The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set

by Elizabeth Sims

  “The woman is very nearly a physical shambles,” said Amaryllis, “but I’ve never met a more calculating individual.”

  “You haven’t met the Whale?”

  “Not yet,” she said wryly, glancing over at me. “He comes and goes at night, you know. I’ve got the place in the daytime, he’s got it at night. It’s like we rotate through here. Of course, he’s got more than that, he’s got my integrity under his thumb. I don’t care to meet him in the flesh.”

  “You’ve acquiesced to his demands, some of them, because of his threats to Nathan.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And so now Diane Keever has been extorting money from you?”

  “She knows that without help in her old age, she’s likely to have to go into a nursing home. The good ones are very costly, you know. That sidekick of hers is costly.”

  “Neneng.”

  “Yes, that one, I wonder if she sends a lot of money away somewhere. She’s got some kind of hold over Mrs. Keever, I don’t know what. The judge, once he went up to Bakersfield, he never made very much money. I think if somebody couldn’t pay, he’d say oh well, catch me next round, you know? I think he was trying to atone too, in his way. Never saved up much, from what I understand. Now the widow wants money, she thinks it’s her due, and there’s nobody stopping her. She knew I had access to money, everybody knows it.”

  “But you couldn’t give her a huge lump of money.”

  “That’s right, not all at once. I’m embezzling money from my own mission to pay her the ten thousand a month, ten thousand being what I got for killing her little girl. Ten thousand twice, actually. I’m repaying it over and over, in order to avoid being shown up for what I was: a brand X abortionist. If she makes trouble for me in public, I won’t have the spiritual gall to deny it. Me, the Iron Angel. What would that do to my mission, do you think?”

  “So you’re paying her money that was donated or raised by other people?”

  “I do consider it reparations, and I will go on paying it as long as the woman asks. Of course, someday I’ll have to pay it back to my mission; I’ve kept all my own books. Don’t really know how I’ll do that, sister Rita Farmer. It’s not a pretty picture, to be solving extortion with a new dishonesty. I rationalize by saying I am needed here. The mission must go on no matter what.”

  We talked about Dale the Whale Vargas, and his feeling that he needs the ABC Mission as a safe, unspotted base of operations. “You know he wants his hands on the Emberton money,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to know the kicker?”

  I realized it: “So does the widow Keever.”

  Amaryllis spanked her palms together and laughed bitterly. “She read a news story about this upcoming gift, and she sent this Neneng to tell me that money must be hers. She’s a sinister one.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Neneng had better watch out, all I have to say.”

  “Neneng? What do you mean?”

  Amaryllis looked to the pantry shelving, and I could see her mind had turned away. “Rice,” she said, “is always tricky when you’re feeding so many, but you’ve got to have rice in jambalaya. I’ll have to time it exactly right so it doesn’t get gummy.”

  I remarked, “I bet most of your guests won’t notice if the rice is a little gummy, or care.”

  She gave me a shocked look. “Sister, everybody deserves rice cooked right!”

  Then she slumped in exhaustion, elbows on the worktable, head down. “I told Khani not to give me that money after all. It cuts my heart to refuse it. But I wouldn’t want the Whale to force it away from me, holding Nathan’s life over my head.”

  I moved to her side of the table and touched her shoulder. Her shoulders began to shake, but she made no sound. After a long time, she stopped trembling.

  She looked up and murmured, “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  Chapter 29 – Rowe Digs for Truth; Petey Takes Initiative

  “Well, that’s a disappointment,” said Colonel Markovich, in his no-nonsense, old-guy voice.

  “Yes,” agreed George Rowe, shifting his cell phone to his other ear while lifting a bowl of dog food from Gonzalo’s kitchen counter. “I think Polen’s troubles are pretty far-reaching, beyond the dog business. That doesn’t help you, though.” Gonzalo’s dog, Tamiroff, had been shoving his muzzle at Rowe’s waist from the instant the dog heard him open the bin of dry food in the kitchen closet. The Russian wolfhound’s bowl was a mighty steel vessel now brimming with a pound of food to which Rowe had added some warm water to make juice. The smell excited the dog and made Rowe want to hurl.

  “Easy, boy,” he said, lowering the dish.

  “Do you have company?” asked Markovich.

  Rowe ignored that. “One reason I think so: Polen’s not all that bright, you follow what I’m saying?”

  Markovich liked that. “He always did try to get by on charm, rather than brains. I don’t say he didn’t work hard.”

  “Yes, he seems a fairly well-organized guy. But based on meeting him, looking over the dogs at his house, and the ones this Orlando Gold showed for him, I don’t think he’s harboring Ernest, and frankly, I don’t think he had anything to do with Ernest’s disappearance.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Look, against my advice, you put the word out that you’ll give a huge reward for Ernest’s return, right?”

  “Yes, but you yourself put up those flyers that said ‘reward.’”

  “But I didn’t specify how much.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Anybody who’s connected to the professional dog scene—certainly among the beagle people—knows you’ll give fifty grand for Ernest’s return. That’s like offering a ransom, no questions asked.”

  “So?”

  “So if you’re the thief, after you forged your documents, you’d have to sell a hell of a lot of puppies from him, or shots of his semen to make it worth it, or why not just return him anonymously and take your fifty K? And if there was a conspiracy, you’d think one of the plotters would have turned for that money by now. I now realize that your public offer of the reward was a good move.”

  “What are you saying? He could have been taken out of the country and resold before I got the word out.”

  “Well, conceivably, but—”

  “The Chinese have all the money these days.”

  Rowe paused. “Look, the chances—”

  “I think you should go to China. I’ll pay, of course.”

  “Colonel—”

  “The circuit over there is small, but incredibly lucrative.” Markovich’s voice got energized. “Moreover, they’re starting to breed dogs, good show dogs, and bringing them over here to compete. Hm. Know what? We should go together, I could help you.”

  “Wait, I’m not so sure—”

  “Yes,” said Colonel Markovich briskly, “let’s do it. China’s got to be the place. Got to be. Time for me to get involved. Makes me feel young to be around you, Rowe, you know that? Let’s get over there and hunt down those beagle rustlers, what do you say? Your passport up-to-date?”

  “Oh, God,” muttered Rowe involuntarily. He was annoyed with himself for not having found this one stupid dog yet, and he was irritated by Markovich’s desperate theories of intrigue, and he wished to just back out of this case and focus on Dale the Whale Vargas.

  That, however, would be admitting defeat.

  He’d never thrown over a client before. The controlled pleading in Markovich’s voice—the man’s thirst for the chase not to end—moved him. Steadfast persistence paid off, Rowe had learned this. He liked Markovich, and shit, maybe he was right, maybe Ernest was this very minute peeing against the side of some Ming temple.

  He took a nice slow breath and felt better. “Look, Colonel, if Ernest is actually in China—or who knows what overseas country—”

  “China. It’s China. Stands to reason, the more I think about it, the mor
e I realize—”

  “OK, China. If he’s there now, he’ll be there next week. Let me look into things a little bit from here first, before you go buying tickets to Beijing.”

  “A week?”

  “A few days, then, OK? Just let me work on this new angle, OK?”

  “All right,” said Markovich, satisfied. Then, “Oh!” he muttered.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I just remembered a doctor’s appointment I have in an hour. I should get moving.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Just a checkup. Blood work.”

  “OK. I’ll be in touch.”

  Rowe could not be upset with Markovich. It was because of the quest for Ernest that Rowe had met up with Cici Emberton, and learned the crucial fact of Amaryllis’s reluctance to accept Khani’s huge donation.

  Tamiroff had licked his dish and gnawed on it for good measure. Rowe washed it and then went outside to pick up the shockingly large dried feces with which Tamiroff had mined the backyard. It was a disgusting chore, but he did it for Gonzalo as a way of thanking him for his hospitality. Rowe also did some cooking, though Gonzalo was a fancier cook. He used vermouth in things.

  No wonder dogs get arrogant, Rowe thought: humans seem obsessed by their crap. As he scooped up a newer, moister piece of shit near the back board fence, he stopped and looked at the fence.

  Built of heavy cedar planks, it had been chewed by Tamiroff in places.

  “Oh, you idiot,” he said to himself.

  As soon as he was finished, he washed up and drove over to Hancock Park. He checked his watch and parked around the corner from Markovich’s house.

  He strolled up to the white board fence between Markovich’s house and the next one, to the broken place through which Ernest had disappeared. The brown plywood patch was still there, having been nailed from the inside.

  He squatted and looked closely. He carefully fingered the splintered edges of the hole.

  He heard a skateboard in the distance, and waited until the kid passed, his wheels thunking over the seams in the pavement.

  Swiftly, he leaped, grabbed the top of the fence, and scrambled over, scissoring his legs to avoid the pointed finials. He dropped to the lawn. The house was quiet; Markovich had gone to his appointment.

  He went to the garden shed, found a hoe, and went back to the fence. He pried off the plywood and squatted again. Touching a knee to the ground, he realized that chicken wire had been installed on the ground bordering the fence, to prevent the dog digging out, and the grass had grown through it.

  The fence had been chewed from the inside, not sawn, not kicked in. The fibers of the wood had been forced outward, and the hole was just big enough for a beagle to get his chest through.

  Why would Ernest escape? Restless spirit. Why do dogs go on the run? To see new things.

  Rowe looked around. The yard was like the grounds of a high-class mental institution, everything soft and fine and clipped and just so.

  Hell, who wouldn’t want to get away from this? Who wouldn’t want to walk on the wild side, before you’re too old to waddle after the mailman?

  A man suddenly appeared from the other side of the house, hedge shears in hand. He was a grim-faced Japanese guy, wiry and unafraid. He stared at Rowe, then approached.

  Rowe smiled and asked, “You the gardener?”

  The man nodded, looking at the fence. A smirk crept over his face. “You here to fix fence?”

  “Yeah, the dog got out. Dogs are a lot of trouble.”

  “Better dog gone,” said the gardener quietly.

  “He used to dig up your plants.”

  The gardener nodded.

  “Did you see him get out?” Rowe asked.

  Another nod.

  “Didn’t you tell the boss?”

  The gardener looked down at his work shoes.

  Rowe smiled promptingly. “The dog chewed all that wood away?”

  “I—I help a little.”

  _____

  When Gina came home from work that evening, I waited for her to change into her knockaround skort and sweatshirt and get some ginger ale. I’d put a tuna casserole in the oven.

  “Toby thinks it’s cute that I like ginger ale,” she said after taking a gulp. “You know what’s cutest about him? He—”

  “Gina, we have to talk.”

  Her guard went up instantly. “Now what?”

  “About Toby, actually. Why don’t you sit down with me?”

  She remained at the breakfast bar, hands on hips, looking at me as I sat cross-legged on the sofa.

  I said, “I’m really concerned about you seeing him.” I talked fast, because I could see that already she’d made up her mind that she didn’t want to hear it. “I think he’s involved in—”

  “What? What is he involved in?”

  Flatly, “I think he’s a criminal.”

  It’s unfair that between the two of us, I’m the one with the reputation for a quick temper, because Gina’s can flare just as fast. Maybe not as high, but just as fast.

  “Oh, right, Rita, right.” She shoved her glass. “Toby: a criminal. He’s as much of a criminal as I am! What’s gotten into you?”

  “Gina, listen to me for just a—”

  “You’ve never liked any of my boyfriends!”

  “That’s not true!”

  She took the boyfriend ball and ran with it. “You don’t like Toby because he’s black! You’re scared of him because he’s black! Admit it!”

  “Gina, I don’t give a damn what color he is!” I bounced to my feet. “The fact is, I think he’s heavily involved in drugs! Because—”

  “The fact is, you are a racist! You, Rita Farmer, are a racist! Listen to me saying it, I am finally saying it!”

  “Finally? Gina, I’m not! I—”

  “That’s what all racists say!” she yelled. “Hah! He’s black, so he must be a drug dealer, because all black people are druggies! Plus you’re jealous because he’s such a stud!” She was working herself up into a real thoroughbred lather.

  We stood toe-to-toe in the living room.

  “Gina, for God’s sake—”

  “Finally I make friends with a black person, and you can’t handle it!” Her spit flew like mad.

  “You are so full of shit!” I screamed in her face. “If you’d just shut up a minute and listen to—”

  “You? Listen to you? You’re the one who’s full of shit!”

  “His name—”

  “He’s a good man, I can tell! I know men, believe me! All you—”

  “Gina, please!”

  “All you want is a chance to slander a good man!”

  She grabbed her purse and stormed out, still yelling, ears firmly shut.

  I slumped against the door. I suppose if I’d played a video of Toby committing an axe murder, she’d say the images were doctored.

  I wiped up the ginger ale she’d spilled and did yogic breathing to compose myself. I’d blown it, I’d put her on the defensive, and I’d let her get me off track.

  The phone rang and I grabbed it, hoping it was her on her cell. It was Petey, sounding desperate.

  “Petey! Sweetheart.”

  “Mommy!” he screamed. “Aunt Sheila’s gonna kill me! Aunt Toots won’t hide me!”

  “Honey, calm down, Mommy’s here.”

  “She’s really gonna kill me, she guarantees it this time!”

  “Oh, Petey, what did you—”

  Toots grabbed the phone. “He traded our boar’s head to some kid for a puppy!” She spat the word puppy like a glob of rotten food.

  I pictured the boar’s head, wild-bristled and fierce, mounted on a walnut board, high on their den wall.

  “The boar’s head,” Toots repeated, “that Uncle Fritz killed just before he had to, you know”—she dropped her voice—“go away.”

  “Oh, gosh—”

  “It’s the last good memory we have of him!”

  A long time ago, Uncle Fritz ha
d burned down the barn then beaten up the sheriff. A doctor had said he was mentally ill, and he went to Mendota, the state mental hospital down in Madison where, I believe, he still was.

  “A puppy?”

  “Yeah, he made friends with a kid over on the Rawson place, and they made a trade. Just a little mongrel, cute as shit, but we can’t keep him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we want the head back!”

  Petey wailed in the background. “Oh, relax, Pete,” growled Toots, “get manly here. I don’t know exactly what Sheila’s gonna do to you, but you’ll have to take it like a man. Haven’t we taught you anything?”

  He stifled his wailing, and I heard frenzied yipping. Petey’s little voice piped, “She’s white and her name’s Whitey!”

  Toots told me, “Sheila’s beside herself. She’s putting her boots on to play Elvira Gulch over here. Gonna get that head back if it’s the last thing—”

  “Toots,” I interrupted, fascinated, “how did he get his hands on it?”

  “Well, he was goddamn clever, I have to admit. He climbed the wainscoting and on up the shelving, then he hung from a rope he hooked to the crown molding. He made a block and tackle with some parts from that old wringer washing machine out back. He really wanted that head.”

  I muttered, “He really wanted that puppy.”

  Chapter 30 – Women Join Forces

  It took an intervention from Khani Emberton to get Amaryllis’s butt into my ugly old car and ride with me up to Bakersfield.

  “I want to emphasize that I’m not doing this for myself,” she said, smoothing her skirt as I peeled onto Compton.

  “I don’t give a damn,” I said. “I’m just glad Khani was able to ram some sense into your head.”

  “It wasn’t sense I was lacking, sister,” she said humbly. “It was courage.”

  I smiled.

  This was Friday. George and I had visited Khani at his mansion in Baldwin Hills last night, the meeting arranged by Cici, who had brought home George’s message to her husband: Amaryllis is in crisis and considering giving up.