CUTTER'S GROVE Page 16

  When he finally joins us he’s uncharacteristically reticent. “I guess I owe you an apology, Mrs. Paige. Maybe I should have paid more attention the last time we went through this,” he says.

  Thelma doesn’t respond.

  “Would you go through it again for me please, from the beginning?” he says, looking at me.

  I start by explaining my decision to ask Thelma for her help. Yates is very interested in why I felt obligated to take such an active role in the investigation of a missing child when I was not personally acquainted with either the child or her mother. I try to brush this off lightly with a half-baked explanation of how deeply I was affected upon learning of Anne Marie Alvarro’s unsolved disappearance, and how it motivated me to do whatever I could when Rhonda appeared to have suffered the same fate. He hears me out but gives no indication whether or not he buys the rationale behind my actions.

  Thelma then gives an account of our visit to the Getty home, her strong feelings about Rhonda’s fate and hidden location, and our subsequent discovery.

  Once again, Yates reacts minimally. “I’m going to have to ask you to remain in town for a short while, Mrs. Paige. I hope it’s not too much of an imposition but I’m afraid it’s necessary.”

  “How long will you need me to stay, Sergeant?” Thelma asks.

  “Shouldn’t be for more than a day, two at the most.”

  “That will be fine,” she says.

  Yates looks at me. “And you’re not thinking of going anywhere, Mr. Tunney?”

  “No, sir, I’m not. Can you tell me what’s happening with Harold Miller?” I ask.

  “I can’t discuss the details of the case I’m afraid,” Yates replies, “but I will tell you we found forensic evidence linking him to Rhonda Getty. Now that she’s been found I don’t think there’s much doubt that murder charges will be filed against him. Hopefully we can wrap up the Alvarro case now as well.”

  “Has he admitted to anything in connection with either of them?” I ask.

  “Sorry, I can’t get into that.” Yates responds.

  “Alright, I understand,” I say. “Well, it’s been quite a day. If there’s nothing else for now …”

  “You’re free to go,” he says, and then, as an afterthought, “And thank you both for all you’ve done.”

  Back in the Jeep I turn to Thelma. “I don’t suppose you feel much like dinner now.”

  “No,” she says, “if you’d drop me back at the hotel, I think I’ll just go to bed early. What are you going to do now, Lucas?”

  “I promised Deborah I’d drive over to Tehachapi to see her. She’s very upset about Harold.”

  “Yes, I imagine she is,” Thelma sympathizes. “Did you ever make anything out of my intuition in the Alvarro case, by the way?”

  “The number six, the involvement of a big man, men coming together for some business purpose, and the distinctive diamond shape?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact I did,” I reply.

  “Really?” she says, intrigued. “Please share it with me.”

  “In hindsight I’m sure I concocted events to suit the circumstances. In any event, it’s a moot point now. None of it involved Harold, and Yates seems confident that Harold is on the hook for both crimes.”

  “It seems so,” she says. “Still, I can’t help but wonder why those things were so vivid in my mind in Anne Marie’s case.”

  “Do you still feel the same way?” I ask.

  “I have no sense of the situation any more. It’s been too long. But I can still remember how intense those feelings were at the time. It’s very strange.”

  I can’t help but agree. Thelma has certainly proven beyond any doubt that she possesses incredible intuitive abilities. So why was she so far off track the last time around? It makes me wonder, a lot, but Yates does appear awfully sure of himself so there seems little purpose in belaboring the matter.

  ****

  After dropping Thelma at the hotel it occurs to me that I told Beth I would hook up with her after work. Checking my watch I see it’s right about her quitting time. I envision the discussion wherein I explain to Beth that I won’t be seeing her tonight because I’ve promised Deborah I’d make the drive to Tehachapi to comfort her.

  I’m reminded of my promise to Beth to be honest with her. I know I should simply call and tell her the truth. After all, what I’m doing is perfectly innocent, even gallant some might say. I’m sure Beth will understand completely, probably even applaud my chivalry.

  Yeah, right. I may be stupid, but I’m not that stupid.

  When I stop by the diner to explain what’s happened - how Thelma and I have spent the afternoon and early evening - Beth is already fully informed of events and sympathetic about my difficult day. She doesn’t question it for a moment when I say I’m heading home to sack out.

  That problem dealt with, I head the Jeep in the direction of Tehachapi.

  33

  Deborah is still waiting to see Harold when I arrive at the sheriff’s sub-station. She runs to me and collapses in my arms, sobbing.

  “What’s happening?” I ask her. “Is there any word yet?”

  “They’ve had him in there all day, questioning him. I still haven’t been allowed to see him,” she wails.

  I steer Deborah to a chair in the waiting area. “Do you have a lawyer for him?” I ask.

  “Yes, a Mr. Fosberg here in town came to see me and offered to represent Harold. I didn’t know what else to do so I said he could.”

  I’m wondering how smart it was to enlist the aid of a lawyer from this little burg when a man enters the room and approaches Deborah. He’s a short, balding, middle-aged guy wearing a rumpled blue suit and bifocals perched part way down his rather prominent nose. “They’re going to let you see him for a few minutes,” he says. “He’s being taken to Bakersfield shortly so you won’t have much time.”

  “Is he all right?” Deborah asks, her voice an amalgam of concern and curiosity.

  “He’s doing okay. He’s calmed down a lot from what he was earlier.”

  “Mr. Fosberg, this is my friend, Lucas Tunney,” Deborah says.

  The lawyer holds out his hand. “Leonard Fosberg.”

  “How do you do?” I say. “Has Harold said anything? Admitted to anything?”

  Fosberg nods his head in a sombre manner. “Before I got to him the police had advised him of his right to remain silent but Harold went ahead and admitted to hitting the girl anyway. Not killing her, not hiding her body, just hitting her. But obviously it isn’t going to help his cause.”

  “Will an admission like that hold up?”

  “I think we can make a case for diminished capacity here, in which case it will be irrelevent. He’s going to be given a psychiatric assessment in Bakersfield. We’ll know a lot more after that’s been done.”

  “Is there anything we can do at this point to help him?” I ask.

  “There’s nothing any of us can do for now,” Fosberg replies. “I suggest you go on home after you’ve seen him and wait to hear from me.”

  “Can Lucas come in with me?” Deborah asks the lawyer.

  “I’ll see what they say,” Fosberg says and leaves to talk to the duty officer.

  In a moment he’s back. “I’m sorry, no other visitors right now.”

  “Alright,” Deborah says, disappointed. She turns to me. “Please wait for me, Lucas.”

  “I will.’

  Forsberg takes her arm and leads her through a door leading down a short corridor. I take a seat and thumb through old magazines for fifteen minutes until Deborah returns.

  “How is he?” I ask her.

  Deborah is pale and drawn. “I asked him if he hurt Rhonda. He said she made fun of him and he made her stop. Then he said she shouldn’t have done that, she shouldn’t have made fun of him.”

  “Do you think he …?”

  The teary-eyed expression on her face when she looks up at me is devoid of hope. “His aura
is always on the dark side, but now it’s completely black,” she says, then leans into me, pressing the right side of her face against my chest, and allows herself to weep without restraint.

  As I’m consoling her, Deputy Chapin appears. “Will you be needing a ride home, Miss Miller?” he asks in a sympathetic tone.

  “I’ll see her home, Deputy,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

  On the drive back to Cutter’s Grove, Deborah is silent. She leans her head back on the headrest and stares out at the landscape as we speed along the highway. Every once in a while she wipes tears from her eyes and blows her nose. I figure the best thing I can do for her right now is let her be.

  It’s late when we reach her place. The houses in town are all without lights as we pull up in front of her gate. She turns her head to me. “Please come in, Lucas,” she says softly.

  “Deborah---”

  “Please. Just for a little while.... Please.”

  Against every instinct I have I quietly mutter, “Okay.”

  ****

  Paco Alvarro is hammering on my door early the next morning. When I open up he bursts into my room like a wild man. He's unshaven and his unwashed hair is falling across his face in greasy coils. His eyes have a maniacal look to them. “I want you to tell me what you know about that retard,” he demands through gritted teeth.

  “Paco, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Harold Miller,” he screams at me. “What did he do with Anne Marie?” He paces angrily around my room. “I’ll kill that son-of-a-bitch.”

  “We don’t know for sure that he had anything at all to do with Anne Marie’s disappearance,” I tell him in a calm voice.

  “Don’t give me that crap. Who the hell else would it be?”

  “Paco, please settle down.”

  “You settle down, goddamn it. I want to know where my little girl is. That sister of his---”

  “Paco, I don’t want you harassing Deborah. She’s going through enough right now without---”

  “She’s going through enough! Who gives a shit what she’s going through? Listen, get this through your freaking head: I want to know what that crazy bastard did with my daughter.”

  “Paco, get out of here. And cool off.”

  He gives me a look that could wither a cactus, then bangs out the door, cursing me.

  I phone Deborah immediately. “Hello,” she says in a timid child’s voice. She sounds terrified.

  “Deborah, has Paco Alvarro been to your place?”

  “Lucas,” she cries, “he’s threatening to---”

  “Goddamn it. I’ll be right over. Lock the doors till I get there.” I drop the phone, rush out to the Jeep, and burn over to Deborah’s house.

  She comes to the door after spying me through the front window. She looks like she’s been worked over by a couple of guys with the World Wrestling Federation. Her eyes are swollen, her cheeks are blotchy, and her hair is a tangled mess. I hold her in my arms while she sobs. “Did Paco touch you?"

  "No," she says, " ... he was just ... yelling at me."

  "It’s all right,” I murmur. “Nothing’s going to happen.” Deborah clings to me, shaking fiercely.

  Suddenly I hear a car pulling up behind the Jeep. I turn to look out the window we’re standing in front of, half expecting to see Paco’s Explorer. Instead I see a familiar old Ford station wagon come to a stop.

  Oh, no.

  Beth gets out of the Ford and stands with one hand on the roof, the other on the car’s open door, looking at us. I can’t see the look on her face very well - she’s too far away - however, I have no trouble imagining it. I try to extricate myself from Deborah’s embrace but, by the time I do, Beth has climbed back behind the wheel. She fires up the Ford, puts the pedal to the metal, and quickly disappears from sight.

  Great. Just bloody great.

  34

  It takes a while to get Deborah settled down. I want desperately to follow after Beth and explain what’s happened but Deborah is in bad shape and I feel obligated to use some tact. The trauma of Harold’s ordeal mixed now with threats from Paco are too much for her to deal with. She’s on overload, as fragile as a crystal wineglass.

  “How am I ever going to face the people in this town again?” she asks me, her eyes shiny with tears.

  “Don’t worry about the future right now,” I advise her. “Just concentrate on getting through one day at a time.”

  She tries on a smile and, although it’s not an award winner, it’s a step in the right direction. “I’m going to get cleaned up,” she says. “You will stay for awhile, won’t you, Lucas?”

  “I really have to get going,” I tell her. “Work at the shop is beginning to pile up.” This is not particularly true but it’s the best I can come up with on short notice.

  I get a dose of the pleading eyes.

  “Don’t worry about Paco,” I say. “I don’t think you’ll be seeing any more of him. If he does show up, just call me.”

  She nods her head in resignation. “Okay.”

  “You’re not going to work today are you?”

  “God, no,” she answers.

  I kiss her forehead and gently push her away from me. “Get some rest. I’ll call you later.”

  Walking to the Jeep I ask myself how anyone can possibly be as unlucky in love as I appear to be. Every time I try to do the right thing I come off looking like an evil bastard in Beth’s eyes. I'm kicking myself in the ass - metaphorically speaking, of course - for not being honest with her about my trip to Tehachapi in the first place. I should have just told her what I was doing and why. By trying to hide things from her it only looks worse for me when she learns the truth. And she always learns the truth. You'd think by now I would have clicked on to that.

  Experience now tells me I’m wasting my time if I expect to convince Beth that my embracing Deborah was entirely virtuous. I doubt very much that she will even allow me to speak to her at this stage. I can only hope my trip to Tehachapi last night and - God forbid -my late night visit with Deborah when we returned at two a.m. don't come to light. I make a mental note to give Beth a day or two to cool off. Then ... well, we'll see.

  My first order of business back at the garage is to install a new set of brakes on Herb’s Lincoln. As I go through the motions of this routine procedure I’m thinking of all the time I and my lady cohorts have wasted chasing down clues on our list of suspects. Herb, our prime suspect, is seemingly guilty of nothing more menacing than being a slob. It’s hard to believe how I took a few groundless suggestions from Thelma Paige and made them point so neatly at someone in my poker group as being a murderer. It could reasonably be said that I’ve taken jumping to conclusions to the level of an Olympic event.

  My ruminations are interrupted by a phone call from Thelma. “Sergeant Yates stopped by and asked me some more questions,” she says, “ - mostly about you, by the way - and then told me I was free to leave town. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

  “Are you sure I can’t give you something for your time. I feel like---”

  “No, I wouldn’t think of taking your money. But, a word of warning: Yates is probably on his way over to see you.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Goodbye, Lucas. Take care of yourself.”

  “You too.”

  I’m no sooner back to the brake job than Yates arrives. He pulls his patrol car up to the entrance of the shop and toots his horn to get my attention. When I walk over to him he smiles at me like we’re old buddies. “How you doing, Lucas?”

  “Sergeant.”

  “Wonder if I could take a few more minutes of your time.”

  “Don’t see why not. What’s up?”

  “Hop in. Let’s take a little drive.”

  I wipe my hands off with a rag and toss it back at the Lincoln. “Sure.” I climb into the car. “Where’re we going?”

  “Nowhere special,” he says. He puts the Crown Vic in drive and we hit the highway. He says nothing for se
veral minutes and then surprises me by apologizing once again. “I reckon I had you pegged wrong,” he says. “You struck me as somebody who was hiding something before. That’s a hard thing for an officer of the law to accept.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And Mrs. Paige. I had her down as a loony. Looks like she showed me a thing or two, huh?”

  I get the feeling that this outpouring of humility is about as sincere as a Don Rickles compliment. I can generally tell when my leg is being pulled. I decide to call him on it. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind, Sergeant?”

  He looks at me like he’s surprised I’m not bowled over by his largesse. “Hey, just letting you know how I feel.” He continues on down the highway for a quarter of a mile and then pulls off the road and brings the car to a stop. “I’m asking this as a favor,” he says. “This is not an official request or anything.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me about what you and Deborah Miller were up to.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, all innocence.

  “Come on, Lucas, I’m not an idiot. You two were up to something in connection with Anne Marie Alvarro’s case. This will remain strictly confidential … just between us.”

  “Look, even if we were up to something - and I’m not saying we were - what difference would it make now?”

  He raises his eyebrows and tosses his head a little as if to say ‘you never know.’

  “Wait a minute - are you telling me now you’re not convinced Harold is responsible for Anne Marie’s disappearance?”

  “I’m not saying that at all,” he says.

  But I can tell my speculation is not far off the mark.“Well, what are you saying?” He remains mute. “Come on, Sergeant, let’s have it. You tell me what’s really on your mind and I’ll spill what Deborah and I were thinking.”

  He squints at me as he’s mulling over my offer. “Okay,” he says finally. “But this goes no further. We’ve got Harold cold on the Rhonda Getty killing. There was fresh blood on his shirt that matches hers. He knows we’ve got him for that so why not admit he also did the Alvarro kid? But he’s denying he had anything to do with her. Keeps going on about how much he liked and misses Anne Marie, how she was always so nice to him. Harold is not the kind of fella to play it cute. Too … well, you know. So, I start thinking: maybe we've got us two perps here after all.”