The Fall Guy (2 page)

One time a few years back, I had fourteen tractor lawn mowers in my back field before I put my foot down. Now I'd learned to laugh and shake my head. “I hear they make good scarecrows,” I said. A line Aunt Penny had taught me.

Laughter and more teasing, as the crowd worked its way through the cash. Finally I was face-to-face with Aunt Penny. All five feet, steel-gray eyes of her.

“What have you done this time, Ricky?”

“I got a summons from a law firm,” I said. “Something to do with the job I did for Jeff Wilkins.”

She took the papers and figured out the legal mumbo jumbo for me in a flash. That's why I go to her, even though she gives me grief.

“Jeff Wilkins is suing you for the shoddy job you did on his deck,” she said.

I was outraged. I may cut corners with the tax guy, but only to give the customer and me a break. My work is never shoddy. If there's one thing I know, it's how to put things together so they work. Every inch of that fancy western-red-cedar deck had been perfect. Every screw, every cantilever, every support beam and rail.

“Can he do that? Just 'cause he feels like it?”

“He can do anything he likes, Ricky.

He's got lots of money for lawyers. Has he paid you for the job?”

I pretended to think about it, but I knew the answer. Wilkins had said he was expecting a big payment next week from a bakery that bought a new fleet of trucks, but right now he had a small cash flow problem. An unlikely story. Everybody knew Wilkins was the richest man in the county, but tight as a drum when it came to parting with his money.

Aunt Penny read the answer in my red face. “Jumpin' Jiminy, Rick. When are you going to learn?”

I wasn't great with words, but this didn't make sense. “If he's got the money for fancy lawyers, how come he had no money to pay me? I bet those guys charge ten times more an hour!”

Aunt Penny was silent. That's unusual for her. She didn't look at me, also unusual. A customer came in and bought some milk, some fireworks and a lottery ticket. Aunt Penny never even exchanged the time of day. I started to get a sick feeling in my stomach.

“What's going on, Aunt Penny?” I asked once the customer left.

“Well, the thing is, Ricky, there was a problem with that deck. Yesterday afternoon, Jeff Wilkins' wife was out on it, and she leaned over the rail to reach something, and the rail gave way.”

A jolt of panic shot through me. Impossible! “What! She must have been…,” I sputtered, looking for an explanation. Maybe she climbed up on it, or…“Was she drunk?”

“I don't know if she was drunk, Ricky. But I don't think the courts will care. She's dead.”

CHAPTER
THREE

I
spotted the black and white suv just after I swung into my lane. There was no turning back. The plume of dust behind me gave me away even if I'd had any place else to go. I slowed the truck so I could take stock and figure out what to say.

As far as I could see, there was just one cop. He looked small standing on the front stoop, his hat pulled low and his hands on his hips. He was looking out over my yard, watching the goat nibbling the daisies by the chicken coop. Chevie, my collie mix, was sitting at his feet, wagging her tail. Some watchdog.

I pulled the old truck to a stop and was about to get out when the cop turned toward me. I froze. It was a woman, hardly older than me. Even with the vest, the gun belt and the huge wraparound sunglasses, there was no hiding those curves. Or the long blond ponytail hanging down her back. I thought I knew all the cops at the local detachment, but this was a new one.

She stepped off the porch. “Cedric O'Toole?”

Heat rushed up my neck. I knew I was bright red, and that didn't help me find my tongue. I just nodded.

“You live here?” she asked. Heavy on the
live
.

I looked around my yard. Weeds had grown up through the rusted-out Ford on blocks by the door. They were covered in bright purple flowers, but still…There were more weeds around the tractors and washing machines down by the barn. The goat wasn't doing her job. I guess daisies are tastier than thistles.

I didn't think the cop expected an answer, so again I just nodded.

She stepped another two feet closer, her sunglasses hiding her eyes. But her mouth curved, like she was secretly laughing at me. “You make a living out here?”

“It suits me,” I mumbled. “I do repairs and stuff.”

“They warned me about you down at the station. Live in your own dream world, but you're no trouble. I hope they're right.” She pulled out a notebook and pencil. “I'm Constable Swan, and I need to ask you a few questions.”

The afternoon sun was beating down. Constable Swan didn't seem to notice, but sweat soaked my shirt. “What about?”

“Two weeks ago you completed a deck at Jeffrey Wilkins' cottage, is that correct?”

No point in denying that. The whole county knew. Rumor was Wilkins had been too cheap to hire a real contractor, that's why I got the job. Half the price and no taxes.

“Can I see the plans and the permit for that job?”

“Is there some problem?”

“Would you get the plans, please? County office doesn't have them.”

“I-I…It might take awhile to find them. Is there a rush?”

She frowned and wrote in her notebook. In the silence I felt the sun burning. Finally she took off her sunglasses and looked up at me. She had amazing blue eyes. No makeup, but she didn't need it. The sun burned hotter.

“Mr. O'Toole, this is a very serious matter. An individual has died, and there have been questions raised about the quality of your deck. Mr. Wilkins is alleging that you cut corners in order to cut costs.”

“That's bullshit. That deck is solid as a tank. Mr. Wilkins was the one who wanted to cut costs, not me.”

“But you're not the one who's friends with the police chief. Wilkins is talking about criminal negligence, even manslaughter. These are very serious charges, Mr. O'Toole. So if you have proof that the deck is solid and the cost-cutting ideas were Wilkins', not yours, then you'd better produce them.”

I looked at the ground. Criminal negligence. Manslaughter. Holy Crap. I'd had to argue with Wilkins every step of the way. About the thickness of boards, the spacing of joists, even the height of the railing. But if it came down to my word against his, I was a dead man.

I felt my face flush as fear raced up my body. “There are no plans. Not on paper. Just in my head.”

Her head shot up. Her blue eyes narrowed. “No plans? No permit?”

“It didn't need a permit. Not… technically.”

“No inspection? No one else checking over the plans?”

I shook my head miserably. “I know what I'm doing. I know code, and the design was solid.”

“Then why did the railing give way the first time someone leaned on it, Mr. O'Toole?”

“I don't know.” I didn't understand how that could happen, but I didn't feel up to explaining screws and spindles. Constable Swan continued to glare. “It shouldn't have,” I added lamely. “I've done lots of decks.”

“Then provide us with something in writing. Draw up the design and the specs you followed.”

I was starting to feel mad. It felt better than fear. “What does Mr. Wilkins say I did wrong?”

She was already heading to her suv. She barely paused. “Just get the specs.”

I yanked open the door to my own truck. “Then I'll just go over there and ask him.”

She spun around. “Mr. O'Toole, you are not—I repeat, not—to contact Jeffrey Wilkins for any reason. Is that clear?”

I said nothing. Sometimes that's a good thing. She glared at me a minute longer before climbing into her suv. She rolled down the window. “And until our investigation is complete, don't leave the county either.”

Then she was off in a swirl of dust.

CHAPTER
FOUR

I
didn't even take time to wipe the dust from my eyes. I just grabbed my tool kit, camera and keys and headed for my truck. Chevie was one step ahead of me, but I sent her back to sit on the porch. For some reason she finds riding around with me much more fun than trying to keep the chickens in the coop or the crows off the vegetable patch. Which is what I'd really like her to do.

I was so upset I forgot to baby my old truck as we hammered down the lane and along the dirt road to the highway. I hung on to the steering wheel for my life as potholes sent us both flying. I covered the ten miles to Jeff Wilkins' cottage in less than ten minutes. All the way, I worried about what I would say. Wilkins was a powerful man. Everybody bought their trucks from him. He could see that I never got another job in the county as long as he lived. If he was lying to cover his own butt, I didn't know how I was going to prove it. I didn't have too many friends in the county who would take my side over his. Worse, no other contractors were going to back up my design after I'd been undercutting them for years. I was small fry, and I liked it that way, but business was tight for everybody.

I reached the Wilkins' place before I'd thought up a plan. My nerves started to act up at the sight of the place. It was all alone on the clifftop, looking down on the lake below. More like a fort than a cottage. Huge square timber logs the color of wild honey, a red steel roof that gleamed in the sun. A triple garage where he kept his precious cars. Wilkins was tight but only when it came to others. Mrs. Wilkins had no car and had to beg every time she wanted to borrow one, but Jeff always got the latest-model toys for himself. A sports coupe, a heavy-duty truck and a high-end suv. Traded in every year.

Lucky for me, there was no sign of any of those vehicles when I arrived. I crunched over the empty gravel parking lot and parked my truck up against the side of the house. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Now I had a plan. There would be no accusations, no arguments and denials. No tongue tied in knots by a man six inches taller than me and a million dollars richer.

Just me, my camera and tape, and the deck where the poor woman fell to her death. I felt sick as that thought finally hit my reluctant brain. My fault or not, that poor, lonely woman was dead.

I walked around to the front of the house overlooking the lake. The deck was beautiful. The smell of fresh cedar still hung in the air, but the space was filled with flower boxes, patio furniture, and a big red umbrella.

Plus a gaping hole in the railing over the steepest drop.

Yellow police tape was tied across the hole. It was too flimsy to save anyone, but I wasn't worried as I walked across the deck. I'm not afraid of heights. I remembered the spot where the hole now was. It had been a terrible place to work. The house sat on a big slab of granite, and at this point the granite fell away in a sharp drop. I had to cantilever the edge of the deck out over the cliff and I'd reinforced it six ways to Sunday to be sure it was safe.

Truth was, I'd wanted to put the deck farther over, on safer ground. But Wilkins held firm. The view of the lake was breathtaking from here, he said. You feel like you're floating on air, up in the canopy of the trees growing down below.

I stood at the edge of the deck and peered over. The drop was at least twenty feet. Below, nothing but bare rock and more police tape waving in the wind. I walked back across the deck and circled around and down the rocks till I was right below the broken spot. A couple of splinters of wood were all that was left of the railing. It looked like someone had tried to clean up all trace of the accident. But looking closely, I could see gouges and scrapes in the lichen-covered granite and smears of dark red that someone had tried to wash up. The ants were having a field day. I shuddered.

I forced myself not to think about her. Instead, I looked up. An old white pine grew as tall and straight as a ship's mast from the base of the cliff. Its jagged boughs spread high above the deck. Some bark had been torn from its thick trunk halfway down, where she'd tried to grab hold. Looking farther up, I saw something I'd missed before. A bird feeder, the fancy kind meant to keep squirrels away, was attached to the trunk just above the deck. It was crooked. It was hard to tell from where I was, but it seemed to be hanging from one screw, only half screwed in. Like someone hadn't finished the job.

I started to pick my way back across the rocks to the stone steps so I could get a better look. The rumble of an engine stopped me in my tracks. It was deep and rough, like a lion purring. It had faulty timing and a hole just starting in its muffler. A big engine, but not a truck. An old Ford V8 if I was right. I tried to think who drove a car like that but drew a blank.

It crunched across the gravel and came to a stop. I ducked behind some bushes out of sight. I knew that was pretty pointless since my truck was sitting there in plain view in the parking lot. But I wanted to know what I was up against. I wanted to see the driver before he saw me. So I listened.

The engine knocked a few times before it died. Silence closed in. Even the birds seemed to be waiting. A car door slammed with a heavy clunk, and I heard footsteps on the gravel. Slow and uneven, as if the guy was marking time. I held my breath as the footsteps came near. I'm not a big guy, hitting five-ten if I stand on my toes, but I wished I'd picked a bigger bush to hide behind. The sun was low in the sky, glaring off the lake and turning everything to bright gold. The footsteps stopped, and I could imagine the guy eyeing my truck. I peeked over the bush, but couldn't see around the house.