Wild Goose Chase (14 page)

“Claire was alone when she died. Just cut herself terribly and bled to death.” I was saddened by the idea that Claire had not been able to save herself.

We stopped at another light. The street was lined with tall, stately palm trees. I sighed as we didn’t move. Long waits at traffic lights were a fact of life in Silicon Valley.

“Hey,” Buster said, trying to see my face. “You don’t think I’d be out here with you if I seriously considered you a suspect, do you?”

“I don’t know …”

“Trust me, Dewey, I would not jeopardize my job.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Hold on, hold on,” he said. He took my hand as the light changed and held it, eyes back on the road ahead. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. I like spending time with you. But I won’t do anything that looks improper.”

“Maybe you should take me back then,” I said, bristling, letting go of his hand, tucking mine in my front pocket of my jeans. The notebook in my pocket got in the way and I shifted it.

“No way. I promised you lunch, and I deliver on my promises,” he said.

We were quiet as he maneuvered the streets. I didn’t like the feeling that he thought I was leading him astray. Claire had died alone, a victim of a careless act. What else did Buster and I have to talk about?

“Speaking of quilters and quilts,” he said. “Did you know your mom made me a quilt when I went off to college?”

“Way to change the subject, Healy.” I had a college quilt, too. It was in my car when it was stolen. Mom never got around to making me a new one.

“I still have it. It’s soft, like an old shirt. Whenever I have a cold, I wrap up and lay on the couch, watching ESPN classic.”

“She thought you were special.”

“She was one-of-a kind, Dewey.”

“You were a big help to my family. I appreciate that.” My words were stilted, but I couldn’t get my lips to open any wider, suddenly feeling formal.

“I wish I could have done more.”

My stomach growled again. The light changed and Buster shifted gears.

“How about that lunch?” I said, to lighten the mood. “Preferably something greasy and salty, with plenty of trans fat. I’ll buy.”

“I know the perfect place.” He was chuckling to himself as he spun the wheel, made two quick turns, and pulled into a potholed driveway of a small fast-food restaurant. The building was peeling white stucco with an immense orange and tan hot dog on the roof.

“Hot Diggity Dog!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know this place was still open.”

“Saved from the wrecking ball just last week. Want a chili dog?”

“Two. And garlic fries.”

At the drive-up window, Buster placed our orders and handed the bags to me. The smell of garlic filled the truck. He smacked my hand as I grabbed a fry out of the bag.

“No fair picking. I know a great spot,” he said. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

Buster pulled into the asphalt lot of the creek trail that wound around the Guadalupe River. Rolling down the window, I could smell the eucalyptus. He jumped out, moved a gate that said “No cars past this point,” and got back in. He drove past the gate, got out and closed it, then drove a couple hundred feet up a dirt path and parked. Being the law came in handy when you wanted to get off the beaten path.

It was a lovely spot. The river flowed over shiny rocks. Less than a mile from the convention center, we were surrounded by nature. Tiny dots of miniature daisies carpeted the ground. A red-winged blackbird, the first I’d seen this season, flashed his bright color at me.

I could hear the steady pulsing of the freeway traffic, invisible from where we sat. We spread the feast out between us on the bench seat. Buster sipped greedily from his soda and I took the first bite of my chili dog. Juices ran down my chin. He reached for a napkin and handed it to me, teasing me about my manners.

We sat companionably quiet, eating and thinking our own thoughts. I felt so far away from the quilt show. Just like last night, when I was with Buster the world seemed to slip away.

He’d rolled up his sleeves to eat and his forearms looked vulnerable. The hair on his arms was dark; the wide leather strap on his watch scuffed and worn. I resisted the urge to turn his arm over and kiss the pulse spot.

I was suddenly aware of the wide plush seat that spanned the truck and the privacy afforded by the tinted windows, the isolated location. I leaned away from him, into the window, letting the air cool me down.

Sex with Buster yesterday had been like hearing a good song for the first time. I liked the music, felt the beat, but I didn’t know where it was going. I caught some of the lyrics, most of the chorus, but only half heard the rest.

The second time, a song has more meaning. Anticipating the wordplay, knowing where the chord changes are going to come, enhances the experience. And yet there’s still the joy of discovery—the modulation that wasn’t apparent the first time, the great turn of a phrase. Today I knew some of the lyrics. The initial excitement of the unknown was gone, replaced by the thrill of what variations might be coming.

Down girl
, I admonished myself. That way leads to a complicated love life. One time making love meant friends with benefits. I could live with that. What I was not prepared for was meaningful sex. Besides, I was too old for messing around in broad daylight. In a truck.

Buster leaned back on his seat. He looked satisfied, like the carbs had gotten to him and soothed his hunger. Outside, a bee, only half awake on this April day, flew erratically and narrowly missed colliding with the windshield.

“Don’t you need to get back?” I said.

He shook his head. “Anyone I need to talk to is either in a class or at work. I’ve got a few more interviews scheduled for this evening, but we’re wrapping it up.”

I drained my soda and put the cup into the holder.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Kym,” he said, wiping his mouth on a napkin, “but I really came by the booth this morning to see how you were doing.”

“After last night? Worried about my virtue? How quaint.”

“After finding Claire’s body yesterday?”

“Oh.” I felt like an idiot.

“I’m sorry you had to see her like that.”

I didn’t want to dwell on finding a dead body. Maybe Myra was right. Talking about it only kept the horror alive. I waved him off and returned to simpler times.

“Why did you become a policeman? I thought you were going to be a fireman.”

“You remember that?” He turned to me, eyes alight. A grin tugged at his lips and I looked away, afraid I might kiss him.

“Of course I remember. From the time you were six and we saw the firemen games at the Frontier Days.”

“Oh, yeah, the hose roll. It was so exciting, those firemen racing down the street. Then I found out about all the equipment that a fireman had to wear. I much prefer street clothes.”

I smiled. Buster’s vanity was endearing.

“Dewey.” His voice was soft and sweet, and I remembered how his whispers had washed over me in bed last night. I didn’t want to fall under that spell again. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared out the window. A small jackrabbit, his ears comically large, paused and looked my way before disappearing into the high grass.

Buster kept talking. “About last night? I had a great time.”

Kym’s face swam into my psyche like a bucketful of cold water.

“I don’t want a relationship,” I said.

His brows lifted in surprise at my abruptness. “But we started something.”

“No, we didn’t really, Buster. It was a nice night, but that’s all. Don’t make a big deal about it. I’m not into double-dating with Kevin and Kym.”

“Is that it? My being friends with Kevin has you freaked out?”

“You’re practically family.”

“But I’m not. You and me—not related. No shared genes, whatsoever.”

I didn’t mention the DNA we’d shared last night. I kept quiet, looking out the window, hoping he would move away.

“I didn’t notice you having any problem with that in your bed,” he drawled, his voice low. His fingers trailed across my forearm. I squirmed in the seat and opened the window.

It was true, I hadn’t thought of him as a family friend once since he’d taken his clothes off. Now carnal thoughts crowded in, making it difficult to construct a coherent argument.

I rolled up my window. “Let’s go back to the show, Buster. We don’t have time for this, either one of us. I’ve got work to do.”

“I’m off for the rest of the afternoon.”

“I’m not,” I said, unconvincingly. I could be free for the afternoon, too. Without the laptop, I was just an extra body at the booth, and I wouldn’t be able to talk to potential buyers until later.

He reached over and brushed a hair from my face. His fingers felt like fire. I let myself lean into his hand. It was large and strong, and he stroked my cheek with two fingers.

“Making you smile makes me happy,” Buster said.

He had made me smile last night, and my body ached now for his touch. Attentive, unselfish guys are rare. Why should I refuse? All he was offering me was pleasure—how could that be wrong?

I felt my resolve crumble. My family had already demanded so much from me. I’d given them the last few months, keeping the shop open so that they could feel like life was just the same as before Mom died. I seemed to be the only one that noticed things had changed.

Buster noticed; he was in tune with my feelings. Maybe it was that empathy that made him a good cop, allowed him to read right into my soul, and know exactly what I needed.

My lips bent into a smile just to please him. He moved away from the steering wheel, pushing his leg against mine. Buster kissed the pulse on my neck. My body shuddered.

“I will never hurt you,” he whispered.

Buster pulled my T-shirt over my head. The sweet fresh air from the open window hit my bare skin like water on a parched throat. He folded the shirt and lifted my head, gently tucking the fabric behind me. I pulled off my chinos and felt the scratch of the velour seat under me. The discomfort heightened the sensations flooding my body. I tangled my hands in his hair, pulling him closer to me.

I needed a soft place to fall and Buster was it.

“Do not go to
sleep, Buster.” I rubbed my painfully tingling left arm and pushed his head off my shoulder. My mouth was dry, and I could taste hot dog at the back of my throat.

“I need to get back to the show, now.”

One of us had knocked over the leftover lunch bag. An overpowering stale garlic stench rose up. I grabbed a bottle of water from a six pack on the floor and drank greedily, catching the water in my hand as it spilled down my chin. I pulled on my pants.

I jostled Buster again. His probing cop eyes were closed, the worry lines in his forehead relaxed. He looked more like the kid I remembered playing soccer on Hayes Street.

A plane roared overhead. I heard a pile driver pound the earth rhythmically. A few moments ago, all I’d heard was our breathing. Noise by noise, the world intruded. I wiped my wet hands on the seat cover and looked at my watch. We’d been gone for two hours.

“Buster, move it.”

He opened one eye. I stifled a laugh. Shifting in his seat, his elbow bumped the horn. The sharp blare set off a flurry of mourning doves across the path in front of the truck.

“What’s the time?” His voice was thick. I plucked his glasses off the rearview mirror and handed them to him.

“Four thirty. I have to get to rehearsal. Move this truck out of here.” His keys were still in the ignition, so I reached over, started the engine, and rolled down my window. Fresh cool breezes flooded my overheated skin. I pulled down my T-shirt, feeling a frisson of excitement as the cloth pulled over my tender breasts.

He planted a kiss on my cheek. “Man, you stink.”

“I don’t smell that much, do I?” I said, fighting an urge to sniff my armpits.

“My favorites, garlic and sex.”

I handed him his shirt. “It’s not bad enough that I have to model in a fashion show; I’ve got to do it smelling of garlic? Geez, Buster.”

“A fashion show?” He pulled the shirt over his undershirt and I silently grieved as the star tattoo on his shoulder disappeared.

“Don’t say a word,” I warned, slipping his tie under his collar as he buckled his belt.

“Fashion show screams Kym,” he said.

“Believe me, I am not happy about it.”

“Maybe I’ll come. When?”

“Don’t you dare. I’ll probably be outfitted in some dorky patchwork jumper with huge pockets. With lace.”

He leaned against the back of the seat, still dreamy-eyed. “Maybe you’ll get to wear something slinky.”

“Not that kind of lace. These are quilting fashions, not Victoria’s Secret. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

I checked my cell for messages. He reached over and grabbed it, the phone tiny in his palm.

“Hold on, hold on,” he said, warding off my reaching for the phone with his left hand. He typed on the keypad.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting my cell number in here. Right up front. Look, I’m the first one in your address book.”

I looked. He’d put his name as #Buster so he would stay at the top of the list.

“Cute.”

“Just want to make it easy for you to reach me. Anytime. Middle of the night …”

“And why would I call you in the middle of the night?” I asked. Buster brought out my inner flirt.

Grinning, he revved the engine. “Maybe your cat’s up a tree?”

“I don’t have a cat.”

He thought for a moment, eyebrows comically furrowed. “Or your pilot light goes out.”

“I have an electric stove.” I was enjoying this game.

“An itch you can’t scratch,” he said, reaching for my back.

I moved out of reach. “I can get a backscratcher at any dollar store. There’s only one reason a woman calls a man in the middle of the night,” I said.

“Yes?” he said provocatively.

I gave him a blank look. “A loud, unexplained noise.”

His face fell. Not the answer he was looking for, but he was a good sport. “That’s okay with me, too.”

I reached for the gear shift. “Back to reality.”

“Wait. Did you ever use a rotary cutter to cut linoleum?”

“Huh?”

He smiled quickly. “I’ve been thinking about those cutters. There must be other uses for them. I’m replacing the floor in my mother’s tiny bathroom and I’ve got a bunch of small cuts to make. That thing might come in handy. You said there are two different types?” he prompted, shifting back into neutral.

He was obviously trying to prolong our time out here. I couldn’t blame him. I was so relaxed. I pulled my legs under me, sitting cross-legged on the seat, closer to him than my door. I knew something about home improvements.

I began, “There’s the straight-handle kind. You pull down a lever on the safety cover and the blade comes out. Cut, then push on the lever to hide the blade again.”

“Okay, so the blade doesn’t retract until you close the cover.”

“Right. The newer one, the one with the curved, ergonomic handle, has a trigger in the handle. As you press the handle, the blade opens. If you’re not holding the handle, the blade disappears into the safety mechanism. But I don’t think they’re designed to be used on linoleum.”

“So you let go of the handle …”

His head came off the back of the seat, his eyes wide. He cursed and flung the gearshift in reverse. The truck spun gravel as he backed down the trail, his arm flung over the seat. He got out and opened the gate, flung himself onto the seat, and drove the truck through without closing his door.

“Want me to get the gate?” I asked when we reached the other side, but he was already out of the cab. When he climbed back into the driver’s seat, he spoke with new urgency.

“Are you sure?” He turned to me, his blue eyes flashing. “As soon as you release the handle, the blade is no longer exposed, right?”

I thought back to the earlier demonstration. The saleswoman had been using the ergonomic one. “Yes, why?”

He pulled too quickly onto the street, bouncing me. My head banged against the window as the truck slid around a corner. I scrambled for my seat belt.

“Hey, slow down. What’s the hurry all of a sudden?” I said, fighting panic.

He kept his eyes on the road, changing lanes without signaling. Something I’d said had caused this sudden need for speed.

“What is it? Why do the different types of cutter matter? What does that mean?” I asked.

“Murder.”

I heard bells ringing. A red-striped wooden arm began its descent across the roadway in front of us. A loud horn sounded. Buster goosed the accelerator toward the railroad crossing.

I yelled. “You’ll never make it!”

He shot me a look and hit the brakes hard, thrusting me forward. I broke my fall with hands braced on the dashboard. The bumper stopped just shy of the tracks as a freight train began its slow procession.

Buster threw the truck into park and pounded the steering wheel. “Shit, piss, fuck,” he said.

“Nice talk,” I said, rubbing my wrist.

“Sorry, but this train takes at least six minutes to pass.”

I peered down the length of the train, then at him. “You said murder. Why?”

“I didn’t say that.” He tapped a nervous rhythm on the dashboard with his thumbs, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

He could deny it, but I’d heard him. “Yeah, you did.”

I watched as his face shuttered. The cop was back with his game face on. The one who acquired information didn’t give any out. Our lovely interlude was over.

“Drop it, Dewey. I’m not about to talk to a civilian about an ongoing investigation.”

Civilian? I bristled at the tag. I crossed my arms and looked out the window, focusing on the rotary cutters to keep from feeling how belittling his remark was.

I was the only one who knew what Claire’s body had looked like, besides Myra. I allowed the picture of the hotel room to form in my mind. The bedcovers lying partly on the floor. The blood. The curved-handle cutter lying next to her.

My heart sank as I tumbled to what Buster had already figured out. “If she had dropped it while using it …” I voiced what I didn’t want to know. “The blade would have closed before the cutter ever hit her. Someone deliberately cut Claire.”

I turned slowly to him, the horrible truth descending between us like a curtain on a bed in an old black-and-white movie, keeping us apart. In the blink of an eye, his job had changed from explaining a fatal accident to catching a murderer. And I truly was a civilian, an unnecessary burden. Or worse, a suspect.

He sat higher in his seat, his shoulders stiff. He glanced in the mirror and pulled his tie up, knotting it with a vicious tug. The transformation was complete. From Buster, friend and lover, to Benjamin Healy, homicide detective.

Murder changed everything.

The train continued on, sounding like bottles knocking against each other. Metal-barred cars carrying chickens trundled past. Feathers floated in the air. Fifty cars must have gone by already and still no caboose in sight. I pulled on the confining neck of my T-shirt. I wanted out of the truck.

“Buster, you know I didn’t do this, right?”

He nodded once, without looking at me.

I didn’t do it, but someone did. “What about the fashion show? I mean, everyone is going to be there. Do you think it’s safe?”

“You’ll be fine, Dewey.” Buster rapped his fingers on the steering wheel, beating out a tuneless rhythm. “There’ll be lots of people around, right? Chances are Claire’s death has nothing to do with the quilt show. Murders like this are almost always committed by the people closest to the victim. We’ll talk to her husband again.”

He’d lapsed into copspeak. Claire had become just another victim, her loved ones viewed as potential suspects. I could see him grow distant, probably figuring out his next move. I wanted to keep him here with me. In my mind, I reenacted my route to Claire’s room. I remembered I’d never told Buster about seeing Justine in the hall just before I got to the door.

“Buster, Justine was there and she owed Claire money,” I offered, watching his face. “She stole the cash from yesterday’s admittance from the show. Eve was furious last night when she found out.”

“Stop,” he said softly. His hands had stilled and he unconsciously brought one up to run through his hair. He looked straight out the windshield, shoulders hunched, elbows leaning on the steering wheel.

“No, listen to me,” I said. “I know you have to talk to Claire’s family, but there is something going on at the show. Money is missing.”

The notebook might hold a clue. Maybe Justine had made notes on her gambling. I arched my back to get my fingers into my pocket. Buster grabbed my arm, stopping me.

“Dewey, it’s a quilt show, for crying out loud.”

I pulled my hand away. “There’s plenty of cash around.”

He shook his head, his expression hard. I didn’t like this look.

“I could ask around,” I said. “Everyone thinks of me as just my mother’s daughter. I bet I could get people to open up, tell me what they know.”

He looked at me, incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Dewey. What do you think this is—some kind of game? We’re talking about murder, remember?”

“Remember? I found Claire’s body, didn’t I? Do you think that’s easy to forget?”

“That entitles you to sympathy, not—”

“So you feel sorry for me? Is that what this has been about?” I flung my arm out of his grasp, pointing at the seat between us. “‘Poor Dewey, she found a dead body, I think I’ll cheer her up.’ Instead of holding your hand out in sympathy, you haul out your—”

“Dewey,” he warned. “You can’t bring Audra back.”

My heart stopped. “My mother? What does she have to do with this?”

His voice was soft. “I’ve seen this, Dewey. A cop can’t get the bad guy he’s chasing, so he transfers his rage to the next poor slob in his sights. It doesn’t make for good police work.”

“My mother’s death has nothing to do with Claire’s,” I yelled. Buster put a restraining hand on me, but I shook it off. I reached down and pulled on my socks so hard, I nearly put my big toe through the seam. I jammed my foot in my sneaker and brought my foot up to tie my laces. Buster frowned at my shoe on his upholstery. I brought my other foot up and silently dared him to say anything.