Dead Red Cadillac, A (24 page)

I could feel the tears streaking a vertical path on my cheeks.

Caleb squeezed my shoulder. "I'll get one of the guys to get Maya home, and then you and your dad can stay at my house. We can sort this whole thing out tomorrow."

"No. I'll take her," I said.

"You sure you don't want me to take her? It's no trouble."

"No, Caleb. As Maya's godmother, I have to explain myself to her mom."

"Then I'll take your dad to my house. I'll wait for you."

With Spike in his arms, Caleb and I supported my dad to the cruiser, and then Maya and I left for her home.

To Roxanne's credit, she listened without interruption, then grabbed both Maya and me in a tight hug. Three weeping women brought Roxanne's husband, Leon, into the living room and the story was told all over again. When I was finished, I kissed them and left for Caleb's house.

"I put a terry robe on the bathroom door for you," Caleb said, pulling me inside and guiding me down the hall to the bathroom. "Take a long shower and we'll talk in the kitchen."

I plunged myself under a cool shower, then in my panties and his robe, I wobbled on bare feet into the kitchen, where Caleb was making tea.

"I hope that's herbal," I said, fighting to keep my eyes open. "Have the police released Garth?"

He held up the box as confirmation of herbal tea and said, "Lalla, you've been incredibly brave, but do me a favor? Retire the fake badge and take the rest of the year off."

I winced at the mention of my fake badge. "Yeah. Well, I'm happy to give up the badge and my amateur sleuthing. You turned Zack's old room into an office, didn't you? I'm fine with the couch."

"It is an office, and I made up the hide-a-bed for you."

"Thanks. Just point," I said, giving him a jaw-popping yawn.

He steered me down the hallway to the room. An antique brass lamp converted from kerosene to electricity cast a soft light on a line of photo frames marching across the wall. The pictures showed his two sons from six months through the Marines, where his oldest, Zackary, had made the Marines his career. I noticed there wasn't one photo of Marcie, either on the wall or on his desk. And he'd left me one of his old T-shirts to sleep in.

When he later tapped at the door, I wrapped myself in a blanket and patted a space next to me on the edge of the bed. "Sit. For just a minute. No more talk about bad guys."

I clutched his hand for the reassurance I knew without asking would be there for me. "You saved my life, you know. Old Indian proverb says you now own me. Like a squaw. I'll have to follow you around in pigtails and bare feet. What do you think? Do you need an old squaw?"

He was looking straight into my eyes. One sandy lash had come floating down to attach itself to the smooth ledge above his shaven cheek. I reached up to flick it off, and my eyes were drawn to his very intent gaze. I noticed little shards of green in the iris. For a moment, I didn't blink, I didn't breathe as I took in every minute detail in his face; the shaving nick at his cheekbone, the little hairs on the ridge between his straight brows, the road map of wrinkles that made up his hardworking face, and the wide mouth with its deep commas that softened into a smile whenever he saw me.

In answer to my silent questions, he kissed me on the forehead, got up, and softly closed the door on his way out. I thought I had a lot to think about, that I would spend the rest of the night mulling over those questions. But Caleb must keep the same soporific drug in his pillows as I have at home, because I woke the next morning with my face in his neck, his arm draped around my shoulder. I don't remember going to his room, much less crawling under the covers, but it felt right.

Last night seemed like another bad dream and my head hurt something terrible. I knew it was the chemical hangover from the judge's chloroform hanky. Nothing stays the same, I thought, drowsing. I should tattoo that on my palm, then I could tell people I was a palm reader. I snuggled up closer and went back to sleep.

By the time I woke again, the sun was poking holes in my eyelids, and Caleb was gone, his side cold to my touch.

I peeked in at my father sleeping with Spike curled at his feet. The dog tipped his ears at me, but otherwise was quiet. I tiptoed toward the kitchen. Even though the wall clock said eight- thirty, Caleb had found time to leave a note saying for us to help ourselves to anything we might need. Mi casa es su casa. I would rather have had a hug. Or a kiss.

I picked up the full carafe of really good coffee and snagged the biggest empty mug on the counter. A note under the mug said, "I love you." Caleb knew I'd pick up the biggest cup. I smiled, poured a second cup of coffee for my dad and went to roust the "boys" out of bed. We needed to visit our burned-out home with the insurance people, and the sooner the better.

Noah and I stood next to the charbroiled exterior of our home while the insurance guy clucked at the disaster and made scratch marks on his padded clipboard.

I thought my dad would burst into tears at the bedraggled sight of his beloved home. So I was surprised at his cheerful response to what I viewed as a complete and total disaster.

"It looked much worse last night," he said, smiling. "I'll have to replace the porch roof. See," he said, pointing out the sagging remains above our heads. "I liked it when I built it, but now I think it kept the interior too dark. I'd rather tear it off, start over."

I followed him through the front door and we looked up at the light of day trickling down from the hole in our ceiling.

He said "sure" to everything the insurance adjuster proposed while doing his tuneless whistle. I walked behind him, setting up water-logged furniture as we went. Hands in pockets, he kicked at charred walls and overturned furniture. Taking his penknife, he prodded the occasional piece of wood.

"Floors're still good, Lalla. They don't make planks like this anymore. That old saloon had the thickest oak floors I'd ever seen. A little sanding and a polisher, that's all it'll take."

At my dour expression, he said, "Look, I'll show you." He bent his knees and bounced up and down on the floorboards, grinning. "The floors are solid as the day they were cut. They'll stand up just fine."

"What about all that black stuff on the wood? The staircase looks ruined." I sniffled, close to tears at the sight.

"Nah. The stairs are barely singed. That's just wet soot." He took a rag out of his pocket and rubbed at the railing. "See? Now don't get weepy on me, Lalla."

I looked up the staircase to the landing. The thirty-year-old yellow-and-blue-striped wallpaper my mother put up was soaked, blackened and ruined. "I heard Mama calling to me last night," I said. "She told me to wake up and get out of the house because it was on fire."

"Really? That's nice to know." He lifted one hand out of his pocket and put it around my shoulder, giving me a quick pat before removing it. "I've been talking to her for years, but so far she's never responded. Lucky for me, Eddy was there to get me out. Well, we have a lot to be grateful for. Now, Lalla, don't give me that look. It was her decision and I've forgiven her. You should too."

"I have forgiven her, Dad, I have. I just… I just wish…" I wanted to tell him what I'd done the day of her death, that I'd torn up the note she'd written to him, and that I'd unpacked her suitcase, putting her clothing back into the drawers, shoving the little suitcase under the bed. I'd done everything I could to wipe away her effort to leave us.

His hand tightened on my shoulder. "We all wish she hadn't done it. But your mother had been sick for a long time, and she didn't want you to be raised under that dark cloud. I suppose she chose her time because she knew, in the end, I wouldn't be able to let her go.

"You were her pride and joy; you know that, don't you, Lalla? She wanted you to be happy. Now," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's see if we can get a list together for the insurance company."

"Can we afford to fix up the house, even with the insurance?"

"What my claim won't cover, there's plenty of money in savings."

"You mean from the land you've been selling? Why, Dad? Why do you keep selling it?"

"'Cause money in the bank feels good, that's why. Besides, you'll need it when I'm gone."

Panic-stricken, I cried, "Noah! You're not sick again, are you? I mean, that triple by-pass worked, didn't it? There's not something you haven't told me about, is there?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. The damned place is worth so much more than when I bought it, well, I thought it would be a burden if you were already moved away by the time I die."

I waved my hands in front of his face. "I don't need it! I don't want to think about it! So, for crying out loud, quit scaring me to death."

He chuckled at the "scared to death." "You really think you want to hang around this old place? Not hightail it back to New York?"

"No. So will you stop selling off my inheritance? Caleb and I might need a place to live someday."

He grinned. "Is it too late for grandkids?"

"One thing at a time, Noah Bains. I have yet to get used to the idea of having Caleb Stone as more than my best friend. And we've got Patience's funeral today, and I've still got to find a dress that doesn't smell like it's been roasted over charcoal."

When we were finished with the list, he hurried to his truck.

"Where are you going?" I called. "You've got to get into your suit."

"Why, to town, of course, to price out lumber. I'll meet you at the funeral home."

Now I understood his enthusiasm. He was really happy to have something to look forward to.

Chapter Twenty-four:

The parking lot of the mortuary was filled to capacity and manned by local police. Spectators were held behind some hastily erected barricades. While a long line of mourners slowly filed through the door of the funeral home, a camera crew from the local TV station was setting up for a shoot. A woman reporter saw me and scurried across the lawn, leaving her cameraman struggling to catch up. Curious heads turned as she screeched, "Ms. Bains! Oh, Ms. Bains!"

I flinched. My God! That voice could be heard in the next county.

When she tripped on the trailing mike cord, she jerked around and chewed out her cameraman, as if he was to blame for her clumsy behavior. Then she turned her back on him to shove the mike under my nose. "Is it true you captured the dead woman's killer at your home? Tell us, Ms. Bains, did you know all along retired Judge Sidney Griffin was the murderer?"

I stayed only long enough to glare her down and wink back at the cameraman, then ducked into a side entrance. A suit with an earphone and NRA lapel pin wrote down my name and handed me a pamphlet. Behind me, I could hear the woman reporter reciting her spiel for the camera.

"Lots of friends of the McBride family are here to pay their respects to the much-loved Patience McBride, victim in a murderous rampage that goes back twenty years. Just a moment ago we spoke to ex-model Lalla Bains, now retired at forty and living in seclusion at her father's ranch. That interview will be on tonight's…"

Oh brother, I knew I would have to pay for that glare. Why didn't she say over-the-hill and get it done. The station would probably show a video of my widening backside with a voiceover detailing my brief modeling and flying careers, two briefer marriages, and, of course, another mention of the fact that I'd just turned forty.

I was led to the front pew where my dad, Roxanne, and her family were all together.

I whispered a greeting to them and again apologized to Roxanne for almost getting her baby killed.

"That's all right, honey," she said as I sat down. "All that excitement and she has yet to step foot in New York City."

"You're not mad? You're still going to let her go? After everything that happened?"

"Are you kidding? She had the time of her life. If she can handle everything that went on here, New York sure isn't going to give her any trouble." She winked to show there were no hard feelings. Then she nodded at the five women to our right. "Notice the excess of flowery hats and veils?"

Leon snickered. "Maybe a little more than the usual amount of chin hair."

Roxanne added, "Remember what I said about sisters wearing matching everything? Get a load of their shoes."

I followed her nod and saw matching suits, hats, and bony ankles in pumps the size of bathtubs.

My mouth formed an appreciative O. "All of them? You think they're all guys in drag?"

"Or actors. He's thrown the cops more than a few red herrings. It'll keep 'em guessing."

Apparently, the police weren't entirely through with Garth Thorne. Something to do with the Internal Revenue wanting to have a serious chat with him about taxes. He sat across the aisle, staring straight ahead, wedged between two stout and grim-looking detectives.

A bearded priest took the podium above the open casket, said a prayer for the dead, and as no one else offered, gave the eulogy. I didn't even know she was religious, much less Catholic.

When he was finished, he encouraged everyone to come forward to say good-bye and then he stepped back from the podium and, sweeping through the heavy velvet draperies, disappeared. A sliver of light, a sudden breath of air billowing the drapes, then I heard the soft click of a door closing. Hoping to have a word with him, I followed his example and exited the same door.

I hurried around the corner in time to see him, head down, hands in his pockets, walking away. Although he didn't seem to be in any particular hurry, I matched his steps with my longer stride and caught up with him as he was getting into a gray sedan. Just as he was putting the key into the ignition, I knocked on the passenger side window. Startled, he looked up, then smiled and leaned over and rolled down the window.

"I thought that might be you behind me, Lalla. I'd just as soon not attract attention, so if you don't mind getting in, we can talk here."

I opened the door, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and slid into the seat.

"You did a really nice Irish priest, Eddy."

"Did I now? Your own brother wouldn't have known me. Best performance of my lifetime, and I'm not even Catholic."

"Caleb says the judge will be behind bars for the rest of his life. What are you going to do now?"

"I'm not going to stick around while the law decides if I should spend some more time in jail, if that's what you mean. I did what I came to do, see justice for my dear Patience. I got a friend in Mexico who’s been waiting for us to show up. I think I'll head down there. That is, if you don't have to tell your sheriff friend."

His quirky little smile was back, and the tilt of his head said he was willing to bet I wouldn't have to tell anyone.

I gave him a quick hug and then watched him drive down H Street for the freeway that would take him south to Mexico and freedom. Then I turned back to make my way through the milling crowd to Caleb.

Caleb, awkward in his dark dress suit, put an arm around my shoulders and hugged me gently. "The wake will be at Roxanne's."

"Your car or mine? I got the Caddy back. It's still primer gray and I'm kind of thinking I should paint it something besides red."

"Of course you'll paint it red. What would you be without that bright red Caddy?" He smiled down at me, then grinned at the newspeople lined up like racehorses at the starting gate. "They're going to mob you the minute you get in that car, red or not."

"After this week, I can handle anything, even turning forty."

"By the way, what are you doing tomorrow?"

I looked up into his warm friendly face and said, "Well, after I get out of your bed, I'm going to fire a pilot."

"Isn't it a bit late in the season to replace a pilot?"

"That's what Brad thinks. But I'm going to replace him with somebody who doesn't need drugs to fly an airplane."

"And who would that be?"

"Me, of course. Time I got back into the seat of my own Ag-Cat. Then I'm going to serve breakfast at Roxanne's."

"Uh-huh. Something special, I presume. Like an order of crow to Boyd Lincoln and Marlon Whitaker? You planning on working up an appetite for that breakfast?" He kissed my mouth once, and then again, taking my breath away. We ignored the stares, and with our arms around each other, watched plainclothes detectives nervously sidle up to elderly matrons in big shoes and picture book hats. In the next few minutes, more than one detective got slapped for manhandling an old lady.

Caleb laughed softly. "Somehow, I don't think they'll find him, do you?"

I thought of Eddy McBride, heading for Mexico and freedom. "Nope. Don't think so."

The End