Of course, there was another way to handle this. We could convey Juan’s information to Sheila, and she could take the key and search for the envelope, or whatever it was. But she might argue that the house was Hank’s, not Juan’s, and I wouldn’t care to debate the point. She’d probably insist on obtaining a search warrant. And she would undoubtedly insist on talking to Juan before she did that, in order to get her facts straight. And it might turn out that there wasn’t any envelope, in which case Juan would be jeopardized for no good reason.
No, it would be quicker and cleaner—and safer for Juan—if Ruby and I used his key to make a quick search of the house. His house, I would argue, if the question ever came up. If we found the envelope and it proved to contain pertinent information, we could hand it over.
“How about it, Juan?” I asked. “Is it okay if Ms. Wilcox and I have a look for that envelope?”
“I . . . guess,” Juan faltered. His glance, colored with confusion and uncertainty, told me that he was beginning to doubt whether Hank’s envelope really existed. But the only way to prove that it did was to find it. “I’ll have to get the key out of my jeans.” He looked at me. “I think they’re still upstairs.”
“Good,” Ruby said, and stood up. “There’s no point in sitting around here, talking about it. Let’s go.”
As if this were some sort of signal, the lights came on and the refrigerator began to hum reassuringly. I went upstairs to get Juan’s wet clothes and to tell Brian that I was going into Pecan Springs for an hour or so, and that he should go to bed at the usual time.
“Although your dad should be home in another hour,” I added.
“Yeah, sure,” he said absently. He was sitting at his desk, turning on his computer. Ivanova, his tarantula, fat and smug, was on the desk beside the computer, sunning herself under the lamp. Ivanova’s name was originally Ivan, until he was revealed to be a she. “It’s a bummer when the lights go out,” he muttered. “Nothing to do but homework.”
I suppressed a Mom-speak observation and went out to the car.
THE electric power had been restored along Lime Kiln Road, but that wasn’t true everywhere. On the east side of Pecan Springs, the streetlights were off, the juke joints and cafés were dark and seemingly deserted, and the wet streets were empty.
We had taken Ruby’s car, because it was behind mine in the driveway. Ruby turned the radio on to a rock station. Juan, in the back seat, directed us to Dolores Street, a main north-south thoroughfare through the east side.
At the corner of Dolores and Brazos, he reached for the door handle and said, suddenly, “Stop here. I want to get out.” Ruby pulled over to the curb and stopped.
I turned around in the seat. “Where do you want us to leave your key and your clothes?”
“See that café back there?” Juan said, jerking his head in the direction of a glass-fronted shop called Taco’s Grill. His voice had become hard, as if, back on his home territory, he felt less vulnerable—or perhaps he thought he ought to sound tougher. “Put a couple of shirts and some underwear and socks in a bag and leave it and the key with Rosie. She works the cash register most days. I’ll pick it up.” He opened the door.
“Sure thing,” I said. Ten to one, Rosie was his girlfriend. If I found out where she lived, I’d probably find Juan. “If you’ll call me at the shop tomorrow, I’ll fill you in on what we learn—if anything.”
“Yeah,” Juan said. “Yeah, sure.” He got out of the car, then turned around and looked from one of us to the other. He was still wearing McQuaid’s sweats, and they hung loose on his slender frame. I rolled down the window, and he came forward.
“I put you on the spot,” he said. “I just want you to know that I . . . I—” He gave it up. “Thanks.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” Ruby said, and smiled.
I put my hand through the window, and Juan took it briefly. “Be safe,” I said, wondering what was going to happen to this young man. There had to be a way to help him out of his predicament.
“I’ll try.” Juan stepped back, raised his hand, and was gone in the shadows.
Ruby put the car in gear and turned onto East Brazos. We didn’t say much on the two-block ride to Hank’s house.
Juan’s
house, I reminded myself, as we pulled into the driveway beside the red motorcycle, which was still parked in front of the garage. If it was Hank’s house, we were breaking and entering. If it was Juan’s, we were entering with the occupant’s permission—and his key.
The power was off here, too, and the entire neighborhood was dark, except for the pale sheen of candles or oil lamps in a few houses. I could hear the dull rumble of eighteen-wheelers on I-35. Somewhere, a dog was barking, sharp and staccato.
“The key opens the front door, I suppose,” Ruby said, as I took it out of my purse. “We didn’t think to ask.”
“We can try the front first,” I said. “Do you have a flashlight?”
“Of course,” Ruby said loftily. “Would Kinsey Millhone go anywhere without a flashlight?” She fished through the glove compartment with no luck, then on the floor under the driver’s seat. We finally found it, pushed back under the passenger’s seat.
“I imagine Kinsey keeps her flashlight where she can find it,” I remarked, as we went up the front walk.
“Don’t be tacky,” Ruby replied in a whisper. She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “I guess there’s not much risk of somebody seeing us behind all these bushes. Hank must have liked his privacy.”
She was right. The front of the house was shielded by a row of overgrown shrubs, and once we were on the porch, we were virtually invisible. I put the key in the lock and turned. It clicked, and the door opened onto a shadowy hallway.
“Phew!” Ruby exclaimed, wrinkling her nose. “Smells like the garbage hasn’t been taken out in a while.”
The odor was ripe and rich. “At least a week,” I said. The bright beam of the flashlight fell on a pair of work boots—Hank’s, probably—on the floor beneath a row of pegs that held jackets and sweaters and a yellow poncho. Next to the boots was a metal toolbox with HANK painted on it in red letters.
Ruby closed the door behind us. “Downstairs closet,” she said. She had lowered her voice, as if she might be overheard by somebody upstairs. Or maybe the sight of Hank’s boots and toolbox had reminded her—had reminded us both—that he was dead. I thought again of the man, and of what Juan had claimed. Was it possible that—
But now wasn’t the time for questions. Now was the time for answers. “There,” I said, as Ruby’s light fell on a door underneath the stairs, to the left. I went to it, turned the knob, and stepped back, anticipating the cascade of stuff that occasionally falls on my feet when I open the front closet at our house.
But the closet was nearly empty, except for a couple of cardboard boxes off to one side—none of the usual toys and clutter of a man’s life, fishing gear, tennis rackets, golf clubs, skis, life jackets, things like that. It looked as if Hank had had neither the time nor the inclination for recreation.
“Do you see the opening?” Ruby asked, peering over my shoulder.
I took the light and flashed it around. “That’s what we’re looking for,” I said. The opening was cut into the wall to my right, which probably backed up to the downstairs bathroom. It was covered with a panel of painted plywood, screwed to the narrow framing. “We’re going to need a screwdriver.”
“I’ll check the toolbox,” Ruby said, and came back with a screwdriver in her hand. “Got it!” she said triumphantly.
“Good,” I said, and stepped back. “See if you can get that panel off.” I held the light while Ruby got down on her knees and unscrewed the panel, setting it aside.
“Give me the flashlight.” She shone it into the cavity. Her voice was muffled. “I don’t see anything unusual.”
“It’s probably hidden,” I said. “Put your arm in and feel around.”
Ruby unfolded herself and got to her feet. “Maybe . . . maybe you should try, China. You’re closer to Hank’s size. You can probably get your arm in there better than I can.”
“You’re afraid of spiders, that’s all,” I said. “I bet Nancy Drew wouldn’t let a dinky little spider keep her from searching for a hidden envelope.”
Ruby frowned. “Probably not. But she might be intimidated by a great big scorpion. I got stung when I went looking for the cleanser under the bathroom sink last week.”
“So you want the scorpions to sting
me
?”
“Well . . .” Ruby said. “Please, China?”
I snatched the flashlight from her and got down on my knees. The opening was about thirty inches square, and I could see pipes inside the cavity. I could see dust, too, and chunks of Sheetrock and construction debris. And spiderwebs. But no scorpions. Gritting my teeth, I stuck my arm inside as far as I could reach and groped around the opening on both sides.
“Nothing,” I reported. And then, reaching above the opening, I felt a smooth, papery surface. “Here it is!” I exclaimed, pulling it out. “It was pushed behind a stud.”
I clambered to my feet, holding a dirty white envelope by one corner. It was recycled, for there was a canceled stamp on it and Hank’s name and address had been scribbled through with a pencil. The flap was taped shut.
“I vote for opening it,” Ruby said eagerly.
“I agree,” I said. “But we need to avoid disturbing the prints—and there are bound to be some.” I motioned with my head in the direction of the kitchen. “Let’s find a better place to work.”
In the small kitchen—and yes, indeed, there was garbage here somewhere—Ruby held the flashlight while I put the envelope on the counter. I found a sharp-pointed knife in the dish drainer and used it to pull up a corner of the tape, carefully peeling it off, then used the point of the knife to open the unsealed flap and tease out the contents.
There was just one item: a Polaroid photograph, taken with a flash. It was very badly faded and the background was indistinct. I could just make out the subject: a man, lying full-length on his back on the floor of what looked like a stone-sided corridor. There was a jagged hole in his head above his right eye, with a slight welling of blood. The eyes were open, the lips parted in a grotesque grin, and I saw the gleam of what looked like a gold tooth in the ghastly mouth. I pulled in my breath sharply.
“Oh, my stars!” Ruby exclaimed. “It’s . . . it’s Andy Obermann!”
“You’re sure?” I asked, although that gold tooth was confirmation enough for me. “No mistake?”
“Positive,” Ruby said, staring at the photo. “And he’s . . .” Her voice died away. She gulped audibly. “China,” she whispered, “you were right. Andy
is
the skeleton in the cave!”
“Well, that’s one question answered,” I said soberly. I turned the photo over, using the tips of my fingers. On the back, in faint penciled script were the initials “GD” and a date: “10/21/76.”
“GD,” Ruby breathed. The flashlight trembled. She looked at me, her eyes large, the pupils dilated. “So Gabe Dixon killed him! And the photo proves it!”
“Well . . .” I said.
“Gabe must have been selling drugs,” she went on, the words spilling out. “He took Andy out to the cave to do a deal, and they got into some sort of argument over the stuff, or maybe over money, and Andy got shot.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. If Gabe was selling Andy drugs, they didn’t need to trek all the way out to the cave. They could have done the deal anywhere.” I pointed to the photograph. “That bullet wound above Andy’s eye—Alana has identified it as an exit wound. He was shot from the back, so it wasn’t an argument. It was more like an execution.”
“But why did they go out to the cave, then?” Ruby demanded. “And why did Gabe take a photograph, for Pete’s sake, and put his initials and the date on it? Didn’t he realize that it might incriminate him?” She flapped her arms. “And come to think of it, why the heck did he have a camera with him? This doesn’t make any sense, China. No sense at all!”
“It makes sense if you remember what Hank told Juan,” I replied steadily. “He said his father had done something really big for the Obermann sisters. They paid him for it—remember?”
“But they didn’t pay him enough,” Ruby said, snapping her fingers. “Yes, I remember! So you’re saying that . . .” She stopped, looking horrified. “No, that can’t be right, China! He must have done something else for them—something like painting the house or saving them from a terrible accident. Those women wouldn’t . . . Florence couldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t? Couldn’t? How can you be so sure? We know what a manipulative, controlling woman Jane is—has been, most of her life. And there was certainly plenty of financial incentive. Doctor Obermann gave the bulk of his fortune to his two sons and left his daughters only an annual allowance. They didn’t even get the family house.”
“But I thought that it was their house!” Ruby exclaimed, startled.
I shook my head. “It was left to their brother, Harley, with instructions to allow his sisters to live there as long as the house remained in the family. And Andy was Harley’s son, so he inherited the house—as well as the family fortune—when Harley died.”
“How do you know all that?” Ruby asked, startled.
“McQuaid dug up the information as background. The sisters wanted to hire him—to protect them from Hank.”
Ruby’s eyes narrowed. “Protect them from . . . Hank?”
“That’s what they told McQuaid on Thursday—or what they implied, rather. They didn’t actually get around to naming names. Florence became ill, and the rest of the interview was postponed until Saturday. But by then, Hank was already dead. They didn’t need McQuaid.”
“I see,” Ruby said thoughtfully.
“Bob told me that Andy was pretty well broke when he came back here, and that the bulk of the estate was tied up so that he couldn’t get to it for the next few years. Lila said Andy was trying to borrow money from his aunts. He got a bit from Florence, but Jane wouldn’t give him any, so he began talking about selling the house. In that case, the sisters would have been out on their ear—with only their annual allowance to cushion the blow.”