County Line (46 page)

Another deputy takes us to a sub-station and sticks us in a conference room. We give our statements, mine in a weary monotone. Ruby Jane adds little. Then we find a couch and she falls asleep leaning against my good shoulder.

After a while, I slip away and spend some time tracking down Pete’s sister, Abby, who lives in Seattle with her husband and daughter. She doesn’t sound surprised he’s dead. I tell her Ruby Jane wants to hold a memorial in Portland, but we both understand that as family, Abby’s wishes come first. She’s as peremptory as I remember from our last encounter, two-and-a-half years earlier. Says she’ll get back to me and asks to speak to someone with actual authority. I’m grateful I used the sheriff’s phone to make my call.

In the morning, a man in a suit identifies himself as a county attorney and takes me aside. If he offers a name, I don’t hear it.

“You’re the cop.”

“Retired.”

“Right. I spoke with your lieutenant.”

She’s not my lieutenant, but I don’t see any point in clarifying the situation.

“What’s the story?”

“We picked up Taya trying to board the morning ferry. She’s going to cooperate.”

“Let me guess. It was
all
the boyfriend.”

He smiles wryly. He’s a young man, not more than thirty, but with dark brown serious eyes. His manner is calm and confident, which is a comfort to me. “Robert Earl Perry. Someone she met while she was at school in Bellingham. After Bella’s husband—her second husband, I guess—passed, Taya worked part time at the farm, went out twice a week to clean. Perry tagged along sometimes. Apparently he was there the day the county tax letter came. Bella was years behind and at risk of having her property seized. Her alpacas never paid.”

“Do they ever?”

“Bella was out of her depth on her own.”

“So what happened?”

“I guess she started raving about her husband Dale and a big wad of hidden money which could fix everything. The story is confused, but apparently she claimed her son murdered her husband and her daughter buried the body back in Ohio.”

“Nobody has buried Dale Whittaker. He died a week ago in Portland. Probably still in the ME’s cooler.”

“Well, it didn’t matter, because Bella stroked out. When she talked at all after that, it was only about some kid named Biddy, her grandchild, I understand. I’m not clear on the details, because Taya isn’t, but it seems Perry dug through that old house and found enough to give him an idea of what might have happened. He went to San Francisco to take a run at James Whitacre, the alleged patricide, and left Taya behind to look after Bella.”

“They never took Bella to a hospital, I suppose.”

“Perry felt Taya was sufficient medical care.”

“Jesus.”

“I doubt Jesus had anything to do with it.”

I look at my hands.

“SFPD tells me Perry posed as Biddy Denlinger and got a little cash out of Whitacre, but Bella’s ravings had convinced him her ex-husband spirited away hundreds of thousands of dollars, that it had been missing ever since he died. She bounced between claiming it was buried in his grave, or her son had it, or her daughter knew where it was.”

“There was no grave.” Someone will tell this attorney about the toolboxes and rusted gun, I suppose—Nash, most likely. But none of them will ever learn what happened that night on Preble County Line Road. “So when things in San Francisco didn’t work out—”

“Perry decided to go after Ruby Whittaker. But rather than getting suckered in a blackmail scheme, she slipped away. I guess she went looking for the money on her own.”

“I don’t think she cared about the money. I think she thought she would find a family heirloom, something her grandmother promised her and her father stole.”

“Bet the money wouldn’t hurt either.”

I’m not going to try to explain Ruby Jane to a cynic.

“So then you got involved in the hunt after Miss Whittaker went back east. First down to San Fran, then to Ohio, finally up here.”

“It got complicated.”

“Evidently.” The DA is quiet while he studies my face. I’ve washed up a bit, but I’ve barely slept in over a day. I’ve been beat up and shot. I’m sure I look a mess.

“Your lieutenant thinks Perry may have had a hand in a death in Portland. What can you tell me about that?”

“Ruby Jane’s father. He showed up a few weeks ago after a twenty-year absence. He was still there when she left for Ohio.”

“And he died of complications from diabetes.”

“I’m not involved in law enforcement anymore. Susan will have more for you if you need it.”

“But you’re sure it’s Bella’s husband, Miss Whittaker’s father?”

“Ruby Jane confirms it. She spoke to him.”

“I wonder why Perry didn’t go to him if he was supposed to have the money.”

“May not have known who he was. He was going by the name Chase Fairweather.”

He looks at me sharply. “Chase Fairweather?”

“You know him?”

His face is pensive. “Chase Fairweather has been kicking around the islands for the last few years. Never quite a vagrant, never quite making it either. He did odd jobs for people. I know he worked for Bella from time to time, back when she had more animals. Lived in the shack at the back of her property. We’ve had him before the court a few times. Public intoxication and disorderly conduct. Never anything serious.”

“Bella had to know who he was.”

“You would think, but then Bella was notoriously flaky and a heavy drinker.” He shakes his head slowly. “I guess Perry connected with him in Portland somehow.”

I could mention Biddy Denlinger was too blunt an instrument to pull off anything so subtle as sugar pills. But that would only raise questions of motive and opportunity, deflect attention from the real monster here. The day may come when Ruby Jane and I discuss Chase Fairweather’s final hours, but that conversation will occur well out of earshot of prosecutors with dogmatic notions of law and order. As for Robert Earl Perry, well, some people are just wrong, and he was one of them.

“Just as well he’s dead.”

The attorney looks at me. “That how you see it?”

I think about Pete and Jimmie, nearly me. Nearly Ruby Jane. “The fucker would have racked up premier class frequent flyer miles traveling to all his trials. To hell with that. Let him rot.”

“He will be doing that.”

“Why Biddy Denlinger?”

“Taya says he thought it was funny—and a way to get noticed. Neither of them knew the real Biddy was dead.”

He lets me return to Ruby Jane. There’s more. Questions, questions. A deputy shows up with my cell phone, recovered when Taya was arrested. I call Susan, but there isn’t much to say. She’s pleased Ruby Jane is safe, which is all I care about myself. The district attorney wants to keep us another night, but I convince him we will make ourselves available as needed. We need to go home. Taya figures to plead out, so there won’t be a trial. If I can arrange a deposition for the grand jury, San Juan County may not need us again.

We make the last ferry, 10:30 from Friday Harbor, and land in Anacortes just before midnight. I offer to find a motel, but Ruby Jane wants to keep going. On the way, she calls Marcy to let her know we’re returning in Marcy’s car—I’ll fly back in a few days to fetch the Toyota.

Marcy is at the carts, her voice so loud I can hear her side of the conversation. She’s damn glad to hear RJ is coming home.

“I’ll need another day or two before I can get back on my feet.”

“Just so long as I know you’re back, honey, I’ll be fine. But I want a week off.”

“You can have two. Paid. And a raise. I owe you that much.”

“Shut up, beotch.”

Ruby Jane dozes. When she’s awake, she rests one hand on my leg and gazes out the window. There’s nothing to see except headlights and taillights and interstate chaff. I-5 between Seattle and Portland is about as boring a stretch of road as I’ve driven, but I have no problem staying awake. I’m going home with Ruby Jane.

Past Olympia, when the lights of the city are behind us and the night closes in, I hear her crying softly.

“Sweetie?” I squeeze her hand where it rests on my leg and she draws a breath. Then she starts talking.

“A few years after Biddy died, I ran into his father. I was working at a place in Cincinnati called the Highland Coffee House. I was just a barista in those days, barely holding my shit together. I’d never told him about the baby. I know that’s not fair, but at the time, I could hardly admit it to myself. When Biddy died, it was like everything else. Something to put in a box and pretend never happened. Huck and I talked for a while. It was nice to see him, but awkward too. He tried to get me to take him home, back to my crap apartment in Walnut Hills.” She shakes her head sadly. “I knew he couldn’t take me to his place. He was already married to Clarice by then.”

“What did you do?”

“I kissed him on the cheek and told him to go home to his wife. But something woke up in me that night. All these people who’d had such a profound affect on my life had moved on. Jimmie was in San Francisco, Bella was on that island. Huck and Clarice were making their own babies. I quit my job and moved in with Mrs. Parmelee. I went to Sinclair Community College for two years, then transferred to Wright State. After I graduated, I moved out to San Francisco to stay with Jimmie while I looked for work. It was a nightmare living with him. This shadow always hung over us. I should have told him about Dale, but the more time that passed, the more difficult it became. It was always going to be tomorrow. I’d visited Portland—all the west coast cities, but Portland felt the most comfortable—so when he offered the money to start Uncommon Cup, I took it and ran.”

She thinks for a moment. “It’s possible the money was my Grammy’s. Jimmie’s guilt money for killing Dale, my guilt money for never telling Jimmie what really happened. I was so angry he left me out there that night.”

“But you made a life. You got past it.”

“Yes. I did. I made a life. I quit making bad choices.” She laughs a little. “Oh, maybe Pete was a bad choice. I don’t know. I did love him, and I know he loved me.”

“He wasn’t a bad choice.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” She gazes out the car window at the stars. “Poor Pete. He saved us, and we couldn’t help him.”

“That bastard had already hurt him bad. Saving us might have been the last thing he was able to do.”

She cries through Centralia and Longview. I drive. “Everything was going well. The shops, you …” She shakes her head. “I missed you as soon as you left for the beach. I know it was me who made you go, and I’m glad you did. But I wanted you back immediately.”

“Then Dale showed up.”

“Yes. Dale showed up.” Her voice transmits a shapeless dread, and her hand trembles under mine. She draws a deep breath, and when she lets it out the trembling stops. “He wanted to know what happened to his things that night—not that he came out and asked. He tried to be clever about it, pretending he was happy to see me and playing on my sympathy by complaining about his health.” She shakes her head. “I always thought he sold Grammy’s ring. It had never occurred to me to look inside those toolboxes.” Unspoken is the fact Dale would have been thinking about the money too. As Chase, he must have realized Bella never got the money
or
the ring. And perhaps on some level she
did
recognize the long lost Dale—if only unconsciously—and saw the wreck he’d become, realized he never had the money either.

Not like we can ask either one of them now.

“So you went back to Farmersville to find the ring.”

“I thought it would be a there-and-back trip. Drive out, visit Mrs. Parmelee, spend a few days digging in the woods. I didn’t know that house had been built, didn’t know no one would be home.”

“The ring wasn’t there.”

“No. That’s when I knew Bella must have somehow gotten it. Maybe it’s in her house, or maybe she sold it twenty years ago.” Her tears return. I have a feeling there will need to be a lot of tears. “That fucker had no right to do this to us.” I don’t know if she’s referring to Dale Whittaker or Robert Earl Perry, but either way, she’s right.

We pull onto my street as the first limb of sunlight peeks over the shoulder of Mount Hood. Ruby Jane doesn’t want to go home yet. She wants to rest first, get her bearings. And I want to keep her with me. I park, and lead her into the house. We almost trip over three more days worth of mail. I collect it all and add it to the stack Susan created on the coffee table. Ruby Jane goes back to the bathroom and closes the door. I hear the shower. While I wait, I get a tall glass of water and a short one of Macallan, then sit on the couch. Most of the mail is bills, the rest bullshit. But one padded envelope gets my attention. Hand-addressed to only “Kadash,” with no return address. A San Francisco postmark. I pull the zipper tab opening, allow a small, old-fashioned skeleton key and a half sheet of note paper to fall into my hand.

Kadash, Roo will know what to do with this.—James

I have the note in one hand, the key in the other, when Ruby Jane joins me on the couch. She’s wearing my bathrobe, and has wrapped her hair in a towel. She smells like Irish Spring and apples. Somehow, Ruby Jane always manages to smell of apples. She drapes an arm across my back, lowers her head gently onto my left shoulder.