’re cool and don’t pick at them. Why don’t you take these nice folks to see Grandpa? I’ll have the frosting ready as soon as you get back.”
That job would be quick. I could see the container of ready-to-use fudge frosting on the table with a photo of a shiny chocolate swirl, like an ocean wave, on the side. As a kid, I’d imagined that’s what real Grannies did – sewed and made cakes. Aunt Gin always said, “I’m not the cookie-baking type,” as though that excused her from cooking of any kind. Now I wondered if that’s why I was so bent – because I lacked the homely services she’d so proudly repudiated.
Cissy got down off the chair and took Dolan by the hand. Behind Edna’s back, he shot me a look that said, Help. I trailed after them, crossing a section of grass that butted up against the garages. A side door stood open and Cissy took us that far before scampering back to her post.
Ruel McPhee sat on a wooden desk chair inside the door. A small color TV set had been placed on a crate and plugged into a wall-mounted outlet. He was smoking a cigarette while he watched a game show. Ruel was half the size of his wife, gaunt-faced and sunken-chested, with narrow bony shoulders. He wore a broken-rimmed straw hat pushed back on his head while his bifocals were pulled down on the bridge of his nose. He smelled a teeny, tiny bit like he hadn’t changed his socks this week. Dolan handled the introductions and a quick explanation of why we were there. At the sight of Ruel’s cigarette, Dolan was inspired to take out one of his own.
Ruel was nodding, though his attention was still fixed on the television set. “That was years ago.”
“DMV tells us the vehicle’s registered to you.”
“That’s right. Fella from Arizona brought it over here to have the seats redone. I had it parked behind the shop. Someone must have broken in and hotwired the ignition because when I came to work Monday morning, it was gone. Don’t know when it was taken. Saw it Friday afternoon, but that’s the last I know. I reported it right off and I it wasn’t but a week later someone called from the Sheriffs Department up north to say it’d been found. This fellow Gant, who owned the car, paid to have it towed back but it was worthless by then. Car looked like it’d been rolled-doors all messed up, front banged in.
Gant was pissed as hell.” He flicked me an apologetic look for the use of the word. “I told him to file a claim with his insurance company, but he didn’t want anything more to do with it. He’d already been in a couple fender-benders and the engine froze up once. He was convinced the car was jinxed. I offered him a fair price, but he wouldn’t take a cent. He said good riddance to bad rubbish and signed it over to me.” Ruel’s gaze returned to the screen where contestants were pressing buttons while the prize money they’d racked up was being flashed on monitors. I couldn’t answer even one of the questions they responded to with such speed.
Dolan said, “What happened to the car?”
“Someone pushed it down a ravine is what I heard.”
“I mean, where is it now?”
“Oh. It’s setting right out back. Cornell and I intend to do the restoration as soon as we have time. I guess you met him. He’s married with three girls, and Justine lays claim to any spare time he has. We’ll get to it in due course.”
“Justine’s his wife?”
“Going on fifteen years. She’s difficult to get along with. Edna has more patience with the situation than I do.”
“You have any idea who might have stolen the car?”
“If I did, I’d’ve told the police back then. Joyriders is my guess.
Town this size, it’s what the kids do for fun. That and throw paint balloons out the back of their trucks. Not like when I was young. My dad would’ve pounded me bloody and that’d’ve been the end of that.”
“You ever had a car stolen from the shop before?”
“Not before and not since. I put up a fence with concertina wire and that took care of it.” He turned his attention from the TV. “What’s your interest?”
Dolan’s expression was bland. “We’re cleaning out our files, doing follow-up on old crime reports. Most of it’s administrative work.”
“I see.” Ruel stepped on his cigarette and then placed the flattened butt in a Miracle Whip jar that was nearly filled to the brim. He held the jar out to Dolan who stepped on his cigarette and added it to the collection: Ruel was saying, “I’m not allowed to smoke inside, especially when the granddaughters visit. Justine thinks it’s bad for their lungs so Edna makes me come out here. Justine can be moody if she I doesn’t get her way.”
“Why’d you hang on to the car?”
Ruel drew back and made a face as though Dolan were dense. “That Mustang’s a classic. 1966.”
“Couldn’t have been a classic then. The car was only three years old.”
“I told you I got the car for free,” he said. “Once we finish the restoration, it’ll be worth somewhere in the neighborhood of fourteen thousand dollars. Now I’d call that a profit, wouldn’t you?”
“Mind if we take a look?”
“Help yourself. I got five of them back there; one sweet little GT Coupe, silver frost with the black vinyl top tom up. Doesn’t run yet and the body needs work, but if you’re interested, we could talk money and maybe make a deal.”
“My car’s fine, thanks.”
Dolan lit another cigarette as the two of us trooped through high grass to a rutted dirt lane overgrown with weeds that led to the second of Ruel McPhee’s garages. The entire area had been undercut by gopher tunnels, and my foot occasionally sank into a softly crumbling hole. The garage was positioned so that its backside was to us, its double doors facing a flat field beyond. We could see the faintly defined path where the lane had originally been laid out, possibly in anticipation of a second house on the property. Three additional vehicles were visible in the area immediately in front of us. We checked those cars first, lifting their respective car covers like a series of ladies’ skirts. The two I peeked at were in poor shape, and I didn’t think they’d ever amount to more than yard ornaments. While we made our inspection, I said, “You think someone used the vehicle to drive the body to Lompoc?”
“Hard to say. She could have been alive when she left, assuming she was ever in Quorum at all. Just as likely someone stole the car and picked he
r up along the way.”
“But what if she was killed here? Why drive the body all the way up there to dump? Seems like it’d be easier to go out in the desert and dig a hole.”
Dolan shrugged. “You might want to put some distance between the body and the crime scene. It’d make sense to take off and go as far as you could. Then you’d have to find a place to pull off and unload, which’s not as easy as you’d think. If the body was in the trunk much more than a day, it’d start to decompose and then you’d have a big problem on your hands. You’d have to figure the car’d been reported stolen, which means you couldn’t risk a traffic stop in case the officer became curious about what you had back there. At least Lompoc’s off the main highway and if you found an isolated spot, you’d dump her while you had the chance.”
“What about the original owner? How do we know he didn’t have a hand in it?”
“It’s always possible,” he said, “though Gant’s been dead the last ten years. Ruptured abdominal aneurysm, according to the information I received.”
When we reached the garage, Dolan tried the side door, but a combination of warping and old paint had welded it shut. We went around to the double doors in front. Both were closed, but there were no locks in the hasps. Dolan gave the one on the right a hefty yank and the three-section door labored up, trailing spider webs and dead leaves. Sunlight washed in, setting a cloud of dust motes ablaze. The two cars inside were both covered with canvas tarps and the space was crammed with junk. In addition to old cars, McPhee apparently saved empty cans and jars, stacks of newspapers bound with wire, wood crates, boxes, shovels, a pickax, a rusted tire iron, firewood, sawhorses, and lumber. The garage had also been made home to an ancient mower, automotive parts, and dilapidated metal lawn furniture. The air smelled stale and felt dry against my face. Dolan paused to extinguish his cigarette while I raised a comer of the nearest tarp. “This looks a lot like the tarp the body was wrapped in.”
“Sure does. We’ll have to ask McPhee if one was taken the same time the car was.”
I looked down, catching sight of the battered right rear fender of the red Mustang. “Found it.”
Together we removed the car cover and folded it like a flag. To my untutored eye, the car looked as though it hadn’t been touched since the day it was hauled out of the ravine back in ‘69. At best, the exterior had been hosed off, but dried dirt still clung to the underbelly of the car with its scraped and dented right side and its banged-in driver’s door. Both sides were rumpled. A portion of tree branch was caught under the left rear fender. Something about it made my heart thump. Dolan took out a handkerchief and gingerly pressed the trunk lock. The lid swung open. Inside, the spare tire was missing from the mount. A couple of dusty cardboard boxes filled with old National Geographic magazines had been shoved into the space. Dolan removed the boxes and set them aside. The exposed matting looked clean except for two large dark smudges and two smaller ones near the back. Dolan peered closer. “I think we better call the local sheriffs department and get the car impounded.”
He crossed to the single door and tested it again. Satisfied that it was frozen shut, he said, “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” I stood just outside, staring at the untilled pasture with its tangle of wildflowers while Dolan headed off toward his car. I noticed he steered a wide path around the backside of the garage, where I assumed McPhee was still sitting. I couldn’t see the old man, but the occasional drift of frenetic music suggested he’d remained in his wooden chair, watching TV. I returned to the Mustang and circled it, hands behind my back, peering in the windows with their cracked and broken glass. The black leather seats, while gray with dust, seemed to be in good shape.
Dolan returned six minutes later carrying a Polaroid camera, his pant legs covered with burrs. He handed me the camera while he took out a pen and a packet of seals he’d retrieved from his car. He jotted his initials, the date, and the time on four seals and affixed one across each of the two doors, one to the hood, and the remaining seal across the trunk opening. Then he clicked off a series of Polaroid shots while he circled the car. As each photograph emerged from the slot, Dolan handed it to me. I waited for the image to appear and then wrote a title across the bottom. Dolan added his name, the date, and the time, and tucked them in an envelope he placed in his jacket pocket.
I said, “Does McPhee know we’re doing this?”
“Not yet.”
“What now?”
“I’ll go back to the motel and call Detective Lassiter. He can send out a deputy to secure the car until a tow truck arrives. I’ll also put in a request to the Santa Teresa Sheriffs Department to send down a flatbed as soon as possible. They can load the car at the local impound lot and tow it back.”
“How long will that take?”
Dolan checked his watch. “It’s ten thirty now. They should be able to get someone here by six tonight. Meantime, I’ll call Judge Ruiz in Santa Teresa and ask him to issue a telephonic warrant. We’ll return the affidavit with the Mustang and have Stacey file the paperwork up there. I’ll be back within the hour.”
Chapter 14
*
I hadn’t sat surveillance for ages and I’d forgotten how long an hour could feel. At least the car wasn’t going to move. I took off my watch and slipped it in my pocket so I wouldn’t be tempted to keep peeking at the time. I settled in the shade, leaning against the garage while I added a few notes to my index cards and then slipped the paperback from my shoulder bag and found my place.
Half a chapter later, I heard a car door slam, and when I peered around the comer, I saw Cornell getting out of a white truck. He was crossing the parking pad, heading for his parents’ back door, possibly to have lunch. I was starving and had to take my nourishment in the from of an ancient Junior Mint I’d tossed in the bottom of my shoulder bag. I figured the fuzz on it would supply my quota of fiber.
The day had warmed up considerably and the air smelled of wildflowers and weeds. An occasional bumblebee lumbered by, a black-and-yellow gumball in flight. A swarm of gnats danced in the light and a horsefly zipped around, looking for a place to land. This was entirely too much wildlife for my purposes. I’m an indoor kind of person, and I prefer my contact with Nature reduced to the front of a picture postcard.
I heard someone trampling through the grass. I got to my feet, dusted off my jeans, and tucked the book back in my bag. I was expecting to see Dolan. Instead, Cornell appeared, smoking a cigarette he’d cupped in the palm of his hand. He didn’t seem all that happy to see me. His gaze shifted to the open garage door, where the Mustang sat in plain view, its tarp removed, a seal affixed across the opening of the hood.
I said, “Hi. I’m Kinsey. We met this morning.” I flicked a look toward the driveway, hoping to see the deputy arriving, but no such luck.
“I know who you are. What’s all this?”
“A sheriffs deputy should be here shortly. Lieutenant Dolan thinks this might be the vehicle used to transport our victim. He wants to have it checked.”
“What’s that mean?”
I put a casual shrug in my voice. “It’s no big deal. He wants the evidence technicians to go over it.”
“And Dad knows about this?”
“I’m assuming so,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I’m not sure what the lieutenant told him. You’d have to ask him.”
Cornell frowned. He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “How long’s this going to take?”
“Probably no more than a couple of days.” I was hoping it wouldn’t occur to him we’d be removing the Mustang from the premises. Also, hauling it north where he probably wouldn’t see the car again for months. I didn’t want to deal with him if he raised a big stink.
He hunched his shoulders. “The law allows you to just waltz in this way? You’re on private property out here, same as the house. My dad owns everything as far as that fence.”
I turned and followed his gesture. “I wasn’t aware of that. Lot of land,” I
said. “Actually, we had a chat with your father and asked to see the Mustang. He told us to help ourselves.”
“I don’t think he understood what you meant. He didn’t mention it to me.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, no. Not at all. It just seems weird.”
I looked down at the ground, snubbing the tip of my right Saucony in the dirt. “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe Lieutenant Dolan can explain it when he gets back. He asked me to secure the car until the deputy arrives. Did you need something out here?”
“I came out to see what was going on. Dad saw you head in this direction, but then you never came back. Where’s Lieutenant Dolan?”
“Ah. I guess he went around the other way. He probably didn’t want to bug your dad while he was watching his show.” I let a silence settle. I didn’t want to manufacture small talk and I wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation on its present course.
“I better let Dad know. He’s not going to like it, but that’s your look-out.”
“Go ahead. Do anything you like.”
Cornell backed up a step and then took off for the house. By the time he reached the driveway, a black-and-white unit was pulling in. When the deputy got out, he and Cornell shook hands. I watched the two men confer, joined moments later by the old man himself. He had his straw hat set square on his head, the rim shading his face. Even from a distance, I could see he’d taken on the air of a bandy rooster whose barnyard was under siege. The conversation continued with a lot of hand waving on Ruel’s part. The three faces turned in my direction. Behind them, Lieutenant Dolan pulled up and parked at the curb. The three of them waited for Dolan and then another discussion ensued, at the end of which the four of them formed a little ragtag parade and trudged toward me.
Dolan introduced the deputy, whose name was Todd Chilton. He seemed to be acquainted with Ruel, and I gathered their relationship predated the current meeting. Chilton was in his late thirties, with dark hair clipped short on the sides and curling slightly on top. He’d loosened his tie, and he took a moment to rebutton his collar before the two of us shook hands.