Dead Red Cadillac, A (12 page)

Chapter Thirteen:

We got as far as the stop sign to the freeway, but instead of taking the on-ramp, I made a left and pulled into Roxanne's. Since I'd already crushed the illusion of any blooming romance between us, my intention was to see if Boyd Lincoln was in his usual seat at the counter and could ID Garth.

Garth nodded at the heavy droplets trickling down the inside of the café windows. "Darlin', I'm sure the food is good, but you don't have to go cheap on my account."

I smiled, unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the door. "This was your aunt's favorite diner, and mine too. Come in and meet the owners, I'm sure they'd like to offer you their condolences."

Without the least bit of reticence on his part, he hopped out and followed me into the café.

Inside, I momentarily tensed, waiting for the pitying glances, but it was dinner time and the place was full up with itinerant truckers and tourists, not locals. I relaxed.

"How do, Miz Leonard," Garth said, his eyes twinkling as he took Roxanne's big hand in his, as if it were dainty and small.

Roxanne didn't roll her eyes, or sneer or anything. She did, however, gently remind me of the reason I was going on this impromptu date. "I'm awfully sorry about your aunt. She was a really sweet lady." She eased out of Garth's handshake and said, "You'll want to say hello to my husband, Leon. He's over there putting out the pies. Tell him to cut you a slice. Go on, you're young enough not to let it ruin your supper."

She gave him three steps out of hearing, then shot me full of holes. "Don't tell me you're going out on a date with that man."

Now that I'd made up my mind about Garth, I wasn't about to let any hormones get in the way of my investigating, so I was indifferent to her insinuations. "Not really. Well, dinner, but don't worry, I'm working here. So, is he the guy Boyd Lincoln saw or not?"

I was watching Garth out of the corner of my eye. He was passing the time making small talk with Leon, while tasting the lemon meringue. Garth said something and the two men laughed.

Roxanne followed my gaze. "You'll have to bring him back when Boyd is here. He saw him, not me. I gotta say one thing for him, he's about as cute as they come. Reminds me of my Leon, before he started eating his own cooking."

Giving her a reassuring hug, I said, "Don't think I don't get what you're implying, Roxy. Trust me, I can handle this guy."

She pulled back from the hug, holding me by the elbows, and whispered, "That's what you said last time you brought a hunky man to my place, and look how that turned out."

I tipped my forehead to hers and replied, "I promise you, I got it."

"You be careful, girlfriend," she said quietly, and then went over to join her husband.

"What'd you say to Leon that got to his funny bone?" I asked Garth when we got in the truck.

"I told him his lemon meringue was so light it should get him a green card right through to Heaven."

Barring Roxanne's warning, I relaxed. Since I'd never encountered one before, I guessed he could be a sociopathic serial killer, but he was more like our pilot, Mad Dog—running neck and neck as opportunistic womanizer of the year. That didn't mean he didn't also murder his old aunt, but my instincts told me it was less than likely.

Settled into a booth at the steakhouse, I peered hopelessly at the tight little script on the wood board menu. "I forgot how dark it is in here."

"It's a plot, you know," Garth said. "We can't read the damn things in this light so we'll gratefully order whatever they tell us is 'special.'"

He put down his own billboard-sized menu and pulled out a pair of half-glasses. "Here, try these. They're just drugstore cheaters, but they do the trick for me. This place oughta give 'em out at the door."

"Thanks. I thought I was going blind there for a minute." I should've been grateful for the glasses, but instead I felt self-conscious and every bit my age.

He didn't seem to notice. "I know it sounds corny, but you look cute in glasses. Mentioning glasses, did I hear you right when you said my aunt was going blind?"

"Yes, she depended on the bus or somebody gave her a ride to Roxanne's."

"I remember playing with the colored ink stamps she used for Bingo."

"She read the menu with a magnifying glass. Maybe she did the same with Bingo."

He pushed his menu away, signaling his impatience with the subject. "I'd rather you told me about you. Is Lalla your given name or does it come in a longer version?"

"You'd prefer Eula May? My big brother called me Lolly-Pop, but my mother put a stop to that when I was nine. Aunt Eula May is my father's aunt. I guess they were hoping the old girl would leave me her oil stock. Aunt Eula May, being on my father's side, is ten years older than my dad, and will probably outlive all of us. Every September, she drives all the way out here from Brownsville, Texas, and gets in our hair."

"And you're a pilot. It's not every day I meet a beautiful woman who can fly airplanes. You really like those flying tin cans?"

"I sort of fell into the job more from need than inclination. I got my pilot's license at eighteen, and, well, one thing just led to another."

"Now don't go makin' it sound like nothin', darlin'. I've seen those guys working—looks dangerous to me."

"It can be. Every year at the national convention, there's another empty seat."

"Empty? As in dead? Then why do it?"

"I haven't, at least not for the last couple of months." Even with a cast on my foot, my reticence for flying may have had more to do with my own fears than anything else. "I still have my A&P, that's the mechanics license to work on them, and I don't mind getting my hands dirty, so at least I have a job."

"You still use those old bi-planes?"

"The Stearmans? I suppose someone does. We now use the Grumman model G-164 Ag-Cat; it’s a bi-plane. They carry the bigger loads. With suburbs eating up all the farmland around here, some applicators find helos quieter. They're expensive, but they don't get complaints from irate housewives for noisy planes interrupting their soap operas. The hours are long, the work is dirty, and the pay seems to get smaller every year."

"So what keeps you here?"

"Me? To tell you the truth, I sometimes think I'm just on a long rubber band. I always seem to go only so far before I bounce back to this ranch. I came home after a disastrous marriage and an unremarkable career in New York, thought I’d jump back into the job as an Ag-pilot. Now I've got this leg in a cast, so at least for now, I'm grounded."

"Kids?"

"No," I said, reprimanding myself for automatically glancing at his ring finger. "I never had much luck finding daddy material. And now it's a little late." I was thinking of the photo from a couple of days ago. Gap toothed and in pigtails with the line underneath that said,
Lordy-Lordy! Look who's forty!

Garth smiled, nodding attentively at the annotated version of my life's story. Either he'd swallowed Valium before our date, or he was fascinated.

"I’ve called my father by his first name since I was eleven. At first just to annoy him, and then it got to be a habit. My mother died of cancer when I was eleven, and my older brother was killed in a motorcycle accident when he was twenty-seven." All of which was true, except how my mother died. But that secret stayed hidden, in much the same way I wasn't about to tell him that tomorrow I'd be reporting this conversation to a police detective.

We chatted idly about nothing until the bill came and he reached for it.

I said, "Sure you don't want to split that?"

"Not a chance." He grinned, laying a credit card on the tray. When the girl came back, he signed the tab and said, "It's a business expense, courtesy of Four Corners Truck Stop and Repair. Too bad you got a hitch in your get-along. I sure would enjoy takin' you for a whirl around the dance floor. Another rain check?"

"The only stepping I'm likely to do is on your feet," I said, looking at my watch. "I hate to cut this short, but I've got an early morning."

Our evening ended up back at his RV, with Garth collecting my hands from the steering wheel and holding them between his big paws. "Wouldn't you like to come in?" he asked, his intentions obvious.

I could smell his aftershave and the undertone of maleness that made me feel like a twelve-pointer on opening day of hunting season. "Can't. Sorry. Got an early morning crew to get out, remember?" But I let him hold my hands.

"Sure I can't convince you to be a bit late?" he murmured, his breath closing in on my neck.

"Sorry," I said, allowing his mouth to scatter light kisses along the tender skin. He got as far as my ear before I found my breath again. "Not unless you want a herd of irate farmers knocking at your door at three a.m."

I said that? Oh, well, we both knew what would come of it if I got out of this truck.

He sighed and reluctantly got out of the truck and crossed over to lean against the open window on my side. "I got an idea. How about a tour of that crop-dusting business of yours tomorrow?"

"Call me," I said, and pinching the gearshift until it yelped for mercy, shifted into first, then second, then third, all the while wishing I was wrong about him.

No, that wasn't it. If I've learned anything, it's that you can change their socks, but you can't change them.

I was wishing I had someone to go home to, someone who would drift warm kisses down the side of my neck and whisper sweetly into my ear until I gave up on all my sensible objections and let that someone take me to bed and love me until I couldn't think anymore.

By the time I turned into the driveway, my lighted Timex said ten thirty p.m. My initial reaction to seeing Caleb's truck in the driveway was a sweet and tender feeling that blew away when I remembered I was still mad at him. The warm fuzzy was probably a leftover from my romantic moments with Garth, though I wasn't about to share that with Caleb.

Anyway, what was he doing at my house? Lights were on in the living room, so maybe he'd had dinner with my dad and they were watching a game. I dragged myself up the porch steps, only to be scared out of my wits.

"Don't you guys ever lock your doors?" said a voice in the dark. "I coulda walked right in and murdered your dad in his recliner."

"Caleb! You scared the shit out of me! What do you think you're doing scaring defenseless women, anyway?"

"Defenseless, my ass. Will you give it a rest? You aren't in New friggin' York anymore, you know. Nobody cares."

"Whoa! What bug jumped into your pants?"

"Well, really, Lalla. I found the door unlocked and your dad and the dog in front of the TV sound asleep. Anybody could've walked right in and helped himself to a beer, which is what I did."

We both knew to whom he was referring. It could've been Patience's killer on the porch with a gun in his hand instead of a beer. Adrenaline gone, I collapsed into a wicker chair.

Caleb put the bottle down. "Your message said you wanted to talk, so what's up?" He sounded grumpy, or maybe just as tired as I felt.

"Why should I be the first to offer information? I know that trick you do. I tell you everything I know, then the subject gets changed, and you go home, and I'm left with my finger in my ear."

"I couldn't take you to Stockton with me. Jesus, Lalla, at least I can draw the line somewhere, as opposed to you. Why in God's name did you go to dinner with Patience's nephew tonight?"

Boy, howdy, news sure traveled fast. "Well, excuse me, but I've got to eat sometime," I said. It was probably the first thing he heard when he walked through the door at Roxanne's tonight. But unless Roxanne had changed her tightlipped ways, it was one of the gawkers who, unable to resist, had taken it upon themselves to report my indiscretion.

"You go out with him just to get back at me for not taking you to see Garth's ex in Stockton? As impetuous as you are, there's no telling how that interview would've gone."

"That's not fair." And it wasn't, since by now, his trip to Stockton was not as important to me as my dad's potential involvement. "So, how is Garth's ex?" I asked sweetly.

But he had no intention of letting it go just yet. "I came back in time to take you out to dinner. I left a message on your cell. Why didn't you wait for me? Why are you always so… oh, forget it!"

"What's this all about? It was just a simple meal."

"Not that you would have noticed, but he's still a suspect in his aunt's murder."

I was getting hot under the collar. "And so am I! So what does it make me—his accomplice?"

"Jesus, Lalla, you're so impulsive. I'm surprised you didn't marry the guy while I was in Stockton."

I collapsed into the wicker chair, too hurt to come up with a proper retort. "That—that was just incredibly mean, Caleb Stone."

"I'm sorry. But, really, Lalla, can you just not date the guy till after this is solved?"

"I'm not dating him!" Still hurt, I decided to do a little stabbing of my own. "And it's not like you share. Why didn't you tell me Marcy left?"