Dead Red Cadillac, A Read Online Free PDF Page A

the loose drive shaft, the torn vinyl headliner, the missing door handle, and the growing spider web of broken windshield on the passenger side.
    The drive was a no-brainer, one where I could easily divide my attention between the road and work schedules before hitting the outskirts of the nearest mall. But not today. I couldn't stop thinking about Caleb's words. Of all the answers to the whereabouts of my car, not in a million years would I have guessed that my Caddy would be found tailfins sticking out of the shallow end of Turlock Lake.
    And behind the wheel, neatly buckled into her safety belt, was none other than the blue ribbon winner in this year's county fair's jam-making contest, Patience McBride.
     
     

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Four:
     
     
    Modesto's prosperity has been memorialized in a permanent arch across I and Ninth Streets. Its cryptic message, Water Wealth Contentment Health , means that if you're a farmer and have water, you are more than likely to be wealthy, if not healthy. Fine with me, except that they rerouted the highway and nobody drives under the arch except those taking this freeway off-ramp to Modesto's jail or county courthouse, which was where I was going.
    I pulled into a parking space close to where Caleb, his Stetson tipped down over his brow, stood in quiet contemplation under the leafy shadow of sycamores. Caleb's khakis still held a razor pleat against the rising morning heat. Lucky him. I was already a sweaty mess in jeans and yesterday's T-shirt.
    I honked, and his face, bronzed by his love of the outdoors, creased into the familiar and endearing smile that he kept for the likes of puppies, lunch, and me.
    He strolled over to lean on the open window of the truck. "Hey. You okay?"
    I tried to keep my voice from cracking. "Can we get on with this, Caleb? Where's my car?" My day was ruined. My car was certainly ruined. A woman, though not exactly a friend, was found dead in it, very ruined indeed. Then I thought of something and grabbed at his shirt sleeve. "Good God, Caleb, she's not still in it, is she?"
    "No, of course not," he said, offering me a hand out of the truck. "I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you. Poor old girl is at the county morgue, waiting her turn with the medical examiner. Come on, the impound lot is just around the corner. I'll tell you what I know while we walk. A camper saw it sticking tail-end up in the mud at the lake's edge about six a.m. Homicide will—"
    "What do you mean, Homicide?"
    "If it's a suspicious death, Homicide gets involved. As of now, it looks like she was driving it when she hit the tree."
    "What? Patience couldn't see past the hood ornament! How in God's name could she have been driving?"
    He nodded. "I told them."
    "What is it you're not telling me?"
    "Nothing, honest," he said, not looking me in the eye. "I'm going to introduce you to the detective and bow out."
    I gasped and pulled away from the firm clasp he had on my elbow. "I'm a suspect?"
    "Don't panic, Lalla. It's only a formality. I have rules to follow too, you know."
    I couldn't think of anything else to say, and we glumly trudged around the corner of the grim cement four-story government building. To say I was pretty shook up was an understatement. I was working my way into a full-grown migraine. It got worse when we walked into the impound yard, and I saw my Caddy. Seven layers of red lacquer were no match for the green slime growing at the edges of the lake during the summer. It clung like a fur coat to the back half of my car; the front end was covered with gray mud where it had come to rest in the shallow end of the lake.
    Detective Gayle Rodney was an out-of-shape, overworked minion of our local police system. He hadn't quite finished his Sunday breakfast and was still picking at it with a toothpick while he absent-mindedly shook my hand. "Miz Bains."
    The detective wasn't any better at making eye contact. I suspected he'd rather be sitting somewhere with his feet up, digesting his