"Gary? Sure, Gary Detweiller was a friend of mine. Do anything for ya, he would." A grease-encrusted hand reached out from under the hood of the sixty-three Chevy, groping for an open end wrench.
I'd driven across town to one of the other addresses on my list. Zack Taylor lived little more than a dozen blocks from Detweiller's home. The house was an average sized ranch style home with a gray shingled pitched roof and red brick front. The double wide garage door stood open, so I'd walked on in.
Taylor was bent over the engine of the old car, like a surgeon in the midst of a delicate operation. The hood had been removed, leaving the patient's innards exposed. A hundred watt drop light hung from the rafters. Tools waited like surgical instruments, lined up on a towel which also served to protect the fender on which they rested. The remainder of the garage was filled with tires, boxes, bicycles, and the other assorted stuff that usually preempt a car from occupying the second space.
Zack Taylor was probably in his late twenties, old enough to have a family, judging by the junk in the garage, but not old enough to have given up his stock race car. A hole in the garage where you pour money, my father had once called them. Ron had been into that for awhile, but luckily he outgrew it.
"So, where did you meet Gary?" I asked.
Zack replaced one wrench, reached for another, and scratched at the side of his face with a greasy finger.
"Penguin's. It's like this little neighborhood place where guys go to have a beer and watch the ball game. Gary was there all the time."
"The guys liked him, huh?"
"Oh, yeah. When Gary had money, he was your best friend. Not like a lotta guys. He'd buy rounds for the whole place."
"He do any betting?"
"Oh, hell, yes. Uh, pardon my French. Yeah, we all did. Bet on the playoffs, Superbowl, stuff like that."
"How about the horses?"
"That too. Gary'd take all our bets, then go to the track. He sure loved that track. When we picked a winner, he'd bring us our money."
"Minus his take."
"Well, yeah. Guy's not gonna spend that much effort without making a little somethin'." He traded wrenches again, then lifted some contraption out of the engine.
"But nobody minded that."
"Why? Gary was always fair with us."
"Did you ever hear where the money came from when he hit it big? Like the times he'd buy drinks for everyone?"
"Naw, not really. Gary was a real smart guy. Always had these big business deals going. He prob'ly got these big commission checks all at once, or somethin'."
Yeah, like the commission on a Rolex watch.
"Can you think of any reason somebody would kill him?" I asked.
He raised up and looked straight at me for the first time. His face was probably very good looking under all the grease. He was about six feet tall, slim build, with dark eyes and a nice smile.
"I sure can't," he said. "Down at Penguin's, anyway, he didn't have an enemy in the world."
I thanked him and left a business card in case he thought of anything else. He stuck it into his shirt pocket, where I imagined it staying right through the wash cycle and coming out as a little white wad.
Two other visits yielded about the same information. It was a bit early to catch the bartender at Penguin's. Besides, I was getting tired. Talking to people can really wear you down. I decided to head for home in case Paul and his brood had returned early. The drive across town gave me a chance to think some more about Gary Detweiller. Who was this, Robin Hood? Robbing from the rich to give to the poor? If so, who would be mad enough to do him in? Maybe tomorrow I'd head back to the rich side of town.
As it turned out I didn't get a chance. I walked in my front door to find Paul and Lorraine stretched out on the couch with the TV blasting. Annie and Joe sprinted through the living room just then chasing Rusty, who dashed for cover behind my legs as soon as he saw me. I put my hands out to fend off the attackers. Paul noticed me then and mouthed some words in my direction. Lorraine mouthed something at him, he nodded, then directed more words at me. It felt like stepping into a Hitchcock movie where the background music jangles so loudly that the actual dialog is meaningless.
I told the kids Rusty needed to go out now—alone. They set off toward the kitchen door. Making my way over to the couch I picked up the remote control and adjusted the television to a reasonable level where human conversation could take place.
"How was your day?" I removed two empty glasses from my Queen Anne coffee table and wiped at wet rings with my sleeve.
"It was nice," Lorraine said. "We got a chance . . . " Joe plopped in her lap with enough force to knock the air out of her.
"Mom, when're we gonna eat?" he whined.
Lorraine turned to offer him some explanation, apparently forgetting that she'd been talking to me. Annie was tugging at Paul simultaneously, so I carried the dirty glasses and a crushed potato chip bag to the kitchen.
Yes, let's eat, I thought. I hated to do this to Pedro, but I had to get these guys out of my house.
"I'd rather go to McDonald's," Annie whined.
"But sweetheart, we can go to McDonald's at home. Pedro's is a place Daddy and Aunt Charlie and I really like." Lorraine's voice was kind and patient. Personally, I'd have told the kid to shut up and get in the car. Guess that's why I don't have kids.
"McDonald's." Annie kept her little voice firm, and Joe joined in. Soon it became a chant. Paul looked up at me helplessly. I shrugged. Anyone who's powerless at the mercy of a ten-year-old probably deserves it. We went to McDonald's.
Annie and Joe each ate about thirty cents worth of the burger from their kid meal boxes that I'd paid two dollars apiece for. The rest lay scattered over the table. They scampered off to the play yard where they crawled around through a series of hamster trails sized for kids.
Paul and Lorraine kept a conversation going of sorts, interrupted by one or the other going to check on their offspring about every three minutes. I ate my Big Mac and fries and nodded at the right times, while my mind darted back and forth thinking about the people I'd talked to in the past few days. Who killed Gary Detweiller?
By three o'clock the next afternoon I was wondering who would kill Annie and Joe. I might be a good candidate. The sleeping bags were neatly rolled, the bags packed, and it was all I could do to resist carrying the stuff to the car myself. When the front doorbell rang I jumped.
"Anybody home?" Ron stuck his head in.
"Ron! You're back. Look who's here," I said taking him by the arm. Paul and Lorraine were in the kitchen. Annie and Joe stood off to the side eyeing Ron suspiciously. "Want to take the houseguests from hell back to your place for awhile?" I muttered under my breath.
"Not a bit," he smiled.
Paul had emerged from the kitchen just then. He and Ron clasped hands in a hearty shake. Lorraine got scooped up in one of Ron's giant hugs. I stood back and watched my brothers' contrasting interaction. Paul is tall and thin with dark hair and eyes, technically the better looking of the two. Ron is about five-ten and heftier. His dark hair is thin on top and shows touches of gray at the temples. Paul is the slacks and polo shirt type, while Ron chooses Levi's, western shirt, Stetson, and boots. When he wants to look a little more dressed up, he'll add a bolo tie. Paul is quiet in a diffident sort of way, while Ron's soft-spoken manner suggests thoughtfulness. Not to say that we don't butt heads now and then. But I really am glad he's my partner.
I let Ron have the visitors all to himself for awhile. I offered drinks but no one was interested. I busied myself cleaning up the kitchen and gathering the guest towels and sheets into the washer. When Ron stood up to leave an hour later, the others did, too. It was a long drive back to Phoenix, they said.
I spent the rest of the evening gathering my sanity, cleaning up all traces of visitors, enjoying the peacefulness of my home without anyone else in it. Rusty lay sprawled out on his side near me, apparently exhausted. It wasn't until I was getting ready for bed that night that
I remembered I hadn't even mentioned the case to Ron.
I dreamed that I was sitting in the living room holding a baby that was obviously mine. It screamed constantly despite everything I tried to calm it. Two other children, who looked suspiciously like Annie and Joe, romped through the house knocking over a porcelain figurine I'd had since I was a child. A nameless, faceless man in the picture was stretched out on the sofa, watching a ball game on TV and reaching occasionally for his beer can which left a huge wet ring on the coffee table. I awoke perspiring and breathing hard.
The bedside clock said it was almost six. No point in trying to get back to sleep now. I put on a robe and slippers and went to the kitchen. The winter sky was faintly gray, the air cold. I started the coffee maker and let Rusty out to the back yard. By the time I'd gone to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, Rusty was waiting at the door, nose to the crack, shivering. The coffee was ready, so I poured a mug and curled up on the couch watching the morning news on TV while the hot liquid gradually woke me up.
By eight I had showered, dressed in gray wool slacks and a thick sweater, and was on my way to the office. I had to figure out a way to tell Ron that I'd taken a case in his absence and that I'd actually started to work on it. I didn't have long to plan my speech, either. He was already at his desk when I arrived.
"For who!" His brown eyes were incredulous.
"Whom, Ron."
He shot me a look. "You know what I mean. Why on earth would you want to get mixed up with Stacy North?"
"I didn't really want to," I tried to explain. "Well, she just looked so pitiful when she came in here that day. I thought I'd just be finding a stolen watch, which I did quite well, I believe."
"And now it's a murder case. You know I can't legally step into that," he reminded me.
"And you haven't," I reminded him. "I'm not the investigator here. I'm just an interested party asking a few questions."
"Have you been representing this agency?"
I thought of the few business cards I'd handed out. "I won't do it any more," I assured him.
"Charlie, Charlie." He took on that older-and-wiser older brother look. "I know you can't seem to resist somebody in trouble. You were always the kid who picked up wounded birds, too. But nowadays things are different. You can get yourself hurt, maybe even killed, maybe even get this agency sued." Now that really would be the worst.
"I get the feeling Stacy is afraid of Brad," I told him. "You should have seen her when she thought Brad was going to find out her watch was lost. Can you imagine what he'd do if he found out about this other man? Especially if Stacy is implicated in a murder? Ron, I'm really afraid for her safety."
"What have you done so far?" he sighed.
I filled him in on the interviews with the family and the list of names I'd found and so brilliantly deciphered.
"You're withholding evidence." His voice was flat, like nothing I did anymore would surprise him.
"Wait a minute! The wallet was on the victim when the police found him. The list was in the wallet. If they'd thought it important, they would have taken it."
He pressed his lips together. He didn't agree with my logic, I could tell, but he couldn't find a way to argue with it either.
"I can't authorize you to work on this," he said.
"Will you do it then?"
"Charlie, I have umpteen million things waiting here. The price of being gone a week."
"Then I'm going out to ask a few more unauthorized questions."
"You wouldn't consider letting the police work on their own case, I guess."
"Ron, I'm sure they're working on it, and I'm sure they're doing a fine job." I walked out before he could add anything.
Traffic on the freeway was heavy, moving at a frustrating speed-up, slow-down pace. The sun had topped Sandia Peak already, but thin streaky gray clouds filtered out any warming effect. March is such an ugly month. The charm of winter has long since worn off, and the beauty of spring won't be here for another six weeks or more. Spring winds usually blow for most of March and April, leaving spirits whipped and nerves raw. This is about the only time of year I envy Paul and Lorraine's living in Phoenix.
I took the San Mateo exit toward Academy Road once again. This was beginning to feel like familiar territory. Traffic all seemed to be heading the opposite direction, making me feel like the only person in town who hadn't heard the air raid sirens. Lowering my sun visor against the glare, I continued my easterly course. The same toothless guard from the other day protected the Tanoan gate and he waved me through like an old-timer.
Now that I was here, I couldn't decide whether to continue checking the names on my list or pay another visit to Stacy. The steady stream of outbound traffic warned me that I might not have much luck either way. Before I stirred up any more uninvolved parties it might be better to find out if there had been any new developments over the weekend. I pulled into Stacy's circular drive and rang her multi-chimed doorbell.
A dark shape wavered behind the beveled glass for a moment. The next thing I knew, I stood face-to-face with the man I'd once thought I would marry.
Chapter 8