Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery

by Louise Gaylord

  Reena tears up and I’m about to offer comfort when the woman behind the counter motions her over.

  After a few whispered words she returns. “It’s just a small delay. Paul had unexpected business in Laredo. The plane will be landing in a few minutes to take us to the ranch, then pick him up in time to join us for dinner.”

  The flight takes a little over an hour. Anesthetized by the vodkas, followed by two glasses of red wine, Reena falls asleep immediately, giving me time to arm myself for a meeting with Paul.

  Seven years. What will he look like? How will I feel when I see him? He never said goodbye. Our short but intense love affair ended as suddenly as it began.

  “Come home,” my mother had sobbed, then blurted the tragic news. Her mother and father gone forever. Early morning fog on the highway. Tractor-trailer smashed their car to smithereens. When I didn’t answer, she turned the screw. “Angela is giving up a major assignment in Paris. She’s already on her way.”

  Since it was “only” my senior year, there was nothing to do but pack up and go. No time to steal a night wrapped in Paul’s arms. Only time for a hurried explanation and his sympathetic, “Do what you have to do. We have a lifetime to share.”

  Angela fell weeping into my embrace, then led me upstairs, where Mother lay in the curtain-drawn bedroom staring into nothing. I went to her, arms open, but she sighed. How well I knew that sigh. Not now, it said. Not now.

  The following morning we drove to Temple for the funeral. It was a crisp, blue-sky day with gum trees flaming against the green slash pines, and blurring to a bright Christmas streamer as we hurried east.

  I hunched in the front seat next to Dad, who gripped the wheel in silence, his mouth drawn in a tight line. In the back Mother’s tears, punctuated with choking moans, were blotted by Angela’s kisses and Kleenex.

  To her credit, Mother held up during the service, but she was hopeless at the grave. As the caskets were lowered, she keened, and collapsed in Dad’s arms. He swooped her up like a feather, nodded for Angela, then headed for the car.

  Minutes later he stood by my side as people murmured their sympathies.

  Mother’s lifelong friend grabbed Dad’s hand. “Poor thing. Too bad she was an only child. No one to share her grief. Thank heavens she has Angela...” She glanced in my direction and rushed on, “... the two girls to lean on.”

  I ignored the slight. By age five I learned the fine art of dissociation—an effective weapon against rejection. Angela was Mother’s favorite and everybody knew it.

  Paul called every night the first week, then every other the next, and, finally, not at all. I couldn’t understand what was happening, but there was little I could do. Trapped at home in Lampasas, I was too proud to call him or mention his strange behavior to Reena or Susie, though after the truth came out, I remembered Reena never answered the phone.

  By that time I was dealing with a more pressing problem. I was pregnant. There was nothing else to do but call Paul. When I finally got up the courage, I was informed he was on his honeymoon.

  That news forced me to make the most agonizing decision of my life. The following morning Angela trumped up a modeling interview in Dallas and asked me to go with her. Mother was too dazed to protest, but Dad thought it was a good idea for us to escape Mother’s pervasive grief and offered to stay home while we went on our lark.

  Some lark. I remember only Angela’s tears, not mine.

  Though Paul’s abandonment and the loss of our child were devastating, I didn’t learn Reena was the cause until I went back to UT after the Thanksgiving break.

  The screech of tires meeting the runway pulls me back to the present and I peer out the window as the plane taxis to the hangar at the far end of the airstrip.

  We deplane and Reena introduces Miguel Alvarez, who, with his wife Adelena, is in charge of the house. He nods mutely, takes the shopping bags and luggage from the pilot, then races to open the doors to a late-model station wagon with “Anacacho Ranch” painted on the side.

  We travel down the tarmac away from the hangar, then through an electric gate, and continue for a mile or so down a paved lane.

  When we pull onto the highway, Reena sighs. “Too bad we didn’t bring a driving drink. It’s still a couple more miles to the house.”

  Several minutes later we pass the Darden mailbox, and the past burbles forward. Susie’s adoring upturned face. The way she took as gospel every word Reena spoke. Now, though separated by only miles, the two women seldom see each other.

  “So, that’s where Susie and Del live?”

  “If you can call it living. Del tells me the house is a pigsty.” Reena must read my disapproval. She turns to peer out the back window. “You can’t see the house from here. It’s set almost a mile back in those trees. As the crow flies, Susie and I live only a mile apart but it’s almost two by the highway. There’s a dirt road from the airstrip to the Anacacho. Goes right past the Dardens’ barn. Very convenient for Del since he manages both ranches.”

  We travel the remaining distance and turn between two large sandstone pillars supporting a wrought-iron “Anacacho,” then drive slowly up the long, cedar-lined road to the house.

  The impressive two-story structure of massive ochre and gray stones built in the late thirties by Paul’s father looms at the end of the drive. An imposing three-story tower dominates the east end of the building, a detail Paul forgot to mention, or omitted because it might have sounded too grandiose to a hick-chick from Lampasas.

  Miguel pulls up before a wide, covered, slate porch that seems to circle the entire house. He helps each of us from the car, then rushes to open one of the massive oak front doors. I follow Reena into a generous entry hall, bounded on one side by a wide, circular staircase.

  “Miss Armington will be in the room next to mine,” Reena says. “Put the shopping bags on my bed.”

  Miguel gives a silent nod, then glides upward, carrying the load of luggage and packages as if they were air, while Reena heads for the living room, her stiletto heels echoing on the polished tiles.

  The seductive aroma of red chiles being blackened permeates the room.

  Reena smiles. “Adelena’s starting one of her fabulous moles. Want a drink before the tour or after?”

  “Now sounds good.” I hurry behind her, suddenly needing a little Dutch courage to face Paul.

  I’m barely in the room when Reena lets out a yelp. “What happened to my paintings? They were here when I left this morning.” She whirls to face me, then points to the wall above a long refectory table. “Paul threatened to take them but I never really believed he would.”

  I step to the table and run my hand over the surface of the wall. Not a nail hole to be felt. It’s as dry as a bone. There’s no way a group of paintings could have hung here this morning. The repairs to the wall are excellent, with several layers of painting and sanding. I turn to say as much, but Reena has headed for the bar.

  She pours two glasses of wine and drags me toward the front door. “We’ll tour the stables before it gets too dark.”

  The stables are hardly that. The air-conditioned building houses ten stalls next to an office sporting a large teak desk across from an overstuffed brown leather couch. In one corner sits a tall safe.

  “This appeared a few days before Christmas. Paul won’t tell me what’s in it. But never-you-mind, I’ll find out before too long.” Reena shows me a notebook filled with every combination she’s tried.

  She leads me back into the center walkway and to the next door. “You have to see the tack room. You won’t believe it.”

  She struggles with the combination lock and the door swings open. “Voilà. Paul’s crown jewels.”

  She isn’t exaggerating. Most of the saddles boast pommels and stirrups adorned with heavily etched silver encrusted with semi-precious stones. The headstalls of the matching bridles are so ornate, it’s amazing a horse could raise its neck.

  I make appropriate noises about the gaudy wares and fol
low my hostess out into the evening air.

  We return to the house for a refill, then Reena leads me to the second floor and proudly shows off six guest rooms identically outfitted with handmade furniture from Nuevo Laredo. When we get to my room, which is next to the master suite, she takes a minute to show me the secret door leading from my closet into hers, explaining my room used to be Paul’s as a child and the door gave his mother easy access to him in case of illness.

  “Now for the master suite.” She pulls me through the double doors and down a wide hall to view the king-size bed, which dominates the left side of the room. To the right, a comfortable sitting area features an entertainment center and a wet bar. Reena has good taste and she’s used it well.

  A phone rings in the distance. In minutes Adelena, the cook, appears at the door to announce the Señor will not be home in time for dinner.

  “Thank you, Adelena. Since there’s just the two of us, we’ll dine in the tower.” Reena turns to me. “You’ll need a warm-up suit. It’s quite chilly after the sun goes down, but the view is spectacular.”

  I nod, waiting for further instructions from my hostess, but all I get is a smirk. “Too bad. Paul must have forgotten you were coming.”

  I feel my jaw go south. What was the point of that statement? Is she trying to start a fight? I immediately regret my decision to come and try to remember what Reena said to pique my curiosity.

  It’s plain she’s drinking much too much. Reena hardly drank at Texas. Said it muddied her mind—strange how memories stick.

  And what’s with the pictures? Why did she carry on like that when they were obviously taken down long before today?

  Reena gives me a nudge in the direction of my room. “Hurry up and change or you’ll miss the sunset.”

  By the time I reach the tower, I’m glad for the protective cover of my warm-up suit. The still January air is briskly crisp, but a piñon-wood fire crackles in a nearby fireplace.

  As the sun’s last rays pink the horizon, Reena motions me to join her at an imposing oak table bearing a pair of tall, ornate candelabra.

  She chooses the chair facing the Anacacho Mountains, then points me to the seat to her left so I can share the full moon’s spectacular debut.

  The moment we are seated, Miguel appears to tend a dumbwaiter built into one of the side-walls just as two steaming bowls of fragrant tortilla soup rise from the kitchen below.

  The soup is followed by thick, juicy steaks and crispy French fries. The meal ends with a piñon flan topped by a smoky, chocolate-tinged, caramel sauce. All the while, Miguel keeps Reena’s glass topped with red wine, while I allow myself the customary two.

  By dessert we’ve exhausted all the usual chitchat and finish our meal in silence until Miguel serves coffee.

  Wine glass empty, Reena motions him to open a second bottle, then says, “I’m sure you talk to Susie often.”

  The truth is, Susie and I have remained close since graduation and talk once or twice a month. I’m about to say so when a red flag pops up. I lie. “We mostly talk on holidays. Susie’s really busy with the kids. The baby’s just beginning to crawl, but I guess you know more about that than I do.”

  “Not really. I haven’t seen Susie in over a year.”

  It’s all I can do not to snort since Susie has recounted several incidences when Reena openly snubbed her.

  “It makes me so mad,” Reena whines. “Susie could have done so much better. I can’t imagine why she picked that broken-down football hack for a husband.”

  Del, anything but a hack, was about to sign on as quarterback for one of the NFL teams when Reena dumped him for Paul. Unable to concentrate on little else but his loss, Del was sacked attempting his first pass in the opening game of the season. Badly torn ligaments in his right knee sidelined him for good, throwing him into an even deeper despair.

  I don’t know what Del might have done if it weren’t for Susie. She literally saved him. For the rest of the school year, she cooked his meals, washed his clothes, and with a little help from me, was able to coax him through finals.

  After Susie and Del married, the two went home to work the Dardens’ hardscrabble ranch. With some financial aid from Susie’s family, they managed to eke out a bare existence until their second son was born. It was then Paul gave Del the foreman’s job on the Anacacho.

  I still hold Reena personally responsible for the injuries that plague Del in the cold of winter, and it’s hard to keep the venom out of my voice. “Delman Darden would probably be enjoying a profitable pro football career if you hadn’t dumped him.”

  Reena’s wine glass stops in midair as shock fills her face. “Are you saying I caused his injuries?”

  “Well, he certainly wasn’t concentrating on his game the day he was sacked.”

  Reena bristles. “Oh, puleese, give me a break. Does Del really blame me for that?”

  I hesitate for only a second before my own little evil demon kicks in. “He may not, but Susie and I sure suffered through that last semester. I swear he was almost suicidal.”

  Reena empties her glass and slams it to the table, her mouth twisting into a tormented grin. “Wellll now, let’s have a pity party, okay? Pooor Del, pooor Susie, pooor Allie. What about me? What about my pain?”

  Our eyes lock and freeze as silence screams between us. What on earth do I say next? How can I stop this before it gets out of hand? Then comes reason. Play it cool. Reena’s drunk. She won’t remember a thing.

  I yawn and stretch. “Great food and good wine, but they’ve about done me in.”

  Reena studies me for a moment, then, grabbing the table to steady herself, she rises. “Yeah. It’s beddy-bye time for me too.” When I take her arm, she tries to wrench free. “I can make it just fine.”

  I smile. “Oh, I know you will, but I’m going to need some help getting down those stairs. How about lending me a hand?”

  “No problem,” she mumbles. “I know the way.”

  With a few bobbles here and there we make it to the second floor, then down the hall to my room. Reena gives me an awkward hug and disappears through the double doors to the master suite.

  I rummage through my suitcase for my flannel nightshirt and slip it over my head. The room is still heavy with Reena’s scent and, anxious for a breath of fresh air, I throw open the casement to a perfect night. The moon is high in the sky, a chalk white that delineates the dips and hollows of the mountain range.

  After several deep breaths, I slide beneath the welcome warmth of my down comforter. My efforts to make some sense of the evening are dulled by the wine and I tumble into darkness.

  Voices drag me out of my dreams. Once I’m awake, I realize the thick walls and the closets between the two rooms have muted an escalating argument.

  “Why the hell did you bring her here? Why now?”

  I recognize Paul’s voice, stumble to the closet, and press my ear to the secret door.

  “Why not?” Reena screams. “Admit it. You’ve always been in love with her.”

  “Shut up.” Paul’s low growl evidences his anger. “You’re up to something, damn you. What is it?”

  “I’m not up to anything,” Reena shouts back. “Pardon me for mentioning it, but aren’t you the one who’s up? I know all about your dirty little secret.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what you know, you’re nothing but a high-class slut.”

  “Call me what you want, but you’re in way over your head, Paul. You can’t afford to keep going on like this.”

  I hear a dull thwack, then a moan followed by hurried footsteps. Reena shrieks, “Ohhh, my cheek. It’s going to be black-and-blue by tomorrow. You bastard. You can go straight to hell.”

  To hear Paul’s voice after so long brings back memories of the brief but intense immediacy we experienced and the question I was never able to answer. If the love we shared was so rare, how, in only a few short weeks, could Reena destroy it?

  Back beneath my comforter, I change positions at
least a hundred times before I hear a faint noise and slowly crack one lid to see Paul standing above me.

  The bed moves as he kneels beside it and I hear him murmur, “You’re all I want. All I’ve ever wanted.”

  His face is so close I smell whiskey on his breath as he asks, “How could I let it happen to us?”

  I roll away, clutching the comforter to me in a pathetic attempt to escape, but Paul pulls me back and his mouth covers mine.

  He takes his time before moving into my bed. First, soft caresses, followed by even softer kisses. Nothing seems urgent. It’s as if we have a lifetime to reconnect.

  The sound of the door to the master suite opening and closing awakens me to find the sun well above the Anacachos.

  Remembering the feel of Paul’s body surrounding mine, I turn to caress the place he shared beside me and gasp. The pillowcase remains crisply smooth. I draw the comforter away from his side of the bed to see the unwrinkled sheet still tightly tucked.

  Chapter 3

  IT’S PAST EIGHT BY THE TIME I SHOWER and don jeans, a long-sleeve red cotton shirt, and my boots. I descend to the dining room, smell the fresh-brewed coffee, and head toward the sideboard where a large carafe sits among a cluster of mugs.

  At the sound of footsteps, I turn to see Paul walking toward me. He’s still the handsome Paul of my dreams, but grown gaunt, his face lined with time. That doesn’t matter. The love I see jump-starts my heart.

  He gives me his fabulous grin as he moves beside me to pour a mug for himself. His arm barely brushes mine and I feel the hairs rise all over my body. I want Paul so badly, I think I might leap right out of my skin.

  Paul must feel me startle. His voice is so low, I almost miss the “Welcome home.”

  After he settles next to me at the end of the table, he touches my hand. “You haven’t changed. I was afraid you might.”

  Adelena appears with a bowl containing an assortment of fresh fruit, giving me time to compose myself. When she retreats I say, “But I have changed, Paul. In every way.”