Nothing but Gossip (24 page)

“Mercedes.” I took her hand. Her color became more and more normal. Petechial hemorrhages emerged like smears of blood in her eyes. “You’re going to be all right. Just stay calm and try to breathe slowly. Can you hear me?”

She drew in more air, each breath slightly easier than the one before.

“Can you squeeze my hand?”

She responded with surprisingly strong pressure.

“Tell me,” I said. “Who did this? Was it Wade?”

Her grip tightened.

“Duke?”

Tighter yet.

“Duke?” I asked again, incredulous.

Her eyes opened and her expression was one of terror. And then I got the message.

“Help is on the way, and your man here is going to hold your hand until the paramedics arrive. Don’t be afraid, you’re fine. Everything’s all right.”

I got to my feet and hurried to the balcony. Nothing to see, of course. Nobody. But now I knew who I was
looking for, and I had to stop him. I didn’t even want to imagine what he’d do next if we didn’t get to him in a hurry. Panic had hurled him totally out of control, launched him into the stratosphere of stark terror at being found out and captured.

I flew down the stairs two at a time, racing to the front door, which stood open. I could see my Jeep beyond, but two figures standing in the entrance hall blocked the way. I screeched to a stop. Could not believe my eyes.

My mother and Richard’s. Both in lovely flowered-chiffon day dresses.

“Oh, Lilly, dear,” my mother began briskly. “We saw your car and thought maybe you could come by for a cup of coffee and talk about tonight.” Her sentence ended in a whisper because her eyes were on my drawn sidearm. “What in the world?”

“Did you see another car in the drive? See anyone leaving just a minute ago?” I snapped.

They both shook their heads.

“What’s going on?” Mother asked.

“Someone’s tried to murder Mercedes. Would you wait here for the paramedics? They’ll be here any minute. She’s up in her dressing room. Show them the way.”

“Where are you going?” she called out the door after me.

“Wade Gilhooly’s.” I put down my car window. “And, Mother, do not discuss this with anyone. And I mean
anyone
. Morning, Alida,” I yelled as I drove away.

She gave me a little wave. She loved me.

*  *  *

“I’m on my way to the Gilhooly residence on Sunset Drive,” I told Jack over the radio as I hurtled down the busy boulevard toward Wind River Estates south of town, honking my horn and flashing my lights. What I needed was a siren. I’d ask for that next.

“I’m on your heels. Wait at the road until I get there.”

“Right,” I answered. Like I would. For sure. Get a clue, Jack.

The driveway and parking area of the Gilhooly estate looked like a General Motors showroom. It was filled with cars, most of them with Montana license plates, all of them brand-new GM models. I assumed they belonged to friends of Wade’s who had driven down from Billings for Alma’s funeral, because it was pretty clear Alma hadn’t had any friends. And Wade, who had a lot to start with, was now super-rich and, bottom line, everyone had come to celebrate. Duke Fletcher’s shiny red GMC Tahoe fit right in.

The white Cadillac convertible sat in the open garage. I slammed up tight behind it, and then walked over and laid my hand on the hood. Hot.

My stomach tightened and adrenaline quickened my heart. What would happen from now on was what made me tick. This is what detective work is all about. Grab the bastard and read him his rights. I could hear myself saying the words in my head.

I drew my weapon and moved slowly along the gray stucco exterior to the front doors, which stood open. But in spite of the full parking area, the entry hall was empty. I stopped and listened. Judging by the salsa band and the festive voices that drifted in, it sounded like the prefuneral warm-up luncheon was out by the pool. I had to hurry. It was almost one o’clock, and they would be leaving soon for the cathedral. I crept
quietly inside, past the giant birdcage, and edged down the hall into Wade’s study. As I’d told Linda, the flight attendant’s statement to Johnny had answered half of my question, and now, looking across the room at the bank of TV monitors, the full picture fell into place.

And then, for a blinding instant, it felt as if a safe had dropped out of the sky and cracked open my skull. Everything went black.

I
was balled up on a hard, ridged surface that smelled like leather and warm rubber and motor oil. Enticing odors for some, but not for me, especially once I realized my hands and feet were tied and everything was dark and I was locked in the trunk of a car with little room to maneuver.

I squeezed my eyes shut and then opened them. Claustrophobia was an unthinkable indulgence. Certainly not an option. My head was killing me. I shook it to try to bring some clarity but all it brought was more pain. Slowly the fog cleared and I remembered everything. Then I knew I was in the trunk of Wade’s Cadillac. And I also knew that if I didn’t escape, I was dead, because now I had figured out everything. It was so sad. Pathetic, really. He would kill me, or
try
to kill me, next. Fortunately, he was turning out to be not too successful in the murder department. But he was sure strong on attempteds.

There was absolutely no light. This old boat was built. Sealed up tight as an oil drum and hot as hell.
Like being trapped in an oven with the temperature turned to five hundred. Hot enough to broil steaks. Through my uninsulated metal coffin, I clearly heard the sounds of voices, car doors slamming. How long had I been in here? Where was here?

My fingers began to explore the knots. They were loose and childishly unprofessional—he’d obviously never made it beyond Cub Scouts—and after a couple of minutes of picking at them with my fingernails, one of the hitches began to unloop. In no time at all, I had freed myself. But it didn’t matter. I was still imprisoned, horribly cramped in a pitch-black blast furnace.

Cadillac built two hundred of these limited-edition Eldorado convertibles in 1976, all of them white, all with red-leather interiors, and as I ran my fingers over the seams and seals and steel, I understood why most of them are still on the road more than twenty years later. They’ve got no give. They took all the cushioning and put it in the ride, leaving the trunk hard and functional and heartless as a whore—and as escape-proof as a Vuitton steamer trunk.

The noise outside stopped, and I forced myself to bite back my instinct to yell for rescue. My training told me I needed to explore the few legitimate escape options available before I started to panic and bang on the hood, drawing attention to my predicament, because I had no idea where I was. I could still be in Wade’s garage, for all I knew. And I if I were, or if I weren’t, I wondered where my own car was and if Jack Lewis were looking for me yet—or not.

I dug around in my pockets. My phone was gone. Well, that was no surprise. My glasses were still there, but I couldn’t see anything anyway. And, still there like an old friend, safely strapped on the inside of my forearm, was my knife. My little, featherlight, undetectable,
spade-shaped CIA letter opener. So versatile and so strong, I could dig to China with it if I had to.

I slid it from its chamois sheath and went to work.

The Eldorado was big, but its trunk was tiny—Fiat 100–sized—because the top fitted back into it when it was down, and of course Wade had the top down. Can you imagine going to your wife’s funeral with the top down? How about a little decorum, Wade? But the fact that it
was
down eliminated an obvious, simple escape route: just slash the canvas pouch and climb into the car. Plus, there was one of those midget, circus-sized, spare tires bolted in, and that took up a lot of space. No room to do anything much. Little leverage.

It was tough going with the knife, lying on my side trying to jimmy the latch. Sweat slid over me, drenching my hands, and every minute or so I had to stop and wipe them, one at a time, on my skirt, all the while being careful to keep the knife jammed into the locking mechanism. It didn’t take long for me to realize this was not going to work. No matter how tough the poly-carbon knife was, it was no match for steel. It could maybe saw through thin metal sheeting or certain other types of metal, but there was no way it would hold up breaking steel nuts or bolts or cutting through a 1976 Cadillac body. Forget it.

I blotted my face with my sleeves, then reached my hands behind my head and rummaged around for the crowbar. I was in luck. It was just where I’d hoped it would be, secured onto the top of the spare. I stopped worrying about the noise and went back to work, smashing the wedge as hard as I could up into the locking mechanism and then pushing and pulling and jimmying it around with all my might. Sooner or later it had to break or turn. Sure enough, the lock gave way and the seal hissed with a quiet pneumatic pop.
Bomphf
. I held the truck lid down, letting the bright sunlight filter around the edge and my eyes adjust, and gulping fresh cool air.

The first thing I saw as I peeked straight out the back was blinding light glinting off the chrome grille of Jack’s white Ford Crown Victoria. It was practically kissing the Caddy it was so close. But as I raised the trunk more, I saw that Jack’s car was empty.

I looked to my right into a vast empty parking lot—empty, that is, except for the GM showroom from Wade’s house, a dozen white stretch limousines, Richard’s Mercedes convertible, and my parents’ sedan.

To my left, at the front doors of the Cowboy Cathedral, two attendants in baby-blue cowboy hats and baby-blue Western suits, spoke quietly to one another.

The looks on their faces were worth the trip when I let the lid go. It flew fully open and I emerged from its scalding depths, holding my finger over my lips for them to keep quiet. They rushed to help me climb out of the trunk. This was no easy feat in a skirt and high heels, which I’m sure looked as if they’d been selected in the dark from some church rummage sale in North Roundup.

“The service just started,” one of them whispered to me as we entered the main lobby and stood outside the doors of the cathedral/studio.

The seats were almost as empty as the parking lot, but for a few full rows down in the very front, where Wade’s and Alma’s friends and relatives fanned themselves with folded programs and listened to Johnny Bourbon give forth on how lucky Alma was, being with the Lord and all.

Her bronze casket, as big and shiny as her widower’s car, sat at the bottom of the steps leading up to the stage, and its brass fittings glared like headlights from
beneath a yellow-orange rose shroud, on top of which sat a four-foot high pile of red roses, staked with white gladiolus and Boston-fern fronds. It was the gaudiest thing I’d ever seen. I think Shanna must have arranged for it. Dozens and dozens of candles on tall silver sticks ran along the front of the stage, punctuated with more bouquets and wreaths than a state funeral in India. It looked like a carnival.

I stayed in the darkened lobby and watched from the doorway.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to escort you to a seat?” the attendant asked as I scrawled out a note on a piece of paper he’d kindly provided for me.

“Not yet, thanks. I want you to hand this—as quietly and discreetly as you possibly can—to Chief Lewis. He’s the one—”

“I know who he is, ma’am. I’ll be right back.”

As the young man made his way down the long aisle, I studied the group intensely: Wade sat alone in the front pew staring at Alma’s casket and drumming his fingers absentmindedly on the barrier railing.

I’ll bet you’re preoccupied, I thought. His color had improved somewhat over the last few days. It still wasn’t great, but he looked a little healthier and the bruises were now gone. From a distance, he seemed cheerful and relieved to be surrounded by his claque of Billings cronies. Safe in their bosom, so to speak. Just that one last little problem to deal with: me locked in the trunk of his car. He’d have that taken care of by dinner.

Across the aisle from him slumped three middle-aged women, all in dark glasses. They had the rode-hard look of serious-drinking Yellowstone Country Clubbers, with puffed and sagging faces and thick midriffs. I imagined they must be Alma’s bridge buddies.

“We brought nothing into this world,” Johnny called out, “and it is certain we can carry nothing out.” It was early on. He was only getting warmed up.

Just give me a minute, Johnny, I said to myself, and we’ll have things really humming around here.

I saw Tiffany and Dwight huddled alone in a remote pew. She was furtively feeling up my deputy, whose head had fallen over to rest on his hands, which grasped the back of the empty pew in front of them. Dwight looked as if he was praying, and I suppose in some way he was. Praying, no doubt, that Tiffany would not stop.

Richard and all our parents filled the row behind the bridge ladies. Richard was sitting on the aisle next to my mother and fidgeting like a child. I knew he was very worried about me and wanted to come out and try to call me. Finally his head turned and our eyes met, and I held up my hands to tell him not to do anything. He understood exactly what I meant and covered his surprised expression with a big phony sneeze into his handkerchief.

“God bless you,” Johnny said.

Richard was completely taken aback. Episcopalians never step outside the forms during a service. “Thank you,” he answered.

Duke walked up to the podium and unrolled a sheaf of notes. “Oh, Alma,” he began. “What an amazing woman you were.” And then launched into a eulogy of such complete bullshit, no one in the congregation could believe their ears.

I watched Jack receive the note, scan it, fold it precisely, score it with his fingernails, and tuck it in his pocket. As he did so, his eyes sought me in the distance until they made me out. He just barely nodded in my direction and leaned to whisper to the ubiquitous Lieutenant
Evan, who scooted up the opposite aisle like a shadow to alert the contingent of uniformed and plainclothes officers they’d brought along. The net was closing. Our wolf would be brought to bay.