A DEAD RED MIRACLE: #5 in the Dead Red Mystery Series (8 page)

I looked at Pearlie. She grinned and stuck out her hand. "Deal."

"A couple of things: First, my nephew has agreed to cooperate and second, my sister is somewhat fragile, so if you have any question about this case, please bring them to me."

Pearlie nodded eagerly, but I wasn't satisfied with Ian's request about his sister. "What do you mean by fragile? Is your sister ill?"

"No, not anything like that. It's just that she lives quietly. She's an artist you know and I'd rather you gave whatever news you have with your investigation to me. Can you do that?"

I looked at Pearlie. Her eyes were telegraphing a plea to just say yes.

I agreed with a quick lift of my shoulders.

"Good," he said. "I told you I looked at all the deputies involved in the shootout, but that was before my sister hired a P.I. I'm giving you a copy of the entire file, pictures included. I found a few things, but… "

"But what, Sheriff?" Pearlie asked.

"You will have to tread carefully. I have taken the liberty of writing up a list of possible suspects. It's down to three men. They all have at least one reason to want to avoid any association with your investigation into this old murder."

Ian reached for the folder on his coffee table and handed it to me. "The check is from my sister but I am concerned enough about this list to put a letter into a safety deposit box with a key for my attorney. If anything happens to me or my nephew, the state's attorney will get a copy. Please put this in a safe place, or better yet, memorize the names and burn it."

Pearlie flipped open the folder, read it and then passed it over to me. I read the names and with a lighter from the table the document faded into black ash. "How about the autopsy on Ron Barbour?"

Pearlie shivered. "If it's all the same to you, I'll pass."

"A copy of the report is all we need," I said, patting her hand. I wouldn't expect my squeamish cousin to want to watch as Ron's body was laid open on a steel table, his internal organs incised and weighed by an indifferent medical examiner.

"I can get you a copy when it's official."

I picked up the photo of the horse with Geronimo engraved on the frame. "Is there some significance in the name Geronimo to you and your family?"

Ian looked at his nephew before answering. "Outside of raising champion quarter horses, we're his direct descendants."

"That's also your nickname at the gym, isn't it, Damian?" Pearlie asked.

"What of it?" Damian was back to his belligerent attitude.

Ian's jaw tightened and his face went red with frustration. "You broke into this nice lady's office and stole her personal property. For some reason she has decided not to turn you over to the police, but keep it up and she might change her mind."

Damian ducked his head as if he wished he could disappear.

"You can help us with this investigation, you know," I said.

"Perhaps you'd rather remain a suspect in Ron Barbour's murder?" Ian said. "Then what do you think your chances are for a shot at American Ninja Warrior?"

Startled, Damian's coppery skin actually paled. "Sorry."

"Ian," I said, looking at the check. "We can't accept this. Your sister already gave Ron a deposit."

He pushed it back to me. "You'll have to finish what Ron started and without the evidence he had to get an arrest. Hopefully, you can get what you need without getting killed for it."

Since he put it that way, maybe we should have asked for more money.

.

Chapter Eleven:

Outside Ian Tom's house, Caleb leaned on the open window of Pearlie's rental and sniffed. "Is it just me or does your rental smell like cat piss?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Pearlie said, avoiding his eyes. "And if you'll excuse us, we have a job to do."

He looked at me. "You'll take Ian's advice and keep a low profile, right?"

"We can't get in trouble looking at pictures of the house fire and the mine collapse, now can we?" I said sweetly.

"I've seen you get into trouble with less."

"This ain't our first rodeo, you know," Pearlie said.

"Then I'll let you get to it," Caleb said, stepping away.

Pearlie put the car into gear and hit the gas.

Either she was anxious to get some miles on our first real paying job or she was thinking about her date later tonight with the trainer from the gym.

<><><><><>

Arriving at our office in Sierra Vista, Pearlie breezed through the door without using her key.

"You didn't lock it?"

"Why bother?" Pearlie said. "Except for Clyde here, anything worthwhile went up in flames with Ron."

Today our skeleton wore a ratty old wig, a ball cap and reading glasses taped to its non-existent nose.

"What's with the book in his hands?"

"I thought one of us should look busy."

"We did all the work on most of his cases for the last three years," I said, peeling off my jacket and opening my laptop.

"Evidently not
all
of them," Pearlie said.

"Well, we're busy now, so quit accessorizing the skeleton."

"We should hire a secretary," Pearlie said.

"We don't have the money," I growled.

"We have two jobs on the books. We finish them and we'll have some cash to pay part-time help."

"Today is Tuesday. How are we supposed to finish our two insurance jobs and find Ron's killer in just one week? And lock the damn door, will you?"

Pearlie ignored my grumpy behavior and turned the lock on the office door. "Not that this will keep Damian out. Alrighty then. I'll start with online newspaper stories and then check out the Tucson TV station's for video or print, add up all the people we can ID and if they show up at both places, I'll make copies for comparison. You work on Ian's names."

"Right," I said scooting up to the desk. Though it went against everything I had learned about the men on the list, if Ian had cause to mention them, we'd work on it. I'd dig into property owned or mortgaged, marriages, divorces, bankruptcies, anything that showed vulnerability or a willingness to murder in order to keep a secret.

"Will Caleb match our unknowns with the national database?" Pearlie asked.

"Yes, but I’m hoping it's some local low-life we helped put in jail over the last couple of years."

"Maybe it's one of Ron's. He worked on a lot of criminal cases."

Five hours later, Pearlie leaned back in her chair and stretched. "Whoever said being a P.I. was glamorous should be shot―twice."

I moved my shoulders around to ease the cramp in my neck. "Once for thinking it and once for saying it out loud?"

"Yep."

Pearlie came up with five matches for both places. "Some are in uniform and a couple could simply be off-duty volunteers, but you'll have Caleb double check for us? Criminal records, outstanding warrants, right?"

"Yes," I said. I was not looking forward to giving the list to Caleb. I was on a first name basis with two of them and the other one was a close friend of Caleb's.

I started with what I'd found out about Wishbone's favorite TV car salesman, Wade Hamilton. "I got the police report on it. Five years ago Wade Hamilton hired Ron to investigate the theft of cars from his lot and he paid the bill with our surveillance cars."

"Those two junkers?" Pearlie snickered. "I'd say Wade got the better end of that deal. So what was the case about?"

"The police report says Wade had a twenty year old kid, by the name of Joey Green, washing the cars. Ron testified in the trial that the kid used Wade's cars to rob businesses then sold them to chop shops on the border."

"Where's the kid now?" Pearlie asked.

"He's out on parole, working at a wrecking yard in Benson. I think one of us should pay him a visit."

Pearlie propped her head onto her hands and said, "Wade Hamilton. Wade Hamilton."

I waited until the count of ten before nudging her. "What?"

She popped out of her chair. "We actually have a file on it. It's in the closed cases."

Pearlie started noisily shuffled through the file cabinet.

"Got it," she said, waving the file over her head. "It had a red tag for
closed case
, so I didn't bother with it."

"See? We should go through these old cases, maybe dig up more business."

"When we have time." She opened the file and read. "Wade Hamilton hired Ron Barbour to uncover who was stealing the cars. It looks like Ron did a week's worth of surveillance for this job. He got expenses and those two nifty Fords we use for surveillance. Wait. There's something…" she sifted through paperwork and stapled receipts, then looked up and grinned. "If I didn't know what a liar and a cheat Ron was I would never have bothered to look at these receipts."

"Well?"

"All of his expenses for the case are stamped with dates
after
the kid was arrested and there's no receipt for a check on the job. He probably took cash so he wouldn't have to report it on his taxes."

I thought for a minute. "I think it might be worse than that, Pearlie. Think about it. Cash and two old cars for all that work?"

"You're thinking he didn't actually do any work?" she asked.

"I think Ron was only too happy to write up a report after the robberies."

Pearlie's disgust only matched my own. "And perjured himself with his testimony? In court! I'd be shocked, but on top of everything else, I guess I'm not. I have to wonder what deal Joey got to keep quiet."

"Better yet, did Ron try to blackmail Wade to keep his secret?" I asked.

"Oh. That would explain Wade offing Ron, but coming so close on the heels of this investigation, was Ron about to name Wade as Damian's father's killer?"

"
If
Ron had evidence that confirmed Wade as the shooter," I said.

"Then Ron's attempt to blackmail Wade backfired. Well, it's something to keep in mind, but it's not hard evidence. Who else do you have on the list?" Pearlie asked.

"This is a hard one; Jesse Jefferson."

Pearlie leaned forward in her chair. "Are you sure? He's Wishbone's favorite preacher. How was he involved with Miracle Faith Church?"

"He was an early convert, but by the time of the shooting he was already working to help members who wanted out. There's no record of him being at the shooting, but Ian said he has a secret."

"Like what?"

"Money problems," I said.

"Oh please. All preachers have money problems. I dunno, Lalla. All of these men are prominent in Wishbone. What if Ian Tom is using us to compromise their integrity so he can be assured of another term as sheriff?"

"You're awfully cynical these days, Pearlie Mae."

"You can blame Ron for that," she said. "I don't remember seeing a file with Jesse Jefferson's name on it. What if he didn't have any connection to Ron?"

"Maybe no connection to Ron, but you're the best person to look into Jesse's finances and I'll try to find out if he had critics."

Pearlie finished her notes and looked up. "You have one more name, right?" When I wouldn’t meet her eyes, she said, "It's not your husband, is it?"

"No, but it's close enough to home to make me think I'm going to regret ever taking this job."

"Like we have a choice?"

.

Chapter Twelve:

"You have a date tonight," I said. "Caleb can pick me up here."

"Don't worry about it," Pearlie said, picking up her purse. "I'm meeting him in Wishbone anyway, so it's on my way."

"Don't you want to go home and shower first?"

"Oh," she said, lifting her arm and sniffing. "I guess I better. Come and help me find something to wear. Half-an-hour tops, okay?"

I should have known better. Her hair alone took a half-an-hour and she spent another half hour pawing through her closet for just the right dress. "Gotta wear something nice, but not too fancy… no, no and definitely not
that
one. That's what I wear to funerals."

"I thought it looked familiar," I said, hanging it back in the closet. Funerals were a good place to finger skip-traces.

Two hours later, Pearlie let me out at the door of my house.

When I saw my dad's Jeep, I groaned. I needed an hour with Caleb alone. One of the men on the list was someone my husband liked, respected and spent time with. And of all the dirty secrets that Ian alluded to, this was the most ruinous. Never mind this man's reputation in the community, even a whiff of an accusation could send him to prison and I dreaded the scene it would cause with Caleb.

Still, the smell of food wafting through the front door put me into a much better mood.

Wearing my apron, Dad pulled a tin-foil wrapped casserole out of the oven. "You're just in time to set the table."

I sniffed. "Gee, now this smells a lot like Juanita's enchilada casserole."

"It does, doesn't it? Picked it up at that Mexican café outside of Wishbone. Oh, and set another place, will you? My friend Gabby is coming to supper."

Looking for a hint of what this was all about, I asked, "What's the occasion?"

"The foundation for my patio was poured today and when it's dry, I want my dog back. You can have him any time you need him to track dead people."

"Dad, that's for cadaver dogs. Hoover's an air scent dog; he looks for lost people."

"Good for you, Hoover," Dad said, congratulating the dog. "Gabby has some information about your murder case… oh, there she is," he said, removing the apron and heading out of the door.

From his bed by the door, Hoover's big ears pricked up and he rose to his feet, switching his gaze from me to the door.

"Stay," I said, and he dropped down again, his eyes on the door.

I set another place at the dinner table and seeing my husband walk by, gave him a light kiss.

"It was nice of your dad to bring supper," he said, taking the plates from my hands. "But please tell me he's not moving back in."

"I don't think that's what he meant by bringing us dinner, but he did invite Gabby to eat with us."

"I saw them talking outside. I better go wash up then. Smells like Juanita's cooking." He added another kiss as he slid past me for the bathroom.

The memory of our housekeeper's wonderful seven layer enchilada casserole brought back wonderful memories. I was pretty dense in those days, wallowing in self-pity from my second divorce and not paying attention to my childhood friend's own marriage problems. Everyone else knew Caleb and his wife had separated. Our good friend and café owner, Roxanne, made sure he had a breakfast sandwich to go every morning on his way to work as sheriff of Stanislaus County and my dad, who could be completely clueless about my problems, made sure Caleb had a standing invitation at our house for a weekly meal.

We'd been friends since we were each orphaned of a parent; his father, my mom, leaving behind two lonely and frightened children. It was only natural that we gravitated to each other for support. We thought it fun that our tall, pale blond Nordic looks made people incorrectly assume we were related, but after my two to his one failed marriage, I finally came to understood what I'd been missing all those years. Now, after three years of marriage, I can honestly say that I've never been happier.

I wondered if the ingredients for the enchilada casserole my dad brought home from the Mexican café really was that much like Juanita's, or was I confusing it with Coco Lucero's enchiladas?

The front door opened and booted steps clicked over the Saltillo tiles.

Gabby was in a clean, if faded, western shirt, jeans and a silver concho belt inlaid with turquoise the size of my fist.

"I brought some homemade wine," she said, laying a gallon jug on the counter. "Careful there. I cleaned it some but it's a mite damp and can slip outta yer hands." She rubbed her work-worn hands together and smacked her lips. "Somethin' sure smells good. Where do I sit?"

I set the jug of wine on the dining table. "Any place you like. Actually, everyone have a seat and I'll bring out the food. Not you, Caleb," I said, keeping him with me.

"Is Gabby your dad's new lady friend?" he asked.

"I haven't a clue, but I suppose we'll find out soon enough," I said.

Caleb playfully pinched my butt and then balancing the bowl of salad on one hand and the dressing in the other, carried it out to the dinner table.

Gabby poured everyone a glass of her homemade wine. "Don't let this nice red fool you. It's high octane an' been known to kick more than one cowboy on his ass."

While the food was passed around, Gabby proceeded to regale us with her family's history. "My pa was an out of work miner and hired on as ranch hand at my grampa's place. Within a year he was managing the ranch and married to the owner's daughter. They spent their honeymoon prospecting, then came home to discover an old mine on grampa's property. My husband and I worked it off and on until he died a few years back."

She accepted our murmurs of sympathy and nodded at the wine. "Pass that over here one more time, will ya? The Hayes family has been making their own wine for nearly a hundred years." Upending her third glass of the evening, she poured another. My first and only glass was mostly empty, but I wasn't about to finish it. This stuff was pure TNT.

Maybe Gabby could absorb the alcohol without it affecting her, but Caleb's eyes were glassy after one. Thinking one of us should be sober enough to say goodnight to our guests I pushed the pitcher of iced water over to him. He poured a full glass and thanked me with a quick wink.

"Tell Lalla and Caleb about the other thing," Dad prompted.

Gabby reddened at the sudden attention. She cleared her throat and in her buzz-saw voice said, "Well, Noah here says you and your cousin worked for Ron Barbour?"

I sighed and blew out of breath of frustration. "I guess you could call it that." When Gabby's pale eyebrows went up, I smiled sweetly to show that I was only kidding.

"Well, I don't know if this will help or not, but I was a new school teacher in Palominas back when that religious cult moved here. Damian White was a little tyke then and as happy with math and science as he was with recess. But after meeting his folks at a parent teacher conference, I knew that there was trouble in that family. The missus was Native American, you know and besides the fading bruise on her cheek, I noticed the boy always stayed on his ma's side and away from his pa. Then that preacher lady insisted all the church children get homeschooled and Damian's ma came by to see where she could buy school books and such. When I asked if she needed help in getting loose from her husband, she shook her head and said she already had plans for him. That was the last time I ever spoke to her, but I read about the shoot-out in the papers."

Under the table, Caleb gave my knee a cautionary squeeze.

I returned the squeeze to show he didn't have to worry about what I might say. "What did you think of her comment about having plans for her husband?"

"Well," she said, touching her earring. "I don't rightly know that I gave it much thought until I read about it in the papers, him gettin' killed an' all. I hope you don't think I'm gossiping or nothin'. Noah and I thought you might like to know."

"Thank you, Gabby. I do appreciate it. It's an old cold case and there are never enough leads."

Gabby returned the smile. "You're surely welcome. Now did someone say there was pie for dessert?"

She accepted only the smallest piece of apple pie and then bid us all good night.

Caleb stood at the kitchen window, his hands in sudsy water and said, "They have matching Jeeps."

"Then that's another thing they have in common."

"She also finished off that gallon of wine she brought."

"You think she shouldn't be driving?" I asked.

"Your dad's getting in his Jeep. He'll follow her home."

"That's nice of him," I said.

Caleb wasn't much of a drinker. A beer or two once a week was more his speed, so I remarked on the two glasses he drank.

"I've never tasted anything quite like it," he said. "Not too much tannin and that little bit of sparkle was a nice touch. I wonder how she makes it?"

My eyebrows went up in surprise. "Since when have you become a wine connoisseur?"

He grinned and kissed me. "Just another level to the marvelous man you married. But thanks for cutting me off when you did or I'd be wearing a bad hangover tomorrow morning. So what do you think about Gabby's take on Naomi White?"

"If she shot her husband, why pay us to find his killer?"

Caleb shrugged. "Just because she's paying you doesn't mean she actually expects you to succeed."

I couldn't help feeling the old fear of defeat edging in on me. "Not you too? Everyone in this county seems to think we couldn't possibly know anything about investigating, much less be able to solve this case."

He reached over and hugged my shoulders. "I do, your dad does, and Modesto's police chief sure remembers what you did for him. He'll vouch for you any time you need it."

"I guess I just hate to think that Ian purposely did not mention his sister."

"Ian Tom has only been back in Arizona for eight years and he may not know everything about his sister's history with her husband. But if the evidence points to her, we'll deal with it."

"I haven't told you the names on that list yet, have I?"

"I figured you would when you were ready," he said, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

"Wade Hamilton, Jesse Jefferson and I know it sounds crazy," I said, waiting for the outburst, "Andy Sokolov is the third person."

Caleb's back stiffened. "Say again?"

I was getting a headache, maybe a migraine, and I hadn't had one in years. I rubbed my forehead, trying to ease into the subject of Caleb's best friend and mayor of Wishbone.

"If it's any consolation, Pearlie thinks the sheriff may be aiming his sights on a political career, so nabbing a killer who is a respectable member of Wishbone's society would be quite the coup, wouldn't it?"

"I have to trust that there's a reason why Ian gave you these names. Besides shooting a man in the back and then covering it up, Ian's offered you some leads to follow. Have you come up with anything yet?"

"We've just started to look, but five years ago Wade Hamilton hired Ron Barbour to uncover who was stealing cars off his lot. The car thief was a kid he had washing cars."

"But what?"

"As far as Pearlie is concerned, his worst offense was accepting those two old junkers we use for surveillance, but the most damning evidence of Ron's corruption were his expense receipts. His receipts don't match his report."

"You're saying he lied in the report to keep his pal in the clear?"

"And perjured himself on the witness stand. We're also thinking Ron made the deal and kept Wade's secret, but then later tried to squeeze him for more money."

"And got himself killed for his efforts? The kid went to prison. Is he out now?"

"He's out on parole," I said, "employed at a wrecking yard in Benson and keeping his nose clean."

"Do you want me to talk to him?"

"Pearlie or I will do that."

"Who's next?"

"Jesse Jefferson."

"Jesse? Dammit, Lalla, I have Rotary breakfast with him once a month. We've been to his church. He's one of the nicest people I know."

"Ian didn't say he wasn't. He only said to look for money problems."

"Oh, all right," he said with a wave of his hand. "Then let's get the elephant out of the closet and in the room, shall we? What's Andy's secret?"

I looked at my feet, dreading the outcome of this conversation. Either way, it wasn't going to end well.

"Ian could be wrong," I said.

"For Chris' sake, Lalla, what's Andy supposed to have done? Kiddy porn?"

I blanched.

"Oh Jesus!" he said, collapsing onto a kitchen chair.

"There were only two words after Andy's name, child pornography."

Caleb simply shook his head, staring at me as if I were an alien creature. "If I didn't have so much respect for Ian Tom, I'd suspect Pearlie was right thinking about a political agenda. Dammit. If it turns out his lead was from some jealous rumor monger I'll personally kick his ass."

Hoping to divert his attention away from this dreadful subject, I asked, "Did you feed Hoover already?"