Bones and Roses (7 page)

“We don't know that he's a murderer.”
Not yet
. “That's what I have to find out. I'm only going to feel him out a bit. Ask some questions.”

“He could abduct you and take you to where it's just you, him, and the rattlesnakes.” When Ivy gets an idea in her head, there's no prying it loose. “You'll be glad then I came prepared.”

“Don't worry, I've got it covered.” I brake at the next stoplight and rummage in my canvas messenger bag, producing a small black object roughly the size and shape of a cigarette pack. “Behold the Tornado five-in-one personal defense system. Pepper spray, strobe light, and high-frequency alarm all in one.” I bought it yesterday at Markey's Gun Shop, on Old County Road a few miles from the White Oaks self-storage facility, at McGee's recommendation. Markey's also carries a full selection of firearms, but I decided to hold off on getting a gun until I learn how to shoot.

Ivy examines the device with interest. “Cool. Does it come in any other colors?”

“Not as far as I know, but as long as it does the job, right?”

“So you
do
think he's dangerous.”

“No,” I lie. “It's just a precaution.”

Ivy is flushed with excitement, eyes sparkling. To say she's adventurous is putting it mildly. She'll scale heights in rock-climbing that would have me peeing my pants. She's gone hang-gliding and sky-diving. She once traveled through India by train and spent the summer after college backpacking around Europe. She'll try any food, however exotic. The other day she allowed a street performer to drape his pet python over her shoulders, never mind it could've crushed her like a soda can.

As we head south on Highway 1 I think back to when I first met Ivy, in seventh grade. She'd just moved to town with her dad from Seattle, Washington. I was intrigued as soon as our teacher, Miss Cherry, introduced her to the class. Ivy was a living, breathing Madame Alexander doll in all her dainty perfection, except instead of ruffles and bows she was dressed in torn jeans, midi top, and platform shoes. The only thing we had in common, that I could see, was that we'd both been saddled with old-lady names. When I remarked on this, rolling my eyes, as I was walking with her to our next class, she only commented, with a shrug, “It beats Tiffany or Brandy.”

“I'd rather be a Brandy than have a name that belongs on a mossy gravestone,” I declared.

Ivy ignored my attempt to draw her into a discussion of my favorite topic: the many and varied ways in which my life sucked. “I'll show you mine sometime if you like. My grave rubbings,” she added at my questioning look. “I have tons of them from all over. It's kind of my thing.”

I was fascinated. Miss Cherry was probably thinking we could both use a friend, which was certainly true in my case, and she assigned me to show Ivy around. Ivy would have every other kid in our class vying to be her friend by the end of the week, but I was kind of a loner in those days. My mom had seemingly fallen off the planet and my dad might as well have—he moved through our lives as a ghost; my brother and I would have starved to death had we waited for him to remember to feed us. I felt alienated from the girls I used to hang out with. They were from homes with a mom and a dad and a fully-stocked fridge, where there was always someone to help with their homework and the family gathered for supper every evening. There were two girls in my class, Sarah and Caitlin, with whom I was friendly, but I never asked them over to my house and made excuses whenever they invited me to theirs. Ivy, I suspected, was anything but normal.

She told me her parents were getting a divorce and that she and her dad were living with her grandmother. When she told me who her grandmother was, I couldn't contain myself. “No way. Old la—I mean, Mrs. Ladeaux, is your
grandmother
?” If I'd been paying attention when Ivy was introduced to the class, I would've made the connection. Ladeaux wasn't a common name in these parts.

She nodded, entirely too blasé. “Ghosts?” she echoed with a laugh, after I'd sheepishly explained my stunned reaction. Every neighborhood has one and the Ladeaux house was ours: the one door you don't knock on when trick-or-treating on Halloween. A rambling Victorian with turrets and gingerbread and a widow walk, it was rumored to be haunted by the ghost of a previous owner. “I don't know about that—I've never seen one—but it'd be pretty cool if it was true.”

“Why don't you live with your mom?” I asked her.

That was when she told me about her mom, that she was a doctor who ran a free clinic in Malawi. “We discussed it as a family,” she answered, in the voice of someone mature beyond her years, “and decided the best thing would be for me to live with Dad and Grandma. It was that or boarding school.” I asked if she missed having her mom around, and she said, with a sanguine shrug, “Sure, but it's not like I'll never see her. She'll come for visits and I'll visit her in the summers.”

“It won't be the same.” I missed my own mom so much it was like a hole in my gut.

“No,” she agreed. “But she waited until I was old enough to handle it. Plus, she's over there saving lives, which is pretty awesome. And she said I could help out at the clinic when I visit. How cool is that?” Her aquamarine eyes glowed like a swimming pool at night lit from within.

I failed to see the appeal. “Doing what?” I asked skeptically.

“Life-and-death stuff. They have diseases over there you never heard of and tons of poisonous snakes. Did you know you can die from a mosquito bite? Oh, yeah, and there's these worms that get into your bloodstream through your feet. Those can kill you, too.”

Grave rubbings, divorced parents, deadly worms. It was official: Ivy was as weird as I was. Weirder, even.

We were inseparable from that day on. The fact that she lived in the Ladeaux mansion only added to her appeal. I'd always been curious about the old lady. I used to see her around town, dressed as if for a garden party hosted by the Rockefellers, in silks and linens, gloves and high heels. I'd imagined her to be mysterious and remote, but she was really sweet once I got to know her.

Grandmother Ladeaux is long gone and Ivy's dad has since remarried—he lives across the bay in Carmel with his new wife. Now it's just Ivy living in the big, old gingerbread house on Seabright Avenue. (Which might seem Dickensian if you didn't know her. She's more Elizabeth Bennett than Miss Havisham.) One thing hasn't changed, though. She's still my best friend.

Twenty minutes later we're bumping over the rutted two-lane road to Four Chimneys Ranch. Situated in the Pajaro valley, it boasts a hundred acres and is one of the top breeders in the country for Arabian horses. They also train horses and offer riding instruction. It's been under the ownership of the same family, the Valparaisos, since the days of the early pioneer settlers, and vestiges from that bygone era remain, most notably in the crumbling chimneys that give the ranch its name. It's all that's left of the original homestead that was destroyed by fire in the late 1800s. I can see the cairn-like chimney tops peeking over the trees in the distance as we rattle along.

I pull into the parking area behind the barn and stables, matching red-painted post-and-beam structures as well-maintained as the road is not. It's an impressive operation, I see after I've had a look around. The facility has four riding rings—three outdoor, one indoor—a grooming area that could accommodate a whole herd of horses and state-of-the-art tack room with more floor space than the average house. The majority of the riding students are tween and teenage girls. I'm reminded of when I was briefly enamored with horses at that age, before I discovered that boys were way more fun and a lot less work. I buttonhole one of the ranch hands, a short, stocky guy with swarthy skin and a Hispanic accent, wearing a green polo shirt with the Four Chimneys logo, and ask if he knows where I can find Stan. He directs me to the staff quarters down the road, a cluster of cheaply constructed cabins reminiscent of a fifties-era motor court.

Minutes later I'm knocking on the door to Stan's cabin. To Ivy's disappointment, I'd decided it would be best if I went in alone. Suspected murderer or no, he's my only source of information at this point; if he felt he was being ganged up on, he might shut down. My heart is pounding and I'm sweating profusely. What does he know? What secrets is he keeping? Was his the last face my mom saw before she died?

The door swings open. Before me stands a tall man, long and lean as a whip with cropped silver hair and a spare, weathered face from which bright blue eyes leap like sparks from a blacksmith's anvil. He's wearing what appears to be the ranch uniform, jeans and the green polo shirt with the Four Chimneys logo, with a pair of dusty cowboy boots. “What can I do for you?” he asks.

“Stan Cruikshank? Hi, I'm Tish,” I introduce myself when I finally find my tongue.

Recognition kicks in as we're shaking hands. His gaze sharpens and he stares at me for a long moment, then says softly, “You look like her.”

“So I've been I told. Do you have a minute?”

“This isn't a good time.” His expression closes against me as surely as if he'd slammed the door in my face. “I was just headed back to work. Don't get off for another hour.” He speaks with a Texas drawl.

“Fine. I'll wait.” I fold my arms over my chest.

He regards me warily, appearing to debate with himself before finally coming to a decision. Stepping back, he holds the door open for me. “I guess I can spare a few minutes. Come on in.”

“If you don't mind, I'd rather we talked outside.” I gesture toward the pair of folding lawn chairs on the postage-stamp porch to my right. Even armed with my Tornado five-in-one device, I have no desire to be behind a closed door with him. I may be reckless, but I'm not stupid.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.” I sit down, and after moment or two, Stan lowers his lanky frame into the other chair. He leaves the door to the cabin open, and from where I sit I can see inside. The room holds a neatly made double bed, cheap set of dresser drawers, and floating desk. A rifle is propped against the wall by the dresser, the sight of which has my stomach clenching. “I know why you're here,” he says, “but you're wasting your time. I don't have any answers for you. I didn't even know she was dead 'till I read about it in the paper.”

I sense he's lying. The expression on his face is that of a veteran poker player: a tell so hard to detect that in itself is telling. No one who'd loved my mom enough to run away with her could be so devoid of emotion. “I'll take your word for it.” I play along. “But at least tell me what you
do
know.”

He ignores the question to gaze out at the scruffy yard where a dog snoozes in the shade of a loquat tree, until finally he says, without turning to look at me, “We had plans, her and me. We were looking to get a fresh start. I had a job lined up in Sacramento. But at the last minute she had a change of heart. Told me she couldn't go through with it. She couldn't do that to her kids.”

Suddenly I have trouble catching my breath. “What happened after that?”

“Nothing. She went her way. I went mine. Never saw or heard from her again. End of story.”

I don't believe a word of it and I'm not fooled by his poker face. I deliver a jolt, in an attempt to shake him up. “Then you wouldn't know how her body ended up in a footlocker?”

The color drains from his face, leaving it the ashy gray of a cold campfire. “No, ma'am, I wouldn't.” I notice his hand is trembling as he pulls a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and taps out a cigarette.

I worry I may have pushed too hard, but I've gone too far to stop now. Also I'm not one to give up easily. There's a bumper sticker that reads “Rehab Is For Quitters,” which would be funny in an ironic way if it weren't so representative of my kind—we're an obstinate bunch. “Then I guess you wouldn't know, either, how that footlocker ended up in a storage unit with my name on it.”

He lights the cigarette and expels a jet of smoke. I study his profile as he squints into the middle distance. I'm loath to admit it, but in the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit he's good-looking for an older dude. In the photo of him when he was younger he resembles Clint Eastwood when he starred in those Dirty Harry movies my grandpa used to love to watch (when Grandpa had Alzheimer's, toward the end of his life, and couldn't remember anyone's names, I had only to utter the immortal line “Make my day,” for him to break into a grin of recognition). Now he looks like the Clint who fathered a child with a woman thirty years younger than himself.

I know his age from the birth date on his driver's license, and when he finally turns to me, I can see every one of those sixty-three years on his face. “I'm sorry for your loss, Miz Ballard. Hell, I'm sorry for a lot of things. But, like I said, if you want answers, you came to the wrong person.”

I stare at him. “I don't think so.”

He takes another drag off his cigarette. “I told you what I know. Same as I told the cops.” At the look of surprise I must have worn, he adds, with a glint in his eye, “Yeah, that's right. They were out here the other day. The fact that they didn't see fit to arrest me should tell you all you need to know. If they had so much as a shred of evidence against me, would I be sitting here talking to you?”

“That doesn't mean they won't find any,” I burst out.

“I never laid a hand on her.”

“Then why did you send me that postcard? Why say you were sorry?”

A flicker of emotion crosses his face. He leans forward, elbows propped on his knees, smoke curling from the cigarette that smolders, forgotten, in the fork of his first and middle fingers as he gazes into the distance. I'd about given up on getting any more out of him when he answers, “I felt bad for you and your brother. You being motherless and all. I wanted you to know, is all.”