Dead Weight

Chapter Eighteen

While Linda and I drove back toward Posadas, Grace Sisson’s Suburban didn’t move from her father’s driveway in Las Cruces. I could imagine the storm clouds that hung inside that house-and I was sure that matters wouldn’t improve when Marjorie, the eldest daughter, arrived home. The raw wounds would be scratched again, with another dose of advice and another round of slammed doors and things said that would be regretted later.

For now, Grace Sisson’s problems with her wayward daughter weren’t my concern-except that it didn’t take a Ph.D. in family counseling to imagine what spark had touched off the day-long war at the Sisson household. I guessed that Jim Sisson had been the last to find out about Jennifer, and when he had, he’d blown his top.

“No wonder Jim wasn’t paying attention where he drove that front loader,” I said to Linda. “If he was fuming all day long about Jennifer, it’s anybody’s guess what kind of plumbing job Bucky Randall was getting.”

Linda was driving-for one thing, she talked a little less when she was behind the wheel. But more important, even with just one eye, her night vision was a thousand percent better than mine, especially when the headlights bounced off the intermittent sheen of water left on the asphalt by the storm.

“Maybe Jennifer’s boyfriend,” Linda mused.

“Maybe her boyfriend what?”

“Maybe he came over to talk with Jim Sisson and the two of them argued.”

“I find that hard to imagine,” I said. “First of all, the usual behavior of the young male is to either deny responsibility or run and hide. No kid is going to seek out an enraged dad late at night to try and smooth things over.”

“Assuming it was a kid,” Linda said.

“Assuming that, yes. And assuming that Jim’s death was linked to his daughter’s entanglements in the first place. I can imagine him wanting to thrash the kid involved with his daughter, and maybe he did take a swing. And maybe the kid swung back. Who the hell knows? But the events that followed don’t fit that picture.” I sighed.

“What a goddam mess. What keeps me thinking that Jim Sisson’s death is somehow linked to his daughter’s love life is Grace Sisson’s attitude. If she’s heartbroken about losing her husband, the heartbreak hasn’t bubbled to the surface yet. She’s clearly in a rage about her pregnant daughter. That’s all she’s thinking about.”

Linda shrugged. “But isn’t that sort of thing always supposed to happen to someone else’s kid, not your own? I can imagine that when Jennifer popped the news, it stopped the Sissons’ world from turning for a while.” She glanced over at me. “I’m surprised that the girl even said anything, knowing what her mom’s reaction was bound to be.”

I frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that. But maybe she didn’t see much of an alternative.”

“And maybe it was the boy’s father who tangled with Jim,” Linda said.

“Maybe, maybe.” I sighed. “What I’d give for a single clear fingerprint right now.”

We started down the interstate exit ramp toward the village of Posadas, the headlights picking up large puddles standing on the uneven pavement of Grande Avenue.

I leaned forward, turned on the police radio, and was greeted by silence. “Either it’s a quiet evening or lightning blew out the transmitter again,” I said. “Go ahead and swing by your house. I’ll take the car back. I’ll be at the office for a while if you think of something I missed in our conversation with Mrs. Congeniality.”

The car was rolling to a halt in the middle of a fair-sized lake on 3rd Street when the cell phone chirped.

“Gastner.”

“Sir,” Ernie Wheeler said, “Las Cruces PD called. Mrs. Sisson and one child left the Vista del Campo address and are headed westbound on the interstate. State police are keeping an eye on her for us.”

“All right. Make sure a deputy is clear to take the handoff. And, Ernie…as long as Grace Sisson behaves herself, there’s to be no intercept. Just keep an eye on her. Make sure the deputy understands that. When she’s home safe, we’ll figure out what we want to do.”

“Yes, sir. And you have two other calls. Estelle Reyes-Guzman would like you to get back to her this evening. She said it didn’t matter how late.”

I grinned when I heard that. I had four children, all long grown and gone. I cheerfully counted Estelle as a fifth, and her two Utile monsters were closer to grandchildren than the godchildren that they actually were. “Who else?”

“Leona Spears spent an hour or two in the office earlier this evening, then left. She said that when you got back, she wanted to talk to you. She left a number.”

“I’ll be in the office in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

I clicked off the phone and tossed it on the seat. Linda was already out of the car, stepping carefully to avoid being sucked into the morass of the front yard. I got out, navigating around the lake that Linda had chosen as a parking spot. The air smelled good, heavy with a thousand desert fragrances turned loose by the pummeling rain.

“Linda,” I called, “thanks for riding along. We’ll see you after a bit.”

I had slid halfway into the car when I saw her standing on the small front step, keys in hand, frowning.

“What’s the matter?”

She turned to look at me. “The key doesn’t work.”

“Try the right one.”

“I did.” She bent down, peering at the lock. If she’d left the porch light on, that would have helped. The nearest streetlight was fifty yards away, providing not much more than shadows.

I picked up my flashlight and walked across the yard, grimacing at the squelching sound of mud under my feet. “Have some light.” I said. She held up the small collection of keys-no more than half a dozen at most.

“This is the house key,” she said, and held it up. She turned and tried to thrust it in the front door slot. “No dice. It doesn’t even go in.”

“Let me see,” I said. The key included a large stamped M design on the flat just under the ring hole. I bent down and peered at the front door lock. “Bates,” I said.

“That’s not the one that was there before,” Linda said.

I straightened up. “Someone changed the lock?” I turned and looked at Linda Real. “Was Tom going to do that?”

“If he was, he didn’t say anything to me,” she said. “And even if he was, he wouldn’t bother do to it right in the middle of his work shift.” She took the keys from my hand and held up the Martin key. “This one worked when you and I left.”

I chuckled weakly. “Ah.”

“What, sir?”

“I would guess that Carla Champlin has the answer.”

“She can’t do that, can she?” Linda rattled the doorknob. “She can’t just change the locks, can she?”

“Apparently she did just that,” I said. “Did you try the back door?”

“This place doesn’t have a back door.”

“Or a window?”

With a disgusted mutter, Linda made her way around the house. I followed with the flashlight. Sure enough, one of the west windows was open, the curtain hanging sodden and limp.

“Looks like a little rain got in,” I observed, and that prompted another mutter from Linda.

“I forgot to close it when we left,” she said. She pushed the flimsy aluminum window fully open and, with a youthful agility that I could only dream about, clambered inside. The physical therapists had evidently done a fine job on her injured shoulder. In a moment, light flooded the room.

“Yuck,” I heard her say.

“What’s the matter?”

“It really did rain,” she said. “What a mess.”

I refrained from sticking my head through the window to marvel at Linda’s problem. Instead, I rapped the flashlight lightly on the windowsill. “I’ll be at the office if you need anything.” I didn’t offer to call Carla Champlin for her-that was an experience the kids needed to enjoy themselves.