“Does it matter?”
“You conveniently forgot to mention this woman.”
“Fanny isn’t... I knew I’d lose you if I told you about Fanny, and... I can’t face the future without you.”
“There is no future.”
“There has to be. After you left, I called you every day. When you didn’t answer...”
“I couldn’t. Not after Susie told me you’d been seeing someone. And when Reena told me Fanny was to be the next Mrs. Carpenter, what was I supposed to think?”
“It’s business. Believe me, this woman means nothing to me. I can’t tell you why right now, but...” His voice trails to silence.
I recover my wits enough to step away. “My job is to help you find out who murdered Reena. Can’t you act just a little sorry that she’s dead? If you don’t muster up at least a small dollop of grief, you could be in real trouble.”
“I’m already in more trouble than you know.” His concern dissolves to a hopeful smile. “How about breakfast at eight? Then I’ll take you to Susie’s.”
I don’t sleep well in strange beds. That fact and the muted whump every time the air conditioner compressor engages means there is no hope for any sort of continuous slumber. I try counting sheep, but there are too many unanswered questions surrounding Reena’s death, compounded by the glaring truth that I still harbor more than a few unresolved feelings for Paul.
Chapter 8
PAUL IS STANDING AT MY DOOR a little before eight the next morning dressed in freshly pressed jeans and gleaming boots, looking a lot jauntier than he did the night before. I feel a small push of jealousy, knowing that he and Fanny probably ended the evening together in bed.
I slide past him into the already warm day. “It’s going to be a hot one and I forgot to bring a hat.”
“Don’t worry, we can stop by the house. Reena had at least a hundred. Hey, wait for me.” Paul catches up, grabs my arm. “What’s your hurry?”
“I’m hungry.” I race across the highway with Paul at my heels. We don’t speak until the coffee’s poured.
I dump a packet of sweetener in my cup and say, “Perhaps we should call Susie before we drop by, after all it’s a school day.”
Paul pulls out his cell phone, punches in a number, and hands it to me just as Susie answers. “Hi Suze, it’s me.”
“Oh, Allie, I’m so glad you’re in town. I need to talk to you. Alone. I have to tell you about something I saw...” A screaming argument between little boys erupts in the background and drowns her out, then, “... this afternoon? The babies go down around two.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hand the phone back to Paul. “She wants to see me this afternoon. Too hectic this morning.” I hesitate before asking, “Do you have a Jeep or something I can use? If not, I can get a rental.”
“No need for that. I’ll be your chauffeur.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I can get...” I see the hope in his face fade and hurry to add, “But I don’t want to interrupt your schedule.”
“I have no schedule. I can’t leave the county, the Anacacho practically runs itself, Del takes care of the cattle, the oil is pipeline injected, and, as of last night... well, I guess you now know what my ‘business’ was in Laredo.”
I ignore his whine. “Your open affair with Fanny could be construed as motive. If I were you, I’d ship that lady out of Uvalde until we can find Reena’s murderer.”
He gives me a baleful look. “Fanny went to Laredo this morning.”
“That’s a relief. Now, do you have a car or not?” Paul hesitates. “There’s Reena’s.”
Reena’s car? Didn’t Paul say Reena left in her car?
It’s almost ten by the time we stop before the double oak doors of the main house at Anacacho.
Paul gets out and says, “Come on in and pick out a proper sombrero.”
I follow him into the entry, now quiet as a cloister. Remembering the sound of Reena’s heels clicking across the tiles, my throat catches. I’ll never hear that husky drawl—never see those bright blue... Wait a minute here. I remind myself what hell Reena made of my life.
Paul heads through the living room toward the back of the house with me close behind. I stop dead in my tracks. Reena’s “little” art collection fills the once-empty space above the refectory table, now covered with fragrant peonies.
The O’Keeffe and the Remington sketches are to the right and slightly below several Salinas oils of bluebonnets and wind-twisted oak trees.
“When did this happen?”
He stops and turns. “What?” “Where did these come from?”
He glances at the wall. “They’ve always hung there.”
“That’s funny. When I was here in January Reena made a big deal about her collection being stolen.”
“Is that what she told you? The pictures were stolen?” Paul shakes his head. “That bitch never missed a chance for high drama.”
“Well, maybe she didn’t say ‘stolen,’ but I remember she jumped all over Miguel about it.”
“I don’t know how he put up with her. It’s true the pictures weren’t hanging in January. Just after Thanksgiving I sent the collection to San Antonio to be cleaned and re-appraised. While they were down, I had the living room re-painted.”
The ride into the Anacacho Mountains is quite different from our last. This time we’re going to see where Reena died.
We make our way through the mesquite and low scrub. Most of the wildflowers are past blooming, but here and there a bright orange paintbrush waves in the whispering breeze.
The sun beats down and dust curls upward behind Paul’s horse and settles around me in a loamy cloak. I’m grateful for Reena’s wide-brimmed straw, anchored firmly beneath my chin by its leather strap. In the distance a dove calls, answered by its mate. It’s hard to envision how Reena died amid all this serenity. Her pale skin burned black, her eyes picked clean by the buzzards.
Who could have hated her so besides myself? Paul, certainly, but I can’t or won’t see the murderer in him. Besides, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to do her in at his favorite hideaway. It’s obvious someone is trying to frame him—someone who knows him well.
Could it be Del? The Carpenters took land away from the Dardens and then discovered oil on it. That’s enough to make anybody murdering mad, but mad enough to kill the woman he once loved in order to frame Paul? No. Not Del. And certainly not Susie. Even if she wished Reena dead, she wouldn’t have time to commit murder. Not with that string of kids to wrangle.
We dismount at the lean-to and Paul points toward a copse of mesquite. “If you’re looking for the murder site it’s behind those bushes over there. They found her at the watering trough.”
When we get past the underbrush, I see staked yellow tape filled with the never-ending print: “CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS,” swaying and flapping in the tiny gusts of late spring wind.
I try to imagine Reena’s last moments in this desolate spot. Did she struggle? Try to run? I can almost see her staring upward into the beating sun since there was little shade to shield her fair skin or protect her from the ever-circling scavengers.
Paul stands behind me, hands on my shoulders. “Don’t waste your tears. Reena was a low-class slut. Slept with every man that set foot on this ranch. Guest or hand, it didn’t matter who.”
I step away as indignation jams my craw. “For Pete’s sake, Paul, we’re standing where Reena was murdered. How can you say such things?”
“Because, it’s the truth; bad as it sounds, it’s the truth.”
He tries to draw me to him, but I turn my face away from his. “Don’t. Not here.”
“Okay, okay.” He releases his hold and starts toward the lean-to. “I’m going for cold water. Want some?”
I nod, then turn to check around the trough, hoping there might be something—anything the sheriff ’s men might have overlooked.
Day-glo pink spray paint marks the outline of Reena’s body, her arms fl
ung wide and her feet pointing toward the trough. But she didn’t ride—didn’t have a horse to water. Who drew her up here? And away from the lean-to? Someone.
“Puzzling, isn’t it?” Paul’s voice jerks me around. “Reena didn’t ride and the only way up here is on horseback.” He hands me a cold bottle of water, then drains his.
I toss my head back and let the cool liquid trickle down my parched throat. “Yes, ‘puzzling’ is the perfect word.”
I point in the direction of the lean-to. “How did you get the materials up here to build a lean-to?”
“Helicopter. This flat area makes a perfect landing site.”
I hand him my empty bottle, then roll up my right sleeve and plunge my arm into the trough.
Paul quickly steps forward to stop me, voice steely. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. That water can be pretty gross. Horse saliva is riddled with germs.”
The look on his face makes me hesitate. I straighten, wiping my hand on my jeans. “Maybe you should empty it. There could be evidence.”
Paul gives me a strained smile. “I’ll be sure to mention that the next time I see the sheriff.” He squints skyward, then says, “Let’s get out of here before the heat gets us.”
Chapter 9
IT’S JUST PAST TWO as I gun Reena’s red Mercedes SL down the rutted lane and up the hill to Del and Susie’s ranch house. The Darden spread is small for this part of Texas, about 10,000 acres in mostly scrub. At best it takes a couple of acres to support one grazing animal.
The rambling, wood house stands beneath a cluster of old oaks carefully nurtured to maturity by Del’s grandfather. A wide porch with rocking chairs and tables circles the entire structure affording an elevated view of the land below.
Susie once complained the house was so old it couldn’t be air-conditioned. Despite large windows and wide doors, her only relief was a ceiling fan in every room.
My dear friend exits the front door and runs down the steps. We hug hard and long, then she says, “I see you’re driving Reena’s prized possession.”
“Paul loaned it to me. The other option was using him as a chauffeur.”
“Guess he doesn’t have much to do these days, does he?”
I’m about to say that Fanny Hansen is keeping him more than occupied when Susie grabs my hand, pulls me up to the front door and inside the hall.
She points toward the living room, then starts toward the kitchen. “I made lemonade. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
The sagging furniture suffers from age and the onslaughts of four growing boys, the only exception being a large late-model television on a dolly. Beneath the television, toys spill out of a large, wooden box and several plastic G.I. Joes peek from beneath two stained easy chairs and their ottomans.
I notice a bassinet placed near one worn arm of the sofa and tiptoe over to see my namesake. There before me is a perfect round head shrouded in dark curls, one thumb jamming a rosebud mouth and a diapered rear poking toward the ceiling. Little Allie is a vision to behold. I touch one tiny toe, then watch as she draws her knees more tightly beneath her and sucks hard on her thumb, until she drops into deep sleep.
Susie’s at my side. “Allie’s been a love from the beginning. It’s Donny that’s driving me bonkers. Fourteen months and he’s not sleeping through. Misses my breast, I guess. Thank the Lord he’s still crawling. If he could walk I’d be a goner.” She shoves a glass of lemonade in my hand. “I just got him down when I heard the car. That gives us a good two hours.”
We settle on the couch, Susie closest to the bassinet, and sip our drinks in silence. The breeze floating gently though the open doors and windows seems almost chilly and she leans to pull a coverlet over the baby. “Del tells me you went up to the murder site. How bad was it?”
“Grim. They outlined her body in Day-glo pink. You remember how Reena hated the sun? She was up there days before they found her.”
Susie shudders and hugs herself. “I hear they beat the buzzards away. Who do you think killed her?”
“Could have been anyone.” “Well, it wasn’t Del.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Del wouldn’t hurt a fly.” I decide to press. “You said you wanted to tell me something?”
She shoots me a veiled look. “Did I?”
“Well, I might have misunderstood. The boys were making such a racket...” I think back over our brief telephone conversation. I need to talk to you. Alone. I have to tell you about something I saw... I’m sure that’s what she said.
“I was probably speaking to the boys. They can make such a ruckus.”
No use in pursuing. Susie won’t give it up, at least not now. “So, how is Del?”
She turns away to fuss with the baby’s coverlet. “On overload. I’m afraid little Allie is the last straw.”
Their first son, Darrell Royal Darden, was named for the well-known Longhorn coach Del worshipped. He was followed by Dawson. It seemed for a while that the two boys were enough, then after a brief production hiatus, David and Donald arrived in quick succession and, now, little Allie.
Five children in seven years. Reena’s sarcastic, “You’d think she’d figure out what causes them,” echoes.
Susie turns toward the bassinet, spends more than enough time straightening the coverlet over Allie’s bottom, then her body lurches.
“Del never really loved me.” She chokes on her words. “It was always Reena.”
I scoot to circle her with my arms. “Oh, Susie, I’m so sorry.” “He never looked my way until Reena dumped him.”
“And you were wonderful to him, Suze. I think he might have ended his life if you hadn’t taken him under your wing.”
“We were happy in the beginning. Darrell Royal was the light of Del’s life. Luckily, Paul and Reena were gone most of the time.
“After our second son was born, Del said he didn’t want any more children. Said he would never be able to make ends meet. He made me promise.
“Everything was fine until Del started skipping dinner whenever Paul was away. I don’t know why he thought I wouldn’t figure it out. You can’t miss the sound of that jet.”
She sees the shock on my face and says, “I know adding three more mouths to our pitiful existence was stupid, but it was the only way I knew to keep him.”
The baby’s cry pulls Susie to her feet and over the bassinet. “You awake, Little Allie? Come meet your godmother.” She lifts the baby and places her in my arms.
The warmth of my namesake’s tiny body against mine makes me ache with longing for my lost baby, but I manage to say, “She’s beautiful.”
I rock her until her tiny mouth begins to nudge my breast while her free hand joins in the search. My thready voice betrays me. “You better take her, she’s hungry.”
Susie retrieves Allie, and in one quick motion, releases her breast to her daughter, then coos, “This makes it worth it all.”
I see peace replace sorrow with each suckle until the face of a Madonna looks up. “Don’t you feel like you’re missing out not having children?”
Her question is a heat-seeking missile. Steel bands cut into my chest making it impossible to breathe and I lower my head to conceal my anguish.
“Allie? Are you all right?”
“Indigestion. I ate too many of Adelena’s tacos for lunch. Big mistake.”
Susie laughs. “There’s a Coke in the refrigerator.”
I’m out of there and in the kitchen before I give into this sudden sadness. Tears I never shed rush forward. With a Coke in one hand and a paper napkin to erase the evidence in the other, I step onto the back porch in search of relief.
After a few minutes listening to the whispering wind and cattle lowing in the distance, I can breathe again.
I tell myself to get a grip. It’s been seven years since the... I shudder at the word. Abortion.
This time I’ll make sure the pain is buried a little deeper in my heart before I put away the past for safekeeping.
Chapter 10
A LONE POLICE CAR IS PARKED just inside the Darden gate beneath the shade of a large oak. The sheriff leans against the fender, binoculars around his neck, fly-boy sunglasses shoved into the dark curls above his forehead.
He motions me to pull over, then saunters to my side of the car, opens my door, and offers his hand.
I notice the long fingers, feel their strength, and try to keep my voice steady. “Is this official?”
I stand facing him, keenly aware of his good looks. Tall, taut, and lean, and those damned blue eyes that capture mine.
“It wasn’t until now.” He motions me toward his car. “Want a cold drink? I keep a cooler in the trunk.”
The afternoon sun glares through the thick cover of the oaks and there’s no breeze, a far cry from Susie’s cool perch on the hill. I nod. “Sure. Whatever.”
After he opens a Big Red for each of us, we lean against his fender. He keeps a respectable distance, but I still shiver despite the heat. What is it about this man?
We take a few welcome gulps before he begins. “Where’d you get the car?”
“Paul loaned it to me.”
“You know it’s Reena’s.” I nod.
“Paul told me Reena left in her car.” “Yes. I wondered about that, myself.”
“So you just got in and pulled away without asking any questions?”
“Hold on a minute here. I thought you were the one conducting this investigation.”
“Cool it. You’re not under suspicion—yet, but I’d be grateful if you let me take the car. Could give us some clues...”
He has no right to the car and he knows it. I’ve committed no crime. Besides, the car isn’t even mine.
He must see my hesitation, because he gives me a knowing grin. “Okay, okay, I know I don’t have the authority, but you would sure be helping me out.”
“Paul should make that decision.”
“Yeah. I get you. If it’s all right with you, I’ll follow you back to his spread and get his okay.” He thinks a minute, then adds, “Mind if I roll your fingerprints? They’re probably all over the steering wheel, but if I have yours to compare to any others we might find, it’ll save us some time.”
Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 6
