Dead Red Cadillac, A (20 page)

The front door slammed shut and a girl's voice called from the hallway. "Mama?"

Cathy and Dan exchanged looks. Something was going on with these two.

I said, "Well, that's all I have," and snapping my notebook shut, I stood up. "You've been very cooperative, and I appreciate being able to take your valuable time."

They were a bit slow to follow my example, passing each other more silent messages. But then they stood and Cathy Thorne-Levorwosky ducked past me to make sure she got to the front of the line as we paraded down the narrow hallway for the front door.

She nodded at the sound of her child's footsteps coming down the hall. "Don't think about trying to talk to my kid on your way out. She's a minor, and you don't have my permission."

At the front door, she pulled the girl behind her and opened the door to give me a little shove outside. "You wanna do something useful, why don't you squeeze him for the back child support he owes me?"

I had to work at keeping a neutral expression. Otherwise, I was sure this bird would see my suspicions, drag me back into her lair, and pick my bones clean.

As the door closed behind me, I had the very clear impression that the girl knew exactly when her dad had come to town, and it didn't match her mom's version. The question was, what did Garth have to offer that would convince the mother to say otherwise? Seventy-five grand sounded about right.

In the car, I called the realtor listed on the discarded sign at Cathy's house.

"Oh, sorry," she chirped. "That property has been put on hold right now."

"You mean it's under contract?"

"Not exactly. They're holding off selling. But we've got other hot listings in that neighborhood. Shall we make an appointment to see a few tomorrow? Or would you rather see something today?"

I told the pushy realtor "no thanks" and hung up. She was about to sell her house, but something or someone had changed her mind. Seventy-five thousand dollars.

I couldn't wait to tell Caleb. My news sat like a newly discovered coin in my pocket, waiting to be spent. When he came on the line, I asked him what I thought was a simple question. "Has anyone thought to talk to the daughter?"

He sounded miffed. "Let me guess. That was you at her house just now? No, don't deny it. Detective Rodney got a call asking if we had sent a woman police officer."

"I didn't tell her I was with the police. I said I was following up on the investigation."

There was silence for a minute, as his father's antique chair protested its age. "All right. The answer is no, we haven't talked to the daughter. Why do you want to know?"

"First of all, Garth never said he was here to pay back child support, those were his ex's words."

"What's your point?"

"I think he's bribed her with the promise of back child support if she plays ball. She may sound belligerent, but it's her cover. She's his alibi. He was there Friday, not Sunday. And if you talk to the daughter, I think you'll find that she'll confirm it. Oh, and I almost forgot, there's a real estate sign next to their garage."

"So?"

Caleb's succinct style was beginning to rub me the wrong way. I said, "She drives a beat-up Mercedes, her husband Dan's an electrician, and since the name on his truck is Louie's Electric, I doubt he's making the big money. Also, there're new plants in the yard, the house has been painted inside and out, and it appears all ready to sell. But get this, the agent said Mrs. Levorwosky recently changed her mind. No explanation, she just took it off the market. I think Garth promised her a split of his aunt's money in exchange for an alibi. She gets her seventy-five thousand in one lump sum, but only if what she says confirms that he came into town Sunday and not Friday."

"That would keep her quiet? Somehow I thought she'd rather see him fry."

"She's greedy, not stupid. I think the daughter will talk. She had been conveniently out of the house when I got there, but when she came home, Mommy suddenly got very nervous and told me she wouldn't give her permission for the girl to talk to me." I gave him some meaningful dead air time.

He did that hmming thing for a minute more, then said, "Where will you be? I'll want to talk to you later."

"I have some errands to do. Are you going to get a warrant to talk to the girl?"

"Meet me at Roxanne's by five. Be there. We'll talk."

Then he hung up. Once again, I got no thanks and no respect for my efforts.

I decided to call Garth. Okay, so it was a knee-jerk reaction to getting left with a dial tone instead of the "atta girl" I was expecting from Caleb.

Garth, rushing for an appointment to finish up the arrangements on his aunt's funeral, agreed to meet me at his RV park by six. We had a lot to talk about, and we could do it over dinner, he said. The thought of eating another meal with Garth gave me the willies. I said yes, but with every intention of canceling after my meeting with Caleb at five.

Frustrated that I wouldn't be able to immediately quiz Garth, I came up with a brilliant alternative. I'd search his motor home. Being a private citizen, I didn't require a search warrant, and I didn't have to worry about ducking past a cop either, since the police were tailing him, not his motor home.

I got into the rental car and fished around the bottom of my purse for my cell phone. GTE kindly did a direct dial for the Modesto Mortuary.

I asked the woman who answered if Mr. Thorne had arrived for his appointment regarding his aunt's funeral. She was unsure. "Can you hold a moment please? Mr. Jones, our director, is in conference with a client."

I could hold and drive. If he wasn't there, I would dive into Roxanne's and eat an early lunch before proceeding with my skullduggery.

"Sorry for keeping you so long, dearie, but Mr. Swartz has a very distraught mother to contend with, such a pity, a sixteen-year-old son who insisted on having a motorcycle, and now he's gone. It just breaks your heart."

I hate funerals, hate funeral homes and everything and everybody who goes with them. I was still looking for a way to avoid attending Patience's funeral, but so far without any luck.

"Could I ask you to look and tell me if Mr. Thorne is perhaps in your waiting room?"

"Oh, my. Is this an emergency, dearie?"

"Well, you might say that, if you can find him." If he answered, I intended to hang up.

She was back in a flash. "No, there's nobody waiting." I could hear pages from a date book flipping. "Let's see now, nine, uh, that was the mother, poor thing. We like to leave plenty of time between appointments, so as not to rush the bereaved. Ten-thirty, yes, here it is. That's Mr. Thorne's appointment time, but I think we're running a bit late, so it's a good thing he's not here yet. Would you like me to have him give you a call when he arrives?"

Garth was telling the truth. "No, he's probably still at home, I'll give him a call there." And hung up before she could ask my name.

If I had been her, I would have had the caller's name and phone number before drawing a second breath, but then some folks are just naturally nosier. Then again, the receptionist might have been a mother with a motorcycle-driving teenager.

I had time for that early lunch after all and, remembering to put on my turn signal, looked over my shoulder before changing lanes and took the exit to Roxanne's. My exit was uneventful: no horns honked, no tires squealed as irate drivers were forced to brake at my passing. Not one middle finger salute accompanied my exiting the freeway. Gee, maybe I should drive like this more often.

I ordered a BLT, no mayo, with an iced tea, and watched the ebb and flow of hungry patrons. Roxanne was gone, running errands. Leon was at his day job, no doubt sawing someone's house in two. Maya was out of school for the day, bussing tables. She sidled over to my perch at the counter and grinned at me. Her grin made me smile and forget all my problems, if only for the moment.

She removed my empty plate and swished at the counter with a damp rag. "Have they caught that lady-killer yet? I guess he got somebody else besides poor Mrs. McBride," she said, nodding toward the empty stool at the end of the counter.

"The police are looking into it," I said, wiping my mouth of crumbs.

"And what are you doing to catch him?"

"Me? What makes you think I'm doing anything?"

She giggled, leaned over the counter and whispered conspiratorially, "Mom says you do whatever you set your mind to, and you probably should be wearing a straightjacket for all the wild stunts you've pulled." Then she winked. "I want lessons."

"Very funny, and I can honestly say there are plenty of others who would agree with her." Of course, I was thinking of one person in particular. "Caleb is doing his best to find the person or persons, as best as he knows how. I am doing some, uh, minor research—at the library. Besides, Caleb would shit a brick if he knew I was snooping around on my own."

"I bet that doesn't stop you." She grinned. "So, where are you doing this snooping?"

I froze. "Uh, wait a minute. I didn't say I was doing anything illegal."

"'Course not. Can I come?"

I shook my head. "No, It's too dangerous. Besides, what would your mother say?" I added, looking wildly around behind me, expecting a large brown hand to clap down on my shoulder.

"She's not here," Maya said, shivering with delighted anticipation. "And I promise not to say a word. This is gonna be good!" she said, throwing off her apron and skipping out from behind the counter. At six-foot even and skinny as a pole, she still managed to yank me off my perch. "You need a posse and I got a free hour. Come on, let's get going."

I dug in my heels, stalling while I tried to tell her why she wouldn't want to join me. My clear-cut reasons were getting nowhere. Exasperated, I tried one last time. "You're going to piss off your mama, leaving your job like this."

"Don't let Mama hear you say pissed." She dimpled, totally untroubled at the thought of her mama's wrath. "You can say shit, Daddy does every time he drops a dish. But he mumbles so Mama pretends she doesn't hear him. Besides, Mama says if I'm going to live in New York, I gotta start thinking for myself."

"I doubt this is what your mama had in mind," I said, as she gave me a push toward the front door. "Roxanne will skin me alive."

I said no one more time, but she was out the door and in the passenger side before I could get into the truck and buckle up.

Getting rid of Maya was going to be harder than I thought. "No, you can't go and that's final!" I tried shooing, then nudging at her, but she wouldn't budge.

"But, Aunt Lalla, I can help," she said, long arms and legs clinging to the upholstery.

"Listen, kid, if you want to get to New York alive, you'd better get out of this car now." Kid, my ass, she was an octopus; for every limb I pushed out, another one climbed back in with yet another reason why she should be allowed to help me with my investigation.

Chapter Twenty-one:

Maya, secure now in her position as shotgun, clipped on her seat belt. "There's a rumor going around in the café that Patience was hiding stolen money," she said, her eyes sparkling in excitement. "Is that true? And the girl found murdered yesterday? The papers said she was from Oklahoma. Garth's from Oklahoma, isn't he? Was she Garth's girlfriend?"

I unbuckled my seat belt and got out. I walked around to the passenger side, opened her door and answered her quizzical look. "You drive," I said, hoping she'd be too busy driving to batter me with questions. But if teenagers were multitasking athletes, Maya would have had a gold medal by now.

"And no texting to your friends while you're driving."

"I never text when I'm driving. Oh, boy, this is so exciting," she gushed. "North? South? Freeway or frontage road?" She took her eyes off the road to look me over. "Mama says Garth likes you. I don't suppose you would like him though, not if he has a girlfriend. Oh, she's dead. So, that wouldn't be a problem. Do you suppose—"

When I groaned, she got the hint. "Okay, I'm cool. Where we going, anyway?"

"Take the downtown exit at 9th Street."

"What's—"

"I have a hunch I want to follow up on," I said. What I didn't say was that, so far, handing out freebies to Caleb had garnered not one single "Thank you." I was going to think like Caleb and look to uncover that last clue that would tie up the last of this mystery.

At the rental lot, I told her to wait in the truck. Inside, the customer service zombie from my last visit was leaning on the counter, watching dust collect on the window. I waved a hand in front of him to get some attention. He woke up and gave me a noncommittal nod. "Oh. Didn't see you there. Can I help you?"

I pulled out my fake badge and held it up. It worked. His face turned a shade paler, and he grabbed at the counter.

I reached out to steady him, but he flinched away from my touch, as if I might burn him.

He was whimpering about his buddies and how it was their weed, not his, and he couldn't lose this job because his folks said it was his last chance.

I put the badge back into my pants pocket and held up my palm. "Stop. I'm not from Juvy; I could care less about you or your weed-smoking buddies. I'm investigating a murder."

I knew better than to say I was from the police department. Later, when he was sober, he might recall this conversation. "You may have read about it in the papers? The lady in the car that they found in the lake?" I hated to give credence to the sensationalist style of news reporting, but if it penetrated his foggy thinking, I was all for it. He gave me a blank stare. Nobody under thirty read the papers anymore; they texted. "Okay, how about this?" I tried. "I came in Monday and rented a car. It was the last one on the lot."

The glazed eyes begged me to disappear. Since that wasn't going to happen, I tried again. "I'd like to see the customer list for this date," and wrote it down on a piece of paper.

His eyes rolled around in their sockets, looking for an escape. "Yeah. Like, I can do that." Goody, I could almost hear the synapses firing up, in gear again. I only had to hold up the note with the date on it in front of him one more time before he stepped over to the computer and punched it in.

"Okay, so let me just print this out, and you can have it," he said, licking his lips, obviously wishing I'd disappear.

I picked up the computerized list and, starting with my name, worked backwards. There were only three for that day: mine and two others. I tapped on the paper and showed him the company name, then took out a copy of the newspaper photo of Autumn and held it up. "Is this the woman who signed on this?"

"Oh, yeah. That's her. She paid with a credit card. It wasn't stolen, was it? Did she wreck it? I wouldn't want to get into trouble for that."

"No," I said. "I don't think it was stolen." If the card Autumn used was stolen, it would have bounced by now. Didn't Garth tell me he'd canceled her credit card? Guess not.

"I can get you a copy of it," he said, suddenly helpful. "I gave her the last good automatic we had." His head snapped up and he peered over the counter at me. "Hey, you came in too, dincha? We didn't have any more good ones, just the clunker. Sorry 'bout that, Officer."

"I'll take that copy," I said, ignoring the fact that he was starting to repeat himself. "Sounds to me like you've got parents who care about you. Get some new friends and get a hobby, 'cause jail isn't where you want to spend your summer vacation."

Out in the car, Maya was squirming with excitement. "Well?"

"It would have been a snap if I were talking to more brain and less drugs. Don't let me ever catch you doing that shit!"

She giggled. "Are you kidding? My parents, my brother, heck, all my aunts and uncles would kill me if I did 'that shit.' So what did you find?"

"While waiting for the garage to fix the Caddy, I got a rental here. When I complained about the quality of the vehicle, the customer service kid said he'd rented the last good one to a redhead."

Maya made an appreciative sound. "That was her? Alexandra Graham, right? She was the redhead? So what's it mean?"

"The credit card she used is from a truck stop called Four Corners in Enid, Oklahoma. It's Garth's. She used his credit card to rent a car. It means he knew she was here. Her prints were on the windowsill outside his aunt's house, and there's her little gold pendant she admitted was hers. It was found crushed in the door of my Caddy. It means, at the very least, she was there with him when he dumped his aunt in my car into the lake. She was trying to get him jailed so he wouldn't come after her. I think it was because she planned a double-cross for her ex-ex-ex-fiancé."

She shivered. "So Garth killed her?"

"I'm thinking he did. Let's see if we can find that money."

Maya sat in the RV parking lot with instructions to call me on her cell should Garth come back. Under no circumstances was she to get out of the car or do anything else. Wide-eyed, she nodded. When I opened the car door, she suddenly grabbed my hand. "If he's a suspect, won't the cops be watching his place?"

"Good thinking. Except that yesterday I helped Caleb crack this case, so they're too busy following him around to make sure he doesn't leave town to watch his RV." I didn't add that Caleb hadn't been particularly grateful.

I got out and went into the office. The manager, elderly woman, walked me outside eyed my car, Maya and me, then pointed to Garth's motor home. Great. She'd no doubt tattle the minute he stuck his head in her office. Hopefully, it would be too late.

I hoofed it over to his motor home and used the key I'd pilfered that first night from his chair cushion fit perfectly. Inside, I tried to think where I might find an escape hatch. All the windows and the door could be easily watched by one bored patrolman. But could he have gotten out by another exit? A window, a secret escape hatch?

I went directly to the rear of the bus, opening closets, checking windows. The bathroom had all its towels neatly hanging on their racks and the mini window above the shower was too small for anything but steam to escape. The bed was made up with a spread matching the window curtains over mini-blinds. The windows might allow someone smaller than Garth to slip out, but I rather imagined he would have a better way. I opened the mirrored closet door and looked inside. Then closing the closet door, I saw the neatly made up bed in the mirrored doors, and turning around to face the bed, I wondered, what kind of a frame does a motor home bed sit on? Getting down on my hands and knees, I pulled back the spread. The mattress sat on a platform, the carpet bending up to cover the sides. I tapped on the short walls. Hollow. I scooted along, pulling at the top edge of the carpet until a large square piece came away in my hands. The carpet was backed with plywood that matched the rest of the platform. The size was big enough for a man of Garth's size to crawl into, if he were so inclined. But what was below?

Then I heard the outside door open. Someone was coming! Why didn't Maya page me? Had she missed Garth driving in? Or did he sneak in from another direction?

I slid through the opening, down into the dark hole, and feeling my feet touch bottom, I pushed the panel back into place.

As I listened to the movement above me, another stab of fear suddenly prickled at the back of my neck. Did I remember to pull the bedspread down over the panel before I disappeared?

I held my breath as footsteps moved across the floor. It was the light-footed scurry of a mouse gathering crumbs, tiptoeing into the bathroom and then back to the bedroom. It couldn't be Garth. He would have a heavier footfall, secure in the knowledge he was in his own home. No, there was nothing about this person that said Garth.

Eddy? It had to be him, that little rat. What was he doing here? Probably the same thing I was doing—looking for the lost loot. What was this, open house for cat burglars? If I could be sure it was Eddy, I would bust out of my hiding place, grab him and shake him by the shirt until his teeth rattled.

Then again, it might be someone else. I was breathing nervously through my teeth, then quit when I realized the hissing I was making sounded like a deflating tire. Could I get out of here without him seeing me? If this was Garth's escape route, there had to be a way out—one that would fool the cops.

I tried to forget I was crouched in a space not meant for human habitation and pried a key ring from my jeans pocket. I found the attached penlight and flashed it around. The place was obviously a storage compartment. An old TV antenna was shoved onto a shelf with a plastic cleaning bucket, brushes and a rolled-up hammock. Behind the hammock, the light glinted off something shiny.

I flashed the beam at it again. It looked like a small suitcase. I edged myself sideways to get a better look. With faded brown and beige cloth stripes, rotting leather carrying handle, and metal corners turning to rust, it was an ugly stepsister to the handsome luggage piled next to it. This was it. Eddy hadn't bothered transferring Hollander's drug money to another container, and neither had Garth. It was here, still in the little suitcase just like he must've found it. I stretched my arm as far into the cubbyhole as I could, reaching until I thought my arm would come out of its socket, but still I couldn't get to it without making a racket. Damn. I would have to leave it for Caleb. Disappointing, since I so wanted to be the one to hand him that suitcase full of money.

Now, to get out of here. I scooted around on my butt looking for an opening to the outside. There had to be one, since all compartments like this would have some kind of exterior access.

I found the answer under my feet. It was a pull latch in the floor. I gave it an experimental tug and cracked the hatch, just enough to let in some fresh air, then wider.

The sound reverberated in the compartment like a metal garbage can lid being tossed down a quiet street. I held my breath. Nothing. If he didn't hear me, it was only because I was the one in the garbage can.

I yanked it back, put my feet down first and then rolled out onto the ground, thinking I'd run back to the car, call Caleb, tell him I'd found the stolen loot and Eddy McBride. I peered out from under my hiding place; no black police-issued shoes. Safe at last.

I rolled out from under the coach, then got slammed to the ground, with a foot on my back to keep me face down. With the gravel making marks in my cheeks, I turned my head to the side. "Stay put," the voice said.

It was light tenor and I knew who had me pinned to the gravel next to Garth's motor home. Eddy McBride.

"Well, girly," he said, "we meet again. Find anything interesting?"

"Uh, no," I said. "You?"

He giggled, a merry sound, obviously enjoying our reversal of fortune. If he was happy about it, fine by me. As long as he didn't shoot at me again.

"If you'll allow me to stand up, we can talk about it."

He giggled again. "Seems to me, now, that the shoe's on the other foot; I oughta keep you here for a while, just to teach you a lesson. So, what else have you learned from that sheriff friend of yours?"

Raising my head a bit, I wiped some gravel off my cheek and said, "The cops think you killed Garth's girlfriend."

That stopped the giggling. "Why would I do that?"

"I didn't say I believed it, I just said they do. I almost had her convinced to turn herself in when she ran off and somebody killed her soon after. And since you seem to be following me around lately, I was rather hoping you were there to see who snatched her."

He was quiet a moment, then said, "I was obviously watching the wrong person."

He let off the foot and kneeled down beside me to look me in the face. "I know your dad believes in my innocence; any chance you do too?"

What was it about this gun-wielding, bumbling-around-in-the-dark, cross-dresser that would convince my shotgun-toting dad to trust him? That my dad trusted him, that Roxanne believed him, said a lot. So if Noah Bains and Roxanne Leonard thought Eddy was innocent, perhaps they were right.

I spit out a piece of gravel and nodded.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, holding out his hand. It was slim and cool, and he easily levered me into a standing position. Standing, I towered over him. The bald spot in his graying crew cut was the same as when he'd broken into our house and taken a pot shot at me. This time, however, he was in a conservative gray suit and a skinny black and white shirt. A beat-up briefcase lay on the ground next to him.