Cat Coming Home

15

BY NOON, THE day after she shot Martin and Caroline, after the cops had come and gone at the small house she’d rented, to tell her Martin was dead, the shooter knew the old woman hadn’t seen her. If Maudie had fingered her, the cops would have arrested her on the spot or, at the very least, have labeled her a person of interest and taken her in for questioning. What a laugh, those cops trying to break the news gently, that her ex-husband had been shot and killed, asking if there was someone, a relative or neighbor, who could come in and stay with her. And then at last, asking ever so respectfully where she’d been that night, saying they hadn’t been able to reach her.

She had the stubs of her plane ticket, the Visa charge slip, and room receipt from Vegas. Arriving early the day before, she’d seen friends and gambled. If she’d flown out again under another name and ID, no one needed to know that. You could gamble all weekend wherever you chose, at any hour you chose, and very likely no one would remember you. If you lost money and didn’t take a big winning, there was no record. A Southwest flight into Ontario International, pick up a rental car, drive back to Vegas and no one the wiser. The cops had nothing to tie her to the shooting or they’d have been all over her—the same way they’d been all over the wrecked car after the shooting, the same way they’d have searched the road and surrounding ranches and fields the next morning looking for tire marks, footprints, shell casings. The news said there were still no leads to the shooter. It didn’t mention a second person in the truck, and by now her driver was far away. Though holdbacks by the cops were common, this time she was inclined to believe what the sheriff’s department had told the press.

Even if they’d found a casing, which they wouldn’t, they wouldn’t find a match to this gun on their fancy AFIS network. They might get a warrant to search the nearby houses and farms, but she’d left no trace in the “borrowed” truck; and she’d stayed on the gravel where there wouldn’t likely be tire marks. Any gravel in the tire tread would be natural enough, with the truck going in and out across the graveled drives and roads. The truck’s owner, Harley Owens, was the brother of a woman who worked where she’d worked. Vera Owens was so talkative that Pearl knew not only Vera’s personal habits but Harley’s as well—he wouldn’t be back there for another three weeks. The Owenses’ ranch was a weekend place, the few cattle that were pastured there belonged to a neighbor who cared for them. It had been blind luck that the ranch was located so near to Maudie’s cabin, an opportunity too good to let pass. It hadn’t taken long, watching the place for a few weekends, driving up in the morning and back at night, cruising the area, to know Vera had described Harley’s habits accurately.

Everything had gone so smoothly. Every year at Easter vacation Maudie and Martin and Benny headed for Maudie’s cabin; this year was no different except to add Caroline and her brats. She’d left Vegas with ample time to meet her partner, and then to intercept Maudie’s arrival. Had timed it so well that once she’d picked the padlock, pulled the rental car into the old barn, and hot-wired the truck, they’d had to wait less than an hour on the dark side road until they saw the pale convertible coming, and had eased in behind it. All had gone as planned, it was the weeks following after the shooting that were tedious, fending off the saccharine sympathy of her new neighbors and coworkers, enduring the funeral—oh, she’d gone, all right. Had even managed to squeeze out a few tears. The reading of the will and trust was a shocker, but she should have known he’d waste no time leaving everything to Caroline, Benny, and the old woman.

Some would say she should contest the will and try to break the trust, that she was Benny’s mother and should be the trustee of his share. But under the circumstances, that wasn’t smart. There were other ways to get what was rightfully hers.

And there was more than the will and trust to worry about. It was no secret that after the funeral Maudie cleared out Martin’s and Caroline’s house with the assistance of Caroline’s sister; then Maudie put her own house on the market, preparing to leave L.A. But taking what with her? Caroline’s personal papers? Or did Caroline’s sister have them?

With this in mind, and with apparently no follow-up interest from the law, she’d opted to move away just as the old woman was planning to do. She had told the LAPD detectives that staying in the city was too painful, that she was going down to San Diego for a while, to stay with a friend. Lay a trail on to Mexico for them to find, then turn around and head up the coast instead, where Maudie would soon be living. It wasn’t likely the old woman would imagine she’d come up there to the village, or that she’d maintained her own contacts in Molena Point so well. With Maudie busy getting herself settled, why would she wonder about her ex-daughter-in-law and those old connections, or what use Pearl might make of them? When, later, she opted to contact Maudie and get back her own, wouldn’t that be a nice surprise.