Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09 (19 page)

"And about that
red Ford truck I saw here on Saturday," I said quietly. "When the
sheriff and I were here this morning, it was gone." I glanced around.
"Looks like it's still gone. I wonder what happened to it."

Terry's tongue came out and she ran it over her
lips, already chapped from the cold and wind. Her eyes were fierce. "Now
you look here, China Bayles. You don't have any right to come onto our property
and accuse—"

I raised my hands. "I'm not
accusing anybody of anything. And I'm not the one you should be worried
about."

"What's
that supposed to mean?"

"It's the sheriff who's breathing
down your neck, not me. He wants to know what happened to that truck."

Her jaw jutted belligerently.
"Yeah, but you're the one who brought him out here. You told him about
that truck. And now you're back to harass—"

I
sighed. "Look, Terry, I'm your friend."

"Oh, yeah?"
Her voice dripped scorn, her eyes were accusing. "Some lousy friend.
Bringing the damn sheriff out here, pestering a poor old lady—"

I went on as if I hadn't heard her.
"I want to be sure you know what you're doing. If you've hidden that
truck, the legal consequences could be pretty serious."

Terry's gaze slipped away from mine. "I don't
know what you're talking about," she muttered.

"I think you do," I said evenly.
"Look, if you're not going to invite me into the house to talk, how about
the barn? It's damn cold out here."

Terry hesitated, then
wheeled suddenly and stalked off down the path, Max hobbling at her heels. The
barn wasn't any warmer, but at least we were out of the wind. The innards of
the brown van were still spread on the floor, and the chickens were still
strutting and preening on its roof. When they saw us coming, they clucked an
alarm and scattered into the shadows. Max slipped under a sawhorse and settled
into a nest he had made in a pile of loose hay.

Terry turned to face
me, her eyes dark, her mouth set. "You wanted to talk," she said
fiercely. "So talk. And make it fast. I've got things to do."

"The sheriff is
looking for the vehicle that hit Swenson," I said. "He'd like to
examine your red truck."

"He's
out of luck. The truck isn't here."

"Where
is it?"

"I have no
idea," she said stonily. "Neither does Donna. End of story."

I didn't believe her. "Let's talk
hypothetically for a minute," I said. "Let's say your aunt was out
for a Sunday afternoon drive—"

"You can forget
that shit! Donna told you that Aunt Velda's not allowed to touch that
truck."

"Let's say she took her eyes off the road for
a minute," I continued, "and accidently hit Carl Swenson. If she
turns herself in and tells the sheriff what she did, she'll be charged with
failure to stop and render assistance. Given her mental condition, though, it's
not very likely that she'll be convicted or serve any time."

Terry was silent for a minute. "If she says
she did it, they'll put her in an institution," she said finally, her
voice flat. "It would kill her. It would kill Donna, too. Aunt Velda is
the closest thing to a mother we have." The tongue came out again, took
another swipe at her cracked lips. "Don't get me wrong, China. I'm not
saying she's guilty. I'm just saying—"

"It's not a
certainty that she'd be institutionalized," I said. "Your aunt is an
old, sick woman. Any psychiatrist who examines her will find her incompetent.
Under the circumstances, the court might remand her into your custody, with
supervision by the appropriate authority. I'd be glad to help make that happen,
if I can." I stopped to let the offer sink in, then hardened my voice.

"But there's more to this hypothetical. Let's
say that Aunt Velda came back home and told you what happened. You went
outside, took a look at the truck, and saw that the right front headlight was
broken and the fender damaged. At that point, you—meaning you or Donna or both
of you—decided to conceal the truck, hoping to keep your aunt out of
trouble."

"That's not the
way it happened," Terry said passionately. Her jaw was working. "I
swear to God, China!"

I shook my head. "Let's also say that the sheriff
runs an FBI check on the paint flecks found at the scene and comes up with a
match for a red Ford truck. He brings out a team of deputies, searches your two
hundred acres, and eventually finds the truck. After the work and expense of
beating the bushes for a couple of days, everybody is mean and short-tempered
and nobody feels much like being lenient. The district attorney upgrades the
charge to manslaughter, and also charges you and Donna with hindering apprehension
and prosecution. Aunt Velda will still be declared in-compent. You and Donna
could pay a fine and go to jail."

Terry
made a noise deep in her throat.

"Yeah, right.
It's a tough world." I gave her a hard, straight look. "If I were
you, I'd hand the truck over and concentrate on getting the best deal you can
for your aunt. You'll have help. You won't have to do it alone."

Terry ducked her
head. "We're not protecting her," she said in a muffled voice.

"Where's
the truck?"

"I
don't know."

"Does
Donna?"

Her head came up. "Neither of us has a clue.
Aunt Velda drove it out of here sometime yesterday afternoon and walked back
about six o'clock. Donna thought she was with me in the barn, working on the
van. I thought she was with Donna in the workroom, making wreaths. We didn't
even miss her until Donna put supper on the table. That's when she came in from
outside, wet and cold. She'd hurt her foot, too." Her voice thinned, and I
heard a note of panic. "It's God's truth, China. Honest!"

Maybe, maybe not. But
I had the feeling we were getting closer. "What did she say about where
she'd been?"

"Her usual crazy stuff. That the
Klingons had taken Swenson to the ship, and she was afraid they were after the
truck too. So she parked it where they wouldn't think to look for it." She
made a little grimace. "It was already dark by that time, no point in
going out to look for the damn truck then. Anyway, we didn't figure it was
urgent. Why should we? We had no idea that Swenson was dead."

"When
did you find out?"

She
took a breath. "This morning, a little after seven.

Jane Wilson has loaned us her Geo
until I get the van fixed, and I was on my way to San Antonio for more parts. I
saw Swenson lying beside the road. But the body was stone cold by that time.
There wasn't a damn thing I could do. I came back here and told Donna, and we
decided to act like we didn't know anything about it." She gave me a
sullen look. "Anyway, we don't. Our loony old aunt says she parked the
truck somewhere, and can't or won't say where. That's all we know."

"You can stick
to that story," I said, "but in all fairness, I have to tell you that
there's a problem with it."

Her
glance was apprehensive. "A problem?"

"Yeah. Your
prints are all over that truck. Yours and Donna's. Right?"

"Well, sure. I
mean, I guess they are. We drive it around the place all the time, hauling
plants and tools and stuff."

"Okay. When the truck is
located—and it will be, believe me—the sheriff will pull every print he can
find, and they'll all be used as evidence. If that Ford was the vehicle that
killed Swenson, you could find yourself in some pretty serious trouble. I know
this district attorney, a guy named Dutch Doran. He's a grandstander. He just
might decide that you and Donna are lying when you say your aunt was driving
that truck."

She
frowned. "Lying? Why would we lie?"

"Come off it,
Terry." I gave a dry chuckle. "That old lady is conviction-proof.
You'd be a fool not to shift the blame to her. What's more, once the D.A.
starts toying with the idea that you or Donna hit Swenson, he might figure that
it maybe wasn't an accident. He might think Swenson was run down on purpose.
After all, the guy was causing you a lot of grief."

"Shit,"
Terry said feelingly.

"Yeah," I replied. "Big time."
I added, with emphasis: "The best thing to do is turn that truck over to
the sheriff voluntarily, before he gets a search warrant and comes
looking." I paused. "Mind if I talk to your aunt and see if I can get
any more out of her?"

Terry closed her eyes
and pressed her lips together. Then she took a couple of deep breaths, opened
her eyes and said, flady, "Hell, yes, I mind. But I guess I don't have any
choice."

We found Donna in the small workroom
off the kitchen, perched on a stool in front of a wooden easel that supported a
large wreath, almost finished. Buckets of dried artemisia, strawflowers, baby's
breath, golden yarrow, rosemary, and holly were arranged within reaching
distance, and scissors, tweezers, floral pins, wire, and a glue gun lay on a
table beside her. A woodstove in the corner radiated heat.

"Go get Aunt Velda," Terry said
brusquely. "We need to have a talk. About the truck."

Donna's eyes widened.
"But I thought you said she wouldn't have to—" She glanced nervously
from her sister to me and back again. "I mean, I thought we agreed not to
bother her about it, Terry."

Terry's mouth was set
and she wore a poker face. "China says we could get into serious trouble
about this. If Aunt Velda hit Swenson and the D.A. thinks we concealed the
truck to protect her, he might charge us as accessories. He might even—"
She gave Donna a hooded look, as if she were signaling something, and a silent
communication seemed to pass between them. "China says he might even

try to prove that one of us was
driving it when Swenson was killed."

"One of
usl"
Donna
exclaimed. "But that's impossible," she said, very fast. "We
were both here, together. All afternoon. How could we—"

"Go get Aunt
Velda," Terry said tersely. Her eyes slid to me to see if Donna's
assertion had registered. "I'll fix us some coffee."

Terry was filling
coffee mugs when the old lady limped into the kitchen, followed by Donna. She
wore a man's dirty brown corduroy bathrobe over yellow sweatpants and a purple
sweatshirt, and ragged moccasins on her feet. Her Klingon badge was pinned to
the lapel of her bathrobe. She sat down and reached for her Mister Spock coffee
mug.

"Where's the
cookies?" she asked in a whiny voice. "Donna, be a dearie and get me
my cookies. My foot's sore."

From the cupboard, Donna produced a plastic tub of
chocolate chip cookies. Aunt Velda pried off the top and popped one into her
mouth.

"I was
wondering," I said, "if you'd tell us what happened when the
Klingons came after Carl Swenson yesterday afternoon."

"Yer cookies is better'n yer cake," Aunt
Velda said to Donna, taking two more.

Donna's smile was tremulous. "Thank you. What
about yesterday, Aunt Velda? Tell China what you told us." She gave the
old lady a pleading look. "What we talked about, remember?"

Fastidiously, the old
lady brushed the crumbs from the front of her yellow sweatshirt.
"Yestiddy? Yestiddy? That wuz a long time ago." She darted a bright
glance at me.

"Where's that nice feller you wuz
here with this morning, China? A looker, he wuz."

"I'll tell him you said that," I
replied. "What about yesterday, Aunt Velda?"

"Yestiddy, today, they're all the same,"
she said philosophically. "Get to be my age, one day ain't no diff'rent
than another. 'Less you're goin' fer a ride around the galaxy, o'course."
Her smile was reminiscent. "Now,
them
days is really diff'rent, b'lieve
you me. Lots o' stars to look at, black holes, quasars, stuff like that. And
them Klingon ships—they're a real trip." She circled her mug with her
hands and hunched over to drink out of it, her chin almost on the table.

"I understand that the Klingons took Carl
Swenson, and that you hid the truck to keep them from taking it too," I
said.

Aunt Velda's eyes
opened wide. "Is that right?" she asked in amazement. "I'll be
durned." She sighed heavily. "Well, that's whut happens when y'git
old. You gals think y'er so smart now, but y'all just wait, it'll be yer turn
afore too many more years. Yer mem'ry'll be the first t'go, then yer sex
drive." She leered at me. "But you just trot that nice young man back
here and see if my sex drive ain't still chuggin' right along. Nothin' wrong
with me in that compartment. Not yit, anyhoo."