Irish Chain (9 page)

“He was probably working undercover narcotics,” I said.

I groaned when we walked into the recreation hall. It looked like it had been hit by a bomb containing green and pink crepe paper. “I’ve got jeans and a sweater in the car,” I said. “I think I’ll duck into a rest room and change clothes before tackling this.”

“I’ll go ahead and get started,” he said.

I handed him a box of plastic bags I’d stashed in the kitchen and left him stuffing them with paper cups and plates.

“So, getting back to you and Pancho,” I said a few minutes later. I’d pushed up the sleeves to my red cotton turtleneck, grabbed a broom and started sweeping up cookie crumbs.

“We all had nicknames back then.” His eyes grew melancholy, and I knew his memories included more than the football games in L.A.

“And you expect me to believe you two never knew each other’s real names or occupations?”

“You know guys, Benni. We probably could have gone five years and never discovered more about each other than what kind of drinks we brought in our coolers. That was what was so great about it. We didn’t have to live up to any expectations.”

I was admittedly mystified. No female I’d ever known was capable of meeting with a group of women every week like that and not discussing everything from the graphic details of their first kiss to the length of their last menstrual cycle to their opinions on socialized medicine. “How in the world did you two manage to be in the same town for over a month and not run into each other?”

“What is there, forty-some thousand people in this area? I’ve never seen him in my church and I personally try not to antagonize the law. We don’t exactly hang out in the same circles. Not so hard to figure.”

“If you say so.” We continued working in silence. Trying to keep my mind off the murders, I concentrated on the physical task of cleaning the room, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the gruesome picture of Mr. O’Hara and Miss Violet. I wondered briefly if Gabe knew that Mr. O’Hara had a nephew. After his sharp rebuke about getting involved, I decided to let Edwin inform him of Clay’s existence and whereabouts. In less than an hour, the recreation room was back to normal. I twist-tied the last plastic sack, placed it next to the kitchen door and walked over to where Mac was setting chairs around the tables. “Well, I suppose we’ve done all we can do tonight. The kids will pick up the rest of the stuff tomorrow with Ramon’s truck. I guess I’ll meet you at Liddie’s.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. But first I think I’ll check on Grandma one more time.”

I walked out to the almost empty parking lot and it occurred to me while passing his Ford Bronco, I hadn’t even thought to ask him about what he’d taken from Miss Violet’s nightstand. Was it fear? Subconscious denial? Whatever it was, I knew I couldn’t just let it go. I had to either confront Mac or tell Gabe. But, I decided as I started the truck and drove down the steep driveway of Oak Terrace, I wasn’t about to do either on an empty stomach.

5

I STOPPED OFF at my house to drop off the dress and turn on the porch light. By the time I arrived at Liddie’s Cafe, it was packed. Half the students at Cal Poly University must have had a test or term paper due the next day because, even though it was past one A.M., almost every six-person crimson vinyl booth was packed. I squeezed past a group waiting in the dusty red and brown entryway. Their ragged flannel shirts, gauzy dresses, black high-topped combat boots, pierced noses and three-tiered rice-paddy haircuts gave them a sort of Jack Kerouac-meets-MTV look. I would have laughed, except for the disconcerting memories of a certain pink paisley miniskirt and long hair singed crisp on the ends from being ironed.

Nadine, head waitress at Liddie’s since before I could sit a horse, presided behind the cash register counting one-dollar bills. It surprised me to see her. Though the cafe was open twenty-five hours a day, as the yellow neon coffee-cup sign out front bragged, Nadine usually worked the morning shift. She preferred serving the early-rising ranchers and oil-field workers rather than the students, who she claimed gave her hives. Cops, who frequented the cafe because it was cheap and only two blocks from the police station, apparently fell somewhere in between. I studied the wall behind her while she finished counting. The owner of Liddie’s always displayed some kind of weird crafts on the greasy walls, trying to make a buck off tourists traveling north to the Napa Valley wineries or San Francisco. This latest bunch actually wasn’t too bad. It was a collection of saws, all shapes and sizes, with carved wooden handles, each blade painted with a scene depicting some aspect of idyllic ranch or farm life. One long wide-blade showing a herd of white-faced baldies wearing droll, bovine smiles looked like a possible birthday present for Daddy. It would look perfect on the wall of the tack room that doubled as his office.

“What are you doing here so late?” I asked. Nadine double-wrapped a thin red rubber band around the last set of ones.

“One of my night waitresses flaked out on me. Said she was coming down with the flu, but she’s more’n likely out whooping it up with that jug-eared boyfriend of hers.” She picked up the eyeglasses hanging from a glittery chain around her neck and slipped them over her bony nose. Her flat tobacco-brown eyes ballooned. “I heard about the murders.” Her thin shoulders allowed the incident one tiny shudder. “It’s a terrible thing when you’re not even safe in a place like Oak Terrace. Rose Ann Violet and Brady O’Hara were good, decent people. Don’t seem right, them dying like that.”

“I know it’s scary,” I said, touching her hand. “How in the world did you hear about it so fast?”

“I have my ways. Do you think it’s a serial killer? Was there really red swastikas painted all over the room? I swear, it’s all these L.A. people moving in. We never had stuff like this happen in the old days.” She patted her pinkish curls indignantly.

“Who have you been talking to? There wasn’t anything on the walls except pictures of Miss Violet’s prize begonias and Oralee’s photographs of Mac in his football uniform and cap and gown.”

“My daughter Valerie’s brother-in-law’s cousin works as a nurse’s aide at Oak Terrace. She said the room was ankle-deep in blood. That part’s true, isn’t it?”

“Nadine, you know I can’t talk about it. Gabe would skin me alive.”

“Where is the chief, anyway? We got some fresh papaya in for him today. Lord knows, he’s the only one in this place who’ll eat it.”

“He’ll get here eventually. You know how long all that scientific stuff takes.”

“I know. Me and Ed’s watched
American Detective
before. Now, tell me everything.” She leaned forward eagerly.

“Cut me some slack, Nadine. You know I can’t.”

She pulled back, her lips pursed in aggravation. “It was a lot more fun talking with you before you started dating the chief of police.” She jerked her long yellow pencil toward the back. “Mac just got here. He’s got a booth in back.” She handed me a plastic-coated menu.

“Breakfast or dinner?” she asked irritably.

I looked at my watch. “Uh, breakfast.”

She grabbed the menu back. “No use bothering with this, then. I already know what you want. Chicken-fried steak and buttermilk pancakes, extra syrup, gravy on the side.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” I said, laughing. “You just might be surprised one of these days.”

“I doubt that’s possible.” She tapered a skeptical eye at the artistic group of students filling the large corner booth in her section. Their bushy rust and purple hairstyles brought to mind a vegetable patch irrigated with radioactive water.

Walking across the speckled gold commercial carpet toward the back of the cafe I tried to decide how to tell Mac that I’d seen him remove something from the crime scene. Studying the back of his chestnut-colored head bent over the menu, a part of me rejected the thought that he could do something so obviously against the law. But if he did, I was certain it was for a good reason. It had to be.

“Hey, preacher,” I said, sliding in across from him. “Anything look tempting there?”

He laid the menu aside and smiled at me. “It’s been years since I’ve been in here, but everything’s exactly the same.”

“Not exactly.” I pulled off my sheepskin jacket and stuffed it in the comer of the bench seat. “Check the prices. How’s Oralee?”

“Better. The doctor came by and gave her something to help her sleep. When I think about her being in that room just before . . .” His full lips closed tightly over white teeth and his features grew flinty. He picked up a miniature packet of Knott’s Berry Farm jelly and started flipping it over and over.

“She’s okay, Mac.” I reached over and touched his hand. “Gabe’s real good at what he does. He’ll catch the person who did this.”

“I talked to him again after you left.”

“You did?” An electric surge of relief raced through me. Now I wouldn’t have to make the decision about telling Gabe what I saw.

“He said he’s pretty sure Miss Violet was smothered. Probably by her own pillow.”

“Oh, no.” Nadine slipped my breakfast in front of me and my stomach rolled at the scent of the sweet pancakes and fried meat. I stared at it until it became a pale, blurry blob.

“What’ll it be, Mac?” Nadine pulled a thick order pad from her calico apron pocket. She licked the tip of her pencil and waited.

“Just coffee,” he said. “I have to save a hearty appetite for the six o’clock prayer breakfast the Ladies Missionary Union is putting on”—he glanced at his watch—“in approximately four hours.” He sighed. “We certainly have plenty to pray about now.”

“So, what else did Gabe say?” I asked after Nadine poured his coffee and left. I poured gravy over the steak and sprinkled it with Tabasco sauce, more for something to do than anything else. Mac shook his head and chuckled.

“I see the National Heart Association will never vote you their poster child.”

“You’re as bad as Gabe. Don’t tell me you’ve gone the rabbit food route, too.”

“I’m six years older than you, Benni. That wonderful time of life called middle age. Cholesterol, HDL’s and all that jazz. I haven’t eaten red meat in three years.”

“It must be L.A. That town is like a cult. Daddy’s going to go broke if people like you keep converting from being good, honest beef eaters.”

“He could raise chickens. Or emus. I hear their meat is very low in cholesterol.”

“Unless you have a craving for a butt full of buckshot, I wouldn’t mention that to him or any of the other old-timers around here. Now, what else did Gabe say?”

“Not much. He was pretty close-mouthed. Seems like I remember him being a little less uptight, but it has been a while. And I really didn’t know him that well.”

“That’s his Chief Ortiz persona. Don’t you know cops are like schizophrenics? It’s weird, the switching back and forth, but you get used to it after a while. I guess it’s probably the only way a person could stay sane in that type of work.”

“I can understand to a certain extent. It’s not unlike what I do.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I pushed the food around on my plate, taking a bite now and again, trying to ignore the sickly yellow cast the overhead lighting gave it. Just as I worked up the nerve to broach the subject of what he’d taken from the crime scene, Gabe entered the restaurant. He glanced around the room then strode toward us, impatiently pulling his tie loose and unbuttoning his collar button. Fatigue purpled the skin beneath his eyes. His chin was dark with late-night stubble.

“Hi.” He kissed the top of my head before sliding in next to me. He gave Mac a tired smile. “Hey, Lefty, can’t stay long, but whatever she’s told you about me, don’t you believe it.” They reached across the table and exchanged a home-boy handshake.

“I’ve known Benni longer than you, Pancho. Why shouldn’t I believe her?” They laughed in that way men do when they’re pretending you’re not there.

“Hate to interrupt the class reunion, boys,” I said, “but what’s going on at Oak Terrace?”

“Everything’s under control,” Gabe said.

“Any leads?”

He gave Mac a what-do-you-do-with-them look and said, “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”

If I had a shedding blade in my hand, that warm thigh pressing next to mine would have been minus one layer of expensive wool fabric and skin. “Gabe . . .”

“Drop it, Benni,” Gabe said in a low voice. He shook his head No when Nadine walked up with the coffeepot and turned his attention to Mac. “So, Mac.” He laughed. “It’s hard calling you that. Have you stayed in contact with any of the old gang?”

I picked at my meal in angry silence as they relived old football triumphs and defeats. Fine, I thought, when they moved on to marathons, racquet ball and higher education. You won’t tell me anything, I won’t tell you anything. I drew pictures with my fork in the congealing white gravy, finally pushing it aside in irritation.

“That garbage is going to kill you,” Gabe said, giving my half-eaten breakfast a look of disapproval. My habitual diet of beef-based fast food was something we argued about on a regular basis, sometimes in fun, sometimes not.

“Mind your own business,” I said.

He and Mac laughed and started comparing HDL and LDL levels and miles jogged a day. I contemplated what a plateful of gravy-covered steak and syrup-swollen pancakes would look like spread across the front of a pale gray Brooks Brothers suit.

Their conversation on the ratios of muscle to fat was so intense, they didn’t notice the man striding purposefully toward us. When he reached the twenty-foot mark, Gabe’s radar kicked in and he glanced up.

“Benni,” Clay said, ignoring Gabe and Mac and looking at me. The low brim of his chocolate-brown Stetson partially obscured his eyes. “I was driving by and saw your truck. I don’t know anyone else in town. My uncle . . .”

“I heard,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” The edges of his mouth turned downward. “And now some asshole police chief is looking for me. He left five messages at my hotel. That’s all I need right now, some idiotic small-town cop with a junior college degree in police science trying to hang this shit on me. You live here. What do you know about this Ortiz character?”