All the Pretty Hearses (23 page)

She had her hand on the knob when the doorbell chimed. Suddenly her hands were trembling.
Damn, I’m spooked just like that
poor horse. What’s wrong with me? It’s probably a guest who forgot his or her key.
Steeling herself, she looked through the peephole. A woman stood on the porch, familiar, but not one of her current visitors. Judith cautiously opened the door.

“Yes?” she said, and stared in speechless shock.

“You don’t remember me?” the newcomer said. “My name’s Jean Rogers.”

Chapter Twenty-­one

T
he woman who called herself Jean Rogers was the younger version who had come to the house with her reclaimed handbag and wallet. Judith hesitated before letting her inside. “How can I help you?” she asked, hiding her shaky hands behind her back.

“I need to talk to you,” Jean said, sounding sheepish and yet more mature than Judith remembered.

“I thought you were leaving town,” Judith said, still blocking the young woman’s entry.

“I did.” She held out her handbag, not the brown suede drawstring bag Judith remembered, but a marine-blue leather hobo style. “Take out my wallet. Check my ID.”

Judith sighed. “Okay, come in. I’m a bit edgy this evening.”

By the time she had led Jean into the living room and indicated she should sit opposite her on the matching sofa, her hands had stopped trembling. The hobo bag was on the coffee table. Judith picked it up. “Do I have to search or just take out your wallet?”

“The wallet’s fine,” Jean said. “You looked as if you needed some reassurance. I didn’t want you to think I had a gun in there.”

“Nothing would surprise me right about now,” Judith said. She found the wallet at once. It was the one Jean had carried on her previous visit and the Arizona driver’s license was also identical.

“Look at the next card,” the young woman suggested.

Judith obeyed. Her eyes grew wider as she first saw a different, better photo of Jean, and then noticed the heading of
The Department of the Interior, Bureau of Land Management.
“You’re a federal agent,” Judith said. “And you really are Jean Rogers.”

“Yes, and I live in Tucson, but I move around on my job. I stay with an old college friend when I’m in town.” She retrieved the wallet and the hobo bag. “There are at least a dozen other women named Jean Rogers living in the same part of Arizona. It’s a common name. But I suspect whoever stole my wallet wasn’t one of them.”

“Do you know who she really is or why she stole it?” Judith asked.

“I lied about it being taken at Nordquist,” Jean said, looking unperturbed by the admission. “I was at a restaurant meeting with a colleague in that big complex across the street from Nordquist. We were talking about the wild-horse-and-burro problem in Arizona and the similar problems you have in this state on the other side of the mountains, mainly with horses.”

Judith nodded. “I’ve seen them once or twice on the cross-state highway. They look so beautiful—and free.”

“Their freedom is the reason there’s nothing beautiful about the situation,” Jean said with a trace of bitterness. “The Native Americans also fall under the Department of the Interior. They’ve taken on the problem of the wild animals in some states, but the animals are getting out of control here. There are too many horse owners who find out that they’re an expense. They let them loose and they multiply. Eventually they’ll become so numerous that the grazing habitats will be destroyed. It’s not reached epidemic proportions here, but it will if something isn’t done. The Native Americans have a solution that could work—except that it’s not palatable to most other Americans. I mean that literally.”

Judith frowned. “You’re saying . . . ?”

Jean nodded. “Horse meat. In other countries, it’s perfectly acceptable, but not here. It’ll take education to change public opinion.”

“Yes, I think it would.” Judith smiled weakly. “The concept doesn’t appeal to me. My uncle Cliff insisted that muskrat was quite tasty. He’d eaten it in Alaska. He couldn’t convince my aunt Deb and my cousin Serena that they should try it.”

“A hard sell,” Jean conceded, “as horse meat will be. That’s why I’m in town. But getting back to what happened to my purse at the restaurant, I realized that a woman at the next table seemed to be checking us out,” Jean said. “She was older than I am, so I thought maybe she was interested in my companion, who was more her own age. On her way out, she bumped my chair. I didn’t think anything of it until later, when I tried to find my wallet. It was gone. She’d picked me clean.” Jean shook her head. “Some officer of law enforcement, security, and emergency management, huh?”

“She didn’t take your purse?”

Jean shook her head. “I had my hobo. That suede drawstring bag belonged to the thief who tossed it and the wallet into the garbage. I pretended it was mine when I was here just to avoid suspicion. Besides, I wanted to use it for evidence if she was ever tracked down. That’s why I’m here.”

Judith tried to take Jean at her word, but sensed that the younger woman was holding back. “All I can say is what you already know. She did a bunk, and since you canceled your credit cards, I didn’t get paid.”

“I can make amends,” Jean said. “It’s a legitimate work-related expense. Instead of ogling my companion, I think she was spying.”

Judith’s smile was more genuine. “Was he so unattractive?”

Jean laughed. “Not really. He’s a big man, forties, balding, looks like a salesman and can act the part, but that’s just a cover. He’s one of our best security agents.”

“You mean he actually uses a cover in his job?”

Jean’s eyes twinkled. “Oh yes! Sometimes I do, too. You have to when you’re investigating what may be criminal activity. It’s a skill I’ve had to learn, but Walter’s a natural. He could fool anybody with that hail-fellow-well-met act of his.”

Judith hazarded a wild guess. “Walter Paine?”

Jean nodded, then apparently realized that something had struck Judith as odd. “What’s the matter? You look . . . puzzled.”

“Not really,” Judith said, assuming a casual air to hide her deceit. “I didn’t know what Walter does for a living, though he’s the hearty type who could be a salesman. His parents belong to our church.”

Jean was flabbergasted. “What a coincidence! It really is a small—” She stopped, frowning. “Have you seen Walter lately?”

“Last night, in fact,” Judith replied. “He and the rest of the family were here for dinner.”

“I see.” Jean grew thoughtful. Judith waited for her to speak again. “That might explain it.”

“Explain what?” Judith asked innocently.

“The phony Jean Rogers staying here. But how could she know that Walter would be at your house last night?”

“It was an auction event that Walter’s mother bought at the parish school last May,” Judith explained. “The date was set several months ago. I suppose there are any number of ways the phony Jean could have found out. But why would she want to come here? The only information I had about Walter was that he was a guest. In fact, they were supposed to spend the night, but,” she went on, glossing over the truth, “they changed their minds at the last minute and left after dinner.”

“I see,” Jean said again, though she was still frowning.

Judith, however, couldn’t figure out what, if anything, she saw. “I hardly think that the family’s decision to leave had anything to do with your so-called spy,” she said. “The other Jean was here only a few hours before she sneaked away.”

“I don’t know her motivation. I don’t even know why she stole my wallet, unless she wanted to pass herself off as me.”

“Who would she be spying for?”

“She’s an industrial spy,” Jean replied. “She could be working for any number of companies or individuals who want to determine what our agency is doing that might impact their livelihood. Follow the money, as they say.” She leaned forward on the sofa. “I checked you out. You’re FASTO. I didn’t know that until today.”

Judith heaved a big sigh. “That’s a bunch of misguided people who somehow think I’m a supersleuth. Everything that’s happened to me has just . . . happened. The only difference between me and other people is that maybe I have more curiosity. And I can’t seem to stop running into bodies.”

“You certainly do.” Jean’s tone was ironic. “What’s the count up to? A couple of dozen?”

“I’ve no idea. It’s not a contest. My husband was a police detective for a long time. After he retired from the force, he became a private investigator. It’s only natural that I’d be interested in his work.”

Jean laughed. “Nobody is
that
interested. I hear things. I know some of the cases you’ve been involved in have occurred when Mr. Flynn wasn’t anywhere near you. Have you looked at your site lately? What about the train trip you were on last fall?”

“I never look at the site. Never.” Judith was angry. “I’ve no idea who may have alluded to that incident. My cousin and I never even told our husbands what happened.”

“Then,” Jean said, sobering, “it’s a good thing Mr. Flynn doesn’t check your site either.”

“No reason why he should,” Judith said. “I’ve never told him about it. And I don’t intend to. Which brings me to the present situation,” she went on, taking the offensive. “What do you really know about Walter Paine and the rest of his family?”

“I haven’t talked to Walter since my wallet was stolen,” Jean replied. “I’ve been on the other side of the state, meeting people involved with the wild-horse situation. Why do you ask?”

Judith took a deep breath. “Maybe you should ask
him
.”

Jean’s face showed concern. “Has something happened to Walter?”

“Not directly. But ask him, not me.”

“You’re withholding information.”

“Am I?” Judith shrugged. “Call him. Go see him. I assume you trust Walter.”

“Yes,” Jean said. “I’ve worked with him off and on for five years. He has integrity.” She picked up her hobo bag. “You’ve got me worried.”

“Join the club,” Judith said as they both stood up. “But you have to promise me something.”

“What?” Jean asked, pausing halfway out of the living room.

“That you’ll let me know what he says.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then I won’t tell you what I know—and it’s plenty.”

Jean stopped just short of the front door. “How do I know you have any information I need?”

“Because,” Judith said, “I’m FASTO. I may never read what’s on that site, but I can guess what’s there. You would never have come back to see me if you didn’t believe it.” She opened the door. “I’ll expect to hear from you tomorrow.”

Five minutes later, Judith was on the phone, eager to discuss Jean’s visit with Renie. But her cousin had qualms. “Hold it,” she said after the first few words. “I know I told you to call me, but after you left I remembered you mentioned a call from Joe at City Hall and his inability to tell you anything over the phone because he was afraid of eavesdroppers. At which end did he think somebody was listening in?”

“I never found out,” Judith admitted. “His end, I assumed. On the other hand, it could’ve been here. I’m trying to recall who was here that night. It seems so long ago.” She went into the entry hall to check the guest register. “Oh—the Beard-Smythes,” she said before looking at the entries. “I’d like to forget them entirely.” She scanned the page for Thursday. “A middle-aged couple from Indianapolis, two sisters—one from Green Bay, the other from San Diego—the Kamloops, B.C., couple, and Jean Rogers.”

“So the Kamloops duo is a repeat,” Renie murmured. “Maybe we should hang up.”

Judith was reluctant. “I feel like you’re my lifeline. Keep talking. Anything, just so I don’t have to think. I’m beyond tired and I’m crabby.”

“Oh, for . . . what shall I say? That Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince are coming down from the island tomorrow? That Bill wishes Joe would get out of jail so they could go steelheading? That I need to get my hair cut? I was actually trying to get some work done.”

“Okay,” Judith said, “I’ll shut up.”

“Fine. See you at Mass tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t. I can’t face any SOTS. I’m going to St. Rita’s.”

“Good thinking. Good night.”

Feeling tired, glum, and ill at ease, Judith tried to focus on what she’d serve for breakfast in the morning. She’d keep it simple. Toast, eggs, sausage, bacon, fruit, and juice. Maybe she’d make regular toast and French toast. She scribbled some notes on the tablet she kept by the kitchen bulletin board.
FT & RT, S&B, F&J, EGGS?
Fried, scrambled, poached, whatever. She frowned at the letters. They reminded her of something. Another note, but not one she’d written. . .

SF OR LA.
That was what she’d seen on the slip of paper in Joe’s office. San Francisco or Los Angeles, she’d thought at the time. But why would Joe write down the initials for two cities? What if they stood for something else? Businesses? ARBS came to mind, along with SANECO. Both companies were known by acronyms. No help there. People, maybe. Was there anybody relevant to the current muddle of a mystery? She went over the Paine family members. None of them came close. Nor did any of the other recent newcomers in her life—not Jean Rogers or Cindy and Geoff Owens or Abe Burleson.

The newspaper was still on the counter. Judith picked it up to put in the recycling bin. A headline about Mayor Larry Appel’s plan to fix the city’s potholed streets caught her eye. She frowned.
LA
—for Larry Appel? The mayor was no whiz kid, but his reputation for honesty had never been questioned. He’d gotten elected because of his integrity, replacing the incumbent, who’d appointed unqualified friends and relatives to city jobs.

Judith wondered if she was going down a blind alley. It was almost eleven-thirty. She chucked the newspaper into the bin under the sink before turning off the computer. Just as she was about to shut it down, an e-mail notice popped up from Keith Delemetrios. Judith went to the message site and clicked on the detective’s name.

A man named Sidney Foxe is coming to see you in the next fifteen minutes. Let him in. He’ll offer you as much assistance as he’ll require from you. Joe.

Sidney Foxe.
SF,
Judith thought, her heart suddenly racing. Before turning off the computer, she checked the other messages that had come in earlier. Hurriedly, she deleted the e-mails from catalog companies and stores, saving only three reservation requests. She printed them out, but would wait until morning to deal with the would-be guests. At least Joe had figured out a way to reach her without being overheard. Judith wondered why neither of them had thought of e-mail before. She considered responding, but that might be risky since he’d contacted her from the police department. Maybe she should get a cell phone that would text. The world moved so fast and she was so slow at keeping up with the maelstrom of new technology.