A Black Place and a White Place

by Patrice Greenwood

  He sat up. “This was last night?”

  “So I gathered.”

  “Did you tell the locals?”

  “No. They didn’t ask. I assumed she’d tell them, when they asked her where she was yesterday evening.”

  Tony frowned. “That could be considered withholding evidence.”

  I shook my head. “It’s incidental. We already knew that he was abusive toward his family. A torn picture isn’t a likely motive for murder. But it could explain why he ran off, to blow off steam.”

  Tony sighed. “What else did she say?”

  I gazed at him for a long moment. “She didn’t tell me this, but I observed something. I want you to keep it in confidence.”

  “If it has a bearing on the crime, I can’t.”

  “Then you’ll have to make your own observations.”

  He gave me a flat look. “You’re not being objective. You’re protecting her.”

  “I’m protecting her because I see her being unfairly targeted! Tony, she’s not the kind of person to kill a man.”

  “Anyone can become a killer.”

  “She has a son to take care of. Given Wesley’s behavior toward Jeremy, I think she’d have killed him long ago if she’d wanted to, and been able to.”

  Tony’s eyes narrowed. “What if Wesley threatened the boy’s life yesterday?”

  “I agree, that would be an inspiring motive. But I don’t think Jeremy was there when Wesley tore up the painting. Lisette didn’t mention him.”

  Tony gave a grudging nod. “You’re right. He was in the cantina, watching TV, from seven to around ten. Lots of people corroborated it.”

  “So Jeremy wasn’t under any threat,” I said.

  “And he probably didn’t kill his dad.”

  I came back to the bed and curled up against Tony. He slid his free arm around me. I snuggled against him, comforted by the contact.

  “Lisette and Wesley were alone when he tore up her picture,” I said. “Why would she follow him to kill him over that? And I bet she’s not able to run as fast as he could. She’s trim, but all her shoes are more fashionable than practical. She’s not an athlete.”

  Tony was silent. I turned to face him. “Were there any footprints that could be hers? On the road, following his?”

  “No. But that just means she didn’t go in on foot.”

  “If she’d gone in a vehicle, the tracks would cover some of his.”

  “True. We didn’t spot any like that, but we didn’t walk the whole length of the road.”

  “And now the snow is covering the tracks.”

  “Might still be something to see, once it melts.”

  “If it melts.”

  “Let’s check the forecast.”

  Tony picked up his phone and swiped at it. I thought of Lisette, alone in her room with her sleeping son. I hadn’t asked, but I guessed that she didn’t have an alibi. She’d just been through an argument and been hit by her husband. She probably didn’t feel like going out. Maybe she took a shower. Maybe she went to bed, with an icepack for her eye. Either way, no alibi.

  I wished I could offer her more comfort, though I had to respect her wishes and her need for privacy. Did her casita have a fireplace, I wondered? If it was a kiva fireplace, did she know how to light a fire in it? Probably not.

  But then, it was probably blocked up with particle board anyway.

  “Hmm,” Tony said. “Doesn’t look good. Eight to ten inches.”

  “Tonight?”

  “According to the weather site. Mostly after midnight. Looks like we might get snowed in, babe.”

  I pictured trying to get my Camry down the dirt entrance road in eight inches of snow. “Maybe the ranch has a plow blade for one of their trucks,” I said hopefully.

  Looking toward the window, I saw it was beginning to get dark. Suddenly I wasn’t sure we’d be able to drive to the Inn for our dinner reservation, or more importantly, to get back. I got up and walked over to the window, peering at the gray sky. The snow was falling harder, starting to stick. Maybe a quarter inch on the ground.

  “Let me show you something,” Tony said.

  I went back to the bed. He handed me his phone. “There was one other print at the scene. Smaller than Roan’s. I spotted it near the edge of the arroyo.”

  More dirt, a couple of scraggy clumps of dry grass, a tree branch. At the edge of a grass clump, the back half of a boot print: flat and without tread, but with a heel.

  “Could be a cowboy boot,” I said.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Lisette wasn’t wearing cowboy boots on the trail ride.”

  “I know.”

  “So this probably isn’t her print.”

  “Yeah.”

  There had to be a zillion cowboy boots in Rio Arriba County. I frowned, then zoomed in the picture. “The end of that branch has been cut.”

  “Very good. That’s the branch that was dragged over the prints.”

  “So you could get a fingerprint from it!”

  “Not likely, off of bark. And the killer could have worn gloves.”

  “But they’ll look at it?”

  “Yup. Evidence guys collected it.”

  I frowned. “That’s the only other footprint?”

  “I think so.” Tony nodded toward the phone. “I took more pictures. Go ahead and look at them. Maybe you’ll see something I didn’t.”

  I scrolled through, a little worried that there would be a picture of the scene that was already etched on my memory. Most were pictures of dirt, with more streaks of the branches. I squinted, but couldn’t make out any footprints. Pictures of the arroyo as it continued northward. A picture of a fence across the arroyo, with a hand-painted sign hanging on it, blue with white letters, like the sign I’d seen on the trail ride. Pictures of trees. Pictures of the view back toward the place where the horse trail crossed the arroyo.

  I handed the phone back to Tony, and sat musing. “You said he wasn’t just hanged.”

  “No.”

  “What else?”

  “Sure you want to hear?”

  I looked at him. His face was serious. The concerned face; he wanted to protect me.

  “If I can help, then yes,” I said.

  “He was dragged behind the horse before he was strung up.”

  “Dragged?”

  “Yeah. The killer brushed away most of the marks, but they didn’t brush the dirt off his back, and his clothes were messed up. They put the rope under his arms, dragged him to the tree, and strung him up.”

  I was appalled. I’d assumed it was a hate crime, but now it looked even worse.

  “So he was unconscious? Or were his hands tied?”

  “Hands weren’t tied. He took a blow to the head, so probably unconscious.”

  “God.”

  “Also...”

  “What?”

  “He was shot. With a shotgun.”

  I blinked, and took a steadying breath. “Before or after he was hanged?”

  “Good question. After, they think—because he didn’t bleed much. It wasn’t point blank, so the shot scattered.”

  “They shot him after he was dead? Just for spite?”

  “Looks that way. The ME will know for sure.”

  I shook my head. I had trouble believing anyone could be so hateful, even to a man like Wesley Roan.

  I lived a sheltered life, I knew. I was being shown just how sheltered. Just how awful other people’s lives could be. Had been.

  Poor Lisette. I wondered how much of this she knew.

  “I doubt Lisette has a shotgun,” I remarked.

  “Wesley could have.”

  “There’s no gun rack in their SUV. And I seriously doubt Lisette would have taken her kid on a trail ride the morning after killing his dad,” I said.

  “Good point. That would take nerves of steel. Not sure she’s that chill.”

  Suddenly I felt the need to move. I started putting my shoes back on. “Let’s go for a walk
.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Um, it’s still snowing....”

  I put on my coat and pulled my scarf out of the pockets, then grabbed my hat off the dresser. Tony got up and fetched his own coat and hat.

  Outside, I took deep breaths of the clean, cold air. Tony stood beside me, waiting. Giving me the lead. I looked toward the dining hall, where there was coffee but not much else at this hour. Looked back toward the welcome center, but thought the sheriffs might still be around.

  “Show me the cantina,” I said.

  “OK.”

  He led the way up the road past the dining hall. We passed a large dorm building, L-shaped with a big yard in front. Beyond it was a long, unmarked building. Tony led me to the left end, where there was a door.

  “This is it?”

  “Yeah. Shh. There are probably people watching a game.”

  After just that short walk, my face was chilled and I needed to blow my nose. We brushed the snow off our shoulders, stamped it off our feet, then went in.

  I had expected something remotely lounge-like, perhaps with a couple of old sofas. Instead, we entered a room with an old TV in a cabinet in one corner and a large kiva fireplace in another, its mouth blocked with the usual particle board. A spinet-style piano near the door looked pathetically lonely, and rang more summer camp bells. Several people sat in a semi-circle of folding chairs, watching the football game on TV and listening to the sports announcer’s commentary through its single, tinny speaker. The only person I recognized was the flag hat guy. Today he had on a Cowboys sweatshirt as well as the hat (which he shouldn’t have been wearing indoors). He gave me a long look, glanced at Tony, and returned his attention to the TV. The program appeared to be a pregame show—lots of talk, with occasional clips from various football games.

  I could just imagine Wesley Roan’s indignation on being presented with this room as the best option for viewing The Game.

  Tony helped me out of my coat, and hung it on a coat rack along with his. He led the way over to two empty chairs at the end of the semicircle. I sat beside him, watched the commentary for a couple of minutes, then snuck a look at Flag-Hat Guy. He was probably around forty, white as could be, with a light sprinkling of freckles to go with his sandy hair. He held a beer can in one hand, and occasionally dipped the other into a bag of barbecue-flavored chips on the chair next to his.

  Could this be a man who had killed the previous night? If he was, he was a consummate actor, because he looked entirely blasé. Killing time—so to speak—until the game began.

  “Dang, it’s quiet,” said a pudgy man with brown hair.

  “Be grateful,” said a heavily tanned guy with bristly gray hair across the room. “Every minute that Texans jerk stays away is a gift.”

  “Figured he’d be here by now,” said the pudgy guy.

  I kept my attention on Flag Hat Guy. He’d heard this exchange, because he’d glanced once at the pudgy guy. But his face showed no reaction. He didn’t suddenly flush (as redheads were prone to do). He didn’t fidget in his chair. He was merely bored, merely waiting. I found this disappointing, since Flag Hat Guy was my first choice for a murder suspect.

  “He won’t be coming,” Tony said, which surprised me. Everyone turned to look at him. I shifted my gaze to the side, so Flag Hat wouldn’t catch me watching him. He glanced at Tony, then looked back at the TV. Still bored.

  “He a friend of yours?” asked the pudgy guy.

  “No,” Tony said. “I just know he won’t be here.”

  “How come?”

  “’Cause he died last night.”

  9

  Suddenly all eyes were on us. Tony had surprised me as much as the others, and I looked at him with a little gasp.

  “Ha! Best news I heard all day!”

  It was Flag Hat. I shot him a resentful glance, but he wasn’t looking. He was swigging his beer.

  “What happened?” asked the tanned guy.

  Tony was looking at his phone, apparently deaf. He stood and turned to me, holding out a hand. “Gotta go.”

  Embarrassed, I glanced around the room, then let him lead me away. We retrieved our coats and donned them on the way out the door.

  “Why did you say that?” I hissed.

  Tony grinned, but didn’t answer.

  “They’re going to think we’re weird, leaving right after we got there,” I said as we trudged away.

  “You didn’t really want to watch football, did you?” Tony said.

  “No.”

  The sky was thickening overhead. It was still daylight, but the storm was heavy enough that it was hard to tell the time of day. The sun was completely obscured. The snowfall was getting heavier, and cast a blanket of quiet over the land.

  “Why did you tell them Wesley was dead?” I asked as we passed the dining hall.

  “Flushing the wolf out of the sheep pen, I hope.”

  “But now they’re going to spread the word, and go looking for information!”

  “Right. And the ones who don’t go looking, might be worth looking at.”

  I digested that for a few paces. “What are the ‘locals’ going to think of your strategy?”

  “If it’s successful, they’ll be grateful, I hope. Think I’ll walk down to HQ and hang out for a while, see if anyone takes the bait.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Better than sitting around doing nothing.”

  We had maybe an hour before we should get ready for our dinner at the Abiquiu Inn. If Tony was going to spend it hobnobbing with “the locals,” I sure wasn’t going to spend it sitting around in our room.

  In the welcome center, situation normal. The trading post was open, the snack bar closed with a sign referring the hungry to the trading post. Tony took a quick look around, then headed for the office the sheriffs had used for interviews. I wandered into the trading post, where I recognized one of the middle-aged ladies who’d been on our trail ride, buying a Ghost Ranch sweatshirt and a scarf.

  The center of the shop was filled with racks of souvenir clothing and shelves of knick-knacks and snacks. One long wall displayed books, and at the end was a section of art supplies. This was where Lisette had bought her pastels. I looked them over. Bound pads and spiral-bound books of drawing paper in several sizes, sets of pastels and watercolors, brushes, even “how to paint” books. Everything for the beginner inspired by O’Keeffe’s landscapes.

  I tried to recall any work of hers that featured snow. Couldn’t come up with one. Glancing up, I looked over a collection of O’Keeffe posters hung just under a high set of clerestory windows. Most were of the local landscapes. Only one jumped out at me, Black Cross New Mexico.

  I swallowed, not wanting to contemplate that particular image at the moment. I went back to the books, looking for a big fat book filled with reproductions of O’Keeffe’s art, something I’d been wishing I had as I read the biography, which was filled with references to specific paintings. Several such books were offered, all prohibitively expensive. I picked one of them and checked the index for “snow.” No luck. Leafing through the book, which was roughly in chronological order, I saw the progression of her work from the early years in New York—the city views and the wildly successful flower paintings—to Lake George where she’d spent summers with Alfred Stieglitz’s family, to Texas where she’d taught art for a while, and ultimately to New Mexico. Once she’d discovered Taos, and then the Chama River valley, it was all over. This was where she wanted to be, and not even her marriage to Stieglitz—which by then was on the rocks—could keep her away.

  In fact, finding Ghost Ranch had rescued her from a bout of chronic depression that had followed an unpleasant discovery: Stieglitz had been having an affair with his assistant. Though O’Keeffe remained in the marriage until Stieglitz died, her work took precedence ever after.

  I wondered if Tony’s work would take precedence. Not that I would e
ver cheat on him—but I sometimes felt he was jealous of the energy and attention I spent on the tearoom. Having made a serious commitment to my career, I had to consider that Tony’s devotion to his work was every bit as serious. I’d have to be prepared for the possibility that his job would, at least sometimes, take precedence. Would our marriage succeed anyway? Would it be worth the effort to make it succeed?

  Turning a page, I saw a familiar painting: From the Faraway Nearby. Not snow, exactly, but it had a wintry look. The giant, antlered skull—I suspected elk, rather than deer—points reaching skyward against a background that went from pale pink to vibrant blue, reminded me of the barren trees in the river valley. The hills on the horizon were tiny, almost an afterthought, compared to the antlers that dominated the picture. O’Keeffe had even added an extra antler branch to the left side of the arrangement, which I’d never noticed before, despite staring at Mom’s poster since my childhood.

  Strange, the things we fail to notice, even though they’re right before us.

  I closed the book and put it back on the shelf. Maybe the Ranch’s library would have a copy I could borrow. I continued browsing the books, and heard a woman’s voice behind me complaining that her sunset tour had been canceled.

  “Well, honey,” said another woman, “ain’t going to see no sunset today, and you wouldn’t like riding a horse through this snow.”

  Not to mention that it would hardly be safe, going up and down the narrow paths in and out of the arroyos. And there would be no breathtaking views.

  I glanced behind me to see who was speaking. A party of four women I didn’t recognize—new arrivals, maybe—nursing cups of hot coffee from the snack bar as they groused. They looked like tourists, wearing heavy flannel shirts and down vests, and cowboy boots that looked brand new. They didn’t know how lucky they were that their excursion had been canceled—an hour and a half in the saddle in unbroken boots—yikes!

  I turned to the nick-knacks, thinking I should choose some little gifts for my friends and staff. Kris would be easy—something with the cow-skull Ghost Ranch logo on it, preferably black. Of course, I already had O’Keeffe’s favorite tea for her, but I felt kind of obligated to get something with the cow skull as well. For Nat, I had the O’Keeffe datebook. For Julio, Manny, and Gina, it was a harder choice. I browsed my way around the end of a shelf, started going up the other side, and stopped.