Gossip Can Be Murder (13 page)

“Suicide sometimes gets tricky for the family—emotions, religious beliefs and all,” he explained. “So we avoid that unless we have a real reason to go that way. I’ll admit this could have been either, so we went with accidental death.”

I couldn’t believe that David Ratwill didn’t get closer scrutiny, especially given the facts that he was on the property that morning and that she was in the process of divorcing him, and I told Gallegos so.

“His alibi checked out.” He wouldn’t explain further.

My next call was to Ron, who had apparently just arrived at the office because I heard the kitcheny sounds of coffee being poured into a mug and the carafe going, clumsily, back onto its stand. Clumping footsteps up the stairs, along with Ron’s labored breathing, took me visually into his office where he would rummage for a minute or so before finding a blank notepad to write on. I filled the empty space with a mini-lecture on losing some weight. He gave me some yeah-yeah-yeah about that.

“I need some information,” I said. I filled him in on the threat I’d received in the massage room yesterday afternoon and the strange transformation of Celeus Light into Mr. Businessman, along with my following the other guy and finding out that it was Rita’s husband or ex- or whatever, with whom Light had the meeting. “I’d like to know if any of this ties together. It just seems a bit much that I’m warned away from asking questions about Rita while the police are sure it was an accident. And how strange is it that Celeus and David Ratwill seem to be doing some kind of business together.”

“David Ratwill, you said?”

“Ron, where have you been?” I wanted to pull my hair out sometimes.

“Taking notes,” he said, somewhat defensively. I heard a loud slurp at the coffee mug. Okay, in all fairness, my brother isn’t truly awake—usually—until cup number three.

“Write down these names: David Ratwill and Rita Ratwill. I’d like background on both of them.”

“I can give you an interesting tidbit on David right now, if you’ll just let me speak,” he said. “He’s a partner in the firm that we’re up against in this helicopter case.”

Now I needed coffee. This wasn’t making sense.

“They’re representing one of the victims’ families, and they’re wanting to find Starland Helicopters and S-Jet Engines at fault.”

“I’m not really following.”

He slurped again and went on. “It’s a complicated story. Do you want all of it?”

“Just the highlights.”

“Three families, several law firms. Ours—Graham and Valdez—represents the company that made the engine. Valdez thinks he’s got a good case for pilot error rather than mechanical failure, really thinks that’s how the case will come down. Drake’s looking at the evidence, but doesn’t think that’s true. The Santa Fe firm is going for the bigger money—find fault with a manufacturer and go after their insurance. Widows and kids of those other two families get a pile of money, attorneys get a bigger pile.”

I couldn’t get a grasp on how any of this fit with Rita’s death or the person who sneaked into the massage room to deliver me a headache, so I suggested he concentrate on background that went further back. “Find out about David and Rita, when they met, how long they were married, and all that. Rumors here are flying thicker than bats on a starry night, and I’ve heard that they weren’t officially divorced yet. See if you can find out whether that’s true.”

He mumbled some um-hm kinds of things, apparently scratching notes as fast as I could talk.

“Oh, another thought. If the names Mayhew, AceChem Corporation, or Trudie Blanchard come up anywhere along the way, pay attention to them. I have no idea where this might lead.” By the time we hung up, my head was pounding. I found aspirin in my travel bag and swallowed three.

I managed to catch Linda between seminar sessions and we walked outside and followed the meandering path through the gardens. The fresh air and sunshine felt good after spending half the morning on the phone. After she asked how my neck felt she said, “There’s the farewell dinner tonight and don’t forget tomorrow’s special meditation session led by Dr. Light himself.”

I couldn’t quite tell her how very little that excited me. I didn’t mention the headache. I did not want to be sent to an ER and waste the rest of the day.

“Word is getting around that the police decided Rita’s death was an accident,” she said.

“I know, Gallegos told me. Can I be blunt? I think it’s bullshit. Otherwise, why did someone feel it necessary to warn me away from the investigation by nearly breaking my neck yesterday?”

“Exactly.”

“I want to keep attending the sessions for you, but I also feel like there was a reason I was threatened. I have to look into it.” Once the conference was over the participants would scatter. I could let the police ruling stand, but that would leave a killer running free and I just couldn’t bring myself to let go of it.

She gave me a light hug. “That’s okay. I’m sure Dina can share her notes with me. And Shirley will give me copies of the handouts. You do what you gotta do.”

“Thanks—you sure it’s okay?”

“Absolutely.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to make the next session. If I see you at lunch, we’ll chat again then.”

I felt like a rat for a minute as I watched her walk back to the conference center but my phone vibrated in my pocket before I could give myself over to too much guilt.

Ron. “Hey, got some new stuff for you.”

I fished in my bag for a scrap of paper and pen and found a deserted bench where I could sit down.

“The background check you asked me to do on Rita Ratwill? Interesting stuff. Turns out she was once committed to a mental facility in California. Checked herself in, about two years ago. Stayed ninety days, felt all better and checked herself out again.”

Two years ago. Somewhere around the time her husband was up to his neck in the AceChem trial. Had something about the case bothered Rita so much that she couldn’t stand being around it? The Mayhews mentioned that she’d been working in her husband’s office at the time. I realized Ron was still talking and pulled myself back.

“Sorry, Ron, what was that last part? My attention wandered.”

“One of her nurses at the facility was a Trudie, spelled T-r-u-d-i-e, Blanchard. Didn’t you mention that name to me?”

“Wow, how did you get that kind of info? I’m surprised they’d give that out.”

“They wouldn’t. Not to me. But Sally came to our rescue. Posed on the phone as Rita’s sister, who was trying to track down her present whereabouts. Lucked out in finding a gabby nurse who’d also treated her.”

“Really.” I tried to imagine our sweet, open Sally managing a lie with a straight face but couldn’t put the picture together.

“Yeah, apparently Rita confided to this night-shift nurse that the day gal was weird.”

An understatement.

“Nurse says Rita felt tense and nervous every time Trudie entered her room. This nurse told Sally that she didn’t know what it was, but it was like there was a big, deep secret between them.”

“Something pertaining to Rita’s care?”

“She didn’t know for sure but doubted it. Medical information would have to be entered into her chart. Any treatment would be logged. When Rita told the nurse that she felt intimidated around Trudie, this other nurse checked the file but didn’t find anything out of order. Her conclusion was that it was something personal, maybe just paranoid delusion.”

“And yet Rita stayed there three months,” I said.

“Yeah. According to the story, Trudie got hired on sometime during Rita’s stay. She was put on Rita’s case about a month before Rita left.”

Puzzling. I tried to think back to those first yoga classes, remembering the way Rita and Trudie had interacted. I couldn’t think of anything out of the ordinary. Rita’s interaction with everyone had seemed strange at the time. They definitely hadn’t acknowledged knowing each other.

Chapter 17

Drake rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. 4:37. The last time he’d checked it was 3:21. He groaned and turned back to his right side. On the floor beside the bed, Rusty stirred briefly in his sleep, but didn’t even raise his head. Charlie’s side of the bed was cold and empty. He missed her but it was probably just as well that she wasn’t home. He’d be keeping her awake with this constant tossing and turning.

At five-thirty he gave up on sleep. Made his way into the kitchen and brewed a double strength, full pot of coffee. He rummaged in the breadbox and found two cinnamon rolls that had been there at least a week, but he didn’t care. He crammed one down before the coffee finished dripping and the other as soon as he had a full mug in his hand. He let the dog out, brought in the newspaper from the front porch, and tried to read it. No use. The headlines were meaningless and the rest of the small type just became a blur. He went, instead, to his computer and started a search, almost hoping that the results would contradict some of the data he’d studied last night.

At five minutes to ten he placed the call to Valdez’s office. After a brief wait, the secretary connected him and he steeled himself for the reaction.

“Rick? Drake Langston here.”

“Hey Drake, all set for the meeting later?”

Meeting. Nice way of phrasing what was sure to feel more like the Inquisition. “Yeah, I think so. Look, there’s something we probably need to discuss.”

“Is it something quick, or do you want to come down to the office?”

Neither. “The office might be better.”

An hour later, paperwork and reports gathered, and dressed in a coat and tie, Drake sat in the reception area of the offices of Graham and Valdez. He regretted the tie; the damn thing made his neck itch and it felt like a noose. He frankly didn’t care what these guys thought about his appearance. He was there to present his findings, as the aviation expert. He mentally cursed Ron once again for suggesting this involvement, then himself for accepting the job.

“Drake?” Rick Valdez’s chubbiness wasn’t quite concealed by the jacket of his pricey suit. He was four or five inches shorter and probably forty pounds heavier than Drake, with black hair combed straight back, the teeth marks still showing. “Nice to finally meet you. Come on into the conference room.”

Drake followed Valdez’s waddly gait down a hallway and they entered a room on the right. A long table, with chairs for ten, filled the conference room almost uncomfortably full. The only other piece of furniture was a narrow sideboard where a sweating pitcher stood on a silver tray.

“Water?” Valdez offered.

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” Drake’s mouth felt stiff and he surreptitiously flexed his cheek muscles while Valdez filled a glass for himself.

“So, what’ve we got?” Valdez said as he took the chair at the head of the table.

Drake took the cue and sat in the spot immediately to the lawyer’s left. He hadn’t thought about exactly what order in which to present his findings, so he just started with the beginning. The crash itself. He reviewed the FAA and NTSB reports, but sensed that Valdez already knew all this, so he skimmed them quickly.

He hadn’t told Valdez that he’d known Mike Walters from previous forest fire work, but he did so now. The whole process would have been triply difficult if he’d discovered pilot error and was forced to testify to that. Even in death, a friend’s reputation should be respected. He told Rick about the simulator tests he and Charlie had performed last weekend. “We can safely say it was mechanical failure, as opposed to pilot error.”

“You got a simulator to replicate an engine failure,” Valdez said. “But can you tie that same failure to
this
crash?”

“Yes. I’ve found evidence.”

Valdez scratched a short note on the yellow pad at his side. His tight expression told Drake that this was not the answer he’d wanted, not as attorney defending the engine manufacturer.

Drake continued, “The nature of the engine failure leads us to take a look at this nut . . .” He pulled out one of the photos and pointed to the piece of metal. “And this . . .” he dragged an engine diagram out but Valdez interrupted.

“I’m not very technical,” he said. “You can just give me the highlights. Save the in-depth descriptions for the group this afternoon.”

“Fair enough.”

“Bottom line? Is this going to play right into their case that S-Jet Engines is at fault?”

“No. Bottom line is that it looks like a mechanic probably failed to safety wire this nut before signing it off and putting the aircraft back in service.”

“Probably? The other side would jump all over that word.”

“Okay, he did.” Drake used his pen as a pointer. “See here? And here? These fittings are safety wired. The nut that came loose had no safety wire. This spot—” he indicated it “—is where the nut was. It came off in flight.”

Valdez squinted. “The photos aren’t real clear to me. Would a jury be able to understand all this?”

“I can revisit the wreckage,” Drake told him. “We could bring the actual engine into the courtroom if we had to.”

“Nah, that’s even more confusing.” Valdez rubbed at a spot between his eyebrows. “Our client isn’t going to like this. S-Jet Engines believes they build the best equipment there is. We really wanted the pilot to be at fault.”

Stop beating a damned dead horse, Drake thought. “Well, he wasn’t. But don’t you see? S-Jet is off the hook.”

“So, you’re saying that the accident happened by a mechanic’s negligence.”

“Mistakes happen. I’ve known a lot of good mechanics in my career. They aren’t stupid. They go through a tremendous amount of schooling and there’s  a lot of pressure on them in their jobs. I don’t want to wreck someone’s career.”

“But this one little nut would have caused the aircraft to go down?”

“I could give the full technical explanation of it.”

“No, that’s okay. As long as you know it. The people deposing you will ask. You’ll be ready?”

“Yes.” Whining about his distaste for the whole process wouldn’t get him anywhere with any of these guys. Buck up and just do the job, he told himself. “I can present it where even you will understand it.” He gave Rick a little smile.

“Good. That’s the main thing. As an expert witness you have to get your points across clearly. If this thing makes it to trial, and especially if there’s a jury, you better be sure everything you say can be understood by your average juror.”