Going to the Bad (22 page)

She gestured to the standard multiline office phone on the cheap metal desk. “I took the call right here. Should still be in the memory.”

She found the call. It had come from an area code I didn't recognize. What really interested me was the timing: roughly two hours after Bud had bought the brooch at the pawnshop. I wrote the number down and thanked her.

“You don't owe me any thanks. I'm always happy to help Bud. He got me out of a jam a couple years ago.” She shook her head. “Tricky thing down in Yuma.”

“He's good at getting people out of jams. I only wish he'd gotten himself out of this one.”

On my way out of town, I stopped at an open gas station to fill up and use a pay phone. I glimpsed a car following me, but it was so far back that it might have been unrelated. One of the many things I keep in the back of my van is a baseball bat. I moved it up to the front seat and made sure the Mace was in my coat pocket.

The gas station's pay phone was attached to the outside of the building and I was glad to be wearing Bud's sweater underneath my jacket. I would have used my own cell phone, but I didn't want Bud's mystery caller to see KJAY on caller ID and not answer.

She answered on the third ring. “Who is this?”

The voice hit me with a jolt. I had to take a breath before speaking. “Hello, Erabelle.”

Christmas Day, 2:39 a.m.

S
ilence. Was Erabelle debating hanging up on me?

Finally she said, “Lilly? How did you get this number?”

I thought of my first meeting with Erabelle yesterday. She'd told me it had been over fifty years since she'd last seen Bud. Now it turned out she'd called him the day before.

I wanted to accuse her of lying, but knew that over the phone I'd be at a disadvantage. If she didn't like what I said, she'd simply hang up. “Let's talk in person.”

“You can come to the house tomorrow, if you'd like.”

No way was I meeting on Warner-family territory. I also wasn't in the mood to wait for answers. “Zingo's in one hour.”

“You want to meet now?” Her voice rose. “It's the middle of the night.”

“We're both awake and it's fitting. Zingo's is one of Bud's favorite places to eat.”

“Is it even open?”

“It's a truck stop. They're open twenty-four/seven, even Christmas.” I paused. “There are things we need to discuss that you probably want kept private.”

She agreed to the meeting, which in itself was suspicious. If Erabelle had nothing to hide, she would have told me to call back in the morning.

I drove back down the canyon road to Bakersfield. Now that I knew to look, it was obvious I was being followed. The headlights never got close enough for me to tell if it was a pickup. Eventually, I lost them on local streets. Either they weren't good at tailing cars
or they were so good that I'd been suckered into believing I was free.

I stopped at KJAY and ran in to make copies of Erabelle's letters. I still managed to arrive on time. Despite the holiday several big rigs were in the lot, their drivers probably sleeping in the cabs. I avoided them and parked next to the only other car. Erabelle had driven a black SUV, instead of the pickup she'd been in when I'd first met her. Undoubtedly both vehicles were from Warner's vast fleet.

Inside, the only waitress had seated her in one of the black vinyl booths and was taking her coffee order.

“Mountain Dew, please.” I removed my coat and slid in opposite. “And the chicken-fried steak with extra biscuits, no gravy.”

Erabelle waited for the waitress to leave before speaking. “How can you eat like that?”

“It's Bud's favorite thing on the menu.” I set the bundle of letters on the table. “I guess I'm feeling sentimental.”

At first she didn't recognize them. Then she sucked in a breath. “Where?”

“Bud still had them.”

She reached with one hand. The other she kept pressed against her abdomen. “I didn't think he kept them a day, let alone all these years.”

Great tenderness was on her face, but then it turned to horror. “You didn't . . .”

I nodded. “Oh, yeah. I read all of them.”

Despite her already heightened anxiety, despite her skin's being old and wrecked from too much sun, despite that it had been over fifty years since she wrote the letters, despite everything, Erabelle still blushed. “You shouldn't have done that.”

“Under the circumstances I think it was exactly what I should have done.” The waitress returned with my soda and her coffee. As soon as she left, I continued, “Don't try and make me feel bad because it won't work.”

“You could at least say you're sorry.”

“I'd be lying.” I took a drink of the soda. The green caffeine felt good going down. “And that really would be something to feel bad about.”

“You have a very idiosyncratic moral code. It reminds me of your uncle.”

“We're a lot alike.” I looked her in the eye. “Which is part of the reason I'm not taking that bribe you offered me.”

She flinched. “That wasn't my idea.”

“I didn't see you objecting.”

She remained silent. I got a sense that colluding with her brother and nephew to buy me off had cost her. Erabelle had got her hands dirty and could no longer sit outside the family circle in judgment.

“Why did you go along with it?”

She took a deep breath. It lent gravity to her words, but it might also have been a stalling tactic. “Because Allan would want you to have the money.”

“Did Bud take a bribe all those years ago? Did your brother pay him to stop seeing you?”

“I always thought . . .” She was in danger of crying and paused to compose herself. She even took a drink of the coffee before continuing. “I always thought that it was the jewelry being stolen.”

I followed Leanore's and Rod's interview technique and stayed silent.

“The brooches were my only asset. The only money or property I had. Without it, I was either penniless or completely dependent on my brother. Allan didn't want me like that.”

I took a deep breath and let it out. “So Bud only wanted you for your money?”

She wiped the back of her hand across her cheek where a tear had fallen. “I don't know.”

Her uncertainty made me wonder. “Did something happen to change your mind? Something you're not telling me?”

“Don't be melodramatic.” She tried to pull herself together. “I just don't know. And never will, I guess. All that's over.”

I wasn't sure I believed her. “Then why did you call Bud yesterday?”

“What makes you think I did?”

“I got your number from the caller ID at the mobile home park.”

She nodded. “I wondered. I didn't remember giving it to you.”

“Why did you try to speak with Bud the day before he was shot?”

“It's nothing sinister, I promise.” She took another sip of the coffee, frowned, then added two creamers. “I heard he called for Leland. He made a big ruckus on the phone. I was curious, so I asked Leland's secretary if anyone named Hawkins was in the Rolodex. She gave me the address in Elizabeth, but there was no phone number.”

I didn't know if I could believe her. She was no longer the eighteen-year-old girl who'd worn her heart on her sleeve in those letters. She'd lied when we first met, she could be lying now.

The waitress brought my food. Erabelle winced when the smell of the chicken-fried steak reached her.

I picked up the steak knife and fork. “Are you a vegetarian?”

She nodded. “For forty years now.”

I pushed the plate of biscuits toward her. “Maybe that's why you're in such good health.”

“Thank you.” She pushed the biscuits back. “But I don't have much appetite tonight.”

I cut into the steak. “You know who isn't in such good health? Mida King.”

Erabelle didn't say anything.

I wasn't sure if she was upset by my eating a dead cow in front of her or the name I'd just said. “Do you know Mida?”

“No,” Erabelle said.

“She's Carter King's sister. Her family lived on the property next door to your father's.”

“I think I remember a girl. She was older than me.”

“Mida calls your brother ‘Cousin Leland.'”

Erabelle laughed. “You wouldn't believe the number of people who claim to be relatives. When you're as rich as Leland has become, it draws them out of the woodwork.”

“If Mida's not a relative, why does your brother send her money every month?” Erabelle didn't answer, so I continued, “Why would Leland give ten thousand dollars a month to the sister of the man who robbed him?”

Erabelle's smile didn't waver, but it was held in place by fear. “Where are you getting your information?”

“Mida told me,” I lied.

“But she's . . .” Erabelle stopped herself, but the damage was done.

“Sick?” I took another bite of steak. “Yes, she is. We can get into how you knew she was sick later. It should be an interesting conversation considering you don't know her.”

“Don't put words in my mouth.” Anger, which I now realized she'd been fighting to contain all along, broke through. “I was going to say, but she'd have to be in her eighties.”

“Sure you were.” I winked, which made her even angrier. “What I really want to know is why the money stopped coming last month.”

Erabelle appeared to suffer through an internal battle. Finally she waved her hand as though giving up. “My nephew took control when Leland had his heart attack. He cut everything personal or charitable. My own foundation lost its funding too.”

“You accused Junior of siphoning off the money to pay his own debts. How desperate is he for cash?”

“I don't know, but if Phillip is involved in this, you should stop asking questions.” She wrapped both hands around her coffee mug
as if fighting a sudden chill. “Don't underestimate him. He's even worse than Leland.”

So far, Junior had slithered through this sad story in a fairly obvious way. His self-interest was neither subtle nor particularly frightening. But what if Erabelle was right and I had underestimated him?

“Thanks for the warning.” I took out some money and put it on the table. “And thanks for meeting me this late.” I picked up my coat and began to slide out of the booth. “If I don't see you again, merry Christmas.”

“You're not going?” Erabelle's eyes widened and she looked worried. “You haven't finished your food.”

Was she this reluctant to go back home? I felt bad for her, but not enough to stay. “I was never that hungry to begin with.”

I started to leave, but stopped and turned around. “I'm sorry for the way Bud treated you.”

A strange look appeared on her face. “You feel sorry for me, but you're not angry with him.”

I didn't know what to say except the truth. “You're right. I wish Bud had been a better man, but it doesn't change the way I feel about him.”

“That's because you're not the one he hurt. Could you forgive him so easily if the damage had been done to you?”

“Not so easily, but I would forgive him.” I walked out and left her sitting by herself in the empty restaurant.

I got back in the van and started driving. Down the street from Zingo's, I passed the Crystal Palace, Buck Owens's upscale honky-tonk. It was closed for the night, but the Christmas lights strung along the cheesy Old West balconies made the phony place look warm and fun. Who wouldn't prefer this clean, attractive, and safe version of the truth over a real Old West saloon?

Despite what I'd said to Erabelle, her question disturbed me. Was it easy to forgive Bud's crimes, trespasses, and sins because
none of them had hurt me personally? If that was true, did my forgiveness amount to a lack of empathy for those Bud had hurt?

Instead of finding a motel I decided to return to Rod's house. My anger had cooled and I hoped Rod might also have rethought his position. For me at least, nothing was broken between us that couldn't be fixed by his being honest about what he knew.

Half a block from my destination I passed a parked pickup. Its dark paint blended into the shadows at that end of the street, making it almost invisible. A reindeer could have been inside and I wouldn't have been able to see.

I wondered if it was the same truck that had been following me earlier. This would have been a natural place for the driver to come and wait after I'd lost the tail. Then again, this was Bakersfield, and pickups were the vehicle of choice. Everyone either had one or knew someone who did.

I parked in the driveway next to the Prius and used the key Rod had given me earlier. I took off my blue jacket and walked to the master bedroom. If memory served, this was the only one with furniture in it. I flipped the light switch on the wall. I felt bad waking Rod up, but I didn't want to startle him by crawling into bed.

Except Rod wasn't there.

I called his name. I searched every room. Fear didn't enter the equation until I dialed his cell phone and heard it ringing in the kitchen. An uneaten delivery pizza sat next to it on the kitchen counter.

Either Rod had decided to spontaneously leave the house on foot and without his phone, or . . .

Or what? He'd been kidnapped? Who would hurt Rod? The answer was obvious: the same person who'd shot Bud.

Christmas Day, 4:03 a.m.

I
told myself to calm down. The house had almost no furniture
in it and hadn't been lived in for months. Rod could easily have decided to sleep somewhere else. He had no reason to expect me back tonight, and given how we'd left things, he wouldn't have been likely to call and tell me his plans.

Despite those rationalizations, I would have called the police. What stopped me was Rod's own admission that he'd been lying. If I told Handsome that Rod knew more than he'd said, which was the main reason Rod might now be a target, Handsome wouldn't hesitate to charge him with obstruction of justice. Rod might return after spending the night at a hotel only to find Handsome there to arrest him.