Minor in Possession (6 page)

More than being an outsider, he was also a logical, viable suspect. Even I had to admit that. Throughout our interview, Detective Reyes-Gonzales had treated me with the professional deference and respect police officers use when dealing with fellow cops, but once they verified that the murder weapon was indeed my Smith and Wesson…

The dinner bell rang, interrupting my reverie and summoning those who were still in Group to come to lunch. Automatically, I got up and walked to the dining room, not because I was particularly hungry but because I was too filled with
a sense of foreboding to want to sit alone any longer in the depressing oak-lined cell that was Louise Crenshaw's office.

As people filed into the dining room, they were strangely silent, as though somehow word had spread through the general Ironwood Ranch population that something was dreadfully wrong. As yet, nobody seemed to know exactly what it was, but all were equally affected by it. There was no playful banter in the serving line, no joking or calling back and forth as people headed for tables. At the far end of the room, Calvin Crenshaw paced nervously back and forth in front of the huge fireplace. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he stared fixedly at the floor as he walked.

Ed Sample sidled up to me in line. “What the hell's going on?” he demanded. “Everybody's acting as though their best friend died or something.”

I glanced at him quickly, trying to assess if his comment was merely an innocent coincidence or if he had some inside knowledge of what had happened. Despite my questioning look, Sample steadfastly met my gaze, his countenance blandly open and indifferent, his smooth features the picture of a man with nothing to hide. Had I been the detective on the case, I would have paid attention to his comment and done some discreet digging into Ed Sample's personal life to see if there was a connection between him and that miserable dead excuse for a human being, Joey Rothman.

You're not the detective, I reminded myself silently. Go have some lunch and stay out of it.

“Beats me,” I said aloud, and hurried over to Dolores Rojas' serving window. I collected a plate filled with her version of corned-beef hash along with a generous portion of steamed fresh vegetables. I glanced around the room and found that Karen and the kids were already settled at a table. Scott had saved a chair for me. I hurried over to it, wanting to be there as a buffer when Calvin Crenshaw made his inevitable announcement.

As I walked across the dining room carrying my plate, that's when the inconsistency struck me full force. Why was Calvin Crenshaw making the announcement? Why not Louise? For someone who was always front and center, for someone who had insisted that she be the one to notify the authorities of any irregularities, this sudden reticence seemed totally out of character. Understated elegance wasn't Louise Crenshaw's style.

Karen looked at me questioningly as I walked up. Kelly feigned an engrossing conversation with the person next to her so she wouldn't have to see me. I took the chair Scott offered, sat down, and glanced around the room, making a quick mental roll call.

Cal was still pacing in front of the fireplace. Louise was nowhere to be seen. Michelle and Guy Owens weren't seated at any of the tables, nor were they standing in line waiting to be served. That was just as well. Their absence confirmed my suspicion that they must have been the first to be
notified of Joey Rothman's death when Nina Davis had pulled them out of the room before the beginning of our early morning session.

When the last straggler left the serving window, Cal cleared his throat with a tentative cough that carried throughout the room. The already subdued crowd hushed expectantly.

“I regret to inform you,” Cal began slowly and deliberately. “I regret to inform you that something tragic has happened here today. Joey Rothman was found in the river early this morning.”

Calvin stopped speaking. The people in the room looked uncertainly at one another. “What I'm trying to tell you,” Calvin Crenshaw continued, “is that Joey Rothman is dead.”

There was a moment of stark silence followed by a shocked, betrayed shriek. Sobbing, Kelly leaped from her chair and stumbled blindly from the room.

It was going to be one of those days. All day long.

K
aren shoved back her chair and went after Kelly while Scott caught my eye. “Geez, Dad,” he said. “What's going on here?”

I didn't have much of an answer.

Once lunch was over, the dining room cleared out as though someone had pulled a plug. People wanted to talk about Joey Rothman's sudden death, and they wanted to do it in relative privacy. Ignoring the rain and taking their family members with them, they quickly dispersed to individual cabins rather than hanging around the main dining room as they usually did to linger over cigarettes and coffee.

Because of the murder investigation, I was forbidden to return to my own cabin. Adding insult to injury, Burton Joe corralled Karen and the kids and vanished with them into his private office for some kind of confidential powwow. Within minutes I found myself alone in the dining room, stewing in my own juices. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no one to do it with. Willing to settle for a much-needed nap as a dubious con
solation prize, I settled down by the fireplace to wait out the remainder of the lunch break.

I had barely closed my eyes when the front door banged open. James Rothman, Joey's father, strode into the room with Jennifer, his seven-year-old, blonde-haired daughter, trailing forlornly along in his wake. He paused briefly at the entrance to the hallway leading to the administrative wing of the building and looked down at his daughter. Stopping and kneeling beside her, he spoke briefly, motioning for her to return to the dining room and wait for him there, then he hurried on down the hallway.

The child, alone and hesitant, stood looking longingly after him, hoping he'd relent and let her accompany him. He didn't. Down the hall and well out of sight, a door slammed shut, giving voice to James Rothman's final answer. Dejected, Jennifer turned her back to the closed door and surveyed the long dining room with its empty tables and chairs.

Uncertain of my reception with her, I waved tentatively across the deserted tables. As soon as she saw me, her desolate elfin features brightened. In a day of sudden upheaval, I was someone vaguely familiar, someone she recognized. After all, I had been her brother's roommate.

Dubiously, she waved back.

“Would you like to come sit here with me?” I called.

Jennifer Rothman had come to Ironwood Ranch the previous week as part of her brother's family
week experience. In my book, she was the proverbial sweet-tempered petunia trapped in an onion patch full of schmucks. She was a beautiful child—fair-skinned with straight long blonde hair and deep blue eyes. When Joey had initially introduced us, I fully expected her to be a brat. After all, chronic phoniness seemed to run in the family.

Her half-brother was an out-and-out jackass. Jennifer's parents, unrepentant yuppies, showed up at every group session dressed in matching sets of Fila sweats. Daddy was a loud, obnoxious blowhard—Joey came by his boorishness honestly—and Marsha, his stepmother, moved in a cloud of resentment that belied the skin-deep show of marital harmony suggested by their matching outfits. I figured Jennifer would make it four for four.

But she fooled me. Jennifer Rothman turned out to be well-behaved and cheerful to a fault. Wide-eyed and innocent, she faced the world with an unfailingly sunny disposition—a latter-day Pollyanna. Her only apparent defect was what I regarded as an incredibly misplaced case of hero worship which she lavished on her no-good half-brother. During family week she had spent every free moment dogging Joey's footsteps like some adoring but ignored puppy, waiting patiently for him to pay her the slightest bit of attention or to toss her the smallest morsel of kindness.

That's how I had gotten to know her. She would come down to the cabin at mealtimes and hang around while Joey finished showering and dress
ing so she could have the dubious honor of escorting him back up to the dining room. He had carelessly accepted her unstinting devotion, shrugging it off as though it was no more than his just due, all the while making jokes about it behind her back. His callousness toward the child had made my blood boil.

Now, nodding wordlessly, Jennifer Rothman threaded her way through the scattered tables and chairs, stumbling toward me while her cornflower eyes brimmed with tears. I half expected her to throw herself into my arms and fall sobbing against my chest. Instead, she checked herself a few feet away.

She stopped short and with well-bred reticence climbed up onto the far end of the couch where I was sitting, discreetly distancing herself from me. Someone had drilled impeccable manners into Jennifer Rothman. Daintily she crossed her legs at the ankle and then smoothed the skirt of her plaid pinafore before she looked up at me and spoke.

“Joey's dead,” she observed quietly, glancing at me surreptitiously under tear-dampened eyelashes, curious to see how I would receive the shocking news.

“I know,” I replied.

“Somebody already told you?”

I nodded.

“Daddy had to come get me from school,” she continued. “He's talking with a detective right now. He says for me to wait here until Mother comes to get me.”

“Your daddy's right,” I said. “It's much better for you to wait out here.”

I was grateful James Rothman had shown at least that much sensitivity. Seven-year-old children should never be subjected to the gruesome details of homicide investigations, particularly an investigation into the death of someone they love.

A long, uncomfortable silence followed. Every once in a while she would sniffle or mop away at the determined tears that continued to course down her reddened cheeks.

“Dead means he won't ever come back, doesn't it?” she asked eventually.

I nodded. “That's right. Not ever.”

“How come?”

How come people don't come back after they're dead? Where the hell do kids come up with questions like that, and how the hell do you answer them? I'm a cop, not a goddamned philosopher.

I searched my memory banks for some lingering scrap of Sunday school wisdom that might not answer her question outright but would at least offer a smidgen of comfort. I came up totally empty-handed.

“Daddy told me Joey's in heaven now,” Jennifer continued when I said nothing. “Is that true?”

“Yes.” I answered quickly, not daring to hesitate. “I'm sure he is.”

I tried to sound as convincing as possible although I personally had grave doubts as to her brother's eternal destination. The Joey Rothman I
knew seemed a most unlikely prospect for halo and wings.

There was another long silence while Jennifer waggled the toe of her scuffed baby tennis shoes. Reeboks, naturally.

“What's Mother going to do now?” she asked, breaking the silence with another totally unexpected question. I wasn't at all sure I understood what she was asking.

“What do you mean?”

More tears spilled out of Jennifer's eyes, but she maintained a surprising level of composure. “Mother always liked Joey best.” She spoke the words slowly and guardedly, but with unwavering conviction. She paused and swallowed hard before she continued. “If Joey's dead, will she still love me?”

Jennifer Rothman had dragged me entirely out of my depth in the child psychology department. The Smothers Brothers may have elevated the old “Mom always liked you best” shtick to a money-making art form. The same routine coming from a mourning, grief-stricken seven-year-old child was anything but funny. Her look of utter abandonment sliced through my heart like a hot knife.

Before I could tell her I was sure she was mistaken, before I could offer the reassurance that I was sure her mother loved her just as much as she had loved Joey, the dining room door crashed open once more. Marsha Rothman, Mother herself, hurried inside.

“Mother, Mother,” Jennifer wailed, letting loose
a cloudburst of noisy sobs. She clambered off the couch and raced toward her mother, catching Marsha Rothman in a desperate tackle as the woman started across the room.

“Joey's dead,” Jennifer whimpered, burying her face in her mother's woolen skirt. “Joey's dead.”

“I know.”

Marsha Rothman's usually unemotional face was distorted by her own grief. Distractedly she placed both hands on Jennifer's heaving shoulders. “Where's Daddy?” she asked.

Jennifer sobbed all the harder and didn't answer.

Feeling like an eavesdropper, I followed Jennifer across the room and stood waiting for the two of them to notice me. Melting mascara had left muddy tracks on Marsha's pallid cheeks. Her skin had the leathery look of someone who has spent years in search of the perfect tan, but now there was no trace of color in her skin. She looked pale, gaunt almost, but not a lock of her perfectly sculpted haircut was out of place.

I was only a few feet away, but she didn't see me. I didn't necessarily like the woman, but at a time like that, personal preferences don't mean much. Marsha Rothman's stepson was dead, and I would do whatever I could to help.

“I'm sorry about Joey,” I said quietly, wanting to let her know I was there without startling her.

Despite my cautious tone, Marsha Rothman jumped when I spoke but regained her composure. My words of condolence seemed to
strengthen her somehow. She swallowed and stiffened.

“Thank you,” she answered formally. “Thank you very much. Do you have any idea where I could find my husband?”

“He went down the hall,” I told her. “Probably into Louise Crenshaw's office. The detectives have been using that for a base of operations.”

She nodded and then looked down at the weeping Jennifer, who still clung to her mother's waist. “I've got to go, Jennifer,” Marsha said, trying to disengage herself. “Can you stay here with Mr. Beaumont?”

Jennifer shook her head and held on even more desperately. “Don't leave me, Mother. Please don't leave me. Can't I come too? Please?”

Marsha's answer was firm. “No, Jen. I have to go be with Daddy. You have to wait here.”

One clutching finger at a time, Marsha pried loose Jennifer's grasping hands. There was no anger in the gesture, but nothing very motherly either, no caring, warmth, or comfort, just a practiced indifference. I caught myself wondering if maybe Jennifer was right. For whatever reason, maybe Marsha really
had
liked Joey Rothman best.

Sobbing and bereft, Jennifer allowed herself to be handed over to me while Marsha paused only long enough to straighten her skirt and give her hair a superficial and unnecessary pat before walking away. As she left, Marsha Rothman didn't favor Jennifer with so much as a backward glance.

I picked up the weeping child and held her, letting her bury her head against my shoulder while I rocked back and forth. I held her for some time, listening to her cry, watching the pelting rain falling outside the windows, and wondering how the hell to ease the hurt she was feeling. Suddenly, I caught sight of Shorty Rojas. Slouched under a huge yellow slicker, he rode past the ranch house on an ancient plodding gray horse. Behind him he led a wet string of bridled but unsaddled horses. It was a heaven-sent but guaranteed diversion.

“Look at all the horses,” I said, pointing out the window with one hand while boosting Jennifer off my shoulder with the other. “Would you like to go outside and see them?”

It worked like a charm. Little girls and horses are like that. Jennifer's sobbing stopped instantly. “Could we? Really? Maybe I could even ride one.” Then, just as suddenly, her face fell again. She ducked her chin to hide the disappointment. “It's raining outside. These are my school clothes. Mother doesn't like for me to get them wet.”

Screw Mother, I thought savagely. For a moment I was stymied, but then I remembered seeing Dolores Rojas leave the ranch's kitchen to walk back to her mobile home, a stately mountain of a woman moving slowly under the shelter of an immense black umbrella.

“Hold on,” I said. “I have an idea.”

Carrying the child into the kitchen, I found Dolores Rojas elbow-deep in sudsy dishwater. “Could we borrow your umbrella for a little
while, Dolores? This is Joey Rothman's sister. She'd like to go outside with Shorty to see the horses.”

A quick look of sympathy and understanding flashed across Dolores' broad, brown face. “Sure,” she answered. “It's right over there by the door.”

I retrieved her umbrella from the metal milk can that served as an umbrella stand. We were about to step outside into the rain when Dolores stopped us.

“Wait,” she said, drying her hands on a towel. “I may have a few old carrots around here somewhere.”

Of course there was nothing wrong with the handful of carrots she pressed into Jennifer's eager hands. Dolores Rojas was another soft touch. It takes one to know one.

We caught up with Shorty just as he closed a barbed wire gate behind the last of the unsaddled horses and was remounting the gray. When I told him who Jennifer was, Shorty clicked his tongue sympathetically and then asked if she would like to help him bring the rest of the horses up from the stables to the higher pasture. In response to her delighted affirmative, he swept her out of my arms and set her in front of him on the gray's high horned saddle, wrapping her snugly in the folds of the slicker.

“I'll bring her back to the ranch house when we finish,” Shorty promised. “They're going to be awhile.”

I was sure Marsha Rothman wouldn't approve
of the wet horsy odor that was going to permeate Jennifer's private-school pinafore, but that was just too damn bad. Helping Shorty move horses would be a whole lot better for Jennifer Rothman than sitting abandoned in the ranch house while grown-ups finished sorting out the ugly aftermath of her brother's death.

By the time I returned Dolores' umbrella to the milk can, it was time to go into afternoon Group. People were already filtering into the various meeting rooms, and I hurried to mine.

I'm not sure what was originally scheduled to happen in Group that afternoon, but it turned out to be a serious and subdued discussion of life and death. If nothing else, Joey Rothman's death had reminded all of us of our own mortality and underscored the importance of making the most of whatever time each of us had left.