Lalla Bains 02 - A Dead Red Heart (14 page)

Byron opened the back door to the cruiser, and Del angled his head around to face me, and winked. Then he shouldered Byron in the gut and lunged out of his grasp.

Byron grabbed Del by his collar and slammed him against the police cruiser, this time with some very potent swearing to go with it.

I had a second or two before Byron turned around and realized that I'd disobeyed his order to remain in the car.

Never one to waste precious seconds, I dug my rubber soled shoes into the pavement, pumped my arms for all I was worth, and didn't look back.

By the time I drove down the long road to our ranch, the wind was howling through the trees. That incoming southerly I'd predicted was quickly moving into position. Though I had mixed feelings about postponing tomorrow's work, I was giddy with relief to think I would get an hour or two more of rest. God knows I needed it.

Tomorrow I would have to tell Caleb that Brad Lane had fingered him as Billy Wayne's killer, and then I would have to explain where and when I'd been talking to Brad Lane.

My dad had left me a note, pinned to his door. "Rain tomorrow," it said. "I've called the guys and changed their time to six a.m. Sleep in and if it clears up you might get in some Benlate on Gerry Deller's grapes."

Nothing about parting Mrs. Dobson from her pistol, or a possible arrest. Add that to my slippery escape from any actual jail time from Deputy Bettencourt and I should call myself dumb lucky. And I would too, except for that nagging doubt that Brad had to go and drop in my lap. It would be just like Brad to gleefully attack the integrity of my loved ones. Maybe he was responsible for the D-O-A note on my dad's door. Brad had been in and out of our house many times over the three years he'd worked for us, and he could have stolen a key.

That would explain why Spike hadn't set up a ruckus. Spike recognized him, and placated with a doggy treat, Brad could take his time. Of course, I'd never have the chance to confirm it. Then again, Brad Lane was never going to get the chance to threaten me or my family again. Yes, I should feel lucky—or relieved. Instead, I felt sick at heart that I'd chased him into the headlights of an oncoming semi.

In the kitchen, I ground the roasted coffee beans, set the auto timer on the pot for six a.m., and did a mental recap of my catastrophic day; Brad's descent into meth hell, his choices, his mistakes, culminating in the harsh judgment of an oncoming truck. As for Byron, I'd rubbed a sore spot in that boy's scalp, as raw as the frequent drubbing I'd given him as a kid. Maybe, I'd been wrong about him and the reason he'd arrested me. I was speeding, wasn't I? And, I'd added insult to injury with my insults to his position as a police officer. Somehow, some way it was going to be up to me to make it all better. After all, his sister, Linda Bettencourt, was still pitcher for my softball team, and when annoyed, she had a lethal aim.

I took a deep breath and then another, willing myself to relax. I was off the hook for work, and tomorrow I would talk to Caleb, confess everything. Tomorrow. First thing.

As I wearily climbed the stairs, the cell phone on my belt trilled.

Without bothering with the niceties, Caleb said, "Can't you drive like a normal person?"

"What?" I asked, my breath catching in my throat.

"Someone saw you getting a ticket at the Standiford intersection this evening."

I blew out the breath I was holding. Ancient history after all the other stuff from tonight. He didn't know I'd been hauled into the police station, or that I'd chased a homeless man until he ran out in front of a truck, or that Del and I'd barely missed being hauled in as a
 
john and his hooker.

I felt my stomach heave, swallowed and went on the offense from where we'd left our argument from this afternoon and his awkward proposal in front of Miss Cook's house. "I'm not speaking to you."

"Don't be silly, of course you are."

"Okay, maybe this once."

Then his voice went gentle. "I love you, sweetheart. Let's not fight."

All the heat I'd been stoking up blew away like the Southerly knocking against my window. "I love you, too, Caleb. It's just been a very long day, and I'm not fit for company. Besides, it's going to rain tomorrow, so my day is going to start early with work orders."

Caleb, knowing my family was big on weather forecasting, knew better than to ask, but I could hear the tease in his voice. "What rain?"

That got a smile out of me. I promised I'd call him tomorrow and hung up.

I had so many questions I wished I'd thought to ask of Brad. Even without the pointless threat of Caleb's involvement, did he really know who the killer was? Were the cops really beating up on innocent, vulnerable homeless men and then trading dope for information? Or was that simply a ploy to tilt our sympathy in his favor?

As for Del, I found it interesting that he and Billy Wayne had been kids in the same neighborhood in Stockton. There was a connection between them, something that Del hung onto, even if Billy Wayne hadn't. I'd have to ask Leon, Roxanne's husband, tomorrow at the café if he'd heard anything last night on his police scanner about a homeless guy killed crossing the street.

Then, with purpose in mind for a rainy day, I fell into bed and dropped into a deep sleep uninterrupted by dreams of any kind.

Chapter thirteen:

I awoke to the sound of wind slamming the trees against our house.

My dad and I passed each other in the kitchen; he was getting his second cup and I was aiming for my first. His thin gray hair was standing on end, and the hollow shadows under his eyes said he was grateful that I'd opted to take this shift. "Still dry, but guess I'll go back to bed, if you think you can handle it."

"It may not rain."

"Oh, I think it will."

Then I remembered yesterday and the funeral home. I turned back and thanked him for foiling Mrs. Dobson's attempt to shoot me.

He shrugged. "I doubt it would have fired anyway. It had a cap in the chamber, but the gun hadn't been cleaned or oiled since the last century. I handed her off to one of the women and went to the wake."

"Well, thanks again, Dad—though I don't suppose it hurt your reputation with the ladies."

He made some noises that could have been, "Mind your own business," and climbed the stairs.

I secretly smiled, grabbed a cup of coffee, then scanned the newspaper for last night's death of a homeless man.

What was I doing? This was yesterday's paper, and any news about Brad would have to wait until it arrived in our newspaper holder sometime this afternoon.

I went out the back door to the office to watch the crew reluctantly trundle into the yard on the off chance we could squeeze in a job or two between the rains. They would rather be tucked into a warm bed instead of sitting in the office waiting for rain. Me too.

Some of the guys flopped down on the floor and went back to sleep while others played cards. Outside the office window dawn broke like an upside down quilt of lumpy cloud cover.

Summer storms in the valley have been likened to a woman, throwing a fit then hiking up her skirt and stomping away. I watched as a dust devil spiraled along in a waltz gathering leaves and twigs in its embrace. It lost its momentum somewhere on the back forty and vanished, leaves ghosting to a stop on recently turned earth. Thunder rumbled as the clouds ground their teeth against the rising warm air.

A few black birds ruffled their feathers and settled down in the maple tree. Everything that could crawl, creep, or scurry was going for shelter.

True to Noah Bains' prediction, lightning split the gray sky with silver, thunder ricocheted off the hills and echoed across the valley and raindrops the size of bugs began to drop in earnest until sheets of it drummed loudly on the corrugated roof of the office.

"Well, boys, that's it for today." I piled the forms over to the right side of the desk and stood up to watch them fight for the exit.

My dad was in the kitchen eating Juanita's pancakes. Weary from last night's drama, I declined breakfast and instead poured some hot water and dunked an herbal tea bag into the cup. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I watched my dad happily shovel in his breakfast.

"Pancakes, again? What happened to your health food kick?"

"I'm still on it. This is my day off. Today, I can eat anything I want."

"No blue goop in the blender though, huh?"

"That's because I use the anti-oxidants of blueberry, and I only take that in the evenings."

Juanita snickered.

He shot her a look. When he looked back at me, I had this big grin pasted on my face. Busted. Unperturbed, he shrugged and got up from the table. "I got better things to do today than to sit around here and jaw with you girls."

I followed him out of the kitchen as he put his hand on the wood banister to climb the stairs. "So tell me Dad, what's with the vitamins? Last year you were sure you were at death's door, now you're gulping health food and dating again?"

He shrugged. "What's wrong with that? I might want to get married again."

"Oh yeah? And who might you be marrying?"

Silently he climbed the stairs, one step and then another, until at the landing, he turned and looked thoughtfully down at me. "What do you care? You'll be moving out soon."

"
I'm
not getting married again."

"That's not what Caleb says." He smiled and turned the knob on his bedroom door.

Annoyed that Caleb had been talking to my dad, I couldn't resist one last jab. "1970 called! They want their leisure suit back!"

I went into the kitchen to finish my tea. Juanita grinned, and then our laughter got the better of us. She wiped the tears with her apron.
"
Ay Dios! Your daddy es so funny. Does he know what he looks in tha' green zuit?"

"I don't think he cares."

"Did you know he got one of those lamps with the bubbles in it?"

"A lava lamp? Where'd he get that from, the barn?"

"I don' know what es called, but yesterday I find it on his bedside table."

"Uh-oh, hide the disco albums."

I left Juanita giggling into her soapy dishes.

I'd have to do a search and destroy on all the old Donna Summer records. Though
She Works Hard
for the Money could've been my theme song, the monotonous beat of Disco music right about now would drive me around the bend. Perry Como and Barbara Streisand, but please God, not Disco.

I flopped down on top of my bed and pulled on my eyeshades for a nap. I was feeling pretty good now that I'd settled the mystery of who had put that threatening bit of paper on my dad's door. Caleb was right; it was a completely unrelated coincidence on the heels of Billy Wayne's murder, and Brad Lane wouldn't be around anymore to make threats to me or my family.

I breathed in and out; that bit of laughter with Juanita relaxed me enough that I could, with good conscience, settle into a nice deep mid-morning nap.

From somewhere Donna Summer soulfully blew into my ear and sang, "She works hard for the money, so hard for it, honey..."

It's late autumn. Dad has brought in a lug of tart apples, a gift from a local farmer and unusual in that farms aren't known for their generous gifts of excess produce anymore. My mother is laughing at my knock-knock jokes as I stand on a step stool, elbow deep in flour as we turn green apples into sweet pies. ABBA is singing on the radio, the autumn sun warming our big kitchen, and I'm so happy, I'm squirming like a puppy. She rolls out the dough for two pies and I load the apples into the bottom crust, then she adds the sugar, fragrant cinnamon, and real butter. I revel in this moment, her voice so clear and calm in my ear and so unlike— well…

I shrug off the inconsistencies and make up ever wilder stories just to hear again the happy sound of her laughter.

Then the phone rings, breaking into my Norman Rockwell moment. She looks at me and wipes the flour off her hands. I duck my head, pinching the edge of the top crust wishing we didn't have a phone so our all too brief time together wouldn't be broken. She puts her hand up and strokes my cheek. "Just remember, Lalla. The more there is, the less you know."

I nod solemnly, intent on keeping her every word branded on my memory for when she's gone again.