The World's Finest Mystery Part 54

"n.o.body in your department watches Wall Street Week."

She laughs. "Picture it if you can," she says.

"And what was he doing in Rodd Canyon? What did he want up this way at all? Only stock up this way is livestock."

"And commodities were not his line," T. Hodges says.

The coffee is hot and strong. He douses it with cream. "And Belcher. Did Belcher know him?"

"Belcher watches Wall Street Week even less than Gerard." She brings a plate of bacon, eggs, and hash browns and sets it in front of Bohannon. "Eat hearty."

"What about you?" he says.

"Coming up," she says, and it is. In another minute, she has taken the pressed-wood chair opposite him. Now there's a stack of toast on the table, too. She tucks in a gingham napkin, picks up her fork, then looks at him. Very seriously. "Hack, you can't let Gerard do this to Steve Belcher. He's the gentlest, sorriest creature in the world. But everybody is ready to believe the worst, you know that."

Bohannon piles guava jelly on a slab of toast. "So does Belcher. Nothing I can do about it. He'd have been better off it he just hadn't-"

"He didn't kill that man!" T. Hodges says hotly.

"I guess not," Bohannon says. "But I'm not the jury."

"You mean you're going to let it happen? Just sit back and-"

"Teresa," Bohannon says gently, "you've already told me I'm trying to do three men's work around here. It's my living. I can't play detective anymore. Even if I had the energy, I haven't got the time."

"I'll do the leg work for you," she says. "You just tell me what needs to be done, and I'll do it. Kelly. Gerard says you think Kelly might have done it. I'll find him and bring him here."

"You have a job, love," Bohannon says. "Eight hours a day and sometimes more. Anyway, Gerard wouldn't tolerate you working the case against him. Behind his back. Don't think about it." She opens her mouth to argue, and he says, "Eat your beautiful breakfast, kid, and listen to your old man. Things happen every day that are at least as unjust as what's happening to Steve Belcher. All over the world. We can't stop them, no matter how much we'd like to."

"Oh, rubbish," she says. "Honestly, Hack. 'Old man,' indeed. I repeat: You tell me where to go, what to look for, who to talk to, and I'll do it. Yes, I have a job, but I have a lot of time away from that. Besides, Gerard is s.e.xist. He never lets me have a case. Closest I get is tracking down lost children. A case like this is man's work, right?"

"That's Phil." Bohannon grunts. "These are better hash browns than Stubbs ever made. What's your secret?"

"Don't boil the potatoes first. Grate them up raw." She gives her head an impatient shake. "Don't change the subject, d.a.m.n it. Hack, Fred May says it's hopeless; he can't win without you."

May is the local public defender, those rare times when a public defender is needed around here. Fat and amiable, he devotes most of his time to his wife and kids, and to protecting the whale and the wolf and the wilderness. Bohannon has often acted as his investigator.

"Don't look at me that way," he says. "I can't do it, Teresa. I have horses to look after. They can't feed themselves and clean up after themselves. You know that. Be reasonable."

"Reasonable won't save Steve Belcher." Tears are in her eyes. "The town can't wait to get rid of him. You know that."

"And I can't stop them." Bohannon stands, picks up his plate and hers- she's hardly eaten- and carries them to the sink. He brings the coffee pot back and refills their mugs. When he sits down, it is a gesture of disgust. "What the h.e.l.l was Cedric Lubowitz doing here, anyway?"

"I thought you'd want to know," a tart voice says from the doorway. Belle Hesseltine stands there, backed by the first faint light of sunrise. She is a doctor who moved up to Madrone to retire many years ago now, and instead got busier than she'd ever been before. A lean, tough old gal, she's a mainstay of hope and courage and caring for many. For Bohannon, too. "I went past the substation to tell the lieutenant, but he hasn't come in yet." She walks toward the table, pulls out a chair, seats herself, looks at T. Hodges. "You weren't there, either." She sets her shoulder bag on the floor. "So I thought the one to tell was you, Hack."

"Well, you're wrong about that," Bohannon says. "But I'm happy to see you, all the same. Coffee?"

"I'll get it," T. Hodges says, and hops up and goes away into the shadows. "You persuade him he's got to help poor Steve Belcher."

Belle Hesseltine scowls at Bohannon. "Persuade? What's that mean? You aren't going to-? But the man's doomed unless somebody intervenes. He hasn't a chance. He can't rely on himself. He can't put his thoughts together. He can't fight back. Hack, I'm shocked."

"I'm stuck, Belle. I have to run this place alone. Time a day is over, all I'm good for is to sleep."

Belle watches T. Hodges set a coffee mug down for her. "What happened to my tattooed angel?"

"Kelly? Spread his wings yesterday morning and flew away. I told Gerard, it could have been the same time Lubowitz was shot. Phil doesn't see any connection. If I know him, he won't even bother to check." It is risky, and he knows it, but he lights a cigarette anyway. The old woman glares disapproval, but this time she doesn't bawl him out. And he asks, "So... what's Lubowitz's connection to our little towns.h.i.+p?"

"His sister-in-law," Belle says, and tries the coffee. "Ahh!" She holds the steaming mug up for a moment, admiring it, then sets it down with a regretful shake of her head. "Why is it that everything that tastes so good is so bad for us?"

"Sister-in-law?" T. Hodges wonders.

"Mary Beth Madison." Belle Hesseltine leans toward the table's center, peering intently. "Is that some of George Stubbs's guava jelly? Hack, push that toast and b.u.t.ter over here. That wicked old man made the most sinfully delicious preserves." She steals Hack's knife and goes after the toast and jelly as if the world had stopped for her convenience. When her mouth is jammed and her dentures are clacking happily away, when she is licking her fingers, slurping coffee, she notices their strained faces and makes an effort to swallow so she can speak. She sets down the coffee mug. "Very good Pasadena family. It was Mary Beth's older sister, Rose, that Cedric Lubowitz married. There was a scandal and talk of disinheriting Rose for marrying a Jew, but that blew over."

A corner of the old woman's mouth twitches in a smile.

"The Lubowitzes were neighbors, after all, and their house was just as splendid. The girls and young Cedric had spent their childhoods together, very close. I also suspect some Lubowitz financial advice had helped stabilize the Madison fortune. It was shaky. Henry Madison III had not been clever with his inheritance. Among his lesser follies was buying land in Madrone and Settlers Cove. Worthless at the time. That's how it happens that Mary Beth settled here. And" -she looks at first one, then the other- "the reason I retired here. My father, the Madison family doctor, had accepted a lot up here to settle a bill when times were bad."

"And that's how you know all this dishy stuff," T. Hodges marvels. "But doesn't Miss Mary Beth Madison live with Dr. Dolores Combs? The Chamber Symphony? The Canyon Mozart Festival? The Gregorian Chant Week at the Mission?"

Belle Hesseltine nods. "And much else as well. Yes, that's Dolores. Hard to believe that as a child she was scarcely more than a foundling, isn't it?"

T. Hodges's jaw drops. "Are you serious?"

"The Madison girls took to her, brought her home from the park one summer with them, and after that she was in the Madison mansion almost constantly. The family soon accepted her. After all, what she lacked in breeding and background she made up for in brains and talent."

Bohannon says, "She cuts quite a figure these days."

Belle Hesseltine smiles. "Her people were poor, uneducated; the father drank. They had no idea they had a musical prodigy on their hands. It was the Madisons who bought her a piano, got her lessons, sent her to university."

"And so," T. Hodges says, "when it came time for Cedric Lubowitz to marry, and he chose Rose, Dolores Combs and Mary Beth Madison soldiered on alone together?"

Bohannon is laughing.

She frowns at him, startled. "What's so funny?"

"You never told me you liked love stories." He grins.

"Well- well, I don't," she protests. "But this is about a murder case, Hack. It's straight out of the training manual. The most important person in any murder case is the victim. And the most likely killer is someone the victim knew well. Right?"

"Sounds more like Agatha Christie to me," Bohannon says.

"Well-" Belle Hesseltine unfolds her tall, bony frame from the chair and picks up her shoulder bag. "I have patients to see."

"Wait," Bohannon says. "Was Cedric Lubowitz up here to visit Mary Beth? Is that what you're saying?"

"Oh, I don't suppose so, really. He owned one of those lots his father-in-law bought so long ago," the old doctor says. "He may have planned to build on it and settle down here to live out his sunset years in quiet. Hah! I could have told him a few things about that, couldn't I?" She opens the screen door and pauses to look back. At T. Hodges, really, so maybe she's teasing. "Then again, perhaps having lost dear, pretty Rose and feeling lonely, he came to renew acquaintance with Mary Beth, who is every bit as pretty. I suppose, if you like love stories, you're free to think that."

And with a bark of laughter, she marches off.

Tired as he is, he goes to see Stubbs. It's a long drive to San Luis, but he skipped last night, and it's not fair. The old man is lonesome as h.e.l.l. Anyway, Bohannon misses him. If there's nothing to talk about, they play checkers or watch horse racing or bull riding on television. Tonight there is Steve Belcher to talk about, and Cedric Lubowitz. Stubbs regards Bohannon from his narrow bed with its s.h.i.+ny rails, where he is propped up with his wooden drawing kit and drawing pad beside him on the wash-faded quilt. When the pain isn't too bad, he can still draw.

He says reproachfully, "You ain't gonna help him?"

"Stable boy left me. No time, George."

"Oh, Kelly." Stubbs grunts. "Yeah, I know. He come by here real early yesterday. Says will I tell you. Gotta go home. Ma needs him. Runnin' her out of the mobile home park. Fightin' with the boyfriend."

"He could have left a note," Bohannon says.

"Nothin' to write with," Stubbs says. "Nothin' to write on."

"On the kitchen table," Bohannon says. "He knew that. Knew where I sleep, too. He could have wakened me and told me. He woke you."

Stubbs waves a gnarled hand. "Had to see me. Had one of my drawings. Took it down off the tackroom wall. Wanted it for his room at home. Wouldn't steal it. Offered me five bucks for it. I give it to him."

"How did he get in here so early?"

"It was warm." Stubbs nods at the window. "Come in there."

Bohannon says, "Didn't say anything about the killing, did he?"

Stubbs frowns. "How would he know about it?"

"Just asking," Bohannon says.

Stubbs squints at him, surprised. "You don't think he'd have killed this Lubo- what's his name. Why?"

"I'd like to ask him," Bohannon says.

"He'd need a gun," Stubbs says. "Where would he get it?"

"A Browning automatic. I don't know. Someone got hold of one. Threw it away after the shooting."

"And Belcher just picked it up?" Stubbs says.

"That's his story. I doubt they'll find a record of it. Bought on the street, most likely. And the tattoos suggest Kelly knows the streets."

"Ballistics report in already?" Stubbs's white, tufty eyebrows are raised. "They know it was the Browning?"

Bohannon shakes his head. "They can't find the bullet," he says. "But a paraffin test says Belcher shot the gun lately."

"Oh, h.e.l.l," Stubbs says.

"He told Gerard it was to scare off a prowler," Bohannon says, "but he told me earlier it hadn't been fired."

"You see why you have to pitch in and help him?" Stubbs says. "The fool's his own worst enemy. Always has been."

"Not always," Bohannon says. "Once it was Uncle Sam."

"Just a minute." Stubbs ma.s.sages his white beard stubble thoughtfully. "Could the prowler have been Kelly?"

Bohannon blinks surprise. "Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned," he says. "Good thinking, George. Why not?"

He swings into the ranch yard and in the headlights sees a brown sheriff's patrol car. Lights wink on top of it. Two doors stand open. Two people struggle beside it. He drives on hard toward them. One is T. Hodges, her helmet on the ground. The other is Kelly Larkin. He pushes T. Hodges backward so she falls. He turns and comes running directly at Bohannon's truck. From one wrist dangles a pair of handcuffs, glinting in the light. His s.h.i.+rt is torn down the back and slipping off his shoulders, showing his tattoos. Bohannon jams on the Gemmy's brakes, jumps down with a yell, and grabs the boy. Who twists and hits out with the handcuff-dangling fist. It knocks Bohannon's hat off.

"Stop it," he says. "Stand still, d.a.m.n it, Kelly."

"Aw, let me go," the boy says. "I didn't do nothin'."

"Then don't fight," Bohannon says. "There. That's better." He calls to T. Hodges, whom his headlights s.h.i.+ne on. "You all right?"

"Kelly..." she says in a menacing voice, and comes toward them.

"I'm sorry," the boy says, hangdog.

"I should think so." She is wiping dust off her helmet with her sleeve. "I was taking the cuffs off him. I told him I was sure I could trust him. And look what happened."

"We'll just put them back," Bohannon says, and clips the cuffs on him again. "There." He picks up his hat. "Now, let's go into the kitchen, sit down, have some coffee, and talk this over civilized. All right?"

"I don't know anything to talk about," Kelly says, stumbling along, Bohannon holding his arm. "This is crazy."

They step up onto the long covered walkway that is the ranch-house porch. Bohannon looks over Kelly's head at T. Hodges. "Is it crazy?"

"I don't think so," she says. "Not when you consider that his last name isn't Larkin-"

"It could be," Kelly says. "It was my mom's name."

Bohannon pulls open the kitchen screen door, they walk inside, and he hangs up his hat. The lamp on the table glows. "It's Belcher, right?"

Kelly stares. "How did you know?"

"Sit down," Bohannon says. He goes to the looming stove and picks up the speckled blue coffee pot. But T. Hodges comes and takes it out of his hand. "I'll do it," she says. "You talk to him."

"This is going to get you into a mess with Gerard," he says.

"We'll deal with Gerard later," she says.

Bohannon drops onto a chair at the table and, as he lights a cigarette, studies the sulking boy. "You didn't happen in on me by accident, looking for work. You found out your father was here, and you wanted to see him, talk to him."

"He left when I was four," Kelly says. "Walked out on my mom and me. Beat her up and walked out and never came back."

"Which broke your mother's heart?" Bohannon asks.

"Not exactly. She couldn't take it anymore. He was so mixed up and half out of his gourd from the war, all that killing, those nightmares, the way he'd scream and hide..." Tears s.h.i.+ne in Kelly's eyes, and he drops his head and sniffles hard and wipes his nose with the back of one cuffed hand. "It wasn't his fault. I knew that. She knew it, too, but he wouldn't get help. The veterans, they're ent.i.tled to help, and he got some before they got married, but then he was happy, and it was all right for a while, but the horrors came back, you know? It started all over again. He couldn't keep a job, he started boozing all the time, throwing stuff, smas.h.i.+ng stuff, hitting her-" The boy's voice breaks, and he shakes his head and looks at the floor.