A DEAD RED MIRACLE: #5 in the Dead Red Mystery Series (16 page)

"If you're with the police, we have nothing to say," the one in the suit and tie said.

"I'm not with any law enforcement department," I said. "I'm a private investigator and I'm here to make a deal."

The cameraman and driver made noises that I should be kicked out, but the newsman hushed them with a wave of his hand, his eyes now squarely on mine.

"How'd you like to be first to get the whole story on the pastor's death?" I asked.

The cameraman smirked. "We already got that from the caller."

"Shut up, Dwayne," the newsman snarled.

Dwayne just confirmed my suspicions; the killer had made that call, bringing the reporter and crew all the way down here for the salacious details on a suicide. I could see the news bite now:
Popular pastor commits suicide as he's about to be exposed as a killer.

That alone was enough for me to want to nip this in the bud. "I suppose your caller disguised his voice."

The cameraman snickered. "So what? Wouldn't you?"

The newsman threw up his hands. "Should we all just leave so you can tell the nice lady everything you know? Which won't be much because you're an idiot, Dwayne!"

The cameraman muttered under his breath, opened the sliding door and just before slamming it shut, said, "You think you're so smart. Well, I'm done with you, asshole!"

I listened to the A/C unit hum while the reporter thoughtfully rubbed his chin. Something told me he wasn't thinking about Dwayne.

"Nice rig," I said looking around.

"So it
was
murder, not suicide?" the newsman said, his eyes zeroing in on me.

I said yes because I didn't want the suicide angle to be part of the six-o-clock news. "But you don't have the full story," I said. "Not all of it."

"There's more?"

"When did you get the call about the pastor?"

The newsman was just young and hungry enough to see his advantage. "What do you think, Walt? Six a.m.? Yeah, about an hour before we got here."

The driver nodded. "That's what I remember."

"This is actually the second, and perhaps third, murder this week," I said. "And we believe they are all connected. We're this close," I said, holding up my thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, "to solving it."

The newsman undid his tie. "For such a quiet little town, bodies are dropping like flies; Ron Barbour, a local P.I. in a house explosion and big shot car dealer, Wade Hamilton, now missing and presumed dead. Who's the third? The pastor, right?"

I nodded. "What exactly did the caller say?"

"I can do better than that," he said, switching on a recording.

The voice was altered, but it was definitely male. "Pastor Jesse Jefferson hung himself this morning after investigators got a tip that he was responsible for a murder at the Miracle Faith Church shootout."

"Your turn," he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the machinery.

"The police department got the call about the same time you did and before you ask, I know because I'm married to Wishbone's police chief. The pastor's hanging was meant to look like a suicide, but that was after someone bashed him in the back of the head."

The newsman stared for a minute. "Just enough titillating news to get us here. You said you're a private investigator? What's your interest in all of this?"

I chewed on my lip. Anything I said to him now would be used on the ten o'clock news, but wasn't that what I wanted? Turn up the heat on the killer. Smoke them out−or get myself killed trying.

"I can't tell you anything more than that I'm investigating a cold case murder that links all three of these dead men.

He rolled his eyes. "I can find the links by myself, but changing the subject, I'd be interested in your take on what I got in the mail last week."

My brows went up in question.

He waited, watching to see if I'd beg? I rolled my eyes at that idea and he said, "An unauthorized biography on Pastor Jefferson. Badly written, but the author claims that Jesse was slated to become Mother Beason's next bishop and that he never actually left the church. I figured it was simply hate mail, until today's phone call. Your turn."

"Who was the author?"

"Ronald T. Barbour."

When I flinched, he laughed. It was enough to let him know he'd hit a nerve. "Published by Office Max," he said, cheerfully.

"Was there a date on the publication?"

"I thought you'd never ask. A week ago today. I haven't the time or the resources to scour all of Tucson looking for which Office Max he used, but you're the investigator, right?"

Anyone can have a book printed these days. Had Ron written the one book in an attempt to blackmail the pastor? From everything I'd learned about Jesse, that idea was ridiculous. So what did Ron want? To ruin Jesse's career? The Ron I knew would've put aside any salacious information to be used later, like when Jesse was headed for bigger and better things.

The newsman cleared his throat, bringing me back to the moment. "I said, can I get your name? In case I have more questions?"

Now what was I going to tell him? That Pearlie and I were Ron Barbour's unsung business partners? I didn't have the time or the inclination. I smiled and said, "Susan Anthony."

One eyebrow went up. "Does that happen to come with the middle initial B?"

Busted, I opened the sliding door on the van to get out.

"Not even a card?" he asked, feigning disappointment. "Have it your way. We have footage of you in conversation with Wishbone's police chief. I'm sure someone in the newsroom can identify you."

I took his card, pocketed it, put my feet on the ground and said, "You'll get your story. All of it and soon, I promise."

<><><><><>

Pearlie showed up as I was walking back to Caleb.

"Where've you been?" I asked.

"Ian Tom and Caleb are still doing crowd control and I got caught on the wrong side of the barricades. Boy, howdy, his parishioners are royally pissed. What have you learned?"

I told her about the anonymous call to the Tucson TV station and last, but not least, Jesse's unfinished note in his pocket.

"You still got the note?"

"No, I'm keeping my promise to be open and honest with my husband."

"In other words you turned it over to Caleb. I’m gonna write that down to remember should I ever get married."

"Oh yeah? When're you getting married?"

"Nothing happening on that front. I just want to remind myself to cut out all that stuff from my wedding vows."

"So which one of those bearded musician's did you go home with?"

"I had too much to drink, okay? Someone offered me a couch for the night and I took them up on it."

"Well then," I said. "You won't mind if we go see Harley Aldrich again today, will you?"

She rolled her lips inward, holding onto to her words so they wouldn't escape. Ha! Pearlie never could keep a secret from me.

I'd razz her about it, but right now we had work to do. "Let me tell Caleb we're leaving. Velma and Zelma are coming to the office at nine a.m."

"On a Sunday?" she asked. "Boy howdy, them girls' work ethics are showing real promise. Drop me off at my place. I'll pick up my Jeep and meet you at the office."

.

Chapter Twenty-four:

Ron's two ex-wives arrived as Pearlie and I were loading up more photos to show Harley. The women had ditched their black suits for colorful matching sundresses. Come to think of it, for sisters, they seemed remarkably similar in just about everything, including their need to get one up on the other. But then Pearlie and I had been scuffling with each other since we were kids. What was I saying? We were still hissing at each other, but I might as well ask.

They laughed and Zelma said, "We're fraternal twins."

"Though you wouldn't know it," Velma said, with a twinkle in her eye. "She looks so much older than me, doesn't she?"

Zelma hooted. "That's a good one. You got kids older than me."

I held up a hand to stop the arguing before it got out of hand. "Do either of you have any questions before we leave?"

"Well," Zelma said looking around at the drab office. "The place sure looks run-down. Don't you wonder what Ron did with his money?"

She was fishing, hoping we knew where he'd hidden his stash of get-out-of-town money. "We wondered about that too. His house sure wasn't anything to look at."

"We worked at a call center," Zelma said, "so you just want us to answer phones, take messages and that sort of thing?"

"What sort of thing?" Pearlie asked, looking up from sorting photos.

"We did phone surveys, questionnaires," Velma said.

"Really?" Pearlie laid her purse on the desk. "Then go through Ron's old accounts. Find the businesses that could use our services. Make a list to call on Monday."

The two women whipped out their matching notepads and started writing.

"We can ask them when was the last time they used Ron's services," Velma said.

"That's a good idea," Pearlie said with a wink at me.

"And if they quit Ron, you want to know why, right?" Zelma said.

I shuddered, wondering how many other people Ron tried to blackmail.

"And if they're using another P.I. firm," Velma said, "would a discount convince them to use you ladies as private investigators?"

"A discount?" I squeaked. "I don't think…"

Pearlie elbowed my ribs. "We'll take anything you can get, but make any appointments for a week from today."

By then, we'd know one way or the other if we would get our P.I. Licenses or our walking papers.

"By the way, what're you going to call your business?" Velma continued.

"It's Bains and Bains Private Investigations," I said with a straight face.

The twins giggled. "You sure you don't want to call it Two Blondes' Investigations?"

Pearlie nudged me. "Aren't they clever? And so close to my original suggestion of Two Blonde Jobs."

"No thanks," I said. "We're going to have enough problems getting companies to take us seriously."

As I closed the door behind me, I noticed the twins hungrily eyeing Ron's old file cabinets. I figured the minute the door closed, those two would start tearing up the place looking for the money Ron had looted from our business.

Taking the stairs down to the parking lot, Pearlie assured me that Harley could see us today.

We took separate cars to our meeting with Harley. Pearlie needed to do grocery shopping and I intended to stop by Wishbone's police station and see if Caleb had any more information on Jesse's murder.

Taking Highway 92 south, I passed the ruins of the Miracle Faith Bible Church. It reminded me that we were down by one more suspect. With Jesse dead and Wade Hamilton presumed dead, we were left with only Andy Sokolov and no witnesses other than a pitiful wheelchair bound woman.

It was only bad timing that prevented us from interviewing Jesse Jefferson. Someone had to have known we were about to ask him questions. There was nothing in the file that said he was ever a member of the Faith Miracle Church. Had he become a minister as penance for his crime? Or was he the one person with proof against the other two? If so, Jesse's reputation as an honest pastor would've sealed Andy's and Wade's fate.

I looked in the rear view mirror at Pearlie. Following anyone, much less me, was not her strong suit. She preferred to be in front and ahead of me―in everything. Well, she could pass me up anytime she wanted.

But she'd been right about the twin sisters; they were just what we needed. The idea of new business in Ron's old client list was a stroke of genius. We'd find Ron's killer, wrap Damian's case and have new business waiting for us when we got our licenses approved by the state.

If
we got our licenses. It would work. It had to work. Yes, that's the way to think. I wouldn't worry about it today. Worrying about this today was the sledge hammer to failure. That much I knew to be true. I'll think about it tomorrow. Or as Dr. Phil would say,
so how's that working out for you, Scarlett?

<><><><><>

Today's summer rain had brightened the sky and greened up the hills behind Harley Aldrich's home, making the multi-hued paint job on his house stand out like a pop art poster for psychedelic drugs.

We parked and took the path to his front door, but hearing the buzz of a gas powered saw, I hesitated. "Sounds like he's cutting wood. What if he doesn't remember us?"

Pearlie shrugged and led the way to the back of the house

He had on a straw hat, no shirt and a pair of faded and ripped tight jeans. He couldn't hear us over the saw, so Pearlie put out a hand to stop me from trying to speak over the noise. She winked, grinned and patted the spot over her heart as she watched the muscles ripple across Harley's sweaty back.

Feeling like a silly voyeur, I decided to stop Pearlie's peep show and called to him. "Hello, Harley!"

"Ah, you're no fun," Pearlie said, smacking me on the arm.

He put the gas saw in neutral, waved back and shut off the saw. He removed his work gloves and waited.

"I don't think he recognizes us," I said. "I hope we won't have to start all over again."

Pearlie snorted and held out her hand. "Hi Harley, remember me?"

He took her hand in his and drew her to him. "Pearlie. How could I ever forget
you
?"

She laughed and put a hand on his broad chest to push him away. "And you need a shower, Harley Aldrich."

Well, well. Harley's facial recognition didn't interfere with his ability to play the fiddle with my cousin. And I never did get to pin her down on how she ended up in Wishbone so early this morning. Maybe he was right, all those photos and descriptions on the walls were just so he could keep in practice.

Harley, keeping Pearlie's hand, looked at me and asked, "Who's your friend?"

Okay, so I was wrong again.

"Oh, don't tease her. Let's go inside. You got any lemonade?"

He laughed. "Okay, sorry. Hi Lalla. Just let me hang up this saw and I'll be right with you."

"So how did he do that?"

"We'll talk about it later. You got the photos?"

"Of course."

Harley insisted on serving us lemonade and another plate of his homemade cookies. "Excuse me for a few minutes? I've got woodchips in my hair and if I don't go clean up, it'll be all over the house in no time."

When he left for the bathroom, I asked, "How does he do it?"

"He told you how he does it. Remember the first thing he said to me was that I smelled good? His sense of smell is so heightened that it all comes back to him the minute you get close to him. That and the fact that you were with
me
. He's not stupid, you know."

It was clever of him, but I was looking forward to testing out Harley's memory of the one person he hadn't identified from the earlier pictures. "I thought you didn't like him?"

"Don't go putting words in my mouth. I never said that."

"Okay, but I thought you were dating the homicide detective?"

"That's off. He won't share anything on Ron's murder case, much less the covers. I knew I was right about that man."

"Then you and Harley, huh?"

She shrugged. "He'd have to shave that horrible bush off his face and I doubt he'd do that even for me."

Harley came back, buttoning up a clean shirt. "Would you be satisfied with a trim?"

Unwilling to listen to Pearlie backpedal, I said, "We've brought more photos of the shootout."

Harley listened, but his attention was on Pearlie. "You're rushing over parts of this because you think I won't remember, right? Let me help you out. I remember most everything. It's new people, new faces, okay?"

"Right. Got it," I said, fanning the photos over his coffee table. "Do any of these people look familiar?"

"Sure," he said. There's Ted Moskel and Danny Oaks, Marvin... uh, forgot his last name, but Marvin went into the Marines and came back pretty messed up. Now he lives on the street and everyone just calls him Marvin the can man. I give him all my cans to sell. Okay, so you brought me some new photos. That's Andy Sokolov," he said. "He used to be a deputy sheriff, but now he's the mayor of Wishbone. I don't know this guy," he said, pointing to a picture of Ron Barbour. He shuffled through the photos and picked up the picture of Jesse Jefferson, "I saw this man at the shootout, but I don't know his name."

"Was he behind the barricades, or with someone?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. He wasn't in the last photos you showed me, but he was there. Wait. Now I remember. I saw him pull a woman and her little boy away from the fight. I remember because her long braid was coming loose and she was crying. I wondered what happened to her and the kid. Then the shooting started and the police pushed all of us out of the way."

"Most of the women in the church wore head scarves. Are you sure her hair was in a braid and not covered, Harley?" Pearlie asked.

He tilted up his head and worked a forefinger around the back of his head as if feeling for a braid. "She was different. Much prettier than the other women and her hair was black, but it was definitely a braid, not a scarf. I also remember that her skin was a coppery color. Well then, she was Native American?"

"This was Damian's mother?" I asked Pearlie.

"Who?" Harley asked.

Pearlie said, "She's the only native American we know of associated with the church. But how did she know Jesse Jefferson?"

"We can talk about that later," I said, standing. "I need to go by the police station and see Caleb."

"Wait," Harley said holding up a photo. "You forgot to ask me about this one. It's your shooter. He's older and he wasn't in a deputy's uniform, but this is your guy."

Wade Hamilton's toothy smile smiled at us from his publicity picture. "Are you sure he wasn't in uniform?" I asked.

Pearlie slapped my arm. "If he said Wade wasn't in uniform on the day of the shooting, then he's sure, aren't you, honey?"

Now her empathy meter was working? I decided to leave it for later.

"Did I help?" Harley said, getting to his feet.

"Yes, you did, sweetums," Pearlie said, squeezing his hard bicep.

I swept up the pile of pictures and stood.

"Are you leaving already? I was going to make lunch. Pearlie?"

"I'll be right back," she said, touching Harley's cheek.

I rushed her outside and gushed, "That's it, then. Wade Hamilton was the shooter."

"Sure we have a name, but if you will remember, Harley's testimony would be inadmissible in court."

"But… "

"I'm staying," she said, her hand on the door knob. "Harley fixes the best chicken salad and he's got fresh homemade bread."

"All right," I said, feeling my earlier euphoria slide into oblivion. "I'll see you at the office after lunch."

<><><><><>

I grabbed the bag of sandwiches I'd bought at Cornucopia Café on Main Street, then drove to Wishbone's police station. Counting myself lucky to find a guest parking spot, I positioned the requisite sunshades across the front windows, then cracked the driver's side window to allow the hot air to escape, scooted around a couple of officers jawing about a recent ball game and stepped through the entrance.

Rapping on the window to get Betty's attention, she came around to open the door for me. "Hi Lalla, go on back."

I thanked her, turned into the hall and knuckled the frame on his open door. "I've got lunch," I said, holding up the two paper bags.

The skin around his light blue eyes crinkled happily.

"Outside?" I asked.

"Someone put the umbrella up on the patio set out back and I could use the break."

"Have you been at your desk all morning?" I asked, opening the bag and parceling out the turkey, avocado and cheese sandwiches. I licked at a dollop of avocado and sighed happily. I loved lunch at Cornucopia. I'd eat there every day, but then I'd gain weight.

"Fielding reporter's questions, mostly," he said, chewing.