A Black Place and a White Place

by Patrice Greenwood

  There, talking rather earnestly to the cashier, was the older, tanned guy who’d been in the cantina. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Casually browsing, pretending interest in the T-shirts and souvenir shot glasses, I gradually sidled closer to the cash register, keeping my back toward it as much as possible in case the tanned guy remembered me.

  “—said the guy was dead, but didn’t say how.”

  “Yeah, he’s dead,” said the cashier. “The cops are here.”

  “Any idea what happened?”

  “No, but they’re talking to people. Must have been a fight.”

  I paused next to the shot glasses and took out my phone to send Tony a text:

  Guy from cantina in trading post. Asking clerk about Wesley.

  Turning away, I pocketed my phone and ambled out toward the office where the sheriffs had been. The door was closed. I didn’t see Tony; maybe he was inside, conferring.

  It was cold in the entryway, so I went into the reception room, where a solitary clerk was sitting behind the counter waiting to assist anyone who braved the snow to get here. It was the same woman who’d checked us in and told me about the Ghost House: Debbie. We exchanged nods. She seemed a little tense, but given the events of the past few hours, that was understandable.

  “I hope everyone’s here who needs to be,” I said, glancing toward the window.

  “There’s one party coming in, but they might cancel. All the tours are canceled anyway.”

  I nodded and sipped. “Do you live in Abiquiu?”

  “Tesuque.”

  “How’s the highway?”

  “I came it at seven, so I don’t know. Shouldn’t be too bad yet.”

  I heard a door close, and glanced toward the hall. Tony had come out of the office and was heading for the trading post. I turned back to Debbie.

  “I really enjoyed the concert last night. Does Bernardo Milagro play here very often?”

  “Usually once a year. It almost always sells out. Last night didn’t, but January’s pretty slow.”

  “Well, I’ll probably come again. He was amazing.”

  “He does workshops, too. Here, they’re in the catalog.”

  She offered me a brochure listing the (expensive) classes, workshops, and retreats available throughout the year. I already had a copy, but I accepted it with a smile and listened to her describe Milagro’s “Sacred Drumming” workshop. Tony came in just as she was wrapping up.

  “There you are.”

  “Hi,” I said as Tony slid his arm around my waist and pulled me toward the hall. “The deputy wants to talk to you,” he said quietly when we were out.

  “Again?”

  My heart gave a little flutter of cop aversion. I told it to settle down. I had nothing to fear, and nothing to hide.

  Same office, but this time it was the younger sheriff behind the desk. He stood as I came in, and offered a hand.

  “Ms. Rosings? I’m Victor Trujillo.”

  “Hello.”

  His handshake was feather-light. He invited me politely to sit, and as I looked closer at his face I began to wonder if he might be Pueblo, or part Pueblo. The rounded cheeks, the narrow eyes—and his gentle demeanor was strikingly different from that of his colleague. And there was definitely something familiar about him, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. His black hair was cut fairly short, but not buzzed.

  Tony had come in with me, and took the other visitor chair, pushing it back so he could see both me and the sheriff. I wondered where the older guy was.

  “I was expecting Sheriff Romero,” I said into the silence.

  Trujillo and Tony exchanged a wry glance. “He’s gone home for the day. But this case is still a priority, so I’ll be here for a while.”

  Trujillo was probably a bachelor, then, and Romero went home to his family, leaving the mess in his subordinate’s hands. I glanced at Tony. Clearly he was comfortable with this guy, which told me a lot.

  “How can I help you?” I said as the silence stretched again. I knew it was a classic cop technique, but Trujillo didn’t seem to want to intimidate me. More like he was waiting for me to think of something new.

  “Would you mind just going over what happened yesterday again?” he said, leaning his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together. “Sorry, but I wasn’t here for your interview. All I have is my boss’s notes.” He gestured toward the open file before him, and I remembered how laboriously the sheriff had written. Highly likely that he hadn’t recorded everything I said.

  “OK,” I said, and proceeded to tell him the whole story. His expression was of mild interest, and I found myself offering more detail, incidental as it might be. Occasionally he nodded, but he didn’t say anything until I had finished.

  “Do you think any of the others saw the body?” he asked.

  “If they did, they didn’t say anything. Tony and I were at the end of the string.”

  He nodded, and made a couple of notes on a steno pad, then put down the pen and looked at me. “I understand you’re acquainted with the Roan family?”

  “Just with Lisette, really. I haven’t talked much with Jeremy, and not at all with Wesley.”

  Slow nod. “How did you meet Mrs. Roan?”

  “At the drinks counter in the dining hall.”

  “The drinks counter?”

  “Yes. We struck up a conversation and discovered we both like tea.”

  “Ah.”

  He gazed at the desktop, as if contemplating tea. I sat back in my chair, perfectly willing to wait.

  “Did Mrs. Roan seem happy to you?” he asked after a pause.

  “Happy?”

  “When you met.”

  I thought about it, then sighed. “I wouldn’t describe her as happy, no. Resigned, perhaps.”

  “Resigned? To her marriage?”

  “Best to be hoped for, really.”

  “With a husband like Mr. Roan, you mean.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you think she wanted out of her marriage?”

  I paused. Lisette had told me as much, but not until today. Had I thought she wanted out yesterday?

  “Probably,” I said. “It wasn’t a good match.”

  “Then why did they get married?”

  “He wanted a pretty wife, she wanted security.”

  “But then—somewhere along the way—she changed her mind?”

  I returned his placid gaze, wondering if he was gently laying a trap for me. “I don’t know that,” I said slowly, “but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear it.”

  “But she didn’t get a divorce.”

  “They have a son. Maybe she stayed for his sake.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “No,” I said, “but she did tell me she was going to make sure Jeremy had opportunities his father never had.”

  Trujillo lifted his chin slightly. “Wasn’t Mr. Roan well off?”

  “Apparently. His wife is certainly well-dressed. They have a luxurious car.”

  “You’ve seen their car?”

  “Lisette gave me a ride back in it, after the trail ride.”

  When Tony was with you, I added in thought. Going over the crime scene.

  I looked at Tony, who was kicked back in his chair, listening. He gave me a tiny shrug.

  “She gave you a ride back,” Trujillo said. “Did you mention what you had seen?”

  I straightened in my chair. “I know better than that,” I said, matching his gentle tone.

  “You didn’t say anything at all?”

  “I told her that I’d seen what might be a crime scene, and that I couldn’t talk about it.”

  “OK.” He nodded. “What about later? After she knew?”

  “After she knew, she chewed me out for not telling her before.”

  “Oh.” He looked at his pen, but didn’t pick it up. Instead, he met my gaze again. “Do you think she’s innocent?”

  “I do.”

  “She has no alibi.”

  “That�
�s understandable.”

  He looked surprised. “Understandable?”

  “She stayed in the room alone after they argued and he stormed away.”

  A slight frown creased his forehead. “Why is that understandable?”

  I took a steadying breath. I’d said as much as I dared, as much as I felt I was obligated to. “Have you talked to her, Sheriff Trujillo?”

  “Deputy. No, I haven’t.”

  “When you do, be as considerate as you’ve been toward me, and you should learn some things.”

  His eyes widened slightly, then he gave a slow nod. “Thank you.”

  I nodded back.

  As if this signaled the end of the interview, Tony sat up and stretched. “Think I’ll go see what people are gossiping about.”

  Trujillo stood as well, and they exchanged a light fist bump. He then turned to me.

  “Thank you, Ms. Rosings. I might want to talk with you again.”

  “Sure,” I said, shaking hands. Again, he barely touched my fingers. “I’m happy to help any way I can.”

  He smiled, then sat and picked up his pen. Tony held the door for me. Glancing toward the front doors as we entered the hall, I saw that the sky was darker. Snow coming down harder.

  Tony headed for the snack bar, where the four newcomers had settled in with their coffee and were passing around a package of cookies from the trading post. They had progressed from grousing about their canceled tour to grousing about the snow. Tony made a slow circuit of the room, apparently admiring the movie posters, though I was sure he was eavesdropping shamelessly. Unwilling to join this masquerade, I took out my phone. It was after five.

  In a couple of minutes, Tony joined me and led the way toward the front doors. Before stepping out, I wound my scarf around my neck and zipped up my coat. Hat on head, gloves on hands because the snow was about an inch deep and we had to go down the uneven path.

  The storm had brought darkness early. The parking area below was lit by a couple of tall lights. Snowflakes danced through the orangish light and back into the dark. Tony stayed beside me as we walked slowly back to the Ghost House. There were a few footprints in the snow, already getting covered up.

  At our door, we de-snowed ourselves as much as possible before going in. Tony unlocked it and I stepped in.

  “Babe, I think we’re gonna have to postpone that fancy dinner,” he said, nudging the thermostat on the wall up a tick.

  “Yeah,” I said, shaking snow from my hat. “I don’t want to drive in this.”

  “And I want to see what goes on in the dining hall tonight.”

  I looked up at him. “I get the impression you’re actually working the case.”

  “Unofficially. I offered to back Trujillo up. He was grateful.”

  “You like him.”

  Tony shrugged out of his jacket. “He’s a good investigator. Better than his boss. He’s wasted up here.”

  I my coat on the back of one of the many chairs, then called the Abiquiu Inn and canceled our dinner reservation, with regrets. The woman on the phone sounded unsurprised.

  We had about twenty minutes until the dining hall opened. Tony stretched out on the bed, scrolling through his phone. I wandered over to the dresser and picked up the bottle of wine I’d bought.

  “I don’t suppose they’d approve of my bringing this to dinner.”

  “Let’s save it for later.”

  Nodding, I put the bottle down. If we saw Lisette in the dining hall, I might invite her to share it. She’d probably decline if her earlier reaction was any indication, but I wanted to keep in touch with her, keep assuring her that I was a friend.

  I looked at Tony. “Do you have any idea where Wesley’s money came from?”

  “His dad owned a sports bar. He inherited it, then bought two more.”

  “Oh. Did he argue with his customers like he argued here?”

  “His customers were probably all Texans fans. The bars are in Houston.”

  “So now they’re Lisette’s.”

  “Maybe. Depends on his will.”

  Slightly shocked, I stared. “He wouldn’t leave them to someone else!”

  “Might leave them to the kid.”

  “Well, an eleven-year-old can’t operate bars. She’s Jeremy’s legal guardian, so she’d effectively be the owner.”

  “Maybe.”

  All these maybes were unsettling. Tony’s speculations weren’t very likely, I told myself. It would take serious spite to do something like that—leave the bars to his son, leaving Lisette with nothing. Wesley’s spite had seemed more ... offhanded? Just a habit?

  I thought back to the unpleasant exchanges at the O’Keeffe house. Memory had elevated the importance of Wesley’s bullying his son, but there had been other moments ... how spitefully had I seen him behave toward Lisette? How angry had she been? I tried to remember, back past all the drama and emotion of today.

  I joined Tony on the bed. He set his phone down and rolled me into his arms.

  “Don’t strain your brain. Trujillo’s gonna sort that stuff out.”

  I sighed. “You’re right. I’m just worried about Lisette.”

  “Why don’t you text her and offer to walk her to the dining hall?”

  I raised myself onto my elbow to look at him. “You think she’s in danger, don’t you?”

  “It’s a possibility. If Roan was killed by someone who was after his money—”

  “Someone from Texas? But the Roans would have noticed if such a person was here.”

  “Not if the person was careful. They could be staying at the Inn, or in Española.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  Tony looked up at me with a grin. “I didn’t say it was probable. I said it was possible.”

  I sighed. “I still think Flag Hat Guy is your best bet. Him, or a posse.”

  Tony shrugged. “Or a hit man.”

  I stared at him. That hadn’t even occurred to me. Of course, it would have to be considered. Probably a standard question in the homicide detective handbook. And, sadly, it removed my objection that Lisette wasn’t physically capable of subduing her husband.

  I rolled onto my back and stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling. Was Lisette’s life with Wesley bad enough that she’d pay to have him killed? It hurt me to ponder that question, because, after all my protests, I suspected the answer was maybe.

  “You gonna text her?” Tony said. “It’s almost quarter to six.”

  “Yes.” I sat up, found my phone, and composed a quick text:

  Tony and I would be happy to escort you to dinner.

  I should have said “walk,” I thought as I slid off the bed and fetched my coat. Tony got up also. By the time we’d bundled up, Lisette still hadn’t answered.

  “Let’s just walk up there,” I said. “Maybe we’ll meet her on the way.”

  I braced myself for wind and cold. Instead, when we stepped out, it was into a soft, silent wonderland. Big, fluffy flakes fell past the golden glow of our porch light. The snow-laden sky had a faint glow of its own, slightly pink, though the sun had set by now. Tony turned his phone on flashlight mode and lit the way as we walked up to the parking lot. I couldn’t help remembering Christmas Eve, when we’d walked up Canyon Road in the snow, and Tony had blurted out his proposal.

  Smiling, I slid my hand into his elbow. Snow was piling up on the Roans’ SUV and two other cars in the little parking lot. As we neared Lisette’s casita, a figure stepped out of the central door, silhouetted against the glow of the porch light.

  A man’s figure. Tall, wearing a cowboy hat.

  10

  I squeezed Tony’s arm and stopped walking. The flashlight disappeared as he shoved his phone into his pocket. The figure started toward us.

  What do we do? My heart began hammering. I glanced at the cars. We could go to one of them, start brushing the snow off it, pretending it was ours.

  “Heading for dinner?” the man called softly, and I almost fainted with relief. It
was Deputy Trujillo.

  “We thought we’d see if Mrs. Roan wanted company on the walk,” Tony said.

  Trujillo joined us, peering at us from beneath his Stetson. “Good idea. I was just talking with her. She’d probably appreciate the offer.” He looked at Tony. “And I’d appreciate your keeping an eye on her.”

  Tony nodded.

  Trujillo shifted his gaze to me. “You knew her husband hit her?”

  “She didn’t tell me so.”

  Until I asked.

  “I noticed she had a shiner when she took off her shades,” I added.

  He nodded, then glanced up at the falling snow as he pulled on his gloves. “Probably not gonna get away with shades tonight. Thanks for watching out for her.”

  “Call you later,” Tony told him as the deputy started down the path, following our tracks.

  We headed toward the Roans’ casita again. “You didn’t tell me he’d hit her,” Tony said.

  “It wasn’t my secret to tell. You wouldn’t promise me confidentiality.”

  Tony stopped walking. I turned to face him.

  “That could be considered obstruction,” he said.

  “I invited you to make your own observations,” I said. “That’s all I felt I could do. She didn’t volunteer that he’d hit her.”

  “You know, it’s possible to take the Miss Manners thing too far,” he said, sounding annoyed.

  My own annoyance flared. “Maybe so, but that’s my decision. I don’t owe you my speculations. And I certainly don’t owe them to the local sheriffs!”

  “I think Trujillo’s on Mrs. Roan’s side.”

  “Yeah? What about his boss?”

  He sighed. “Fair enough.”

  I waited, wondering if this was going to be a stumbling block for us. Tony’s face was shadowed, hard to read in the dusk and snow. Finally he took a step toward me.

  “Sorry,” he said in a low voice. “You’re right. I’m not even officially on this case. I shouldn’t be pressuring you.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I turned toward the casita, but Tony’s hand on my arm stopped me. He folded me in a hug, and I felt myself relaxing.