A Dead Red Oleander (The Dead Red Mystery series) Read online

  "If you've got cold feet, it's not too late to back out."

  "Roxanne Leonard! I won't do any such thing, and you know it."

  "I'm just sayin'…"

  "Maya and Terrill still coming home for my wedding?"

  Maya had managed to garner some acclaim as a model in New York City, all my fault as I was the dirty traitor who encouraged her to accept the audition instead of taking classes at the local city college like her mama wanted. Terrill, on the other hand, was about to finish college at Berkeley, and his parents were reluctantly sitting in on the interviews with the New York Jets. It looked like both their children would be working out of New York soon.

  "She Skyped me from Peru. Peru for cryin' out loud, because Vogue thought it would be fun to shoot starving, stick-thin models shivering in their flimsy thousand-dollar gowns standing next to a stunned native in dirty sandals and hand-me-downs. And yes, she said she will be here if she has to ride a llama all the way home. I told her not to be such a drama queen and to just get to the damn airport in time.

  "Terrill will be a little easier," she said, flashing the famous Leonard dimples her children had inherited. "He only has to come home from Berkeley, though he'll probably have some vapid little blonde hanging on his arm again."

  "Oh, give him a break, will you?" I said. "He's gorgeous, smart, and the girls have been mad about him since he could walk."

  "Ain't that the truth. I'm just hoping he'll graduate and get his dream of playing in the Super Bowl before one of them announces she's pregnant."

  Now that I was sure Roxanne was going to be good with Aunt Mae's contribution to the wedding, I took my leave and headed for home.

  <><><><>

  I arrived in time to referee an argument.

  "Lalla?" Aunt Mae waved me over to the kitchen table. "Good thing you're home. Will you please explain to your pig-headed father that goats are farm animals?"

  When Spike, my dad's arthritic Chihuahua, passed away this last winter, my dad simply wasn't ready to get another dog. The goat was a gift from a neighbor.

  My dad held up his hand to stop the argument. "Bruce is a pet, Aunt Mae."

  "Bruce!" Aunt Mae threw up her hands. "Your father has Disneyfied a farm animal, and calling him Bruce isn't going to change the fact that he's part of the food chain and best served with chipotle sauce."

  My dad's bushy, gray eyebrows bounced with irritation. "The only way Bruce will be part of tonight's festivities is if someone feeds him a marshmallow."

  The goat was free, and as he explained to me, would control the weeds. It had been suggested that he tether it to a pole and let him eat everything he could reach. Dad thought tethering would bore the goat, so he built him a pen and took him for walks. It was exercise for my dad, and the occasional stop to nibble on grass for the goat. They both seemed to enjoy it, so who was I to argue?

  "You've got that Normandy bull," my dad said, "what's his name?"

  "Of course he's got a name, you idjit, he's a sire with a long pedigree!"

  "You've got goats too. You name those, don't you?"

  "Yeah, sure we do," Aunt Mae replied without a trace of humor. "One's named Lunch, and the other one's Dinner. Why don't you get a nice Australian shepherd? That's what we have, and they're great for herding the goats."

  "No, thanks. Besides, I never wanted the dog we had though he took to me right away. Then he got sick and ran up vet bills into the thousands. No, I'm not about to be a fool over a damn dog again."

  I took Aunt Mae's elbow and guided her out of the kitchen. "Aunt Mae, you need to give him a little slack. He's simply afraid he'll get attached again to another animal. He loved that little dog. Naturally, it surprised us, since Dad always said he didn't want a dog, but they were a matched pair." Both of them cranky. "That's why he doesn't want another dog. He can't bear the thought of it dying."

  She threw up her hands. "Of course they die. We all die! Does he think he won't? He has done a will, hasn't he? Or is he going to let the goat take care of his estate?"

  "No, no. He did a will when he had the triple bypass two years ago. The lawyer has it." At least I thought he had it. I never actually saw one, but that's what my dad told me.

  She glanced into our kitchen at our ancient Wolf stove, clearly equating its nicked and rusted enamel to the value of my father's estate. Daddy had been out of Texas too long. He cared more for preservation than presentation, and as far as he was concerned he was one dollar away from broke, which accounted for why we still had the elderly Wolf instead of a newer model.

  Aunt Mae got up, and as the screen door slammed behind her, I could hear her calling to Cousin Pearlie, "The old goat says no goat, so you can tell the boys to forget about that second rotisserie!"

  The rest of the preparations for the barbeque finished, my family's feuding was quickly replaced with the joy of preparing the party. By dusk the fire pit was roaring, washtubs were filled with iced beer bottles, and red-checked-clothed tables were lined up along the side of the barn and covered with potato salad, corn-on-the-cob, pies, and cakes. Farmers, neighbors, chemical salesmen, ground crew, and their families came in trucks, SUVs, and cars.

  Our nearest neighbor arrived on his tractor.

  "Tractor knows the way home," he said, admiring the food on the tables. "Besides, if I end up passed out in the middle of our field tomorrow, the missus will just think I was just getting an early start. Where's the beer?"

  I introduced neighbors to chemical salesmen, kids to other kids, and then made the rounds with my Aunt Mae and Cousin Pearlie to meet everyone. Mad Dog, I noticed, was missing.

  Dewey Treat brought his wife—a tall, slim brunette with a long ponytail, wearing tight, faded jeans. Even in the firelight, I could see the pretty ballerina in her erect stance and long, elegant neck. She also appeared to be delighted at the novelty of a pit barbeque served under starlight.

  "I've never been on a ranch before, Miss Bains. This is really something."

  "First names here, so please call me Lalla."

  "And I'm Nancy," she said, offering me a warm handshake. I offered her a seat in one of the lawn chairs, and we sat down to talk.

  For openers, I nodded at her colorful hair clips. "Minny Mouse?"

  She reached up and touched one lightly. "I always loved Minny Mouse. I suppose it looks kind of silly, a grown woman wearing little girl hair clips." Nancy turned her face to the sky and with nimble fingers traced the stars in their constellations. "It was the last thing my mom gave me, just before the emphysema finally took her."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. No other family?"

  Her hands dropped to her lap. "My mom was beautiful and smart and always said she didn't want to marry some goomba who'd just cheat on her. So when she read about how she could get a sperm donor with an IQ of 140, she signed up, spread her legs for a cold speculum, and out I popped."

  I laughed at the cheerfulness in her voice. "Well, that sure cuts through the necessity of looking for the right man. My mom died when I was eleven, but I've always had my dad," I said, watching him balancing a spoon on his nose for Javier's kids. I added, "Such as he is."

  Nancy giggled at my dad's antics. "My mom's best friend helped me out so I wasn't really alone until after high school. That's where I met Dewey. We got to talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up." She lifted her head again as if to check the movement of the stars. "I wanted to dance in a big ballet company, and he wanted to be a bush pilot in Alaska."

  "I can see the dancer in you. And crop dusting isn't that far off from flying in Alaska," I said, skirting around the issue of where they might go after his few months with us ended.

  She nodded and brushed at some invisible lint on her jeans. "Yes, there's always Alaska."

  Dewey must've had that talk with her, that the job wasn't permanent and they wouldn't be buying the cute rental just out of town. Still, I had enjoyed the short time that Dewey had been with us, and Nancy seemed to be a delightful young woman.

&nb
sp; Aunt Mae's cowbell announced supper. "We're gonna saw up this critter and serve it up hot," she hollered, "so y'all pick up your paper plates and get in line."

  Nancy excused herself to find Dewey and I stood to get in line. Mad Dog drove into the yard, hopped out, spoke to someone in the truck, and walked over to my dad. I assumed he was here to bow out of the party as he had a hot date, but then on the way back to the truck he made a beeline for Cousin Pearlie. I saw her nod shyly, and then she looked up at him and smiled.

  Good God, if Mad Dog had found the time to make a conquest of Pearlie, then why was he leaving his date alone in his truck?

  I was about to go over and ask, when he swaggered back, opened the driver's side, spoke again to his guest, and without waiting for an answer, sauntered back to join Pearlie.

  "Well…" I nudged Caleb and pointed. "As my dad would say, 'If that don't beat all.'"

  When I heard the truck's passenger door slam shut, , I turned. A cowboy hat bobbed around the front of Mad Dog's man-sized Dodge Ram. The guy paused to rub the tops of boots on the back of pant legs. The friend was male, not female, which explained why Mad Dog was staying and also why he also stopped to talk to my dad. He was asking permission of the boss man, not his daughter. Never one to let a slight go by, Mad Dog, unable to secure both top seat and the owner's daughter, used every opportunity to show me he didn't respect a woman who'd reject his advances. As for Mad Dog's flirtation with Cousin Pearlie, I was also sure he had looked up Aunt Mae's financial worth, and figured the granddaughter was worth courting. Likewise, Aunt Mae would do the same and, seeing that he was still legally married, allow him some flirting before giving him his walking papers.

  Mad Dog brought his friend over to us and introduced him as Jack Carton.

  "Awfully kind of you folks," he said, shaking hands all around. "I wouldn't have busted in on a private party but Mad Dog said I should come along and say hello to my old pal, Dewey Treat. Haven't seen him since high school."

  I looked around for Dewey and his wife, Nancy. Images faded in and out of the firelight and it was hard to identify one person over another.

  "There he is," I said, motioning for the men to follow me to where Dewey squatted next to some kids by the campfire. The kids giggled and squealed as they turned their skewered marshmallows so the treats wouldn't burn.

  "Hi," said Dewey. "We've already stuffed Javier's kids. Now we're starting on the neighbors' kids."

  "Dewey," I said, "Mad Dog has a surprise for you."

  Dewey put his hands on his knees and pushed up to stand, waiting.

  I motioned at the two men behind me, and it was hard to tell in the wavering firelight, but Dewey's lips twitched, and the bones of his face seemed to stand out in sharp relief.

  Mad Dog pushed the other man in front. "I brought Jack here to say howdy to his old pal, Dewey Treat."

  I didn't like the way Mad Dog said Dewey's name, and got the distinct impression that this was some kind of set-up. It also looked as if Dewey was about to be the butt end of a joke, and it made me mad. Mad Dog and I were going to have a talk, and soon.

  Jack stuck out his hand. "I hope you still remember me. We were in the same class at high school. Gorman, Montana?" He readjusted the brim of his cowboy hat. "I suppose I've changed some, got fat, lost most of my hair."

  Dewey shrugged and took the man's hand. "I knew a couple of Jacks back home. What'd you say your last name was?"

  "Carton," he said, pumping Dewey's hand, "but my friends just call me Jack. I didn't get it wrong, did I? You are the Dewey Treat from Gorman, Montana, aren't you?"

  "Sorry I can't remember you, Jack. I left Montana behind when my folks died."

  "Well now," Jack said, "you wouldn't be the only one. Gorman's practically a ghost town these days." Jack shuffled from one foot to the other, obviously uncomfortable with Dewey's penetrating stare.

  Dewey squinted and shook his head. "Sorry, I can't remember you, but I hope you'll stay for the barbeque."

  Jack smiled broadly and clamped a hand on Dewey's shoulder, good ol' boy style. "Mad Dog's been talking about nothing else. I wouldn't miss it." With that, Jack and Mad Dog headed for the chow line.

  Dewey looked up, perspiration beading his upper lip. "I think I need a beer," he croaked, looking around. "Have you seen Nancy?"

  I pointed to his wife, talking to a family behind us.

  He called to her and she came into the firelight, her smile fading as she scanned his face. "What's wrong?"

  He mumbled something about getting a beer, and she took the wooden skewer out of his hand and handed it to me. "If you'll excuse me, Lalla, I'll go with him."

  Though I didn't understand it yet, I thought Mad Dog had just ruined my party for Dewey and his wife, and if I found him, we were going to have a little dust-up. This stupid jealousy of his had to stop. I walked over to the chow line. No Mad Dog, or his new best friend. I didn't find them by the ice chests, either. Of course, the minute I stood still, people came by to say thanks for the meal and how much they were going to miss us.

  I looked around for Nancy and Dewey. Not seeing either of them didn't mean anything, as the fire was dying down, leaving us in the dark. Surely, Nancy and Dewey wouldn't leave without saying good-bye. They were a nice couple.

  That's when I noticed a broken taillight wink as Mad Dog's pickup tapped the brakes before turning on to the main road. The coward probably knew I was looking for him and left. Well, tomorrow would do just as well for me, and maybe by then I'd have a cooler head.

  Then I heard a cry and a shout, and letting go of my irritation at Mad Dog, I pushed through the agitated circle behind me and saw Nancy bent over a dark shape on the ground.

  She looked up, tears tracking down her pretty face. "He's dead, Lalla."

  Chapter Five:

  Someone covered Dewey's body with a blanket and someone else handed his trembling wife a coat to warm her from the cooling night air. I stood next to Caleb as he called 9-1-1 and explained that a perfectly healthy thirty-six-year-old man had apparently dropped to the ground and died.

  One of Caleb's deputies pulled in behind the ambulance. While I told what I knew of Dewey's medical history to the EMTs, Caleb quietly sent his deputy to make the rounds to confirm who saw what during the last minutes of Dewey's life. Caleb and I took Nancy aside and gently asked her if he'd been recently ill, or had any medical problems. Nancy shook her head at Caleb's questions. He hadn't been sick. He hadn't choked on a piece of food and he wasn't allergic to anything he'd eaten. There was no possible reason why he would have dropped dead. Caleb handed her off to me and went over to help the deputy ask questions of the guests.

  As the EMTs covered Dewey's body, then lifted it on to the collapsible gurney, Nancy broke away and went to stand by the gurney. She put a hand on top of the blanketed body of her husband, bowed her head for moment, and then nodded to the EMTs, who contracted the gurney and rolled it into the back of the ambulance. The doors closed and the ambulance silently drove away.

  Caleb came over, and between the two of us, we loaded Nancy into his truck. Before I climbed in behind her, he asked, "She say anything about his family? Who might want to be notified?"

  I thought for a minute. "Other than Nancy? No, I don't think he had anyone else. I heard him tell that guy who showed up with Mad Dog—Jack something—that his folks were dead. Speaking of Mad Dog, I've got a bone to pick with him for bringing that guy."

  "Why? Did something happen?"

  "I could be wrong, but I got the distinct impression that tonight was some kind of payback for Mad Dog. I think he brought his guy here to embarrass Dewey. I was going to give him hell for it, but he and his new best friend already left."

  Caleb stroked my arm. "I'll talk to him and his pal tomorrow. Right now, let's get Nancy home."

  <><><><>

  We drove in silence to Nancy's rental in a housing development between our ranch and the outskirts of Modesto. Caleb parked in front and assisted the dazed and stumbli
ng young woman out of his truck. "We'll bring your car home tomorrow."

  I helped Nancy into the house and to her bedroom, where I offered to get her some tea or a glass of wine.

  "No thanks, Lalla," she said, and listlessly slumped on to the bed.

  "How about a sleeping pill?"

  "I never take anything stronger than an aspirin."

  "You'll feel better if you wash your face. Do you want me to get you a washcloth?"

  "Sure," she said, pulling back the covers to crawl in.

  I went into the bathroom, found a washcloth, ran some cold water over it, and took it back to her. She thanked me and covered her face with the cloth. She lay so still under the covers that for a minute I thought she'd fallen asleep. Then she pulled the wet cloth off her face, put it on the bedside table, and in a small voice said, "Do you have a gun, Lalla?"

  I drew back. "Not on me, but why would you ask? What's going on?"

  She put a tissue to her nose and blew. "Because Dewey was murdered."

  If ever there was a more unlikely person to have been murdered, it would be Dewey Treat. I'd met my share of slackers, crooks, killers, and con men, and Dewey didn't strike me as anything but Mister Milk-Toast. "Was he in some kind of trouble?"

  With her mouth clamped shut, she only shook her head.

  "Why would anyone want to kill him?"

  She sighed and pushed herself up so that she was resting against the headboard. "I don't know who, or how they did it, but I know why."

  I didn't see this. Dewey murdered? "Are you going to tell me?"

  She took another sip of the water, swallowed. "I can't. Sorry."

  Perplexed, I stood up. "Caleb needs to hear this," I said, and left to bring him into her bedroom.

  When we returned, Nancy had the covers modestly pulled up to her chest. She closed her eyes as if to shut out the unhappy circumstances the world had dumped on her.

  "Nancy, please tell Caleb what you just told me."

  She looked up at Caleb, the pain of loss in her eyes. "I can't tell you anything other than that Dewey was murdered. Maybe that friend of Mad Dog's did it."

  "Nancy, this doesn't make any sense," I said.