by Meryl Sawyer
“Doggie style,” Angela said over her shoulder. She couldn’t bear to look at him and wished he’d just disappear like so many other young studs who’d waltzed through her life, but she didn’t have the heart to throw him out just after he’d learned his last dime had been invested in phony prints that weren’t worth the price of the paper they’d been printed on.
Mercifully, it was over in seconds. Carleton helped Angela to her feet, then solicitously wrapped her in the silk robe that he’d tossed over a bag of rice. She followed him as he went out of the pantry and down the hall into the music room. He quickly punched a button. The CD he loved started playing.
Oh, God, Angela thought. Did she have to hear that Charlie Daniels’ song again? How much fancy fiddle playing and “fire on the mountain, run, boy, run” could she take? The last line of that phrase always bothered her.
The devil’s in the house of the rising sun.
It reminded her of Claire Holt’s Rising Sun Gallery. Claire was having a tough go of it. Her gallery had been so promising until Nevada deserted her. It still had some very nice David Tzuni jewelry and pueblo pottery, but Claire was desperate for an artist.
Perhaps Claire needed financial assistance. Angela knew Claire had enough pride for a dozen women. She’d refused to take money from her father. A wise decision, Angela decided, remembering her own father’s domineering attitude. He’d rejected more suitors than she cared to remember. No one was good enough for his daughter.
Now that her father was dead, Angela had more money than she could spend, but she could still hear his dire warning. They’re only interested in your money. She didn’t doubt he was right as she watched Carleton Cole tapping his bare foot to the music.
Buck naked he was as gorgeous as an Italian statue. But not nearly as interesting. Tomorrow she’d ditch him and see if Claire needed a loan or help or something.
“I’m going to have blue balls for a week,” Zach muttered under his breath as he shouldered his way through the door into the station. He couldn’t believe his damn luck.
“What in hell’s the Code 49 all about?” he asked the night dispatcher.
Toby Clements had worked the night shift for thirty years, outlasting five sheriffs and countless deputies. His bald head glistened under the fluorescent lights as he tipped his head sideways toward Zach’s office. Through the open door, Zach saw a man with salt and pepper hair sitting at his desk with his feet up on the memo tray.
“A Feebie,” Melvin said, his voice low.
“FBI? Crap!”
There were several FBI field offices in the state, more than the population or the number of crimes justified, but any felony committed on an Indian reservation automatically became a federal crime. Then the Feebies coordinated their efforts with the tribal police—not the sheriff.
“He’s not just any Feebie,” Melvin added. “He’s the Gallup SAC.”
“The SAC? Christ!” Duncan Morrell’s murder had to be the reason the Special Agent in Charge of the Gallup office was here. But why Gallup, not Albuquerque? Gallup was a smaller, less important field office.
Zach had the uneasy feeling that Claire Holt was in a lot more trouble than he’d realized.
Ten
“You’re in my chair,” Zach informed the SAC as he strode into his office.
“Sorry,” the agent replied. He came to his feet and stood aside while Zach plopped down. “I’m Special Agent Brad Yeager from the Gallup office.”
“Yeah, who’d you cross at headquarters to get banished to the res?”
Yeager barked a laugh, but Zach saw he’d struck a nerve. The agents assigned to the reservation posts were usually green rookies who could count on several years of mind-numbing boredom before they were reassigned to more active, interesting positions. Not many crimes were committed on the reservations. When something happened, it was usually handled by the tribal police, who were Native Americans and had the trust of their people, leaving the Feebies to sit around and push paper.
“I read your murder book on Duncan Morrell.” Yeager sat in the chair opposite Zach’s desk. “Very impressive. We don’t usually see small-town sheriffs using homicide procedures so effectively, but then, you were a top-ranked homicide detective, right?”
Zach was pissed but tried not to show it. He always kept “the book” right on his desk where T-Bone, his deputy, could add to the notes on the crime, but he hadn’t anticipated a Feebie would waltz in and read it. But then, what did he expect? He’d worked with the FBI on a couple of cases. In his experience they were an arrogant bunch.
“Yeah, I worked homicide in San Francisco. What’s your interest in the Morrell case?”
Yeager studied him a moment, his expression serious. “The bureau’s been investigating Morrell in connection with a print fraud scam. Now he turns up dead. It’s entirely possible one of the members of the counterfeit art ring killed him.”
“Is the FBI going to be officially involved in this case?” Zach prayed the answer would be no. If the Feebies horned in, he wouldn’t be able to protect Claire.
Yeager smiled, or tried to. The gesture came off as more of a quirk of the lips. “Not officially—yet. The counterfeiters are costing the artists and gallery owners millions. We’d like to put this ring out of business. Why tip them off by telling them the FBI has an interest in this case?”
Zach nodded, hoping he didn’t look as relieved as he felt.
Yeager scooted his chair forward and rested his arms on the edge of the desk. “Let me level with you. I know you resent having the FBI around, but I can help you. I’ve been with the force for over fifteen years.” Yeager tried another smile; this one worked better. “You were right. I got crosswise with the brass in Quantico. I want out of Gallup. This is my chance. Let’s work together to put this ring out of business and catch a killer.”
Zach nodded slowly. This was an offer he couldn’t refuse. He had nothing more than a green deputy and the State Police crime lab in Santa Fe. With the FBI’s resources, he’d have a much better chance of solving the case. “Thanks, I could use the help.”
“What’s your gut instinct on this?” Yeager asked. “Who killed Morrell? That Holt woman?”
A cold knot formed in the pit of Zach’s stomach. He did not want Claire to be a suspect. “No. She didn’t kill Duncan Morrell.”
Yeager raised his eyebrows. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Morrell stole her prime artist. According to your notes, she’s just about two steps from bankruptcy. Kill your main competitor and get back the artist.”
“Nevada offered to come back to Claire Holt, but she refused to represent him,” Zach said, silently blessing Claire for mentioning Nevada’s visit to her gallery.
“Really? That still doesn’t eliminate her. According to your notes, there was very little in the room where Morrell was shot, but next door you found the Holt woman’s wallet.”
“True, but she was probably in there for a quickie. That’s what goes on at The Hideaway.”
Yeager didn’t look convinced, but Zach didn’t elaborate. There was only so much that he was going to tell about what happened to Claire in that room.
Yeager took off his jacket and rolled his cuffs up to his elbows. “Maybe we should start with the bear. Stealing him was the first crime committed that night. Do you think they’re linked?”
“They’re not connected,” Zach said emphatically.
“I take it the bear was a cause celeb around here. Championed by Claire Holt, right?”
“Yes, she made a lot of noise about the bear, but she didn’t take him.”
“No? Do you know who did?”
“Let’s just say that someone told me where Khadafi is,” Zach hedged. This was getting sticky. He didn’t trust Yeager enough to tell him the whole truth. Nothing was more dangerous than a Feebie trying to resurrect a career.
“Where is the bear?”
“Where no one can touch him without causing a major political incident.”
&
nbsp; Yeager chuckled. “He’s on the reservation somewhere. Clever. The Indians have gotten so touchy about their land, no one would dare to try to take anything off the res.”
“And no one in Taos wants the bear returned to Bam Stegner. So don’t even think about—”
“Hey, don’t look at me.” Yeager held up his hands as if surrendering. “The FBI doesn’t need any more bad press. I’m not interested in giving a toothless, malnourished bear back to an ex-con like Stegner. It would serve the son of a bitch right if he disappeared like the bear.”
“True,” Zach mumbled, a plan forming in his mind. The bastard had planted that rattler in Claire’s mailbox. Zach refused to let him get away with it, but until this moment, he didn’t have a good idea about handling Stegner.
“Okay, forget the bear. Let’s concentrate on motives. Who wanted Morrell dead?”
“Good question.” Zach raked his fingers through his hair. “Half the town had reason to kill him. Bad real estate deals, inflated prices for art, get-rich-quick schemes that made Morrell rich, but no one, else. You name it.”
“What about his wife? Your report says they were in the midst of a bitter divorce.”
“Her alibi checked out,” Zach answered, reaching for the murder book. “I just haven’t had time to enter it.”
“I’m a numbers man,” Yeager explained as Zach made the entry in the spiral notebook. “Statistics say murder is a crime of passion or a crime of greed. If we rule out the wife and the Holt woman, then we’re left with greed. That’s what I’m banking on anyway. Greed involving those phony prints. Either one of his partners bumped off Morrell or someone was upset about getting stuck with worthless lithographs.”
“Makes sense, but I’ll add another possibility. Nevada Murphy. He authorized Duncan Morrell to produce a limited number of lithographs of his oils. Evidently, Morrell produced thousands. It’s damaged Nevada’s reputation, and prices for his originals have plummeted.”
“He’s the logical candidate,” Yeager agreed, “but your murder book says he has an alibi. Two women tied him to the bedpost. Didn’t untie him till dawn.”
Zach shrugged as if to say: Go figure. He was having a hard enough time trying to get one woman into bed—let alone two.
“The FBI checked a number of Nevada’s prints,” Yeager informed him. “They have phony certificates of authenticity and the artist’s signature. It takes state-of-the-art laser equipment to reproduce the certificates and the artist’s signature. You don’t report finding that equipment when you searched Morrell’s house.”
“No, and his wife claims she doesn’t know a thing about it.”
“Okay, what about the other suspects?”
“I started with the people I knew were at the club earlier that evening like Angela Whitmore. She’s a wealthy art collector with a taste for buff studs young enough to be her sons. Her latest, Carleton Cole seemed suspicious to me. He’d recently invested in some of Morrell’s prints, and they turned out to be phony. I’m running his name through the data bases in California. You could help by getting on this immediately.”
Yeager reached for his jacket and pulled out a small notepad. He jotted down the information.
“Then there’s Seth Ramsey. His account of what happened that evening and Claire Holt’s version aren’t the same. It’s just a vague feeling I have, but something hits me wrong about Ramsey. He doesn’t have an alibi either.”
Claire stared at the gallery’s inventory list. Sparse, she thought, determined to keep her mind off Zach Coulter and the little scene in his Bronco the previous evening. What she had to offer wouldn’t be very impressive on Friday night when all the galleries were going to have open houses to celebrate the beginning of the Rodeo de Taos. Cowboys from all over the Southwest came to compete, attracting hordes of tourists. To take advantage of the influx, the galleries staged the Art Festival, keeping their shops open Friday evening and serving refreshments.
Claire had arranged for a selection of treats from Tortilla Flats, and had hired one of their bartenders to make their trademark Cuervo Gold Margaritas. But the best food in the world couldn’t make up for not having a premier artist.
Maybe she’d let pride get in her way. Perhaps she should have taken Nevada back and dealt with his print situation later. Well, it was too late now. Lowell Hopkins, owner of the River Spirit Gallery across the plaza had snapped up Nevada.
Claire had a marvelous selection of jewelry, including some really fine Old Pawn. The jewelry had been made for the Indians’ own use and was at least half a century old. When times were bad, they had pawned it for cash. The detail in the silver and the fine turquoise made the Old Pawn more valuable than most of the modern jewelry.
But Claire was always on the lookout for fresh new talent. Tonight she’d be featuring jewelry made by David Tzuni. He had creativity and a fine eye for detail. She had no doubt that one day his jewelry would be as coveted as Old Pawn.
She ran her pencil down the list of kachina dolls that she was offering. The elaborate wood carvings had originally been made by the Hopi Indians as religious art, but now they were collectors’ items. Even though souvenir shops sold cheap kachinas for a few dollars, Claire carried only the best. They were sculpted from a single root and hand painted. Of the four hundred kachina spirits, more than half were available at The Rising Sun.
She was checking through her list of rugs and yei blankets, trying to reassure herself that she would have enough to interest people, when Suzi appeared at the entrance to the alcove that was her office. Her part-time worker knew little about Southwestern art, but she was cheerful and eager to learn.
“There’s a man out here.” Suzi kept her voice low. “He says Quentin Reynolds sent him. Should I know this Reynolds guy?”
“No. He was one of my art teachers at U. of A. He’s managed a lot of galleries over the years,” she said, rising.
She walked into the main room of the gallery, then halted so quickly that Suzi bumped into her. It couldn’t be! A man with a full, bushy beard was studying Wild Horse. He was so interested in the bronze that he didn’t notice her.
The man wasn’t as tall as the one she remembered from that night in The Hideaway. He wasn’t as powerfully built either. This man had a lean, almost gaunt look, not at all the image she had, but considering the effects of a Roofie, her mind might have exaggerated certain things. But not the beard. She was positive about the beard.
She pulled Suzi into her office before the man looked over and spotted them. “Call the sheriff,” she whispered. “Tell him a man with a beard is at The Rising Sun Gallery. He’ll know what I mean.”
Suzi looked puzzled, but reached for the telephone as Claire left. In the main section of the gallery, the bearded man was now inspecting a Cochiti drum. He tapped lightly on the rawhide stretched taut over the small, hollowed-out log.
“Beautiful sound, isn’t it?” Claire said as she approached. “Hypnotic, really. You should hear the Corn Dance at the Cochiti pueblo when they’re beating dozens of these drums at once.” She came to a stop beside him and extended her hand. “I’m Claire Holt, owner of the Rising Sun Gallery. I understand you’re a friend of Quentin Reynolds.”
He shook her hand. “I’m Paul Winfrey.”
Close up, Claire saw the man had dark brown eyes. His full beard was several shades darker than his eyes, the color of his hair. He was an attractive man, but he didn’t have that distinctive strength of personality and presence she always associated with Zach Coulter.
“I took a one-day workshop from Quentin Reynolds. I told him I wanted to live in Taos, and he suggested I contact you,” Paul said.
“Really? You’re an artist?” Claire folded her arms across her chest to keep from trembling and looked down at her toes. An artist. She’d been praying for one, and now, in a blast from the past, her mentor had sent one. An artist who could very well have been the stranger in the dark room. “When did you get in town?”
“Thursday evening,” he
said, and she stopped staring at her shoes and met his gaze, realizing he had been in town on the night she’d gone to The Hideaway. “It took me a while to find a place I could afford. I’m renting a trailer at the Golden Palms.”
Claire took another look at the flashy cowboy boots she’d put on that morning. The Golden Palms. She immediately saw the dusty dump of a trailer park whose only saving grace was a tall pine tree. Zach Coulter had grown up in a rusted old trailer at the rear of the Golden Palms. Calling it a dive would have been the ultimate compliment.
“Where is Quentin these days? I haven’t heard from him in some time.” Claire intended to contact her old friend and see what he knew about this man.
Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s on the road, I think, lecturing to aspiring artists. Teaching a class here and there.”
Claire slowly nodded, disappointed that she couldn’t speak personally with Quentin, but she believed Paul was telling the truth. Quentin Reynolds was a gifted teacher with a unique ability to spot talented artists. He’d lost his battle with the bottle several years ago. Last she heard, he was drifting around, getting work where he could.
“Miss Holt, here’s a message for you,” Suzi said as she walked up and handed Claire a note.
Claire quickly read it and silently applauded Suzi’s creative way of letting her know the sheriff was in the field. He couldn’t possibly get here in time to question this man about The Hideaway. She thanked Suzi and stuffed the note into her pocket.
Was this the same man, or was this merely a coincidence? It was possible that this man had spent a night or two at The Hideaway. It was almost as cheap as the sleazy rental trailers at the Golden Palms. It was also possible that he’d had sex with her and left while it was still dark, never getting a good look at her. If that was the case, she didn’t want him to find out who she was.
She wanted that night behind her forever, knowing she had made love to a total stranger. And enjoyed it—what she could remember anyway. She’d been lucky. Most women had terrible experiences when someone slipped one of those pills into their drinks. Roofie or not, she’d done something that would always shame her.
