Sleepwalk (17 page)

An hour later, he sat by himself at a table in the bar at the back of the café Tom Kennedy, Jerry Polanski, Carlos Alvarez, and a few other men sat at other tables, the faces changing as they drifted from spot to spot Frank stared at the shot glass in front of him, which contained the first half of his fourth boilermaker. He was looking for numbness in the liquor, a cessation of thought. So far, though, his mind was still clear.

Clear, and functioning all too well.

He knocked back the whiskey, then took three fast swallows of beer, finally banging the stein down on the table with a force that silenced the conversation.

“They killed him,” he said, giving voice for the first time to the suspicions that had been roiling in his mind since the moment he’d left the union hall.

One of the recent arrivals—Jesus Hernandez, an electrician from the dam—heard his remark and stared at him, his mouth twisting into a half-drunken grin. “Killed him? C’mon, Frank,” he mumbled. “Why the hell would anyone wanta kill ol’ Max? He was a good ol’ boy.” He raised an arm and waved to the waitress. “Hey, Katie. Bring us another round, and come listen to what ol’ Frank says.”

Katie Alvarez came over with a tray of drinks. After she’d placed glasses on several tables and another boilermaker in front of Frank, she shifted her attention to Jesus Hernandez. “So what’s Frank say that I’ve got to hear?” she asked, feigning more interest than she actually felt. She’d learned long ago that customers left better tips if you listened to their hard-luck stories.

“He thinks the guys from UniChem killed Max Moreland,” Hernandez replied, downing half his fresh drink. “Can you believe that?”

For the first time in weeks something a customer said finally seized Katie’s attention. “Killed him?” she repeated, echoing Hernandez’s words. “Why would they want to do that?”

Frank tossed back his fifth shot of whiskey, chased it with a gulp of beer, then wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve.

“Keep him from making trouble,” he said, his words slurring now as the alcohol in his blood began to penetrate his brain. “I coulda talked him out of it, and everybody
knew it,” he went on. “I told Kruger that just the other day. Told him I could figure out a way. So they fixed it so I couldn’t even talk to ’im.” His eyes wandered over the messy tabletop. “Bastards,” he mumbled, only half aloud. “The bastards jus’ went ahead an’ killed ol’ Max.”

Katie glanced around the bar nervously. If what he’d said got back to UniChem, Frank would be fired for sure, but no one at any of the other tables seemed to have heard. If she could get him to go home and sleep it off … “Come on, Frank,” she said. “You’ve had too much to drink, and you’re just upset. That’s crazy talk, and you don’t believe it any more than anyone else does.” She had a hand on his arm now and was easing him gently to his feet. “Now, why don’t you just go on home and get some sleep. Okay?”

Frank shook her hand off, then wheeled around to glare drunkenly at her. He staggered, then braced himself against the table to keep from falling. “I’m telling you,” he said. “Somethin’s goin’ on around here.” His eyes narrowed and he searched Katie’s face. “What are you, part of the whole thing?” he asked. “You got something goin’ with that guy from UniChem—what’s his name? Kendall?”

Katie felt her temper rise. She knew what a lot of people in town thought of her; it was no different from what people thought of cocktail waitresses everywhere. But she’d thought Frank Arnold was different. Then she remembered that he was drunk. “Right,” she said, forcing herself to grin at him. “I’ve never even met the man, but I’m screwing his brains out every night. Okay? Now come on.” She took his arm again, steering him gently toward the door, and by the time she got him outside, he seemed to have steadied slightly. “You think
you can drive?” she asked. “I can get someone to take you.”

But Frank shook his head. “I’m okay,” he said, taking a deep breath of air, then shaking his whole body almost like a dog ridding itself of water. He pulled open the door of the truck and swung up into the cab. Then he rolled down the window and spoke to Katie once more. “Sorry about what I said in there. I guess maybe I’ve had too much to drink.”

Katie chuckled. “I guess maybe you have,” she agreed, then patted his arm reassuringly. “Look, Frank, take it easy, okay? Drive carefully, and don’t go shooting your mouth off about Max. If what you said in there gets back to UniChem or Otto Kruger, they might can you.”

“Kruger’ll try to do that anyhow,” Frank replied. “But he can’t, ’cause I won’t give him any reason to. That’s what the union’s for, right?”

Katie shook her head in mock despair, but decided to have one last try at reasoning with him. “Frank, you don’t know what happened to Max. But if you start telling everyone he was killed, that’s libel, or slander, or something, and I bet they can fire you for it.”

“They can’t if it’s true,” Frank growled. He slammed the truck into gear, his rear wheels spinning in the loose gravel as he took off. The free-spinning tires screeched in protest when they finally hit the pavement, then they caught and the truck jackrabbited across the road. For a split second Katie thought Frank had lost control completely, but then the vehicle swerved around, straightened out, and took off down the street. She watched him go until he turned the corner two blocks away, then shook her head tiredly and went back into the café. She had a feeling Frank Arnold wasn’t the only
drunk she was going to have to deal with that night. The bar seemed to be full of them.

Frank rolled both windows down, and the cold air washed over his face, sobering him slightly. He was driving well, keeping his speed ten miles below the limit, and the steering steady. But one more drink and he wouldn’t have been able to drive at all.

It was another five minutes before he realized where he was going, although as he turned onto the long gravel drive that led up a rise to the foot of the mesa where Max Moreland’s parents had built their great Victorian pile of a house so many years ago, he knew he’d decided to come out here as soon as he’d left the café.

He wanted to talk to Judith Sheffield, wanted her to listen to him, to believe him.

And besides, he rationalized, the least he could do right now was pay his respects to Rita Moreland.

Kill two birds with one stone. The trite words seemed to slur even in his mind.

He pulled unsteadily up in front of the house, slewing his truck in next to Greg Moreland’s worn Jeep Wagoneer. He climbed the steep flight of steps to the wide veranda that fronted the house, then leaned heavily against the doorframe for a moment as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Maybe, after all, he shouldn’t have come out here. But then the door opened and Judith Sheffield, her face ashen and streaked with tears, looked out at him.

They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, then Judith took a step forward Frank’s arms slid
around her, and her face pressed against his chest. A single sob shook her, and then she felt Frank gently stroking her hair. Regaining her composure, she stepped back. “I—I’m so glad you’re here. It’s terrible.”

Frank, feeling suddenly sober, nodded. “How’s Rita taking it?”

Judith managed a weak smile. “On the surface, better than I am, I guess. But you know Rita—no matter what happens, she never loses her composure. She’s in the living room.” Taking Frank’s hand, she led him into the house.

Rita Moreland, her lean body held erect and every strand of her white hair in place, stood up as they entered. “Frank,” she said, taking his hand and clasping it tightly. “I’m so glad you’ve come. I was going to call you, but …” Her voice trailed off.

“I should have called you, Rita,” Frank replied. “In fact, I should have come out as soon as I heard.”

Rita shook her head. “Don’t even think it. Greg is here, and there have been people in and out all evening.”

Frank felt a wave of nausea as the alcohol in his blood regained its grip on him, and he swayed slightly. “I—I don’t know what to say,” he mumbled. “I just can’t believe he’s dead. Not Max. He was so—” He faltered, unable to find the words he was looking for.

“I know,” Rita told him, gently steering him toward a sofa and signaling Greg to pour a cup of coffee from the immense silver urn that stood on a sideboard. “We’re all going to miss him terribly, but we’re going to go on, just as he would have wanted us to.” She perched stiffly on the edge of a wing-backed chair opposite the sofa.

Greg came over and set a cup of coffee on the table
in front of Frank. “Looks like you’ve had a couple of drinks—” he began, but before he could finish the sentence, Rita Moreland’s melodic voice smoothly cut in.

“I think I could use one myself, Greg. I think perhaps a shot of your uncle’s bourbon might be in order.” Though she spoke to Greg, her eyes never left Frank Arnold. “Frank?”

Frank hesitated, then shook his head. “I think I’ve had enough, Rita. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have come out here tonight—”

“Nonsense,” Rita replied, letting just enough sharpness come into her voice to let Frank know she meant what she was saying and was not simply being polite. “Outside the family, no one in town was closer to Max than you were.”

Frank nodded, then licked nervously at his lips. He knew he shouldn’t say what he was about to say, but he also knew he wasn’t going to be able to stop himself. And there was something in the way Rita was looking at him that told him she already knew what he was about to say. “I think they killed him,” he blurted.

Rita Moreland, hand extended to accept the drink Greg was holding out to her, didn’t so much as flinch. Her eyes remained on Frank. “Go on,” she said softly.

Frank met her steady gaze. “I don’t know what happened to Max, but I can’t believe it was just an accident. I think they must have run him off the road or something.” He began speaking faster, his words tumbling over one another as they rushed from his mind to his mouth. “Max was a good driver. He would never have just run off the road like that. And think about it—UniChem wanted the company, and Max didn’t want them to have it—he wanted to sell it to us, he told me so—”

“Now just a minute,” Greg Moreland interrupted. He set the drink on the coffee table in front of his aunt, as Rita’s eyes remained fixed on Frank, her face an expressionless mask. Greg glared at Frank. “You’ve had way too much to drink, Frank, and I don’t know what you’re thinking, coming in here tonight—of all nights—and throwing around charges like that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know what I think—” Frank began, but once again an indignant Greg Moreland cut him off.

“You know what you imagine,” he shot back. “If you want to know what happened, I—or even Aunt Rita—will be glad to tell you! It was a one-car accident, Frank. And it wasn’t even Uncle Max’s fault. He was already dead when the car went off the road.”

Frank frowned, as if he couldn’t quite put the words together. “I don’t—”

“You don’t get it?” Greg finished for him, his voice crackling with anger. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t gone out and gotten drunk tonight, you
would
get it. He died at the wheel, Frank. He’d just sold the company, which except for Aunt Rita was the only thing that meant anything to him. He was under a lot of strain, and he had a stroke while at the wheel. That’s what killed him, Frank. Not the accident. A stroke. He was already dead when the accident happened.”

Frank, dazed, sank back into his chair. His eyes fixed on Greg Moreland, but he could see by the anger in Greg’s eyes that Max’s nephew was telling him the truth. Finally he managed to shift his gaze to Rita Moreland, a wave of shame sweeping over him as he saw the pain in her eyes.

The pain he’d caused her, with his drunken accusations.

“I—I’m sorry, Rita,” he said, pulling himself to his feet and managing a single step toward her before collapsing back onto the chair.

His words seemed to trigger something in Rita Moreland, and suddenly she came alive again. “It’s all right,” she said, the forgiving words coming to her almost automatically. “We’ve all had a terrible shock today.”

“It’s not all right,” Greg Moreland broke in, his voice cold. “He had no right to come out here and upset you that way, Aunt Rita. I ought to call the police.”

But Rita held up a protesting hand. “There’s no need for that, Greg. I’ve known Frank for a good many more years than I’ve known even you. If you’ll just call Jed, perhaps—”

“It seems to me he got out here under his own steam—” Greg began, but Rita shook her head.

“We don’t need any more cars going off the road today, Greg. Please, just call Jed.”

“You don’t need to call him,” Judith put in quickly, anxious to calm the situation before Frank’s temper might erupt. “I’ll take him home, and Jed can drive me back.”

Greg seemed about to argue, but a look from his aunt changed his mind. As he stalked out of the room a moment later, he glared at Judith, and for an instant she had the strangest feeling that he was jealous. But why would he be? Since she’d been back in Borrego, he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her. “I—I’ll just go up and get my coat,” she stammered, feeling as if she had somehow inadvertently made a bad situation even worse.

When Judith too was out of the room, Rita Moreland finally picked up the untouched drink from the coffee
table, stared at it for a moment, then drained it. She paused as if waiting for the alcohol to fortify her, then once more met Frank’s eyes. “I want you to know I understand how you feel,” she said gently, her voice now free of the carefully controlled graciousness she had mastered so many years ago that it had become second nature to her. “In fact, the same thought you just expressed crossed my mind too. Max called me just before he died. Something had happened, and even though he’d already signed the papers, he said he had time to back out. And he intended to do it.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’m not sure what the problem was—he didn’t tell me. But I have to tell you the first thing I thought when Greg told me what had happened was that somehow—for some reason—they’d killed him. But I was wrong, Frank. Greg assures me it was a stroke, Frank, pure and simple. Max was at an age when those things can happen, and Greg had warned him about the possibility for months. It was just one of those things that nobody can predict.”