Dead Red Cadillac, A (10 page)

I clung to the railing, gulping in huge draughts of air and trying to get my feet back under me. Stumbling blindly for my car, I fumbled the keys and finally got into the rental. Not generally a superstitious person, I wondered if perhaps someone beyond the grave wasn't trying to send me a message: Perhaps Bill Hollander, or Eddy's wife, Patience? If McBride really killed Bill Hollander, why was my dad involved? I shivered in the heat and glanced back at the judge's house. He was standing at the window, holding back the edge of the curtains and looking out at the car. Feeling foolish that I was still sitting in front of his house, I put the car in gear, crunched over the leaves rotting in the gutter, and hoped that if a ghost was sending me messages, it was at least benign.

Chapter Eleven
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I drove away from the judge's home, sure that I was going home to confront Noah and demand that he tell me the answers to this damnable mystery, except I simply couldn't point the car in that direction. I got as far as the city park on Sycamore, where I left the rental and hobbled around the perimeter of the park, matching my off-beat stride to my own cockeyed thoughts. Finally, sweaty and breathless, I leaned against the cool and soothing weight of the block bandstand and thought about what I would say to my father. How to start? Should I have been surprised that he hadn't confided in me? I was one to talk, as I was by no means guilt-free here. After all, I still carried around my own heavy guilt of omission.

Instead of going home, I drove aimlessly through the city streets, down McHenry, the four corners, where four streets actually met and the city fathers erected a monument to hometown boy George Lucas for putting Modesto on the map with American Graffiti. Except for the monument in his honor, George stayed mostly in Marin, where he kept busy with his production companies. I wandered down J Street, glancing at the fading sun gleaming off store windows. It was close to closing time and dinner would be waiting for me at home, but before I could go there and talk to Noah, I thought it would be best to run some of it by Roxanne.

The windows of Roxanne's Truck Stop and Café vibrated to the air conditioner trying to keep pace with a twenty-four-hour parade of truckers and farmers and crop dusters, and since August is our month for sidewalk cooking, today had been hot enough to melt American cheese slices on the pavement.

I sat on a well-padded stool and waited until Roxanne drifted my way.

"Did Caleb come in today?" I asked, hoping I'd catch him on his way back from interviewing Garth's ex-wife.

"He asked the same thing about you. I wish you two would text each other like the kids do and leave me out of it."

"Sorry." I would have to remember to add Roxanne to the growing list of people mad at me. "Can we talk?"

"I got time," she said, softening somewhat at the plea in my voice. "Take a booth at the back and I'll be right there." She put the coffee back on the burner, saying something to Leon as she passed the kitchen and, wiping her hands on her apron, settled her big bottom comfortably on the bench seat opposite me. She gave me that very expectant look, the one demanding an immediate response.

I opened my mouth, closed it and tried again. "Today, I found out two things. One: Patience McBride isn't a widow, which may explain who was holding me at gunpoint yesterday. He's been in prison for killing her boss, and I also learned that my dad's ol' fly-fishing buddy, Judge Griffin, was Mr. McBride's attorney, who suggested I leave it all alone, but after the bombshell the judge dropped in my lap, I doubt that's going to be an option."

Roxanne put her hands on the table and said, "Slow down."

I put my face in my hands. "It turns out my Caddy may be the connection to the whole thing! Patience's boss used to own it, and then Ricky had it and then I had to go and take it away from him, and then Eddy McBride escaped from prison to murder his wife, dumping that problem in my lap. And guess who paid the lawyer's retainer?"

When my chin started to quiver, Roxanne reached across the table to cover my hand. "Uh-huh, it's okay, sweet pea."

I couldn't get the words out without blubbering. "Bill Hollander may have sold more than chemicals to crop-dusting companies, and I don't know how I'm going to keep all of this from the police without one of us Bainses going to jail."

"One of you? You mean your dad? Why?"

I looked up, tears in my eyes. "My dad paid his fly-fishing buddy to defend Eddy McBride. So how do you think that's going to look when that smarmy detective gets wind of this connection?"

"Whoa. That's a leap you don't want to take yet. So your dad paid for Eddy McBride's defense, but you don't know really know why yet. What'd the judge say?"

"He wouldn't. But he did imply my dad was sweet on Patience. As soon as I can pull myself together, I'm going to go home and ask him. Oh boy, I'm almost afraid to ask."

She patted my hand. "Some of what you just told me was in today's paper. Not the part about the judge being Eddy's attorney, and there's nothing linking your car to Patience's boss, at least not yet."

I thought of Jan Bidwell again. "It'll only be a matter of time until the police connect the dots and it leads back to my dad. Drug smuggling Ag pilots, a dead chemical company owner, Eddy McBride; my dad was smack dab in the middle of it."

Smoothing the Modesto Bee out on the table between us, she tapped a finger on the front section. Squared nice and neat in the middle of the front page were two photos. One was a fuzzy publicity photo of me from my heyday in New York. Next to it was a clearer picture of my Caddy up to its windows in the shallow end of Turlock Lake.

"Newspaper has been busy throwing out all kinds of silly stuff," she said, turning to the back page. "Might as well include alien abduction." She snorted and added, "Of course, Boyd Lincoln says you look like a good suspect, since it’s well known you're a sore loser."

"That's pathetic. When this is over I'm going to make Boyd Lincoln eat those words!"

"It was a joke, Lalla. An itty-bitty joke. You can't take all this to heart or you're going to keel over, girl."

"Pardon me if my sense of humor has left the building, but right now all I can think of is how to keep me and my dad out of jail," I said, scrubbing at my sore neck. "I guess I thought you might have some ideas."

Turning her head to make sure we weren't being overheard, she said, "I should tell you something." Roxanne hated gossip. You couldn't pry a secret out of Roxanne with a tire iron, since she still held to all that doctor/patient privilege. She only practiced in the café, but I could see something was making her reconsider. She cleared her throat, looked up at the ceiling, at the cracks in the upholstery, at her husband happily scrubbing pots in the kitchen—anywhere but at me. I followed her wandering eyes, worried she was winding up to tell me something else damaging about my dad.

She said, "I met Eddy and Patience a long time ago, oh, must've been a year before his troubles. They were looking to buy a home around here, maybe with a little land. He was a sweet little guy, very attentive to his wife. They sat on the same side of the booth and he had his arm around her." She sighed. "I always thought that sort of thing cute. Leon and I never could sit in the same booth and actually eat; we're too big.

"They finally bought something in Stockton. But when the trial was over, Patience moved back here. She begged me not to tell anyone, said she was afraid no one would hire her if they knew about Eddy being convicted of killing her boss, and then there was his…"

"His—what?" I asked, twitching my shoulders.

"I'm getting to it; don't be so impatient," she said. Roxanne went back to examining corners for cobwebs.

I started to prod her with my fork, but she got the hint before the tines touched her skin.

"Eddy McBride came in here, I can't seem to recollect if it was before or after Bill Hollander was found dead. Certainly it was before he was charged with murder."

By this time I’d picked up a paper napkin and was doing a twisty thing with it, wishing I could stick her with the fork, a spoon, a knife, anything to hurry up this story. Not likely. Not without the chance of her smacking me with that big square hand. I've seen her use it very effectively on kids' bottoms, her husband's big shoulder and waitresses' backsides. So I waited, and twisted, trying not to let her think anything she said would upset me.

She looked down at my hands and continued. "It must have been around ten at night. We were well into a heavy evening of hungry truckers, so I wasn't paying much attention to who was coming or going. Eddy walked in and took a seat, over there, on a stool right by the register."

I followed her finger back to the place and imagined the small, well-groomed man from the newspaper clipping sitting at the counter, waiting for his coffee.

"I didn't recognize him at first and it wasn’t because he didn't have Patience with him."

I twisted the napkin some more, making it into a little white rope.

"I wanted to tell you about this sooner, but what with your brother and all, I thought better of it. But then, with everything happening…"

My brother, having reached the height of his ambitions as a set designer for the San Francisco light opera had died years ago, the result of a hit-and-run. What did he have to do with this? "Roxanne, spit it out, will you?"

"Eddy McBride was dressed in women's clothing."

I flinched, as she probably knew I would. My brother, much to my father's distress, was gay.

She was in a hurry now, as if speed would lessen the blow. "He had on a really nice outfit. Something I would have liked to wear, if I had the figure for it. You'd be too young to have worn those cute little Jackie Kennedy suits, but you know the kind?"

"Chanel," I said. "I'm not that young, and vintage Chanel is considered very cool."

"If you say so. Well, there I was and I said to myself, 'Sumpin's up here. The girl's white and dressed like a sister.' If you went to church with me on Sundays, you'd know what I'm saying. Sisters like their shoes, purse, gloves, hat, even their nail polish, to match. But I almost spilled the pot of coffee right on his lap when this dainty li'l ol' thing spoke and I realized who it was. Are you okay with this, sweet pea?"

"I'm fine." I was as uncomfortable with this subject as with popcorn kernels between my teeth, but except for the napkin strangling one of my fingers, I thought I almost didn't show it. "What did he say to you?"

"Not much. Just thanks for the coffee, and no thanks, I won't need a refill. Then he opened up his purse on the counter to rummage through it for his wallet, and I have to say, I peeked to see what a guy would put into a woman's purse. It had all of the usual stuff we all put in ours—a trim wallet, a lacy blue hanky, a tube of Revlon lipstick, and a smart little jeweled compact, to check his powdered nose, I suppose. He paid for his coffee and tottered out on those damn high heels. I could tell the shoes were made special. I was scared to death for him. If the truckers got wind that this cute little lady with the blond streaked pageboy was a man, they'd have torn him to pieces. Where do you think he got all that stuff?"

I knew, but I didn't feel like going into it. "Did you tell Patience?"

"Oh, Patience knew all about it. We had a nice long talk; she said he did it because he wanted to see if they could trust me with their secret. After the shock wore off, I was touched by the gesture. Then Eddy went to prison and Patience became a regular and I saw no reason to say anything to anyone. Wasn't nobody's business. At least, not until now."

"Did you ever see her with anybody in the café?" I asked, hoping she might have taken on a lover or at least a gentleman friend of some kind. Someone involved with her besides my dad.

"All alone, poor thing, and always here. Imagine that," she said, lifting her broad hand to encompass the café and its contents. "We're all she had. She sat right over there on that stool, not that anyone took notice. By the way, it was really sweet of you to take her on, even if it did turn out bad. Nobody else ever offered."

"Well, as Noah would say, 'No good deed goes unpunished.'"

Roxanne looked down at my hands, which had now turned the paper napkin into a tidy little noose worked around my index finger. My finger was numb and losing circulation. I smoothed the noose back into most of its original shape and I still felt miserable. I could see that Roxanne was trying to help, but it would also give the police just one more reason to seriously look at my father. "So, Eddy was gay?"

"No, he isn't gay," she said. "Transvestite, not transsexual, sweet pea. They like to dress up in women's clothes, but they're still heterosexual. Many are happily married family men. Patience understood that when she married him, and they obviously cared very deeply for each other. I don't know what happened with her boss, but I don't believe Eddy would kill Patience; he couldn't do it."

That might explain why a little old lady in a rental car was following me from the library. "Twenty years in prison can change all that. And it certainly wasn't any gentle soul who shoved a gun into my back. Well, that's some news, all right." It also explained why Patience's fashion sense had bombed since the photo of her on the courtroom steps. Eddy probably picked her Chanel suit and accessorized it for his court date.

Roxanne continued. "It's that nephew of hers I'm worried about. That man is trouble on two feet. You shouldn't be seen with him anymore. It doesn't look right, if you know what I mean."

She should know better than to bother with my sagging reputation. "You don't think we make a nice couple? Patience thought we would. We could have matching orange jumpsuits and visit each other through the bars."

"What is it with you and guys like that?"

I pulled back from the truth of her words and then said, "There's no fear of betrayal in taking on another bad boy, because I already know exactly what to expect. Never let it be said that I don't understand the mind of a lyin', cheatin' man-whore. And whether I like it or not, I have to continue to be seen with Garth. Detective Rodney says so."