8 Sweet Payback

by Connie Shelton

  “What’ve we got?” He settled into his chair and shuffled the little stack of phone messages that awaited him.

  “We pulled Joe Starkey and Bobby Starkey out of bed this morning. They’re in the interrogation rooms. They both swear they were at home all night. A couple more cousins are in a cell, held for questioning at this point but we haven’t gotten around to them.”

  Since the fire at Joe and Helen’s home, the couple had been staying at Bobby’s house a few blocks away. It would make sense that the family members would alibi each other. Beau didn’t remember the bartender saying whether the men who’d talked to Lee where Anglo or Hispanic, but he didn’t see biker leathers as being the style of anyone in the Starkey clan. They went more for the mountain-man look. More telling was the fact that the two men had been polite and had spoken to Lee as friends. That definitely didn’t sound Starkey.

  On the other hand, nothing really pointed to the two men in the bar being the same who’d beaten Lee. Which left all of the Starkeys right up there on the suspect list.

  * * *

  The idea of tracking down the owner of the big house wouldn’t leave Sam alone, and the county courthouse wasn’t out of her way. She pulled into the parking area of the big, new complex and spent a few minutes finding her way to the records division. A clerk helped her find the information she wanted, based on the legal description and a plot map of the county.

  “LG Properties, Inc., is all it shows?” Sam asked when they came up with the name on the deed. “There’s not a person’s name listed?”

  The clerk gave a shrug. Sure, businesses could own property. Did it matter? The physical address of record was the rural address of the house. Billing and communication went to a post office box in Taos. Sam could have gotten that much from Delbert Crow. She wrote it all down anyway. The post office was also on the way home so she stopped and posed her question to the clerk at the window.

  “We can’t give out box-holder information,” he said in his best postal-worker voice.

  “Let me talk to the postmaster.” Sam raised her shirt-tail to reveal her deputy badge.

  She was shown into a side office where she shook hands with a man in Taos’s version of a business suit—dark slacks, white shirt, string tie.

  “All I really need to know is whether LG Properties, Inc., still holds this post office box and if the mail is being picked up regularly.”

  Between the badge and the fact that she knew the company’s name, Sam got him to turn to his computer and do a search.

  “Sorry. LG Properties relinquished the box a few years ago. It’s registered to someone else now. And no, LG didn’t rent a different box. If they gave a forwarding address it expired after six months.”

  “So it’s been too long ago to get anything current on them?”

  “That’s right.” He seemed almost happy to deliver that news.

  She drove toward home, feeling that she hadn’t come very far in either of her searches—the ownership of the mansion or further information on her wooden box. She wondered if Beau was doing any better with his investigation. She needed to get out to the big house and finish the windows, but didn’t relish the idea of any type of confrontation in Sembramos—with the residents or with her husband.

  There was one way to find out if the coast was clear, she decided as she set the library materials on the coffee table in the living room. She dialed Beau’s phone. Not surprisingly, it went to voice mail. Was this entire day going to consist of frustrations and non-answers? Screw it, she decided, I’ll go anyway.

  Gathering her supplies she loaded window cleaner, squeegee and clean rags into the truck and set off with a somewhat fatalistic attitude. Washing windows this time of year was a useless task anyway; sporadic rains and whiffs of dust from the roads usually turned any sparkling glass or a clean vehicle into a spotted mess within a few days. But this way she could tell Delbert Crow that she had completed the job and submit her invoice to be paid.

  The two-lane highway into Sembramos had little traffic and Sam noticed two state police vehicles parked strategically where they could see who came and went. In town, it looked as if normal life had resumed. Two women stood chatting in front of the variety store and a number of cars were moving about, coming and going from the bank and gas station. Sam drove through slowly, remembering Beau’s warnings about stopping. No one seemed to notice her red truck, and she had cleared the town’s northern limit within five minutes.

  A woman walking an Australian shepherd paused and called the dog to sit as Sam approached the turn for the driveway to the LG property. With her side window down, she heard the lady say hello as she turned. Might not hurt to ask . . .

  “Hi there,” Sam said. “Pretty dog.”

  “Thanks.” The woman beamed and sneaked the dog a little treat for sitting so quietly. “Um, if you’re going up to see someone, well, nobody lives there.”

  “Yeah, I discovered that.” Sam gave the one-sentence version of why she was there. “I’ve been trying to locate the owner but I can’t seem to find out his name or how to reach him. The property is listed in a business name.”

  “Oh, odd. There used to be a man who came around all the time, back when they started construction. I’d see him talking with the builder and his crew. But, you know, it’s been years since then and I haven’t seen him recently.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No, never met him. I heard it once, something kind of funny. I thought he lived in Sembramos, but I haven’t seen him around there in ages either.”

  Sam chewed at her lip.

  “You know, there are rumors the place is haunted,” the lady said with a crooked little smile.

  “Seriously?” Sam thought of the unusual hot and cold spots in the house.

  “My daughter and her friends claim they’ve seen lights in there at night, like candles or firelight.” She chuckled. “Of course, don’t all twelve-year-old girls like to believe in haunted-house stories?”

  Sam laughed along with her but Cora Abernathy’s words came back, the parts about witches finding places with the right ambiance for their indoor festivities. An elegant, abandoned house might be just the ticket. She rubbed at the goose bumps that rose on her arms, said goodbye and continued up the long drive.

  Staring at the huge windows that overlooked the valley and the highway, Sam could almost imagine a coven of young witches, dancing by candlelight on a winter solstice night. Almost. Any number of people could have keys, from construction workers to the owners. But she’d noticed no sign of anyone being in the house, certainly not a burned candle or evidence that the fireplace had been used. The local kids were just having a good time with ghost stories, that was all.

  Chapter 15

  A string of swear words erupted from Interrogation Room 1, just before Beau put his hand on the doorknob and walked in.

  “Joe. The colorful language isn’t going to get you out of here any quicker,” he said, motioning to his suspect who was pacing the small room. “Take a seat. Let’s talk.”

  “I already talked all I’m wantin’ to.” Joe Starkey seemed more unkempt than ever, his beard stained with tobacco and his hair sticking out at odd angles. He must have dressed quickly when the deputies came for him in the wee hours; his shirt was mis-buttoned and the jeans looked like they’d been in a wad on some floor. “I want to quit talkin’ and get my brother and go home.”

  “A man is dead, Joe, and your family had threatened him. I have to ask the questions.”

  “My Jessie’s dead, too, Sheriff. And nobody’s found out who did that. My family wants answers too. Did you ever stop to think that maybe the same person killed that Lee Rodarte is who killed my boy?”

  Beau actually had considered that very possibility.

  “Any ideas who that would be?” he asked.

  Starkey’s bluster dimmed a little. “Well, somebody who didn’t want to see ’em leave the pen. Somebody who was happy about their trial going the way it did.
That prosecutor who sent ’em away, for instance.”

  Beau gave him a steady stare.

  “Okay, so maybe that prosecutor got better things to do, wouldn’t want to risk his fancy-pants career. What about somebody else in town?”

  “Again, who?”

  “Well, I don’t know. But why aren’t you up there asking questions?”

  This was about to start going in circles, Beau realized. He was almost relieved when the desk officer tapped at the door and told him there was a phone call he would probably want to take.

  Beau stopped Rico on the way to his desk. “Go ahead and release Joe and Bobby Starkey, but warn them—strongly—that there better not be any more trouble and that they can’t leave the area. Radio the guys patrolling Sembramos, tell them to make frequent passes by the Starkey house.”

  Rico nodded. Beau stepped into his office and picked up the phone.

  “We’ve received the body you just sent down,” said the medical investigator in Albuquerque. “and there’s one thing I thought you might like to know right away. We found a note stuffed into the victim’s waistband. Don’t know how our man at the scene missed it, but it was probably left by the killer. I’ll fax you a copy of it and send the original by courier.”

  “Thanks, appreciate it.” Beau hung up and stepped out to the fax machine in the squad room. Within a minute, a page rolled out.

  They deserved to Die. You support these two scumbags, you Die too!!!!

  It was handwritten in shaky lettering. A nervous hand, or someone trying to disguise handwriting? Beau couldn’t tell. Once he received the original he might be able to get a handwriting expert’s opinion. Or, he could leave that to the lawyers who would have to build a case around the evidence his department managed to gather. He walked into the hallway, where Rico was herding Joe and Bobby Starkey toward the front desk.

  “Just a second,” Beau said, catching up. He held out the facsimile of the note, watching the two faces as they saw it.

  Joe Starkey’s face went a little pale; he looked at his brother.

  “This look familiar?” Beau asked.

  They both shook their heads. He wasn’t sure whether to believe them. He raised two fingers to his eyes, then pointed to the men. I’m watching you. He nodded to Rico to see them out.

  His intercom line was ringing when he got back to his office.

  “Sorry, Sheriff, there’s an Alan Cayne on line one.”

  Beau punched the red button and picked up the handset. “Sheriff Cardwell.”

  “Sheriff, my wife and I are very upset.” The male voice was shaky with emotion. “We just heard that Angela’s killers were freed from prison. How could they do that? How can those two be running free now?”

  Clearly, the family had not been monitoring television news. Beau gave him the condensed version of the reasons for the release, ending with the fact that both men were, in fact, not running free anymore.

  The air seemed to go out of Alan Cayne. Beau could hear small background sounds, as if Cayne were rubbing a calloused hand over a days’ growth of beard. “I’m glad to hear it,” he finally said. “I’m happy, actually. Happy those two scumbags are—dead. They deserved to die!”

  Beau’s gaze fell to the fax on his desk. Almost identical to Cayne’s words. A chill went up the back of his neck. Could a vengeful father have come back here and done both murders, covering his deeds with this phone call and pretending he knew nothing of it?

  Alan Cayne thanked Beau enthusiastically and hung up before Beau could formulate a question. He sat there with the receiver dangling from his fingers until the line began to beep at him. He set it down and looked up the number for the Houston PD, placed a call. With a short explanation that Alan Cayne might be implicated in something in New Mexico, he asked that the man be questioned for alibis on Easter Sunday morning and again for last night.

  Beau sat back in his chair, thinking. This rapid turn might provide a huge break in the case. After all, who would be more upset about the two convicts being released than the family of their victim? And who more likely to come looking for revenge than the young lady’s father?

  He thought of the only Cayne member still living in Sembramos, the grandmother, Sally. It was ludicrous to think of an old woman of Sally’s size and build beating a man like Lee Rodarte to death, but it didn’t mean that Sally couldn’t have been reporting all along to her son in Houston. And certainly either of them could have recruited someone for both the beating and the shooting in the forest.

  * * *

  Sam never wanted to see another big plate-glass window in her life. As she moved through the rooms, she thought about the dog-lady’s story of strange lights in the house at night. Witches? Or maybe just the home’s owner, coming back now and then to check things over? The latter seemed far more likely, except that there were still so many unanswered questions. Why, if he’d paid in full for the home, had he not moved in? Or, if he never planned to use it, why not sell it? Why let the taxes lapse after paying them for a number of years? Why, why, why . . . it was driving her crazy.

  She rubbed at her aching shoulders, wishing she’d broken her resolve about not using the powers of the magic box. C’mon, surely all rules were off when one was faced with washing a million windows.

  Finished with the ground floor, she decided to take a break before starting on the equally big second story. She ate two cookies and called Beau again. Once more, his cell phone went to voice mail. She gazed around the now-spotless kitchen, her thoughts drifting back to the deed she’d seen at the county records department. How could she find out who the person was behind LG Properties? She fiddled with the phone in her hand and decided that, if she couldn’t reach Beau, maybe Rupert could point her in the right direction. He answered on the first ring.

  “It’s a corporation?” he asked after she posed the question. “Well, have you tried the corporations department in Santa Fe?”

  How did a guy who wrote steamy romantic books know about this stuff?

  “The information might be on their website . . . wait a second . . . What’s the full name of the business again?”

  Sam could hear computer keys clicking in the background, punctuated by a couple of mild oaths.

  “Okay, Sam, got it. Now, what did you need to know about this corporation?”

  “Who owns it, how to contact them.”

  “The registered agent’s name is Linden Gisner.” He spelled it for her and she fished in her pocket for a pen. “No phone number but the legal mailing address is 12489 County Road 12, Sembramos, New Mexico.”

  The address matched the property where she was standing at the moment. No help.

  “Is there any alternate address?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  At least she had a name, which was further than she’d gotten yet. She thanked Rupert and told him his next cupcake fix was on the house. When she’d clicked off the call, she stared at the inked note on her left hand. Gisner. That sounded vaguely familiar—but in what context?

  She stared at the stairway leading to the second floor, feeling no enthusiasm for more windows today. Let Delbert Crow scream, she decided. She would finish the job tomorrow. She locked up and got into her truck, sending a silent plea to the cloudy sky that no rain come along and mess up all those newly cleaned glass panes.

  Miles of familiar-feeling highway rolled past, bordered by the same old orchards and tilled fields. Sam slowed her speed at the northern edge of Sembramos, staying watchful. Nothing seemed much different until she spotted Beau’s vehicle at the side of the road. He was stopped beside another department cruiser, chatting with the deputy inside. Sam pulled in behind, and Rico waved at her as he drove away.

  “Hey, darlin’,” Beau said, getting out of the SUV and walking over to her window. “I saw your calls, just didn’t have a minute until right now.”

  “I know. I didn’t really expect you to call me right back. So . . . bad morning?”

  “Yeah. I feel like I’ve been
asking questions all day and getting no answers. We had the Starkey men in for questioning about Lee’s beating but they go all wide-eyed and claim their innocence. Then an angry call from Angela Cayne’s father, furious about Lee and Jessie being released. If he weren’t in Houston, I’d pin him for both deaths. As it is, I’m having it verified that he really is in Houston. Can’t discount the possibility that he heard the news and came out here.”

  “I saw the two state police cars on my way through this morning.”

  “It’s going to stay that way for awhile. If there was trouble from the Starkeys yesterday, I have a feeling tonight every buddy of Lee’s could show up asking for more of the same. His cousin, Bono Rodarte, is one rough dude. I don’t dare leave the town unguarded, so it’s all of my men plus the state patrols. I’ll need to be here with them.”

  “Really?” Her anxiety ramped up a notch.

  “Afraid so.” He stared up the road for a few seconds. “Look, you go home, lock yourself in. Relax.”

  She had to chuckle. “Lock myself in, but relax?”

  A battered white pickup cruised by slowly, the grizzled man at the wheel staring hard at Beau.

  “President of my fan club,” he said with a wry smile. “Joe Starkey.”

  “Beau—be careful.”

  “I am. They won’t try anything against a lawman, darlin’. I’m just worried about what they’ll do to each other.”

  “Don’t these people have jobs? Something to do all day besides cruise around and give you the evil eye?”

  “I suppose I could suggest that they get out and pull weeds in their fields or something.”

  He was trying to keep it light, Sam knew, to keep her from worrying. But it really wasn’t working. He patted the side of her truck, sending her on her way. She kept a watchful eye all the way through town but didn’t see Joe Starkey’s truck again.