by Meryl Sawyer
“You weren’t telling the truth about who was with you at The Hideaway,” Coulter said. “I can arrest you and haul you in, or you can level with us now.”
Max sized up the situation in an instant. That candynose Stacy had cracked. He should have expected it. Coulter was a whole helluva lot smarter than your average sheriff. He would have sensed Stacy was lying.
“Arrest me?” Max said with his most ingratiating smile. “What for?”
Coulter’s expression remained grim. “Obstruction of justice.”
“Read him his rights and haul him in,” Yeager said.
Max had never been arrested, and he wasn’t going to let some stupid bitch get him in trouble. “Whoa! You don’t have to arrest me.” He threw up his hands and shrugged. “No big deal. I fudged on my story. Stacy Hopkins left sometime around one. Seth and I stayed in that room—sleeping it off—until dawn.”
“Exactly what time did you leave?”
Max didn’t like the Sheriff’s uppity tone. He’d fix him as soon as he got the chance, and he’d take care of Stacy, too. Now just wasn’t the right time.
“It was ten minutes till six when we walked into the parking lot. Seth got into his car and I followed him out to my place.”
“Did you see any other cars?” Yeager asked.
“I recognized Morrell’s Jag. There were a couple of other cars. One of them had a rental sticker on the bumper.”
“Did you see anyone else around?” Coulter wanted to know.
“Down the road, I saw Claire Holt in a van with an Indian driving.”
“Really?” Yeager said. “Did—”
Coulter cut off the FBI agent. “You can’t be sure it was her, can you?”
Of course, it had been Claire Holt. No doubt about it at all. Claire had spent the night at The Hideaway. Max had told Seth about it, and they’d had a belly laugh. What a riot! The uppity bitch probably had been forced to hitchhike home.
“Kinda’ looked like her,” Max hedged. “Coulda’ been someone else.”
Coulter quickly changed the subject, confirming Max’s suspicions. He was hot, real hot for Claire Holt. He did not want her linked to this murder. Fine, Max thought, smiling inwardly.
Claire Holt had been at the murder scene. When payback time came—Max could hardly wait—he’d use this info to fix the bitch and the cocky sheriff.
They asked a few more questions, then left. Max walked back to his study to call Seth. They were going out again tonight with Vanessa Trent. Seth had better hope the blond bombshell didn’t find out Seth was bisexual. The bitch gave new meaning to the word vain.
She honestly believed every man she met adored her.
He wouldn’t have wasted a second on the broad, but Seth had the hots for her. Vanessa kept coming on to Max, which really frustrated Seth. Max saw right through the bitch. She wanted money from him. She hadn’t yet mentioned it, but that’s what she was after.
Max picked up the telephone and punched the automatic dial button numbered one. After two rings, Seth answered.
“Get your sorry ass out here. I have a contract for you to go over.”
Max slammed down the receiver without waiting for an answer. He dropped into the leather chair and put his feet up on his desk. He loved having Seth at his beck and call. He was getting hard just thinking about it.
From the second-floor window, Angela saw the sheriff drive up to her home just as the sun was setting. She was headed downstairs to see what he wanted when the telephone rang.
“Hi,” Claire said. “How did it go last night?”
“Fine,” Angela responded, but of course, fine did not cover it. “Paul is not just another cowboy in Calvins, pretending to be an artist. He is extremely talented.”
Extremely. And awesomely easy to arouse.
“Did you take him to Santa Fe to get art supplies?”
“No. He wanted to go riding.”
“He really loves horses.”
“True,” Angela said, wondering how Claire knew such an intimate detail about Paul. The doorbell rang before she could ask. “I’ve got to go. Someone’s at the door. I’ll see you at the Fosters’ reception tomorrow night.”
Angela hung up and walked downstairs, thinking she should have told Claire that Paul had moved in with her. It had been surprisingly easy to get rid of Carleton Cole. She usually kissed off a young hunk with a new car. Carleton had bluntly asked for cash instead. All she had to do was write a check, and he was history.
Paul could use her guest house to paint. Not that he’d showed any sign—yet—of wanting to paint. They’d spent the afternoon riding in the high country. She was going to be stiff and sore for days, but it had been worth it. Paul had been so happy, stopping at every scenic spot and looking at the wildflowers.
She paused in the hallway, realizing Paul had answered the door. She couldn’t see them, but she could hear Paul talking to Zach Coulter.
“I wasn’t hiding anything, Zach. You never asked me if I had been at The Hideaway. I was there from nine o’clock on. I saw a poster saying Flash and the Rusty Roots would be playing. I couldn’t afford to go into the club, so I took my sleeping bag and a hot dog and a beer that I bought at the Stop n Go and sat in the woods, listening. I slept under the stars. It was a beautiful night.”
Angela smiled to herself. How like Paul. He loved being outdoors, studying the plants and trees almost as if seeing them for the very first time.
“A man was killed at The Hideaway. Why didn’t you tell me that you’d been there all night?”
Zach’s disappointed tone surprised her. He was usually cool. Too cool and remote for her taste.
“I’m sorry, Zach. I didn’t want to get involved with the law. I’m sure you understand why not.”
“After you met me, why didn’t you mention something?”
“I didn’t have anything to tell.”
“Anything, any little detail might help solve this case.”
After a pause, Paul said, “About midnight, between songs, I heard a clinking sound. I peeked through the trees. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Two men were loading a bear into a pickup. They drove off without turning on its lights. Then the tall man walked back toward The Hideaway, humming ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’ along with the band. That’s all I saw.”
Zach said something about seeing Paul later, then left. Angela stood in the hall out of sight, wondering why Paul didn’t want anything to do with the law. And why hadn’t the sheriff gotten a description of those men who stole the bear? Not that she wanted them caught. She’d put a lot of money into the vase to make sure Khadafi got away from Bam Stegner.
Angela walked around the corner and asked Paul “Did you see the men who took the bear?”
He hesitated a beat, then grinned. “I can’t rightly say what they looked like. It was real dark.”
She smiled back. He knew exactly what they looked like. He didn’t want Stegner to get his bear back either. That instant she knew he was a very special man, and she was at risk of losing an essential part of herself—her heart.
“Speaking of dark,” he said before she could ask if he had a reason to avoid the law. “Let’s go upstairs and pull down the shades. We have time for a little fun before we head out to the rodeo.”
“How’s Daddy doing?” Claire asked Maude as the older woman opened the front door.
“He had a little trouble sleeping last night.” Maude stepped back so Claire could come in. “He just got up. He’s in the morning room reading the Sunday paper. He’ll be glad to see you.”
Claire followed Maude down the wide hall of the rambling hacienda where she’d grown up. She knew every turn in the thick adobe walls, every architectural detail from the hand-hewn vigas supporting the roof to the kiva fireplaces in the corners of the bedrooms. How happy she’d been growing up here, believing her parents were the perfect couple. They’d been completely in love, or so it had seemed to her young, hopelessly romantic mind.
“Hello, Dad
dy,” she said, bracing herself. Last night she’d decided that she couldn’t wait any longer. She had to tell her father about the incident at The Hideaway. The way the case was dragging on, the details were sure to come out. She didn’t want her father hearing about it from the town gossips.
“Hey, you look pretty this morning,” her father said as he lowered the newspaper. “Did you come from church?”
Her father always acted as if missing a Sunday service was the path to eternal damnation. Just wait until he heard her story. “Yes. Reverend Butler gave a wonderful sermon on the sins of the flesh.”
He nodded approvingly, his pewter-colored hair gleaming in the sunlight filtering through the windows. “I had some trouble sleeping last night. Maude talked with me until I finally drifted off.” He looked over at Maude and smiled.
There was something in his smile that told Claire that the two of them were sharing her father’s bed and probably had been for some time. She should have guessed as much. Despite his disability, her father was an extremely handsome man. Maude had outlasted his previous “assistants” because she’d fallen in love with him. Why couldn’t her father let go of the past and love Maude instead of just sleeping with her?
“Maude said I was out of line last night,” her father said with uncharacteristic tenderness in his voice. “You have a real winner with that Winfrey fellow. Your show sold out, and I didn’t congratulate you.” He looked over at Maude and she beamed her approval. “I’m real proud of you, honey.”
She’d waited so long to hear him say those words. Her stomach had that curious weightless sensation she always developed when she was excited. But she wasn’t as happy as she’d anticipated. Maybe it was because Maude had to persuade her father to congratulate her. Why couldn’t he have thought of it himself?
“Thank you, Daddy.” She kissed his cheek, putting aside her doubts. At least he was acknowledging her success. “You don’t know how much it means to hear you say that.”
He pulled out the chair beside him. “Have a cup of coffee with us before you go to your gallery.”
She desperately needed to get to the gallery and restock as best she could, but she couldn’t run out now. She’d waited too long and worked too hard to win her father’s approval. Maude poured her a cup of coffee from the silver urn on the sideboard as Claire sat beside her father.
“I know I’ve thrown your mother at you too many times,” he said, raw emotion in his voice. “Because you look so much like her and are interested in many of the same things she was, I tend to think you inherited all her faults.”
Claire was tempted to ask which faults. She didn’t recall any vices or terrible habits. All she remembered was a happy, smiling woman. Not a day went by when she didn’t miss her.
“If running that gallery is what you want to do, Claire, then I have to accept it. I’ve worked my whole life to build a business. When I die, it will be sold to strangers.”
He couldn’t just congratulate her, could he? No. Ho used the gallery to segue into his usual guilt trip. If she wouldn’t accept a position at the bank, the least she could do was marry the proper man and give her father a grandson.
“Seth Ramsey called to see how I was,” her father rushed on. “He’s such a nice young man, and he’s crazy about you. If you married him, I’d make him vice-president of the bank.”
She listened to him drone on about Seth’s endless virtues. Zach had specifically warned her about Seth, not that she intended to have anything to do with the creep. If he had waited outside the restroom, he would have been able to get her home safely. To make matters worse, the jerk had lied, claiming he’d waited for her.
“Daddy, I have no intention of going out with Seth again,” she said as she stirred her coffee. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Maude took the seat opposite Claire and listened as she told them about the night at The Hideaway. By the time she’d finished, all the color had leached from her father’s face.
“You had unprotected sex with a total stranger.” He was so shocked that he could barely whisper the words.
“It was the Rohypnol,” Maude put in. “Lots of young women have been victimized—”
“She had no business going out there in the first place,” he snapped.
Claire almost mentioned how strongly Seth had urged her to go, but she didn’t. Nor did she explain yet again that his protégé, Seth Ramsey, had left her. She took responsibility for what had happened. She might privately fault Seth’s conduct, but she accepted responsibility for her own actions. She had no business going out to Bam Stegner’s club.
She directed her comment to Maude. “My experience wasn’t nearly as traumatic as what has happened to other women. The man seemed very nice. Sweet. What I can remember is pleasant.”
“I hope you’re not pregnant.” Her father’s voice was a broken whisper.
“Now, Alex, women don’t get pregnant from one-night stands.”
Being pregnant had not entered her mind, but she had worried endlessly about catching some dreadful disease, maybe even a life-threatening disease.
Her father must have misinterpreted her silence. Color flooded his face, turning the chalky white skin to a mottled red. “You wouldn’t have a baby without being married, would you? You wouldn’t do that to me.”
Why did her father always think in terms of himself?
“Daddy, the point is Duncan Morrell was murdered in the bungalow next door to where I was. We were enemies. Everyone knows about our feud over the prints he reproduced. I’m afraid I might be blamed for his death.”
“Can anyone prove you were at The Hideaway?” her father asked. “You said the bearded man vanished. Just don’t tell anyone.”
“My wallet fell out of my purse. The sheriff found it. He knows I was there.”
Her father’s startled intake of breath was followed by a sad shake of his head. Maude stared into her coffee as if reading tea leaves. Although Claire hadn’t said Zachary Coulter’s name, it hung in the air between them like a poisonous gas.
“I’ve seen Coulter strutting around town just the way his father did,” he said, venom in every syllable. “He’ll use this murder to get to you the way his father conned your mother, claiming he wasn’t just any two-bit photographer who took graduation pictures for a living. Oh, no. He was an artist—the next Ansel Adams.”
She knew her mother had been planning on exhibiting Jake Coulter’s photographs. Then the terrible car crash had killed them both. For the thousandth time she asked herself why she hadn’t just kept her mouth shut? Why had she run to her father?
“Zach isn’t using this to get to me,” she protested, but she had to admit there was an element of truth to what her father had said. Zach had used the murder to force his way into her life. And she seemed powerless to resist him. “I’m not positive, but I think the FBI is in on the case. I hope it’ll be solved quickly.”
“They’ll take it out of Coulter’s hands,” her father said. “He can’t even handle the Saturday night rodeo crowd. There was another big fight last night.”
Claire hadn’t heard from Zach yesterday, not that she expected to. He needed to be out at the rodeo arena the whole time. She’d hardly slept last night for thinking about him. She’d told herself not to worry, but he’d had a bottle broken over his head the night before and had been cut and bruised. When she’d finally fallen asleep, she’d been jolted awake by a dream about Zach that had been so erotic she blushed whenever she thought about it.
“Honey, I don’t want you to worry,” her father said, gruff affection in his voice. “The FBI will find the killer. Until they do, you keep quiet. Go to the Fosters’ reception tonight and act like nothing’s wrong. Explain to them why I’m not there.”
By the time nine o’clock rolled around, the last thing Claire wanted to do was to go to the Fosters’ reception. Every year Arnold and Muffy Foster had a champagne and dessert bash to celebrate the opening of the season. Of course, the season
meant different things to different people. To Claire and the other merchants it was the time of year when tourists flooded the city, spending money in the shops. To wealthy people, the season revolved around the Santa Fe Opera and an endless succession of parties.
She locked the shop and turned to walk down the block to the reception. Zach Coulter was standing behind her. He had a bruise on his jaw and a small cut on his upper lip, and he looked dead tired. He’d just shaved, she guessed, and his hair was so shiny that he must have showered after leaving the dusty rodeo arena. He’d taken off his badge and was dressed in navy trousers and a white polo shirt that looked brand new.
“I heard it got rough last night,” she said lightly, masking her inner turmoil with a deceptive calmness. She had no idea what she was going to do about Zach. Not only did she care about him, now she found herself worrying about his safety.
“Could have been worse,” he said, as if it had been nothing more than a minor scuffle, but she knew better. “Where are the dogs?”
“Out back in my Jeep,” she said. “The windows are down and it’s cool tonight. I’m just sticking my nose into the Fosters’ reception, then I’m going home.”
Something about him seemed different, she reflected. She remembered what her father had said about Zach using the murder to get close to her. No denying it. He’d done just that.
There was a certain ruthlessness to him, but he had his good side, too. She wanted to give him a chance, to see what he was really like aside from memories which were years old. Her father would pitch a fit. It wouldn’t have worried her so much except he seemed unstable at times. One day he was hysterical about Paul Winfrey’s painting, then the next day her father was rationally telling her how proud he was of her.
“How’s your father?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.
“He’s fine, thanks.” She smiled up at him, not knowing what to say and he smiled back. She looked down at her shoes, searching for words, and noticed Zach had on his best black lizard boots, and they were buffed to a high gloss.
