Chapter 14
I tailed Moira down the freeway for nearly half an hour. At the Bussan off-ramp, she exited onto a dirty strip of asphalt heading south.
I followed.
The narrow road wound through miles of scrub desert to the little town of Mission. There, she hooked a right just past the first intersection and drove into a collection of human misery called The Hampton Mobile Home Court.
The trailer park was a 1940's era creation that had skidded its way into the new millennium with an upscale neon sign. The marker flickered a bright green promise of low rates, good neighbors and safe living. Notably absent was any comment concerning weed-choked streets or sleeping within arm’s reach of another's nightmares.
Moira sped through the darkness as if she had made the trip a thousand times before.
I lagged back, tracking her taillights and trying to avoid exchanging doors with parked cars. Most of the mobile homes were lit up like 'B' movie sets, replete with resident drunk. Most exuded noise from thumping stereos, arguing voices, or the tattletale cries of hungry children. I gave her more headway and tried to ignore the sounds. Life was good in Texas. Just not at the Hampton Mobile Home Court.
At the terminus of the dark street I came upon her parked car. It was sitting in front of a new doublewide, directly behind a small red convertible. Moira was at the home's front door rattling its aluminum frame with her fists as if she were about to die and it was the last barrier to heaven.
I dowsed the rental's headlights, pulled to the curb several trailers back, and let the engine idle.
"Betsy!" Moira called. She pounded the door, again. "Betsy, it's mommy. I have to talk to you, honey."
When the door opened, a wash of yellow light flooded out, engulfing Moira like golden fire. She grabbed the doorknob, rushed in and jerked the light after herself.
I pulled away from the curb and let the rental roll forward.
A few yards behind Moira's car, I set the brake and shut off the engine. From within the doublewide, I could hear raised voices. Women were arguing but I was too far away to make out what was being said. I assumed their tiff was focused upon Eli's murder—Moira threatening, Betsy not agreeing.
My guess was at odds with what occurred next. While one voice still shrieked in anger, Moira stormed from the doublewide. The light once more flooded after her like an exploding torch chasing its user. Without a backward glance, she jumped into her car and sputtered away.
A pretty blonde wrapped in a light colored blanket reached out and drew the screen door closed. The girl's face was older than what I had seen in the photos at Leon's house. There was no denying it belonged to Betsy.
I tore several pages from my notebook and folded them over, envelope-fashion. Then, I got out of the rental, followed Moira's tracks to the doublewide, and rapped on the door.
From within, a girl's voice sobbed, "Mommy?"
"Western Union," I responded.
The door opened a crack and the blonde peered out. She was no more than eighteen, small boned, and blue eyed. Tears had washed mascara onto the bridge of a tiny upturned nose. A crimson smear spread from her thin lips up across one cheek. Her blanket slipped and I got a good look at all that God had granted her through a sheer lavender nightdress. I liked what I saw. I did not like the guilt deep inside me.
"What do you want?"
The nightdress drifted defiantly in the night breeze, clinging invisibly one moment; riding up evocatively the next. She smelled of Shalimar and lost innocence. I felt a loathing for Eli Huggins as well as my dark-sided self.
I waived the folded pages. "Telegram for Betsy Huggins. It's from Eli Huggins. Sorry, about being a day late. We had a flu outbreak and nobody could get here 'til now."
Betsy's eyes blinked at me several times in confusion, but she said nothing.
"There's cash," I quickly added. "So I'll need a signature. My last stop kept my pen. Do you have one?"
Betsy nodded, and then stepped away, leaving the door ajar. I nudged it open just as she dropped the blanket to the floor near a small desk. I waited until she was busy fumbling through one of its drawers before creeping inside.
From behind, Betsy's petite form was like that of a child who had suddenly found womanhood. Her hips were slightly flared, her waist tiny, her back narrow.
I felt uneasy in my stare, and let my eyes meander around the front room as I quietly closed the door.
A yellow shag carpet kept company with wood-grained Masonite walls and a small collection of carefully matched furniture. Artwork was in evidence—suspended from the Masonite above a brown davenport. It consisted of two leaping, gray cats painted upon black velvet. In front of the davenport, the floor was littered with fast-food debris and piles of laundry.
Two tabby-cats moved from the chair adjacent to the davenport, stretched and then trotted over to the blonde's discarded blanket. They curled upon its warm folds and quickly closed their eyes. A third cat napped obliviously on the back of recliner near the kitchen doorway; it was white and fuzzy. Against the wall opposite the davenport was a new television set. A rock video blared through the speakers. The singer was dressed in something silky and feminine, despite his thick beard.
Music had changed a tad since I last paid tribute.
Adjacent to the TV was an aquarium of dead fish. They floated in bloated abandon as the air pump gurgled bubbles in unison with the rock-music.
I noticed a pair of women's boots near my feet. Fresh, greenish scars marred their white leather—similar to markings seen on the footwear of children after a day of climbing trees. If the cleaning woman had clamored down from Eli's terrace, Betsy had either followed or led the way.
She turned, pen in hand. When Betsy saw me standing inside by the door she waxed white.
"What's up with you?" she demanded. "I didn't tell you to come in." She crossed her arms over her barely concealed breasts and stared at me as if I was death, incarnate.
I took out my P-I identification and held it up. "My name is Deacon Bishop. I'm a Private Investigator working for Leon. All I want is information."
Betsy grabbed the blanket, dumping its sleeping occupants unceremoniously onto the carpet. She clutched it to her bosom like a shield.
"Get out of here." She sidled toward a wall phone just outside the kitchen doorway. "If you don't, I'll scream."
I put my identification away, went over to the davenport and sat down. "Not until we talk. Do you have any smokes? I ran out on the drive over here."
She stared at me a moment, bewildered by my actions and doubting my intentions. Then, she straightened up, draped the blanket about her shoulders and strode over to the telephone. "I'm calling the cops."
"Ask for Captain Delaney," I coached. "While you've got him on the horn you might mention you were at Eli's when the old bastard was killed. Don't worry about me. I'll wait with you. I promise Delaney won't be long. He'll want to talk to both of us about what you were doing while Eli was getting his brains jelled—and, more importantly, who you saw do it."
She grabbed the handset and glared over at me. "You think I'm bluffing don't you?"
I wagged my head. "He'll want to talk with Nadine, too. You remember Nadine, Betsy. Blond, nice yellow car, has a flair for powdering her nose through a straw. You and she partied with Eli just before Satan called him home."
Betsy slowly returned the handset to its cradle. "Me and Nadine didn't see nothin'."
I had expected her denial, probably precipitated by Moira's visit. "You two were out on the patio. Your back was to the tree. Nadine was facing it. She saw the killing. She told you who did it. Then the two of you climbed down the tree. You hid out until the killer left. After that, you hightailed it for home. Neither of you reported it to the police, which can only mean you were either afraid to, or you knew Eli's killer."
One of her small hands flared across her whitening throat. "No," she gasped. "You got it all wrong, Mister."
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bsp; I jabbed a thumb toward her boots. "Don't lie to me, Betsy. You left white shoe polish on the railing and your boots are scarred and stained from the climb down. Forensics will match up what's on them to the tree next to the terrace. Trees have a unique DNA, the same as people. You were there, and you were scared enough to risk breaking your neck to get down in a hurry."
She squinted across the room at her boots for nearly a minute before saying, "It wasn't like that—not exactly!"
"What was it like? Exactly?"
Betsy squirmed as if there was a fire under her but said nothing.
"Maybe it would be best if you called Nadine. If you get her over here, I'm sure we can settle this before Delaney catches on."
She twisted her body into an angry pose. "You can't tell me what to do."
"I can tell Delaney you were a witness. Would that suit you?"
Her pose went limp with fear. "I didn't see nothin', honest."
"Nadine did. What did she tell you, Betsy?"
Her blond head wagged back and forth like a little girl refusing a dose of bad tasting medicine, but she remained silent.
"Moira warned you to keep quiet. She warned you against telling me because I'm liable to queer her blackmail plans. She warned you against telling Delaney because he'd kill you if he knew. And she wants you to claim you saw Leon do it."
She let go an anguished cry, "Please, go away."
"Betsy, I'm no genius. If I figured out you two saw Eli get killed, it won't be long before Delaney does. And once he puts on the pressure, you and Nadine will have to testify it was Leon—or die. Leon will face lethal injection, then. Is that what you want, Betsy?"
"It wasn't him. He'd never do that. We were there all right. And we were on the balcony, all right. But Leon didn't do it."
One of the evicted cats took up residence on my lap. The animal's contentment seemed to ease Betsy's fears. She let out a sigh of resignation and then returned to the desk and settled upon its chair, staring at me.
"It's me or Delaney, Betsy," I prodded. "If you won't talk to me, I'll tell him what I know—what I suspect you know."
Her hands went to her face. "I gotta' talk to Nadine first," she sobbed. "I just have to talk to her."
"Why?"
"I can't tell you. Please go away."
Based upon Betsy's wailing insistence, the key to Eli's murder clearly rested with Nadine and someone with whom she was involved. That meant Moira was no longer in the running as the shooter. And likely as not, Delaney was not involved.
"Telephone her," I urged.
She dropped her hands and took a deep breath, her breasts rising like ripe plums beneath the nightgown. Then she pointed to my lap's tenant. "Beatrice usually doesn't like men. Careful. She's not afraid to use her claws."
"Animals and old ladies love me. It's the rest of the world that gives me grief. We can meet Nadine someplace else if she won't come here—now would be best."
Betsy glanced across the room to the clock above the television. "She'd still be out with him."
"Who?"
Her eyes dipped, and she folded her hands in her lap.
"Call her cell-phone," I suggested. "The longer you wait the worse this will get."
"Nadine doesn't like being bothered when she's with him."
"What's the boyfriend's name?"
Her eyes darted up to mine like blue fire. "That's none of your business."
I stroked the cat's thick brownish fur. "Was Leon a good dad, Betsy?"
She dragged one bare forearm beneath her dripping nose. "When Mommy let him be. He used to be a famous boxer. Did you know that?"
"I saw him fight several times. In his day he was probably the best there was."
Her face brightened, then. "When he married mommy, he ran a gas station right across the street from his house. I used to help there. He'd pump the gas and I'd tell the customers about all the stuff we sold—in case they needed things. We were going to be partners when I grew up." Then a sadness took control of her features and she added, "That didn't work out."
"Was Eli a good uncle?"
"He was okay, I guess."
"Lydia Thornton didn't think so, did she?"
Betsy flushed red. "Eli isn't blood if that's what you heard."
"Leon's in jail for murder, Betsy. Do you want him to die for something he didn't do?"
"Mommy said they wouldn't do that. They'd just lock him up for a while."
It was my turn to shake a head. "He'll die. Delaney can't afford to have him live."
She bent over her chin nearly touching her knees wailing, "No, no, no."
"Anything you tell me will stay between us, Betsy—I won't say a word to anyone. But you have to help Leon. Why don't you start by telling me about Eli?"
She sat up wiping her eyes on the blanket. "He's real rich—was real rich. He liked nice things—and so do I. Pretty things."
"Moira sent you to him that first time, didn't she?"
Betsy turned away, as shame twisted a net of red around her face. After many seconds of silence she said, "We needed money. Mommy was sick. Leon wasn't doin' any good at that gas station. So, Eli offered to help—if I'd come over and keep him company." She turned back half rising as she cried, "He wasn't blood."
"I'm not judging you, Betsy. I'm just trying to understand. You visited Eli often after that?"
"He would come by the house and I would go with him—but, just when Mommy told me. He always took me to nice places—real fancy restaurants. And everybody there was real nice to me. Then we'd go back to his house." She paused then, her cheeks pinking. "He has a real pretty house. With lots of pretty things. Have you seen it?"
I nodded. "It's very nice. It'll be Leon's if we can get him clear of this murder. You could live there with him, then. Wouldn't you like that?"
"Mommy says that pretty place'll be ours if Leon stays in jail."
"Could be at that. But only if Leon takes the fall."
She swallowed thickly staring at me as if I was a player in her worst nightmare. Then she glanced about, a small smile trying to make itself known to her small mouth. "Eli gave me this, last year. It's all mine—paid for and everything!"
"Tell me about Eli's business."
Her voice tinkled with laughter. "It's a big secret. Nobody knows about it but him, and me—and, now mommy. I was going to run it when he got too old. Guess she'll do it, now."
"Running cocaine is a high-risk business."
She gave me a startled look. "Did mommy tell you about it?"
I wagged my head.
"Eli always had me dust my nose a little when I visited—even when I was just little. He said it would help me relax. It did, too. I was always real relaxed when I was with Eli. Everything went like a dream. Sometimes I'd be there the whole day and it seemed just like minutes."
Beatrice rolled onto her back and let out a purr that rumbled like a tiny diesel along my thighs. "Was it Nadine's boyfriend who shot Eli?"
Her smile faded. "I don't want to talk about it. And you can't make me."
"Leon thinks you killed Eli, Betsy. That's why he confessed. Right now the only way I can save him is to find the real killer. See what I mean, Betsy? Do you want him to die for something somebody else did?"
Fresh tears streaked down her cheeks. Then she put one hand to her mouth, and let her front teeth stab into the forefinger like marble daggers. "I can't tell you all of it. Not 'til I talk to Nadine. But, I can tell you some. Maybe that would be enough?"
Whatever she was willing to divulge was better than nothing. "Let's hope so."
A small pink tongue flicked at the red on her mouth. Her eyes brightened as if she had suddenly remembered something funny. "Nadine and me were in bed," she explained. "Eli was watching us. He liked to watch—and, you know. I think he liked that better than doing it. We both had a real good buzz on—Eli always had the best stuff. But just when we were really getting into it he said he heard
a car and got all shook. Scared maybe, I'm not sure. Anyway, he said we had to leave and told us to get dressed. I wanted to stay. I liked staying at his house. Sometimes I'd walk around it for hours, just looking at all the pretty things. Nadine didn't care whether we stayed or not, as long as she got her stash topped off. She already had a nice house."
"What happened?"
She fingered her mouth for a moment, twisting the plush lower lip back and forth. "Eli got dressed. Real careful-like. Making sure he looked real good, almost like he was going on a date. Or meeting somebody important."
"Or, like he had been working instead of watching you and Nadine?"
Betsy thought for a moment and then she nodded. "Maybe. Anyway, Nadine and me put our clothes on. And we started to leave, but then Nadine wanted to dust her nose. So we went out on the balcony. It was warm and sunny—nice, you know? The table out there has a glass top. She dumped out a packet, razored it into a line and then snorted it. I had some coffee and we sat there just enjoying the sun. It was a real nice morning—not too hot because there was a breeze. I could smell grass being cut somewhere.
"Anyway, a little while later me and Nadine heard arguing. Then we heard Eli yelling real loud about somethin'. I didn't understand it, at first."
"Did Eli come back upstairs?"
She raked her fingers through her hair sending the blondness back over her shoulders like strands of spun gold. "It just got quiet, then," she replied. "Nadine gave her nose another line while I put out my cigarette. That breeze felt so good. I must've gone to sleep. Some while later, I woke to a scream! I stood up and looked around, but I didn't seen nothin'—then. Nadine was out, sleepin' off her buzz. Then there was another voice yelling—real loud and mean soundin'. I couldn't hear the words. After that, there was a pop sound."
"Gunshot?"
She shrugged and picked at the blanket. "Just a pop. I went over to the balcony thinkin' I might see what it was all about. That's when I heard—anyway, after that I got Nadine up on her feet in a big hurry. I told her we had to get out of there, but-quick. She couldn't climb the tree. She was way too high—she could barely stand. So she had no choice but to go down the way she'd come up—through Eli's bedroom. I was so scared crawled down that old tree as fast as I could."
"Was it a man you heard yelling at Eli?"
Betsy looked down at her hands as women often do when they lie. "I'm not sure. I was too scared."
"Did Moira drive you out to Eli's that morning?"
She shook her head. "Nadine and me both drove separate. We always did that. Like I said, I liked to stay and she didn't. We parked in the garage under the house."
"How did you get into the garage from outside?"
"We each have one of those button thingies, you know. Eli gave them to us so our cars wouldn't be noticed when we visited. He was always real nice about things like that—he didn't want us to be embarrassed."
"You got down from the tree—what then?"
She chewed her lip, again. "I ran over to the garage door and waited for Nadine to drive out."
"Then, you saw the killer drive away?"
Again, her eyes dipped. "The garage door opened and Nadine drove out, but fast. I ran into the garage and got into my car. The garage door shut, then. And I had trouble getting it open—it jammed sort of. It took me the longest time. But when it did open and I drove out, I saw feet by the hedge—shoes, really. I knew it was Eli. So, I stopped the car and went over. There was blood on the ground under his head and his face was as white as milk. I knew he was dead. Even though I'd never seen a dead man before, I just knew."
I leaned toward her, setting the cat on the floor. "Tell me who it was, Betsy."
Her hand dropped away from her face. "I can't. Not 'til I talk to Nadine!"
"Okay. Whose idea was it that you and Nadine go to Eli's that morning?"
Betsy stared down at her hands. "Mommy called me the night before. She said Eli wanted to see me and Nadine. Nadine was gettin' low on her stash so I knew she'd be willing. So, I said okay."
"Was it normal for him to contact you through Moira?"
Betsy shrugged. "When I was still living with mommy, that's how he did it."
I pointed toward the kitchen doorway. "But you've got a phone now. Doesn't Eli have your number?"
"'Course he does—did. I suppose he just forgot, or he was talking to Mommy about somethin' else—money, probably. I heard her talkin' money with Eli lots of times. I don't know."
"You and Moira argued tonight. What about?"
"You're like one of them fortune tellers. You know everything."
"About Eli's killing?"
"Sort of. She told me I was to say Leon did it if anybody asked."
"You agreed to that?"
"No reason not to since Leon confessed, mommy said. She said they'd never give him death. They don't execute people who confess."
For someone born in Texas, she was pretty naïve. "Then what was the argument about?"
"Mommy just wanted me to help her."
"Do what?"
She stared off to the side as if I would not be there when she looked back. Then she said, "I don't want to talk to you, no more."
I stood up and casually moved toward her. "Why not give me the name, now? You can talk to Nadine later"
"No." Betsy cried and scrambled to her feet. She turned away, jerked open a drawer then turned back pointing a small, chrome plated pistol at my middle. "Get out. Get out. If you don't, I'll shoot."
I continued towards her. "Did Eli give you that gun?"
The pistol shook her in hands as her finger coiled around the trigger. "Don't come any closer—please."
"I'm not going to hurt you, Betsy." I continued moving. "I'm trying to help Leon. Leon loves you Betsy, remember?"
Perspiration beaded on her forehead. She still held the gun but was now pointing it down, at the floor. Her eyes puddled with tears as she stared up into mine. I took the pistol and slipped it into my pocket.
"Who gave you the gun?"
She clutched her hands to her face and sobbed, "Nadine. I wouldn't have shot you, Mister—not really."
"How were you supposed to help Moira?"
Betsy shivered. "Delaney. She wanted me to help move some boxes. He'd gone out of town on some trouble and wasn't going to be back for another day. She said they had to be moved right away, tomorrow. I told her I wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"I don't like Delaney. I don't like him at all."
"Is Moira going to the warehouse tomorrow?"
Betsy shrugged. "I'm not sure. She got mad and ran out when I said I wouldn't help."
I took out a business card and set on the desk. "I'm going now. After you talk with Nadine, call my cellphone number. We don't have to meet here. You pick the place and I'll drive to you."
"Tell Leon I love him, will you?"
"He'll like hearing that, Betsy."
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