“Well, no reason or not, that would be the simple solution,” I said. “Otherwise, we’re going to have to go in there and physically remove her…which is why I asked you all to come over. To act as a matron.”
Linda regarded the RV for a moment, eyes squinted against the sun. “This is silly,” she said. “Tell her we’ll be out of her house by the weekend.”
“Tom will agree to that?”
“I think so.”
I nodded with satisfaction. “All right. Hell, you can use one of the empty guest rooms at my house for a night or two if you need it.” I stepped up to the RV’s door.
“Carla, Linda says that they’ll be moved out by the weekend.”
There was a pause. “Linda who?”
“Linda Real. Tom Pasquale’s…ah…friend,” I said.
“Fiancee” Linda said, and I looked at her in surprise and then turned back to the RV.
“The deputy’s fiancee. They’ll be out of the house by the weekend. How’s that?”
“I don’t know who she is.”
“So what? What difference does it make whether you know her or not? You’ve got my word.”
“You just show me that order signed by the judge, and we’ll talk business.”
“Carla…”
“I’ve made up my mind, and that’s that.”
“Who the hell put this foolish idea in your head anyway, Carla?
You can’t just force a judge to issue a court order.”
“We’ll see.”
“Carla,” I said, standing close to the door and dropping my voice, “you heard him. He already gave an order, and that was to move you out of here.”
“Don’t you even think about interfering, Mr. Gastner. You just go away and let me wait. He’ll change his mind; you’ll see.”
“For one thing, you’re blocking his niece’s car. She can’t get out to go to work.”
“Isn’t that just too bad, though.”
I looked at Gayle and Linda and held up my hands in resignation. “Suggestions?” Both shook their heads.
“Carla,” I said, “what more do you want? The kids said that they’d move out. That’s what you wanted. That’s what you’ve got. What’s the big deal?”
“You know as well as I do what will happen,” she said primly. “I’ll give in, and they won’t move, and I’ll be right back where I started, with everybody just laughing at me. Foolish old lady. Well, I won’t have it.”
I took hold of the doorknob and levered it this way and that, judging the fit of the door against the trim.
“You leave my camper alone,” Carla snapped. “It’s locked, and it will stay that way.”
“I don’t think so, Carla. It’s hot out here, and I’m just about out of patience.” I turned to Gayle. “See if there’s a tire iron in the trunk of my car. Something I can pry with.”
She returned in a moment with the folding jack handle, a neat gadget with a hooklike flange on one end for popping wheel covers. The flange slid under the lip of the door, and I moved it so that it was directly opposite the lock. With a hard thrust, the door popped open. I could feel the rush of cool air from inside. I handed the jack handle to Gayle and pushed open the door.
The two stairs up to the driver’s seat were nicely carpeted, and I stepped carefully, one hand on the chrome railing for balance.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Carla Champlin shrieked. “Now you get out of here,” and I looked up into the muted light of the camper’s interior. The shades were drawn, but it wasn’t so dark that I couldn’t clearly see the crazy woman standing beside her dinette table, holding what appeared to be a shotgun with its muzzle pointed squarely at my face.
Chapter Thirty-three
For what seemed like hours, all manner of bizarre thoughts ranged through my mind. None of them were as practical as a simple inner command to duck or dive for cover…to jump down the three steps and cower behind the wafer-thin wall of aluminum that wouldn’t stop a single pellet.
Instead, they were really helpful thoughts, like a review of the FBI’s statistics about how dangerous domestic disturbances were for responding law enforcement officers, or a brief instant when I wondered what Frank Dayan, the Posadas Register’s publisher, would put in the headline if Carla’s finger cramped or slipped.
It wasn’t that I was brave or even foolhardy. I just didn’t have the energy to move, and I couldn’t bring myself to believe that Carla Champlin would really shoot me. Maybe her goal was to force me to shoot her…and if that was the case, she was wasting her time.
“Carla,” I said slowly, searching for just the right words and just the right tone of voice, “what’s that supposed to accomplish?”
“You just get on out of my trailer.”
“Nope.”
She frowned. I looked more closely at the shotgun. She was holding it by the fore-end and by the wrist just behind the trigger guard, her hands clamped around it like a pair of old vises. No finger was near the trigger or even the trigger guard, and the single hammer of the old break-open was down. My heart settled down a bit.
“Carla,” I said, “these tinted windows make it kinda nice. No one outside can see how silly you’re being.”
“It’s not silly.”
“Oh, yes, it is. What’s the old shotgun going to accomplish? Do you think we’re all just going to go away? If you made the mistake of shooting me, what do you think the two deputies outside would do…in the short blink of an eye and long before you could reload that thing?” She frowned again. The blinds were drawn, so she couldn’t see that my two “deputies” were a couple of nervous young gals, neither of whom was armed.
“Look,” I continued, and took a half-step forward so I could lean against the fake wood of the bulkhead. “Here’s the deal. Put that thing down, and you and I will be the only ones who ever know about it. Put it down, crank this buggy up, and go home. Water your plants. Your tenants will be out of the house on Third Street by nightfall. Guaranteed.”
“How can you guarantee that?” she snapped, and the shotgun didn’t waver.
“Because they said they would be. I told ’em they could use my guest room for a while, if it came to that.” I spread my hands.
“Anything to make you happy.”
“What about all the damage?”
I shrugged. “What about it? Hell, I don’t know. Keep their deposit. I assume they paid one. It’s some dead grass and some ruts. That’s not the end of the world.”
“Oh, it’s more than grass and ruts,” she said. “And what about the oil on the floor inside?”
I took a deep breath and glanced at my watch. “I don’t know about the oil on the floor inside,” I said. “I guess you can always take them to small-claims court and settle up there.” I took another step, running a finger along the bottom lip of one of the cabinet doors. “You’ve really got two choices.” I held up the finger. “One, you can refuse to put down that damn gun, and you’ll end up facing a charge of threatening a police officer at the very least, or maybe assault, or reckless endangerment, or a whole bunch of other ugly things. That’s the good news. That’s if the gun doesn’t go off. Of course,” I shrugged, “if it goes off, then I’m going to be pissed, and your problems will be over. You won’t have to worry about tending plants in the state pen.”
I smiled at her without much humor. “How about that, eh? Not much of a choice. The other sounds better. Stash that old piece of junk, go home, be patient, let the kids get their act together. I’m sure that you know that I’ve got better things to be doing just now. So do you.”
I heard a vehicle drive up outside, recognizing both the sound of its exhausts and the manner of its approach. I reached out and tipped the blind to one side. Bob Torrez was out of the car, face grim, and was striding toward Gayle Sedillos, who stood by the open front door of 310.
“Oh, dear,” I said. “You don’t have a whole lot of time left to decide, sweetheart.”
I let the blind fall back and looked at Carla Champlin. Her hands hadn’t moved on the shotgun. The end of the barrel was within a stretch, and I took a quick step and swept it to one side, being just as gentle as I could be while still accomplishing the job. The bead front sight whacked into the door of the cabinet. With my other hand I clamped down on the receiver, my palm over the hammer. I didn’t twist or yank but just held it while Carla decided what she wanted to do.