Bitch Factor (23 page)

She felt more compelled, at the moment, to check on Dann. He’d been home alone with Mud for several hours. Who knew what mischief he could be cooking up?

Before leaving Spring Branch, though, she might as well visit the scene where Betsy was killed. Finding the corner, she parked, then got out and approached the intersection from the sidewalk where Betsy had walked. A willow tree grew near the curb, bare limbs stretching over the narrow street. Shrubs with low-hanging limbs encircled the tree in a bed trimmed with bricks. In full leaf, as the limbs would’ve been in May, they could easily conceal an approaching vehicle.

Parker Dann’s house, Dixie recalled, was around the block and two streets away. The most likely route from Dann’s house to the Payne Garden Cafe, Payne Hardware, the Green Hornet, or the nearest freeway would pass through this intersection.

She drove to the Paynes’ home address and discovered that it, too, was on the route to Dann’s house. In addition to seeing the girls at the cafe and hardware store, Dann would naturally have met them on occasion walking along the street or playing in their front yard.

At eleven years old, Betsy was probably mature enough to baby-sit her younger sisters, and with their parents working only a few blocks away, Dixie imagined the three girls spent a lot of time playing at home alone. Dann, a commissioned salesman, would have plenty of free time during the day to get to know the Keyes children, if he chose to.

Dixie didn’t know where her thoughts were leading, but the proximity between Dann’s house and the Paynes’ house
troubled her. The fact that Dann was friendly and attractive, with trust-me blue eyes, bothered her even more.

The red Frisbee sailed across the yard.

Mud dashed after it, sprang into the air like a corkscrew, and snapped it out of the sky. Parker couldn’t help admiring the dog’s grace. Ugly as a mongrel from hell, and strong enough to tear a man’s arm off, he was actually not much more than a lovable pup. Loved running. Loved attention. Loved chasing after the Frisbee.

Mud lumbered across the yard to where Parker stood waiting.

“Good boy!” He gave the dog a liver treat, his favorite. “What a fine fellow. Yes, sir!”

The treat disappeared in a gulp, Mud all eager to play again. Parker rubbed the dog’s head and patted his side.

“Okay, boy! Let’s go!” He sailed the Frisbee. As Mud ran after it, Parker closed the gap between them. They’d started playing near the porch. Now they were almost to the fence.

Earlier, Parker’d made the mistake of running too close to the front gate. Mud nipped the seat of his jeans with enough snap from those evil teeth that Parker knew the next bite would take a chunk out of his butt. He backed off fast. Now he was taking it slow and easy, and they were almost to the same spot near the gate.

So far, Mud hadn’t noticed.

“The bluebird carries the sky on his back,” Thoreau had written. Perhaps a red Frisbee carried freedom. With enough patience, Parker figured, it might carry him right through that gate, with Mud prancing happily ahead of him.

Parker had slipped the Frisbee into Flannigan’s grocery cart when they went shopping, after the cart was full enough that she wouldn’t notice. At the checkout counter, he distracted her by pointing out the latest Elvis sighting headlined on a scandal rag. If she saw the toy now and asked where it came from, he’d say, “Hell, I thought it was Mud’s. Found it
right there in the yard. Think somebody’s kid threw it over the fence?”

“You’re a good fellow, Mud!” Parker gave the dog another liver treat, more pats, more praise, then sailed the Frisbee right up to the gate. “Go get it, Mud! That’s it! Good boy!” All the while running toward the gate himself. He closed the distance that Mud would have to run back, and the dog nearly stumbled when Parker wasn’t where he expected him to be. But then he lumbered happily to Parker’s feet, dropped the disk, and panted, pleased as hell with himself.

This time, Parker sailed the disk toward the porch. When Mud dashed after it, Parker stepped a few feet closer to the gate.

“Good boy, Mud! Bring it here!”

The dog raced back and dropped the Frisbee. Then he looked at the gate and back at the porch as if realizing something wasn’t quite right.

“It’s okay, boy. Yeah, you’re a good boy, good dog.” Parker spent a bit more time on the patting and praising. Then he sailed the Frisbee toward the porch.

Mud’s hesitation was so slight, the disk had barely started its downward arc when he caught it. Then the dog stood looking back and forth—at Parker, at the porch, at the gate—holding the Frisbee in his mouth.

He sat down on his haunches and stared at Parker.

“Come on, Mud! Bring it here.” Taking one of the liver treats in hand, Parker offered it invitingly. “It’s okay, boy. Come on.”

Mud looked at the treat in Parker’s hand. He looked at the gate, then dropped the Frisbee, covered it with his big paws, and whined softly.

“Hey, boy, it’s okay. It’s me, your old buddy Parker.” Kneeling, he offered the treat again. “Come on, fellow. That’s a
good
dog. Smart dog.”
Smart as hell
. “Bring it here.”

Mud looked at Parker’s outstretched hand, Parker sitting low to the ground now, no threat, no indication that the man might cut and run toward the forbidden gate. After a moment, the dog picked up the Frisbee, plodded to Parker’s feet,
dropped the disk, and accepted his liver treat, chewing it more slowly this time, as he watched Parker with a wary eye.

They were becoming great friends, all right. Fun was fun, but the dog knew his job.

“You’re a damn good dog,” Parker said, meaning it. He picked up the red Frisbee and decided he’d pushed his luck enough for now.

Cruising toward home on U.S. 59, Dixie turned on the windshield defroster and counted the days until court would reconvene next Monday, January fourth. Today was Tuesday, her second full day back in town, and she hadn’t picked up a crumb of information linking the accidents that killed Betsy and Courtney Keyes. A squeamish part of her mind hoped she was barking up the wrong tree this time. No matter how coincidental, two accidents were preferable to two murders. She was determined to keep an open mind, in any case.

The Paynes had not seemed particularly distraught over the loss of their daughters. But then, Betsy’s death had taken place in May, Courtney’s swimming accident in August. This was December. Even after such tragedies, life goes on.

Dixie turned down the defroster’s blast of hot air and tuned the radio to a news station. “Colder,” the weatherman predicted cheerily, “with possible freezing rain.”

What if she tried her damnedest, yet on January fourth had gathered no new evidence in Betsy’s case? What made her think, anyway, that she could accomplish what Belle’s trained investigators had failed to do? A skip tracer’s job was pig simple—bring the bad guy in for due process. Period.

But she’d been truthful when she told Dann the justice
system would work better if its caretakers were more conscientious. She’d seen her share of bad guys over the years; Dann somehow didn’t fit the mold. On the drive to Houston, she’d questioned him ruthlessly, and she believed he was telling the truth—which didn’t rule out the possibility that he was so drunk out of his mind he didn’t
know
the truth. Yet, in the five days they’d spent together, she hadn’t noticed any usual signs of alcoholism.

If Belle Richards said the jury was ready to convict, Dixie would lay money on it. Assuming Dann’s innocence, Betsy’s killer was still on the streets. And if Dixie turned Dann in, without being convinced of his guilt, her conscience would needle her to the grave. As Barney would say, “The most painful wound of all is a hard stab of conscience.”

Belle had left three messages. So far, Dixie had successfully ignored them, since talking to the attorney now would mean skirting the truth. Sooner or later, though, she’d have to return those phone calls; sooner or later, Dann would have to face the jury. The clock was ticking. Certainly, no one heard it louder than Dann himself.

He’d been a model prisoner these two days, but Dixie wasn’t fooled. While biding his time, hoping she’d turn up new evidence, he was probably also plotting alternatives. And as the clock ticked on, he’d get panicky. Desperate men couldn’t be trusted.

The pecan grove came into view: rows of trees, stripped now of their foliage, cast long bony shadows in the afternoon light. Closer to the house, the Flannigans had planted live oaks for year-round shade and wind protection. Kathleen’s sporadic interest in gardening had produced seasonal vegetables and occasional flowers, but the beds had long since weeded over. Maybe Dann could clean them out. Maybe he could also stain the rail fence.

She was turning in the driveway when she remembered the Valdez job. Now, before Rashly released Hermie Valdez from jail, was the time to wire the house for sound. It would take only an hour or two. If Dixie hurried, she could pick up
the equipment from home, install a few choice pieces at Hermie’s, and still make it to Amy’s on time for supper.

She parked the Mustang in the four-car garage, an old barn that had formerly housed the shelling and packaging machines of the pecan business. Barney had sold the equipment, except for one sheller, when he started sending the pecans to a commercial packager, and now the barn housed a variety of vehicles Dixie found handy at times—a tow truck, a taxicab, a gray van. She’d purchased all three cheap, from owners who wouldn’t be driving anytime soon.

Jogging to escape the cold, she entered the house through the utility room, caught a whiff of cooking aromas, and heard Mud’s toenails tick across the kitchen floor. When she opened the door, he was eagerly waiting. She rubbed his ears.

“What a fine guard dog Mud is.”

Mud licked her hand. Then he pranced to the stove and sat down beside Dann, who stood over a burner stirring a pan that emitted the delicious aroma. The man looked totally engrossed.

The homey scene stirred a slew of emotions in Dixie. This kitchen needed someone who enjoyed filling it with the bubble and sizzle of food preparation. It was designed for that. After Kathleen’s death, Barney had lost heart for anything more complicated than scrambled eggs, and Dixie’s efforts had been dismal. She fell into the habit of stopping for carryout every evening. There was something comforting about coming home now to the aroma of good food cooking.

On the other hand, she’d never enjoyed a domestic moment with any man her own age. Not that she was a stranger to long weekends, sleepovers, breakfast in bed—but such occasions had a defined purpose in the dating-mating-copulating game. This situation was emphatically different. Did any of her books on law enforcement define appropriate behaviors for jailors and prisoners?

“You’re early. Dinner won’t be ready for an hour.” Dann toasted her with the spoon. “My specialty, Chicken Piccata.”

“Hmmm. Interesting choice.” How could he know she’d had it for lunch? “But I’m expected at my sister’s for dinner.”

“Oh.”

The spoon sagged in his hand. He looked so disconcerted she wondered if he hoped to win her allegiance with food. Not a bad gambit. She wasn’t hungry, yet her taste buds were harkening.

A pasta pot bubbled on the back burner; a plate with three cooked chicken breasts sat on the counter. Dann looked at the stirring spoon, tasted it, and shrugged.

“Great sauce.” He laid down the spoon, dipped a clean one, and held it out to her.

Mud bolted upright and bared his teeth. A growl rumbled deep in his throat. Dann jerked his hand back, spilling sauce on the stove top.

“It’s okay, boy.” As Mud relaxed, Dixie peered into the pan simmering on the stove. “What are those green specks?”

“Green specks? You mean the herbs? Here, try it.” He scooped a fresh spoonful.

“I don’t remember buying any herbs.” She tasted the sauce, tentatively at first, then licked the spoon.

“We bought the parsley,” Dann said. “But I found tarragon and chives in your garden.”

Dixie stopped licking. “Those weeds out there? How do you know they’re edible?”

“Relax, I’m not going to poison you. See?” He took another sip. “Actually, you’d have a nice selection of herbs and vegetables if they hadn’t been neglected.”

“You mean I could’ve been throwing those weeds on my chicken all this time and it would taste like this?”

“Sure. Of course, you also have a castor bean plant. Eat that and you’re dead. The narcissus, too. Easy to mistake the bulbs for green onions.” He picked up a knife and began slicing a chicken breast, his fingers quick and precise. “I noticed the bulbs need dividing.”

Dixie tasted the sauce again. “How do you know what to put in?” Did everybody in the world besides her know how to cook?

“A recipe helps, but mostly I experiment with flavors I
like—celery seed with green beans, marjoram with carrots, dill or rosemary with chicken.”

“Maybe if I pour some herbs on my steak it won’t taste like boiled chip board.”

Dann made a funny sound in his throat. Dixie wasn’t sure whether he was laughing or choking.

“A
touch
of herbs,” he said, “adds flavor. Toughness usually comes from overcooking. How long do you broil it?”

“Broil? I fry it till it’s good and dead, then throw in some flour and milk to make gravy.”

Dann winced. “Keep the pantry filled while I’m here, and I’ll make sure you eat well. Gives me something to do. Otherwise, the only difference between here and jail is the company’s better.”

Dixie finished the bite of chicken and took another small piece. “Mud, I think that compliment was meant for you.”

Mud’s ears pricked up. He gave a soft bark. Dann chose the largest chicken slice and held it for the dog to eat.

“Hey, don’t feed him that—”

But Mud already had his teeth in it.

“Piccata makes lousy leftovers,” Dann explained lamely.

“Just what I need, a mutt with a gourmet appetite.”

“That whole chicken breast probably didn’t cost any more than his dog food. Look how he’s enjoying it.”