Dangerous Thing Read online

  “Sure. It’s a forgery.”

  They stared at me — or glared, as dispositions warranted — and I could see it cross a couple of minds that they should have let Amy shoot me back there in the trees.

  Which reminded me of the man who had been shot. Suppose Annie Oakley had got carried away on guard duty and the others were covering for her?

  Okay, thin, but I had seen a dead man in the middle of my dirt road and he had disappeared without a trace an hour later. Who shot him? Why? And what had become of his body? These folks were my nearest neighbors.

  I said, “I never received this letter. I sure as hell never wrote this reply. Look, they’ve misspelled ‘gratuity.’” As though this were conclusive proof.

  “Who did?” Kevin O’Reilly looked sheepish as soon as the words left his mouth.

  “It looks to me like someone took a copy of a letter I sent them, typed their own message in the blanked out body, and then traced my signature.”

  “Who?” asked Amy and Bernice, still kind of missing the point.

  “Why?” Marquez and Kevin chorused at the same time.

  I felt like I’d stumbled into an episode of Scooby-Doo.

  “I don’t know. Someone who wanted fifty bucks a week.” I believed I had a pretty good idea, since I recalled mailing a check in February to my legendary caretaker, Ted Harvey.

  “I suppose you’re going to try and renege on your agreement,” Dr. Shoup said.

  “I’m not reneging on anything. I don’t know that I want you digging holes in the scenery until I hear more about your little venture.”

  “‘Little venture?’” The woman in the red bandana repeated indignantly. How to win friends and influence people: that was me.

  “When Dr. Livingston returns, he’ll straighten this out,” Amy huffed. The rest of them looked less certain.

  “I shall contact the university’s legal department,” Dr. Shoup informed me grandly.

  I thought of dear old Mr. Gracen, our family solicitor, who’d spent the last sixty years writing and rewriting wills for clients even more aged and infirm than himself. I tried to picture him going toe-to-toe with lawyers who actually litigated for a living. I hoped the stress wouldn’t finish him. I said, “Fine. Maybe you can get together your paperwork so I can get an idea of what you’re trying to do here.”

  “Accomplish” might have been a more tactful word, I realized, as they bristled and muttered amongst themselves.

  Our meeting ended. In distrust and suspicion they watched me hike up the hill escorted by Kevin O’Reilly, who appeared uncomfortable in the role of bouncer.

  At the crest of the hill Kevin said, “Uh … sorry about this.”

  “Me too.” Somehow I never pictured myself standing in the way of higher education. “It could still work out, but I need a clearer picture of your operation. I’ve never heard of the Red Rover mine.” (It would have made more sense if they were exploring the Indian caves — not that I would have agreed to that either).

  “I guess Dr. Shoup rubbed you the wrong way. He rubs everyone the wrong way, but he’s the real thing.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” A card-carrying prick if I ever met one.

  “I mean, he’s got the credentials. He trained at Oxford. He worked at the British Museum. He’s a member of every society you can name: the Society of Historical Archeology, the National Science Foundation. He writes for National Geographic.”

  Uh huh.

  “Anyway, Livingston’s in charge here. He’s cool. You’ll see.”

  The boyish enthusiasm was kind of cute. “Sure.”

  Kevin hesitated. “So — last night that was probably you blasting the opera?”

  The hills are alive with the sound of Muzak.

  “I thought I was alone out here.”

  He was smiling at me in a steady appreciative way and I quipped idiotically, “My mating call.”

  “Yeah?”

  “No.”

  We both laughed and I trudged down my side of the mountain.

  * * * * *

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully and unprofitably. After lunch I got ambitious and hunted down the goose-feather mattresses, which had been wrapped in plastic and stored in the attic. After a wrestling match during which the mattress nearly threw me down the narrow stairs, I dragged its lumpy carcass into the bedroom I had used when I was a kid. Master of this house I might be, but I didn’t feel ready to claim my grandmother’s room as my own. I still felt like a visitor here.

  The ground floor room had a stunning view of the distant snowy mountains. I made up the four-poster bed and spent the next couple of hours clearing bird nests out the chimney flue. Not that it didn’t need doing, but I’d supposedly come up here to write and I’d yet to open my laptop.

  When I’d finished amusing myself with mops and disinfectant, I settled down to inventorying the books in the cases. I worked for several hours checking and listing copyright dates and printings, and then I made the discovery that Zenith Ford Brown, a.k.a. Leslie Ford, had developed a second, masculine pseudonym. Under the nom de plume, “David Frome” she wrote a dozen mysteries featuring a frail male sleuth named Mr. Pinkerton who, with the help of a stalwart Scotland Yard inspector, solved a variety of homicides. Comparisons were inevitable and depressing.

  Fed up with Leslie and myself, I tossed aside Mr. Pinkerton Finds a Body and finally warmed up the laptop.

  Several pages of data entry later, I concluded that the change of scenery had not improved my masterpiece. I was beginning to wonder if anything could.

  The foil rolled drunkenly across the floor, the hilt nudging Jason’s toe.

  “Pick it up,” ordered Lucius.

  “Pick it up yourself.”

  “Jeez, Jason. You can do better than that,” I muttered.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I typed.

  Was I? Definitely not. Maybe a quote from the bard? I reached for my copy of Titus

  ?!

  My copy of Titus was still in LA. I dealt with that for a moment, decided it probably wasn’t really the last straw, and resumed word-smithing.

  On I slogged till about ten-thirty, developing carpal tunnel syndrome if nothing else.

  Stopping for a breather, I ended up in the kitchen. I was pouring myself a glass of Merlot from one of the local wineries when I noticed the light was back on in Ted Harvey’s trailer.

  Had the prodigal returned? I grabbed my jacket and trucked on out to the trailer. I was halfway across the yard when the light went out. I peered at my watch in the moonlight: 11:45.

  Late for a social call, but I was way past the social niceties.

  Reaching the trailer, I hammered on the door.

  Nothing happened.

  I pounded again and then I tried the handle. The door opened, hinges protesting loudly.

  Dimly, I had an impression of movement above me and then an explosion of pain blew through my head.

  Blackness descended like an anvil.

  Chapter Four

  I opened my eyes.

  Fuzzy white … ceiling. I turned my head. Mistake. Opened my eyes again. Something blurry stood to the side of me. I focused. Some kind of stand with an IV drip.

  I was in a narrow hospital bed with railings. There were electrodes taped to my chest and an IV stuck in my arm. Not a good start to any day (or night, judging by the muted lights around me). Waking in hospitals is #1 on my Secret Dread list, but before I could really work myself into a sweat, the thumping started on the ceiling of my brain. I played dead hoping the pain would forget me and lumber on its way.

  “What the hell happened?”

  I thought I was complaining to myself, but I must have mumbled it aloud because a familiar voice to my left said, “I guess that’s more original than ‘where am I.’”

  Very, very carefully I turned my head. The green line on the heart monitor jumped as I met the lynx-eyed gaze of LAPD Detective Jake Riordan.

  “What are you do
ing here?” I guess I sounded more querulous than flattered. I suspected he was a hallucination; he sure wasn’t a result of the pain medication because I wasn’t getting enough to smother the kettledrum thudding behind my eyes.

  “The cops were curious about why you had a homicide detective’s card in your wallet. They gave me a call.”

  “Oh.” Did that answer my question?

  He has nice eyes, does Riordan. Hazel in color with long dark lashes; almost pretty, though there is nothing pretty about six foot plus of USDA prime. He studied me out of his nice hazel eyes and his mouth gave a kind of reluctant twitch. He shook his head, apparently over my sorry state.

  I licked my lips. My mouth tasted horrible. “Who clocked me?”

  “No idea. You called it in yourself.”

  “I … what?”

  “You picked your concussed ass up, walked inside and phoned 9-1-1 before you passed out again.”

  “No way.” My lids drifted closed. I opened them with an effort. “I’d remember that.”

  “You were on automatic pilot maybe.”

  “I couldn’t have.” I didn’t feel like I could manage it now, let alone minutes after I’d been coshed.

  “Baby, I heard the tape. It was you.”

  I thought this over wearily. “How would you hear the tape?”

  “The sheriffs had me listen to it, thinking maybe your assailant phoned for help.”

  This sounded confusing as hell.

  Riordan stood up, checked the IV drip beside the bed. “Shit. You’re running on empty.” He went to the door and said something to someone outside.

  A matronly lady in a mint-colored smock bustled in, clucked over my fallen form and went out. Jake looked pissed, which I didn’t have the energy to deal with.

  I closed my eyes.

  * * * * *

  “There is life after death,” Jake remarked the next time I surfaced.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.” His eyes were red, like he’d spent a sleepless night. He was leaning over the bed rail, and I had the strangest impression that he had been holding my hand — which tells you how doped I was. Yet I still felt the remembered warmth of fingers wrapped around mine.

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to concentrate. “What were we talking about?”

  “When?”

  “Before.”

  “We were discussing how you managed to get knocked cold by someone searching Ted Harvey’s trailer.”

  I rubbed my eyes with my free hand. It was still hard to focus. “How do you know someone was searching the trailer?”

  “Baby, you explained it all when you made your famous 9-1-1 call.” He looked like he was trying not to snicker at some memory.

  “Famous?”

  Jake nodded. “They were discussing it over at Granny Parker’s Pantry when I had breakfast this morning.”

  Breakfast? What time was it now?

  I tried to lift my head. Really bad idea. I bit back a curse and managed, “How long have I been here? Where am I exactly?”

  “Almost forty-eight hours. You’re in Calavares County Hospital running up a sizable bill even as we speak. I hope you’ve got health insurance.”

  I hoped I had enough. I’ve known solvent, gainfully employed people bankrupted by a hospital stay.

  “Next question. When can I leave?”

  Jake looked vague. “A day or two. They want to keep an eye on you.”

  I knew what that meant.

  “Going by my missing clothes, they’ve had a plenty good look already.” I hate hospitals. When I die, I don’t want it to be in some hospital. I started feeling around the IV needle, raised my head and checked out the technology on my bare chest. Instant Panic: just add water. “I want to talk to the doctor,” I jerked out. “I want to go home.”

  Jake planted his hand on my shoulder. It was like having a brick dropped on my chest. My head dropped back on the spongy pillow, pain thudding in dizzy time with my pulse beat.

  “Simmer down, baby.” He traced my collarbone with his thumb. I couldn’t have moved if I had wanted to; I was too surprised to try. “Just relax.”

  The feel of his callused thumb on my sensitized skin was weirdly hypnotic. I blinked up at him like I had been shot by a tranquilizer dart.

  “When they brought you in your heartbeat was a little funky. It’s been fine for twenty-four hours so they’re going to release you pretty soon. Okay?”

  I assented weakly.

  Jake made a fist and hooked a playful right to the angle of my jaw.

  * * * * *

  “Did they find Harvey?” I asked awhile later, a coherent thought bubbling up from the bog of physical misery.

  Jake paused in squeezing drops into his eyes. “No. No sign of Harvey. Is he the one who crowned you?”

  I tried to think back. My recollection was cloudy. “I didn’t see who hit me. I remember walking out to the trailer. That’s the last thing.”

  He frowned. “Why did you go out there?”

  “I saw a light on. I thought maybe he was back.” I tried again to force memory. It seemed like a long time ago. “The night before, someone was prowling around outside the house.”

  “Searching for something?”

  “I guess. But what?”

  “Harvey?”

  “Unless Harvey is the prowler.”

  Jake considered this from a cop’s perspective. “Then who was your DB in the road Thursday night?”

  I looked up. “You believe me?”

  “Yeah, I believe you.” His hands rested on the bed railing. “Why did you hang up like that on Saturday? And why the hell didn’t you tell that ghoul who works for you where you’d gone?”

  This brought back a number of things I had conveniently forgotten, like the chick he was in bed with when I called. I said stiffly, “I got the impression you didn’t ... take me seriously.”

  A couple of beats counted out by the heart monitor. Jake wore an odd expression.

  “I take you seriously.”

  Were we talking bodies in the road or in the bed?

  A nurse entered from the wings and did the usual stage business with thermometer, blood pressure cuff, and clipboard. I tried to remain stoic under her icy hands.

  “You’re obviously feeling better,” she said cheerfully. She appeared to be talking to Jake, who gave her a boyish grin.

  “Those antihistamines worked like magic.”

  The nurse dimpled.

  I said irritably, “When can I go home?”

  “Oh, that’s up to Doctor.”

  No definite article. “Doctor,” like in “God.”

  “When does He show up?”

  She said evasively, “He’ll be making his rounds this afternoon.”

  “Could you let him know I plan on checking out today? Like now.”

  Jake moved restively, but the nurse merely tittered at my pleasantry and departed stage right on a breeze of antiseptic.

  * * * * *

  The doctor hemmed and hawed and advised against discharging myself before he sounded the all clear. He talked about complex concussion, the dangers of a second injury to the brain, and the possibility of post-concussive syndrome. Jake folded his arms across his brawny chest, watching with interest as the doc and I duked it out. The doc had medicine, experience and logic on his side. He was no match for me. Shaky but stubborn, I sat there peeling off the lime-green plastic hospital bracelet, demanding an “Against Medical Advice.”

  “We can’t hold you prisoner,” the man of medicine admitted when pressed.

  I delivered the coup de grâce. “My insurance won’t cover another day.”

  Open sesame. Two hours later I watched Jake scowl as his Acura picked its city-bred way down the unforgiving dirt road that led to the Pine Shadow. We had stopped in town just long enough for Jake to pick his gear up from the Twain Harte Inn. He had traveled light, planning on nothing more than a stopover.

  “Right up ahead is where I found him,” I said
as we bounced over the cattle guard.

  “Here?” Jake rolled to a stop.

  Like yellow mist, mustard flower seemed to float across the valley, drifting over the green hillsides in the afternoon breeze.

  I reached for the door handle, and Jake said, “Stay put, Adrien. I know how to investigate a crime scene.”

  I subsided, watching through the windshield as he tiptoed through the tules. Walking out several yards, he studied the area and then circled back. At the side of the road he knelt, examining the brush.

  Jake sneezed mightily, blowing petals from the surrounding wildflowers, and stomped back to the car.

  “Well?”

  He shrugged, mopping his nose with a flag-sized hanky. “Too much time has passed. The underbrush over there has been knocked down; possibly a car or a truck pulling around. That doesn’t mean it was used to cart off your DB.” He released the brake.

  I said, “Jake, there’s something else. I’ve got a team of amateur archeologists from the local JC camped out on the back of my property. They’ve got a forged letter giving them permission to dig for a lost mining camp.”

  “What do you mean ‘forged’?”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer because as we drove into the front yard I spotted the sheriff’s black and white pickup. Billingsly himself stood on the porch flanked by his faithful deputy.

  “What the hell now?” Jake growled.

  We braked. I got out, reaching briefly to the door frame to steady myself. Whatever this was about, I didn’t have the energy for it.

  The sheriff marched down the wooden steps. “English, you’re under arrest,” he announced.

  “Say what?”

  “You heard.”

  My heart began to pound with adrenaline in the fight or flight response. Since my normal reflex is flight, I’m not sure why I reacted with a surge of scared aggression, but I did. My fists balled up and I launched forward, only to find my way blocked by Jake.

  “Whoa,” he said. He turned to Billingsly, asking, “What’s the charge, Sheriff?”

  Billingsly said flatly, “English has about an acre of pot growing on the hill behind this house. How about a charge of manufacturing marijuana with intent to distribute?”

  “I’ve been here four days,” I said. “How am I supposed to have achieved these results? Miracle-Gro?”