Coming Home (30 page)

“Sorry,” she said in a voice that indicated just the opposite. “Don Bean and Profane are doing the entire project. Don made me an offer I couldn't refuse. You could talk to him if you want to.”

“Nah, that's OK. Bean generally only works with Profane and a couple of other guys he knows.” He got back in the truck. “Well, I'll be going. You hear of any jobs around, you be sure and let me know.”

“Drugs not paying these days?” Jeb drawled, strolling up to stand beside Roxanne.

Milo gave an exaggerated sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you—I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a cement contractor, not a drug dealer.”
“Yeah, right, and I'm Santy Claus.”

Ignoring Jeb, Milo smiled at Roxanne. “I'll be off. See you around, Roxy.”
“Not if I see you first,” Roxanne muttered under her breath as the blue pickup pulled away.

Jeb surveyed the area. Nothing looked out of place. Of course, that didn't mean anything; with Milo Scott sometimes you didn't find the damage right away.

“I wonder what he was up to?” Roxanne mused. “I made the deal with Bean weeks ago.
If
Milo heard about the job, he has to have known that Bean's handling the whole thing and that there wouldn't be any work for him.”

“Used it as an excuse to drive out here. And lay money on it that if we hadn't shown up, he'd do whatever it was that brought him out here and have left without a word to you.”

Roxanne shrugged. “Probably. Now let's get inside and see about warming up those freezing buns of yours.”

Jeb didn't forget about Milo Scott's visit. In fact, now that he thought about it, Scott seemed to prowl around Roxanne's place more than warranted. Even taking into account that the creep might be trying to make the moves on Roxanne didn't explain his frequent appearances. It wasn't a far leap to wonder about Scott's connection to Dirk Aston, the previous owner of the property. Dirk and Scott had been friends and sort of colleagues after a manner of speaking.

Sitting at his desk on the last Monday in January, Jeb considered the situation. Dirk Aston had been murdered in January last year. He had died suddenly and without warning. At least, it had appeared that the shooting in Oakland had been random and unexpected. It hadn't had the earmarks of a hit. Just one of those senseless killings you see on television and read about in the paper. So maybe, Dirk and Scott had had some unfinished business? Some business that was tied to Roxanne's property?

Jeb scowled at the pile of paperwork in front of him. The only business those two butt-wipes had shared had been drugs. So that left only two things that Scott could be looking for: drugs or money. His scowl deepened. Yeah. All those break-ins and the damage done to the original A-frame began to make sense. It had been teenage vandals, but not
just
teenage vandals—someone had been looking for something … looking damn hard.

His fingers steepled in front of him, Jeb leaned back in his chair. Since Milo Scott seemed to be still hanging around, it was pretty obvious that he hadn't found the object of his search. Jeb would be willing to bet that by now Scott had decided that, wherever and whatever Dirk had hidden, it wasn't in the house. Practically the whole interior of the original cabin had been gutted and Scott had been there during most of the project. As someone working out there, he'd been free to come and go and would have had plenty of time to snoop around when no else was about.

OK, Scott hadn't found anything, but he kept coming back. So that meant whatever Dirk had hidden was still out there.

He hadn't paid much attention to the Aston shooting at the time. The murder had happened out of his jurisdiction and the death of one more dirt bag hadn't caused him to lose a great deal of sleep. But he was curious now. He looked up and dialed the number of the Oakland Police Department. He knew a guy who worked as a detective in the Homicide Department—they weren't exactly friends, but they'd taken some advanced criminology classes together years ago and had kept in touch with each other. They'd been known to empty out a bar simply by walking inside—Gene Cartwright had a scarred and battered face that would give a mother pause—he'd paid for his way through college by being a semi-pro heavyweight boxer. When you added that he was as big as Jeb and black as the ace of spades, the reason was clear. No one wanted to tangle with someone Jeb's size, let alone two some-ones. Gene was also one of the good guys and Jeb liked and respected him.

Jeb was lucky. Cartwright was in.

“Hey, white boy,” Cartwright greeted Jeb. “Long time no hear. How's everything up there in the boonies?”

Jeb laughed. They spent a few minutes catching up with each other's news and then Jeb said, “Listen, I'm curious about a murder that took place last January. Dirk Aston. Shot in a drive-by in one of your less law-abiding areas. Ring any bells?”

“Jeb, you know how many murders we have in a year down here? Don't answer. Right off, I don't remember the case, but I'll poke around and see what I come up with. This a priority? You got a connection or something new on it?”

Jeb grimaced. “No, not really. I'm just grasping at straws, trying to tie up some loose ends.”

They talked a bit longer and Gene promised to call Jeb back as soon as he had the time to drag out the file and read it.

The dry weather held and Roxanne noticed that already the days were getting longer. By the first week of February her daffodils had begun to bloom and she filled the house with small bouquets of white and yellow blossoms, their sweet scent filling the air.

She hadn't planned anything special for Valentine's Day. In fact, to her embarrassment she'd forgotten all about it. On a whim, only a trip to Heather-Mary Marie's to check out some cute kitchen towels she'd noticed a couple weeks ago saved her from ignoring the most romantic day of the year. Reminded by all the Valentine's Day cards prominently displayed, after careful selection, she picked one out that wasn't too mushy. She'd dawdled over a couple fantastic cards declaring lasting love and reluctantly had put them back. She sighed. Maybe next year. … As for a present, Heather-Mary-Marie's had a fine selection of The Mountain T-shirts and sweatshirts and spying a T-shirt in a beautiful tie-dyed deep green with a snarling black panther on the front, she grabbed it from the rack and put it on the wooden counter with the card.

Red hair bright enough to blind, big hoops of beaten gold dangling from her ears, Cleo glanced from the card to the T-shirt. Cleo Hale was actually Heather Mary-Marie—her grandfather, Graham Newel, had named the store for his three daughters, Heather, Mary, and Marie, around the turn of the century when he first opened a dry-goods store in the valley. At a time in life when she had long been considered on the shelf, Heather Newel had astounded everyone by marrying Sam Howard and producing a daughter whom she had named Heather-Mary-Marie. Cleo had endured being called Heather-Mary-Marie Howard until she turned eighteen and then she had decided that she was more a Cleopatra than a Heather-Mary-Marie and had run away with her first husband, Tom Haggart.

Cleo was not a beauty; she had more of a plain face than a pretty one, had shoulders that would have done a lumberjack proud, and stood six feet tall. None of that had stopped her from marrying five times over the course of almost sixty-six years. The Hale name came from her fifth husband and since she thought it went well with Cleo, she didn't bother to change back to her maiden name when she'd kicked old Charley Hale out for fooling around with the widow Brown about fifteen years ago. She was a mainstay in the valley, both beloved and reviled--depending on which end of her tongue you got, and known for not being shy about voicing her opinion.

A gleam entered Cleo's clear blue eyes as she looked at Roxanne's purchases. Cleo believed that a woman should make the most of what she had—no matter her age—and lowering eyes lavishly covered with lavender eye shadow, she murmured, “For anybody I know?”

Roxanne smiled. “As if I would tell you. It would be all over town within five minutes.”

Not offended, Cleo grinned. “Hmm, make that three.” She winked. “Got my reputation to think of, girl. Sure you can't give me a hint? Something for me to throw to the piranhas?”

Roxanne looked thoughtful. “Well, it's a man. A handsome man. He fills out his pants and shirts very nicely. And he's older than I am. Oh, and taller.” Her eyes laughing she asked, “How's that?”

“Cute, very cute,” Cleo said, ringing up the two items. “Want me to wrap them for you?”

“Sure.”

While Roxanne waited, Cleo set about quickly wrapping the T-shirt, they talked idly and eventually the subject of Nick and Maria came up. Her scarlet lips tight with disapproval, Cleo muttered, “Some folks ought to be horsewhipped. Reba Stanton and Babs Jepson were in a few minutes ago … so was Maria Rios.” She shook her head. “Those two harpies stared her up and down, stepped back ten paces, and then began to whisper.” Cleo snorted. “Didn't take a fool to know they were gossiping about Maria and not making any attempt to hide it. Maria looked stricken, put down the card she was going to buy, and scuttled out of here like she'd been beat. I'd have liked to have given those fat cows a talkin’ to, but I had a lot of customers and by the time the place was clear, they'd sashayed out and gone across the street to The Blue Goose for lunch.”

A hard light in her eyes, Roxanne drawled, “Is that right? You figure they're still eating?”

Cleo nodded. “Yep, that's Babs's black Caddy parked in front of the restaurant. They meet every Wednesday for lunch—probably enjoying tearing Maria from limb to limb with their salads.”

“No doubt. Think I'll go join them,” Roxanne said, picking up her brightly wrapped package and card.

Cleo looked at her, frowning. “Now why would you want to do that?”

“Because dear Cleo, I went to high school with them, and I know where all the bodies are buried. I have some very clear memories of things I'm sure the pair of them would like forgotten.” She smiled tightly. “Think I'll go remind them.”

Roxanne pushed open the heavy door of the restaurant and instantly spotted her quarry. The two women were seated near one of the windows, their fashionably coiffed heads together.

Waving to Hank who flashed her a wide smile, she motioned to the table where Reba and Babs sat unaware of the thunderbolt about to descend upon them. “I'll be joining my friends,” Roxanne called out gaily to Hank.

Reba and Babs looked up startled when Roxanne pulled out a chair and sat down at their table. Her eyes bright, Roxanne looked the pair of them over. “My goodness, but you two haven't hardly changed in twenty years. However do you do it?”

Reba and Babs had been three years ahead of Roxanne in school. Usually, lordly juniors wouldn't have given a lowly freshman the time of day, except when the lowly freshman just happened to be the daughter of one of the leading families in the valley and was also one of the most popular kids in the small high school. Reba and Babs had also been friends with Sloan's first wife, Nancy—Nancy had been the ringleader of the trio, but even then Nancy had had her eye on the Ballinger fortune and she had quickly swept Roxanne up in their exclusive little circle. Roxanne had been flattered, but it didn't take her long to decide that she didn't really like Nancy, Babs, and Reba very much and she drifted away. But not, she thought grimly, as she faced the two women, before knowing quite a few things they'd rather she didn't.

It was Babs and Reba's turn to be flattered. After all, this was
Roxanne
complimenting them and like a pair of plump pigeons in the sun they preened and cooed.

“What a nice thing to say,” said Reba with a pleased smile.

“Why thank you,” added Babs. “That's a real compliment coming from
you
.”

“Yes, it is,” Roxanne said. She hadn't been lying: Babs and Reba did look great for having passed their big 4-0 birthdays. The two women complemented each other, Babs was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and Reba was blond and blue-eyed. They had kept their figures, although neither was as slim as they had been in high school—and their vicious tongues.

Roxanne glanced at the menu that Sally, the main waitress in The Blue Goose besides Hank, gave her, and asked, “So what would you recommend for lunch?”

“Oh, well, we both have to watch our weight so we ordered the grilled chicken salad,” Babs said. Her gaze envious, she assessed Roxanne's weight to the pound. “You can eat anything you want.”

“Don't you believe it—I didn't get this way pigging out on ice cream and chips.” She smiled at Babs. “The way you did when you were pregnant in high school.” Ignoring Babs's gasp, she went on coolly, “Whatever happened about that anyway? Abortion? Or adoption?”

Having vanquished Babs, she turned her icy golden eyes on Reba. “And you, whatever happened with your first marriage?” She frowned prettily. “Don't I remember something about you running away with a Mexican kid? Oh, yeah, that's right—your folks caught up with you before you actually got married.”

Roxanne smiled into the two stunned faces. “Funny the things you remember from high school, isn't it?” Her face fierce, she bent closer to the two women. “And if you two bitches don't hold your tongues and treat Maria Rios kindly, I'll just have to share my memories with several folks in town. In fact, I think as a sign of good faith, you should invite Maria to have lunch with you next week. Sort of show the community that you're rallying behind her. A good idea, don't you think?”

Reba swallowed. “Uh, why, yes. Excellent. I'll call her this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes, we'd be more than happy to throw our support her way.”

Roxanne stood up. “See that you do. Otherwise …”

Turning her back on them, Roxanne strolled up to the counter. “Hey, Hank, could I have one of your half-pound hamburgers to go?”

Ten minutes later, her hamburger resting in its foam carton, Roxanne smiled and walked out of the restaurant.

Back at the house, she split the hamburger with the dogs, signed the card, left the package and card in the middle of Jeb's pillow. It might not be a particularly romantic present, but, she thought with a grin, she'd make it up to him.