“You can tell the police, if they arrest you, that she gave you the letters and was afraid for her life. You didn’t know her husband or her brother-in-law and so you didn’t put the bodies together with the body in the garden. That way, later on, when they started to ask questions, you were afraid, you see, and then you finally decided that it would be best to give them the letters. That way they won’t suspect you.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know what to do?” I asked. “Why don’t you give them the letters? Or better yet —put’em in a big envelope and send them to the police.”
“Will you do it?” he blurted.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to read those letters. But I wavered. I didn’t want to be impulsive.
“What are you trying to do?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” Again, the rough innocence of the man made him hard to doubt.
But I tried anyway.
“What I mean,” I said, “is that you could be using me here.”
“How?”
“Somebody has already called the school, and the police, blaming me for the break-ins. Maybe if I take those letters you run to Sanchez and tell him that I know more than I’m tellin’.”
“Is that what you think?” Preston was astonished. “I’m not trying to get you in trouble. These letters show that whatever trouble there is is in that family. I want the police to know the truth, but I’m trying to stay out of trouble myself.”
He held the letters out to me.
I strummed my lips with my right hand and then reached.
“Thank you,” Preston said.
Then he put out his hand. I shook it. Why not?
CHAPTER 32
I DIDN’T KNOW about Bill Preston. Maybe he was honestly too afraid to handle those letters. Maybe he thought that they might get lost in the mails or misunderstood by a self-confident Sanchez.
Maybe he killed Idabell and he knew that the postmark would be after her death.
None of that mattered though. I wanted to read those letters and so I took them.
I bolted the fire door, intending to burn the letters if anyone tried to break in on me.
Then I sat down to read. The first letter was in the lovely hand of Idabell Turner. The words were barely contained by the blue lines of the classroom essay paper. It was dated on the morning we made love.
To the Police, the Public Prosecutor, and the Criminal Courts of the state of California:
I. Idabell Turner/Gasteau, do hereby state that my husband, Holland Bonaparte Gasteau, has threatened my life and that I am in such fear of him that I am fleeing my home, my job, and any friends that know both me and my husband. I leave this letter, and a letter from him to me, in case Holland finds me and murders me without a witness to point at him.
Idabell Turner
Holland’s letter was also handwritten, printed actually. The script was larger than in the note I’d found in his wallet but there was still that angry slashing slant to his words. He’d used such force with his ballpoint that the paper was torn in spots.
The letter wasn’t signed but I was sure that it was genuine. I was also sure that he’d meant every word. He loved his wife; he wanted her to happily be his slave; he would kill her if she didn’t accept her role.
Idabell had waited a month too long to run away. She should have done it on the night she got that letter. The minute the pistol appeared on that page it was bound to go off.
I folded the letters and put them in my pocket. There was no reason to give them to the police. They didn’t prove a thing that would help me.
I HAD COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN about Ace when he caught up with me on my way to the parking lot and Mouse’s car.
“Mr. Rawlins,” he called from far off. “Mr. Rawlins.”
I watched the small man approach me across the blacktop. He took the baseball cap from his head when he reached me.
“Mr. Rawlins, I have something to talk to you about.”
