Dead Red Cadillac, A (11 page)

"You still mad at Caleb?"

"What do you think? I'm faking a relationship with a murder suspect and hoping the police will pin it on him instead of their next suspect, that is, if the judge is telling the truth about why my dad paid for Eddy's attorney."

"Now that's a story I'd sure like to hear."

"Me too, and I'm going to find out as soon as I get home."

"So when did Garth tell you he got into town?"

"He told me he arrived the morning they found Patience. That was Sunday."

"Boyd Lincoln thinks he's seen him before that. Of course, Boyd's still got a problem mixing up photos and people he actually knows. I'm thinking it’s part of the Parkinson's he was diagnosed with last year. Or the Parkinson's masking a case of prosopagnosia. "

"His prosa… what?"

"Facial recognition. Fumbles with recalling people he should know after coming here for the last twenty years. Ever notice that he insists on the same seat at the counter? That way friends come to him, say hi, and he never has to connect a face to a name." Roxanne thoughtfully tucked her lips under and patted my hand. "Well, you got a lot to think on. Go home, talk to your dad, or better yet, wait till morning. You're all done in."

She was right, as usual. I was ashamed that I'd been a wise-ass to her, and taking her advice, I headed home. I sank the gas pedal to the floor and sped down the highway, my heartbeat starting to catch up with the speed of the exit signs as I passed them. Noah Bains, Judge Griffin, Bill Hollander, Eddy and Patience McBride. Were they all connected in some secret that had turned sinister? I had to find out what the link was between them all before whoever killed Patience turned their attention to the remaining participants: my father and me.

The house was dark and quiet. When I looked in the TV room and saw both my dad and Spike sound asleep, I quietly closed the door. Relieved that I wouldn't have to confront Noah until tomorrow, I went upstairs and put on my birthday gift from Roxanne of two years ago.

The gown had about as much "come hither" as the sweat suit I wore to bed in the winter. I thought it ironic; Roxanne, who couldn't be bothered with the likes of silk teddies and sexy garter belts, would expect me to actually buy something lacy and sheer, like I might want to make another run at a man and get married again.

No way. Well, at least not until I met Garth Thorne and I got my engine sparked. If I listened to Roxanne or Caleb, I would hold off on that dinner date, but I had a nagging feeling that if I put my head in the sand now, this mystery was only going to get messier.

Sleep wouldn't have me, so I lay there and listened to the sounds of a summer night in the country. A nightingale sang his heart out, calling for a mate with a heart full of hope that one would hear his plea for love and companionship. I wasn't looking for anything remotely like love. Love had dumped me twice and I'd had enough. Meeting someone whom I hadn't gone to grade school with was flattering. He was just so darned attractive. Who knows, I might be willing to ignore those minor little details that tend to trample a meaningful relationship, like that he was in jail when I met him, and that I'd already caught him in one lie.

I slapped the sheets down to my ankles and watched the steady ceiling fan as it slowly marched around in circles. The gentle thucka, thucka matched the pace of my heartbeat, and at last I fell asleep.

Chapter Twelve:

At three a.m., my alarm clock kicked on. I was fuzzy brained and disoriented from strange dreams that left my jaws clenched. But since going back to sleep wasn't an option, I rolled over to the edge of the bed and let my casted foot drop to the floor. The rest of me was a natural progression in robotic motion; light on, bathroom, brush my teeth, pull a T-shirt over my head, yank my hair back into a ponytail and slip into a pair of softly faded jeans. And adding a light jacket against a cool dawn, I picked my way down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky risers. Noah, having set the coffee on, had left a note with a wish list for groceries and the underlined words, We have to talk.

He took the words right out of my mouth. I slipped out the kitchen door, careful not to let the screen slap behind me and wake him. Way too early for that talk.

The pilots and ground crew shuffled in at four, sipping at steaming paper cups and pretending my picture hadn't been in the papers these last two days. All except Brad, who sipped from a hefty quart-sized clear bottle as he waited for me to hand him his work slips. I didn't want to think about what was in the bottle, not after my dad suggested that Brad should be fired; besides, the safety of my crew and airplanes was my responsibility. "Water?"

"Yeah, want some?" he said, his eyes challenging me.

"No thanks. We got coffee on if you want." I pointed my pen at the brew trickling into the carafe. "I hear it's going to be a hot one, so you can top off that water bottle if you like." A five-gallon water bottle sat atop a cooler by the shower doors and I always kept cans of soda in an ice chest for the guys to take with their lunches.

He smirked at the size of the list I gave him, still sure that he was cock of the walk, picked up his work orders and walked out the door. I divvied out the rest of the crew paperwork and they all left, except for Mad Dog, still reading the small pile of work orders in his hand.

Outside, suited up and masked against the invading poison, the ground crew joshed each other and poured bags of sulfur dust into hoppers. When they were finished, they removed the wood chocks from under the front wheels and signaled to the pilots with a pat on the wing.

I stood at the office window watching the big Ag-Cats hunkered in a line until their cylinders revved and shuddered in the morning air. All conversation was dropped while the ground crew chief signaled a go-ahead and another plane roared away to soar over the treetops.

I turned back to Mad Dog, who was hovering in some kind of anxious anticipation.

I looked up. "Something on your mind, Mad Dog?"

He cleared his throat. "I could be wrong, but I think Brad might be popping pills, or at least doing some wacky-tabacky."

So that was Noah's source and, as both of us knew, automatic and immediate grounds for dismissal. "Can you prove it?"

"After Iraq, I did some flying for Special Ops in South America. Down there, if you made it, fine, if you didn't, you crashed. My proof is what I'm seeing all over again in Brad."

"Thanks, Mad Dog. I'll look into it."

"He keeps it in his locker."

I bounced my pencil up and down on the desk. "Okay," I said, wanting him to leave so I could think about this next fire I would have to put out.

He stood with hands on hips, seething. "You got an extra key to get in—if not, I can jimmy it for you."

"I got it," I said, figuring the source of his anger was more likely the smaller share of the work orders.

"You gonna look now?"

I sighed, reached into the desk, and pulled out a second set of little brass keys. He almost stepped on my heels in his eagerness to follow me into the locker rooms. The lockers were numbered in black and marked with pilot and crew names on duct tape. I found the key and opened Brad's. Inside was a wadded-up brown lunch bag, a pair of dirty socks and an old flight book. I opened the brown paper sack and found a bottle of ibuprofen. Opening the bottle revealed exactly what was marked on the outside—ibuprofen. No white papers, no odd-shaped pills of any kind. I groped into the corners, daring to touch the dirty socks, and then pulled my hand out and closed the door with relief.

"The sun's coming up. You got peaches to do, right?"

"It could be in his car."

"The lockers are our property, cars aren't. So, unless you have evidence that I can actually see, you've got work to do and I need to go see about getting this cast off my foot."

The pinched set of his mouth gave me pause. I might yet have to fire Brad, and business would suffer if we lost another one. "Sit down a minute?"

He huffed out a breath, as if now I was now wasting his valuable time, and slouched in the metal chair next to my desk.

"You said you were in South America?" I asked, changing the subject.

His big freckled hands locked together on his knees. "Yeah, six years ago."

"What do you know about smuggling?"

It wasn't about Brad and how to get rid of him, but it was a start. "Not as much as the opportunity allows. Think about it, a smuggler in a car gets pulled over, he runs for it, and if they don't catch him, all he loses is his car or truck. A pilot lands, gets picked up, loses his plane or somebody else's very expensive airplane, his license, and his freedom. No amount of money could make me want to run that risk, no sir."

I picked up a letter opener and twirled the blade on the tip of my finger. "So, you've never been tempted?"

"Sorry, Lalla. I know where this is going and I know my job here is dependent on your good graces, but I really don't want to get involved with bad-mouthing another operator."

But he didn't mind bad-mouthing his competition at our business.

"Then he's still in the Aero Ag business?"

Mad Dog struggled up out of his chair, gave his bum knee a squeeze and sighed. "Yes, he's still in the business. Now, if you don't have any more questions of me, I got work to do."

Knowing that neither Mad Dog nor Noah would be satisfied until I fired Brad, I said, "I'll set up Brad's yearly exam tomorrow. It comes with a drug test, so if you're right about him, do you have anyone in mind for a replacement?"

His sandy brows tucked together in an artificial expression of perplexed disappointment. "Why, you, of course."

"Yeah, sure I will, but not for couple of weeks."

Mad Dog gave me a lazy, if somewhat predatory smile and walked out the door whistling. Noah was right to call him opportunistic. If he couldn't tie me and the business up in one nice package, he'd work hard to keep me on the sidelines and replace Brad with himself.

Dinner with Garth was the last thing I felt like doing. But with the specter of my father's involvement looming over me, I needed some answers. Besides, I could only dodge the deadly duo at the police station for so long before they pinned me to the wall and demanded more tidy tales.

"Come on in, darlin'," said Garth, waving at me from the door of his road warrior. "Sure glad you decided to call," he said, reaching to pull me up into the motor home. "I'm running a bit behind. Got cornered by my shop manager and we've been at it since noon. It's all good news, though, and now that you're here, my day is perfect."

He drew me over to a corner set up as an office, complete with computer, printer with fax, and phone. "My partner transfers the spreadsheets to me by e-mail," Garth said, combing back his dark hair with the blunt ends of his fingers. A curl had escaped to lie on his high forehead and, for a moment, my fingers itched to draw it back.

"Looky here," he said, draping an arm around my shoulders to draw me closer to the screen, "this tells me who buys tires and how many scheduled truck repairs we got for the week. And when it exceeds our monthly projection…" He punched a key and fireworks sparkled onto the screen, canned applause emanated from the speakers, and some singer warbled, "Thank God for a country boy!"

Though the whole thing was cheesy, I still nodded and smiled. He grinned as if he'd caught me staring at more than the computer. I blushed. Guilty as charged.

He slid his hand along my back, idling it at my bare shoulder, then reluctantly removed it. "If you don't mind waiting for a few minutes?" he said, rubbing a hand across the five o'clock shadow.

I nodded and swallowed hard, trying not to stare at the tight glutes in faded jeans as he moved to the rear of the motor home. I could hear an electric razor making lawnmower sounds over his five o'clock shadow. Water ran for a minute, then he moved from the bath into his bedroom.

A full-length dressing mirror on the outside of his bedroom door was tilted open and I peeked as he took off his shirt, lifted a muscled arm to roll on deodorant, and then slipped a dark blue knit shirt over a well-defined chest. I liked the way the muscles moved across his back and I licked my lips and thought, so what if watching him makes my mouth go dry and my heart rate kick up a notch? Does he think his sexy smile, twinkling gray eyes and great body are going to bowl me over? If so, I might just let him. I haven't had a date, much less one that might involve getting laid, in longer than I can remember. He's tempting enough to make me forget all the real reasons why I'm here. So, what's the worst that can happen—our reputations get shot to hell?

I tore my eyes away from the object of my growing lust and ran sweaty palms over the armrest of the chair. For something to do, I stuck my fingers down the sides of the cushion and felt around. I found two old peanuts, some sandy lint, and a small metal key. It was the right size for the door to his motor home, and I was about to say something when he walked down the hallway. "Thanks for waiting."

I fingered the key, and since he was preoccupied tucking the shirt, I pocketed it and stood up. Yup, he sure did clean up good. "Which one, do you think?" he asked, holding up a buttery soft suede jacket and a blue blazer.

Well, as Garth would say, "Bump my ass and call me an Okie." But nothing about Garth Thorne reminded me of any Okie I'd ever met. The guy looked like he just stepped out of a glossy page from a men's magazine.

Forgetting all about the purloined key in my pocket, I said, "Too hot for a jacket and too nice for the restaurant I had in mind. The place is pretty much come-as-you-are."

He tossed the jackets on a chair, grinned and said, "Then I'm all yours for the night."

I stood up, and in the cramped space between us, he reached across to open the door and our bodies collided. My blood pressure took a jump. There I was, sophisticated ex–New York model, standing dry-mouthed and giddy, waiting for the possibility he might bend down and touch my lips with his.

My breath was coming in rapid little chuffs and an unaccustomed warmth galloped up my neck to bloom my cheeks. I felt like a teenager on a first date. Our eyes locked, and as the seconds stretched into a warming heartbeat, I stood close enough to gaze into the gold-ringed, deep brown depths of smoky, darkly lashed and seductive eyes. It would have all been oh so right if I hadn't noticed that instantaneous and quickly snuffed flash of superior male confidence, the one with just the slightest touch of cruelty around the edges. Over the years, I'd been tripped up by enough dangerously handsome brown-eyed men to have memorized the moment and the look.

With a sigh of regret, and before I entirely lost my senses, I turned the knob on the door handle and stepped down. A warm breath of evening air whispered across my cheek, icing down the last tremors of my foolishness. In the murky and darker corners of Garth's expression, I'd clearly seen all I needed to know about Garth Thorne. I could see that he'd already determined that his flirtation with me was intended for his advantage.

Never mind the logistics between New York and Oklahoma; I understood men like Garth because I'd worked with them, dated them, and in two cases, married them. The end result was that I also have this one very powerful rule: she who rules home court advantage wins.

I smiled all the way to the truck. Garth hummed softly at the passing scenery while the little key I'd palmed lay warm in my pocket.