Fool's Puzzle (20 page)

“Do you think it’ll ever get easier?”

“I don’t know, honey,” he said, draining his beer. “I honestly don’t know.”

“What was that you were saying about tracking someone?” I asked, changing the subject. Talking about Jack in Trigger’s was just too much to deal with right then. “Do you have the resources to do that at the paper?”

“Not actually at the paper. I just have a lot of contacts.”

“If all you have is a name, and you’ve tried the phone books, what would be your next step?” I opened the bag of chips that had come with my sandwich, dumped them in my plate, and looked for the brown, crusty ones.

“DMV.”

“What if you don’t have access to that?”

“I do, though.” He poured more beer into his mug from the pitcher sitting next to him.

“But what if you didn’t? What would you do then?”

“What’s this all about, Benni?” He looked at me oddly. “I can run a DMV for you if you want. Who are you looking for?”

“No one,” I said, wiping my salty fingers on my napkin. “This is just hypothetical.”

“I thought you found your cousin.” He sipped at his beer, the corner of his lip twitching as he studied me.

“I did. Well, actually she called me. I was just wondering how people track other people. I was listening to your story. It made me curious.”

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing.” Even as I said it, I realized it came out too quickly.

“Does this have anything to do with those murders? Am I going to have to inject you with sodium pentothal to get you to confide in me?”

Before I could answer, the thundering voice of J.D. interrupted us. “What are you two youngsters up to?” He slid in the booth next to me and crooked his finger at the cocktail waitress.

“Just eating dinner, Pop,” Carl said, his face turning blank. “See the story on the chemical dumping?” he asked in a placid voice, his eyes blinking rapidly.

“Sure did. Had to cut out about twenty percent of it,” J.D. said. “You got to learn to compress, son. You ramble on like an old woman.”

“What’ll it be, boys?” The waitress, a big-breasted redhead who must have subscribed to the same hairdo magazine as my cousin Rita, smiled at us with long, yellowish teeth.

“Bud light,” J.D. said.

“Jack Daniel’s, double,” Carl said. I looked at him with concern and shook my head.

“Carl,” J.D. said. “Where were you yesterday? Didn’t you get any of my messages?”

Carl drained the rest of his beer. “I was working on the chemical dumping story. Why, what’s up?”

“Son, don’t you remember what yesterday was?”

Carl’s brows moved together in concentration.

“It was Jenny’s birthday.” J.D. shook his head and sipped at the beer the waitress set in front of him. “Can’t say much about a man who’d forget his own daughter’s birthday.”

“Well, shit,” Carl said. He picked up his shot glass and swallowed the double bourbon in one gulp.

“Yeah, you are,” J.D. said. “But I covered your butt, as usual. I had the toy store at the mall send over a Barbie Dreamhouse and say it was from you. Now, you’d better get over and see her today.”

“Thanks,” Carl said hastily, his face a soft pink. “I just got so caught up in this dumping article. Everything I put in there needs to be there. I think if you read it again ...”

“Now, Carl,” J.D. said. “I been doing this a lot longer than you and I’m telling you it’s ...”

“Benni’s got a secret, Dad,” Carl interrupted. “Has to do with the Chenier and Griffin murders.”

“That right?” J.D. smiled down at me, a wiry gray eyebrow cocked in question. “What kind of secret you got, little girl?”

“Carl’s just chasing rabbits,” I said, glaring across at him. “I don’t have any secrets. I was just asking a hypothetical question and your son jumps to all sorts of conclusions.”

“What’s the question?” J.D. asked, his face alert as a bird dog’s. “Don’t listen to that boy. I’m sure I’ve got a better answer.”

“It’s nothing,” I said, pushing at him with my hip to get out. “Thanks for dinner, Carl. Thanks for everything. How about we do it again in about ten years?” I hitched my purse over my shoulder and headed for the door.

It was dark when I walked out into Trigger’s parking lot. I was fumbling through my purse looking for my keys when a hand clamped down on my shoulder, startling me.

“Hey!” I twisted around, holding out my keys, ready to stab.

“I’m sorry,” Carl said. “I’m such a dipshit sometimes, I even disgust myself.” He gave his best crooked, forgive-me smile.

I pulled out of his grasp. “Don’t get me involved in your juvenile squabbles with your dad. You were pissed because he was criticizing your story, so you diverted his attention to me. That’s real mature, Carl.”

“I know.” He wiped his palm on the side of his khaki pants. “I know what a donkey I can be. I’m sorry I dragged you into it. Don’t be mad.”

I leaned against the truck and rubbed my eyes with my fingers. “Carl, why don’t you try and work things out with J.D.? He’s not as bad as you make him out to be. Besides, there may come a time when you’ll want to and can’t.”

“That personal experience talking?” he said softly.

“Maybe,” I said, though I’d been thinking about Wade and the last words he’d probably had with Jack. My memory wasn’t that dramatic. The best I could recall, my last words to Jack before going to my dad’s had been—“If you go to town today, pick up some Repel-X for the horses.” We kissed good-bye in that quick, mindless way you do when you’re going to see each other the next day.

“I’ll think about it,” Carl said, opening the truck door. “Just don’t be mad.”

“All right.” I threw my purse on the seat and turned to face him. “Just talk to him, okay? Try and work things out.”

“For you, honey, anything.” He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

When I walked through the door of the museum, the antique clock in the lobby chimed seven o‘clock. The museum itself was dark and quiet, but Meg’s orange Toyota, Ray’s white Ford pickup and half a dozen other vehicles in the parking lot told me artists were working. December was their busiest time of year. Many of them were scheduled for various festivals until Christmas Eve. I walked back into the studios, where three women were chattering around a multicolored calico Log Cabin quilt.

“You’re here awfully late,” one of them said. “How was the funeral?”

“Just picking up some work to take home,” I said. “It was sad. Not very many people came.” I emphasized the last sentence.

The quilters ducked their heads in embarrassment and went back to work. I walked back toward my office where I closed the door and sat down, feeling incredibly exhausted. I’d only worked for three months and already I needed a vacation from this place. I wondered if I was ever going to go camping or ride a horse again.

I had one last idea left about finding out Suzanne Hart’s identity. If that didn’t pan out, I had no choice but to tell Ortiz what I knew. I picked up the phone and dialed Mrs. Chenier. Her soft, tissue-paper voice sounded like it was talking from the moon.

“No,” she said. “I don’t recall anyone Marla knew with that name. But I didn’t know all her friends.”

“Did she keep an address book there?” I could have kicked myself for not thinking to ask that before now.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Chenier said and my heart started beating faster. “But the police asked me for that right off.”

“Oh.” My heart flopped back to normal. “I don’t suppose you remember if there was a Suzanne Hart in it.”

“No, I’m sorry. Is this Hart person important?”

“Probably not,” I said. “But don’t mention the name to anyone yet. I’m still looking into it.”

“Whatever you say. Thank you so much for your help.”

Every time I talked to Mrs. Chenier, I felt guiltier. I made a note to myself to get those pots of Marla’s out and priced so they would sell. I was sure Mrs. Chenier could use the money as soon as possible. If they didn’t sell, I’d dip into my savings and buy them myself. I couldn’t help but remember the money in the Nancy Drew books. An anonymous postcard to Mrs. Chenier telling her to look in the books—What harm could that do? Maybe it was illegally gained, but if anyone deserved it, it was Mrs. Chenier.

I laid my head down on my desk and wished that I’d never become involved in this, never found any bodies, never met Ortiz, never had this job. Never became a widow. Wishes, wishes. If wishes were horses ...

I forced myself up. When I started thinking in cliches, even ones involving horses, I needed to get to bed. A strong knock sounded on my door.

“It’s open,” I called.

Ray walked in, his face grim. I briefly wondered how long he’d been standing outside my door, how much of my conversation with Mrs. Chenier he’d heard.

“What’s up, Ray?” I asked in a light voice.

“Constance wants her keys back.” Since cleaning up after Marla’s murder, Ray had unofficially taken over the task of opening up the museum for the artists. The two other sets of keys were on Marla’s and Eric’s bodies when they were found and were locked up as evidence.

“I’ll make copies of these spare keys tomorrow,” I said.

“Okay.” He started to walk away, then turned back and regarded me with angry brown eyes. “The police came to talk with me again today.”

“Oh?”

“They wanted to know about my relationship with Marla.”

I stared at my desk blotter and didn’t say anything.

“I wasn’t the only one.”

“Apparently not.”

“Why did you tell the police about me?”

“I didn’t,” I said. “Why does everyone assume I’m the one turning all you guys in? Meg told me about you and Marla, and if Meg knows, you know everyone does. I haven’t told the police anything about you.”

His face grew stubborn. I knew the look. He needed someone to blame, someone other than himself.

“If my wife finds out about Marla, she’ll take my son and split.” His voice broke slightly. I felt a flash of sympathy; I knew what Ray’s son meant to him. Still, that wasn’t my problem. I had enough of my own.

“I’m sorry, Ray, but I guess that’s one of the consequences of that sort of thing. I don’t know what you want from me.”

“No one is taking my son from me,” he said, his voice harsh. He stabbed the Xacto knife he was holding into my wood desk. “No one.”

I stared at the knife and held my breath. The look on my face must have shocked him back to his senses.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a soft voice. He picked up the knife and stuck it in his tool belt. “It’s just that you seem awfully involved in this. You and that police chief have gotten real friendly, I hear.”

“The next person who brings up the relationship I do not have with Chief Ortiz is going to have to sign a complaint against me for assault.”

He looked at me steadily. “All I’m saying is you should stay out of things that don’t concern you.” He turned and walked out the door.

As I stuck the keys in the ignition of the truck, I thought about all the things I should have answered. Of course, all I’d done was sit there and gape.

“No backtalk from you this time, bud,” I commanded the Chevy, “or I’m selling you for scrap.”

And for a change, someone believed me.

THERE WAS ONE message on my answering machine when I arrived home.

“Benni, call me.” Sandra’s weepy voice sputtered like an old engine. “Wade came home real mad, then left again. He said he saw you at Trigger’s. What happened?”

I didn’t call her back. I didn’t know what to tell her. I had no idea where Wade fit into this whole mess, but I knew one thing—I’d just as soon eat a saddle blanket as talk to or about him again.

A saddle blanket would have probably tasted better than anything in my refrigerator. I would have killed right then for the beef dip I didn’t eat at Trigger’s. While changing into jeans and boots, I decided what I needed was a real homemade meal—steak, baked potato, corn on the cob, apple pie with vanilla ice cream. And a movie. A funny one. Williams Bros. Market out by the university had everything I needed, except the movie. The video store had slim pickings, so I grabbed
Police Academy,
remembering it being a silly, slapstick comedy that made police look like mindless idiots. For some reason, that sounded appealing.

I balanced the paper sack of groceries on one hip and had inserted the key in the front door with the other, when a whoosh and then a plink sounded above my head.

The porch light shattered.

Tiny shards of glass sprayed across my face. I dropped the paper sack and frantically brushed at my eyes. The scent of Italian dressing surrounded me. I glanced out at the street. A light-colored pickup was idling there. In the dark I could just make out the outline of the rifle. Like a stupid animal, I stood frozen, staring.

Another plink chipped the stucco above me.

I shoved the front door open, hit the floor.

Sounds like a .22, I thought, amazed at my calm as I crawled across the floor toward my bedroom. No match for a .45. If I could get to it. My bedroom seemed a hundred miles away.

A front windowpane cracked.

I scrambled for the bedroom, knees banging against the hard oak floor. Nightstand, my mind commanded. Get to the nightstand.

I fumbled for Jack’s pistol. Slip in the clip. Safety off. Pull the slide back. Aim. Jack’s words, Daddy’s words, coming back to me. I sat back against the nightstand, rested the heaviness of the gun on my bended knees and aimed at the open bedroom door.

Somewhere, tires squealed.

Mouth dry, breath coming in sharp gasps, I sat in the dark, frozen. Police. Call the police.

The 911 operator had already received a report. A patrol car was being dispatched. I told her I had a gun. She told me to stay on the line.

“They’re coming up the walk now, ma‘am,” the dispatcher’s steady voice said after minutes of inane conversation she had probably been taught kept a scared caller from hysteria. It hadn’t worked.