by Erica Abbott
Linda smiled sadly. “I keep reminding myself the accident might have been a blessing in disguise. At least he’s not risking his neck every week anymore.”
Jean looked up curiously and Lea said, “Can I borrow the assistant for a minute?”
“Of course,” Linda said. “Dinner is about half an hour off.”
Lea took Jean back to her parents’ office. Like everything else in the house it was about twice the size of a normal room. The office was crowded with a large table next to a desk with a giant desktop computer surrounded by piles of messy paperwork. There was a second, smaller desk that held only a neatly centered laptop.
Lea gestured. “Dad’s desk and Mom’s desk. Bet you can guess which is which.”
“Not too tough. Your mother has the cleanest non-commercial kitchen I’ve seen in a long time.”
Lea led her to the pictures that covered the three non-windowed walls of the office. “One wall per child,” she announced.
On the paneling to her right were pictures of a strongly built man with sandy hair. In the largest one he was wearing a Joya High School football uniform and next to the photo were a couple of framed newspaper articles and a certificate indicating that Lawrence Hawkins was a Colorado second-team all-state wide receiver. The next photo portrayed him in a Southeastern Colorado State uniform as he caught a football. Then the photographs changed, showing a man in an army uniform, along with pictures of his family: a pretty woman with two blond children, a boy and a girl.
“Is he still in the army?” Jean wanted to know.
“Second tour in the Middle East,” Lea answered softly.
“How old are your niece and nephew now?”
“John is thirteen and Megan is eleven.”
“Your brother decided not to continue the family tradition of giving everyone a name beginning with L?” Jean joked.
Lea laughed easily. “Mom always said it would make inheriting all the monogrammed towels and china easier later.”
“Your mother has monogrammed towels and china?” Jean asked in surprise.
“Oh, hell no!” Lea laughed harder. “My mother is the least pretentious person I’ve ever met. She’s also one of the smartest and certainly the kindest.”
“You got lucky in the parent lottery, then,” Jean said, wondering if she sounded bitter again.
“I did,” Lea acknowledged. “But I think I should admit I don’t actually have a name beginning with L.”
Jean blinked. “So Lea is short for what?”
Lea sighed. “I was named after my grandmother. Rosalea Dolores Sanchez-Ortiz.”
“Rosalea. Sounds very exotic.”
Lea grinned. “A word no one would ever use to describe me. Come on, I mainly brought you in here to show you Loren’s wall.”
They crossed the room and Jean glanced at the photos of Loren the boy displayed on the wood paneling. In every photo Loren was in full western gear. Her favorite was a snapshot of the boy about eight or nine years old twirling a lasso while wearing a hat two sizes too big for his head. But most impressive were the shadow boxes with huge belt buckles mounted for display, shiny silver and gold with elaborate engravings. Some had pictures of bull riders, others had words like “Champion” or “Rodeo” engraved on them. Several were too huge to wear as actual belt buckles, fully six or seven inches across. Men and their obsession with size, Jean smiled to herself. Bigger was always better.
There were more photos to see: Loren on the back of a huge bull, one hand flung into the air as the animal plunged forward or Loren accepting one of the buckles at a rodeo. Lea pointed out the largest picture, Loren clamped on the back of a giant black bull as it twisted, all four hooves suspended above the dirt of the arena.
“That was his last ride,” Lea said, soft pride and sadness mingling in her voice. “He won the championship at Cheyenne Frontier Days. The bull’s name was ‘Whiskey Cures Ugly.’ It was a great ride.”
“What happened? Was he thrown, or—”
Shaking her head, Lea said, “No. He was driving back from Cheyenne. He should have stayed overnight. He was too tired to drive safely but he wanted to get home. Fell asleep at the wheel. The pickup turned over and he broke his back.”
“Oh, God. Poor guy. How long ago?”
“About four years now. The first year and a half or so were awful. It seemed like Loren lost everything. His wife cut out on him, he couldn’t ride bulls anymore. He didn’t want to live. He went through hell and my parents went through it with him every day.”
“You too” Jean guessed quietly.
“All of us. If there’s something worse than seeing someone you love suffering when you can’t do anything to help, I don’t know what it is.”
Tears blurred her vision before Jean even knew they were there. What in the hell is wrong with me? She brushed them away quickly, but not before Lea said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s fine,” Jean said brusquely. “It’s just a sad story. I’m glad he’s doing so much better. Don’t you think I should get to see your trophies?”
Lea shrugged. “Nothing much to see.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Jean said. She marched herself over to the third wall.
Childhood photographs showed a gangly Lea, usually on horseback. A couple of pictures displayed her as a teenager in a basketball uniform, bringing the ball up the court with a look of fierce concentration. Her certificate read First Team All-State Girl’s Basketball.
“Gee, your brother only made second team in football,” Jean said, joking to try to regain her composure.
“And I never let Larry forget it, believe me,” Lea said, her half grin returning. “It’s the duty of middle sisters to harass older brothers and torment younger brothers.”
There were photos of Lea in her sheriff’s uniform with hash marks increasing on her sleeves as she got older. Then a tiny gold medal appeared above her left breast and Jean stooped to read the citation framed next to the photograph that read “For Conspicuous Bravery in the Line of Duty.”
“That sounds impressive,” Jean commented. She wondered if it had something to do with the scar above Lea’s eyebrow.
“Not much,” Lea said casually. “Sheriffs offices and police departments are like the military. They love to give out fancy ribbons and geegaws.”
“Geegaws? You actually use words like that in everyday conversation?”
“I pride myself on my colorful vocabulary.”
Jean finished scanning Lea’s wall. It was filled with certificates of appreciation from various law enforcement agencies or letters of praise from the distinguished. Lea said, “This is pretty boring but it makes my parents happy to look at all this stuff. Come on, dinner’s got to be ready by now.”
They carried thick terra-cotta bowls to the table with a platter piled with homemade flour tortillas. After the first bite of chili, Jean looked at Linda in shock.
“It’s a little hot,” Linda said calmly, “but you’ll get used to it. Loren was eating it when he was three.”
Loren was shoveling in the spicy chili but managed to grin. “Ma, I swear I get younger every time you tell that story.”
Jean groped for her water glass, but Lea said, “Water won’t help. Eat some tortilla. The starch will help cut the heat.”
Giving her a skeptical look, Jean tore off a triangle of tortilla and chewed vigorously. After a couple of minutes, the fire in her mouth seemed to ease.
“Sure you don’t want a beer?” Loren asked, taking another healthy swig from his own bottle.
Jean shook her head. After so many years of smelling alcohol on her mother’s breath and having the scent of it on her clothes, drinking had never appealed to her. She noticed that Lea wasn’t drinking either and wondered about it. Linda was sipping Dos Equis from a glass while Loren took his beer straight from the bottle.
Jean managed to polish off about half her chili and helped Linda take the bowls in to the kitchen. “Grab the plates, will you?
” Linda asked.
She scooped chicken smothered in onions and peppers onto the plates and Jean realized she would need to pace herself to get through the food. Apparently the chili was only the first course.
The dinner conversation covered a wide variety of topics from horses to the history of the ranch to Jean’s travels. After a while, Loren asked his sister, “You making any progress on the burglaries?”
Lea shook her head. “No, and I’m not happy about it. Eight confirmed residential break-ins in Joya in the last two months and we’ve got no witnesses and no physical evidence that leads us anywhere. Even so, I’m convinced that the guy, whoever he is, is pretty much an amateur. He kicks in the door and grabs what he can, but none of the stolen items have shown up yet. We’ll get him eventually, but it’s really annoying to have to explain to all these homeowners why we haven’t caught him yet.”
“You’ll find him, dear,” Linda said with serene confidence.
“Mother, you’re always good for my self-esteem.”
“Well, that’s what mothers are for, Lea. Coffee, everyone?”
Jean drank a cup of coffee to ensure her alertness for the drive back, but begged off the delicious-looking flan. “I’m just tired from the day,” she explained. “But it was a wonderful meal, Mrs. Hawkins. Thanks so much for inviting me.”
“My daughter’s lawyer is welcome anytime,” Linda said warmly. “And it’s Linda, remember?”
“I’ll walk you out,” Lea said.
The evening was mild, with a slight breeze that carried the scent of mesquite and pine. There was the faintest rustle of the low shrubs that surrounded the Hawkins’s front porch. A city dweller all her life, Jean found the deep darkness and near-silence strange but oddly comforting, as if the earth were a small child safely huddled under dark blankets.
Lea opened the car door for her and Jean said, “It was nice of you to feed me twice in one day. Just for future reference, it’s not a requirement for all attorney-client meetings.”
“I disagree. You owe me two meals. So next time, you have to cook.”
Jean could see Lea smiling at her in the darkness. “Fair enough. And don’t worry about the deposition. You’re going to be just fine.”
“That’s reassuring. Drive home carefully, okay?”
“I will.”
* * *
It had been the best evening Jean had spent in a very long time. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed herself so much. She couldn’t decide if that realization cheered her or made her sad.
* * *
Jean unlocked the door to the house. The foyer was dazzlingly lit, the chandelier breaking the light into bright shards that sparkled across the two-story walls. A rope was tied to the chandelier and at the end of it Charlotte dangled in the noose, swaying just a little in the breeze from the open door. Her eyes were open and though Jean knew she was dead, Char said, “This is all your fault.”
Jean jerked up in bed, icy cold again with the sweat freezing on her forehead. God, why did this keep happening? Why couldn’t she be free of Charlotte?
You can’t wipe out thirteen years in a few months, she reminded herself. Give it time. Give yourself time.
Chapter Five
Jean was busy with the file folder in her hands. She said into the speaker phone, “You’re aware of the American Coroners Association report on excited delirium?”
“Well, yes, but there’s no definitive proof that was the cause of death, even assuming the medical examiner agreed, which he hasn’t. I’m not in a position to change the cause of death without further input.”
The county coroner was dithering on and Jean’s frustration was rising with every passing minute. The coroner was responsible for determining the cause of death for Mr. Rosales, but he relied on the medical examiner’s autopsy findings to do so.
“All I’m asking you to do is review the situation with the medical examiner again in light of the ACA report,” Jean said shortly. “And the sooner the better. We’ll be in a settlement conference in six weeks and if there’s going to be an amended death certificate, it needs to be soon.”
The coroner prattled on for a while and Jean snapped the folder closed. She managed to end the conversation without yelling at him but she failed to get a promise from him to review the case. Monday was officially starting off badly.
She wandered out into the central office and saw Rita staring at a giant case file sitting in the middle of her desk. She raised dark, troubled eyes to Jean.
“What is it?” Jean asked sharply.
“The Lambert case. The former public works employee who was suing the county. Mr. Franklin just told me to close it and send the file to the shredder.”
“What? It’s an open case—” Jean began.
Rita interrupted. “Not any more. Did you read the paper this morning? There’s been a burglar who has been hitting houses in Joya. He broke into Lambert’s house last night but Lambert was home. The burglar killed him. Shot him dead.”
Jean took a step back in shock, remembering the conversation at the Hawkins’s dinner table Saturday evening. “Oh, my God.”
“So I guess the case is over,” Rita concluded.
“No, wait,” Jean said reflexively.
“But Mr. Franklin told me to send it to the shredder,” Rita repeated.
“We usually send case files to closed file storage for three years first, in case something else comes up,” Jean said. “We don’t need to send it to the shredder right away.”
Rita glanced down the hall toward Franklin’s office. “That’s what he said to do.”
“Besides which,” Jean said, thinking aloud now, “the case may not be over. The action might survive his death.”
“How?” Rita asked.
Jean liked that about Rita, that she wanted to know more rather than just follow instructions without question. Another curious mind. “For some types of lawsuits, the law permits the heirs to continue with the suit against the county,” Jean explained. “It’s called a survivorship statute. I’ll have to do some research first. Give me the case file for now. I’ll check it out and talk to Del later.”
Rita said nervously, “But he said…”
“He just forgot about the survivorship statute I suppose, in the shock of finding out about Lambert’s murder,” Jean said, scrambling for an explanation. “If Del asks you about it, just tell him I took the file off your desk, okay?”
“Okay,” Rita said. She seemed relieved but still worried.
Jean suited action to her words and hefted the single overstuffed file folder in both arms. She didn’t want to get Rita into trouble but Del would probably regret his instructions in a few days and Jean would be able to give him the results of her research by then.
Just what I needed, another addition to the workload. But she didn’t really mind very much, she acknowledged. The busier she was the less time she had to sit in her condo and wonder when the next nightmare was coming.
She dumped the file in one of her side chairs, which served as a place for overflow filing. She’d have to wait until after the Rosales deposition to get to the research on Lambert, but she was looking forward to it, in a way. It would help her get a good understanding on Franklin’s litigation style as well as give her some information about the county public works department.
She smiled a little to herself. Snooping again.
She returned to her deposition prep for Rosales, but after a few minutes found herself thinking about dinner on Saturday at the Painted Horse Ranch. When was the last time she’d had a family dinner? She couldn’t remember. She had trouble recalling the last time she’d had dinner with anyone but herself.
God, I have got to get a life.
She’d known, of course, that families like the Hawkinses existed but she’d never actually seen one up close. Her mother had treated her and her brother like annoyances, no more than barriers between her and her next husband. Boarding school had been a relief, wi
th its structure and safety. She had at least been good at academics.
Life with Charlotte had been different, not about building a family but about building their careers. The only thing harder to forge than a successful career in private law practice was a career as a chef and restaurateur. It had gotten a little easier when Jean left her firm to join the Riverside County attorney’s office. The hours in government work were less brutal and the job provided much better benefits though the pay was lower. Charlotte was an executive chef by then. With two solid incomes and Jean’s insurance, Jean had thought it was time for them to think about getting pregnant.
Charlotte had refused to consider a baby and refused to even discuss why. Jean shook her head. Was that when the trouble started? More importantly, why was she going over this again?
She liked the Hawkins family. Linda was warm and kind, the mother she could have wished for growing up. Loren, for all he’d been through, was sweet and playful. And Lea, Lea was thoughtful and calm and had a—what would she call it? Maybe a grown-up tomboy charm.
Okay, she was attractive, Jean admitted. She thought about Lea’s hands, the long, strong fingers. What color were her eyes? Jean couldn’t remember. She’d have to look more carefully next time.
“Stop that right now,” Jean said harshly. “I need a yoga class, not a relationship.” A relationship makes promises that can’t be kept, stealing your heart and then shredding it into bits, scattering the pieces so widely they can never be put back together again.
Restlessly, she pulled up the Tesóro Banner newspaper website and found the article about Fred Lambert’s murder. It was brief, reading as if it had been written just before deadline. A neighbor had called the sheriff’s office just before midnight to report a gunshot. The deputies had discovered Lambert shot to death in his kitchen, the door between kitchen and garage open. It was assumed that he’d interrupted the burglar who’d been busy in Joya recently. No suspects had been identified.
