Fool's Puzzle (19 page)

“Nothing concrete. Just things. Annoying things.”

“Like what?” I picked up a square acrylic paperweight with pennies floating in it. They looked like small copper fish frozen mid-glide.

“Well, for one thing, he greeted me by name this morning.”

“And?” I inspected the paperweight more closely. How did they do things like this? It made a loud clumping sound as I turned it from side to side on her desk. It looked the same no matter what side you laid it on.

“He brought me a doughnut.” She clicked her makeup mirror closed.

I continued turning the paperweight and waited. She grabbed it from my hands and set it on the other side of the desk. I folded my hands and looked at her with amusement.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “He greeted you by name and he brought you a doughnut?”

“Yes.” She pulled open her middle drawer and threw the mirror in.

“What kind of doughnut?”

“You know, he has this irritating look, like you’re a sow he’s sizing up for Easter dinner, and it was chocolate. With sprinkles.” She glared at me.

“Oh, well, sprinkles. That clears it up for me. Sounds like you have a strong case for police harassment. Want the name of my lawyer?”

“It’s a really smirky look,” she said crossly.

I cocked an eyebrow at her and grinned.

“That’s the look,” she said, smiling reluctantly. “You two ought to start a vaudeville act.”

“Yeah, right. The cop and the cowgirl.”

“Sounds like a bad Clint Eastwood movie,” Angie agreed, laughing. “Okay, I give up. What is it you want?” She zipped her paisley makeup bag closed.

“Do you have access to DMV records?”

“Sure, we do DMV checks when we hire people for the city.”

“Could you run one for me?”

“Does this have anything to do with those murders at the museum?” She looked at me suspiciously.

I avoided her scrutiny and concentrated on the framed Disney poster behind her showing Mickey’s physical changes over the last fifty years. It reminded me of the school pictures of me that Daddy displayed in chronological order on the wall of his bedroom. Mickey seemed fatter in his later years. Part of the good life, I suppose. I guess no one stays the same forever; not even Mickey Mouse.

“No way,” she said firmly.

“Why not?” I whined in the way you can only with an old girlfriend.

“That is an ongoing investigation with the police department. You’re treading on thin ice, my friend. Your police chief brought me a doughnut today. I don’t want tomorrow’s present to be handcuffs.”

“All right, Ms. Chicken,” I said, sighing. “It was just a thought. I really don’t want you to get in any trouble. I’ll find another way to track this person down.”

She peered at me anxiously through her large glasses. “Are you sure you’re not in over your head? Why not just let the police handle it?”

I didn’t elaborate about how involved I’d become in the investigation or why. The less she knew, the better, especially since Ortiz was wise to our connection.

“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. Most of the time anyway. I think.”

She stood up, smoothed down her taupe wool skirt and pulled her purse out of a lower desk drawer. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you. You’re self-assured in such an uncertain sort of way. I’d ask you if you were free for dinner but, believe it or not, I have a date. Come by sometime when you don’t want anything but food, okay?”

“Sure.” I laughed and stood up. “Do you want me to tell Ortiz to quit bugging you?”

“I don’t think you need to bother,” she said wryly. “He probably knows exactly where you are right now, so it accomplished his purpose.”

Angie’s mention of dinner made me realize the small plate of food I’d nibbled on at Mrs. Chenier’s house had been hours ago. Since Jack’s death, meals were something that presented a daily irritation. For fifteen years I’d cooked a big dinner every night for him, whatever ranch hands were around and whichever of Wade and Sandra’s children happened to like what I was serving. Jack always teased the kids on the days we had stuffed pork chops, his favorite, by blocking the door, saying there was only enough for him. They’d crawl all over him, wrestling him to the ground, giggling like little monkeys when he tickled them.

Now, with no one to cook for, I usually made do with pot pies or fast food. Sitting at a stoplight downtown, trying to decide which brand of grease I was in the mood for, I remembered Carl’s half-joking invitation. Taking a chance, I headed for the Tribune five blocks away. Marla’s funeral left me feeling melancholy and I hoped Carl wouldn’t take offense at a last-minute request for company.

The receptionist, a chubby, jagged-haired brunette with deep dimples, waved me back toward the editorial department without a pause in her animated conversation with a skinny kid in shorts so baggy the crotch swung around his knees. Not many people were at their desks this late in the afternoon, though there was a flurry of activity over at the sports desk where, thanks to satellite TV, a sporting event of some sort could always be found.

“Hey, Benni, want a piece?” A man with a face the color of a banana moonpie and nerdy black eyeglasses held up a gooey slice of pizza.

“No, thanks anyway,” I said. “I’m going to see if Carl wants to get some dinner.”

“Make that cheap son-of-a-gun pay,” he replied.

“I intend to,” I answered with a laugh.

I rapped on the glass window of Carl’s office, where he was talking on the phone. His face lit up when he saw me and he gestured for me to come in. It felt good to have someone glad to see me. Though I’d never thought of Carl in that way, I wondered if maybe I needed to open my mind, stop assuming that everything or everyone always remained static. If nothing else, the last nine months should have taught me that nothing is such a sure thing that it can’t change.

“Be with you in a minute,” he said to me. He punched the hold button and dialed an extension.

“Dad, Mayor Holland on line three.”

“What brings you here?” Carl came around the desk and enveloped me in a hug. Holding me a shade longer than usual, he chuckled when I gently squirmed out of it. Maybe I wasn’t that ready yet. “You look like a stewardess for United Airlines.”

“I’m hungry,” I said. “And I think the proper term these days is flight attendant.”

He grabbed his leather jacket from the oak coat rack in the corner and slipped it on. “I’d love to have dinner with you, except I have an interview in ten minutes. Want to come? We could eat afterwards.”

“Okay,” I said. “Who are you interviewing?”

“The professor who’s running against Dad for the city council seat.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Dad says he runs a fair paper. That his political ambitions shouldn’t bias the news. So we’re giving equal time to his opponent.”

“Are you going to be fair?”

He grinned at me, and for a moment, I could see just how appealing he could be to women. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m voting for him.”

“Does your dad know that?”

“After the article, he will. Let’s go.”

I linked arms with him as we walked out of the building. “Carl, you really need to let go of that adolescent rebellion someday.”

“Is that your subtle way of telling me to grow up?”

“Yes.”

He chucked me under the chin. “Now, what fun would that be? Do you want to ride with me or take your own car?” He patted the fender of his small green Triumph.

“I’ll take my own car. Where are we going?”

He paused before answering. “Sorry,” he said. “But I told the professor I’d meet him at Trigger’s. He’s trying to get a feel for his blue-collar constituency.”

I studied the tips of my navy pumps. No matter what I did, Trigger’s seemed to loom in front of me like a huge boulder in the middle of the road. Perhaps it was a sign that I needed to get past it, move on.

“That’s fine,” I said, looking up at Carl. “I’m kind of in the mood for one of their beef dips anyway.”

“You sure?” He laid a hand on my shoulder.

“Not entirely, but I’ll go anyway.” I ran my hand along the fender of the Triumph. Jack rebuilt the engine for him as a thirtieth birthday present, complaining the whole time that Carl should be driving an American car.

“That’s my girl.”

Trigger’s Monday night customers were a mellow and easygoing bunch compared to the crazed weekend crowd. Only one pool table was in action and the songs on the jukebox ran toward sad and bluesy Don Williams rather than the perky Saturday night sounds of Carlene Carter.

Carl’s tweedy professor candidate was waiting for him in a back booth, so I left them to their business and went over to the pool table to watch. After nodding to the two cowboys chalking their cues, I took a seat at a table close by. The door to the men’s room slammed open and Wade and another guy walked out. Wade was telling the man some joke about cattle prods and Congressmen.

“Catch you next game,” he told the guys when he saw me. He grabbed his beer and sat down across from me. “Never thought I’d see you here.”

“Having dinner with Carl.” I traced a name carved into the shellacked dark wood of the table. Tracy. I wondered where she was right now. What she did for a living. Did she find the love of her life here? I looked up at Wade. “He’s doing an interview first.”

He grunted, his tanned face wary.

“Look, Wade, I’m sorry about Saturday. Let’s call a truce, okay?” I touched the sleeve of his plaid shirt.

“None of it’s what you think.” He stared at the tabletop, not reacting to my contact. “You should stay out of what doesn’t concern you.”

“It’s not just what I think, Wade. The police know about you and Maria.”

He jerked his head up. “Did you ... ?”

“Would you give me some credit, Wade? I didn’t say anything, but apparently your relationship wasn’t much of a secret. Have they talked to you yet?”

“Yes, and I told them what I knew. Which is nothing. And I wasn’t the only one, you know. She got around.”

“I know. And the police know that too.”

He regarded me with twitchy, narrowed brown eyes, a familiar prelude to an explosion. “You seem to know an awful lot these days. You and that Mexican police chief are getting pretty chummy, I hear. Didn’t take long for you to get back in the saddle, did it?”

I yanked my hand back as if I’d been burned, wanting to smack his sullen face. “You’re an ass, Wade Harper.”

I stood up, stumbling against a chair in my haste to make it to the ladies’ room before the tears escaped. Standing in the dark tan, Lysol-scented room staring at my reflection in the chipped mirror, I wondered if anyone else was thinking what Wade had said. Why didn’t I just get out of this town? Go someplace where no one knew my name, my financial status, the last time I had sex.

“You okay in there?” A low, indistinct voice came through the door. It opened and Carl stuck his head in.

“You alone?” he asked, nodding toward the three stalls.

“Yes, but you can’t come in here.”

“Sure I can.” He stepped in and leaned against the far wall next to the tampon machine. “I saw you and Wade talking and then you ran off. I got worried.”

“I’m fine. He’s just being a jerk.” I ran some water in the rust-stained sink and splashed my face. Carl pulled a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and handed them to me.

“Thanks.” I patted my face with the rough sand-colored towels.

“What were you two arguing about?” he asked curiously.

“Nothing important. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Don’t let him bug you.” He took the paper towels from my hand and dabbed at my cheek. “Missed a spot. You know, Wade never did know his ass from a hole in the ground.” He tossed the towel in the overflowing trash can. “Forget him. Let’s eat.”

“Okay,” I said, sticking my head tentatively out the door.

“Don’t worry, he left.” He pointed me toward a booth where our beef dip sandwiches sat steaming on wide white plates. I picked at mine until he finally took it and ate the rest while rattling on about some toxic waste story he’d been working on for weeks.

I only half-listened, nodding and commenting at the right intervals, a talent most women pick up somewhere in junior high and utilize far more often the rest of their lives than any algebraic formula.

“So, I tracked this guy down in Buttonwillow and he confessed that he took five thousand for looking the other way when they dumped it ... Benni, are you listening to me?” Carl snapped his fingers in front of my face.

“What? Oh, sure, you tracked the guy to Bakersfield and then what?”

“Buttonwillow.” He reached over and tugged at a strand of my hair. “What planet are you on?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That thing with Wade just got to me, I guess. What were you saying?”

“What were you and Wade arguing about?” he asked again, peering closely at me.

“Same old thing. You know Wade,” I said vaguely.

“Was it about Jack?”

I traced my finger over the condensation dripping off my glass of Coke and didn’t answer.

“You know, any problems he has shouldn’t bother you anymore,” Carl said. “Want me to talk to him?”

“No,” I said sharply. I was getting tired of people telling me what and who I should be concerned about, as if feelings and emotional connections were something you could switch on and off like a light switch.

“Sorry,” Carl said, his voice hurt. “I was just trying to help.” He touched my hand. “I miss Jack, too.” He shook his head. “It was just so crowded here that night. I talked to him a couple of times and then he was just gone. I wish ...” He looked at me helplessly.

“I know,” I said, wishing I didn’t feel the need to comfort him. I didn’t want to share my misery with anyone. Then I felt guilty for my selfishness. Who else but with me could Carl mourn?