"I'm not here about that. I'm actually a private investigator, doing follow-up on a homicide investigation. This was August of '69. Frankie says he worked for you shortly before that."
He blinked. "How much do you know about ironing?"
"Ironing?"
"My wife's out of town at her mother's until next Monday and I'm supposed to be at my daughter's for supper tonight. I need to iron this shirt, but I don't know how. My wife always sprinkles 'em with water and leaves 'em in a wad, but I never paid attention to what comes next. You show me how to do this and I'll tell you anything you want to know."
I laughed. "Mr. Root, you're in luck. You got a deal."
He handed me the shirt and I followed him through a modest living room to the kitchen at the rear. There were dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the counter was littered with additional glasses, flatware, and plates. On the breakfast table, there was a large broken-rimmed plastic basket piled with freshly laundered clothes. The door to the utility room stood open and Lennie crossed the kitchen to retrieve an ironing board with a floral padded cover and scratched metal legs. When he opened it, the sustained screech of metal on metal sounded like the mating call of an exotic bird. He plugged in the iron. I moved the setting to Cotton and waited for the iron to heat.
"My aunt Gin taught me to do this when I was seven years old, primarily because she hated to do the ironing herself." I licked an index finger and touched it to the hot iron. It made a spatting sound. "Watch this." I took the dampened shirt by the yoke, holding it between my hands, and straightened the puckered seams with one efficient snap.
"That's first?"
"Unless your shirt doesn't have a yoke. Then you start with the collar." I placed the shirt on the ironing board and explained the strategy: the yoke, followed by the collar, then the cuffs, the two sleeves, and finally the body of the garment.
He watched with care until I'd finished the shirt and buttoned it onto a wire hanger. I handed him a second shirt from the basket and had him try his hand. He was slow and a bit clumsy, but he did a credible job for his first time out. He seemed pleased with himself, and I had a brief vision of him whipping through the entire basket of ironing as the afternoon wore on. He turned off the iron, moved the basket aside, and gestured me into a chair.
As soon as we were seated, he said, "Now. What can I tell you about Frankie, aside from the fact he's the biggest punk who ever lived?"
"How long did he work for you?"
"Six months. Drunk most days; incompetent the rest."
"Did you hire him or did your business partner?"
"I don't have a partner."
"I thought your company was called R&R Painting. I figured it was your brother, your son, or your dad."
"No, no. It's just me. I put that other R in there to reassure the public. One-man painting company, people worry you don't have the man-power to get the job done. This way I give the estimate and get the contract signed and then when it turns out it's just me, well, what's it to them. I'm fast, I'm thorough, and I'm meticulous."
"How'd you end up hiring Frankie?"
"Did someone a favor. Biggest mistake I ever made. This fellow knew Frankie's brother and he asked me if I'd give him a job. He'd just gotten out of jail and no one else would take a chance. I wasn't all that crazy about the idea myself, but I'd just taken on a big project and I was desperate for help."
"What year was this?"
"Between Christmas of'68 and the summer of '69. He claimed he had I experience but that was a lie. Worst excuse for a helper you ever saw, I him and that friend of his. It's people like that give prison a bad name."
"What friend?"
"Clifton. Big guy. Had a funny first name..."
"Pudgie."
Lennie pointed at me. "Him."
"I didn't realize Frankie and Pudgie were such buddies back then."
"Were when they worked for me."
That was an unexpected nugget of information. I couldn't wait to tell Stacey, though for the moment I wasn't sure what it meant anything. "From what you said earlier, I gather Frankie filed some kind of worker's comp claim. Was he injured on the job?"
"Said he was. Oh, sure. Said he fell off a scaffold, but he was working by himself and it was bull. I got notice of the claim and next thing I knew, he was back in jail, this time on a murder rap. Is that the homicide you mentioned?"
"This was a second murder – a young girl stabbed to death within days of the first. Her body was dumped in Lompoc, which is where he was arrested. You remember when he left your employment?"
"June. How I know is because Myra's and my twentieth-fifth wedding anniversary fell on the fifteenth and he was gone by then."
"How'd he end up in Venice?"
"I heard he got a job in Blythe, doing landscape work – in other words, a grown man cutting grass for minimum wage. He met some sixteen-year-old girl and three weeks later, the two of them got married. He was fired from that job so they moved up to Venice, where he did some painting for a friend."
"Got it."
"That other homicide you mentioned, is he a suspect in that?"
"Let's put it this way. The cops have been taking a long, hard look at him. Unfortunately, at this point, there's no proof he even knew the victim and nothing to link him to the crime itself."
"How'd you end up at my door?"
"A drop cloth at the scene was made by the Diamond Custom Canvas Company in Quorum. I was over there a while ago looking at their tarps when I remembered mention of a painting contractor on his arrest sheet. He listed you as his employer."
"Nah, he was long gone by then. I was all set to fire his butt if he hadn't quit, which I'm sure he knew. Shortly afterward, the project I was working on went belly-up. It was a bad year for me."
"I don't suppose you'd recognize the drop cloth if you saw it again."
"Should. I've used the same ones for years. I buy them in Quorum at the hardware store on Main. You have it with you?"
"I wish I did. It's in the property room at the Santa Teresa County I Sheriff's Department."
"Well, you might have' em check for paint spots. During the time Frankie worked for me, the only exterior color we used was something called Desert Sand. I forget the company – Porter most likely, though it might have been Glidden. Get a match on the paint and it might help tie the tarp to him. I'd be willing to testify."
"Thanks. I'm impressed. You've got a good memory."
"Desert Sand turned out to be a bad luck color. Biggest job I ever bid. At least to that point," he said. "I'd've made thousands if the complex hadn't gone in the tank."
I felt a minor jolt in my chest. "Are you by any chance talking about the Tuley-Belle?"
"How'd you hear about that?"
"Ruel McPhee mentioned it earlier today."
"Oh, I know Ruel. I've done many jobs for him over the years."
"Where is this place? I'd like to take a look."
"You passed it on your way in. It's on 78, halfway between here and Quorum. On the west side of the road. From a distance, it looks like a prison. You can't miss it."
Chapter 21
* * *
The faded billboard on the side of the road read THE TULEY-BELLE LUXURY CONDOMINIUMS-TOMORROW'S LIVING FOR TODAY. The project had been ambitious, accompanied by hype designed to create a buying frenzy. The banner pasted across one corner of the sign trumpeted ONLY TWO UNITS LEFT UNSOLD! If true, the lawsuits were doubtless still in the courts. I slowed and turned off the highway, following the deteriorating four-lane blacktop that was divided by concrete planting beds as empty as the surrounding landscape. The builders must have intended to create a lavish entrance with lush grass and palm trees lining the parkway, but the project had been abandoned long before the plans were executed. Vegetation was minimal. The flat terrain gave way to foothills stretching upward to form the Palo Verde Mountains. Distances were deceptive, the clear, dry air apparently functioning as an atmospheric zoom lens. The complex, which appear
ed to be a short quarter mile away, turned out to be closer to a mile and a half.
When I finally pulled into the dirt parking area and cut the engine, the silence enveloped the car like an invisible shield. In the harsh afternoon light, the partially constructed buildings looked as bleak as cliff dwellings. Piles of trash had blown up against the edifices. The surrounding acreage was flat and still. Dolan had told me that despite torrential desert rains, the runoff is usually swift and results in little saturation. Even from the car, I could see numerous deep channels cut into the porous soil, where flash floods had carved runnels, baked now to the hardness of poured concrete.
I got out and slammed the car door. The sound was muffled, as though absorbed by the very air itself. The subdivision was sprawling. Some portions had been completed; others had been framed in and deserted where they stood. Farther out, I could see where a series of foundations had been poured but the slabs remained untouched. There were numerous tire tracks, and I pictured a steady stream of teenagers slipping through the darkness, escaping from the raw night into the relative warmth of insulated walls. Out here, the wind was constant-a strong, whistling presence that whipped my hair across my face. Behind me, sand gusted across the road.
Two hundred feet away, a gaunt gray dog was stretched out on its belly, lazily tearing flesh from the carcass of a recent kill. It took me a moment to realize I was looking at a coyote. He regarded me without interest, but he did rise and pick up his prized bone before he trotted off. His coloring was so close to the muted desert hues that he vanished like a wraith.
I turned back to the nearest building and went in. The windows were gone and the doors had been removed from their hinges. The squatters hadn't penetrated far. In what must have been intended as a lobby, mattresses now lined the walls like a hospital ward. Some sported ratty blankets, but most were bare. Cardboard boxes had been carted in and now served as bed tables for an assortment of ashtrays, drug paraphernalia, and empty beer cans. I toured, checking out the pharmaceutical fare. These kids were doing grass, hash, and cocaine, but the addiction of choice was still nicotine, with cigarette butts outnumbering the roaches four to one. A used rubber, draped across the toe of a lone high-top basketball shoe, just about summed it up. I tried to imagine the poor teenaged girls whose introduction to sex took place under such sorry circumstances. Maybe they were too drunk or too stoned to care what they were doing or what was being done to them.
Outside, I heard a racket like a flock of birds lifting into the air. I listened, struggling to identify the noise. It sounded like plastic flapping, as though a dust barrier had torn loose and was being blown by the wind. The rattle was unsettling, like someone shaking open a fresh garbage bag after taking out the trash. I crossed to the nearest doorway and ventured down the corridor, peering in all directions. There was no sign of the errant sheeting, only rooms opening off rooms, filled with merciless sunlight. I stopped, my senses acute. It occurred to me then what I should have realized right away: The Tuley-Belle was the ideal setting for a murder. The cries of the victim wouldn't carry a hundred yards. If the killing took place outside, any blood could be concealed by turning the soil under with a spade. And if the killing took place inside, the floors could be swabbed down and the rags subsequently buried like strange soil amendments. The Tuley-Belle reminded me of grand and ancient ruins, as though some savage civilization had inexplicably come and gone. Even in broad daylight, I could smell defeat. I knew I was alone. Because of the isolation, anyone approaching by car would be visible for miles. As for vagrants, they might be anywhere on the premises. There were countless places to hide, ways to remain concealed if the necessity should arise. I retraced my steps, trying not to run, scarcely drawing a breath until I'd tucked myself safely in the car. Stacey had to see this.
When I got back to the motel, he was pacing up and down in front of my door. I figured he was ready for another fast-food binge because I couldn't think what else would generate such excitement. The minute he saw me, he scurried to the car. I rolled down my window. He leaned on the sill while he grinned and pointed to his face. "Well, am I glad to see you! I thought you'd never get here. Know what this is? This is me being as happy as I'm ever going to get."
"What's up?"
He stepped back, opening the car door so I could emerge. "Joe Mandel called. The fingerprint techs are working overtime. I told you, it looks like someone made an effort to wipe down the Mustang? Well, it turns out the job wasn't very thorough because the techs picked up two sets of prints: one on the emergency brake, the gas cap, the inner rim of the spare tire, and the outside of the glove compartment. Looks like the driver leaned over to get something out and then pushed it shut. They lifted the second set of latents from a California road map shoved under the front seat."
"They managed to get good prints after all these years?"
Stacey gestured dismissively. "These guys can do anything. It helps that the car's been out of circulation and locked in that shed."
"Whose prints?"
Stacey's expression was pained. "Quit being so pushy and let me tell it my way. They compared both sets of prints with Charisse's, but no luck on that score. It's my theory she was already dead and in the trunk by then. The spare tire had been removed, probably stowed in the backseat to make room for her. Whoever wiped down the car actually did us a favor. All the incidental prints were eliminated and the ones he overlooked were as clear as a bell. Mandel got a pop on the first set within minutes. Guess who? You'll never guess. This is so good."
"Frankie Miracle."
"That's what I said, but I was wrong. Guess again."
"Stacey, if you don't spit it out, I'm going to fall on you and beat you to death."
"Pudgie."
I felt myself blinking. "You think Pudgie was involved?"
"Stacey laughed. "I don't know yet, but there's a good possibility. When Mandel first told me, I nearly dropped my teeth. However, if you think about it, it does make sense. When you talked to Pudgie at the jail, he must have started to sweat. He probably assumed the business was forgotten, but eighteen years later, it's coming up again. He couldn't have been sure how much we knew or how close we'd come to establishing his connection. He must have pondered his options and decided it'd be smart to implicate someone else. That's how he knew the little details to seed into the tale. Doesn't mean he killed her, but I think he knows who did."
I said, "He was subtle about it, too. I remember when he mentioned that the body had been wrapped, he was so offhand about it, I thought it was just a minor part of Frankie's jailhouse talk. The same with the fact she'd been stabbed."
"You didn't mention it yourself?"
"Of course not. He was fishing for information, but I never gave him that. No wonder he was so worried about word getting back. Frankie'd go berserk if he thought Pudgie pointed a finger at him. I take it the second set of prints wasn't Frankie's."
"Nah, what a pisser. I felt bad about that."
"Me, too. I just talked to the painting contractor, a guy named ,Lennie Root. He says Frankie and Pudgie both worked for him in early '69. After six months, Frankie quit-this was approximately mid-June. Apparently, after that, he worked in Blythe for three weeks. That's where he met and married Iona Mathis."
"What about Pudgie? Where was he?"
"Don't know, but I can go back and ask. I was focusing on Frankie."
"So Root puts him in Quorum at the same time as Charisse ?"
"Not Quorum, but Blythe, which is close enough," I said. "By the end of July when she disappeared, Frankie'd moved to Venice, a five-hour drive. Here I was, just about to swing over to your view, thinking Frankie's our guy, and now Pudgie surfaces, so there goes that."
"Not necessarily. They could've been in it together. Pudgie told you they didn't know each other, but that was clearly horseshit."
"Yeah, right. Pudgie knew Iona, so why wouldn't he know Frankie? She could have introduced them," I said. "Or maybe it was the other way around and Pudgie was
the one who introduced Iona to Frank."
"Well, it doesn't make much difference since the second set of prints wasn't his. Personally, I hate to see him off the hook for this."
"Well, someone was in the Mustang with Pudgie. Iona maybe?"
Stacey frowned, scratching at the underside of his chin. "Well now, wait a minute. Hold on. That's a leap we can't make. We're putting Pudgie in the Mustang when the girl was killed, but the prints might have been sequential instead of simultaneous. Did Pudgie know the McPhees?"
"If he stole the car it wouldn't matter if he knew them or not."
"Problem is, if Pudgie knew Cornell or anyone of them, he might've had legitimate access to the vehicle. The car came back in poor condition. Ruel might have asked him to move it into the shed or hose it down. Or he and Cornell might have gone out to the shed to sneak a smoke. There could be all kinds of explanations for his prints being there."
I said, "Assuming they knew each other."
"Right."
I thought about that briefly. "Pudgie did grow up in Creosote, which is only sixteen miles south. I think it's down below Hazelwood Springs."
"That's my point."
"But even if they knew each other, it still could've been Pudgie who stole the Mustang. When he was arrested in Lompoc, he was thumbing a ride. He could have stolen the car, driven it to Lompoc, dumped the body, and pushed the car into that ravine."
"Why don't we ask him? You said his sister brought him down here after he got out of jail. You have an address for her?"
"No, but we can probably get one."
We picked up Pudgie's home address from the administrator at the Santa Teresa county jail. We decided to take the rental car since Dolan's smelled like cigarette smoke. Driving south on Highway 78, I pointed out the Tuley-Belle, telling Stacey what I'd seen. As I'd predicted, he was interested in seeing it and we decided to stop off as soon as time allowed.
Creosote wasn't as big as Quorum, but it was ten times larger than Hazelwood Springs, which we passed through en route. The sign said , POP. 3,435, but the Chamber of Commerce might have been inflating the facts. Given its close proximity to the Arizona state line, the town had opted for a Western look and resembled nothing so much as a cheap movie set where, at any moment, a cowboy might be shot and sail, tumbling, from the roof of the saloon. The commercial properties on the narrow main street were all wood frame, two-and three-story structures built side by side, with tall, fake facades, steep outside wooden stairs, and plank walkways between buildings instead of the usual side-walks. It might have been an actual mining town or it might be masquerading as a place with a more interesting history than it had.