by R. P. Dahlke
"With the way things're going," I said. "Maybe we should skip his funeral. What if we run into his exes?"
"We'll sit in the back and make a quick exit," she said, scanning the list for Ron's funeral.
After this weekend, we could expect to get a notice from an attorney representing the two ex-wives, along with a phone call or a registered letter telling us that Ron's P.I. license had been revoked. Squeezed out of business by the state and Ron's two ex-wives expecting the balance of our contract made for a pretty grim looking future. I counted on my fingers—today was Thursday. We had Friday and the weekend. Thank God government offices were closed on the weekends. We had less than a week to solve Ron's murder, resolve Damian's case, collect the money his mother owed us and prostrate ourselves before the State Board and beg for our license. I felt dizzy just thinking about it.
Pearlie slapped a hand on the folded out newspaper. "Well, well, well. Guess we're going to Ron's funeral after all."
I looked up. "Huh?"
"You'll never guess where the funeral is going to be held today―Pastor Jefferson's church in Wishbone."
"I doubt Ron ever saw the inside of any church, much less Jesse's," I said, "but one of his family members could've requested it."
"You know the pastor?"
"Caleb and I attend Christmas and Easter Sunday services there and I have to say that they're wonderful. He's got a terrific choir, his sermons are upbeat, and he's managed to attract and keep a mixed race congregation."
"Charismatic, huh?" she asked. "Or working on redemption because he shot a man in the back?"
Pearlie and I had gone around and around on Ian's addition of the pastor as a suspect. Money problems was all Ian would say, but we couldn’t find anything. Not in the files Caleb gave us on Jesse's finances, or anything negative from his parishioners. Everyone liked Jesse, me included. Still, it lay like an overcooked egg and it was beginning to smell bad.
"I don't know," I said. "He preaches the gospel, jokes with the kids, does couples counseling and makes time for anyone who asks for help."
Pearlie closed the newspaper. "We're going to Ron's funeral, but just in case there's trouble, leave your police chief husband at home."
"What about my dad? He always enjoys a good funeral."And the receptions and the free food and the lonely widows―though lately he seemed to have his hands full dodging the B&B owner trying to corral him into marrying her.
"How fast can he run?" she asked, tipping her head in question.
"Seriously?"
"His two ex-wives will be all over us like stink on a hound dog. Whadya think they're going to say when we tell 'em we're broke?"
"Okay, no dad, no Caleb―got it."
We would sit in the back so we'd be the first ones out of the door. Then we'd drift over to our car where we'd discreetly photograph the attendees and make a quick getaway before Ron's ex-wives saw us. That was the plan anyway.
<><><><><>
I had enough time to go home, feed Hoover, answer a couple of phone calls and call Caleb to tell him where I was going this morning.
"You don't want to go, do you?" I asked, hoping he was too busy to attend Ron's funeral.
"No thanks," he said with a laugh. "One member of this family associated with Ron Barbour should be enough. Say hi to Detective Hutton for me. Oh, and please be careful."
"Careful? Yeah sure," I said, but keeping my voice steady and confident wasn't so easy. "Ron's two crazy ex-wives will be gunning for us. Why on earth would any man in his right mind marry and divorce one woman only to then marry her sister? Velma and Zelma. Shoot, even their names sound like trouble."
"I was thinking more in the line of news people," he said with a smile. "They'll be after you for a story. You two being his employees."
"Thanks for the reminder, but we're going to sit in the back and do that low profile thing Ian keeps talking about."
Ron just had to let everyone think he paid us to work for him. What a couple of chumps we turned out to be.
Caleb chuckled and just before he hung up said, "Oh, you'll want to hear this; Ron Barbour's autopsy said he was struck by a blunt instrument on the back of his head, but died from smoke inhalation. Call me after the funeral and tell me if anything interesting happens."
I was about to leave when my dad drove up and tooted his horn.
"Hi Dad," I said, pulling up next to his driver's side window. "Are you going to the mine?"
"I'm taking Rafe and his cousins their lunch. Those boys're making good progress clearing out all that rock from the mine."
"Do your miner friends have any more ideas on who did it?" I asked.
Something passed across my dad's eyes. He cut the engine on his Jeep and got out to lean on my open window. "Nothing concrete, but…."
"Spit it out Dad, I've got a funeral to go to."
"Ron Barbour's, huh? You sure you want to do that? Seems to me he had more enemies than friends."
I was running late, but if my father was working up to something, I needed to pay attention. "Go on," I said, turning off the motor. "Tell me what's on your mind."
He fidgeted for a minute, then said, "You know I think the world of Caleb, respect his abilities as a lawman to no end and I wouldn't want you to think anything bad about his opinions, 'cause we've all got 'em…."
"Yes, yes and he's as perfect in every way, as you've told me about a thousand times, so what is it this time?"
"I just wanted to remind you that I once thought my good friend Burdell Smith wouldn't abuse our thirty-year friendship. Yet, he used me to settle his debt with the Feds and that one lie let loose a whole passel of trouble on our family."
Burdell Smith owed the IRS big time and thought if he took that deal with the feds, nobody was going to get hurt. He lied to me about a pilot's credentials, which got him killed and led a vicious Las Vegas hit man to our doorstep.
"You think Andy Sokolov lied to Caleb?" I asked.
Dad pulled on his ear, a sure sign that what he had to tell me could be up for interpretation. "Well now, that's where it gets complicated. You know my friend, Gabby Hayes. She says Andy's father was a miner."
"Where're you going with this Dad?"
"Andy's dad was a blaster too, taught his son everything he knew about charges and non-els."
"So Andy knew how to use explosives and conduits. My God, Dad, what would be his motive?"
"You're going to have to decide that for yourself, but Gabby's best friend was a social worker for the county. The friend told Gabby there was a woman who tried to get social services to investigate Andy Sokolov for sexually abusing her fifteen-year-old daughter."
"But no charges? Were they dropped? How long ago did this happen?"
"All's she said was that the woman moved to Tucson and no charges were ever filed."
It wasn't much of a lead, but I wasn't about to discredit it. Not since Ian put sexual abuse next to Andy Sokolov's name. "Have you got anything else? A name?"
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and, as if reluctant to hand off more trouble to me, released it into my open palm. "Margaret Painter is her name and this is her phone number. Gabby said to tell you that she's expecting your phone call."
<><><><><>
I met Pearlie at the office and on the way to Ron's funeral, told her about a possible lead I wanted to follow up on Andy Sokolov.
"That could be dicey," Pearlie said. "You want me to interview her?"
Pearlie had had her own dealings with sexual abuse and though I didn't doubt intentions, I thought I might be more objective. "The woman is expecting me, but thanks."
"When are you going to see her?" she asked.
"Sometime this afternoon," I said, looking at my watch.
She flopped down into her chair, shuffled through the newspaper and held up the front page for me to see. "What the hell is this?"
The front page of the Sierra Vista Herald said, New break in the Miracle Faith Church Shootout with a picture of deputie
s around Wade's abandoned fishing boat.
"Come on, Pearlie, what's the first rule of any investigator? Turn up the heat on possible suspects with subterfuge and misdirection. "
"All it says is that the sheriff's department is close to solving an old murder. But they aren't, are they?"
"Not any more than they were yesterday, "I said. "With Wade Hamilton presumed dead and Ron Barbour murdered, Sheriff Tom got a judge to sign for a wiretap on all three suspects."
"That's good news, but I don't suppose Ian will tell us anything."
"Caleb will," I said. I'd been good on my promise to share with him, so he'd better.
<><><><><>
We accepted the folded program from a deacon and entered the sanctuary. The church wasn't exactly packed, but then I didn't expect Ron had many friends. His two ex-wives and four teenage children sat in the front row. About twenty people were sprinkled here and there, but not close enough so that one could hold any kind of conversation.
Sierra Vista homicide detective Brock Hutton passed by, nodded and kept going up the aisle until he found an empty pew. I didn't want to talk to him either. If he was here, it meant he didn't have a suspect in custody. Good. We still had a chance to find Ron's killer before he did.
Seeing there was no flower covered coffin, I assumed that the widows wasted no time in getting Ron cremated.
I recognized a couple of our clients. They must have thought enough of our former boss to show up. Or they just wanted to make sure he was dead. Either way, here were readymade clients and a golden opportunity. I nudged Pearlie. "Did you bring your business cards?"
Her head was on her chest, her program open in her lap and there was that telltale sound of snoring. "What's the point of being here if you can't stay awake?"
"Don’t fuss," she muttered, moving around on the hard bench for a more comfortable position. "I had a long night."
"Doing what—or should I say, whom?"
I don't know how many times we'd both done all-night surveillance, taking turns getting a little shut-eye when and where we could. But since Detective Hutton came up in the conversation this morning, my guess is that’s where she was until the wee hours of the morning. Yep. There she went again. Eyes closed, head dropped onto her chest and a kind of whirring sound that was definitely a Pearlie snore. I let her snooze. We could speak to the clients after the service.
Pastor Jefferson reminded us that we are all sinners and that Jesus forgives. Dang it. And here I was hoping Ron was somewhere hot and miserable, the rat-bastard. He had left us with not one, but two murders to solve, and our future careers as legitimate P.I.'s seriously in jeopardy.
The pastor's sermon ended, a hymn was sung, and Pearlie woke up with a snort.
"Oh good, you're awake. Let's go," I said, nudging her to get a move on.
We waited in the shade of a big old oak tree, holding our cameras at waist height and shooting pictures of the mourners stumbling out of the sanctuary and into the bright sunlight. Detective Hutton blinked at us, hesitated, stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered in the opposite direction. Ah. I was right. I would've ribbed her about it, but two of Ron's former clients were coming our way.
"You got your business cards?" I asked Pearlie. "Good. There's Jameson Insurance from Tucson. Get us a meeting with his boss next week. I'll take the one from Sierra Vista."
"I thought we were here to look for suspects?"
I hesitated. Possible suspects against future business? "Wade Hamilton and Andy Sokolov are no shows and we need the business. I'll meet you at the car."
The insurance man from Sierra Vista looked at my card and smiled. "You're the LB on our reports, aren't you? Ron never said, but we always thought the hired help was doing most of the work."
I would've corrected him on our status as hired help, but I could do that later. "Gee, thanks! All we're asking is that you consider using our services."
He stuck out his hand. "I'll be happy to recommend you to my boss."
I thanked him and turned for the car, a grin on my face and my step lighter for the first time since Ron's death. Maybe things would turn out after all.
My euphoria lasted for about two more steps until a hand grabbed my arm. I turned to face the last two people I wanted to see today. Velma and Zelma, hands on wide hips, sour expressions on their vivid red lips. Wasn't it enough that I had to listen to their squabbling over who got their check first? Maybe Ron hadn't gone from one to the other so much as he simply gave up and gave in. I bet they were sorry now.
"We know you weren't just his employees," Velma sneered.
"Yeah, who do you think you are anyways?" Zelma added, looking me up and down.
Who did I think I was? I started to tell her that we were his business partners… then I did a mental head smack. We had it all wrong. The sisters didn't know about the contract, they thought we were fooling around with Ron. As Pearlie would say, Ewww!
Pearlie and I were convinced it was simply Ron's big ego that made him want to keep our partnership a secret, when the truth was he didn't want his exes to know he was cutting them loose. I had another thought―if they didn't know we still owed him his final payment, did we really want to tell them? I almost laughed. Trust Ron to teach all of us the finer points of bad behavior. No, no. I couldn't let the lie stand. It was hard to swallow, but better now than later.
"I wasn't his employee, Zelma. Pearlie and I were his business partners."
"Whadya mean, business partners? Ron said―"
As far as the two women were concerned, we were merely there to warm his lap? Double ewww.
"Sorry to break it to you but Ron lied a lot. Three years ago, we answered his ad. He wanted to sell his business. We had experience, but not the kind that the state of Arizona would accept to get our P.I. licenses. We struck a deal. He got a down payment and we split the expenses and profits. After three years of indentured servitude, we'd give him his last check and he'd write us a letter of recommendation to the state of Arizona. He didn't tell you any of this?"
Zelma put her hand to her forehead and groaned. I knew just how she felt.
It took Velma two seconds before all the pieces clicked into place and then her mouth rounded into multiple zeros. "How much did he get? I mean before he was killed?"
"Twenty thousand."
"No!" Seeing that I was telling the truth, the two women looked at each other, triumph glittering in their eyes. "Then we get what you owed him."
"Sorry, no. We insisted on a watertight contract drawn up by a lawyer. In case one of us died, the remaining partners became sole heirs to the business."
"He did no such thing!" Zelma cried.
In any other circumstance, I would've felt sorry for them. Velma patted her sister's shoulder, all the while considering me through narrowed eyes. If I stayed one minute longer the two of them would start peppering me with questions and Pearlie and I were on a deadline.
I heard Pearlie come up behind me and ask, "What's going on here?"
Seeing an out, I took Pearlie's arm and towed her for the car, opened my door, got in and buckled up. "Go!"
"What did they want?" she asked, the car in idle.
I pointed to Velma and Zelma, their offspring trailing behind the women as they charged at us. "We need to leave. Now!"
Seeing this would not end well, Pearlie jammed the gas to the floor and left Ron's angry family in our dusty wake.
On the way back to the office, I explained our predicament. Even with Ron's contract drawn up by an attorney, the two sisters could tie us up in court, making it impossible to get our licenses, much less stay in business.
Pearlie huffed out a sigh and swung into the nearest McDonald's. "As scary as those two are, we gotta come up with a plan. Let's get something to eat."
My stomach churned. The thought of eating made me nauseous, but not Pearlie. I got out and followed her inside.
I was given the job of filling up our drinks, while she carried the heavily laden tray of a d
ouble cheeseburger and large fries to a table.
"What we need," she said popping a fry into her mouth, "is a way to distract those two so we can get back to solving these cases, collect our payment from Damian's mother and get our license."
"Good luck with that," I said, my voice wobbling with frustration. "They'll take us to court. This could drag out for years. We'll lose everything we've worked for."
She took a bite out of the burger, swallowed and took a gulp of her drink. "You got me diet Coke? Did you know that Aspertame forces your body to think you're using a lot more sugar and that it actually makes you more hungry than if you'd just had regular sugar?"
"No, the thought never occurred to me―probably because all I can think of is what I'm going to do for a living and flipping burgers is not on that tiny list!"
"Keep your voice down, will ya?" Pearlie picked the onion out of her burger. "I told them no onions. What was I trying to say before you gave me that poisonous diet drink? Oh yeah, what can we give those two that will make them back off?"
I took in a deep breath and blew it out, trying to calm my mounting panic. "That last twenty grand we owed Ron, but don't have?"
"And what do we want?" she asked, taking the last bite of her burger.
"Money to pay our bills?"
"Oh, come on. You're so wound up, you're not hearing yourself," she said, wiping her lips of the last of her burger. "Have some fries."
I pulled a fry out of the bag and chewed. It might as well have been sand in my mouth. "There's nothing wrong with my hearing. We're screwed five ways to Sunday and it's all Ron's fault."
Pearlie sighed. "Of course it's his fault, but there's nothing we can do about it now."
"We don't have the twenty grand to pay them and it's too late to kill Ron for all the crap he's put us through."
Pearlie put another French fry in her mouth and chewed. "Did you know that they both got laid off from their jobs?"
"Fascinating. At least they'll get unemployment. We get nothing."
"Right. But back to what I was sayin'. What if we offer to pay Zelma and Velma the last of what we owed Ron, but they have to work it off by helping at the office?"