Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) (14 page)

“Which one are you in a hurry to get back to, career or boyfriend?” Tom grinned and I glowered. “Both?”

At that moment, neither, but that wasn’t the issue.

“You could stick around awhile," he said. "You know, take some time to smell the daisies.”

It had been my experience that people who took time to smell the daisies rarely made it out of the pasture. “If I wanted to smell daisies,” I told him, “I could pick up a bunch at the flower stand.”

Tom grinned. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Red. It’s not the same.”

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Back home, I fixed myself a piece of toast and munched it on my way to the shower. I tossed my sweats into the laundry, which was something I should have done several days earlier, and promised myself I would never again leave the house without make-up, even in a fit of anger. The hot water finished what the aspirin and coffee had begun, and by the time I dried my hair and added a little color to my face, I felt like a new woman. I’d just stepped into my underwear when the phone rang. “Daryl Benson here. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I’ve been up for hours.”

“Good. I tried you yesterday, but you were out. I didn’t want to take a chance on missing you again today. Your note said you wanted to see me about the Marrero case.”

“Right”

“You know something?”

“Not exactly.” Not the kind of information he was looking for anyway. “I’m a friend of his wife’s. I'd like to talk to you about the investigation.”

I anticipated a frosty brush-off, but there was a long silence instead, followed by a heavy sigh. “Sure, why not. I haven’t seen you all grown up anyway. Bet you’re the spiting image of your mother. You want to come by this afternoon, say about one?”

“That’s fine. See you then.”

The timing was good; it would give me the morning to track down Carla Newcomb. I finished dressing, made sure Loretta’s water bowl was filled, then grabbed the map and headed over to the east part of town in search of Ponderosa Place. After considerable effort, I’d finally managed to locate the proper coordinates, but because of a large splotch of catsup in the same vicinity, I wasn’t entirely sure of the location.

Chapter 11

About half a mile from the house, I realized I’d forgotten the photograph of Jannine I needed for my trip to the mall that afternoon. I slowed, preparing to make a U-tum and head back to retrieve it. A white Lincoln was moving up fast behind me, and a convoy of logging trucks was coming in the other direction so I pulled off to the right, onto a private lane instead. A cloud of dust billowed up around the car, leaving a layer of powdery grunge on the shiny metallic finish. I groaned, then groaned again when I realized that the road was narrow and the shoulder on either side soft. Turning around was going to be no easy matter.

By the time I had the nose of the car pointed in the right direction and was ready to pull back onto the main drag, I’d worked myself into a low grade sweat. Which is probably why I didn’t see the large white car coming at high speed from my right. I pulled out, then slammed on my brakes. He swerved onto the shoulder at the far side, sending another plume of dust my way, and then sped on.

Shaken, I inched onto the blacktop and crept back to the house, where I gave serious thought to staying for the remainder of the day. But my curiosity about Carla Newcomb was too great. I rechecked the map and started out again.

I would have had trouble finding Ponderosa even if the map hadn’t been spotted with catsup. It was one of those narrow, meandering streets that jogs, skips a few blocks, and then winds off in a different direction entirely. Nevertheless, with persistence and a bit of help from an elderly gentleman who seemed delighted to have a captive audience, I finally located the house.

It was a faded blue clapboard, small and shabby. One of many in a run-down neighborhood near the sawmill. The steps were sagging, the lawn a thick brown thatch, the flower beds overgrown with weeds. I doubted Carla had ten dollars to spare, much less ten thousand.

She may not have been the source of Eddie’s buy-out money, but I was willing to bet there was still plenty she could tell me. I parked across the street and waited for inspiration. When none came, I did what I usually do in such situations — I forged ahead anyway.

Pots of flowers, all of them plastic and rather gaudy, dotted the front porch. I stepped around a perky pink geranium and knocked. The woman who answered had a head full of curlers and a tense, impatient manner. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t need any.”

“I’m looking for Carla Newcomb. Is that you?”

She eyed me suspiciously, took a long drag on her cigarette and asked, “What of it?”

Lust can turn a man’s head, and a woman’s, too I’ve been told, but I had a hard time imagining Eddie going weak in the knees over this woman. She did have a figure, or rather a bosom, that much was obvious from the way the thin cotton robe clung to her body. But her hair was a straw-like yellow, growing in dark at the roots, her brows plucked to a thin, harsh line, and her mouth tight. She had the same worn-out look as the neighborhood.

“I’d like to talk to you about Eddie Marrero,” I said, watching closely to see how his name affected her. It was a technique I used questioning witnesses, especially when I wasn’t sure what I was looking for.

But Carla only stared at me blankly. “Who’s he?” she asked after a moment

"The high school teacher who was murdered last weekend.”

Recognition flashed on her face. “Right. I didn’t recognize the name at first.”

It was a good act. “When did you last talk to him?” I asked, speaking in my attorney voice.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever talked to him.”

“I understood you were a friend of his.”

“Me?” She laughed, a harsh, dry laugh that pierced the morning stillness. “I don’t know where you got that. I didn’t know the man from Adam.”

Now it was my turn to stare blankly.

“Even the name wouldn’t mean nothing to me except that Cheryl babysat for him sometimes.”

“Cheryl?”

“My daughter. Sassy smart-ass won’t lift a finger around the house, but she’ll go running off to baby-sit every chance she gets.”

Cheryl Newcomb — C.N., initials the same as her mother’s. A teenager who sat for the Marreros. I felt silly, to say the least.

“She’s at school if you want to talk to her. You’ll have better luck finding her there than here. Way she sees it, home’s just a place to drop off your laundry.”

In Cheryl’s case, I thought, the sentiment might not be a bad one. “Sorry to have bothered you,” I said.

The front door slammed shut before I made it halfway across the rickety porch.

My appointment with Benson wasn’t for another hour and a half. Not enough time to drive over to Stone Mountain Mall, but too long to sit and twiddle my thumbs. I decided to drop by the school and see if I couldn’t track down Jack Peterson and maybe a couple of other teachers whose names Jannine had given me. I started the engine and was pulling away from the curb when I caught a flash of white in the rearview mirror, a late model American car pulling slowly through the intersection behind me.

Goosebumps rose along the back of my neck. I had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling I was being followed. Either that, or I’d recently become a magnet for large white cars. I waited another minute, and when it didn’t reappear, I started off, chiding myself for being paranoid. I watched the rearview mirror all the way to school, however.

Peterson was out, but I managed to talk to two of the other three names on my list. Chuck Wilcox, history teacher and student council advisor, was a gaunt, spectacled young man whose sober earnestness probably earned him the respect of his colleagues, and the ridicule of his students. Don Ramirez taught Spanish and had a face as smooth as silk. Both men knew Eddie; neither was able tell me anything helpful.

The lunch bell rang just as I was leaving the main building, and I scooted over to the corner of the quad to avoid being mowed down by adolescent exuberance. Standing there under the gnarled old oak Jannine and I had used as a meeting place years ago, I was caught in a moment of
deja vu.
I knew what it was to be fifteen, angry at the world, racked with longings you couldn’t understand and thoughts that scared you silly.

On an impulse, I stopped two girls who were sauntering down the path and asked if they knew Cheryl Newcomb.

They giggled. “We know
who
she is,” said the taller one, with the Far-rah Fawcett hairdo, “but we’re not, like, friends or anything.”

The dark-haired girl nodded.

“Can you point her out to me?” I asked.

“She’s absent.”

“Absent?”

“Like, you know, not at school.” They looked at me as though I were from another planet. “She’s been out all week.”

“You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. We’re in dumbbell math together.”

“She’s sick?”

Farrah gave me a look which shot daggers. “How should I know. Like I said, we’re not friends or anything.”

“Who
does
she hang around with?” I asked.

“No one. That’s part of her problem, right El?” The dark-haired girl nodded. “She’s like a total wannabe, you know.”

I didn’t “Wannabe what?”

“A somebody.” Farrah snapped her gum. “Is she in trouble or something?”

I shook my head. At least not yet. It might be a different story once her mother found out she wasn’t in school. “You sure she’s absent?”

“Yo, Madeline.” Farrah hailed the girl who’d been working in the main office yesterday when I stopped by to see Nancy. “This here lady’s looking for Cheryl Newcomb.”

“She’s absent,” Madeline said. “Flu.”

Farrah flung her head with I-told-you-so nonchalance, and strutted off. El was close on her heels.

“You’re Mrs. Wallace’s friend,” Madeline said. “I recognize you from yesterday.”

I nodded. “How well do you know Cheryl?”

“Hardly at all. I only know she’s sick ’cause I had to take her place in Mr. Peterson’s office the last couple of days. She always acts like working in his office is a such a big deal, but if you ask me, attendance is a lot better. I can’t wait to get back.”

As I climbed into the car, I struggled with the muddle I’d landed myself in. I didn’t know Cheryl, and I certainly didn’t want to look like a busybody. On the other hand, the girl was playing fast and loose with the rules, which is something I approve of only when I do it myself. There was also the matter of that notation in Eddie’s calendar. The more I’d thought about it, the less sense it made. By the time I pulled up in front of City Hall, I’d made up my mind to drop back by the Newcomb house that afternoon and speak to Cheryl. After that, I’d decide what, if anything, to tell her mother about cutting school.

I still had a few minutes before my appointment with Benson, so I found a pay phone in the lobby and called Sara Stewart at our office. I don’t know whether I was disappointed or relieved when she couldn’t come to the phone. There’s an element of truth to that old saying about ignorance and bliss. If the firm was no longer giving out raises and bonuses, maybe I was better off not knowing. Then I took a deep breath and asked to be transferred to Ken’s line. Our conversation Monday evening had left a sour taste in my mouth. We hadn’t been going out long enough to have had any real fights, but Monday felt awfully close. And equally unsettling. I didn’t want to leave it that way.