Dead Red Cadillac, A (7 page)

Chapter Eight:

My cell phone chimed from the bedside table. I poked at it and heard Caleb say, "Hey, you. You can have your car back now."

"That's nice," I said, still exhausted from yesterday, and I wasn't too thrilled at being awakened from my all-too-brief snooze. "I'll have Noah drive me in tomorrow."

"No, I'm coming out to pick you up."

"Now? Don't you sleep?"

"Get up, sleepyhead, it's seven a.m. I'll be there in half an hour. I have something to show you."

"What—now?" I sat up in bed, pulled the sleep-shade off my head and looked at my bedside clock. He was right, I'd slept through the early morning shift and didn't hear a thing. Planes roared down the runway and took off, trucks rumbled out of the yard, and I slept through all of it. Was it any wonder I hadn't heard my Caddy going out?

I groaned. "Can't this wait?"

"Sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can clear your good name," he said. "So get up and get decent, or not. Either way, I'll be there soon."

Left with an ear full of air, I slapped the phone down and rolled out of bed. He must be calling from his car. Voices from below meant Noah was done with the morning paperwork and was now downstairs at breakfast. I might be expected to report in, if not for business, then certainly for yesterday's events.

I stood at the kitchen door and took in the scene—my father eating a plate of pancakes, a small brown dog at rapt attention. Juanita, seeing the little dog's empty plate, picked it up and whittled his next pancake to bite-size. Finished, she put the plate down next to Noah's feet and smiled as the dog gobbled up the bites. It was a regular Rockwell memory and one for the record. Spike had my grumpy father and his small bossy housekeeper wrapped around his little brown paw.

My dad put down his fork. "You're up. I got Northrup's peaches started, but you need to fire Brad."

"Brad? Why would I do that? He's top producer and doing the work of two pilots."

"If you'd get back into the saddle, we'd have two pilots."

"I have to get this cast off first."

"See to it, then. You're wasting this season sitting on your butt."

That hurt. When I didn't say anything, he looked up at me and blinked like he'd suddenly realized what he'd said. "That kid is gambling, and now he's taking pills, the kind that keep him awake so he can do the work of two pilots."

"I keep track of his hours. He isn't flying any more than allowed."

"He's going to be trouble."

"Okay, don't go all cranky on me again, but where'd you hear this?"

"I got my sources. A fool and his money are soon parted, I always say."

Since my dad and a nickel were seldom parted, the idea of gambling was as alien to him as wearing his underwear outside his overalls. "He's pushing his luck with more than cards, and I'm of a mind that I don't need the problems that will go with it, so do us all a favor and fire him, or I will."

"I see your point, but I can't do without him just yet, and in any case, until you can give me some proof I don't see firing him. And don't tell me again that I can get back in the seat. I can't get into it, not with this cast, I've tried. Let me think about this, okay?" I turned to go, then said, "As you can see," I pointed at the front page of the morning paper, "I've been a bit preoccupied."

"Yes." Something wistful passed behind the faded blue eyes, but I let myself think it was simple regret at having his daughter's name in the newspaper again.

"I gave her a ride to the fair and home, and this is how she pays me back," I said, my voice doing flip-flops. "I think my reputation in the 'Good Samaritan' department is going to be shot after this."

"Yes," he said, nodding thoughtfully at the picture of Patience on the front page.

We're not the sort to be caught crying, being a tough lot of third-generation Germans by way of Brownsville, Texas, but when my dad stood and held out his arms, I swallowed my pride and threw myself onto his chest.

"Don't cry, Lalla. I know you didn't kill her," he said, handing me a clean hanky from his pocket.

"Thanks a lot," I blubbered. "I know your opinion will carry oodles of weight with an unbiased jury. That is, if there's one left in the state."

"What's Caleb doing about it?"

"Doing about it? Absolutely nothing to help me, that's for sure."

"There, there, don't cry," he said, awkwardly patting my shoulder.

I told him the rest of it, about the burglar, and how he seemed to know who I was and where I lived. "That burglar is obviously the one who killed Patience."

"You're not in this on your own, you know. Don't worry," he said. "I'll see what I can find out."

Then he left me to my misery.

I sat on the porch waiting for Caleb. What was he up to that he couldn't tell me on the phone? Was he coming out here to read me my rights? Bring us another psychotic dog? I sniffed and punched down my fears, willing myself to let go of this crazed foreboding. I put my feet up on the rail and tried to let go of the tension. In spite of my commitment to relax, I felt my fingers digging into my palms.

Within another five minutes I had him in my sights between the V I'd made of one boot and a cast. I watched the dot grow from a spot with a dusty tail to a white Ford Crown Victoria as it bumped down our long driveway, his Stetson bobbing with each hit of the potholes.

Caleb took a wicker chair next to me, worked himself into a comfortable position and said, "Do you know how much I enjoy sitting here? I love this place. It's like an oasis."

"Yeah, and just like an oasis, its edges are being eaten up every time another real estate agent comes out with an offer that Noah can't seem to refuse. At this rate we'll have nothing to fly out of and my inheritance will be that row of tacky tract houses you see over there. Barbecues in every backyard stinking up my country air."

It was an old tape I replayed out of frustration— every year my dad sold off another chunk to developers and there was nothing I could do about it.

Caleb ignored my harangue. "Do you remember the summer we picked grapes? How old were we then? Fourteen?"

"I'd rather talk about why you chose to bring Spike out here to us."

"They don't have a no-kill policy at the pound, and your dad likes him. Besides, Patience didn't have any relatives other than Garth, and no friends except you and the bunch at Roxanne's."

I threw up my hands. "So we're stuck with him?"

"Maybe Garth wants to take him back to Oklahoma."

"About Garth…"

"Let's leave him out of this for the time being, okay?"

Since I had no intention of apologizing for slapping him, it worked for me. "So why else did you come out here?"

Caleb reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two small baggies, the kind I used to hold Juanita's leftovers, which were generally better the next day anyway. In Caleb's case, he used the baggies to hold bits and pieces of evidence; fingernails, hair and little bloody body parts, appetizing stuff police use to connect a long line of pieces that make a puzzle complete.

He opened one bag and upended the contents into his hand. A chunk of smashed gold glittered in his palm. I took it from him, and holding it up, asked, "What's this?"

"That's what I was hoping you could tell me. Is it yours?"

He leaned back and away from me. I was sorry to lose the nearness of his familiar fragrance and the light whiff of some lemony soap. I held up the remains of what appeared to be a small gold pendant. Turning it around in the light I could make out the tiny pattern veins that must have run through a cluster of leaves.

"See," he said, encouraging me to jump in, "each leaf was a different color: gold, pink and yellow. It's called Black Hills Gold."

"I know what it is, but it's definitely not mine. A wedding band every few years or so, but other than that, you know I don't wear jewelry. Heck, I don't even have my ears pierced. I have to keep something virgin on my body. Besides, stuff like this gets caught in machinery. Where'd you find it?"

"We found it jammed in the door of your Cadillac."

I went still. "What was it, an earring?"

"No, too big, our desk clerk says maybe a pendant. We're thinking it got jerked off when the person leaned over the door as it was closing."

"You mean woman, don't you? And Detective Rodney asked you to come out here and see if I'd lie about it? Like maybe I was the one who buckled her into her seat, drove into that tree, got out and then pushed the Caddy into the lake?" I was getting hot under the collar just thinking where this was leading.

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Lalla, I gotta ask, or would you rather do it downtown with another officer?"

"Tell him to get stuffed!"

"Okay, calm down. It was your car, and you're either going to help me or go back to the police station, your call," he said, slipping the mangled gold back into its plastic baggie and zipping it shut.

I folded my arms across my chest and slouched down into my chair. "Anything else?"

Seeing as I’d conceded this round to him, he held up another bag. "How about this?"

"A cigar?" I said. "On the record? Tell the detective I made a pact with the Dalai Lama, we both quit cold turkey. No cigars, no thank you, no matter which president offers them."

He stood up. "I don't suppose it would do any good to tell you that you've got a major chip on your shoulder."

"Not from you, it doesn't."

"I'll give you a ride to the impound lot."

"Great, let's go."

But Caleb didn't move, apparently occupied with some silent interior musings.

"Now what?"

"Well, though the department is still stumped as to why Patience was in your car, we did find something that puts a new spin on the whole thing."

He was still quietly gazing at the crepe myrtles. I stood up and glared down at him. "Earth to Caleb, can we do this in the car? I'd really like to leave, you know—excited to get those estimates on the Caddy, get her all cleaned up and shiny again. So, can we go now?"

"Did you know that Patience McBride wasn't a widow?"

"Of course she is—was. She told all of us… Wait, what're you saying?"

"I remember that, but I now know where he's been for the last twenty years."

"I'm all ears, where?"

"In Folsom, twenty to twenty-five for second-degree murder."

"I'll be damned. We all thought she was a widow."

"Not any more, she isn't," he said, stepping off the porch. "What I can't understand is why, with just barely a month of his sentence to go, he escaped."

"The husband? He escaped?"

"Well, more like walked off the premises. It's not that hard to do. That's why they call it an honor farm."

"Uh-oh," I said, suddenly aware of who called me girly and held a gun in my back. Maybe staying up on the porch where I could feel the safety of home under my feet wasn't such a bad idea after all. "He was in for murder? Maybe Spike and my dad's shotgun will need more backup."

"There's a twenty-four-hour patrol here, but since everyone's looking for him, I think you're safe for now. C'mon, let's go."

I stood, opened the front door and called back into the cool recesses of the house. "We're going into town to pick up my Caddy!" I closed the door quickly to keep out the rising heat and any requests for groceries… or dog food.

Driving into town, we sat in silence, thinking our own separate thoughts, sentimental things, like guns, drowned cars, dead bodies in the lake, and appropriate murder suspects.

Caleb said, "I'm going to stop by the office and pick up the old boy's police record. Then we'll see what's up with his trial and conviction." He put a little more foot to the pedal, and in no time at all, we pulled up and parked in front of the county offices.

While Caleb was getting his information, my stomach spoke to me in no uncertain terms. In my worried state, I'd forgotten to eat breakfast. And since I get all wobbly and disjointed when I'm low on blood sugar, I went looking for a quick fix. I vaguely recalled someone saying being in love is much the same feeling. Nothing, I had decided, that a candy bar wouldn't cure.

I stood in front of the candy machine outside Caleb's door, trying to come up with enough change. Finding none, and knowing Caleb frequently kept snacks in his desk, I asked in a voice loud enough to be heard all the way through his office, "Hey, Caleb! You got anything good to eat in your drawers?"

Caleb's head shot up liked he'd just been goosed. He blushed crimson and then ducked again to hide behind the folder he'd been reading at his desk.

I stood there wondering why he was ignoring me and his office mates were chuckling behind their papers. He stacked the pile of messages, came around the desk, handed me a wrapped, if slightly crushed, candy bar, and pushed me out the door. I wasn't sure, but I thought our departure was accompanied by the muffled laughter of his co-workers.