Closely Akin to Murder (24 page)

“I think I do,” I said. “She called Farias and told him where you were. She also told him I was asking her questions about the case. What I don't know is why you and I are perceived to be so dangerous. Ronnie Landonwood killed Oliver. She confessed at the time. When I asked her if she was sure she committed the crime, she—”

“When?” he croaked.

“I talked to her earlier this evening before I came back here and had the pleasure of finding you making a sincere effort to steal my car. Considering the way things have been going ever since, I wish I'd let you have it.” I felt a drop of water hit my neck, and scooted over a few inches. “Why do you care when I spoke to Ronnie?”

“I heard she died a long time ago. She caught some disease in prison and was taken to a hospital. Some guy who worked there as an orderly told Santiago, and he told me because . . . I don't know, because I was American and he thought I might be interested.”

“She was in a hospital, but she didn't die,” I said.

Chico leaned against the car, his back to me. After a long moment, he said, “The orderly must have been talking about another American girl. So what's she doing these days?”

“She has a successful career.”

“Did she get married? Have kids?”

“I don't think so,” I said. “She contacted me because someone made a blackmail demand. She had the crazy idea I could find the person and negotiate a deal to retrieve all the damning evidence of her involvement in Oliver Pickett's death.”

“Any luck?” he asked, looking at me.

I couldn't see his expression in the darkness, but he sounded more than minimally intrigued. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Hey, I'm the one who thought she died in the middle of the 1970's. Am I going to waste my time writing blackmail letters to the cemetery?” He got back in the car and slammed the door.

I slid off the fender and went to the barn door to look out at the road. The rain had stopped, probably for good. No headlights were coming down the hill. I couldn't see the trailer from this vantage point, so I had no idea if I'd mentally slandered Beatrice and Maisie—or if they were showing Farias's men the road to the barn. The latter seemed likely.

I pushed open the barn doors, then got in the car and started the engine. “We're going to Phoenix,” I announced as I backed out of the barn. “I am not going to sit here and wait for those men to materialize and cause undue damage to my anatomy. I've spent more time with you in the last week than with my daughter. She's cleaner, more entertaining, and slightly more willing to tell the truth. Do you want to get out here?”

Chico clutched his backpack to his chest. “I just want to go to Canada. Will you make sure I can go to Canada?”

“Sure,” I said, lying through my teeth. I headed back up the non-road, crunching rocks and endangering
whatever species were endangered in this environment. I was fairly certain that I qualified as one of them (homo snoopiens).

As I'd suspected, the car was parked in front of the trailer and lights were on inside. Maisie's convertible was gone, but Beatrice's truck was there. I eased off the gas pedal and let the car coast to minimize the sound of the engine.

“Watch the door,” I said to Chico. I was going to elaborate when a fist rapped against my window.

Startled, I inadvertently hit the brakes. Beatrice's face hovered on the opposite side of the glass, distorted by the angular streaks of rain. The overall effect was ghoulish, to put it mildly, and all I could do was stare as she twirled her finger at me.

“What the hell!” gasped Chico.

My sentiments, too. I rolled down the window. “What do you want?”

“Please let me in your car!” she said urgently. “We've got to get away from here before they come back. I was on my way to the barn when I heard you coming. Please, help me.”

The more the merrier, I told myself as I gestured at the back door. “Get in, then.”

She threw herself across the seat. “Drive, Claire. They'll be back any minute.”

I turned onto the street, drove a block, and then switched on the headlights. We flew past the model home, under the railroad ties, and out to Old Madrid Road at what may have been a somewhat reckless speed.

“I don't see them,” Chico reported.

“They won't come after us,” said Beatrice, sounding much calmer. “I threw the distributor cap in the desert
and yanked out some wires. They'll have a helluva long walk back to town. Hope it rains all the way on the bastards!”

I slowed down, and after a quick glance in the rearview mirror, permitted myself a deep sigh. “Okay, Beatrice, explain. Where's Maisie?”

“She went into town a couple of hours ago, and hasn't come back. I was kinda surprised.”

“Did she go in order to make a telephone call?” I asked. “To Jorge Farias, for instance?”

“Why would you say something cockeyed like that?” she replied. Conviction was missing.

“Because two of his men are looking for Chico, and they have a description of this car. I don't believe in coincidences, Beatrice—I prefer a more mundane cause-and-effect explanation. The men were following someone's instructions. Someone issued those instructions. In order for someone to issue those instructions, he had to have been apprised of the situation.”

There was no response from the backseat. I listened to Chico's ragged wheezes and kept an eye on the rearview mirror as we continued along the road.

Chico at last figured out what I'd implied. “She betrayed me?”

I smiled at the incredulity in his voice. “I suppose there's no honor among thieves anymore. I ask you, what's the world coming to if you two can't trust each other? The next thing you know, used car salesmen will be setting back odometers and televangelists will be making promises they can't keep.”

“Let's not get personal,” he said, then turned around to look at the figure cowering next to the door. “I told you that Farias was after me. Why would you tell him where I was?”

“Four days ago, one of his men came out to the trailer and gave me a number to call if you showed up,” she said. “I was too frightened to ignore it, especially after Claire came sniffing around like a coyote tracking a lame calf. The man also demanded a description of this car, along with the license plate. I was too discombobulated to write it down, but Maisie got a good look at it to night and went to a pay phone to pass it along.”

We were nearing Phoenix. I considered heading for the police department with my two passengers, but I had not one iota of proof that they'd done anything illegal. Chico might be detained while a query was sent to Comandante Quiroz, who might prefer to leave Santiago's case closed. As for Beatrice, she was a longtime resident and well known in the business community. Accusations by a bookseller from out of state might not be taken with any seriousness.

I headed for the hotel. “What happened to night, Beatrice? You and Maisie did as ordered. You shouldn't have had any reason to feel compelled to escape.”

“They came to the door and said they'd lost your car, but were certain it was somewhere inside the Tricky M. I was about to tell them about the barn, but then they demanded to know where Maisie was and got real pissed when I said she hadn't come back. One of them made me give him the keys to the truck. I realized they were worried about witnesses. I sent them off in the wrong direction and was starting for the barn when you drove up.”

“We should have left you,” Chico said sourly.

“Don't push me,” she responded.

“Snitch.”

“Coward.”

Listening to the two sixtysomethings squabble was no more bizarre than anything else that had happened lately. I let them hurl infantile insults as I drove across town and pulled into the hotel parking lot.

“Bring your sleeping bag,” I said to Chico.

“You were supposed to take me to the freight yard.”

I got out of the car. “I don't have any idea how many local thugs work for Farias, but I'm not going to drive all over Phoenix until one of them spots this car. You're welcome to take a hike. Good luck, and
adidós.
”

“Is there any way he knows where you're staying?” Beatrice asked nervously as she got out of the backseat. She scanned the rows of cars as if expecting thugs to spring up like dandelions.

“Did you tell him?” I said.

“I had no way of knowing.”

“Then he doesn't know” I said as I started toward the stairwell that led to the balcony. “If you're concerned, you can sleep in the car, take off with Chico, or stand there and twitter like the star of an aviary. It's well past midnight and I'm going to bed.”

Once inside the room, I felt as though I were back in a college dormitory. Chico rolled out his sleeping bag, flopped down, and began to snore; the sound reminded me of a cropduster's plane. Beatrice grumbled at the sight of the king-sized bed, then stripped to her underwear and crawled beneath the bedspread. Her snores were as deafening as those from the floor.

I would have paced if I wouldn't have stepped on Chico. Was I babysitting victims or perpetrators? It was by far the goofiest position I'd put myself in, but there was no one else remotely responsible.

All of a sudden the desire to be back home swept over me with such intensity that I found myself unable
to swallow. I wanted Caron's outrageous proclamations about Rhonda Maguire, I wanted Inez's solemn consensus, and I even—a little bit—wanted Peter's sarcasm. This heretofore unseen vulnerability sent me to the bathroom, where I wiped my eyes with a tissue and tried to interpret my expression in the mirror.

“Here comes the bride?” I asked myself, feeling foolish but searching for some clue as to my true emotions. The phrase failed to do much of anything; I did not envision myself in a gossamer veil, nor did I see my eyes welling with sappy tears. Perhaps the current situation was less than conducive, I concluded.

I was still pondering it when someone pounded on the door.

“Open up!” a voice said sternly. “Police!”

What I said under my breath warrants no mention.

I must admit that the Phoenix
Police Department's interrogation room was an improvement over the one in Acapulco, but I still wouldn't recommend it as a stop on the tour of scenic Arizona. The walls were dingy, the linoleum scarred, the amenities rudimentary. Having had little choice in the matter, I took a swallow of tepid coffee and numbly recited, “Please contact Lieutenant Peter Rosen of the Farberville CID. He'll vouch for my intentions, if not my methods. That's all I am willing to say until you provide with an attorney.”

Sergeant Prowell was unamused, perhaps because he'd heard this several times. “Mrs. Malloy, don't—”

“It's Ms.”

“Ms. Malloy, you haven't been accused of a crime. We're only trying to determine what you're doing in Phoenix and how well you were acquainted with the victim. No one has suggested you have a motive. A we want is some basis for your involvement.”

“Please contact Lieutenant Peter—”

“Rosen of the Farberville CID,” he said. “The refrain pales,
Ms.
Malloy. Several of the officers are trying to set it to music to perk it up, but no one knows the melody.”

I hummed a few bars of the theme song from
Gilligan's Island.

Sergeant Prowell gave me an exasperated look. “What about this guy in your hotel room who claims he's a tourist from Mexico? He's got no identification, no visa, no nothing. Who is he?”

“If I only knew,” I said sincerely. I finished the coffee, then examined the grainy remains in the bottom of the cup.

The sergeant was too young to be intimidating. He reminded me of Manuel, with his thick waist and wispy mustache. He looked more like an appliance repairman than a bona fide cop. Thus far I'd resisted telling him about my leaky washing machine.

“You don't know his name?” he said for the umpteenth time. “You allowed a stranger to sleep on the floor of your hotel room?”

“Yes, I did,” I said, fighting back a yawn. “If you want to tell me what concerns you, go right ahead. I am a bookseller. I am enjoying the weather here in Phoenix. Granted, it wasn't so pleasant last night, but it was splendid the day before and will be the same later today. You are aware that tourists come here, aren't you?”

He slammed the door as he left the room. I sat back and admired the decor, pea green and really pea green, then slumped in the chair and tried to coerce my weary mind into a more serviceable state.

It was well past three in the morning. Beatrice, Chico, and I had been separated at the hotel; I had no idea what they'd said. I wasn't so much protecting myself as avoiding the convoluted reasons for my presence. The only question I'd been asked of any significance concerned my whereabouts at midnight. Explaining that I'd been in a barn at the Tricky M, hiding from
thugs sent by a man from Acapulco, sounded a tad improbable to even me, so I'd refused to answer. I easily could see the derision on their faces when I began, “My cousin, who's been dead for thirty years, called me and said . . .”

“Did she call collect, Ms. Malloy?” Sergeant Prowell would say, trying not to snicker. His associates would have no reluctance. Before I knew it, the entire police force would be guffawing like drunks at a comedy club.

“Are you charging me with a crime?” I asked Sergeant Prowell as he came back into the claustrophobic interrogation room.

“Maisie Wilk was found with her throat slit out in Scottsdale on Hayden Road,” he said. “She had a license plate number written on a scrap of paper in her pocket; we got your name from the car rental agency, then called hotels.”

“Was her body in the cemetery?”

“So you're familiar with the area?”

“I was at the cemetery yesterday morning,” I responded. “I was hunting for an old friend. I found his grave, wished him well, and went on my way. I last saw Maisie about nine o'clock, out at the Tricky M.”