Dead Red Cadillac, A (13 page)

"I was working up to it. Know what your dad said when I told him? 'Birds of a feather fly together.' What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know I've never been able to make sense of my father's little homilies," I said, accepting the beer he handed me as apology. "So, why did she leave this time?"

"She said now that the boys are grown and gone she was through playing second fiddle, and I don't have to tell you who she was talking about. At least this time, she was sober when she left."

I chewed on my lip for a minute, remembering Caleb's wife drunk and stoked on a frustration she couldn't control, spitting her drink at him at the last backyard party. "Happy Birthday to the Siamese twins!" she said, throwing her drink at Caleb. "Jus' don't know it yet, do you, you son-a-bitch?"

"Oh, for crying out loud," I said, fed up with Marcy. "Did she lay that crap on you before or after she emptied your bank account and left?"

He ignored the dig, still plumbing the depths of our lost childhood. "She's right, you know. Except for the few years you were gone, we've been friends longer than either of us has been married. What do you think is the matter with us?"

"Well, if it's my opinion you're after, I already had one therapist confirm the theory. I'm not marriage material," I said, upending the bottle and finishing it. "Don't know about you," I said, under-handing my empty in the general direction of the encroaching neighbors. The line of crepe myrtles absorbed the bottle, but I could still see house lights through the vegetation. I sat down again. "But I'm through getting married. So, you miss her?"

"Marcy? Only when I can't find something she hid." He leaned forward and worked the bottle around between his hands. "So, I guess the answer's no. Not like when you up and left for New York City. And all I got was an e-mail once a month till you married Jorge, and then even that stopped."

"Did you really miss me?"

"You were my best friend, what do you think?"

"I gave up New York and came home, didn't I?"

"Then you married Ricky. Dumb to dumber."

"Ah, yes, the old proverbial frying pan into the fire. Like I told you, I'm not getting married any more. I'm cured, so you don't have to worry," I said, still thinking he was concerned about Garth.

"Do I look worried? At least I'm mature enough not to go crazy chasing after younger women."

I decided to ignore his reference to the age difference between Garth and me. "Hey, don't sell yourself short," I said. "Darlene Hobbs still thinks you're hot."

"Darlene Hobbs? Wasn't she a couple of years behind us in high school?"

"And still drooling over the uniform—high school football to sheriff's uniform—it's all the same to Darlene."

"She's not my type."

"You might want to check your calendar, bubba. Maybe it's about time for you to let loose and go for some good old middle-aged craziness."

His voice brightened. "You mean, now that I'm forty, I get to dress like I'm twenty, wear my hair long, and chase girls half my age?"

"Sure, though you'll have to grow one side real long." I reached over, and letting my fingers comb through his soft buzz, said, "It'll lay over that bald spot you hide under your Stetson. In fact, you do all that, I can guarantee Marcy'll be calling long-distance, begging for a second, or is it third, chance."

"In that case, I guess I'll just lay low for a while longer."

I leaned back and looked at the silhouette of his profile. Strong, high forehead, aquiline nose, the wide, full lips relaxed from the thin line of our earlier battle. No beginning of sag below the stubborn chin. His chest was broad and his stomach flat from daily workouts at the gym. All in all, he was a very attractive man. No wonder Darlene lusted after him. "Well, you've got your pick of women from here to Stockton."

"I don't know, will you promise not to get married again until I've had a chance to look at all of them?"

"Why, Caleb Stone," I teased, "are you suggesting I'm to be put at the tail end of the line?"

He rolled his tongue around the inside of his cheek for a minute, and then said, "You can be first in line, Lalla Bains. Just say the word."

I blinked and said, "You're just being gallant, but thanks anyway."

We were quiet then, allowing the silence between us to lengthen. From above the oleanders, the North Star hung like a lantern, and I decided my time was better spent examining every star in the night sky instead of following where this conversation might be going.

Finally, I broke the silence with a question. "So what did you find out from Garth's ex?"

"Our interview lasted all of five minutes, and her end of it was held up by four-letter words. It was a waste. Though I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall when Garth finally does show up."

"You mean he hasn't been to see his daughter yet?"

He snorted. "His ex said the only way he was going to see his kid again was if he came up with the back child support he owed her, all seventy-five grand."

"What did you mean earlier when you said Garth was 'a mooch and a pathological liar'?"

"I hope you aren't falling for that 'good ol' boy Okie' routine of his. He's California born and raised, and the only reason he got a second chance at a business is because his aunt Patience loaned him the money."

"Okay by me," I said. "So he's a local boy, and his aunt loaned him some money to start a business. Is that the worst of it?"

"Did he tell you he ruined his ex's tire shop with his drinking, or that he left her with a pile of debt when he deserted his family for the open road?"

"Okay," I said. So it wasn't quite the version Garth gave me, but I didn't think it would do any good to defend Garth, not with Caleb's attitude. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was jealous.

"But does it have to mean Garth murdered his aunt? What motive could he have?"

"Motive? Garth had it in spades. His ex-wife says he's in debt up to his eyebrows and that he came out to California expecting another loan from his aunt Patience."

"So says the ex, but she's got an ax to grind. Do you really think she's a viable source?"

"It's a matter of record. He hasn't been to see his kid or pay child support since he left town the first time."

"Oh. What about Bill Hollander's kids? Vigilante justice?"

He chuckled sadly. "After I read his file, I kinda felt sorry for Eddy McBride. Those two made sure he didn't get parole. Unfortunately, they both have airtight alibis."

Caleb was silent a moment, then said, "This all revolves around you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, there goes Lalla again, being all inconsiderate and selfish."

"No, no. I'm agreeing with you. This case wouldn't have caught the second page if you hadn't been part of it. A home burglary gone bad? Unfortunate, but it happens twice a week in the valley."

It was as if all the odd bits had finally coalesced into one concrete thought. I sat up. "But with a dead woman found in a classic car owned by a former New York model turned crop duster, this case gets the front page for three days running. It's been picked up by NBC, ABC, and Katie Couric. Everyone's paying attention. Not something a killer would actually want, is it?"

"Maybe not, but—"

"That could be why Eddy McBride broke out and walked off the honor farm a month shy of his release! He found out something that scared him enough to make a break for it."

"Well, that part may be a stretch."

"Maybe he knew she was in danger, or maybe he knew who killed her."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, now. That's not to say he's not guilty. There's the Hollander murder, and the evidence is irrefutable."

I told him Roxanne's opinion that Eddy McBride was too nice of a guy to have killed Bill Hollander or his own wife, but since Caleb wasn't warming to the idea that Eddy might be innocent, I left out Roxanne's story that Eddy was a cross-dresser.

"When we find Eddy McBride, we'll confirm it, but if you're right, I'm mad as hell that he thought he had to involve you in this."

"But—"

"No buts, sweetheart." Caleb reached over and stroked the back of his hand lightly across my cheek. I warmed to his touch and felt all the anxiety sigh out of me.

"Oh, by the way, bet you forgot. Happy birthday to us."

I popped up out of my chair. "Oh my God, Caleb! I'm so sorry, it was today, wasn't it?" After all my whining about my upcoming birthday, I'd not only forgotten the entire day, but our standing date for dinner, with spouses, when we had them. Not only had I had dinner without him, I'd had dinner with Caleb's number one murder suspect.

His lips quirked in a half smile. "It's okay."

I reached out to hug him. "I'm still a dope."

He tensed for a minute, then folded his arms around me and whispered, "You're irresponsible, impetuous and careless." The words were spoken with all the gentleness of a caress. I would have pulled away, but he tightened his arms around me and looked into my eyes. "And I wouldn't have you any other way." Then he thumbed a path across my bottom lip, kissed me, picked up his hat, and clomped tiredly down the porch steps to his cruiser.

Watching the red dots of his taillights flash once as he signaled his turn onto the main road and left, I touched my mouth where he'd drawn a line and crossed it. Boy, howdy! Did he say he still liked me? Most of the time, I didn't even like me. What on earth was going on? Was he simply lonely now that Marcy was gone again?

Do you miss her?
I'd asked
. Not unless I'm looking for something, I don't.

He
liked
me. He liked
me
.

I closed the front door behind me and walked through the foyer. Passing the living room, I could see the flickering blue of the TV and Spike contentedly curled up on my dad's lap in the Barcalounger. Once again, I quietly closed the door.

Taped to the curved oak banister were a card and a cloud of helium-filled balloons. I took the card off its ribbon and let the cloud rise on its own up the stairwell. I reached the landing just as the brightly colored bouquet was drifting into reach. I recaptured it by its slender red ribbon and pulled my balloons into my bedroom, where I sat on the bed and read Caleb's card. When I read the message I thought, Caleb is right, Lalla Bains. You're selfish, self-absorbed and vain. I would have to find a way to make it up to him. Did Caleb really forgive me? Or did "I wouldn't have you any other way" mean he agreed with me—that I was a dope? The card had a picture of a bi-plane soaring in the clouds. He'd drawn a little picture of me in the seat of the plane, smiling and waving. The inscription said, "May you fly right through this birthday and many more." And then, "Love you, Caleb." Was that like as in I love you? A sweet wave of thankfulness washed over me. Having Caleb in my life was sweet. He was kind and thoughtful in ways I'd forgotten a man should be.

Yup, I'd flown right through forty and maybe a lot more.

Chapter Fourteen:

Unlike my dad, who claims he can't sleep in a regular bed anymore, I feel most comfortable in my own bed. Usually, two punches of the pillow release a soporific drug that knocks me out for the rest of the night. Tonight's playbill was running across the ceiling in neon lights, all without sound; that is, until I heard a noise. Not the expansion of the house doing its nighttime contractions, nor the arthritic oak planks settling against each other in the cooling air. And our house wasn't old enough to be haunted. Then why was I wide awake and listening for a sound I couldn't identify and waiting to see if I could hear it again?

Nothing? It must have been something. Somebody might as well have thrown cold water on my face. I sat up and listened again as the numerical disk flipped over on my clock radio.

2:30 a.m.

They may be old-fashioned, but without my contact lenses, the red numbers on digital clocks blend into fuzzy little balls. The big numbers flopped over like grammar school flash cards asking for the capital of Peru. Another number clanked over.

2:31 a.m.

I slipped my bare feet to the floor, thinking I'd tiptoe across the room and stand by the open door to listen. Not so easy with the cast still on my leg. Tiptoe was more like thump, slide, thump.

I kept my back to the wall and moved out onto the landing, trying to see or hear that sound again.

Nothing.

When I limped up to the railing, the oak floor complained. Now I was making all the noise.

There it was again. Someone was downstairs, stalking shadows in the foyer. My dad?

I felt my breath catch and put a hand protectively up to my neck, my pulse hammering an uneven rhythm.

"Noah—that you?" I called, still hoping it was my dad heading for the bathroom across from the TV room. Then why didn't he answer me? Backing up to the small table at the landing, I felt the thick oak and touched the cool bronze of a metal bookend. Even in the dark, I knew it by heart—a matching set of horse heads, a Christmas gift from my brother to his thirteen-year-old horse-crazy sister.

I hefted one bookend, stepped up to the stairwell again, and squinting into the black, croaked, "Who's there!"

The footsteps below lightly backed into the shadows. "Who's there!" I squeaked again.

A flash of light—a pop, and the wall behind me exploded stucco and wood. Another pop, and the banister splintered, bits of it spitting at my ankles. Shock rattled through my veins.

Some SOB was shooting at me!

Furious that I was being shot at, I wound up and pitched the bookend in the direction of the last flash. I heard it connect with a thunk—bull's-eye! A groan and a heavy thud as the shooter hit the floor. But before I could hobble all the way down the stairs, the lights were on and my dad was yelling and waving his shotgun around. Spike was barking and there was enough racket to raise the dead. I pushed down the barrel of Noah's gun, reached over and pulled his glasses up on his nose, then swatted at Spike, who was trying to bite me again. "Not me, you idiot! Over there!" I pointed at the crumpled body by the wall.

A single dress heel lay on the floor, and a woman in a pink linen suit slumped against the wall, a hand covering a curly blond head. I rushed over and felt for a pulse. Her wrist was cold and I couldn't feel anything. "My God, Noah! I've killed her!"

My dad sank down on his knees, pulling the arm away to expose her face. A flutter of eyelids and the eyes opened. She groaned and pushing up onto an elbow, tipped the blond curls up over her forehead, exposing a light grey crew cut. A wig!

My dad studied the face below the blond wig. "Well, I'll be damned. It's Eddy McBride." He poked at him with his shotgun, "Eddy! What in Sam Hill do you mean breaking into my house in the middle of the night and shooting off a loaded gun at my daughter!"

The little man sat up, rubbing his head. "You don't have to shout, Noah, can't you see I'm injured? Besides," he said, pointing a pink-tipped nail at me, "She tried to kill me."

Even if his nylons did have a tear in them, I was no longer feeling magnanimous toward Eddy McBride. "What are you talking about, you little rat, you shot at me first."

Looking up to where he had missed me by inches, he said, "Sorry, I was nervous and I think it sorta went off by itself." He looked at me and back to my dad. "I didn't know she was your daughter."

Noah snorted at the implication. "Not likely, Eddy. I'm a widower with a bad ticker."

I poked at Eddy with my foot. "Like it would be okay to shoot me if I weren't his daughter?"

"No, of course not," Eddy replied, his voice a weak tenor. "I didn't mean to shoot at you at all. I only wanted to scare you off. I shouldn't have brought the gun anyway. I've bungled this all so badly. Please, may I stand up?"

"I think you'd better stay where you are," I said, not trusting this polite version. I found that my sympathies for Eddy McBride were at an all-time low. I looked around for the pistol he'd dropped and noticed the broken sidelight. So that was the sound I heard, the sound that had caught my attention in the first place—breaking glass. I gingerly picked up the small-caliber pistol lying under the entry table and pointed it at our intruder. "Before I call the police, I think you need to explain a couple of things."

He looked up at me, pulled his knees up to his chest and held his sore head. "Could I have some ice first? Please?"

"Noah, you get it, I'll hold the gun on him." Noah started to object, then shuffled toward the kitchen and ice. "If you didn't come here to murder us, then why bring a gun in the first place?"

"I saw you get out of Garth's bus and I thought… I thought maybe you and he were in on it. Though now that I think of it, you're not the one I saw, you're too tall," he said, looking up at me.

It always came back to that. Not the long nose with the bump high on the bridge, nor the shoulder-length blond hair, or the fact that I had football-wide shoulders, but my height. "Wait a minute, what girl?"

"A redhead. Wearing all the wrong colors for that bird's nest of hair. The little alley cat was going in and out of Garth's bus the day after they murdered my Patience. I followed her out here, but she must've seen me following her, 'cause she only slowed down at the turn off, then sped up again. Figured she was here to shake down your old man."

My dad came in with a wad of ice in a dish towel. "Me, with a redhead? That'll be the day. Why didn't you ask me instead of shooting at my daughter?"

Eddy said nothing as Noah handed him the ice. I was fast losing what was left of my earlier kind feelings for him.

"Forget about the redhead for a minute. What were you looking for when you trashed your wife's house?"

"I didn't… Never mind. I'm not saying anymore, not now, anyway."

"No? You certainly had something on your mind when you shoved a gun at my back."

"That was before," he said, looking up at Noah.

"Okay, then explain about the redhead."

"She had a key to his rig, so they must've come together. I was too late to save her," he said, rubbing at the knob on his head. "The bastard murdered her."

"You mean Garth?"

He cradled his sore head between his hands and sobbed. "The self-centered little shit never gave a moment's thought to anybody, and now she's gone."

That threw me off. If he actually did feel something for his wife, then maybe my earlier theory about him was right. But this business with the gun was not going in his favor.

I reached down and shook him. "Eddy, tell me! What is it you're trying to say? Who killed her? Was it Garth?"

My questions were met with painful groans and incoherent mumbles.

My dad squatted down to pat the little man's shoulder, then looked up at me and said, "He's got quite a bump on the head, Lalla. That bookend must've concussed him pretty bad."

"You watch him. I'm going to call Caleb."

When Caleb didn't pick up his cell, I called Dispatch. I told the desk deputy that we'd had a break-in and he offered to send a patrolman, but I told him I wanted Caleb Stone to come. I assured the deputy not to worry; the burglar was not going anywhere. "Yes, Officer, my dad has his shotgun trained on him as we speak."

At least that's what I thought until I went back to see my dad standing there, the shotgun under his arm, the front door open, and Eddy McBride gone.

I sighed. "Don't tell me, you felt sorry for him again."

He nodded, fingering the stock of his shotgun. "We let him go and we kill two birds with one stone."

"No, no, no! It's 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,' remember?"

"Then how would we be able to prove Garth killed Patience?"

"And where's the ‘we’ in this?"

"Eddy and I struck a deal. If he can find where Garth stashed the money, it'll prove Garth murdered Patience. Eddy will turn over Garth and the loot, and he'll be clear to go to Mexico."

"Clear to go to Mexico? Good God, Noah. He isn't doing this so his name will be cleared, he wants that loot you so casually think is up for grabs." I walked around in circles, scratching at my scalp. "How on earth do you expect me to explain this to Caleb now?"

"I know he's a thief. He's just not a murderer. It's not his fault he's got identity problems. Besides, he needs a break."

"I think he's had his share of breaks," I commented, nodding at the shattered glass of our sidelight. "And you told me not to get involved." Then I followed my dad out to sit on the porch and wait for Caleb.

"Why did you give a retainer to Judge Griffin to defend Eddy?" I asked.

"You were just a child, Lalla. It wasn't anything I'd be talking about to a kid," he said.

I was stung. "Dad, I was twenty, living in New York and married to that baseball player, remember?" Then I was sorry I brought it up. My brother Leslie died that year. So, I should forgive him if he lost count. Dad never could remember how old I was, much less my birthday.

He blinked. "Yes. I forgot. Eddy McBride. I hadn't given him or his wife a second thought in years. Not until you lost the jam-making contest to her."

"I don't get it. Why pay for Eddy's defense?"

"You appear to be on familiar terms with the man." He looked down his long nose at me.

"The up-close and pointy end of Eddy's gun makes up for the lack of a formal introduction. Now talk."

He tilted back his head and regarded the stars. "'Resistance to tyrants is obedience to God.'"

"Huh?" Sometimes my dad's little quips went right over my head. "Is that like, 'What doesn't kill you, should'?"

"You've got the quote wrong, it's 'Whatever does not kill me makes me stronger.' Friedrich Nietzsche. I paid for his retainer because I believed Eddy McBride was being framed, and that's all there is to it."

"Framed? Did it ever occur to you that someone intends to make you pay for your generosity? Look at the facts: He tried to frame the daughter of the one man who paid for his attorney. While I'm at it, why didn't you tell me, or at least try to stop me, when I took that Caddy away from Ricky?"

The dour look he gave me spoke volumes.

"Oh, all right, so it wouldn't have done any good. But now it's so convoluted and messy."

He held up a finger. "Bill Hollander and his car were old news by the time you came home. I didn't even realize it was on Ricky's car lot until after you brought it home. Besides, you're off the hook. Caleb said so."

Exasperated, I dug my nails into my palms and took a deep breath. "I may be off the hook, but knowing Detective Rodney, you'll be up for questioning next."

"My donation to Eddy's defense fund was done on terms of anonymity. Eddy knew, of course, and so did his wife. I paid Sidney Griffin a nominal fee to keep my secret, as any lawyer to client would."

"Client-lawyer privilege isn't going to help when they serve Judge Griffin with a warrant." Had I stumbled on an old gang of drug runners, my father included?

"Dad, can't you see what it looks like? You, Bill Hollander and Judge Griffin had your own gang back then. I want to know, were you guys doing more than baiting hooks and gutting fish?"

"We were fishing buddies, that's all."

"And using your crop-dusting company as cover for a little importing of drugs from Mexico?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Okay, then. Was it because you were in love with Patience that you paid for her husband's defense?"

He angrily narrowed his eyes at me, then threw back his head and laughed. It was an odd sound, the laughter, probably because I seldom heard it anymore. "Oh Lord, and you thought…  That's a good one." He held onto his sides while the laughter rolled around his insides. When I thought he was done, another rusty chuckle erupted. Finally wiping at his cheeks, he said, "Lalla, I wasn't in love with her, I swear. If you recollect, that was a tough year. I helped Eddy McBride because he was Leslie's friend."

"Leslie? My brother, Leslie? How would you know who Leslie's friends were?" I was challenging him now, as my own feelings of neglect resurfaced.