The Matriarch (19 page)

We need to see if Victor Hammond is still kicking, so I drive Charlotte, Dott, and Lester-Lee over to the Hammonds. I don’t want Molly around her mother, so we leave her at the ranch house with Shelly.

I’m worried that Frank isn’t back from his walk yet. I hope to God he didn’t decide to check on The Tree. Wherever he went, I’m glad Louie is with him.

The Hammond house is large, fairly new, and finished in beige stucco with a Spanish tile roof. We walk to the stone stairway that leads up to the porch that’s painted a bright brick red.

As we climb the steps and start across the good-sized porch to the front door, I feel a presence. I look to my right and see three women at the far end of the porch, some twenty-five, thirty feet away. Seated at a small wooden table, they aren’t exactly hiding, but I have the impression they would rather not be seen. I hear Lester draw in a sudden breath behind me. Are these the women he saw gathering figs at The Tree? The ones who chased after them?

“Mrs … Mrs. Hammond?”

Jesus, I’m stuttering!

The women stare over at us, motionless and solemn. I force a smile, and we all walk slowly toward them.

Three of them, four of us … why do I feel outnumbered?

On the table, an open box of chocolate cookies sits next to a dish of mixed nuts and three partly filled champagne flutes. They’re having a drink together, Kate Hammond and two friends. The picture they make should be pleasing—ladies sharing cool champagne on a sunny afternoon—yet these three convey an air of hostility that’s in stark contrast to the cheery, sun-dappled setting.

Kate Hammond says nothing, her dark eyes glittering. Does she know where Molly is? Does she care?

“I’m Cass Murphy.” I consciously make my voice deep and almost loud, trying for an in charge attitude I certainly don’t feel. “We met at Dante Russo’s funeral reception. And this is Dott Pringle, Charlotte Russo, and Lester-Lee …” I realize then that I don’t know Lester’s last name. Maybe it’s just Lee. “They were at the service as well.” Lester hadn’t been there, but at this point, who cares? Certainly not Lester, who gives a short nod to the ladies while Dott stands by with her big hands hanging loosely at her sides. Charlotte has her hands folded across her chest in a protective manner.

Silence.

“Mrs. Hammond, excuse us for intruding on your afternoon,” I say, “but we felt we should stop by. Molly is fine, by the way. She’s at our house with Shelly, Charlotte’s sister … having a late lunch.”

Again, silence.

Kate, scarecrow thin, her dark hair pulled back so tightly I think she must be in pain, takes a sip of her drink. She’s heavily made up and wears a purple skirt and red blouse. The other two are all in black, but made up as well. I see a bottle draped in black, velvety cloth resting on the balustrade of the porch, near the table. I can’t make out the gilt label, but it’s obviously expensive champagne.

What are they celebrating?

I force myself to continue. “We wanted to come by and warn you. We’re concerned about the figs, the ones at the service.” Do I imagine the women stiffening slightly? There are several chairs near the table, but no one asks us to sit down.

Dott pushes past me, smiling at Kate. “I don’t think we’ve actually met.” She thrusts a hand toward the woman. “Dott Pringle. I saw you and Molly at the service.”

Kate extends a limp hand toward Dott, and several gold bracelets jangle on her wrist. “Kate Hammond,” she says, her voice flat.

I realize I’m holding my breath and suck in some air.

“Those figs seem to make some people sick,” Dott says. “We thought we’d better warn you.”

The three women look at each other, and I see something pass between them. A sly bonding that erects a barrier against any meaningful communication with us.

“I appreciate the tip,” Kate says, her tone belying her words. “We’re fine, and we’re almost out of those figs anyway.” She gives us a small smile.

At that moment, I know with a visceral certainty that Molly’s story of her stepfather’s death and burial is true. Kate and these strange women are celebrating that death. They’re alien beings, and they scare the shit out of me.

I breathe in a familiar scent, the one I first noticed at The Tree. It’s coming now from these women, as if they’ve smeared themselves with sweet, overripe fruit.

Kate pushes her chair back noisily and gets to her feet. “Where are my manners?” She inquires airily and actually looks around as if they’re lurking somewhere nearby. “Please sit. Do join us.” She lowers her mascara-laden eyes seductively. “I’ll get more chairs.”

Not on your fucking life.

My legs are shaking with the need to get away. It’s all I can do to keep from running like hell to the van. “Thank you, but we must go,” I say and start for the stairs.

“Indeed, yes,” Dott says and tips her Smoky Bear hat. Charlotte and Lester smile their goodbyes and walk along behind me.

As we go down the stairs, I think I hear the women snickering.

“It was them,” Lester says, cramming himself into the back seat of the van. At the tree. They’re the ones who came after Shelly and me.”

“Yeah,” I say. The McClain sisters Frank told us about. “I thought so.”

“Okay,” Dott says, getting into the front seat. “I’m a believer. I don’t mind telling you folks I’ve never felt such blatant malevolence in my life. Times three.” She looks at me. “You feel it too?”

“Hell yes, I felt it,” I say, as I slam the van into gear. My hands on the steering wheel are slick with sweat.

“A fine bunch of detectives we are!” Charlotte says from the back seat, smacking her forehead in frustration. “We didn’t find out anything about Victor.”

“He’s dead,” I say. “We know that, right?”

“We
think
he’s dead,” Dott says. “Did anyone see figs anywhere?”

“No, but I could smell them,” I say. “That too-sweet rotten smell.

“We could dig the Hammond guy up,” Lester says. “That would prove it.”

“Yeah, but I think the first thing we have to do is destroy The Tree.”

“Fire,” Dott says. “I think the Bible would recommend fire.”

“Yes,” Charlotte says, “fire.”

“Yeah, I like fire too,” I say. “But, and this is really bothering me, what about the roots?”

“We need the sheriff’s deputies to help,” Dott says. “Burning that thing down, along with digging up and destroying the roots, will be a very tough job.”

Back at the ranch house, we find a note from Shelly. She’s taken Molly for a drive into town for ice cream.

A thoroughly shaken Frank tells us a harrowing story about his strangled boot, and we decide to see if we can get a couple deputies to help us kill The Tree.

Charlotte is sticking close to me; she puts her hand in mine as we walk to the van, and I like that a lot.

Sweet fucking Christ.

Acting Sheriff Albert D. Schmidt stares at the five of them. Frank and Cassidy Murphy, Dott Pringle, Lester Lee, and Charlotte Russo. He mops his face with the back of a sweaty hand.

These folks got nothing better to think about? Figs again, magic like beans in a fairy tale. These beans though, they turn housewives into killers!

He wants to laugh in their faces, these pompous pricks with their shit-for-brains ideas about poison figs. And their ridiculous request for deputies to help them kill the offending tree! With that village idiot Lester-Lee and Murphy’s smart-ass nephew—how does he get so lucky having this bunch of crack detectives drop in on him?

And all this is going on in Manny’s sweltering office. Using Manny’s office is proper, since Al’s the acting sheriff, but he had hoped for air conditioning. He’s told it’s something to do with a duct being clogged. So here he sits sweating like a pig while his staff is enjoying cool, dry air.

Manny’s office is just like the man himself—dull and colorless. The metal chairs and desk, the concrete floor and the plaster walls are all in gray. The man has no pictures on his desk or walls, no distractions of any kind. One small window set high on the south wall has a view of the parking lot, should one climb up onto a chair to have a look.

It only takes Al about five minutes though, to discover that he
likes
the orderly sterility of the room. With no visual diversion, he’s free to focus more clearly on the job at hand. He finds that refreshing. At home he feels suffocated by Gin’s conversation and clutter. Al vows to make some sweeping changes in that situation, and soon.

Sheriff Ramirez is sick enough, Al hopes, to stay out of his hair until Monday. By that time he’ll have the scut work on these killings complete—the better to impress Ramirez when the sheriff returns. He might even have the killer by then.

And I know it’s not gonna be a fig tree!

“First Dante Russo, then Arty Banyon,” Cassidy is saying, his face full of bullshit sincerity. “No marital problems at all. Then they’re murdered by their loving wives.”

Civilians. They think everything is so fucking simple they can actually blame figs for these murders!

Al holds up a judicious hand. “At the moment, the women are charged with
suspicion
of murder only. Usually there’s an investigation and a trial before a person is convicted.” He watches the color come into Cassidy’s cheeks. Al loves to piss this kid off. “Diablo has a judicial system, last time I checked. So let’s see now …” He allows himself a slight smirk. “You think these women went crazy after eating a lot of figs, right?”

“That’s right, Sheriff,” Cassidy says, and Al is gratified to hear the word, “Sheriff.” About time this boy shows him some respect. “The figs seem to affect women only. We think the missing Victor Hammond may have—”

“Missing? Nobody’s reported a Victor Hammond ‘missing.’”

“Not yet, I guess. But we think he may have been murdered.”

Al sighs. “When did you first realize you were clairvoyant?” He sees Cassidy clench his jaw. “You got anything other than crazy thoughts and suspicions?” He leans back in his chair and clasps his hands behind his neck. “Anything like maybe a fact or two?”

“We’ve got the word of someone whose name we can’t divulge, Sheriff,” the preacher lady says. “We have to protect—”

“Who? The innocent?” Al asks, and his mouth opens up into a derisive grin.

“We’re not fucking around here, Al,” Cassidy says “We’ve got good reasons for coming here.”

Al rises from behind Manny’s desk, his face flushing red. “You keep a civil tongue, boy. I don’t need you cursin’ at me.”

“But Sheriff, don’t you agree it’s odd,” the preacher lady says, “that two happily married women indulge in several figs and then kill their husbands?
Apparently
kill them, that is. How can you explain that?”

“I don’t have to explain anything. What the hell’s your name anyway?”

“Dott Pringle, Sheriff.”

Al snorts. “What kind of a name is ‘Dott’?”

“Short for Dorothy,” she says, and Al knows he’s pissing her off too. Lester-Lee is probably too stupid to get pissed.

“Coincidence,” Al states. “You’ll probably hear that word used a lot when discussing these kil … deaths.” He sits back down.

“Sheriff, we can’t really prove anything about these women,” Cassidy says. “But we
can
show you where we think Victor is buried.”

Sweet Christ—that’s all I need.

A dig-em-up field trip with a couple blabbermouth deputies anxious as hell to report an empty hole in the ground to Ramirez. Then they’ll top off their investigative outing by dropping by the Murphy spread to have a look at a monster tree. The department will laugh themselves silly. Al isn’t the most popular man in the office, and he can’t set himself up to look like a fool.

“But you can’t, ah,
divulge
who told you this; am I right?”

Dott nods.

Al laughs. He stands, his shirt stuck to his back. He needs to check on that clogged duct. A man shouldn’t have to work in a fucking sauna!

“You’re being downright insolent, Al, you realize that? You’re supposed to help the public, not plow us under this way,” Cassidy says.

Al is almost dizzy with dislike for this know-it-all punk. Who’s he think he’s talkin’ to anyway?

“I need to straighten you out, mister, right now. The rest of you give this guy and me some privacy, all right?” He motions everyone except Cassidy out of the room.

As these sorry losers file past him, Al has a fleeting thought. What if they’re right? Not about the figs a’ course—there’s a laugh and a half—but what if somebody
has
done this Victor guy in?

Hah! Not likely.