Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09 (13 page)

"Don't include
me in that adversarial shit. All I have to do is get the evidence. The rest of
it's up to the district attorney and the grand jury." He pushed up his hat
with his thumb and turned to look at me. "But I'm afraid there's more here
than just a hit-and-run, China. Say the old girl comes home with her
story—accident, little green men, whatever. The nieces check out the truck,
discover the broken headlight, and come looking. They find Swenson dead.
Obviously, there aren't any witnesses, or it would have been reported. In fact,
they're positive that nobody else has even seen the body. So they go back home
and hide the truck somewhere on their property and try to get the old lady to
keep her mouth shut."

I couldn't fault
Blackie's logic. I'd been harboring something of the same idea since Donna's
clumsy performance in the kitchen. I just hadn't wanted to put words to it.

"So you think
Donna and Terry are shielding their aunt," I said reluctantly. If this was
true, they were both in serious trouble—more trouble, probably, than their
aunt, who was clearly certifiable. Once the judge read the psychiatric evaluation,
Aunt Velda would never see the inside of a jail, although she might think that
being confined to a nursing home wasn't a very attractive alternative. But if
Donna and Terry had done what Blackie was suggesting, they could be charged
with hindering apprehension—usually known as obstructing justice. It's a Class
A misdemeanor, with a fine of up to four thousand dollars, a year's jail time,
or both. A high price to pay for protecting their aunt.

"I don't know
about Terry, but Donna is sure as hell covering up for somebody," Blackie
said. He shook his head. "She was nervous as a mail-order bride. She
didn't want us in the house where her aunt might pop in on us, and when the old
lady showed up, she did everything but stuff a dishrag in her mouth to keep her
quiet. Even dropped the coffeepot to distract us."

"I can't argue with you," I
conceded. "So what are you going to do?"

Blackie sat up and stared out the windshield.
"Need to find that truck," he muttered. "Can't prove anything
without it."

"I suppose you
could get a warrant and search the place," I said.

"How
many acres did you say they've got?"

'Two hundred, I
replied. "And most of it's pretty rough. Might be hard to locate that
truck, unless you use a helicopter."

"A
helicopter?" Blackie snorted derisively. "Hell, I'm lucky if I can
buy gas for the squad cars. This isn't Bexar County, you know. If you don't
count the jailer, I've only got two deputies and a half-dozen patrol officers.
Helicopter."
He snorted again. "Even if I had one, I
wouldn't have anybody to fly it. And if I had somebody to fly it, I wouldn't
have anything to pay him with."

"It was just a thought," I said.
"Guess you'll have to haul Donna and Terry in and put them through the
third degree. Or you might try questioning Aunt Velda again, and see how far
you get."

"I've got a better idea."
Blackie looked at his watch. "I need to interview the other neighbors. How
would you feel about going back to the farm by yourself and talking to those
Fletcher women? Both sisters, I mean, and the aunt. You could let them know the
downside to what they've done and encourage them to come clean. If they've done
it," he added hastily. "Innocent until proven guilty."

"Thanks,
Sheriff," I said dryly. In my experience, most police (and this includes
even the good guys, like Blackie) see it the other way around.

"Well, I mean it," he said, frowning.
"Except for the fact that Donna withheld information about the existence
of the truck and lied about her aunt's not having left the house in the past
few months, there's no evidence to suggest that their truck was
involved." He paused. "Not yet. But you know damn well what's going to
happen when we get the report back on that glass. And on any paint flecks on
Swenson's clothing."

I knew. Somewhere in the bowels of the FBI there
is a computerized database that provides profiles for the paint of every
vehicle manufactured in the United States in the last couple of decades. If it
turned out that a red Ford truck was involved, the sheriff would be out at the
flower farm with a search warrant faster than forked lightning. It would go a
lot easier for Donna and Terry if they came forward voluntarily and confessed
the cover-up—if they had anything to confess. But something else—my
curiosity—was urging me to do what Blackie asked. I wanted to know what Aunt
Velda had done or seen. I wanted to know what Donna was hiding. And where did
Terry fit into all of this?

I squirmed
uncomfortably. Sure, I wanted to know. On the other hand—

Blackie gave me an
inquiring glance. "What are you thinking?"

"That
I don't like to comer my friends."

"Look at it this way. If they've committed a
criminal act, you're the best thing that could happen to them."

"I'm
not a criminal lawyer. Not anymore."

"You could help
them find one."

"I'm not your
deputy, either. And I won't pull any funny stuff."

"Like
what?"

"Like an illegal
search, that's what. And I can't go back until this afternoon. I've got to
check on Ruby this morning. Something's going on with her and I don't know
what it is."

"This afternoon is fine. Gives them a little
time to think about it." Blackie rubbed the side of his face. There was a
nick on his jaw where he must have cut himself shaving that morning. "And
I'm not asking you to do a search. All I want you to do is encourage those
women to tell the truth. In the long run, that's the best thing they can do,
and you know it."

I sighed heavily. "All right,
I'll do it. On one condition." I turned the key in the ignition and
started the truck. "What's that?"

"That I come
straight out and tell them it was your idea." I wasn't going back there
under false pretenses. These were women whose hard work and dedication I
admired. "I'd also like access to any information you dig up, and I want
to be part of the team. Unofficially, of course." I grinned. "Which
means you don't have to pay me. I'm cheaper than a helicopter."

Blackie thought for a
minute, figuring out just how much this deal might cost him. He eyed me.
"You're sure you're not going to take on their case?" Translated,
this meant,
You promise not to
give them anything you get from me?

"I can guarantee you that I will
not become their lawyer," I said without hesitation. "The prosecutor
will have to hand over all the exculpatory evidence, anyway, whoever is
charged."

"You're
on," Blackie said. "But let's keep this arrangement between
ourselves. It's a little irregular."

"I don't know what you're talking
about," I said. "You're the sheriff. This is your county. You can do
whatever you want to do, right?"

"Yeah,
sure," he said. "I just don't advertise."

So that was how we
left it. When we arrived back at the crime scene, the EMS guys had taken
Swenson away, McQuaid had bagged up the glass, and he and the deputy were on
their knees, making an inch-by-inch search. The rain had started falling again.

"I knew we should have brought
two vehicles," I said to McQuaid. "I need to go back to town and make
a bank deposit. I have to check on Ruby, too."

McQuaid got painfully to his feet.
"Why don't you take the truck and go on, China? When everything's wrapped
up here, I'll catch a ride with Blackie or Pete."

"You sure?"
I asked. "It's wet out here." And cold, too. The wind had started
blowing, which meant that the chill factor was 10 or 15 degrees below freezing.
I pulled my sheepskin-lined jacket tighter around me.

"Yeah," he
said. Water was dripping off his nose and his shoulders were hunched against
the wind, but he was grinning. "It's fine, really. You go on back."
He rubbed his thigh. "You could leave my cane, though. And there's a pair
of gloves under the seat."

I shook my head.
"I'm not believing this. It's raining, the thermometer's heading south,
and you're having a great time."

McQuaid grinned a little sheepishly.
"Well, it's a change. I get tired of sitting in front of the
computer."

I sighed. Once a
lawman, always a lawman. Oh, well. At least nobody was shooting at him. And if
I was going to agree to do a little investigatory work for Blackie, how could I
begrudge McQuaid the exquisite pleasure of crawling around a crime scene in
the rain?

Chapter
Six

In northern Europe,
mistletoe is thought to act as a master-key, for it is said to open all locks.

Sir James George
Frazer
The Golden Bough

From the centre of
the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just suspended with his own hands a
huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch of mistletoe instantaneously
gave rise to a scene of general and most delightful struggling and confusion;
in the midst of which Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry that would have done
honour to a descendant of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by the
hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and
decorum.

Charles Dickens
The Pickwick Papers

Ruby's house is almost as flamboyant
as she is. Shaded by huge old live oaks and surrounded by composed, commonplace
houses, it's a staid old Victorian with original gingerbread trim and
shutters, radically rejuvenated by sensational combinations of gray, green,
fuschia, and plum paint. The front porch is filled with white wicker furniture
and hung with baskets of asparagus fern, which keeps its cheerful green color
all winter long. I know why Ruby's Painted Lady makes her neighbors
uncomfortable. It is as if your grandmother has suddenly taken to wearing
fire-engine-red lipstick and mauve eyeshadow and going out dancing in the
middle of the week.

There was no response to my loud
knocking at both the front and back doors. I checked the garage to see if
Ruby's red Toyota was there, and frowned when I saw it—her bicycle, too. We
don't have public transportation in Pecan Springs, unless you count the
Greyhound bus that goes to Austin and San Antonio, and Tippit's Taxi, which
takes
senior citizens
to
the
grocery store. I couldn't imagine
where Ruby might have gone without her car. I went back to the truck, retrieved
the cell phone from under the seat, and called Ruby's number again. No answer.

I stood for a moment,
hesitating. Fictional sleuths do it all the time, but I am not fond of breaking
and entering. It is an easy way to lose your bar privileges, which I have gone
to some effort to retain over the years. It was a good thing Ruby kept a spare
key hidden under the second brick to the right in the path that led to the
kitchen door. She left it there, she always said, so that I could come in and
make myself at home if she happened to be out—which covered this situation
exactly.

Except that when I
looked for it, the key was gone. I straightened up with a sigh. Well, there are
certain circumstances under which breaking and entering are justified, such as
when you are worried about the psychological stability and physical health of
your best friend. Her car was in the garage, wasn't it? This gave me probable
cause to believe that she might be in the house, in need of aid and
assistance,
didn't it? I went to the garage, located a screwdriver, and jimmied a window.
I climbed through and found myself on the table in Ruby's breakfast nook. So
far so good, except that I knocked a bowl onto the floor as I was climbing off
the table.

Guiltily, I picked up
the broken pieces of china and put them in the garbage. Then I stood still and
looked around. Inside this gorgeous Painted Lady, Ruby has stripped the
woodwork and floors to the original light oak and papered and painted the
walls—but not in their original fusty old tints. Ruby is fond of oranges,
yellows, and reds, charged with occasional stripes and checks and colorful
patterns. The kitchen, wallpapered in red and white, with a watermelon border
around the wainscoting and red-painted table and chairs, is particularly zingy.
When you first come in, it takes a while to get used to the decor, and to the
New Age music and incense that wafts gently on the air.