Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

Crazy Carlos Picks a Winner by Susan J. Pethick

The last strains of “Paperback Writer” were fading out as I waited for “Crazy” Carlos Rubio to announce the afternoon’s thousand dollar winner on KRZY. I felt like a thirteen-year-old, staring at the cheap speakers like they held the secrets of the universe, but hey, a thousand bucks is a thousand bucks. Besides, I needed the money.

To say it had been a slow couple of months was to say the Hundred Years’ War had been a bit long. It was the fifteenth already, and I hadn’t paid anything but the mortgage; Rose City Electric was threatening to cut off my power, and my relationship with the local 7-Eleven was now on a cash-only basis. That’s the problem with self-employment. It can quickly turn into self-unemployment. I tweaked the receiver and homed in on 98.7 FM.

“This is Carlos-the-rube Rubio, your crazy DJ on KRZY. How crazy am I?”

I cringed as Carlos let loose with one of his patented laughs: a hyena with hiccups.

“Crazy enough to give away one thousand dollars every single day. And all you have to do to win is send a postcard with your name and phone number on it to—”

I thought back to the hundreds of postcards I’d sent this guy, trying to skew the odds in my favor — so far without luck — and sighed impatiently.

“Cut the crap, Carlos, and pull my card out of the hopper.”

“All right, folks. I’m reaching into my bag...”

“Come on, come on...”

“I’m pulling out today’s card...”

“Hurry up!”

“I’m looking at the name...”

“Just read the damned thing, will you?”

“And today’s winner is...”

I leaned forward.

“William Ackerman of St. Mary’s!”

“Damn!” I pounded my fist on the carpet hard enough to raise a cloud of dust.

Crazy Carlos was still blathering. “Now, Bill, you know the rules...”

Yeah, yeah, I knew the rules, too. The winner had to drive down to KRZY’s studio by five o’clock to pick up the money. If he didn’t, there’d be another drawing, this one at five fifteen. I switched off the radio and checked my watch: three oh-six. Maybe I’d get lucky and Bill Ackerman would have a flat on his way downtown.

I walked into the kitchen and made myself a consolation snack — buttered saltines and a Diet Coke — while I considered my options. Mai Benderson might have some extra work he could throw my way. Surveillance, maybe, or even a few hours of research on a missing person. Not much, but it might keep me from pulling my hair out waiting for the phone to ring. Or I could call my mom and see if she’d lend me enough to get through the month. But then I’d have to listen to her lecture me about how private investigation is no job for a woman, even though we both knew she was thrilled as hell the day I got accepted at the police academy. Which is pretty much the same thing, riskwise.

Of course, it’s not the danger that bothers her; it’s the fact that I work alone. As in, without any eligible men around. I sighed and crammed another cracker into my mouth. The only other option was to ask Dennis for an advance on my alimony check, and I’d sooner starve than do that.

Fortunately, I was spared all of the above when the phone rang.

“Cartwright Investigations.”

The voice on the other end made me think of cappuccino. Dark and rich.

“Miss Cartwright?”

“Cath. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Gordon Lively. Malcolm Benderson gave me your name.”

Good old Mai. I owed him one for this.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Lively?”

“I’d like to hire you to investigate someone for me.” He chuckled nervously. “It’s a long story, really. One that doesn’t translate well over the phone, I’m afraid.”

“I see. Well, I work out of my home, Mr. Lively, so I usually meet my clients at their place of work. If that isn’t good for you, we could meet at a restaurant, or the library...”

“Oh no. My office is fine. I think everybody around here knows the score by now anyway.”

“Sounds good.” I yanked a flyer for free carpet cleaning out of the trash. “When’s a good time for you?”

“Can you make it tonight? I should be free by five thirty. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

I tested my pen out on a corner of the flyer. “Five thirty it is.”

He gave me the address and a cryptic set of directions that I more or less ignored. I never venture downtown without a map anyway. I told him I’d see him in a couple of hours and hung up, smiling. This was even better than Crazy Carlos’s thousand bucks. This was a case!

Five o’clock rolled around faster than I’d anticipated, and I found myself flying down the freeway to get to Mr. Lively’s office on time. I parked in a lot that advertised a three fifty maximum for parking after five and ran the three blocks to Lively Enterprises, located at the top of the U.S. Bank Building. I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the thirty-second floor.

Mr. Lively was still busy when I walked in. The receptionist offered me my choice of herbal tea, Evian, or espresso, all of which I declined in favor of five minutes in the bathroom to fix my hair and tuck in my blouse.

There were cloth hand towels in the ladies’ room and bowls of potpourri that smelled like spiced peaches in the lounge. The fixtures were gold-plated, and the floors were marble. From the look of things, Gordon Lively was a man who put his money where his mouth was. I finished drying my hands and headed back out to the reception area.

There didn’t seem to be anyone else around. I took a seat and looked at my watch: five thirty-six. Bill Ackerman had shown up at the KRZY studios just as I’d been walking out the door. Crazy Carlos put him on the air and made the man do his own version of Carlos’s hyena laugh before he’d given him the check. Honestly. The things people will do for money.

A small, neat secretary appeared and showed me to Gordon Lively’s office. Mr. Lively was sitting behind his desk in an enormous room full of chrome and leather furniture, but he stood when I entered the room. The place had an unobstructed view of the river and maybe a quarter mile straight down, which I tried not to examine too closely.

“Miss Cartwright,” he said, offering me a well manicured hand.

“Cath,” I corrected.

“That’s right: Cath. I forgot. Please, sit down.”

I did.

Gordon Lively’s hair was jet black with just the right amount of gray blended in at the temples. He had the barest hint of an accent and the courtly manners of a Southern gentleman. It was the middle of May, and already he’d acquired a tan that many of us would kill for.

“Cath, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I’m a man who believes in paying his fair share, and when I’ve done wrong, I try to make restitution.”

I nodded, slipping a pad of paper and a pen out of my purse.

“A few months back, I was involved in an automobile accident. A fender bender, really; nothing serious. My Lexus was hardly scratched, though you’d never know it from what it cost me to fix it.”

I gave him an understanding smile. Ah, the perils of owning a fine luxury automobile.

“The folks in the other car — there were two of them, a mother and daughter — seemed fine at the time. I gave them my insurance carrier’s name and policy number. Since no one was injured, I thought that would be the end of it.”

“But it wasn’t.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “No, I’m afraid not. They went out and hired a lawyer, and the next thing I knew, they were suing me for sixteen million dollars.”

My eyes widened. “Sixteen million?”

“That’s right.”

I started thinking about all the things I could buy with that much money, and couldn’t come up with enough ways to spend even half of it. Either these folks were out to ruin Gordon Lively or they were greedy little bastards. More than likely, both.

“Sixteen million’s kinda high,” I said. “What sort of injuries are they claiming they sustained in the accident?”

“Well, the mother’s being treated for spinal injuries, which I can understand, I suppose, but they’re claiming that the daughter is aphasic.”

I raised an eyebrow, and he pointed to his throat.

“She can’t speak. According to her mother, she hasn’t said a word since the accident.”

“That’s odd. What do her doctors say?”

“Well, that’s the hell of it.” Gordon Lively shook his head. “They can’t agree on an explanation for her condition. A friend of mine who’s been practicing psychiatry for twenty years says it could be a hysterical reaction, but the neurosurgeon she’s seeing says he thinks the trauma of the accident damaged the language centers in her brain. He’s running more tests to make sure.”

“I take it you don’t believe him.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe. The mother says the girl can’t talk; maybe she can’t. But I was there, Miss Cartwright — I was in the other car — and I didn’t have so much as a headache to show for it. Something just doesn’t smell right.”

“I take it you’d like me to find out if this girl is faking.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “ ‘Faking’ isn’t exactly the way I’d put it, but exaggerating, yes. I think the girl — or her mother — is exaggerating the extent of her injuries.”

I nodded. “Well, I don’t see that it would be any problem to just follow the girl around for a couple of days; see if she’s as incapacitated as she claims.”

Gordon Lively cleared his throat, then refolded his hands. “Unfortunately, I can’t give you a couple of days, Miss Cartwright. I was so sure this thing would never get to court that I didn’t start looking for an investigator until the last possible moment.” He looked at me sheepishly. “We’ve got a court date this Wednesday at ten.”

That gave me only one day to find something that would convince these people to drop their suit. I shook my head.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lively. I don’t think—”

“Even a settlement would be a victory at this point,” he added anxiously. “Like I said, I’m happy to make restitution. I just don’t think I owe these people a quarter of my net worth.”

A quarter? My God. This guy was even better off than I’d imagined. Made me start feeling a little greedy myself.

“I charge sixty-five dollars an hour,” I said, giving myself a thirty percent raise on the spot. “Ten hours of it in advance. Expenses are extra, and I’ll give you a call before I start running up a tab, but I can’t promise I can come up with much in just one day.”

He tapped an index finger against his lower lip. “How about I make you a counterproposal? I’ll give you the check for ten hours, and if you come up empty by Wednesday morning, well...” He shrugged. “Then my lawyers will deal with it. But if you come up with evidence to prove this girl is exaggerating, I’ll give you a five thousand dollar bonus. Over and above the rest.” He grinned. “How does that sound, Miss Cartwright?”

I smiled. “Sounds great.”

We shook hands, and I sighed, grateful for the breathing room this windfall was going to afford me. What the hell? For five grand I’d move in with these people if I had to. I fished around in my briefcase for a contract.

Half an hour later I was heading out the door, check in hand.

Lucille and Suzannah Wilson — mother and daughter, respectively — lived in Unit 7 of Ray’s Motel, a double row of rundown clapboard cottages that advertised “One & 2 Bedroom Kitchenettes and Sleeping Units — Pets OK” on the sign above the office. The street out in front was full of potholes, and the space between units wasn’t wide enough to admit two men walking side by side. I parked in a place marked Visitors and poured a cup of coffee from the silver thermos I’d brought along. It was five forty-five A.M.

Gordon Lively hadn’t been able to tell me anything about the women beyond where they lived and the names of the doctors who were treating them for their “injuries.” I’d made a few calls the night before and found out that Lucille’s chiropractor had a history of filing questionable whiplash claims; if she’d been the only one injured, I’d probably have been able to persuade her to settle on that basis alone. But it was Suzannah’s problem that this case was going to hinge on, and so far I’d found nothing to discredit her neurosurgeon. As far as I could tell, he was on the up and up.

I was doing the obvious this morning: sitting, watching, hoping maybe Suzannah would come out and yell at the neighbor’s dog. Sometimes it’s just that easy. You’re in the right place at the right time, and you catch the person off guard. Usually, though, I have to work harder for my supper. Somehow I was probably going to have to insinuate myself into these people’s lives. I just didn’t know where yet, or how.

At six twenty-one, the lights started coming on in Unit 7. In no time, it was filled with a cheery incandescent glow. I screwed the top back on the thermos and set it aside.

The curtains were still drawn across the windows on this side, and no one seemed to be in any hurry to open them. Too bad. It looked like we were in for a beautiful day. There were voices coming from somewhere in the back of the unit. I rolled down my window and strained to hear.

It was a radio, and underneath it, a voice, but if there was one person talking in there or five, I couldn’t tell. It occurred to me that this might be a deliberate ploy to obscure the sounds inside the cottage. If so, it was working. I rolled the window back up and pulled out a bagel.

At eight o’clock, I got out of the car and stretched my legs. I was getting restless, sitting there thinking about how I was going to spend my bonus while time ticked away. I walked to the end of the row of cottages and circled around back to see if I could find anything there.

There was an orange Pinto with some rear end damage parked behind Unit 7. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who it belonged to. The rear bumper had been lifted a few inches and crushed into the trunk, making the trunk unusable, and there was a six inch crack in the rear window. The tailpipe was missing, and all four tires were bald.

I sidled up behind the cottage to see if there was any way to peek inside. No such luck. The curtains on that side were closed as well, and the radio was still going full blast. These people must be a joy to live next to, I thought as I circled back and got into the car.

At five minutes of ten, I got my first break. Lucille and Suzannah stepped out onto the front stoop and headed for the Pinto. Neither of them said a word as they got into the car and drove down the rutted road toward town. I started up my Honda and followed at a discreet distance.

First stop was Fairfield Mall, a single level affair with a Sears at one end and a Montgomery Ward at the other. I parked five rows away and followed the women in through the automatic glass doors.

They wandered aimlessly for almost thirty minutes, looking at everything from bedroom furniture to engagement rings, no doubt planning how to spend their coming windfall. For a couple of gals who were living under pretty marginal conditions, they sure had expensive tastes.

At ten forty-seven, Suzannah ducked into Musicworld to root through the bins while her mother went to Woolworth’s for a pack of cigarettes. I sat down on a bench and pretended to fish something out of my shoe.

The window display in front of me had a full-length picture of Crazy Carlos Rubio with the words HOW CRAZY IS HE? LISTEN TO KRZY AND FIND OUT! underneath. Poor Carlos looked as crazy as he sounded, with heavy black eyebrows and a bushy mustache that looked as if triplet caterpillars had taken over his face. But there was something else about him, too. Something that looked vaguely familiar. I resumed my shoe inspection as Suzannah came out of the store and the women continued their stroll.

I’d rather die than have anyone follow me around all day, staring at my rear end. I think most of us, if we knew how bad we looked from behind, would probably never leave our homes. Lucille and Suzannah were no exception.

Both of them favored stretch pants and sleeveless blouses, but whereas Suzannah was appallingly thin, her mother was enormous. Lucille’s upper arms hung down like wineskins from her narrow shoulders, and her chest and stomach had merged into one massive ring that hovered around the tops of her thighs. I could hear her labored breathing from thirty feet back as she strolled down the promenade.

Three doors from the end, the two of them turned in to the Cut ’n’ Curl hair salon. I pretended to check out the shampoo display in the window while Lucille announced their arrival to the girl up front. They had appointments with someone named Becky, and it looked as if Lucille was heading in first. Maybe this would be my chance to get closer to the girl. The sign in front said No Appointment Necessary. I decided to take them at their word.

Lucille was already in the chair, her ample figure clad in a black barber’s drape. Suzannah was sitting in the corner, toes turned inward, perusing the pages of True Romance. I walked up to the front desk, and a girl with yellow fingernails asked me what I’d like.

“A shampoo and blow dry;” I said, trying not to look around.

The girl ran a clawed finger down the list of names in the appointment book and checked her watch.

“Francine can take you in about five minutes.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” I said and took a seat opposite a dreamy-eyed Suzannah.

I picked up a magazine and flipped through it quickly before tossing it back onto the table. Suzannah turned another page. I sighed and dug through the pile.

“Hard to find anything in here that isn’t out of date,” I said.

Suzannah looked up at me and said nothing.

“Have you got anything good?” I asked, hoping for at least a murmured response.

She shook her head.

I pointed at the cover. “Well, you see? That issue’s from last year. Can you believe it?”

The girl glanced idly at the cover and shrugged.

“I hope this Francine what’s-her-name is good. Who are you seeing today?”

The girl hesitated a moment, then opened the magazine and resumed her reading.

“Miss Cartwright? I’m ready for you now.”

A whitehaired girl I assumed was Francine was hovering a few feet away. I sighed. Wouldn’t you know? The one time I’d get fast service. I followed her back to the shampoo bowl and set my purse on the floor.

“I’d recommend a conditioner,” Francine said, digging her fingers through my hair. “Do you want one? It’s fifty cents extra.”

“Sure,” I said. “Conditioner’s fine.”

She pulled out a copy of the same black cape that Lucille was modeling and draped it around my shoulders. I leaned back in the chair and rested my neck on the sink.

“I’m trying to remember if I was that rude when I was a teenager,” I sighed.

Francine looked over at Suzannah and then back at me.

“Why? What happened?”

“I was just trying to make conversation, and she completely ignored me; didn’t say a word.”

Francine leaned over. “I don’t know about the rude part,” she said confidentially, “but the reason she didn’t speak to you is ’cause she can’t.”

“Can’t?” I tried to look appropriately shocked. “Oh dear. I didn’t know she was deaf.”

The stylist shook her head and glanced in Lucille’s direction. The woman was blabbing a mile a minute, oblivious to anything the two of us had to say.

“She’s not. She and her mom were in an accident a couple of months ago. Some rich guy smashed into their car. Ever since then, she hasn’t been able to say a word.”

“Poor thing,” I said. “I hope she’ll be all right.”

“Left her mom with a bad back, too,” Francine continued, turning on the water. “Rich people think they can get away with anything.”

I nodded and closed my eyes as the tepid water hit my scalp. So Lucille and Suzannah knew what Gordon Lively was made of...

Suzannah still hadn’t uttered a word when Francine and I parted ways. My hair looked like it had been styled with a rake. Lucille was sitting up front, absorbed in the same True Romance that I’d last seen in her daughter’s possession, and I’d run out of excuses to hang around. I headed back out to the bench in front of Musicworld.

The mall was dead, and I’d been up since five fifteen; the urge to sleep was overwhelming. I didn’t figure I’d get much action out of the Wilsons for at least another fifteen minutes. I leaned back and closed my eyes. Ah, blessed relief.

“Cath?”

My head jerked involuntarily.

He was smiling, whoever he was, and his soft brown eyes were dancing mischievously. Catching me napping seemed to have given him a real thrill. And I think my life is dull.

As if saying my name once was not enough, he repeated it.

“Cath Westerhouse?” Westerhouse is my maiden name. He grinned and pointed to his chest. “Carl Reubens. Mission Beach High School. Remember?”

I opened my eyes wide and stared at the person in front of me. Carl? It couldn’t be. Carl Reubens was the goofiest kid in my high school class — Most Likely to Slip on a Banana Peel, or something like that — and for a short while, one of my closest friends. But that had been twenty-five years and a thousand miles ago. I stared at his long face; the heavy black eyebrows; the matching mustache...

“You’re Carlos Rubio!” I gasped.

He made a face and shrugged. “It’s just a stage name. My friends still call me Carl.”

Good grief! Here I’d been listening to this guy’s show every day for a month, and I’d had no idea who he was. I patted the bench next to me.

“Have a seat, Carl. My God, how did you recognize me?”

He grinned. “You haven’t changed that much. Besides, I remembered what you look like when you’re sleeping.”

“Oh.”

“So,” he said, looking almost as awkward as I felt. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“What? You want a quick synopsis of the last twenty years?”

He laughed. “Still as funny as ever, I see.”

“How about you? What brought you up here?”

“The job, mostly.”

The way he said it, I got the feeling there was a lot to that “mostly,” but I figured I’d let it slide.

“So you’re a DJ.”

“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “How about you? What do you do with your time? When you’re not sleeping in shopping malls, that is.”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“No!”

“ ’Fraid so. In fact,” I added, “I’m here on a job.”

Carl crossed his arms and leaned back, obviously pleased. “I can’t believe it. You. A private eye.”

“Believe it.” I glanced back at the Cut ’n’ Curl. No one was coming, but I didn’t want to be stuck here when Lucille and Suzannah made their exit.

As if sensing my restlessness, Carl stood up and pulled out his wallet. “Listen, here’s my number. Give me a call; maybe we can get together for lunch or something.”

I looked at the card. “Sure, Carl. I’d like that.”

As he walked away, I had a sudden memory of his lips touching mine; long before he’d grown that hideous mustache, of course. What if I called and it turned out he was seeing someone? What if I called and he wasn’t? I needed another complication in my personal life like I needed a hole in my head. Maybe I’d just lose his number and never have to make the call. I took a deep breath and turned my attention back to the task at hand.

When they’d finished at the hair salon, Lucille and Suzannah headed back to the car and drove to the Food King, three blocks away. I got myself a cart and threw things in at odd intervals while I followed the two women down the aisles. Quickly and quietly they collected cigarettes, milk, doughnuts, luncheon meat, Wonder bread, ice cream, and beer. I frowned. That was odd. Lucille never hesitated to talk to anyone else, but when it was just the two of them, she didn’t say a word. And that made me suspicious.

If Suzannah had truly been unable to speak, wouldn’t her mother have spoken to her, out of habit if nothing else? And if Lucille was anxious to elicit a response from her daughter, wouldn’t she have been bombarding her with words instead of shutting her away in silence? Instead, it seemed that Lucille was staying silent as a reminder for Suzannah to do the same. I was beginning to think Gordon Lively’s suspicions were correct, but I still had no way of proving it.

The two women hauled their selections to the express checkout line, where they carefully separated the items according to those they could and could not pay for with food stamps. I had a pang, thinking of Gordon Lively and his gold-plated bathroom fixtures, but this was business. Nobody said the distribution of wealth was fair. I abandoned my own half-filled cart in the second aisle and followed them out to the parking lot.

Next stop was the gas station, and that’s where I got my second break. Lucille was being rushed by the guy in line behind her and drove off without her gas cap. I scampered over and grabbed it — telling the man I’d deliver it to Lucille when I saw her next — and hopped into my car, my feverish little brain already formulating a plan.

Things had settled into their old routine back at Ray’s Motel. The radio was blasting, and the Pinto was in its parking place, sans cap. I hefted the smelly thing in my hand as I walked up to the front door and knocked.

Lucille answered the door, a cigarette in one hand and a can of Lucky Lager in the other.

“Who’re you?” she demanded, eyeing me warily.

I smiled my most winning smile and held the gas cap at arm’s length. “Is this yours?”

She shoved the cigarette into her mouth and took the cap out of my hand, squinting at it through a curl of smoke.

“It sure is.” She looked up. “Where’d you get it?”

“You left it back at the gas station. I tried to get your attention, but you drove off in a hurry.” I stuck out my hand. “My name’s Cath.”

“Cath, huh? Yeah, that idiot behind me was chompin’ at the bit to get somewhere.” She paused. “Do I know you?”

I frowned, nodding slowly, as if I too were just recognizing a familiar face.

“You were at the mall,” she said.

My mouth fell open. “That’s right; I remember you. At the Cut ’n’ Curl. You’re the one with the kid who—” I put a hand over my mouth. “Sorry,” I finished lamely.

Lucille made a dismissive gesture with her wrist. “Don’t worry about it. Not like it’s a secret or anything.” She hesitated for just a moment, then stepped back from the door. “You want to come in?”

I stepped through the door, and Lucille turned her head.

“Suzannah, turn it down! We’ve got company!”

She motioned for me to have a seat on the well-worn couch.

“Can I get you somethin’? A beer maybe?”

I shook my head. “Nothing for me, thanks.” I looked in the direction of the music.

“Suzannah. That’s a pretty name.”

She nodded and blew about two quarts of smoke out her nose.

“Her daddy’s from Georgia,” she said as if that explained everything.

“I heard you two were in an accident or something.”

“A car wreck. Some guy plowed into the back of us in broad daylight.” She shook her head. “Left me near crippled with this back pain.” She indicated her massive nether region. “I spend every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at the chiropractor’s office just so’s I can get around.”

I shook my head. “I hope the jerk who hit you is paying for it.”

“Oh, he will,” she said, her face the picture of unvarnished greed.

We sat there a few awkward moments; me trying to think of something else to say, Lucille puffing thoughtfully on her cigarette. The music had quieted down. I got the feeling I was on the verge of overstaying my welcome.

“Well, guess I’d better be off,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m sorry I took up so much of your time. I just wanted to see that you got your gas cap back.”

Lucille lurched forward, teetering uncertainly on her feet. “Don’t mention it. I appreciate you bringin’ it by. Besides, I enjoyed the company.”

We’d just reached the door when the air was split with a nerve-jangling cackle. I smiled, recognizing Crazy Carlos’s patented hyena laugh.

Lucille rolled her eyes. “Can you believe that guy? Suzannah spends every afternoon listening to his show. Sent him fifty, sixty postcards thinkin’ he’s gonna give her the money.” She shook her head. “I tell her: you can’t get somethin’ for nothin’.”

I smiled. Without knowing it, Lucille had just given me the rope I needed to hang her with.

It was ridiculously easy to get Carl to sign on to my plan. I guess there’s a part of each of us that wants to be in on catching the bad guys. Lucille was gone, of course; I’d watched her leave for her appointment at the chiropractor’s at two o’clock. The only possible snag was quickly resolved when Suzannah ran to the manager’s office and borrowed a car to get to the studio. From there she hustled her buns down to the station and crowed her little heart out when Carlos handed her the check. Carlos got the whole thing on tape, which he gave to me when Suzannah drove off.

“This should do it,” he said, handing me the cassette.

“Thanks, Carl. You saved my life on this one.” I tucked the tape into my purse. When it was played for Lucille and Suzannah, I had no doubt they’d drop their suit like a hot potato.

Carl was grinning from ear to ear. “This was fun. Let me know if you ever need my help again. I’m usually available on short notice.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But this was a special case. Luckily, most of my clients aren’t as pressed for time as Gordon Lively.”

His face fell. “Lively? As in Lively Enterprises?”

I shrugged, feeling a bit defensive. “Yeah. What’s the matter? Is something wrong with that?”

Carl chuckled, laughing at my naivete. “Well, I suppose his money’s as good as anybody’s; but geez, Cath. The guy’s a sleazy, ball-busting bastard. How’d you ever hook up with him?”

I thought back to Mai’s recommendation. “A friend of mine sent him to me,” I said. “How do you know so much?”

Carl shook his head. “He owns this whole friggin’ station.”

I’d thought a lot about how I was going to present the evidence of their duplicity to Lucille and Suzannah and decided not to spring it on them in court. I make it a point to let people hang on to their dignity whenever possible, and after what Carl had said, I wasn’t so sure I could trust Gordon Lively to be big about it. I drove up to Ray’s Motel and parked in front of Unit 7. It was eight fifteen, and the sun was just beginning to set.

I could tell something was wrong the minute Lucille answered the door. Her face was puffy, and her eyes were rimmed with red. She seemed relieved to see it was only me at the door — as if she might have been expecting the bogeyman — and hustled me inside. I wondered if her demeanor had anything to do with Suzannah’s on-air escapade.

“What’s wrong, Lucille?” I asked, as innocently as possible.

Lucille pulled a Kleenex from a box on the table and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, Cath. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

She seemed so distraught I figured I’d give her a few minutes before delivering the bad news. I motioned toward the couch, offering the seat as if we’d been in my home instead of hers. Suzannah peeked around the corner and stared at us forlornly, her long black hair falling down over one eye.

Lucille started to wheeze, and I patted her on the back. Between the excess weight and her serious nicotine habit, this woman was a candidate for the morgue express line. I got her to take a few deep breaths before telling me what the problem was.

“We’re screwed,” she said at last. “We’ve pissed away the best shot we ever had of getting out of here.” She shot a look at the girl, who lingered in the hallway not five feet from my shoulder. “Damn! I swore I’d get him, and he got away.”

“Who got away?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

“Suzannah’s daddy.”

“Your husband?” Up to then, I’d thought we were talking about Gordon Lively. Now it appeared I’d stumbled into something else.

Suzannah tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and started to cry.

“No, no...” Lucille shook her head in frustration, her breath still coming in labored gasps. “I’m sorry, Suzannah. I know I promised your mom and all, but I did the best I could.”

I looked from one to the other. “What’s going on, Lucille? What do you mean, you promised her mother? I thought you were her mother.”

Lucille grabbed another Kleenex and began blubbering again. Clearly I was going to get nothing else from her. I stood up and walked over to the girl.

Suzannah, at sixteen, was almost half a head taller than Lucille, which put the two of us eye to eye. She was pale and thin, but the way she carried herself was almost regal. When I stepped in front of her, she raised her chin slightly, as if mustering a dignity that came from somewhere outside of that motel room.

I hooked a thumb back in Lucille’s direction. “Does this have anything to do with your little performance today on the radio?”

Her eyes widened, and her lips parted slightly. “How’d you know about that?”

I shook my head. “First, tell me what’s wrong with your mother.”

Suzannah sighed. “She’s not my mother. She’s just a friend of my mom’s.”

I nodded. “Okay, I’ll bite. Where’s your mother?”

“She’s dead.”

Her voice was like thin ice on a frozen pond: slick and hard, with something deadly right under the surface. I thought of my own son, Byron, just a year younger. How much would it take to make him as hard, I wondered. How much to make him so angry? I took a deep breath and glanced back at Lucille.

“I know it’s none of my business, but I’d be willing to listen if you need to talk.”

The girl shrugged. “Nothing much to tell. Mom died last year. Breast cancer. Aunt Lucille was her best friend. Things were okay until she hurt her back in January. Then she went on disability, and we had to move in here.” She looked around quickly. “We don’t like it much.”

I could see why. From the looks of things, the two of them had come about as close to hitting bottom as possible and still have a roof over their heads. I still didn’t see what it had to do with her father, however, so I asked.

“My folks never married; they split when I was really little. Mom and I did just fine on our own. I never missed him.” She took a deep breath and looked at Lucille, who had recovered enough to light up another coffin nail.

“When Mom got sick, she started to worry about money. She decided to sue my dad for support. Not for her, just for me. But my dad told her she’d ruin him if she did that. He said his wife would divorce him and take all his money. So he made her an offer: if she’d sign a piece of paper saying he wasn’t my real father, he’d take care of me after she died.”

Suzannah stopped and pressed a tear out of the corner of her eye.

“Anyway, when she died, I guess he kind of changed his mind. Aunt Lucille adopted me, and now I live with her.”

I looked at Lucille. She seemed mortified.

“I figured it was the only way to get any money out of him,” she said. “So I staged the accident. Wasn’t that hard to do. Keeping this girl quiet, though...” She shook her head angrily. “Bastard didn’t even recognize his own flesh and blood.”

My head was spinning. “You mean Gordon Lively is Suzannah’s father?”

“Yeah.” Lucille frowned. “How’d you know his name?”

I stood in front of my house on Wednesday morning, listening to the trash truck as it made its way down the street. I still didn’t know how I was going to pay my mortgage next month, but Gordon Lively’s check had paid most of my outstanding bills and I still had half a tank of gas.

I had no idea whether anyone connected with the case had heard Suzannah on the radio, but I did know the cassette in my hand was the only physical evidence there was. When I told him what had happened, Carlos “accidentally” destroyed the master tape of the previous day’s show. Now it was up to Lucille and Suzannah. And me.

The garbage truck came to a screeching halt in front of my driveway, and a burly blond man in a red shirt and Levi’s came over to collect my cans. He took them both and emptied them one by one into the back of the truck. I hesitated, thinking of all the things I could do with Gordon Lively’s five thousand dollar bonus.

The guy in the truck gave me a curious smile.

“Is that it, lady?”

I shook my head. “Just one more thing,” I said, and tossed the tape in with the rest of the garbage.