A Black Place and a White Place

by Patrice Greenwood

  Tony’s head rose sharply. He stared into the distance for a second, then stood. “Please excuse me, ma’am.” He pulled his phone out and was talking before he reached the door.

  Lisette looked at me, eyes full of questions. “What warning sign?” she asked finally, just as Jeremy returned.

  I looked at Wesley’s son, who would have better opportunities than his father. Looked at Lisette, unsure how much I should tell her, how much she knew. Looked at my coffee, stone cold now.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” I said.

  We left by the west doors and headed up the road, which curved north past the cantina and another building with a playground. To our left was a mesa, perhaps fifty feet higher than the rest of the ranch, though that might be enough to give it glorious views. I remembered seeing it marked on the trail map. There was lodging up there, more of the dormitory-style buildings. From here, the way up was by steep little switchback trails, and in consideration of Lisette’s footwear, I stayed on the road.

  It was sloppy in the melting snow; it needed a new course of gravel. I walked slowly, for Lisette’s sake. Jeremy had no trouble keeping up. I noted he was wearing his ear-buds. Occasionally he would gesture or dance a step to the rhythm only he could hear. Escaping into music. I had done that myself, many times.

  I wondered if Tony and Trujillo would be able to find evidence of Wesley among the rocks. If my suspicion was right, he had fallen and hit his head on one of the boulders that were jumbled behind the fence. And the sign had said “unstable”—maybe he’d lost his footing on loose rock. Would the snow mask any sign of him?

  My mind followed Wesley on his last, disastrous journey. Having battered his wife, he took off running, away from the last semblance of civilization on the ranch. Running down a moonlit road, running from the anger.

  Running from himself? From his own pain, from his own inadequacy?

  No wonder he was angry at the world. The world had secret knowledge that, for whatever reason, had been denied him. And probably he felt taunted by it every day of his life.

  His wife had the secret knowledge. His son had it. Everyone but him.

  And in the end, his lack of that knowledge had killed him.

  Lisette stopped. We had come to a fork in the road. The left branch angled northwest, hugging the mesa. The other continued north. Lisette stood gazing at the cliffs before us. The sun had melted all the snow off their faces, and the sky was once again a backdrop of glowing blue. With just a sugar-frosting of snow along the top of the ridge, it was gorgeous.

  “There’s that gray and red,” Lisette said, pointing. Just beyond the ridgeline of the mesa, the red foothills were visible, striped with silver-gray as they rose to the base of the cliffs.

  I watched her take it in. Committing the colors and the shapes to memory, perhaps, or maybe just breathing in the feeling of the place. I stood still, while Jeremy bopped around us to the music only he could hear. Silence was what I heard: silence, and the whisper of the wind among the rocks, among the small trees. I inhaled a deep breath of snow-and-pine-scented air.

  Lisette turned to me. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know how much you already know,” I said, reluctant to cause her more pain.

  “Just tell me everything.”

  So I did. Starting with the trail ride, and finding Wesley’s body, and the sign I saw later. I told her what I knew by my own observation, and not what Tony or Trujillo had told me. It was enough; Lisette frowned as I described the rockfall, the poor fence between it and the arroyo, and Ezra’s sign.

  “So you think his death was an accident?” she said.

  “It may have been.” I coughed. “Did they give you the autopsy results?”

  “They offered to. I haven’t had time, or ... the heart.”

  “The rope didn’t kill him,” I said. “He was already dead.”

  Lisette gaped at me. “Then who strung him up in the tree?”

  “I’m not sure, but it may have been the old man who owns the land beyond the fence. He definitely doesn’t like anyone coming on his land.”

  “But, why?”

  I gave a shrug. “All I can think of is maybe he found Wesley and wanted him off his land, so he tried to make it look like someone had hanged him.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “It is, kind of. Yeah.”

  Crazy and sad. Very sad.

  Jeremy had stopped bopping, and stood watching his mother. She glanced at him, and sighed.

  “Let’s go back. It’s cold.”

  I turned, then froze. “Don’t move,” I whispered.

  Looking over my shoulder, I saw that the Roans had obeyed. I nodded my head toward the side of the mesa a few yards south of us. A doe stood there, head up, ears wide, watching us. After a few seconds, it turned and strolled up the hill, catching up with two other deer.

  We watched in silence until they disappeared over the mesa top.

  “See?” Lisette murmured. “I told you.”

  Jeremy’s face glowed with delight. “That was cool!”

  I smiled, then looked at Lisette. “Tea?”

  “Yes.”

  I broke out the Lapsang Souchong. It seemed right for the occasion. I had milk and sugar, and Lisette accepted both, for once. We sat in the Room of Many Chairs, sipping mugs of the strong, smoky brew with an underlying tang of pine. I wished the fireplace wasn’t blocked; a fire would have been nice.

  Jeremy was lost in his phone, earbuds in, thumbs flying. I watched him for a while, then looked at Lisette.

  “I assume Jeremy has no trouble reading,” I said quietly.

  She met my gaze. “He’s an A student, despite what you see. He’s quite sharp, and Auntie Rachelle knows just how to bribe him to do his homework even if he’s bored with it.”

  I nodded, feeling a desire to meet Auntie Rachelle. They’d be all right, this family.

  From the other room came strains of Mozart: my phone’s ring-tone. I glanced at Lisette.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Answer it,” she said. “It might be your man.”

  I put down my mug and went to get the phone. It was indeed Tony.

  “You were right,” he said. “We found Roan’s blood on one of the boulders.”

  “How? Weren’t they covered with snow?”

  “Yeah. Trujillo brought in a bloodhound. Went right to it.”

  “Oh!”

  “Dog’s trainer almost broke a leg. That rockslide is loose. Trujillo thinks Ezra made it, digging in the hillsides.”

  “Did he ever come in?”

  “No. We’re going to go check on him now.”

  I pictured the two of them knocking on the door of a cabin. Inside, one terrified, cranky old man with a shotgun. I wished they could send an interceptor instead.

  “Please be careful,” I said.

  “Babe, I’m always careful. Don’t worry. Call you when we’re done.”

  “May I tell Lisette?”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  Dead air. He’d hung up. I put down the phone and returned to Lisette, who was watching me intently.

  “It was an accident. Wesley fell and hit his head on a boulder. They found his blood.”

  She let out her breath in a sharp sigh, looked at the ceiling, then buried her face in her hands. She took a shuddering breath, and sobbed once.

  Nothing had changed, really. There was still hate in the world, and the kind of hate that had made Lisette—and me—fear, and even expect the worst, was easy to find. But the fact that in this case, in Wesley’s death, that hate had not played a part, was a source of enormous relief.

  Jeremy took out his earbuds and laid them with his phone on the chair next to his, then stood and went over to Lisette. “Momma?” he said.

  She lifted her head, then wrapped him in her arms. He hugged her back.

  I decided it was time to refill the kettle.

  Lisette’s phone rang not long after Tony called me. She answered it, had a br
ief conversation, then left with Jeremy. I busied myself with tidying up the tea things, and then with packing. Theoretically we were leaving today. I sighed as I carefully rolled up my nice dress and tucked it into my suitcase. Our fancy-dinner money would probably end up paying for an extra day’s lodging. I put the souvenir mug in with my tea things, carefully folded the dragonfly necklace in tissue and tucked it into my little jewelry case, then wrapped the jade plant back up in its paper cocoon and nestled it in the top of the bag.

  Out of things to do, I tried to read, but couldn’t focus. It wasn’t until Tony called again that I was able to relax.

  “Nobody got shot,” were his first words.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Was Ezra at home?”

  “Yep. Acted mad, but was actually scared—um, out of his mind. Had to talk him down off the ceiling.”

  “Did he admit to...” I couldn’t say it.

  “Yeah, eventually. He didn’t know Roan was dead when he shot him. Then he was scared that he’d killed him, and mad at him for trespassing at the same time. He didn’t think things through, just wanted to get rid of the body, so he got his horse and dragged it over to the tree.”

  I swallowed, sad and horrified.

  “Trujillo took him down to the station in Española to give a statement,” Tony added.

  “What will happen to him?”

  “Don’t know. If they decide to order an evaluation, he could end up in an institution. He’s pretty incoherent. Or if things go badly—if the judge is unsympathetic, he might do a little time.”

  I winced. Prison would not be kind to a man like Ezra. “Does he have any family?”

  “Not around here, I don’t think.”

  “How sad.”

  “Yeah. Listen, we have a couple of loose ends to tie up, then I’ll be ready to head home. Is Mrs. Roan there with you?”

  “No, she left a while ago.”

  “OK. Be there soon.”

  Silence.

  I put the phone in my purse, ready to go. Remembering that I still had the mug I’d borrowed from the cafeteria, I stepped into the Room of Many Chairs to fetch it. The light coming in through the windows was getting dim. Tony had been gone all afternoon; the day was nearly over.

  I was ready for a change from cafeteria food. If Tony didn’t want to stop at the Abiquiu Inn, I’d lobby for a burger in Española on the way home. Meanwhile, I put on my coat and walked over to the dining hall to return the mug.

  People were waiting in line outside the cafeteria door. I went in the west doors and took the mug to the dishwashing station. Much clattering of pans issued from the kitchen, and there was a fresh-baked bread smell that made my stomach growl. I considered getting a carry-out cup of coffee to tide me over. Actually, mocha, I decided, eyeing the cocoa packets near the tea bags.

  While I was concocting my beverage, Ted the trail guide and his partner came over to the coffee machine.

  “—took him into town, is what Stacey said.”

  “Eee, they’re gonna jail him!”

  “Can’t believe old Ezra would up and kill a guy.”

  I struggled, because in fact Ezra had been willing to shoot a guy he didn’t know was dead. But the truth was more important than nit-picking details.

  “He didn’t,” I said, stirring my mocha.

  “Huh?” Ted looked at me in surprise.

  “If you’re talking about Wesley Roan,” I said, “his death was apparently an accident. He fell and hit his head on a boulder.”

  “How do you know?” asked Ted.

  I gave him a look. Had he forgotten my finding the body, and Tony’s response?

  “My fiancé’s been helping with the investigation.”

  I hoped, belatedly, that Tony wouldn’t be annoyed by my telling the guides it was an accident. Maybe a district attorney somewhere would be disappointed at that word getting out, but oh, well. I put a lid on my cup and started for the doors.

  “Hey, wait a sec,” Ted called. “Does Ezra have a lawyer?”

  I turned back. “I have no idea. If he doesn’t, he’ll surely be assigned one, if it goes to court.”

  Ted frowned, then turned to his buddy. “We need to go find him. If he needs a lawyer, we’ll get him one.”

  I blinked, trying to picture these two even conversing with a lawyer. That was unfair, I supposed. There were cowboyish lawyers in this state.

  “He’s your friend, then?” I said.

  “Hell, no. He’s a cranky old pain in the ass,” Ted said. “Beg pardon.”

  His partner nodded, then looked at me. “But he’s our neighbor,” he added.

  I smiled. Maybe Ezra wasn’t so alone after all.

  “You’ll want to talk to Deputy Trujillo,” I said. “Make sure you find him, don’t just talk to Sheriff Romero.”

  “Huh. Romero,” scoffed Ted. “Thanks, we will.”

  I headed out into the evening. It was dusk. The cafeteria line was moving now. As I crossed the road, I saw more movement: the deer were back, pawing away the slush to nibble on the grass in front of the Library. I counted four—then six, eight, twelve. They blithely ignored me as I turned down the road toward the Ghost House.

  A chill breeze rose up, making me glad for the mocha. I sipped it as I picked my way through the melting snow, avoiding patches where it had gone to slush or mud. Judging by the chill, it would soon be frozen again.

  The two giant cottonwoods stood guard over the Ghost House, their branches reaching high into the night sky. I paused to look up at them. The lowest branches had to be twenty feet off the ground—far too high for a hanging. A hundred years ago there must have been lower branches.

  I gazed up at them, pale against the gloaming, gently swaying in the breeze. Easy to imagine the whisper of voices in the grating of the highest branches. I listened, but heard only the cold sigh of the wind among the leafless boughs. My ears were getting cold.

  Then, faint and distant, a woman’s voice: “Ellen!”

  My back muscles tightened, then I looked around. Up the hill, toward the other casitas, a light was bobbing. I waited, sipping my mocha, until it moved closer and resolved into Lisette, carrying a flashlight.

  “Hi,” I said. “Where’s Jeremy?”

  “Packing,” she said, slightly out of breath. “We’re leaving.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Soon as I can get him in the car. I’m ready to shake off the dust of this place!”

  “Or the mud,” I said.

  She laughed. “I wanted to say goodbye, and thank you for all your help and support.”

  I moved toward the door to my room. “Come on in for a minute. It’s cold.”

  “OK, but just for a minute. No tea!”

  “Aw, you make me sound like a pusher.”

  “You are a pusher!”

  We stamped our feet on the doormat and went in. The room was blissfully warm. In the light, I saw that Lisette’s quilted, tailored coat was a deep shade of purple. Her face was calm, if a bit tired.

  I set down my cup and went to my tea-gear bag, carefully extracting the O’Keeffe biography, which I handed to her. “I want you to have this. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “But you’re not finished,” she said, fingering my bookmark.

  “I almost am. I can get it from the library for the last chapter.”

  “Thank you.” Lisette smiled, then reached out and gathered me into a hug. “Thank you for everything! I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.”

  I hugged her back. “Where are you staying next?”

  “Santa Fe, just for the night. We head home tomorrow.”

  “You’ve got my card. Please stay in touch.”

  “I will. And we’ll be back another time to see Santa Fe. I have to visit the O’Keeffe Museum, and I want to have tea at your place!”

  I smiled. “I hope you’ll let me join you.”

  “Sure thing!”

  The sound of the door unlocking made us turn. Tony came in
, then checked when he saw Lisette.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t know you had company.”

  “I’m just leaving,” Lisette said, then paused and drew herself up, becoming formal, the book tucked under one arm. “I’m grateful to you, Detective.”

  “Tony,” he said. “Glad I could help.”

  Lisette looked from him to me. “When is your wedding?”

  “In the fall,” I said, wondering if she wanted an invitation.

  She nodded. “I wish you a joyful marriage,” she said with a fleeting smile, then moved to the door. “Goodbye.”

  “Bye,” I said as she went out, pulling the door closed behind her.

  A kind wish. How sad that her own marriage had been so lacking in joy. I turned to Tony, wanting a hug.

  “Is it over?” I asked, muffled in his embrace.

  “All but the paperwork. Fortunately, that’s not my job.”

  “Sorry if I screwed anything up.”

  He held me at arm's length, eyes concerned. “You didn’t. Why are you worried?”

  I shrugged. “Well, I don’t know all the rules. I did tell the stable guys that Wesley’s death was an accident, just now.”

  “Well, it was.”

  “But I didn’t know if it was OK to say so.”

  “Babe, don’t overthink it. You did good.” He kissed my forehead. “Ready to go?”

  “As soon as you are.”

  Tony’s packing consisted of throwing/cramming his clothing into his bag, and (at my insistence) putting his muddy cowboy boots in a shopping bag so as not to mess up the trunk of my car. It took less than five minutes, though I did have to remind him to pack his toothbrush. A final check of all the drawers, and we carried our bags out to the Camry.

  Because of the snow, we elected to walk down the road to the parking lot in order to get to the welcome center. Climbing up all the steps, I remembered our arrival. It seemed an age ago, and it also felt like we hadn’t really had a vacation. Tony must have felt that even more strongly. At least it had been a change of scene, I reflected. The hiking was good, and the scenery unquestionably gorgeous.