43
M Y MYSTERY WOMAN CALLED EARLY ON WEDNESDAY MORNING. “The boss had a cabin up near Arrowhead,” she said, and gave an address. “Maybe they took the baby up there. I don’t know.”
“Who was the boss?”
She ignored the question. “The cabin was in Gus’s name. Gus Ronden.”
I took a chance. “Betty, where’s Lew?”
There was a long pause, then she whispered, “Luis died in Mexico.”
She hung up.
She had spoken those last few words with grief in her voice-and pronounced his name in a way that suggested she might speak Spanish.
Lew Hacker had meant something to her. Luis. I wondered if “Hacker” was also an anglicized version of a Hispanic name. It wasn’t surprising that Luis might have found it easier to be Lew in the 1950s. Mexico. Had the two of them made an escape there?
I looked through everything that had been published about Gus Ronden. Nothing mentioned the exact address of the cabin, or even the road it was on. O’Connor had the address in his notes, from when he had gone to look up property records all those years ago. But it had never been in the paper. Whatever doubts I had that the mystery woman was Betty Bradford vanished.
I was making calls to find out if Ian Yeager was scuba-certified, when O’Connor told me Lefebvre was on the other line, asking for me. I took the call.
“I’m in your friend O’Malley’s office on the construction site. You might want to come out to the farm,” Lefebvre told me. “Bring O’Connor if you’d like.”
I told him we’d be there right away.
Before we could leave, Max called. O’Connor rolled his eyes when I motioned for privacy, but he stepped away.
“Want to explore the inside of Griffin Baer’s former home?” Max asked.
“You know I do. But it was sold this past weekend.”
“I know. I bought it.”
“You-what?”
“I wanted to tell you earlier, but thought I had better wait until it was official.”
“Wow…I thought… did you decide against living in Katy’s house?”
“You said it-Katy’s house. I don’t think Lily would be happy if I changed anything in it, and I don’t think I’d be happy if I kept it as a museum.”
“I can understand that. I drove by the Baer place the other day and saw it from the outside.”
“Come by and see more of it. Bring a flashlight-the power won’t be on until Friday.”
“Can you give me a couple of hours? I was just heading out.”
“No problem. I’ll go on over and open some windows to air the place out. It’s a beautiful house. And the view-well, wait until you see it.”
I hung up and stood there in a daze. O’Connor came back over and said, “Much as I hate to disturb your daydreams about your rich Romeo, we are keeping Lefebvre waiting.”
“I doubt he’ll wait for us. Listen, I’m going to drive separately. I’m meeting Max later.”
I saw a look come into his eyes, and his lips tighten across the front of his teeth. His hand clenched, then opened. But he didn’t say a word.
“Thanks,” I said.
“For what?”
“Biting your tongue.”
He laughed and said, “I’ll meet you there.”
Lefebvre and Matt Arden had caused most of the work on the mall to come to a complete halt. O’Malley wasn’t happy about the huge costs involved, but his employers didn’t blame him, so he didn’t blame me. He admitted to me that he had enjoyed helping Lefebvre with the investigation. Currently, that included lending the use of the backhoe and operator to the proceedings, which were taking place about two hundred yards away from the place where the car had been.
Lefebvre had found some building plans filed on the farm in the late 1940s, plans that showed where various structures had stood. By the time we arrived there, Lefebvre, those who were helping him from the department crime lab, and O’Malley’s crew had worked together to uncover a strange metal contraption. They had set it aside and continued digging. O’Connor identified the object to me as a still.
“So he was making booze as well as shipping it?” I asked.
“It may have been the way he got connected with the bootleggers in the first place,” O’Connor said.
They were working slowly and cautiously now, and we weren’t allowed to get too close. I learned from O’Malley that a few minutes before Lefebvre called us, they came across a hidden room similar to the one described to me by Griffin Baer’s barber.
While we waited, I told O’Connor about the call from Betty Bradford. “So at least she’s alive.”
He was interested in this, but before much more time had passed, he gave in to an urge to lecture me on reporting rather than creating news, especially where Max was concerned. If I didn’t believe, somewhere deep down, that I needed to watch my step, I suppose it would have bothered me more.
When other media arrived, O’Connor broke off a story about Corrigan to swear. I considered this further progress in our working relationship.
Lefebvre reached us before the other reporters did. He said there didn’t seem to be anything in the room other than signs that some booze had been stored there during Prohibition.
“Irene has some theories about the night of the murders, you know,” O’Connor said.
“Tell them to me later today?” Lefebvre asked.
“Sure.” I glanced at my watch. “I have an appointment right now, though.”
“I’ll stay here,” O’Connor said, “and get what I can before deadline. See you in…” He broke off again, this time as we heard brakes squeal. A black Datsun 280Z pulled up, double-parking next to my Ghia, blocking me in.
“Hey!” I said in protest.
A bearded man with long dark hair tied in a ponytail emerged from the car. Although we had never been formally introduced, I recognized him immediately as one of the staff of the Express. He was dressed in blue Adidas, torn jeans, a white T-shirt, and an Army jacket, and within moments was carrying two cameras and a backpack full of film and accessories.
“Stephen Gerard,” O’Connor said to Lefebvre. “Word must have come into the Express, too-Wrigley has sent one of our best photographers.”
“One of our best head cases,” I said. “He makes Wildman look tame.”
“You shouldn’t believe every rumor you hear, Kelly.”
I shook my head. “Lydia was trying to interview the author of a vegetarian cookbook. Gerard came in to shoot photos-eating a hot dog.”
O’Connor and Lefebvre started laughing.
“He did it on purpose!” I said.
“I have no doubt of that.”
“Is he some sort of pet of yours?”
“He’s paid his dues,” O’Connor said. “And most of them in Vietnam-he’s a veteran, you know.”
“So is Lefebvre.”
O’Connor looked at me in amazement. It was clear to me that he had no trouble believing Lefebvre was a vet, but was miffed that I knew about it and he didn’t.
“Air Force,” I added, just to rub it in.
Lefebvre smiled, but said nothing. Gerard reached us, and O’Connor introduced him all around. Gerard held on to his cameras as if using them as a protection against having to shake hands with anyone.
“Nice to meet you, but you’re blocking my car,” I said.
“I know. I recognized it. That’s why I parked there.”
“How could you be sure it was my car?”
He shrugged. “Observation, mostly. I’ve seen you drive into the lot at the paper in a red ragtop Karmann Ghia. A similar car is now parked where you are supposed to be covering a story. When I got closer, I saw that it has a white license plate frame with black lettering that says ‘Las Piernas Auto Haus.’” He paused for about half a second before reciting my plate number, then added, “There’s a place near the right rear taillight where you didn’t get all the Turtle Wax off the last time you washed the car.”
I was seriously creeped out by this, but all I could manage to say was, “I don’t use Turtle Wax.”