by Logan, Kylie
“I don’t think it. I know it. You would, too, if you weren’t so worried about the Palace last night. If you were looking a little closer, you would have seen the gunshot wound on the side of his head. And that smell . . .” The way he breathed in, I figured he was ignoring the sweet odor and concentrating on the other smell and honestly, I couldn’t believe I’d missed it.
“Somebody doused the place with gasoline.”
“You got that right.” Nick toasted my brilliance by lifting his cup in my direction. “After they shot the poor bastard in the head.”
I thought back to what I’d seen of the charred remains of Puff’s body and shivered. “I’m new to this murder thing,” I said, by way of explaining how I’d missed what was so clear to Nick. “So you’re saying somebody killed Puff, then started the fire to cover his tracks.”
“It looks that way.”
“And maybe to hide something else, too.” I looked over at what was left of Puff’s trailer, but I didn’t make a move in that direction. With any luck, Nick would think I was being careful and considerate rather than realizing I’d already poked around over there as soon as the last of the firefighters had left. There wasn’t much to see, and not much left of the shabby trailer that had been neighbor to our RV for so many years. “If Puff was distributing some kind of drugs, those might have been in his trailer, too, along with his supply of specialty beans. You know, so he could sell the drugs as he traveled from Showdown to Showdown.”
“And you said you’re new to this murder thing.”
It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but I decided to take it as one. My shoulders shot back.
“So Puff and Roberto . . .” It was early, and like I said, I hadn’t gotten much sleep. By the time four o’clock rolled around and I finally convinced myself there was no way I was ever going to nod off, I decided to make a batch of chili. It was a comforting routine and I knew why: Jack and I had worked together in the kitchen lots of times over the years, and in the wee hours of the morning, I did what I’d done so many times since I’d rejoined the Showdown—as I chopped and sautéed and stirred, I pretended he was with me and talked through everything that had been going on. It was nice, and it would have been nicer if he’d been there to share the moment. What it wasn’t, was illuminating.
“I’m not getting it,” I admitted to Nick, but only because I still hadn’t had enough coffee and I wasn’t at the top of my game. “If Puff killed Roberto like we figured he did, who killed Puff?”
Nick finished off his coffee, shivered when the last of my special-brew morning mud hit his stomach, and set his cup down on the counter. “That’s what the professionals get paid to find out,” he said. “And that—” He emphasized the last word in a way that made me bristle and even before I could figure out what I was bristling about, he supplied the answer. “—is what I came over here to talk to you about.”
“About how the professionals get paid to find murderers.”
“Yeah. Don’t you get it? They do. You don’t. Damn it, Maxie, you saw what happened here last night.”
I also saw what he was getting at, and I didn’t like it one bit. “You’re telling me to back off. You’re telling me I shouldn’t be asking questions, or—”
“Or breaking and entering into apartments that once belonged to dead guys. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
It wasn’t like I needed Nick’s permission—not for anything—but that didn’t mean I didn’t want his approval. And maybe a little bit of appreciation thrown into the mix, too. “But I’m the one who found Roberto’s phone,” I reminded him. “And I’m the one who found the video. If it wasn’t for me—”
“It doesn’t matter.” It was early, and the New Mexican sky was a crystal-blue bowl above our heads. When the sun was high enough that it spilled over Carter Donnelly’s motorhome, Nick squinted my way, ripped his Ray-Bans out of his shirt pocket, and put them on. “You’re not a professional.”
“But you are.”
I knew I’d screwed up the moment the words left my lips, and if I didn’t, the way Nick went as still as if he’d been flash frozen would have told me. Mistake. Big mistake. And too late to call the words back. I could apologize and look like a wimp, or I could prove my point and show him I was capable of not only explaining myself, but of investigating a couple murders.
If I stuck to my guns.
And ignored the muscle that jumped at the base of his jaw.
“I might be an amateur, but at least I’m making a little bit of progress. Besides, I’ve got you to talk to, and you know what’s what when it comes to an investigation. You can tell the local cops—”
“I can’t tell them anything. And even if I did, they wouldn’t listen. I’m nothing more than a glorified security guard.”
If he’d screamed at me, I would have come back fighting. But the way Nick said it, his voice as tight as the way he curled his fingers into his palms, I knew I’d hit a nerve. Did it matter? It shouldn’t have. But that didn’t stop me from closing the distance between us.
“I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject,” I said.
“It isn’t.”
“Yeah, and I don’t sell spices.”
I hoped for a smile and didn’t get one, so I put a hand on his arm. “I understand.”
He twitched away from my touch. “I doubt it.”
“Okay, so not totally. So I’ve never been a cop who isn’t a cop anymore. But the people around the Showdown, they say—”
“What?”
I didn’t need to see his eyes. I could feel them drill right through me. I swallowed hard, then cursed myself for caving like that. I might not have known him well, but I knew Nick wasn’t a guy who appreciated weakness. Or lies.
“They say something went wrong back in LA,” I told him. “At least that’s the gossip. They say you killed somebody. Or you got caught in some kind of corruption scandal. They say you can’t go back.” I thought maybe I should just leave it at that, but like I said, I knew he was a man who respected the truth, so I gave it to him with both guns. “They say that otherwise, a guy like you would never be working in a place like this.”
“Because this place—”
“Oh come on, Nick.” I threw my hands in the air. “Don’t play games. Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann, Gert and Jack . . . in my book, they’re the best of the best. Salt of the earth and all that. But I know what people think when we roll into a town. They think we’re losers. Every single one of us. Traveling around from place to place. Never settling down. We’re like gypsies without the big earrings and the tarot cards. That’s what you think, too, isn’t it? That would explain the attitude. It would also explain why you’re not planning on staying around here any longer than you have to.”
His stillness morphed into quiet, and quiet turned to stony.
I thought about walking away and decided that would make me look like the loser, so I stood my ground. It was a full two minutes before I felt the look he slid my way.
“I have an attitude?”
I barked out a laugh. “In spades.”
“And here I thought I was such a warm and fuzzy guy.”
“I’ll bet Tiffany thought so.”
“And you don’t.”
Had we just gone from discussing murder to talking about something much more personal? I wasn’t sure, and not being sure—of anything—always makes me feel like I’m walking on an Earth that has tipped slightly. Maybe the Mayans were right all along. I mean, about the change in magnets or poles or whatever the hell they were supposed to know so much about. Maybe that’s why I suddenly felt a little dizzy.
“Warm and fuzzy doesn’t do it for me,” I said, not only because it sort of skirted a subject I didn’t want to talk about, but because it was true. “Warm and fuzzy is a cover-up.”
“You’re bitter.”
“I’m pragmatic.” I sized up Nick’s reaction. “And you’re surprised I know big words like that.”
“Not as s
urprised as I am that you admit it.”
We’d taken another step away from murder and I couldn’t say that I liked it. At least murder was solid. Decisive. This other stuff—
“What makes you think I’m not going to stick around?”
I was grateful for Nick’s question. It snapped me out of thoughts I didn’t know how to deal with and the emotions that went along with them.
“The car, the clothes, the fancy hotel.” In my opinion, that should have been enough to explain everything, so when Nick didn’t say anything—when he only waited for more—I blew out a breath of exasperation. “It’s clear you don’t fit in, and you don’t want to, and you don’t care. You haven’t shown up at any of our Thursday night pre-Showdown dinners. You barely make conversation. Except for Sylvia who practically falls all over herself when you’re around, everybody’s too scared of you to chat you up. You haven’t made any friends.”
“So we’re not friends.”
I looked into my cup. It was empty, and I mumbled a curse. There’s never a better time for a jolt of caffeine than when you’re not sure what to say.
I went for noncommittal. Something told me Nick would be surprised I knew that word, too. “I thought we were working together. You know, comparing notes about Roberto’s murder.”
“And I thought I made it clear that when it comes to murder, you should mind your own business.”
If it hadn’t been my favorite coffee mug, I would have thrown it at him. Instead, I whacked the mug down on the front counter hard enough so that it sounded like a rifle shot. “You’re the one who told me—”
“Oh no! I never—”
“You told me that if I wanted to prove Sylvia didn’t kill Roberto, I should do something about it.”
“I meant you should think about it.” Nick scraped a hand through his hair. “I meant you should make a list of who didn’t like Roberto. Or who didn’t like Sylvia and might want to frame her. I didn’t mean you should go off half-cocked talking to people you shouldn’t be talking to and maybe getting yourself in serious trouble.”
“Which I haven’t done.”
“Which is just because you’re lucky.”
“Which doesn’t mean if I go right on doing it, I won’t be just as lucky.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “That’s a really stupid idea.”
“Then I guess I’m living up to your opinion of me.”
“I never said you were stupid.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Look . . .” Whatever he was going to say, Nick chewed over the words for a couple silent moments before he rubbed his hands together. “I just wanted to talk to you. That’s all. About . . .” Apparently he was smart enough to know that rehashing what we’d already talked about wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He knew that I knew that he knew we’d just start into it again, so he cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I also wanted to tell you that I talked to the local cops this morning. They checked Puff’s phone records. You were right. He was the one who called Roberto’s phone last night.”
“So I’m not stupid.”
“You’re not. But that doesn’t mean you’re smart.”
I’d already whirled around in an attempt to get inside the Palace so I could slam the door in his face when Nick grabbed my arm and turned me back to face him. “I didn’t mean you’re not smart as a person. I just meant . . .” Two could play the stare-down game, and I won this particular round. He dropped my arm and adjusted his sunglasses. “You’re not a professional. And you’re not experienced. If you go poking that pretty little nose of yours where it doesn’t belong, somebody’s likely to chop it off.”
It was an automatic response; I put my hand on my nose.
Until I thought about what Nick said and a tiny smile tickled the corners of my mouth. “Is it pretty?”
“Is what pretty?”
“My nose?”
“If you say so.”
I grumbled. “You’re the one who said it. Only now you’re going to deny it.” I didn’t give him the chance to. “Never mind,” I said. “At least we know we were on the right track. Puff wanted that phone because he knew about the video. He had a reason to kill Roberto.”
Nick nodded. “The local cops tell me the DEA has had their eyes on Puff for a while, but they could never prove anything because they could never catch him actually dealing.”
“Because whatever the drug was, he was selling it along with his beans.”
Another nod. “It makes sense. The problem isn’t figuring out what he was selling, but who was buying.”
“Maybe it’s not so much of a problem after all.” Before he could figure out what I was up to and dodge out of my way, I grabbed Nick’s hand and dragged him toward the front gates of the fairgrounds. Once we got there, and I realized I was still holding on to him, I dropped his hand like it was on fire and simply led the way.
Big points for him. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, but he fell into step beside me. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“To talk to a suspect,” I informed him.
“Someone you’ve talked to before. Which means you’re not going to learn anything now that you don’t already know.”
I shot him a look. “I will if he sees I’ve brought along reinforcements.”
Nick got it. Or if he didn’t, at least he didn’t say anything. Together, we passed by the artists just setting up their wares outside of the Showdown.
Lucky for us, Alphonse Rettinger was an early riser. When we arrived, he was just getting his chain saw out of his truck.
Alphonse’s eyes landed on me and behind his beard, his lips thinned. That is, until he took a look at Nick.
Cop.
Nick didn’t have to say a word. As usual, he was wearing a dark suit (not exactly the normal way for a security guy to dress, but nothing was normal about Nick), and nothing screams cop like that. And of course, there was the stubborn chin, the attitude, the steely look.
Alphonse set down the chain saw. “What can I do for you folks?” he asked.
Nick took the lead. “Just wondered how much you know about what happened here last night,” was all he said.
Alphonse’s gaze automatically traveled to the front gates of the fairgrounds and beyond, to where Puff’s trailer used to sit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on. You must have heard about the fire.” This was me, trying my best to follow Nick’s cool and collected lead and finding it impossible since it was so obvious Alphonse was playing games. When all the big guy did was stare at me, I decided on a little detour. “It’s all kind of weird, don’t you think? I mean, arson here at the Showdown and somebody dying in the fire. And all right after your friend Roberto was killed.”
Alphonse’s beard twitched. “He was no friend of mine.”
“But you knew him well enough to fight with him at El Rancho,” Nick reminded him.
“So what?” Alphonse was a whole head taller than Nick and just about twice as wide. He looked down a nose that had been broken a time or two and had the lumps and bumps to prove it. “That don’t mean nothing.”
“He’s right.” I was pretty sure Nick didn’t appreciate this comment from me and before he could tell me, I went right on. “A bar fight is just a bar fight, Nick. It doesn’t mean a thing. What really means something is the fact that our friend Alphonse here never had a booth reserved for this art fair. Not until he found out Roberto worked for the Showdown.”
“How did you—” Alphonse had no intention of giving that much away. He clamped his lips together and maybe I’m a whole lot smarter than Nick gives me credit for being, because I knew it was time for me to step back and let him take over.
“I’m willing to believe you had nothing to do with killing Roberto, or what happened here at the fairgrounds last night,” he told Alphonse. “But you’re going to have to convince me. What was the fight about, Alphonse? If it was some stupid beef, then
so be it, but if there was bad blood between you and Roberto . . .”
Here’s the thing about Taos. Maybe it’s the altitude, or maybe it’s the way the sky is so clear, the sunlight just seems more alive than it does in other places, like it’s just not up in the sky, but it’s all around, touching everything and everyone. Maybe that’s why I thought a flush of color raced up Alphonse’s neck and into his cheeks.
But I don’t think so.
I think the big guy was actually blushing.
“It was about . . .” Alphonse’s gaze darted over to me and he cocked his head, indicating that he and Nick needed to take a walk into the back part of the booth where I’d seen him working on that sculpture of the bear/tuna/flower. For a minute or two, the two of them put their heads together back there, and all I could hear was the rumble of their voices.
When they were done, Nick walked out of the booth and without a word, he started back toward the fairgrounds.
“So?” I scrambled to catch up. “You going to call the cops and tell them what Alphonse said?”
Nick kept walking without ever once looking back. “I’m going to call the cops, but I think we can leave Alphonse out of it.”
His legs were long and I had to hurry. “So he told you, right? He told you what he and Roberto were fighting about.”
“He did.”
“And . . . ?”
We were all the way back to the fairgrounds and I was breathing hard from having to run to keep up with Nick. He pulled me over to the side of the ticket booth and looked back over his shoulder toward the art show. Apparently he was satisfied that Alphonse wasn’t watching because he said, “Remember that video and how we saw Puff buy drugs from Roberto?” He knew I did, and he didn’t stop long enough for me to answer. “Well, I know what the drug is. Roberto was selling knock-off pharmaceuticals. That’s what Puff bought from him on that video.”
“And you know this because . . .”
Nick ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Because Alphonse bought some from Roberto, too.”
“And . . .”
He shrugged. “And nothing. He thought he was buying the real thing. He found out he got ripped off. When he ran into Roberto at El Rancho, he naturally lost his temper.”
