Heads You Lose (20 page)

Lacey didn’t notice the look of hope vanish from Doug’s face. She was about to turn around again, but that scent stuck in her nose.

“Do you smell that?” Lacey asked.

“Smell what?” Doug replied, fighting the urge to check his armpits.

“Her perfume. What is it?”

“Oh that,” Doug said. “It’s lilacs. She always wears it. I guess ’cause her name is Lila. Although, it’s not exactly the same . . .”

Lacey was out the door before Doug could finish his sentence.

Knowing that the sheriff and his deputy were safely ensconced in headquarters, Lacey broke several traffic laws on her way to Betty’s place. If anyone was clued in to the Mercer gossip mill, it was Betty. Lacey double-parked in her friend’s driveway, ran up the steps, and rapped her knuckles on the door until they stung.

“Good Lord, Lacey. Do you have to pee?” Betty asked, when she finally answered the door.

“Excuse me?”

“I thought a woodpecker was trying to break in.”

“Who smells like lilacs?” Lacey asked.

“Would you like to come inside?” Betty asked.

“No. I just want to know who smells like lilacs all the time.”

“Lila Wickfield.”

“Did you know?”

“I heard rumors.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because there were so many rumors about Hart, I didn’t know where they began or ended and whether it was true or false.”

“You think the sheriff heard these rumors?”

“Maybe,” Betty replied.

“Interesting,” Lacey said, letting these facts unscramble in her head.

“You don’t honestly think that Ed had anything to do with Hart’s murder.”

“I don’t know,” Lacey replied, “but he just moved a few notches up my list.”

Lacey returned home and tried to sleep off her investigative hangover. The phone woke her just as she was nodding off.

“Lacey?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Matthew.”

“Who?”

“Matthew Egan.”

“Not ringing a bell,” Lacey replied.

“Doctor Egan?”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Lacey replied. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been expecting you to drop by.”

“To get my stitches out?”

“No. You still have another two days. There’s a delivery you’re supposed to make.”

“What kind of delivery?”

“Um, don’t you remember?”

“Nope.”

“You have something that I would like to purchase.”

“You mean
the weed
?” Lacey asked.

“I mean the thing we talked about the other day.”

“We’re not being recorded, Doc. I can promise you that. Sorry. I forgot about that. I’ll be right over with the
marijuana
. Make sure you have cash. Bye.”

The whine of a table saw emanated from Doc Egan’s garage.

When Egan spotted her, he shut down the saw and lifted his plastic goggles. Lacey held out a paper bag.

“I have your drugs!” Lacey shouted at full volume.

Doc Egan rolled his eyes. He handed her a wad of bills.

“As we discussed,” he said.

“Thank you.”

The doctor was building bookshelves, which didn’t look half bad. She was impressed that the doctor had a garage full of tools that he seemed to know how to use.

“So, you like to build things?” Lacey asked.

“Evidently,” Egan replied.

“What’s the most complicated thing you’ve ever built?”

“When I was in high school, my dad and I built a cabin near Lake Tahoe.”

“Huh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“If I were to show you a building that collapsed, would you be able to tell whether it collapsed accidentally or if there was some tampering going on?”

“Like a fire tower, for example?”

“You know about it?”

“I live here now. I hear things,” Egan replied. “Aren’t the police investigating?”

“They’re waiting for a specialist. He won’t come into town until next week. Do you want to see it?” Lacey asked.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

On the drive out of town, Egan and Lacey passed the airstrip. Some of the debris from the explosion still lingered on the landscape.

“Did they ever find out what happened with the plane crash?” Egan asked.

“Nope,” Lacey replied.

“A plane crashes and nobody knows who it was or why?”

“As far as I know, it’s still a mystery.”

“Isn’t that strange?”

“Yes, it is,” Lacey replied. “It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.”

Their conversation ended there because nothing else could be said. Lacey pulled the car off the main road and she and Egan hiked down to the site of the old fire tower.

“This looks like a game of Jenga gone bad,” he said, after slipping under the police tape and taking in the site of Terry Jakes’s almost-demise.

“I saw it happen,” Lacey said. “It crumbled in like five seconds. There was almost no warning. Just a squeaking sound. The tower tilted and that was it.”

Egan trudged through the wreckage, studying the planks of oak on the ground. Lacey stood back and waited. There was a moment when she could have sworn she saw Terry’s bright red long johns beneath the rubble. After about forty minutes, Egan had collected five pieces of oak, which he separated from the rest of the scraps. He approached Lacey and dropped the lumber to the ground. Then he joined two pieces that fit together like a puzzle and showed them to her.

“This plank? Was sawed down to about one inch,” Egan said. “You can see where it snapped.”

A distinct saw mark led to a splintered edge. Egan found another matching set with the same pattern.

“See—another one sawed down and then snapped.”

“What are you saying?” Lacey asked.

“This was definitely not an accident.”

Lacey and Egan hauled the evidence back to her car and returned to the main road. When the cell towers kicked in again, the message light blinked on Lacey’s phone. There was only one call:

“Lacey, this is Yolanda at Mapleshade. It appears that Sook has taken ill. If you want to see him, I suggest you get over here as soon as possible.”

Matthew noticed the shift in Lacey’s expression as she listened to the message.

“You okay?” he asked, when she put down the phone.

“Do you mind if we take a detour? I need to check on Sook.”

“Where is he?” Lacey asked.

“In his room,” Yolanda said, avoiding eye contact.

“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?” Lacey asked.

“He asked me not to,” Yolanda said, still averting her gaze.

Lacey stormed into Sook’s room with Doc Egan right behind her. She found Sook in bed with one of those old-time sleep caps on. He not-sostealthily stuffed something under the covers and then hooded his eyes, trying to appear as if he’d just woken up. Lacey felt his forehead. It was baked-potato hot. She felt his neck. It was normal temperature.
²⁹
His complexion appeared pale, but she noted something chalky about it. She rubbed his cheek. Powder came off on her finger.

Lacey yanked the bedcovers back and found Sook in a pajama top and blue jeans with a heating pad and face powder in the shade of “Ivory Doll” tucked next to him.

“I actually thought you were dying,” Lacey said.

“Well, I am,” Sook indignantly replied. “I’m dying more than you are or he is or Yolanda. Maybe not more than Gladys next door. But still, my days are numbered. You gonna waste them being mad at me?”

“Why don’t I give you two a minute,” Egan said, closing the door behind him.

Sook and Lacey entered into an embarrassingly long stare-off. Sook eventually called a forfeit when Yolanda reminded him that it was time for his eye drops. Lacey sat down in Sook’s stolen chair and waited for him to beg for forgiveness. But Sook was more the rationalizing sort.

“You’re a drug pusher; I’m a blackmailer. You’re younger and prettier, but are we really all that different?”

Truth was, Lacey’s indignation had faded as soon as she’d seen her old friend on his sickbed. When she thought Sook might truly be ill, she realized how much she missed him. She also needed him—Sook was her only true ally in her galaxy of investigations.

“No more secrets, Sook. Are we clear on that?”

“Crystal.”

“Have you ever met Lila Wickfield?” Lacey asked.

“Lilac Lila?” Sook said.

“She always smells like that, right?”

“As far as I know.”

Lacey looked Sook dead in the eye. “Was she stepping out on the sheriff?”

Sook didn’t like where this conversation was heading, but he answered, “Yes.”

“With?”

“I think you already know,” Sook replied.

“Just say it.”

“Hart.”

“Was she the only one?”

“Probably not.”

“How many?”

“Couldn’t give you a number. Most of it was just rumor,” Sook replied.

“Wow,” Lacey said, feeling the room spinning. Then she recalled something. “Was that why you gave me the safe-sex talk that one time?”

“Why else?” Sook replied.

“That was awkward.”

“Agreed.”

“Aside from Lila, who else?”

“Hmm, I’d have to think about it,” Sook replied. He got out of bed and began making it in his precise military fashion.

“Who, Sook?”

“For a while he was spending time with this gimpy stripper from Tulac.”

NOTES:

Dave,

I’m remembering now that you are virtually incapable of taking any kind of instruction from me—case in point that haircut fourteen years ago. How hard is it to take half an inch off the bottom? I looked like a prison inmate after a lice scare.

If you ever want to finish this project, you’ll have to take at least one piece of advice: Please start tying up loose ends and figuring out who our murderer or murderers are.

One more thing: I would like to preempt any thoughts of bringing Los Chungos back to California. Como se dice “mass murder”? The first kill is always the hardest. It gets sooo much easier after that.

Lisa

P.S. If you want to quit I’ll understand. I’ll just continue the project with a different writer.

Lisa,

Who remembers a haircut from 1996? You hang on to resentments like a lint trap. If you wanted a real haircut, you should have gone to a salon, not to a grad student halfway through a twelve-pack. Likewise, if you wanted a standard mystery, you should have chosen a mystery writer.

As for your latest chapter, I enjoyed Sook’s shenanigans, but I wonder whether you’ve made him adorable enough. The old-timey sleeping cap is nice, but I feel like there might be more cuteness out there, just waiting to be harvested. “Waste not, want not” is what I say.

On a separate note, who would have suspected Doc Egan was an expert on architectural forensics? It’s comforting to know that if I ever need, for example, Big Marv to be an expert on, say, ikebana, the Japanese art of flower arrangement, I can simply make him into one. I guess that’s what fiction is all about. I’m always learning!

Dave

P.S. Why would I quit when I’m winning? And who would agree to work with you on an almost-finished novel anyway?

CHAPTER 20

By Sunday morning Paul and Brandy were nearly laughed out, having spent Saturday going over what was true and what was part of her act. Her actual musical taste ran more Bach than rock, it turned out. On the other hand,
Blazing Saddles
really was her favorite movie. As for money, Brandy said she’d been getting by with online poker and some math tutoring on the side. Paul had joined in the confessional mood, revealing that he’d fallen a few units shy of his college degree. She promised not to hold it against him.

They were still in bed. “Maybe we could live on the property Terry left Lacey and me,”
³⁰
Paul speculated to the ceiling. “I could get out of the business and raise heirloom turkeys or something. You could, I don’t know, mastermind a global financial heist online.”

“Or we could move up to Eugene,” said Brandy, giving him a squeeze. “You could be the professor’s hot young husband.”

Mostly Paul was enjoying not thinking about Terry, Hart, or Mercer. After they got up she put on the
Goldberg Variations
and heated up the previous night’s macaroni and cheese. As they ate, he beat her at Stratego, running his string to four straight. He was 85 percent sure she wasn’t letting him win. And if she was, he could live with it.

“While we’re clearing the air, there’s one last thing I need to tell you,” Brandy announced.

“Gulp,” Paul pronounced.

“I gotta run. Every Sunday I babysit my friend Candi’s kids. We used to dance together, before we both got hurt—different pole, same song. She decided to sue the place and lost. Went broke paying her lawyer. So now she deals blackjack at Spirit Rock on weekends. Sweet girl, but not the coldest beer in the fridge. She keeps making terrible choices with men, too.”