Larkspur (19 page)

I pulled in behind one of the county cars. Its blue light whirled, and the headlights
stabbed at the highway shed. The lights from two other cars and a couple of floodlights assaulted
the darkness. Deputies, some in uniform, some not, moved in and out of shadow. Barricades
already blocked access to the turn-around area behind the shed.

Jay opened his door and swiveled sideways. "You'd better go home, Lark. Thanks."

"Thank you," I said crossly. "I won't get underfoot."

"I don't think it's going to be real appetizing after a week of hot weather."

"Oh." I had no desire at all to see Miguel's body. Or smell it. Jay pulled himself to his
feet. I got out the other side, and we looked at each other over the roof of the car.

"I'll be here until sunrise at least. You'd better go home."

"Why sunrise?"

"They'll be taking tire casts, combing the weeds for evidence. I can't tell them what I
want until I see the area."

"Okay." I started to say I'd go home.

"Dodge?" Dan Cowan strode up looking self-important. "You better talk to the guy who
found him. Oh, hi, Lark."

"Hi. How's Fern?" Fern was Dan's wife.

"She has hay fever real bad. I sent her to her sister in Fort Bragg." Cowan turned back to
Jay. "Transient. I picked him up about half a mile down the road trying to thumb a ride. He says
he was going to call us from town, but I doubt it."

"He touch anything?"

"I don't think he did much damage. Too freaked out."

"Okay. Where?"

"Back of the patrol car."

"I'll take a look at the body first." Jay's voice sharpened. "They haven't disturbed
anything, have they?"

"Waiting for you. Secured the site. Gunshot wound to the head. Looks like suicide."

Jay took a deep breath, a mistake, and clutched at his side. "Karl here yet?" Karl was the
medical examiner, Dr. Holst.

"On his way."

"Okay. Show me." Jay had forgotten my presence. I didn't remind him. He and Dan
Cowan moved off toward the heaps of cinder. They were approaching the shed from the far side,
to avoid trampling on tread marks and footprints, I supposed.

I closed the passenger door and got back in the car, turning off the lights. I closed my
door, too, but I rolled the window down. I was upset, puzzled, and wide awake.

I could see Miguel stealing the car and trying to get away. I could also see Miguel
committing suicide if he had killed Llewellyn and been overcome by remorse. He had been an
emotional young man. What I didn't understand was why he would steal the Mercedes, gas the
car and have the oil checked, drive south of Monte fifteen miles or so on a back road, and
then
kill himself. Why not do it at the lodge? And where had he got the gun?

I brooded, drowsing a little until some movement or voice from the scene roused me. I
was at the scene but not of it. No one came near me. I couldn't see the Mercedes from my
position behind the patrol car, and the cops were careful not to trample the access lane, so most
of the coming and going happened on the far side of the shed. It was all very distant and
surrealistic, like seeing film
noir
at a drive-in.

When Dr. Holst came, his crew took their stretcher around the far side of the shed, too. I
watched them carry Miguel in a body bag to the waiting ambulance. It was an ordinary
ambulance, like the one that had taken Llewellyn from the lodge.

No reporters had showed up. Bill Huff's paper was a weekly. I doubted his reporters
stayed up all night listening to the police band. The stringer for the
Chronicle
lived in
Weed. The TV station was up in Oregon. There didn't seem to be any neighbors, either, so I was
the only ghoul on the site. Not a very alert ghoul. After the ambulance left I drowsed and, finally,
slept.

"Lark!"

I jolted awake. My neck was stiff.

Jay was leaning against my side of the car looking down at me. It was daylight. "I
thought you were going home."

"I fell asleep," I said sheepishly. "What's happening?"

"I'm waiting for Kev. You might as well hang around and drive me into town."

"Okay. What time is it?"

"Six." He walked stiffly around to the other side and got in, leaving the door open. "I'm
too grogged out to do much more here."

"Pills wear off?"

"Yeah." He shut his eyes. "Jesus, what a time to be crocked up. I wish I could swallow a
couple of gallons of coffee."

"Was it bad?"

He grimaced. "I tossed the yogurt."

"Ugh. Did I hallucinate, or was that a CHiPs car I saw around four thirty?"

"State car. I had them take the gun to the lab in Sacramento. I need the report on that
before I can do much." A car drove up at high speed, light revolving. "That'll be Kevin."

The county car wheeled neatly in behind me, boxing me in. Kevin jumped out, and Jay
stood up again, clutching at his ribs. I got out, too. I needed to get the circulation going.

Kevin did a double-take when he saw me.

I gave him a smile. "Taxi service."

"Oh, yeah. How're the ribs, partner?"

"I have eaten tastier," Jay said with dignity.

Kevin grinned. He is a slender black man, not very tall, with a neat beard and glasses. He
and Jay work well together. Kevin's wife teaches sociology at the junior college and yearns for
the big city, but Kev is a fanatical skier, so she's probably stuck in Monte. Considering that Jay
was brought in from the LAPD over Kevin's head, it's a tribute to Kev's good nature--and maybe
to Jay's--that they've become friends.

Jay said glumly, "You were right. I should've taken the kid into custody. If I had, he'd
still be alive."

"I wonder why I don't feel a lot of satisfaction."

Jay sighed. "It's murder."

"No possibility of suicide?"

"Have a look."

"The body's gone."

"Yeah. Have a look at the car, though. He was shot with the windows open. Then the
killer closed 'em."

"Electric windows--engine running?"

"Either that or the killer turned on the ignition after Miguel was dead, closed the
windows, turned the refrigeration up, and left the engine on. Car's out of gas."

"Refrigeration? Shit. That's going to blur the time of death."

Jay shrugged and winced as the incautious movement pulled at his sore ribs. "That's
going to be foggy anyway. He was probably killed within an hour of the time he left the Chevron
station on Grand. Proving it..."

I interrupted. "I know it's none of my business, but how could you tell he was killed with
the windows open?"

Jay looked at me. "We haven't found the slug. It may be lodged in the upholstery. Still,
the window on the driver's side wasn't smashed. And it was, uh, smeared but not..."

"Splattered," I finished, sick.

"You get the picture. Also we're going to find blood and, uh, so on, on the grass--when
it's light enough."

"I'm sorry." I kept saying that futile little phrase. I
was
sorry. For Jay, who was
obviously blaming himself, but especially for Miguel. I had liked Miguel.

"...some attempt to make it look like suicide," Jay was saying to Kevin. "If the killer had
left the windows open I wouldn't be so damned sure it wasn't."

"Weapon?"

"A Beretta. Automatic."

Kevin groaned. "Common as blackberries."

"It's a 380."

"That'll help some."

I wondered what kind of gun Domingo had showed me, not that it mattered. It was
obviously not the murder weapon. I also remembered Bill Huff's arsenal. Unfortunately that
wasn't worth much as evidence. Northern California is NRA territory. A lot of people collect
guns.

"...prints?" Kevin was asking.

"The gun was lying by the gearshift. His prints, pretty blurred. Gun was clean--too clean.
So was the ignition. I sent the weapon and the brass to Sacramento."

Kevin shoved his glasses up his nose. He squinted at Jay in the sharp morning light.
"You look like hell. I can take over here. Get some sleep. I'll call you when the lab report comes
in from Sacramento."

Jay frowned. "What about the press?"

"They'll be stirring around soon. I called the sheriff right after I called you. He'll make a
statement."

"Give him something constructive to do," Jay said gloomily. "Can we maybe not
mention that it's murder?"

"No sweat. Give them the guy who found him."

Jay winced. "Poor bastard. Okay. And the bare facts. Dead at least five days. Single
gunshot wound to the head."

"Shit, man, I could write a three column story from that with one hand tied behind my
back."

"So what are you doing working for the county?" They grinned at each other, tight, sour
little grins.

"Go home," Kevin said.

"Okay. You'd better relieve Dan Cowan, too." They walked slowly over to the shed,
skirting a pile of cinders, and Jay came back alone fifteen minutes later, feet dragging.

I drove carefully, eyes on the road. There was no traffic. Jay leaned back. His eyes were
closed, but he wasn't sleeping.

I stopped where the county road intersected with the state highway and turned onto it in
the wake of a log truck. "Bill Huff collects guns. Mostly hunting rifles. I didn't look closely. I
think he had a couple of handguns, though."

Jay grunted.

"And Domingo showed me a gun yesterday."

"Old Colt .45. He has a permit."

"Did Ted Peltz..."

"I don't think Peltz did it."

"Why not? He's vicious enough."

"Wrong kind of personality. Too direct. This killer likes embroidery."

I shifted down for the traffic light where the county highway crosses U.S. 99. "You mean
embellishments?"

"Like the larkspur. And the trick with the refrigeration."

"Maybe that wasn't deliberate."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe the killer left the engine running because he wanted you to think Miguel had
been driving around a lot. And the refrigeration just happened to be on."

"The windows were open when he was killed."

I turned up Main Street, driving slow. A teenager not much younger than Miguel
zoomed by me on the right, driving a low-rider. "Was Miguel trying to blackmail the
murderer?"

"That's the logical conclusion."

"But he was a nice kid!"

Jay wriggled his shoulders. The seatbelt cut across his ribs. "He was facing
unemployment, and he had a big family to feed back home in Baja."

"What will happen to them?"

"I suppose they'll get the legacy eventually."

I pulled into the lot behind the bank. It was seven fifteen. The town was already stirring,
and I had to open the store at ten.

I fed us scrambled eggs. Jay took a pain pill and lay down. When I left he was asleep,
and Kevin had not yet called.

I left for the mall early enough to run laps at the health club. When I had showered and
dressed I felt as if I might be able to handle the rest of the day without real sleep. I kept thinking
about Miguel.

The news story broke around eleven, according to Ginger. She heard it on the car radio
on her way to work. Wasn't it sad, but suicide was a kind of confession, wasn't it? I said
um
.

Ginger was dressed to the eyeteeth for the encounter with her future mother-in-law, and
her mind was on that. Otherwise she would have grilled me. I had forgotten Denise. At noon I
dashed home and changed into a dress and sandals. Jay was gone.

Ginger was fuming when I got back. "I called Denise. She said a friend was coming over
for lunch and not to show up until two. Of all the nerve."

"Now, Ginger."

"Like I was trying to sell her Tupperware or something."

"You should be relieved."

"You're kidding. The sooner I get this over with the better. Will your mother mind
waiting?"

"Oh God, Mother. I should have called her about Miguel. Did Denise say anything about
the mur...about Miguel?"

"No. Geez." Ginger was still fuming and didn't catch my lapse.

I reached for the telephone. "Oops, too late." I could see Ma's rental car making its
tentative way across the parking lot. She'd come to town early.

She was wearing the faille suit. I was touched that she had brought out the heavy armor
on Ginger's behalf.

As Ma locked the car door and turned to cross the few yards of asphalt to the door of the
shop, a radio reporter, mike in hand, materialized from a behind a Winnebago. I froze.

Ginger was muttering about Denise. I watched Ma. I could tell from her blank stillness
that she had not heard the news. She said something quick and definite, and moved to the
entrance with the reporter trailing her.

I unfroze, opened the door for her, and pulled her inside. The damned bonger
bonged.

"My God, Lark, why didn't you call and warn me?"

"I should have." I whisked her behind the counter and into the back room as the reporter
charged through the door, bonging. "I'm sorry."

"Then it's true?"

I nodded. "Let me get rid of the press. Be right back." Ma sat at my desk looking
dazed.

I no-commented until the reporter gave up. A customer entered. I let Ginger show her
the hiking maps and went back to Mother.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "I wasn't thinking." And I gave her an edited account of the
discovery of Miguel's body. "And I'm a little disoriented."

"You might have phoned me, all the same." She brooded. "Shouldn't we put Denise
off?"

I explained Ginger's nerves. "Anyway Denise put us off--for an hour. We'd better do it
today, before Ginger chickens out."

Ma thought. "You're probably right. You ought to close the store again, though. Until the
press storm blows over."

I started to protest. I hated to do that to Annie and my real customers, but it made sense.
"Today and tomorrow?"

"Yes. I'm surprised you opened at all, Lark. Bad taste." At least she didn't blame my
misjudgment on Jay.