Small Towns Can Be Murder Page 6

  A soft tapping at the back door interrupted my thoughts. Elsa Higgins’s fluff of white hair showed through the windowed panel.

  "I saw your shade was raised," she said timidly.

  Raising the kitchen window shade has been our signal to each other for years. As she gets older I watch hers especially carefully. Without unnecessarily intruding upon each other's lives, we at least know the other is alive and well every day.

  "Come in, come in," I said, stepping back. "Of course, you have to meet Drake."

  She beamed at him like she was welcoming a new grandson to the family.

  "Well, Drake, I'm so glad to meet you. Charlie's told me all about you."

  I caught his look with the widened eyes, and answered with a "well, not everything" kind of glance.

  "We just finished eating," I told her. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

  Her glance took in the clean kitchen and Drake with dish towel in hand.

  "Well, if it's not too much trouble," she said.

  "The water's already hot," I assured her. I busied myself with getting tea bag and cup while Drake folded the dish towel then took a seat at the table beside her.

  "I've always wondered what it would be like to ride in a helicopter," she said.

  The two of them eased right into a conversation while I acted busy and listened shamelessly. Drake told her about himself, but didn't dominate the conversation. He asked her about herself and about Albuquerque, and even said yes ma'am and no ma'am. I was impressed.

  By the time she left about an hour later, I was holding in my laughter.

  "Was that a case of major sucking up, or were you really that interested in her stories?" I had to ask.

  "Sorry," he said, "I guess I was just raised to be extra polite. Did I overdo it?"

  "Not a bit," I said, wrapping my arms around his neck. "You were perfect."

  We decided to take a drive, with one stop at the office so Sally and Ron could meet the guest of honor.

  The day was hot and still. Leaves on the trees hung tired and dusty, with no hint of wind to stir them. The air smelled like cooked flowers. I turned on the air conditioning in the Jeep and rolled all the windows down for the first few minutes to blow out the hot unbreathable air.

  We took our time, cruising the plaza at Old Town. The old church of San Felipe de Neri held the position of honor on one side of the plaza, with adobe shops and restaurants lining the other three sides. A white wooden bandstand sat in the center of the square, deserted now except for groups of tourists strolling and gawking. I told Drake we could come back another afternoon if he wanted to. We drove past Pedro's, one block off the plaza. Enchiladas would be a must during the visit. I couldn't allow a man in my life who wasn't fond of enchiladas.

  A few minutes later we were pulling into the parking area at our office. Ron's Mustang sat back there, but Sally's car was gone. I'd forgotten that she would have gone home by now.

  Any worries I'd had about how Ron and Drake might get along were quickly set aside. The minute Drake spotted Ron's gun lying on the desk, they found a subject in common.

  "A Beretta nine millimeter!"

  Ron released the magazine, then opened the slide to drop out the chambered round before handing the gun over.

  "Yeah, it's a nice weapon," he said.

  Drake handled the gun with respect, keeping it pointed toward the corner of the room, holding it so he could look down the sights.

  "This is a beauty," he said, his voice quiet with awe. "I really miss shooting."

  "You done much?" Ron asked.

  "I used to," Drake said. "But there are no shooting ranges in Hawaii where I live. No chance to go out and do any target practice."

  Ron gave him a sympathetic look, as if Drake had told him they didn't allow sex there. Obviously there was something about this brotherhood of target shooters that I had no clue about. They continued a conversation that was about one quarter English and three-quarters some secret man-language.

  I wandered across the hall to my own office to see what mail had shown up since yesterday. Not much. Two phone messages—one from Laura Armijo. Sally had scribbled a note of her own at the bottom, "See me about this first."

  Drake and Ron were obviously not missing my company, so I dialed Sally's home number.

  "What's up with Laura?" I asked.

  She sounded a little groggy. I'd probably awakened her from a nap.

  "Laura... Laura, let me think."

  "The message just gives her phone number, but you wrote that I should see you first," I prompted.

  "Oh, yeah." She grunted, like she was struggling to sit up and remember something at the same time. "She wondered if you were coming up there this weekend. Said her last call to you got interrupted."

  I remembered that I'd never called Laura back yesterday. Truthfully, I'd kind of let the whole matter slip my mind.

  "I'll see if Drake wants to drive up there," I said. "We could make it a little jaunt to get out of the heat here."

  "How's the visit going?" Her interest suddenly quickened. "I wanted to be there to meet him."

  "He and Ron are in there talking guns right now. I think they've found some kind of blood-brotherhood, or something."

  "I meant with you, silly. Is that spark still there?" Her voice came through as mischievous.

  Blushing, I assured her that it was. We ended the conversation with me promising that I'd bring Drake back to the office Monday so she could get a chance at him. The other message could wait, so I went back across the hall.

  "So, what do you kids have planned for the rest of the week?" Ron asked.

  I told him about the need to go up to Valle Escondido for the weekend.

  "Drake and I were just talking about getting in some target practice," he said. "Want to plan on the three of us?"

  It wasn't exactly how I'd envisioned the week going, but I didn't want to look like the party pooper.

  "Sure," I said. "This afternoon? Then we could indulge at Pedro's afterward."

  Ron had an errand to do first, so we agreed to meet at the range at five o'clock.

  All in all, I didn't embarrass myself too badly at the shooting range. Ron had been right, though, it was a sport that took lots of practice. Drake did a respectable job, considering that he was using someone else's gun and that he hadn't shot at all for several years. All three of us saw some improvement after a couple of hours practice. I had to admit that I enjoyed the challenge, and I noticed a new look of respect toward me in Drake's eyes. There's something about sharing a man's sport with him that forms a bond different than that forged by love alone.

  We arrived at Pedro's, hot and dusty and ready for margaritas. Our host, dressed in his customary white pants, shirt, and apron, managed to indulge that desire before Concha emerged from the kitchen to fuss over Drake. Within minutes she had succumbed to his warmth and perhaps just a little to his good looks. I could have sworn she was actually flirting.

  "What do you think?" I asked, after he had tasted the enchiladas.

  "Umm..." He licked his lips and rolled his eyes upward. "I have really missed having good Mexican food. These are the best."

  I squeezed his hand, glad that he shared my taste in cuisine. We scraped our plates clean and polished off every bit of margarita. Ron and Drake had discovered that they both had served in the Navy. Ron, naturally, was jealous that Drake had gotten the chance to fly. Helicopter talk and Navy slang dominated the conversation. The two most important men in my life had hit it off.

  Chapter 11

  Saturday mornings are meant for lying in bed, snuggled in the warmth of one's lover, arising late, and breakfasting indulgently. We weren't so lucky.

  The phone rang at seven. Laura's voice at the other end of the line didn't surprise me. It didn't make me especially happy, either.

  "Charlie! Finally, I've caught you at home," she exclaimed almost breathlessly.

  I mumbled something, but she didn't seem to notice.

  "Are you
planning to come up here today?"

  Sometime earlier in the week I guess I had left her with that impression. But somehow it irritated me that she would call at seven o'clock to remind me.

  "I guess so," I said. "What's up?"

  "I've learned about someone else who might have had it in for Cynthia."

  "In what way?"

  Other voices intruded into the background, and Laura muffled the phone to speak to someone else.

  "Sorry, Charlie, I've got company and I need to go. Come by my house when you get here?"

  "Okay," I agreed. What was she being so mysterious for?

  All hope of sleep was gone now. The phone had awakened Drake, too, and he had proceeded to trail kisses across my shoulder and breasts while I tried to speak coherently with Laura. Since we were awake anyway, we used the time pleasurably.

  By nine o'clock we were on the road. The Jeep's gas tank was full, Rusty curled up on the back seat, me driving, Drake sightseeing. We had packed a small overnight bag this time, just in case.

  The day was clear and already getting hot. Santa Fe's altitude of seven thousand feet made it somewhat cooler, and I hoped Valle Escondido would be even nicer, tucked up in the mountains as it was.

  "I'd forgotten what absolutely clear blue sky looked like," Drake commented. "People think of Hawaii as a sunny tropical paradise, but the fact is we have clouds all the time. I really get sick of battling the rain on my flights."

  "Maybe you should be the one thinking about relocating." Even as I said it, I wondered what I was suggesting.

  He stared out the window, taking in the rolling hills dotted with piñon. In the distance Santa Fe Baldy mountain rose, dark green at the bottom, bare above timberline. Thirty minutes later we reached the outskirts of Valle Escondido.

  Had it really been seven days since I'd visited here? The little town looked no different. I'd almost swear the same cars sat in the parking lot at Rosa's Cantina. We drew stares from more than one person along the narrow main street. I remembered the winding dirt lane leading to Laura's house, and followed it. The sameness here was reassuring. Whatever had frightened Laura bad enough to call me back here had not changed her neat flowerbeds or the meticulously kept courtyard. Rusty waited in the Jeep, parked in the heavy shade of the old cottonwood, with all the windows down. Drake and I approached the glass paneled door. Laura answered moments after my knock.

  "Oh, Charlie, thank God," she breathed. "Come in."

  I introduced Drake, and we followed Laura into the cool shadowy living room. She wore a wrinkled white pair of slacks and a striped black and white cotton shirt. Her short dark hair was neat, but she wore no makeup. I got the impression that she had dressed hastily. She indicated a leather sofa and we sat, but Laura couldn't seem to hold still. She paced, twisting her fingers together as she spoke.

  "The police were here again this morning," she said. "I wasn't sure what to tell them. I just don't know what's going on."

  Well, I sure as hell didn't know what was going on, and I was beginning to lose patience with her dramatics. I forced my voice to be calm as I spoke.

  "Why don't you start at the beginning, and tell me everything that has happened since Sally and I were here?"

  The hand wringing escalated. She had to be in pain.

  "Laura, why don't you take a couple of deep breaths, and sit down?" Drake suggested.

  She did. Her voice was much steadier when she spoke again.

  "The police have been here. Steve Bradley, our police chief, was here this morning asking questions about Richard."

  "But that's not why you called me on Thursday," I interjected logically.

  "Well, yes and no. I'd heard they were getting involved."

  "What prompted this investigation?" Drake leaned back into the sofa, completely at ease, but obviously curious.

  "That's what I called about on Thursday," Laura explained. "Cynthia's funeral Tuesday was ... well, it was weird."

  She rubbed her temples, her eyes closed. "Father Montano had just finished the mass, when Richard stood up and said he wanted to say something. He went to the front of the church and went into this long speech."

  Her dark eyes were moist now and her voice had become shaky. I asked whether she would like a glass of water, but she refused.

  "At first we all thought Richard's talk was going to be a eulogy, that he'd say something about Cynthia or the baby. But he went into this long explanation of his own behavior. Really, most of it didn't even make sense. Several times he got very emotional. He'd cry these great big sobs, then sniff and keep going with his talk. He went on and on until Father led him back to his seat."

  "That does sound weird," I said.

  "I was sitting with some of the girls from the bank, and Bobby had gone with me. We all left there feeling pretty shaken up."

  I thought back to the battered women's group I'd attended. The speaker had said that abusers had a very deep seated need to justify their behavior. Was that what this was all about?

  "And you think the police heard about the incident and decided to investigate Richard after all?" I asked.

  "No, I think that came because of the fight," she said. She was pacing again.

  "Fight?"

  "At the cemetery."

  "Laura, maybe you better breathe again, sit down, and tell us the rest of it."

  Drake offered to get some coffee, and she told him where to find the cups. I leaned forward, elbows on knees, to hear what she would come up with next.

  "At the cemetery, Richard got into it with Barbara Lewis. Barbara is the bank manager, and Cynthia's immediate supervisor."

  "What was their problem?" I asked. Drake came back into the room with three mugs on a small tray. He had found the sugar and creamer, too. I had to admire his resourcefulness.

  "Barbara's known among those at the bank as the office witch. She's a tough manager, and can be a real bitch at times. Cynthia worked directly under her, and I'm sure Cynthia didn't have it easy. She probably complained to Richard about work sometimes. I mean, everyone does. What are spouses for?"

  She calmed visibly as she sipped the coffee. "Anyway, Richard really tied into Barbara, right there in front of the grave. He accused Barbara of killing Cynthia."

  Chapter 12

  "Surely he didn't mean that literally?" I could almost feel my mouth hanging open.

  "I don't know. He sure sounded like he did."

  "What happened next?" Drake asked.

  "Barbara defended herself. I mean, she's not one to keep her mouth shut. They got into a real screaming match. Everyone else was really upset by then. Cynthia's mother fainted. Two of his brothers hustled Richard out of there. By the time Mrs. Lovato came to, he was gone, but she still had to be carried to her car. The rest of the crowd was pretty shaken up. We didn't even go to the house afterward."

  Again, she looked like she might cry.

  "What kinds of questions were the police asking?"

  "Mostly about the fight at the cemetery. Someone must have told Steve Bradley about it. That wouldn't be unusual. In a town this size, everyone knows everything about everybody. He wanted to know about Barbara and Cynthia's relationship at work. Had I ever heard Barbara make any threats, that kind of thing."

  "Had you?"

  "Barbara uses threats as a way of business," she said. "It's a ... heavy atmosphere at work. We're all afraid of making mistakes. But a death threat? Hardly."

  "Did Cynthia take the job threats seriously?" I asked.

  "I don't think so," she replied. "All she thought about was the baby. I'm pretty sure she planned to quit work anyway after the baby came. She wanted to be a full-time mother."

  Drake and I left a few minutes later. Rusty hung his head out the window as we approached the Jeep, making me feel guilty for leaving him there so long. However, once we got in, I realized it wasn't that hot with all the windows down and the big shady cottonwood tree overhead.

  "I feel like I ought to talk to that police chief," I to
ld Drake. "And maybe the bank manager if we can find her on a weekend. But I feel like this isn't quite how you planned on spending your vacation."

  He smiled that beautiful warm smile at me. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I like watching you in action."

  I remembered where the police station was from my previous visit. We pulled into the gravel parking lot. The only other car there was a patrol cruiser, a dark blue four-wheel drive with blue and red lights on top. A gold shield-shaped emblem on the door said Valle Escondido Police Department. There were no shady parking spaces here, so Drake volunteered to stay with Rusty and let him out for a run.

  Inside, the one story building was split in two by a hallway running from the front door to the back. The first door on my right had a small plastic sign above it, the kind that sticks out into the hallway, hanging from a metal bracket. It said Administrative Offices. Directly across the hall was an identical arrangement with the words Police Department.

  I opened the door, which had wavy opaque glass in the top half, to find myself facing a long counter. The Formica top had once been white, but was now covered with ink streaks, scratches, and carved initials. No one was in sight. I tapped once on a silver metal bell that had been placed on the counter for my convenience. The Chief himself answered.

  Steve Bradley was fifty-ish with blond hair going silver, tall, and probably good-looking except for the extra forty pounds he carried, mostly around the middle. He wore his dark uniform shirt open at the collar, showing the neck of a white undershirt and a sprouting of chest hair above it. He carried a clipboard and appeared to be in motion, like he hadn't yet found a chance to sit down today. I identified him by the collar insignia words "Chief" flanking his neck.

  "Chief Bradley," I said, "I'm Charlie Parker, from Albuquerque."

  His eyebrows went upward in a silent question.

  "An acquaintance here in Valle Escondido was a friend of Cynthia Martinez. I understand there have been some questions about her death."