Dead Red Cadillac, A (16 page)

Looking up at the man as though through a long tunnel, I blinked. It was Garth. All I could manage was a weak ugh, spitting dust and gurgling water out of the side of my mouth. I pushed him away and struggled to stand.

He reached down to give me a hand. "Jesus H! I couldn't believe it was you. You had a major blowout there, darlin'."

He helped me up, brushed off the dirt, ran his hands over my shoulders and down my wrists. Then he turned my trembling hands over in his. "Nothin' broken," he said, giving me a crooked smile.

"Where'd you come from?"

"I was fixin' to come out to see you. You want to go to the hospital?"

"No, I'll be all right. Did you see the car that hit me?"

"Nobody and nothing to see but this car kicking up a cloud of dust. I didn't even know it was you until I got out of the car. I expect you got the stuffing knocked out of you by that tree, yonder. I think the tree won, though."

I would have to call my insurance tomorrow. Tell them I took out one of Richard Johnston's prime eight-year-old peach trees.

"I already called the police," he said, confirming the sound I heard was not the shriek of the migraine. Sure enough, a sheriff's car and an ambulance pulled up behind us. Thankfully, the sheriff's cruiser wasn't Caleb's. I could deal with the EMTs.

"It's not necessary," I replied to their offer of a ride to the hospital. I wasn't concussed, I told them as they flashed a penlight across my pupils, just shook up. The EMTs only released me when I showed them my prescription for Imitrex, tapping out one of the distinctive triangular-shaped tablets, and tossing it back with the water the ambulance crew offered.

With the EMTs satisfied I was not a druggie, I signed for the tow and accident report, then let Garth lead me to a seventies model yellow Ford Pinto. He opened the door and gently lowered me into the seat. "It has fifteen thousand original miles, and I can just about fit into the driver's seat, as long as I don't mind sitting in the trunk."

"Where did you find this thing?" I asked, examining the plaid cloth seats.

"It was in my aunt's garage. The keys were under the floor mat. I guess she didn't mind if it got stolen. Guess I don't much care either, except it's better than driving my rig around town. Let me take you home."

"That would be nice," I said wearily. "It's been a long day." I was still feeling a little shaky and paranoid.
Who tried to run me off the road?

Twenty minutes later, we stood on the veranda. I held a bottle of my dad's light beer, and Garth had a glass of iced tea.

"Better?" he asked, giving my shoulder a little squeeze.

"Yes, thanks," I said, twisting my head around on my sore neck. "At least my hands have stopped shaking. No lack of excitement around here the last few days. How're you holding up? Any word from the police?"

"Nothing yet." He put down the iced tea and worked at the bunched muscles on my neck. "You said somebody ran you off the road. Do you think it was a drunk, or just some kid in a hurry to get Dad's car home before it got dark?"

"I'm not sure what it was all about," I said, knowing it was a mistake to stand there and accept the soothing work he was doing on my muscles, but I was still too shaky to bother to object. "I do have some news for you. Did you know your aunt was not a widow?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so. He was in prison, but the news last night said he escaped. They say he's now wanted for questioning in my aunt's death."

"He broke into our house last night."

"That ol' coot's a dangerous criminal! So you hog-tied him and he's now in custody?"

"Not exactly. Unfortunately, he got away."

"You let that little weasel get away, or did the sheriff let him slip again?" His sour look said he thought it more likely the sheriff.

"I'm afraid it was my father who let him go."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Your dad? Well, darlin', I sure wish I'd been there to see it." Then his voice went serious. "That ol' boy was nothing but a lot of trouble to my Aunt Patience. I sure hope they catch him soon."

My brother's voice whispered in my ear, "The pot calling the kettle black." I shook my head and brushed away the ghostly laughter. "At least the cops now know he's still in the area."

Garth didn't seem particularly upset that Eddy was loose. Nor that Eddy might be looking for him. Instead, he seemed to have something else on his mind. He rubbed a hand across a freshly shaved chin and said, "You remember when I told you someone turned me in? I been thinkin' it ain't my ex, why put me in jail when she gets child support, right? Autumn coulda done it; it would be like her to create trouble for me."

"Autumn?"

"Yeah, like the season, but not near as gentle. We were engaged for a while, till I caught her wrapped around a trucker. So, before I went off half-cocked like I woulda done before I got sober, I decided to let it ride till I could decide how to break it off. Then, one morning I woke up, and this is stupid, I know, but I could hear this voice in my head sayin', 'Autumn leaves, Autumn leaves.' That was all I needed. I told her I was going to California to see my aunt and I expected her to clear out while I was gone."

"So, you think she took it hard and called the cops to get back at you?"

"Well, I did cancel the credit card I gave her, and I had her new Mustang picked up. It was leased, thank God."

"Wow! I can understand how she would be upset… a new Mustang. Now me, I'd've trashed your house, sprayed bad words all over your truck, and told the girls in town you were a switch hitter." His intake of breath made me laugh. "I know, I know. Could there be anything worse than having a cute young thing accuse a red-blooded heterosexual male like you of being gay?"

"Man, oh man, you sure are a pistol, darlin'," he said, amusement twinkling in the brown eyes. "I think I'd rather be tossed in jail than have that rumor go around."

Then I remembered Eddy and his comment about a redhead coming out of Garth's RV and asked, "Would she follow you out here?"

"I don't think she'd come all the way out here simply to make a point. The girl's bone-lazy. No, she's more'n likely to pick up the phone and make a call. That would be more her style." He looked at his watch. "Changing the subject, I know you got to get up early, so how 'bout we go into town for dinner?"

"Oh, gosh, I wish I had the time. I've put off my paperwork all day. Maybe tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow then," he said, and giving me a meaningful look, took my face between his hands and kissed me. It was quick and then over, a friendly overture that said he knew I was exhausted, but there was the invitation all the same.

I stood on the veranda, looking out at the twilight, thinking about Garth. There was enough of his story to be believable and I could empathize; I'd had my share of wayward lovers. Jorge, being Latin, considered it his duty to seduce my girlfriends when I was on assignment. Ricky, however, was the worst, and revenge being my middle name, look where it got him.

Chapter Seventeen:

The western Sierras were edged crisp with reds and purples from sun long gone over the side. I patted the cool radial engines and checked the tread on the tires, then meandered between the other aircraft, quietly waiting for tomorrow's workday. I uncapped the gas tanks, sank a fuel stick down into the holes, swished it around, and satisfied that my ground crew had done their job, went inside the office. I stacked work orders for the next day and blew some dust off the desk. Calling it a night, I locked the office door and walked to the house.

It must be dinnertime because Caleb's truck was parked in front. He'd be here because of today's mishap—a single-car accident, I'd told the deputy. Must've hit a pothole. It was a rental car, steering was iffy. More than likely, Caleb didn't believe any of it.

Sure enough, there they were at the dinner table, shoveling in Juanita's seven-layer Mexican casserole. Caleb looked to have been carrying a trunk load of worries while I had just one. "We don't have another dead body, do we?" I asked, calmly loading up my plate.

My dad grunted at my rude behavior.

"Sorry, Noah. Seeing a sheriff's car in front of my house, even if it is Caleb's, puts me on edge. Let me try again: Good evening, Caleb. Collect any gunslingers, jaywalkers, or library book rustlers today?"

Noah's bushy gray eyebrows went up a notch. "Wouldn't hurt to mind your tongue, either, young lady," he said, wiping his mouth and getting up from the table. "Come on, Spike."

The dog perked up his bat-sized ears and trotted after his best friend.

"Who'd have thought my dad would've taken to this dog?"

"With Noah's heart condition, he needed something. So as I see it, they both got a good deal."

"You're not the least bit curious about my day?" I asked, sarcasm making my point. It didn't help my growing anxiety to think Caleb might have also come out to interrogate my dad.

"I don't know how I'm going to get through this week," he said. "Seems every time I turn around, you're in some sort of trouble."

"I'm fine. Really. Except for ruining my rent-a-wreck and scaring the hell out of me, it was a totally uneventful single-car accident. You didn't have to come all the way out here to check on me."

Two red spots bloomed on Caleb's cheekbones. "You want me to leave?"

Horrified that I'd stepped my foot into it again, I grabbed his wrist as he rose to leave. "No! Don't go. I'm sorry," I said, holding a hand up to my forehead. "I've got this headache, and I'm just a little out of sorts."

Caleb threw down his napkin and shoved the plate away. "You do not have a headache. Your pupils aren't dilated and your color is good. So that excuse won't fly. Know what burns my hide?" he snapped, pointing one of his long fingers at the general direction of my nose and waggling it. "I'm off duty, okay? Did it ever occur to you that your dad might actually want some company?"

"Oh," I said, my voice echoing my need to tone it down. I asked meekly, "So, what did you talk about?"

"What do you think we talked about?" he said, rolling up his shirtsleeves and turning on the hot tap. "So, what were you up to today before you ran off the road and slammed into Richard Johnston's orchard?" he asked, adding soap and holding out a hand for the first of the dishes.

I could see he was trying for a more neutral tone of voice while his blood pressure slowed and the red spots on his neck subsided. I'd never seen him this emotional. Of the two of us, I was the hothead. I was the one who flew off the handle. I was the one who was impetuous.

The question was: Should I tell him my suspicion that I'd been broadsided by either my part-time stalker or one of John Machado's henchmen? I took a deep breath and went with the easier answer. "I went to see another Ag operator on some business."

"Whose business, yours or Machado's?"

"You followed me?"

His hands went still under the soapy water and he snorted. "Not me, but I promised you surveillance, remember?"

"Did he follow me all the way home?"

"His shift was over, and Jerry's not one to miss out on his supper, so he missed out on seeing your car plow into the trees."

"If you'd just throw me a crumb once in a while, maybe I wouldn't have to go asking for trouble." I slid another plate into the sink. "I didn't step on your toes, did I?"

"Not mine," he answered, rinsing the plates and putting them in the rack for me to dry. "The FBI’s maybe. The government has a hard-on for Machado. Interestingly enough, his file starts about the time of Eddy McBride's trial."

I bit at the corner of my lip. "That explains a few things."

"Okay, spit it out. What'd you find?"

"My dad mentioned that Machado had bought Hollander Chemicals, which got me thinking: Where'd his money come from to be able to buy a company like that? Of course, it may have been a fire sale forced by Hollander's two kids, but I was curious, so I went to thank him personally for giving me permission to land on his airstrip. Even if I didn't make it, he should know I was grateful. Then I went to talk to a guy today who worked with Machado and thinks he's running drugs."

"What guy?"

"Machado's office has a photo gallery that's a running history of pilots. Bobby Norquist and Buddy Rutland, who Machado said owns Bud's Place in Turlock. So, I went there and asked him about Norquist."

"Yes, Norquist was supposed to testify against Eddy McBride in the Hollander case. What else?"

I told him about Bud and how the police had never questioned him and what Bud had to say about the likelihood Norquist had plans to turn on both Machado and Hollander, so Machado sabotaged his plane.

"You got it almost right. I hope you didn't corner Machado," he said. "You didn't flash that little fake badge at him, did you?"

Caleb, against his better judgment, once showed me how to kludge one together. I found a police supply company, bought a simple badge with no number on it, a leather case for it, and added a photo from a line of snapshots taken at the booth in the Greyhound station. From a distance it looked official. I needed it, I said, to flash at guys who messed with me on the freeway, though these days, it may have more to do with my erratic driving than the blond hair.

I lifted my chin and said, "I don't need to use that old badge anymore. And what do you mean, 'almost right'?"

He wiped his hands off on a kitchen cloth and motioned me outside to the porch. We sat in the wicker chairs on the cooling veranda, and he said, "None of what I'm going to tell you was ever going to be in the morning papers because it's part of an original and ongoing FBI and DEA investigation. Bob Norquist wasn't going to testify against Eddy McBride or anybody else, because the Feds got to him about the same time the trial started. In exchange for immunity, his testimony at the Hollander trial would be null and void, a win-win situation for Norquist and the Feds, but a sorry end for Eddy McBride. Loose ends all neat and tidy, except that Norquist was killed the day before that information was given to prosecution and defense, and to this day they don't know how it leaked."

"Couldn't they arrest Machado?"

"Machado had an alibi for Bill Hollander's murder. And after Bobby Norquist conveniently bought the farm, the case went on the back burner." He rubbed a hand across the one-inch stubble he allowed to grow on his head. "Machado got really busy after the trial and after all this time, the investigation is now on again."

"Marijuana?"

"Not pot, Lalla. Black tar heroin. It's transported in small, compact, and sometimes heavy packages. A small aircraft like a Cessna can't carry the load. But a souped-up Stearman could, or for that matter, one of those Ag-Cats out there."

"Uh, wait a minute. Are you accusing me, or my dad, of drug smuggling?"

"All I'm saying is, who's going to notice a working crop duster moving up from the Imperial Valley to here? It makes smuggling as a sideline to crop dusting look like a natural. So you see, you walked into a potential hornet's nest with Machado."

"Do you think it's possible? Machado killing both Hollander and Norquist, then setting Eddy up for the fall?"

"It's been suggested that Eddy might have been in on it with these guys."

"But if Eddy's guilty…" I almost said, then my dad could be guilty, too. "All I know is, when I told John Machado Eddy was out of jail and packing a gun, he broke out into a cold sweat. I think he now has something else to worry about besides getting arrested for trafficking dope. Bud told me Machado came into some money after the trial was over and then bought Hollander Chemical. What if Machado killed Hollander, picked up the cash that Hollander was going to pay Norquist, pinned it on Eddy and then killed Norquist?"

Caleb rubbed his jaw. "Maybe. I'll talk to Homicide tomorrow. It'll go to the Feds and then we'll see."

Considering the subject closed, I said, "Roxanne has volunteered her place for Patience's wake. She said there may be people showing up from Stockton."

"That's nice of her."

"Can't say I feel much enthusiasm for a party," I said listlessly. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Did you ever see Patience wear high heels?"

"Never. She always wore white high-tops. Patience was a fashion disaster, but she knew how to be comfortable."

He shrugged at my answer and scratched a path across his day-old beard. "That makes sense then. The prints on the windowsill at Patience's house belong to none other than Alexandra Graham, aka Autumn O'Sullivan."

"Autumn? That's Garth's girlfriend."

"You know about her, huh?"

"Said he was engaged to her. He thinks she's the one who called the cops on him."

"Garth certainly manages to piss off the women. We got lucky with the prints 'cause she had a little run-in for illegal nude dancing. As soon as we can locate her, we'll pick her up for questioning." He yawned loudly, stretched and said, "We traced Garth with cell phone records for these last four days. Though nothing yet confirms he was in Modesto before his aunt was murdered, he certainly was in California. I'm going to hypothesize here, so don't jump on this like it's gospel. It's obvious Patience had a soft spot for her nephew. Besides Eddy, Garth was her only beneficiary. Suppose she lets it slip she's been hiding all that loot her husband stole from Hollander for all these years. It's a motive."

"Then how did he drive her, the motor home and my Caddy to the lake?" I asked.

"His girlfriend, of course. Autumn, the nude dancer? If that money hasn't been found, I'll bet she's waiting around for it to show."

"That gold pendant you brought me. It's hers! There's just one little hitch. Garth doesn't appear to be the least bit nervous that Eddy is on the loose and carrying a gun, certainly not like Machado was—that guy all but lost his lunch at the mention of Eddy with a gun. Garth thinks Eddy's a nutcase, but if Garth killed his aunt, why isn't he jumpy at the mention of Eddy?"

Caleb stood up and yawned. "Okay, let's just pin it on the Hollander brats. If I were Eddy, I’d hate ’em enough to shoot 'em. They kept him in prison without parole for the whole twenty years. I gotta get some sleep. We'll get an arrest warrant for Autumn and see if we can't get her to talk."

He absentmindedly kissed the top of my head and then walked off the porch. As he opened the door of the cruiser, he turned and called to me, "Lock your doors, Lalla Bains."

I assured him I would, and after sliding the deadbolt on the front and back doors and closing the TV room door where my dad and his dog were contentedly sleeping, I headed upstairs.

I crawled into bed, uneasy nerves rattling around with more questions, and it wasn't just because I had a growing list of people I had pissed off. I was a terrible friend to Caleb. I hadn't done anything to make it up to him for forgetting our birthday. I hadn't gotten him a present, certainly not like last year when I stuffed so many balloons into his cruiser he couldn't get into the car. I'd forgotten our birthday, not without reason of course, but still, what sort of friend had I been to him lately?

Tomorrow, I would send flowers to Isabel Norquist's funeral, and then I intended to get busy, do something… something that would steer suspicions of the police away from this family. I was going to do what I'd promised Caleb I wouldn't do. I was going to bend the rules again, which would really annoy him, should he find out.

Then I tucked my pillow under my head with a resolve for courage over fear, closed my eyes, and drifted off to sleep.