Steven Havill - Before She Dies

Estelle agreed with my suggestion, and Robert Bales, the hospital administrator, suggested we use his office. I went home, showered, shaved, and donned a fresh uniform. And then I drove across town to Karl Woodruff’s home.

I hadn’t seen Woodruff since the two of us had talked in his drugstore Monday. When he opened the door, he looked like his own father. Dark circles under red eyes, drawn cheeks, blotchy, pale complexion-even his hair looked more heavily streaked with gray.

“Bill,” he said, and held open the storm door.

“Can you give me a few minutes, Karl?”

“Of course.” He beckoned me inside.

After he had shut the door, I put my hand on his shoulder. “Karl, is Bea here?”

“She’s resting.”

“It’s really important that we talk with you both, Karl.”

His brow furrowed and he looked at his watch. “We’re expecting some relatives from out of town before long.” He managed a smile. “You picked the one time when the place hasn’t been full of neighbors. I had to shag everyone out so Bea could have some peace and quiet.”

“I understand. And I know it’s not a good time for me to be here, either. I wouldn’t be bothering you folks if I didn’t think this was important. What we really need is to talk with both you and Bea. Detective Reyes-Guzman and I.”

“Oh,” Karl said, and it came out as more of a groan, the kind of noise he might have made as he pulled out a really deep sliver.

“We have an office we can use at the hospital, if you would.”

“The hospital?”

“The detective was injured last night. She’s in a wheelchair and can’t travel yet.”

Woodruff frowned and looked at the floor. After a moment, he shook his head and half turned away. “Give me a few minutes,” he said, and walked across the living room toward the hallway.

Five minutes turned into ten, and just about the time I was looking about for a comfortable chair, Woodruff reappeared.

“Can we meet you there in twenty minutes?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be happy to drive you down there and back.”

He smiled faintly. “That won’t be necessary.”

The couple had their own private sense of time, because it was more than an hour later when Karl and Bea Woodruff settled into the leather chairs in Robert Bales’s office. Estelle Reyes-Guzman had drawn her wheelchair up near one of the large brown hassocks and propped her leg cast up. That and having a checkered afghan loaned by the hospital auxiliary draped around her shoulders made her look frail and vulnerable.

Bea Woodruff winced as she looked at Estelle’s plasterwork, arm sling, and forehead stitchery. “You should be home in bed,” she said. I saw her back straighten a little as she focused on someone else’s troubles.

Estelle smiled and reached out a hand, taking Bea Woodruff’s in hers. “I’m fine,” she said. “Really.” She leaned forward in the wheelchair, still holding Bea’s hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Woodruff, we have reason to believe that your daughter’s death was not accidental.” The room fell silent and Karl and Bea’s eyes were locked on Estelle. Tears flowed down Bea’s cheeks, but she ignored them, letting them drip off to make tiny dark blotches on her blue linen dress.

“We feel that there is no way, no physical way, that Tammy could have driven up that road as far as she did, given the level of intoxication in her blood that the medical examiners believe existed.”

Again, the couple remained silent. “Mr. and Mrs. Woodruff,” Estelle said, “we believe someone was with your daughter Sunday night and again on Monday. Someone she knows. Perhaps someone she had come to trust.”

“What can we tell you?” Karl Woodruff asked. “I mean, who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we need to know, sir,” Estelle said. “Do you know Patrick Torrance?” Estelle’s voice was almost a whisper.

The Woodruffs nodded, and Karl started to say, “But he’s…”

“We don’t believe Patrick Torrance had anything to do with your daughter’s death, Mr. Woodruff. I know it looks that way, with the crash happening on County Road 14 on the way to the Torrance ranch. But the evidence just isn’t there. We also have heard that Tammy had been seeing Brett Prescott.”

Karl Woodruff nodded. “We thought well of him, too. And I’ve known the family for years. Surely…”

“Can you think of anyone else she was seeing?”

Bea Woodruff leaned back into the dark leather and rested her head, eyes closed. Karl sat hunched, his hands covering his face.

“I hadn’t seen my daughter for three weeks,” Bea Woodruff said finally. She rocked her head from side to side. “Three weeks. We had some stupid…some stupid little argument, and she wouldn’t come over to the house.” The woman groped toward her purse, and Estelle leaned over with a box of tissues.

“What was the argument about?”

Bea Woodruff honked, dabbed her eyes, and waved a hand in dismissal. “You know. One of those silly things. I had talked to Jane Ross-she and I are such good friends-and Jane agreed to offer Tammy another chance at the realty. You know, I always thought that Tammy would be so good at that. She’s so good with people, you know.” She leaned her head back again and closed her eyes. “I just mentioned it to Tammy, and she exploded. Such a temper she’s always had. Told me to stop meddling. That she didn’t want to earn a living ‘selling land to fat, rich Texans.’ Those were her exact words.”

“And that was three weeks ago?”

The woman nodded. Estelle looked at Karl. He was working his hands as if he had a ball of putty between them.

“Sir, do you know anyone else with whom she may have been associating?”

Karl shook his head. “I learned a long time ago that Tammy and I could stay on the best of terms if I didn’t pry,” he said softly.

Estelle shifted in the wheelchair, moved her leg a fraction, and then cradled her face against a fold of the afghan in her right hand. She looked like a little kid.

“Who was Tammy’s best friend?” Estelle asked. Both of the Woodruffs looked puzzled. “Her very best friend.”

“You mean, like a girlfriend?” Bea asked, and Estelle nodded.

“During high school, for example. I know she was popular, but most youngsters have got one person as a friend who’s special above all the others.”

Bea almost managed a smile. “Oh, she and Elena Munoz were inseparable since ninth grade. And oh, that Elena. Do you know her?” She looked at Estelle. “I think her parents are from Mexico.”

“I know her parents,” I said, and both of the Woodruffs snapped around as if they were surprised to discover that I was in the room.

“Well,” Bea said, “she was a wild one, I guess. You’d never guess it to look at her. Little slip of a thing. Beautiful hair down to her waist. Face like an angel. But she hated school, my goodness how she hated school. She skipped so much during her sophomore year that they finally suspended her.”

“That makes sense,” I said.

“Doesn’t it, though,” Bea replied. “And she never went back. Then Tammy started to skip. Half the time she was with Elena, and who knows what troubles the two of them together could concoct.”

“And after Tammy graduated?” Estelle asked.

“No one, really. Not that I’m aware of,” Bea said. “I know she still spends time with Elena. I saw them coming out of one of the clothing stores a week or so ago as I was driving by. They had their heads together, giggling like a couple of little kids. I remember because I’d been feeling so badly for her…for Tammy, I mean. I so wanted her to be happy. And I saw her that day, and she looked so carefree, so radiant.” Bea leaned her head to one side, eyebrows arched as she reminisced. “Packages in one hand, arm-in-arm with a friend.”