Lalla Bains 02 - A Dead Red Heart (8 page)

"Yes?"

"I think we should get married."

My eyes blurred, and I heard bees in my head. However a migraine wasn't the reason—it was panic. What was he saying? When we talked about our future together, which we seldom did, marriage was never mentioned. Besides, what was he doing proposing to me like this? I looked out at the cluster of five or six couples standing with arms folded while they rapidly tossed back and forth their own theories as to why the police were parked on their quiet street.

He was proposing to me in front of a missing woman's house with a complete stranger staring at us from behind his watering hose–wait a minute. I knew what was wrong with this picture.

"You're hoping you can rope me in with a ring, aren't you? Like if we're married, I'll suddenly become this meek little wife who'll never cause you any grief? Surely, after all these years you know me better than that, don't you?"

He was silent for a moment, then he cleared his throat and said, "I didn't do this right, I know. Work has been hectic and we've both been too busy to really spend any time together this summer, and I thought I'd take you out to dinner, give you a little black velvet box…."

"Have you got the box?"

"What?"

"You heard me, bozo, you haven't got a little velvet box with a ring in it, do you? You just now thought of this brilliant plan. All of which means, this was completely off the top of your pointy li'l head."

I opened the door and got out. "She called me, Caleb! And I wouldn't marry you, Caleb Stone, if you had Rock Star printed on your forehead. If you were the last man on earth!"

I shouldn't have shouted—it was drawing attention away from the search for Miss Cook, but I was steemed. I slammed the door and flounced back to my Caddy. By the time I got the keys out and started it, I was shaking with rage.

Caleb reached in and put a restraining hand on the wheel. "Lalla. Don't leave like this."

I felt my heart sink. Our first fight, and I felt sick about it. I was close to crying, though I wasn't about to let him see it.

"I mean it, Lalla. Rodney's on his way, and he insists he be here to take your statement."

So, that was it? He wasn't here to beg my forgiveness for the faux pas he'd just committed? He was only trying to restrain the suspect should she try to escape?

"Get your damn hands off my steering wheel," I said, doing my best to sear him with the heat of my fury. "Admit it, Caleb, you were told to keep an eye on the little woman, weren't you?"

He flushed red under the deep tan. "Mad at me isn't going to work, Lalla. Come on now, turn off the engine."

"I'm not mad Caleb, I'm done. Detective Rodney knows where to find me." I punched the gas pedal and the car bucked into forward; then I remembered to release the brake, and hitting the gas, burned rubber for half a block before I thought to look into my rearview mirror.

My future coulda been, shoulda been, was standing in the middle of the street, arms crossed, feet spread—as if braced for the impact should I care to back up and run him over.

Chapter nine:

I took the freeway and cruised towards town while I sorted through what I knew was fact—as opposed to my hurt feelings. It didn't matter to Caleb that I'd been invited to Miss Cook's house for coffee and cookies. And who but Caleb would come up with a marriage proposal at a potential crime scene? What a doofus! Did he really think I was going to fall for that bit of subterfuge? I tried to contact him, didn't I? Was it my fault he didn't answer his phone? It would've been a nice, quiet chat with coffee and cookies if some crankster hadn't decided to call the police, identify my vintage red caddy and mention gun-fire. Where, oh where was Miss Cook? And, why did she feel the need to call and send me a letter, if she was only going to disappear before I got there? The chances that this was simply a coincidence of letter, phone call, and the police showing up all at the same time was beginning to look like another set-up.

I felt the nervous tension of my dust up with Caleb slowly seeping out until I was no longer angry, only puzzled about the whole episode. Sweeping aside my annoyed and disappointed feelings, I decided to do something that
would
give me some answers.

Exiting the freeway onto Kansas Street to 9th Street. I parked in front of Mr. Kim's Chinese Restaurant and thought about Mr. Kim's daughter, Grace. In high school, we quickly appraised each other's faux Goth look and decided what we both knew to be true: we were simply a couple of deeply inhibited loners. And thereafter, whenever we saw each other, we crossed to the opposite side of the street.

Ignoring warning signals now blinking like an unanswered message machine in my head, I automatically tried to call her on my cell. The battery was as dead as it was when Caleb asked about it. I plugged the cell into the cigarette lighter and called Mr. Kim's.

Fortunately, Grace was on duty, and she met me at the door wearing the standard waiter uniform of bow tie, white shirt, and black pants. I noticed that she may have shed most of the Goth look from high school, but her lace-up Doc Marten's said shedding the Goth look didn't include letting go of comfortable footwear.

She warily eyed me and said, "He's been through a lot, Lalla, and he's leery of getting involved. I assured him you're not working for the police. You're not, are you?"

"Of course not. Do you want to sit in with him, translate for us?"

She chewed at the side of her thumbnail, looking me over while she considered. Her decision made, she shook her head. "Won't be necessary. Just go easy on him, will you? He's had a tough time of it."

Mr. Kim smiled nervously, and indicating that I should take a chair, joined me at the table. His feet, however, aimed for the safety of his kitchen.

"Mr. Kim, did your daughter explain to you that I'm not with the police?" I didn't want there to be any misunderstanding about my status. I'd done as promised and retired my fake badge to a bottom drawer. However, I still kept my little brown leather notebook. Very official looking, I thought. Mr. Kim gave it a glum look as I flipped it open and licked my pencil.

I said, "You may wonder why I would be interested in the murder of Billy Wayne."

"Oh, no I understand very well. You had a special friendship with Billy Wayne," he said, pulling out a news clipping from his white shirt pocket.

"Uh, well, maybe not quite
that
special. I mean, that is me in the photo but only because Billy Wayne was sending unwelcome gifts. The snow flakes. He wrote poetry to me, but I found it a bit embarrassing."

He nodded. "Yes, I understand."

I was a bit surprised to hear a barely perceptible accent in his American English, but pleased that Grace had decided to trust me enough not to blow her dad's cover—his English wasn't a problem unless he was talking to the police. "Well, then you understand when I say that I am concerned that some people might think I had something to do with his death, because of that newspaper reporter, Del Potts."

He nodded again. "Of course. You were unfairly accused."

"Not really. I mean, nobody who knows me really thought I killed him. I mean, I wouldn't have hurt him, but others might think I did, because of this newspaper reporter."

He looked down at the printed page, painful lines appearing around his wrinkled eyes. "The proletariat always lie. It was much the same in Vietnam."

"Uh, yes. That's it, at least, it is in this case."

"What will you do?"

"I need to clear my good name."

"Ah!" He smiled brightly. "I understand. Your honor is at stake. How can I help?"

"Do you remember anything about that day? Perhaps something that you didn't tell the police?"

He looked over my shoulder, a faraway expression in his eyes. "Ah, Miss Bains, to be able to have such a future as yours. I would do anything to be able to go back, clear my good name. Unfortunately, it is too late for me. I was in prison for many years in Vietnam, and it is said that once a man has been in prison he will not take kindly to closed doors. I know of this, because I would rather take an open door to a smelly alley than a closed one. I did not lie to the police, Miss Bains. If they did not believe me, I have done my duty and there is no more that I can do."

His gaze tracked the shadows along the wall, and then his black eyes blinked back to the present.

"I told them about the ghost at end of the alley. I hoped one of them would look but they all had the same
nothing
faces."

I could see that racist clodhopper Rodney discounting Mr. Kim's ghost as superstitious nonsense. "Sheriff Stone believes you. Unfortunately, the killer, whoever he is, has sent me a message much like the one you gave me when I was here a couple of days ago."

He blinked. "Ah, when I recommended that you to stay away? Yes, very good advice." He nodded thoughtfully, taking in the tight strain of my face and my hands gripped together on the table.

Then he changed the subject. "I gave Billy Wayne a book, Japanese Haiku. Do you think his mother would give back this book?"

"You talked to Billy Wayne?"

He leaned away, now wary of my intense interest. "Some days, yes, other times, no. He stayed in my alley and wrote poetry. Sometimes, he read to me while I chopped. Sometimes we discuss philosophy."

"Did you see him that day, before he was killed?"

"Yes and no. After he ate, I closed door to the alley so I do not disturb his work."

"You gave him food? Did he often beg food from you?"

The wrinkled skin around his eyes tightened in distaste. "I always offered him a rice bowl with vegetables, but many nights he refuses, how you say, politely? He does—did not sleep well, so he did not eat. His dreams were always bad, from the war. He was very troubled."

"Did he ever mention anyone who might have had a grudge against him?"

"Billy's heart cast no shadow for friend or enemy. No, no grudges. Do you not want to know about the ghost?"

"Oh, sure. Tall? Short? Man or woman?"

Much like my father, his eyebrows bounced. "That is all the police think to ask. I could feel ghost eyes, but it was too dark to see if it was a man or a woman. Then nothing." He lifted his hand and flicked his fingers at the vanishing apparition. "Besides, you needed my help."

"How about before I knocked? No garbage cans turning over? No arguing?"

"No, that is why I closed door. I had radio on. I like western music."

The veil of suspicion lifted for a moment, but our sparring was getting me nowhere. How was I to pry, prod, or chip away at his defenses if I couldn't understand what it was that I was missing?

"Could your 'ghost' have been another homeless man? Perhaps he ran when you looked out?"

His eyes shifted away thoughtfully and then back. "Yes, it is as you say—a homeless person."

I knew a dodge when I saw it. "You know Sheriff Stone is my dearest friend, don't you? If you need protection, he can see that you get it."

"No, no," he answered too quickly. "There is nothing else to tell." He held up a knobby forefinger. "Perhaps later." He stood, indicating that our interview was over. "If I remember, I will have Grace call you."

We bowed to each other once more, and I turned to go.

Grace walked me to the door. "Pops tell you about his ghost?" She smiled sadly. "You know how it is with old people. More than likely, it's his failing eyesight."

"I understand, but if he thinks of anything else you'll let me know, won't you?"

 
"Sure," she said. Her smile lasted for the few seconds it took for her to open and close the door on my back.

Mr. Kim had orchestrated our few minutes of conversation with all the finesse of a maestro or a magician. He dropped hints about Billy that could be clues, that is if I had the intelligence to use them correctly. At least he hadn't discounted me as a dumb blonde.

Someone was leaning against the door of my car. Detective Gayle Rodney lifted his head. Was it simply my bad luck that he'd found me here, or had he followed me? I slowed my walk to a lazy stroll, poking my nerves back under my skin. "Detective Rodney, fancy meeting you here."

"Anything interesting from the old gook?"

Though I bristled at the racial slur, I kept my answer light. "I came for the food. Gotta eat sometime."