Pride v. Prejudice (24 page)

I went back to my car and took out my cell phone. Luanne glanced up but resumed texting. I called Peter. He had the decency to answer. “What's going on with Caron and Inez?” I asked.

“I liberated them from the dungeon and took them back to the theater to get Caron's car. They said they had to go by the grocery store but would be home soon.”

“Did they explain?” I asked.

“Caron gave me some garbled story about the play and the props. Inez said she thought she'd left her purse there. Caron said it was all Inez's fault. Inez insisted that it was all Caron's fault because of the long line to use the ladies' room at intermission. Caron replied that she was not a plumber.” Peter sighed. “They swore they'd gone back for Inez's purse and gotten locked in somehow. I have no inkling what they were actually doing there. Those two could have talked their way out of Abu Ghraib.”

“Less than a year until college,” I said, relieved they'd concocted a convoluted explanation that did not include the Ming Thing. “I need you to run a license plate, if it's not too much trouble.”

“Why?”

“It's way too complicated to go into now. I need to know who owns a particular vehicle.”

“Then enlighten me. I have all the time in the world.”

I didn't, but I launched into an account of my encounter with the faux Zachery Barnard, the morgue, Tuck's clippings, and my theory about Roderick James, a.k.a. Oliver Goldsmith. Luanne was giggling by the time I told Peter why I wanted him to run the license plate. I had to admit it sounded fanciful.

“Where are you now?” Peter demanded. When I told him, he harrumphed and said, “Leave immediately, right this minute. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, dear, but you have to promise to call me back about the license plate.” I started the engine. “Did you hear that? I am backing up as we speak. I'm not very good at it, so I'd better concentrate on avoiding the ditch. I'll be waiting for your call, dear.” I dropped the cell phone in my purse.

Luanne finally stopped giggling. “Isn't it possible the van belongs to Zachery's brother or nephew, or he stole it from a tourist? He hasn't been driving his pickup in a long while.”

“Yes, it's possible.” I managed to get turned around and drove to the county highway. “It's also possible that Sarah shot Tuck, Tricia Yates is a Wiccan and was dancing naked on the rocks, and the Weasel is madly in love with me but has poor communication skills. The possibilities are limitless. Peter's mother won't notice that her wedding gift isn't on the mantel. Evan Toffle will end up on the Supreme Court. Caron will get a Ph.D. in astrophysics, and Inez will own a chain of striptease joints.”

“Are some of us feeling testy?”

“Some of us are in danger of being left on the side of the road,” I muttered, “and it's a long walk back to Thurber Street. We can wait at Sarah's house until Peter calls. He'll have the information about the van within a matter of minutes.”

“Didn't Deputy Dawg tell you to stay away?”

“I'm going to park in the yard. That doesn't count as trespassing,” I said loftily. When I turned on the unpaved road, I spotted several vehicles in front of the house. “Deputy Dawg didn't waste any time notifying the FBI, darn it, and his car is by the barn. I don't have time to chat with them.”

“Nor do I,” Luanne said. “Take me home so I can poke the steaks and take a shower before Sweetie arrives. There's no reason for you to hang around for Peter to call. If the van's registered to Roderick James, the FBI will be on it like ticks on a warthog. If it's stolen, what are you going to do? The man has a gun in the glove compartment. That doesn't mean it's the only weapon he has. He could be lurking in the vicinity with a rifle or a big knife.”

“True. Take my phone while I drive back to town. I can do it on autopilot by now, but I refuse to answer calls while I'm driving.”

Once we were headed in the right direction, Luanne asked me about the wedding present. I related the sad story of my negligence. She found it much more amusing than I did, and was still snorting when I dumped her on the sidewalk in front of her store.

“Are we having hamburgers for dinner tomorrow night?” she asked. “Shall I add a splash of cognac to the baked beans and serve them
flamb
é
?”

I stuck out my lower lip, imitating Caron. “You are Not Funny.”

“Call me when you can.”

She disappeared into the store. I stared at the cell phone, puzzled that Peter hadn't yet called. From my limited knowledge gained by reading police procedurals, I knew the information was available on an easily accessed database. I stopped at a convenience store for a small bag of chips and a cup of iced tea. It was not my ideal menu for lunch. Of course, this reminded me that I would be serving lunch tomorrow to Peter's mother, and peanut butter sandwiches would not impress her, even if I cut off the crusts.

I made it to the parking lot in front of Evan's office before I embedded my fingernails in the steering wheel. I dug a tissue out of my purse and wiped my face. My reflection in the rearview mirror was not comforting. I resembled Billy's worst nightmare. I stuffed chips in my mouth and tried not to think about anything whatsoever. My blouse was covered with crumbs when the cell phone rang.

“What?” I said, spewing crumbs on the dashboard.

“Where are you?” asked Peter in a more dulcet tone.

“In front of the Legal Aid office. What did you find out about the van?”

“It belonged to a woman named Emma Peru, who resided in Tucson. She reported it stolen three years ago. She died two years ago.”

“And?” I said as I wiped frantically at the salty dandruff.

“The shed was empty.”

I dropped my hand. “How long did it take the FBI to get there? Never mind, that's a dumb question. Oliver Goldsmith was hanging around, watching us, and as soon as we left, he did, too. Did they take fingerprints in the house?”

“They will, but they were sidetracked by a report of burglars in Sarah's house. Deputy Norton reported it earlier.”

“Good for him. The FBI needs to be checking out Zachery's place. Oliver was there.” Not that I would have touched anything without plastic gloves.

“I thought you said he was Roderick James.”

“I think he is, but I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything.” I could hear the tremor in my voice. Before Peter could offer sympathy, which would send me flying over the edge of self-control, I managed to say, “But I haven't given up.” I repeated the conversation I'd had with Sarah about Tricia Yates. “I need a current photo. After I catch up with Evan, I'll go back to the church and see if they have the equivalent of a yearbook or directory.”

“You don't have to do this,” Peter said. “Even if Tricia was a member of SAC and was having an affair with Tuck a year ago, it doesn't mean that she had anything to do with his death. Sarah is lying about that night. She has means and motive. The shotgun was replaced inside her house.”

“But she's not stupid. She told me bluntly that if she'd intended to kill him, she would have done it in a way that would not implicate her. That I believe.” I glanced up as a pizza delivery car pulled into the parking lot. “Chaperone with an eagle eye, darling. I'll be home eventually.”

I trailed the aroma of pepperoni to the door, where Evan was counting dollars, and went to the restroom to wash my face with unnecessary vigor. When I entered his office, I nodded politely before grabbing a slice of pizza and settling in a chair. The poor lad was a worse mess than I. He'd started the day in a coat and tie, but now he looked as though he'd dressed in the dark and spent the day in a bar. We ate pizza in weary silence.

“Here's the update,” I said at last. I told him about finding the green van and then learning that it had disappeared. We agreed that we needed to ascertain if Sarah could identify Tricia, although neither of us was optimistic. Evan said he'd been unable to get an appointment with Prosecutor Wessell until the next afternoon. I said boorish things. Evan's cherubic face began to resemble a cherry. Rather than watch to see if he imploded in pulp, I announced that I was going back to the Mount Zion Methodist Church to try to find a current photo of Tricia.

I had no reason to believe it wouldn't be locked, but I wasn't ready to give up. Breaking a window may have crossed my mind, albeit briefly, so I was heartened to see an unfamiliar car parked near the front door. I went inside and stopped at the back pew, listening for something more substantial than a church mouse. Nothing stirred. I went down the aisle and toward the office. As I prepared to barge in, Grady appeared in the hall. He was wearing his standard missionary garb: short-sleeved white shirt, dark trousers, bow tie. Miss Poppoy would have nailed him from a hundred feet.

“Ms. Malloy?” he said.

“I'm so glad I caught you. I was afraid that the building was locked.”

“I have a key. Why are you here?”

It was a reasonable question. The answer would have required a run-on sentence to rival James Joyce's finest effort in
Ulysses.
“Looking for Tricia,” I said mildly.

“She left after the service and won't be back until tomorrow—no, Tuesday morning. Are you still snooping into the campout nonsense? It was typical teenage behavior.”

“Then why did you and Tricia make such a big deal about it? The kids were terrified when I asked them.” I prefer evasion and omission to straight-out prevarication, so I chose my words deliberately. “One of the kids talked.”

“Yeah, which one?”

“I will share that with the prosecutor if it comes to that. I'm sure what I heard was an exaggeration born of postpubescent angst.” I hadn't been on the track team in high school, but I'd played a mean game of Blind Man's Bluff. “Shall we sit down in the office and discuss it?”

“Nothing happened,” Grady said.

“Then stick to your story. You might want to start sending out your r
é
sum
é
as soon as possible. Your reference will not glow in the dark. These kids are minors, and their parents are staunch conservatives.”

“Okay, Ms. Malloy, let's talk. I'm not going to allow you to spread some crazy rumor about me.”

Before I could respond, he took my arm, pulled me into the office, and locked the door.

 

13

“Was that necessary?” I said to Grady as I sat down behind Tricia's desk. “Do you anticipate a posse of parents barging in to demand the lurid details?” I opened a lower drawer and feigned surprise. “Would you look at that? Tricia left us a libation. I don't know about you, but I've had a long day. There's only one cup. Why don't you look in the kitchen for another one?” I took out the half-empty bourbon bottle and poured myself a wee shot, then sat back and smiled at him. I wasn't apprehensive. Even the mildest-mannered bookseller can take down a choir director in a bow tie.

Grady leaned against the door. “There's no one else in the building, and there won't be a service tonight because of the holiday, but it's a habit. Tricia always ordered me to lock the door so we wouldn't be interrupted if she…” He motioned at the bottle. “Dealing with teens is stressful. I only took this job to get the paycheck. I'd like to end up with a large congregation with adults who can sing. My choir came up with a rap version of ‘The Old Rugged Cross.' I almost let them do it so I could practice CPR on the elders, but I'm not very proficient.”

“The Red Cross offers free classes. Now why don't you tell me what really happened at the campout so I can be on my way? If you can persuade me that this had nothing to do with Tuck's death, I may not feel compelled to demand a criminal investigation.” I may have emphasized the word “criminal.”

“Who's Tuck?”

“The man who was killed that night. Your turn, Grady.”

“I think I'll go find a cup,” he said, sounding as petulant as a trophy wife who hadn't been offered breakfast at Tiffany's.

As soon as he left, I yanked open the rest of the desk drawers in search of a glossy church directory filled with names, addresses, and lovely color photographs. Tricia had a fondness for sesame sticks, raisins, and chocolate drops. She had a remarkable variety of breath mints. Other drawers contained a ledger, folders, and typical bookkeeping paraphernalia. I was eying a cabinet when Grady returned.

He poured bourbon into a coffee mug and sat down across from me. “I'm going to tell you what happened, but I will deny every word of it if it leaves this room. If you persist, I'll claim that you came back here to seduce me and went berserk when I rebuffed you.”

I was impressed with his display of assertiveness, although it wasn't going to save him. “Knock it off, Grady.”

“Yeah, there were some problems that night. The boys knew we were going to Flat Rock, so the little bastards went there beforehand and hid their booze and pot on the other side of the river. Tricia was so proud of herself for thinking to search their backpacks and confiscate their pathetic little stashes. I knew better.” He waited for me to coo in admiration, but I declined. “She ordered everyone into their assigned tents about ten o'clock. There were giggles, whispers, an attempted foray, that kind of crap, and then they quieted down. Tricia told me she wanted to make a private call and disappeared. I saw her wade across the water upstream. I was wondering about it when I saw several of our dear campers doing the same, only not so far away. It seemed wise to see what they were up to, so I gave them a few minutes and then followed them.”

“And?” I asked, my eyebrows lifted. I was far more intrigued with Tricia's behavior, but I wasn't ready to pounce on it.

“I could smell the pot by midstream. Two of the girls had taken off their shirts and spread them on the stubble. Jason, Bianca, and Annie were cramming blueberries in their mouths like feral scavengers, the juice dripping down their chins. It was disgusting. I bawled them out, told them to pick up the evidence, and warned them that I'd tell their parents if they ever said one word.” He stood up to splash the last of the bourbon into his mug. “So maybe I should have, but their parents are a bunch of self-righteous despots. Besides, if they'd all been grounded, I'd have lost my job.”