Strawberry Sunday Page 22

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is this why she was murdered? To keep Gus Gelbride’s filthy secrets?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  I was alert for the slightest tic. “Because Gus had another secret.”

  “What was it?”

  “I think Gus fathered another child with a woman who wasn’t his wife.”

  She squinted with curiosity but not with fear. “What child? What woman?”

  I paused to see if she had guessed where I was going. When I didn’t see a sign of it, I pressed on. “I think the child was Rita. I think the woman was you. I think you and Gus had an affair and the fact that Gus was her biological father gave Rita a claim to the Gelbride holdings and she planned to use it to benefit Carlos and the farmworkers. I think she was killed to stop her from doing that.”

  I’d said my piece, blurting it the way I blurted apologies and excuses. I’d expected Mrs. Lombardi to be knocked off balance, to be defensive and apprehensive about the consequences of what I knew, to be wary of fallout. But all she seemed was angry.

  “You said you saw me at church,” she said, her fury swirling between us like a whirlwind.

  I nodded.

  “Did I hold my head high? Did I take communion at the altar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know what you said cannot be true.” She stood up and loomed over me like the high priestess of a fearsome faith. “It is as I said—you make my home seem filthy. You do not seem to fear the police, but maybe you will fear Carlos. He has told me many times that he would kill anyone who tried to harm us.”

  I stood up and walked to the door. “I’m sorry I disturbed you, Mrs. Lombardi. I believe what you said. I believe you were true to your husband.”

  My apology was merely fresh fuel for her anger. “You must never come back here,” she ordered.

  “I won’t.”

  “You must never say to anyone the lies you have said to me.”

  “I won’t,” I promised, and apologized again for insulting her. “Can I ask you a couple of things before I go, Mrs. Lombardi? Please? They’re important.”

  She started to refuse, then yielded.

  “First, did you ever learn what caused Rita’s legs to be deformed?”

  “It was God’s will. That’s all I know.”

  “Was Rita ever baptized?”

  She frowned with dismay. “Of course she was baptized. Why would you think otherwise?”

  I ignored the question and pressed on. “In the last days of her life did she say anything about her teddy bear? Brownie, she called it.”

  “She told me she gave Brownie to Thelma Powell.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but I know it’s none of your business.” She waited for me to take my leave, which I began to do.

  “You need to pray for your sins, Mr. Tanner,” she declared at my back. “You need to beg the Lord to forgive you for all the damage you do to the world.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I drove to the center of town, found a parking slot on the main drag, and sat in my car and waited. Waited for something to form in my mind in the shape and weight of an idea, waited for someone to come along who might spark a lead to the killer of Rita Lombardi, waited for a deus ex machina to deliver me from my incompetence.

  I was gazing idly at the entrance to Shortcake’s when Thelma Powell came out, accompanied by the older woman I’d seen with her at mass, the woman I’d assumed was her mother. They spoke easily and informally, with obvious affection. Each wore a cotton print dress, each carried a patent leather handbag, each wore silk stockings and white shoes. They were walking my way arm in arm. I got out of the car and waited for them.

  If I’d been wearing a hat, I would have tipped it. Since I wasn’t, I bowed at the waist. “Ms. Powell? Marsh Tanner. It’s nice to see you again.”

  She blinked into the sun, then frowned, then smiled when she recognized me. “Mr. Tanner. Of course. How are you?”

  “Fine. And you?”

  Her smile was broad and giddy. “I’m fine as well. I couldn’t be more so, in fact. This is my mother, Mildred Powell. Mother, this is Mr. Tanner. He’s about to buy a new Cadillac.” After we traded grins in tribute to our charade at the bank, Thelma glanced at my caved-in Buick. “Which he seems to need quite badly.”

  Mildred Powell and I exchanged standard greetings. In the meantime, Thelma sobered. “Have you had any luck with your research project, Mr. Tanner?”

  “Some. Not enough to reach any conclusions.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve given you all the help I can on the subject, however.”

  “That’s all right. But please keep it in mind.”

  She sniffed. “I can hardly help it, I’m afraid.”

  “What kind of research is it?” Mrs. Powell asked with all innocence. “Some sort of scientific experiment?”

  “I’m researching the impact of the microwave oven on modern eating habits.”

  “Well, Thelma can tell you loads about that, can’t you, dear?”

  “I’ve told him more than enough about my cuisine already,” she said, then shot me a quick look, then shook her head at our shamelessness.

  “I’m wondering if our mutual friend ever mentioned anything special to you about the Gelbride family,” I said. “Some information she’d acquired, perhaps. Information she was going to use against them. Some problem with Missy in particular.”

  Thelma frowned. “I don’t think so. But I’ll try to remember.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you speaking of the Lombardi girl?” Mrs. Powell asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It was terrible what happened to her.”

  “Yes it was.”

  “But I saw it coming.”

  I looked at Thelma, who shrugged. “You did?”

  Mrs. Powell’s jaw firmed and her eyes hardened. “Yes I did. Rita was so very prideful lately. And as we know, pride goeth before a fall.”

  “Hush, Mother,” Thelma said. “You know she wasn’t anything of the kind.” She looked at me. “Mother thinks Rita broke some kind of pact with me. When she got her legs fixed,” she added when she saw my vacant expression. “Mother assumes I was more dependent on Rita than I was. I hardly even saw her the last couple of years.” She patted her mother on the back as though she were the mother and her mother was a child.

  I was bidding the women good-bye when Thelma looked beyond me. “Look who’s here, Mother. Good afternoon, Father,” she said brightly.

  Father McNally was strolling toward us down the walk. He had changed into tan slacks and a green sport shirt and hiking boots that looked well worn and comfortable. There were thistles clinging to his pants legs and dust covering his boots—souvenirs of the CYO picnic, no doubt.

  “Mrs. Powell,” he said and bowed. He made it plain that I wasn’t included in the greeting.

  “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Father?” Thelma went on, her expression close to rapturous, as though Father McNally was the repository of what must have been vast quantities of frustrated sexuality. If so, it wouldn’t be the first time a priest was a surrogate lover. Where Father McNally placed his own baser urges was less clear.

  “Quite beautiful,” he answered, a bit too sweetly for my taste. “Though perhaps with a touch of fall in the air.”

  “I loved your text this morning,” Thelma gushed. “The Book of Job is so fraught with meaning.” Her look implied the two of them were the only ones in the parish who truly understood its scope. “It spoke to so many of the things we’ve been discussing lately.”

  “I was hoping you’d see it that way, Thelma. And how’s the arthritis coming, Mrs. Powell?”

  “The same, Father. Always the same.”

  “Sometimes the status quo is a blessing.”

  “Not with arthritis, i
t isn’t.”

  “I’ll pray that God eases your affliction.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Thelma grabbed her mother’s arm. “Time to go, Mother. Always a pleasure to see you, Father. And to hear your words of advice.”

  “And you as well. Good day, Mrs. Powell.”

  “Come to dinner one night, Father.”

  “I’ll make a point of it,” he said, as Thelma Powell and her mother walked off down the block.

  When they were gone, the priest and I looked at each other. “I get the feeling you’re following me, Mr. Tanner,” he began, his mood dark and accusatory.

  “Not so, Father. It’s like Hollywood and Vine out here. If I stand on this corner long enough, sooner or later everyone I’m looking for comes along.” I glanced at the women retreating down the block. “It must be odd for you to be the object of so much displaced eroticism.”

  “You’re speaking of Thelma.”

  “Yes.”

  “I won’t deny there’s an element of that in our relationship, but it’s nothing I encourage, I assure you.”

  “I don’t imagine it takes more than a grin and a greeting to keep it going.”

  He reddened. “As I said, it’s not that I encourage her.”

  I shrugged away the subject. “How was the picnic?”

  “Rather subdued, I’m afraid. As soon as I could, I did what I could to improve the situation.”

  “How?”

  “I left.”

  I chuckled at his candor. “I’ve felt the same way at every cocktail party I ever attended. Have you thought over what I asked you about?”

  “I have thought of little else.”

  “And?”

  “If Rita were not so … no. That has to be irrelevant. My decision must be entirely independent of my personal affections.”

  I shrugged. “If you say so.”

  His candor was only getting warmed up. “I don’t like you, Mr. Tanner,” he said gruffly. “And I don’t like the way you make your living.”

  “You must have talked with Mrs. Lombardi.”

  “Indeed I have, just minutes ago. But be that as it may, I have decided that I can properly tell you that Louise Lombardi has confessed nothing of the sort of thing you mentioned. Not to me. Ever. At any time.”

  I nodded. “It’s nice to have corroboration. Not that it helps build a case against the Gelbrides. Or anyone else for that matter.”

  Father McNally shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes falling on the bell tower peering down on us like a golden eagle from the next block. “I have decided one more thing, Mr. Tanner.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have decided to tell you that the killer of Rita Lombardi has confessed the crime to me.”

  I blinked. “So who is it?”

  He shook his head. “I will say nothing further. It is highly inappropriate to tell you even this much, but I felt compelled to do something. Rita was … well, you know what she was. My life has not been the same since she left us. I mourn in every crevice of my heart.” He started to go, then turned back. “I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from telling the authorities what I just told you. I cannot and will not tell them what I know about this matter, but it will take many hours and much effort to convince them of that. Hours and effort I can better spend elsewhere.”

  “The seal of my confessional is sacrosanct as well, Father,” I said, aware as I spoke that I was lying in the abstract though in this case not in the particular.

  “Good day, then, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Take care, Father.”

  As Father McNally walked off, I noticed Carlos Reyna coming from the laundromat across the street wearing a T-shirt and shorts, arms full of clean clothes, hands gripping containers of bleach and detergent. He threw the lot of them in the cab of his truck and drove off pursued by a persistent cloud of blue fumes. Without much in the way of motive, I got in the Buick and followed him.

  He led me to a trailer park on the north edge of Haciendas. Home to about twenty units, the park was minimally landscaped and similarly maintained, with bare dirt over most of its common space and a variety of trash littering the fence lines and trailer footings. The only concessions to community spirit were a picnic table and brick fireplace beneath a live oak tree in the exact center of the space. Marred with graffiti and pitted with age, none of the amenities looked as if they had been used in years.

  Carlos was in space number twelve. He pulled into the slot set aside for his truck, got out, unlocked the trailer, went back for the clothes, and lugged them inside. Along the way he dropped a white sock. I parked by the picnic table, retrieved the sock, and knocked on his door.

  Whoever he was expecting, it wasn’t me; he wasn’t pleased and showed it. Still, I was uncomfortable exploring the notion that Carlos might be something less than an innocent victim of his fiancée’s violent death.

  I held up the sock. “You dropped something.”

  He took it from me. “Thanks.”

  “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “I guess,” he said dubiously. “But I got to be somewhere pretty soon.”

  “I’ll make it quick.”

  Carlos looked behind him as if to assess the state of repair of his digs, then backed up and let me enter.

  The trailer was small, one bedroom, tiny kitchen, combination living and dining area, tiny bath. It smelled of mildew and ripe fruit and maybe of the leavings of sex. The only smaller residences I’d been in were a jail cell and the Vargas family cave.

  Still, without much to work with, Carlos had made the trailer neat and even cozy, with dollops of cheer in the form of dried flowers and potted cactus placed on various ledges and a variety of sheet music scattered over the table with an acoustic guitar watching over it like a security guard. I was feeling sorry for Carlos until I saw the gun, a .38 revolver sitting like a spider near the stove next to an oily rag.

  Carlos gestured toward a bench by the fold-out table and I sat down on its orange vinyl surface. “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Tough morning in the fields yesterday.”

  He rubbed a hand through his long black hair. “Randy’s an asshole.”

  “I think he’ll stay away from the Vargas girl now. You can tell Homero and Maria they can come down from the cave.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Reasonably.”

  “Why has he changed on this?”

  “His daddy put Consuelo off limits.”

  “Gus? What does he care about Consuelo Vargas?”

  “He used to know her mother.”

  “Maria?”

  I nodded. “If the girl has any more problems, with Randy or with anything, go to Gus with them. Say her name and tell him what you need. Don’t let Randy know; bypass him and go straight to Gus.”

  “But why would Gus—”

  I held up a hand. “It’s not important,” I said, then waited for him to refocus. “Randy Gelbride claims he has an alibi for the night Rita was killed.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “He claims the cops back it up.”

  Carlos sneered. “He owns the cops.”

  “Maybe, but I was wondering if you had one yourself.”

  “Me? An alibi?” Muscles rippled along his bare arms. “You think I was the one who—”

  “I don’t think anything,” I interrupted. “I’m just filling in as many blanks as I can. Where were you?”

  “I was here.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. Rita had just left.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “A little after nine.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “We were going to be married in two weeks. What do you think we were doing?”

  “Did you talk to any of your neighbors that night?”

  “My neighbors were too drunk to talk. As usual.”

  “Where did Rita say she was
going when she left?”

  “Home.”

  “Did she talk on the phone to anyone while she was here?”

  “No.” He looked at his watch. “Can I go now?”

  “One minute.”

  Still fuming, Carlos walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer and opened it. He downed half of it in one gulp and didn’t offer anything to me. On top of the refrigerator was a package, gaily wrapped in blue and silver. When he saw me looking at it, Carlos coughed and wiped his eyes. “Tuesday is her birthday. I bought her a present two weeks ago. Now I have to take it back.”

  “What is it?”

  “A clock radio. She never got up on time. It used to make me mad.”

  He shook his head and began to cry. I waited till he regained his composure, feeling ungrateful and insensitive for probing for his alibi. “Mona Upshaw was a rich woman,” I said.

  “She was?”

  “Rich enough to pay for Rita’s surgery.”

  “She did?”

  “Do you know where she got the money?”

  He shook his head. “How could I?”

  “Rita might have mentioned it.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Rita didn’t say anything at all about the surgery?”

  “She just said they owed her. I thought she was talking about the Gelbrides.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did she say anything about filing a lawsuit against the Gelbride farms? Or getting money from them in some other way?”

  “Suing them for what?”

  “For causing her legs to be crippled.”

  Carlos frowned. “How did they do that?”

  “Chemicals,” I said.

  “What chemicals?”

  “The ones the Gelbrides used in the fields. The ones Franco Lombardi inhaled and absorbed when he worked as a foreman for Gus. The ones that may have caused his daughter to have crooked legs.”

  “That really happened?” Carlos asked, still struggling to comprehend what I had said.

  “That’s what the doctor thought.” I stood up and glanced at the gun. “This appointment of yours. It wouldn’t be with Randy Gelbride, would it?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “If you hunt him down and kill him, you’ll go to jail for a long time.”

  “What difference would that make?” Carlos murmured grimly. “My heart is imprisoned already.”