“He drank and he gambled,” she went on. “And that’s what I know about the man.” Betty sings in the choir at the Emmanuel Baptist Church; her tone clearly indicated her opinion of Mr. Rudolph Gateley. She attacked the grandfather clock vigorously with her dustrag.
I visited my brother Arthur and his wife Louella. Arthur said Tom Scaletti had been elected president of the Rotary Club. Louella said Gracie Winston had bought herself a Soloflex exercise machine and claimed she worked out on it for an hour every day, did I believe that?
I told Louella what I believed about that. Then I asked about their yard.
“I thought winter would never end this year,” Louella exclaimed. “When those first crocuses poked their little heads up, I was just so excited, weren’t you? I’ve been thinking about putting pansies in along the front walk. What do you think?”
“I think pansies would be lovely. Don’t you have a man who comes in?”
“Yes, but I like to dig in the dirt now and then.”
“Who do you have?”
Louella looked at me.
“Your yard man. Who is it?”
“Oh. Well, we used to have Old Carl, but then his arthritis got so bad and so we were without for awhile and then Arthur asked Harry about their yard man and he said he didn’t really recommend him, so we talked to Lottie and she suggested... now what is his name, Arthur? It’s such a strange one...”
“Scrapper,” I said.
When it came time to leave, I told Louella not to bother seeing me to the car, that Arthur could do it.
“What did Harry say about his yard man?” I asked as we approached the driveway.
“Gosh, I don’t know. I can call and ask him if it’s important.”
“No, no. It’s nothing really. I was just wondering.” I stood by my car and waited.
“Seems like he said something about the man was asking too much.” As I got behind the wheel, he added, “Or maybe it was that he didn’t trim the hedge right...”
On Saturday Scrapper came by. He’d found someone who had seen Rudolph Gateley the night he died.
“Said a big car come by the park. The driver tooted the horn, and Rudy walked over and leaned down by the window. The guy heard two shots, Rudy dropped, and the car drove off.”
“And this ‘guy’ reported that to the police?”
Scrapper shook his head. “Didn’t want to tell me, even. That’s why it took so long.”
“I don’t suppose he mentioned what kind of car it was, or what color? Or who was behind the wheel?”
“Said the car was big and dark. That’s all he knew. He wasn’t exactly sober at the time.”
“So do you believe him, this not-exactly sober, fine upstanding citizen?”
Scrapper took his time answering. “I think he saw somethin’, yeah. He was scared.”
I told him what I’d learned so far. I didn’t mention my brother Harry. There was no reason.
“Mr. Gateley could easily have blackmailed any number of men from the days of the Rancher’s Club,” I concluded.
Scrapper nodded in agreement.
“However, since he did mention the names of Scaletti and Winston, I will concentrate on them first.”
Scrapper picked at a ragged thumbnail.
“Before I begin an investigation of every man in town.”
Scrapper scratched his elbow. He is excellent at ignoring sarcasm.
After I took care of the usual Monday morning chores, I went to see Chief Wilkerson. On the way I drove past Cascadia Park. When I was a young girl, the annual Fourth of July celebrations filled the grounds to overflowing. A band played, dignitaries gave speeches, families picnicked, children shot off firecrackers. At nine o’clock an impressive display of fireworks capped a perfect day.
Now graffiti covered the old band pavilion and the once-cared-for expanse of grass had become hard, ugly dirt. Old and young were still there in abundance, but rather than white linen suits and soft, flowered frocks, they wore filthy garments that I couldn’t begin to describe. One youth spat at my car as I passed.
I had to wait a few minutes before Chief Wilkerson was available. “Miss Cavanaugh, you’re looking mighty fine.”
“Thank you, Wayne. I am fine.”
“I was just going over the reports on the Gateley killing.” Still standing, he indicated a file folder lying on his desk. “My men have been questioning some of the people in the surrounding area. So far no one has come up with anything.”
I sat down. Chief Wilkerson shuffled the file around a bit, then sat down as well.
“I understand Rudolph Gateley used to work at the Rancher’s Club.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I was wondering whether there might be a tie-in.”
“The Rancher’s Club closed down years ago.”
“Three years and four months, to be exact.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Were you investigating the place at the time?”
Chief Wilkerson finally acknowledged that they were investigating reports of gambling, liquor violations, and possible instances of prostitution before the owner, one Gerald Hardesty, left town, effectively closing the club, and the investigation, down.
“Do you have any idea where Mr. Hardesty is now?”
“He was shot two years ago in Dallas. Police there thought it was gang-related. They never did catch his killer.”
I thanked the chief for his time and rose to go. He stood and started to take my arm, but caught himself in time. Just because I am lame does not make me dependent. Before I opened the door, I turned and said, “Oh, by the way. Is it possible Mr. Hardesty received a warning? And that’s why he left town? Thereby saving face for any number of prominent men in this town? And securing your position as chief of police?”
His eyes widened and his mouth worked, but nothing came out.
“Just a thought I had, that’s all. Thank you again, Wayne.”
One down, two to go.
Tom Scaletti was a big, florid man with too much hair and not enough space between his eyes. He wore expensive clothes that helped disguise his tendency to corpulence.
“Miss Cavanaugh, haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. Thinking of buying a house, are you?” He laughed his salesman’s laugh.
“I was born in that house, I’ll probably die in that house. But I have been thinking of a few renovations. I realize you’re probably much too busy to be interested in my little job, but...”
“Don’t be silly. More’n delighted to help you out. Scaletti Construction, we do it all, big or small.” Hearty men do annoy me.
I glanced around his reception area, a large well-lit room with photos and drawings of houses on the walls and a large plot layout of his latest development in the center.
“Are these the new houses?”
“Yes indeedy, and they’re all beauties. Your nephew Teddy and his new wife were just out looking at one the other day. They particularly liked this model over here.” He pointed to a floorplan with a master bath the size of most folks’ living rooms.
“Apparently young people these days use bathrooms for more than what I seem to need one for,” I commented, and got another Scaletti chortle in response.
After he had shown me the points of interest on his plot map (I noticed there was not a great abundance of flags marking properties sold), we retired to his office where I told him my fabricated tale of possible alterations I might desire and he gave me his spiel on what he could do for me. Once again as I was leaving I slipped in my little afterthought: “I’m quite sure you’re prepared to deal with the possible repercussions of having skimped on insulation and using inferior wall-board?”
I had saved Judge Winston for last. Bruce was one of the most respected men in Kern County. He had taken me to a dance or two in our youth and had comported himself well on each occasion. A bit of a bore perhaps, but young men so frequently are.