Dead Red Cadillac, A (8 page)

I bit at the wrapper to get at it, grumbling about its doubtful heritage and biting around the stale candy bar when Caleb grabbed my arm and propelled me down the hall and out of the building.

He shoved me into the cruiser, got in, and buckled up.

"Hey," I said, "what was that all about? You were kinda rough there, chum."

Caleb, with a bland expression on his face, said, "Fasten your seat belt."

"I know that look! It's your Batman-laser-beam stare. Garth and I got it last night, and I gotta tell you, I didn't appreciate it then, and I certainly don't now."

He harrumphed and, turning on the air-conditioning, gunned the big engine into reverse, then slammed the gearshift into forward and we tore down the street.

"You going to put your siren on?" I asked sweetly.

Nothing.

Well, two can play this game, I thought silently. I sat munching stale peanuts in the candy bar and ignoring his lead foot while the scenery whirred past in a blur.

In a few minutes we were out of the city limits and turning onto a country lane. He pulled over, shifted into park, unbuckled the seat belt and eased around to face me. In his best Officer-Stone-voice, he said, "Lalla, we need to talk."

"Now what? I thought you said we weren't going there," I said, prodding at a nut lodged between my back teeth with a fingernail.

I could see Caleb was working up to a temper tantrum. That's when his iceberg blues go a shade colder and the side of his neck looks like somebody with rosy red lips had taken a swipe at it. It obviously wasn't my idea of a temper tantrum. No knives thrown, no doors torn off, not so much as a dewdrop of sweat broken.

Instead, he used words that cut right through the quagmire of preamble, like right now when he said, "You take me for granted, Lalla. I'm just another useful appendage for you. You're selfish, self-absorbed, and vain."

"And your point is?" All I could hear was "selfish, self-absorbed and vain." It cut me to the core, but I wasn't about to let him know it.

"Back there in the squad room, that was just embarrassing."

I didn't know, or realize, I'd embarrassed him. I asked softly, "How'd I do that?"

"Let me see if I can spell it out for you—'Do you have anything good to eat in your drawers?'"

"Oh," was all I could manage. I was mortified and tickled at the same time. I rolled my eyes and bit at my lower lip to keep the two opinions from outright collision. My eyebrows wormed up and down in counterfeit anxiety as my voice quaked with all of the mirth I didn't dare show. "I'm so sorry, Caleb. You're right, you know. On every count."

I could see a crack of a smile zigzagging its way up his face to lift the tired pouches under his eyes. Finally, humor won out, and he chuckled. "You—you…" He waggled his finger at my nose, trying to get the words out, but I'd gotten to his funny bone, and it was impossible for either of us to hold a straight face.

We grinned, giggled, and laughed outright until we collapsed against each other from the strain. Then we fell away to point at each other and laugh again.

"It's all your fault," I said, wiping away the tears of mirth. "You know I can't be taken out in public without making a fool out of one of us."

"Never a dull moment, I'll say that for you."

I reached across the seat and lightly touched his cheek. "I'm sorry. Truly. Sometimes I just open my mouth to change feet."

He surprised me by catching my hand and kissing the knuckles. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Suddenly embarrassed, I snatched back my hand. His words were those of brotherly affection; it was the delivery that left buzzing sounds in my ears.

Then Caleb's expression changed again, and he seemed to search for something else he needed, wanted, or had lost. He looked down at our hands lying on the seat between us. Lifting a finger of my hand as it lay on the seat and rubbing his thumb along the edge of my nail, he said, "I do love you, you know."

One minute we're fighting and the next, oh boy! Could Garth have been right that he'd seen jealousy on Caleb's face? Whatever this was, I wasn't going there, not yet, not now. Anyway, I wasn't ready to let go of my mad, so I said, "You think that's going to make up for why I slapped you last night?"

"Not working for you, is it? Come on, you can't stay mad at me, can you? Besides, I've already forgiven you for last night."

"Well, I haven't forgiven you! You were way out of line, buster. There I was, my nerves slinging five ways to Sunday, but did you care?"

"What're you talking about? Of course I care!"

"You set me up with damn Detective Rodney. You got what you two wanted, and then you didn't like what you saw? You weren't thinking of me at all. All you could see was Lalla having a good old time with Patience's nephew."

He jerked back as if I'd slapped him again.

"You're denying it? You called me and told me when to come in for my scheduled appointment with Homicide. You were there to show me the car, see my reaction to it, and you told me Garth was asking for me and where I should go to find him."

"It's not like that, Lalla."

"Until you can prove to me otherwise, I can't see it any other way. Now, if you please, I'd like to pick up my car."

He silently put the car in gear and pulled onto the road. Then his radio scratched on with a call from the office.

"Let me call you back on the cell phone, Judy," he said, switching off the radio, picking up the handset and auto-dialing the office. I knew he did it to beat the snoops listening on police scanners. But I also think he just didn't want me to hear. He scribbled down what Dispatch said, then asked Judy to repeat it, and looking at me, wrote again. Tearing off the small note from the clipboard, he slid it into a breast pocket.

I felt sure it had something to do with me, and if not me, at least Patience's death, which had a lot to do with me. "Well? What is it?"

"I'm going to Stockton. Garth's ex-wife has agreed to an interview. I'll drop you off at the impound lot."

"Take me with you. It'll go better with a woman's touch." But from Caleb's stiff posture, I thought maybe I'd already screwed up any chance of a ride-along.

"I'm picking up a female officer downtown."

"Please, Caleb? I'll wait in the car," I said, hoping he would find it too troublesome to take me all the way to the impound lot.

"No," he said, his expression void of anger, amusement, or anything that might be mistaken for affection. "You're not a suspect, remember?"

"There's still my reputation to consider," I pleaded, watching him for a sign he was even considering the idea.

But he held onto his poker face, avoiding any further conversation until he pulled into the police impound lot and ordered me out of the car. "This is as far as we go."

I did as I was told and got out, then leaned down to talk to him through the window. "But I didn't tell you what I learned about Patience's nephew, Garth."

"What for? We already know that the guy's a drunk, mooched off his aunt, and that he's a pathological liar."

My breath caught in my throat. The first of it sounded a little over the top, but it was the last part that caught my attention. "What do you mean, pathological liar?"

"Get your car fixed, go home. I've already heard all I want to know about Garth."

"He couldn't have done it. He wasn't the one sticking the gun in my back."

"What makes you think it wasn't Garth? He was conveniently out of the room, wasn't he? That house is like every other farmhouse in the Valley; the back door goes right out through the kitchen."

I was ready to pull out my hair—or what was left of his. The man could be so damn exasperating. "Impossible! He'd have to be the quickest multiple personality in the West. I'm telling you, there was nothing alike about those two voices."

He tilted an eyebrow at me. "Whispered, didn't he?"

I sucked in a breath. Satisfied to have had the last word, he looked over his shoulder and put the big cruiser into reverse.

"Not fair, Caleb!" I yelled at the hood of his car as he backed out of the driveway and onto the street.

What was that little hand kiss all about?

Chapter Nine:

Sonny, my mechanic, was having a hard time holding onto his delight.

"Don't worry, Lalla, we'll have her right as rain in no time," he said, grinning so wide I could see his back teeth. "You got insurance, right?"

"How much, Sonny?" I asked, thinking of the deductible.

"Well now, besides the obvious fender problem, you got some major damage to the underbody." He took a minute to bend over, giving me his opinion along with a good deal of butt-crack. "We're going to have to work the kinks out of the frame or she'll dog-track." He cocked his right elbow in front of the other to demonstrate the serious responsibility of a proper repair. His jeans were in danger of falling off, but it was pointless to tell Sonny. He was a hell of a mechanic with the fashion sense of a raccoon.

"How much?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"Well now, why don't you let me give you a ride to the car rental agency and I'll tell you."

Sonny was enjoying himself. Between McHenry and 17th Street, he came up with a number. It was the most expensive three-mile ride I've ever had.

The car rental company had only one medium-sized car left on their lot; the rest were compacts. "Last one," the teenager at the counter said, handing me the keys to a Ford Tempo. His hair was spiked orange with black at the roots and he smelled faintly of patchouli and something else I couldn't quite recall at the moment. Next week the hair would probably be green. I thought of telling him if he kept dyeing it strange colors it would fall out, but if the pierced eyebrows were any indication, what would be the point? I took the keys and went to look for my ride. It was an unwashed blue Ford Tempo, looking shabby, dented, and all alone in the big empty lot.

Opening the door, I noticed the seat was smeared with something that looked suspiciously like dried blood, or maybe it was ketchup. This was customer service? I did a U-turn and pulled into the rental lot.

In the office, Mr. Customer Service met my complaint with a slow shrug. "Sorry, the cleaning crew has gone for the day, and that's all we got left."

"I had a reservation for a full-sized sedan. This can't be all you've got."

"They all went for some winery hotshots."

"I had a reservation too."

"Last clean one went to a redhead. She was younger and prettier, you know?"

I retrieved the key and left.

"Have a nice day," he called after me.

I think he added "bitch" as I was closing the door.

I decided to spend the remaining hours of the hot day where an air conditioner did work.

The old library up the street is now a museum, and the new library is an entire block of eye-stunning white stucco and glass. White-hot steps flow seamlessly into a concrete sidewalk with no place for the shade of trees. Not like the old one. The old library still stands under spreading sycamores shading the steps.

Entering the Modesto County Library, I was rewarded with a blast of cold air. I wasn't going to complain, since good air-conditioning makes up for any architectural sin in my book.

I bellied up to the bar under a sign that said Magazine & Newspaper Desk. The sign on the desk said Darlene Hobbs, and there she was, all in pink, right down to her earrings and pink nail polish. I greeted her as if we saw each other daily, when the truth of it was I avoided her whenever I could. I asked for the Modesto Bee and a range of dates. Somewhere in the old newspaper archives there had to be more information about Patience's convict husband and the murder trial.

"We've had a lot of requests for those back issues in the last couple of days." Darlene leaned her considerable girlish figure over the counter and whispered, "You're lucky it's available."

"Oh, really? Who'd want to look at this old stuff, I mean, besides me?"

She batted her cowcatcher eyelashes at me. "Well, for one, that nice sheriff friend of yours." Darlene was a great fan of romance novels and any man in uniform. Thinking I might have a direct line to Caleb's heart, she pumped me for information every time I saw her.

I ignored the hint. "Anybody else?"

She giggled, her mouth forming a cupid's bow. "I guess I can tell you, if you won't tell Sheriff Stone on me." She should save the act for Caleb. "Jan Bidwell from the Bee came in yesterday, went through the back issues and then hurried out of here," she said, putting her hand up to push back the veil of black hair threatening to fall in her eyes.

I wondered what Jan had found that would cause her to be in such a hurry. "Don't the newspapers have their own archives?"

Darlene took her time, sure now that she had my attention. I got to watch as she smeared a dollop of lip gloss across her thin lips and then daintily wiped the corners. "Nah, we do most of it, especially the old stuff. We even got Stockton's papers here if you want to see those, but of course it's all on microfiche if you can stand dealing with that stuff."

"Fascinating. Can you give me the ones she requested?"

"Sure, hon, let me go get them and I'll be right back."

Darlene was soon back with the microfiche pages, but covered them with her dimpled hand. "Do me a favor?"

Yup. I knew this was coming.

"Tell Caleb to ask me out to lunch sometime?"

I laughed. "You want to add to the soaring rate of adultery in Modesto?" It had the odd metallic sound of hysteria even to my ears. "He's still a married man, last time I checked."

"Why, Lalla Bains, I never. Everybody says Marcy left him for good this time." Then she gave me a shrewd look through her long eyelashes. "Are you telling me you didn't know she went back east to her folks?"

I was floored. "When?"

Darlene looked at me as if I was the sad result of a bad makeover. "Where have you been? Oh, gee, hon, I'm sorry, I forgot. I guess you've had a lot on your mind lately, huh? What with your friend driving your car into the lake and all. I heard she was pretty drunk. You wouldn't see me loaning out my Miata, it's too precious. But about Caleb. Gosh, I guess I heard about two weeks ago. Everybody says you two are still tight as ticks; I would've thought you of all people…" Then a little thought lit up behind her eyes like twin Christmas candles. "Well, now. That's all right, hon." She patted my hand and smiled broadly. The girl was jumping for joy, doing hand flips behind the reference desk. Or maybe I just imagined it.

I thanked her and went to find a machine marked microfiche and an empty chair. Then I stuck my head into the cowling and while I figured out how to scroll around through the listings. I thought about Caleb. He didn't tell me Marcy had left, did he? That explained why he was at Roxanne's every morning for breakfast and Roxy's sour face at my comment about his eating at home instead of at her place. Nobody tells me anything.

Parts of page three popped in and out of the screen. Then I took a stroll down memory lane. I was so engrossed with who was doing what to whom at what social function, how much gas didn't cost then, I almost missed the blurred photo in the society column. It was a very young Lalla Bains entering an award ceremony on the arm of a well-known movie star and womanizer. The caption read “Local Model Goes Hollywood!”

What a glamorous event! What exciting people! What a bore. I was in L.A. for a modeling gig, and hired out to a local production company to escort a very single and very famously drunk movie star through the front door and I was about as glamorous as the paper towels in the ladies' room. When we entered the building, I untangled my arm from his and, handing him over to the next poor sucker, let myself out the side door. I got my picture in the papers, which added to my reputation as a party girl. The movie star, already a party animal, didn't need any help in that department.

I found the front page and saw a much younger Patience McBride decked out in a smart and stylish suit and heels, her blond hair swept back in a neat chignon, standing on the courthouse steps, looking stunned and helpless at the newspaper people crowding around her. Patience was being asked to consider the improbable: what was she going to do if her husband was convicted of murder? Nothing in the photo could explain the plastic flower barrettes and white Nikes she sported at Roxanne's Café. So when did she descend into fashion hell?

The headline was delivered in a staccato style reminiscent of the Roaring Twenties: “Brutal Murder of Successful Stockton Business Man by Bookkeeper's Husband.”

The copy read “Sensational murder trial begins today. Bill Hollander, successful owner of a local farm chemical business south of Stockton, was strangled in his own office. In a love triangle, police say the bookkeeper's husband, Edward McBride, brutally murdered her boss. District Attorney Terrance Benn seeks the death sentence in this brutal slaying
.
”

I sat back and rubbed around my itchy contacts. Hollander Chemicals. I'd vaguely heard that name while I was in my hospital bed, happily distracted from what Noah was saying about the company when Caleb walked in. But what if Hollander Chemicals, Eddy McBride and his wife's death didn't involve me at all? That would be nice. I pushed the microfiche out and put in the next film. The next headline read “In Shocking Reversal, Eddy McBride's Attorney, Sidney Griffin, Suddenly Requests His Client Plead Guilty by Reason of Temporary Insanity.”

Sidney Griffin. Sidney… Griffin, attorney. Wait a minute. I squinted at the photo of the attorney comforting a glassy-eyed and obviously stunned Patience McBride. I put my thumb over the man's dark hair. Bigger gut, same suspenders, but in all the years I'd known him, he only wore a threadbare short-sleeved dress shirt and a pair of sawed-off khakis; that is, when he bothered to dress for company. Long-time retired county judge and reclusive widower, Sidney Griffin could be found in tattered bathrobe and slippers in the summer, by the pool reading, or in the winter, reading by the fire.

I met him as a teenager, delivering Noah's latest real estate documents to his house. His specialty before retiring was real estate, but he'd always been simply Judge Griffin to me, and I didn't remember anything about him being with the public defender's office. Private practice, then? And Patience McBride hired him to defend her husband? I broke away from the photos long enough to read the last headline: “Jury Decides! It's Murder!”

The presiding judge sentenced Eddy to prison for second-degree murder—twenty years with the possibility of parole in ten. I looked back through the pages to see where I missed it, but nowhere did I see Sidney Griffin listed with the public defender's office—just the words defense lawyer.

From my bus-yellow kid-sized chair, I looked up at the round wall clock with big black numbers. Half past four. Time to check for messages. Nothing from Caleb, but there was one from Garth.

"Say, darlin', how 'bout that dinner I promised you? I've moved my RV from Aunt Patience's place to an RV park near town today, and I could use a night out with a pretty girl. You've got the number. Well, I guess that's all. Bye now." Garth's voice held a peculiar balance between hopeful and arrogant. I didn't think I’d actually promised dinner. Well, maybe I did.

I looked at my watch again. I could decline, or I could go. Noah always says no decision is a decision.

Noah. My dad had made a decision not to fill me in on what he knew about the Hollander murder, but then maybe it wasn't the time. Of course, it would be logical that my father was acquainted with the owner. But then what was the connection between all of them—Patience, her husband, an Ag chemical company owner, a retired real estate lawyer who just happened to be my dad's only friend, and my father. It would be just like Noah to withhold crucial information from the police because he saw it as none of their business.

I called my house. The phone rang seven times without answer. He'd turned off the answering machine, avoiding news reporters, nosy neighbors and maybe me. I closed the phone. Since a dead woman I barely knew was found in my Caddy, my father had become exceptionally irritable.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. He'd neglected to tell me about the Hollander murder. Or that his fly-fishing buddy and real estate pal was also the defense lawyer for Patience McBride's convicted husband.

I remember my dad mentioning Hollander Chemicals when I was in the hospital, and distracted by my visitor, I'd let the moment pass. "Don't worry, Lalla," Noah had said. "You're not in this alone."

Something told me there was a whole lot more he wasn't telling me. Time to find out for myself.

I opened my cell again, scrolled down the list of names and punched in a number. "Hi, Judge Griffin. It's Lalla Bains."

"Lalla. How's your daddy these days."

"Noah's fine. Could I come by for a bit? I won't take up much of your time, I promise."

"Of course my dear. I'd love to see you again. Catch up."

"Thank you, I'll be there in ten minutes."

He didn't have to ask what I was calling about; he still read five or six newspapers every day, where the salient details of my latest disaster could be found.

I waited till Darlene's back was turned, slipped the microfiche sheets onto her desk and hurried out of the library.