by Ann Myers
His look informed me that no technicalities were allowed in the Owl’s photo policy. He reached for Flori’s camera. She raised her other hand in tai-chi striking pose, a move that confused the guard long enough for Flori to slip the camera to me. “Go!” she whispered.
I went, dodging the guys in suits and out the gilt doors. When I looked back, I was glad to see Addie and Flori hurrying toward me. My relief, however, was short-lived.
The guard, frowning, had a finger pressed to his ear. His expression suggested trouble, but I saw worse trouble. Don Busco had stood up and was staring straight at me.
I froze as Don’s stare morphed into a glare. Unable to pretend I didn’t see him, I raised my hand in a friendly little wave that wasn’t returned. Don picked up his remaining chips and headed my way.
“Hurry, hurry, he’s spotted us,” I said to Addie and Flori when they reached the door.
“I’ll get the Mum.” Addie sprinted off, showing speed I didn’t know she possessed. I stayed with Flori, who’d probably moved like a roadrunner in her twenties but not in her eighties. We’d made it across the psychedelic carpet and to the front doors when Don caught up with us.
“Rita,” he said, his voice chummy with a frosty edge. “What a surprise to see you and Flori here.”
“Girls night out,” I stammered.
Flori, a much better lie improviser than me, added, “We were looking for the buffet. The one with the crab legs and shrimp cocktails. Have you seen it?”
Don snorted. “Right, sure you were out lookin’ for a buffet. I know you’re meddling and why you’re doing it: Linda. I will take care of her. You stay out of this.”
Take care of her? I didn’t like the sound of that. “Stay out of what?” I dared ask. “Poisoning the health inspector? Murdering Napoleon?” My bluster was cut off by the belching backfires of the Queen Mum. Addie careened around the curved drive, winging a lamp pole as she did. We all jumped back as the Mum’s front wheel bounced over the curb. Seeing two security men heading our way, I yanked open the passenger door, helped Flori inside, and crawled over her to the backseat.
Don grabbed the door before Flori could close it. “I mean it! For all your sakes. Don’t dig any deeper or you’ll get hurt.”
“Sir?” the guards called to him. “What’s going on here?”
“Gun it, Addie!” Flori commanded. Addie did, and the Mum roared out of the lot and down the highway toward the distant glow of Santa Fe.
My cell phone rang as we were rolling past the opera.
“Done,” Jake said, exhaling the word. “We’re leaving the police station now. We got lucky. Judge Alvarez knows Linda and decided that she’s no flight risk or danger to the public so she’s free to go.”
“That’s wonderful!” I relayed the good news to Flori and Addie.
“You’re all together?” Jake asked. He sounded a bit suspicious.
“Er . . . girls’ time,” I said.
I had no hope of tricking Santa Fe’s most successful defense attorney. “Right,” he said, echoing Don’s word of skepticism. “Where should I take Linda? She says home, but I’m reluctant to leave her on her own.”
I made a split-second decision. “How about my place, if she agrees? Celia’s out tonight and I could use the company.”
Jake’s sigh made my heart do flip-flops. “Yeah, me too . . . okay, I’ll bring her by.”
Addie broke speed limits, but when we reached my casita, Jake was already there, sitting on my porch bench with Linda beside him.
Flori, Addie, and I gathered Linda in a group hug.
“Thank you!” I said to Jake.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. He pointed to the Queen Mum. “What happened to your side mirror, Addie? It’s dangling by a wire. What have you ladies been up to?”
Addie gasped at her mangled mirror and said that Jesús would be angry. Jesús, her airbrushing cousin, I hoped is whom she meant.
“We went out for a drive to see the lovely sunset,” Flori said, tricking neither Jake nor Linda.
“Mama,” Linda cried. “You’ve been out snooping and corrupting Addie and Rita again. I’ve told you, I’m fine. Look how it all worked out tonight.”
I caught Jake’s eye and the slight shake of his head. Linda wasn’t fine, not with the law and maybe not with a murderer too. Don’s warning buzzed through my mind. Linda. I’ll take care of her. Don’t dig any deeper or you’ll get hurt.
Chapter 22
That night, Linda and I polished off half of my would-be date-night flan and talked about our children and never mentioned prison or murder or poisonings. We sipped peach-chamomile tea and went to bed before eleven, Linda tucked in with Hugo in Celia’s bedroom. I hoped they both slept more peacefully than me. My dreams again swirled into nightmares, this time of Don chasing Linda, Flori, Addie, and me, and, inexplicably, Celia, Cass, and Hugo. All of us were crammed in the Queen Mum, careening down a hill that got steeper and steeper until we were falling through space.
By the time my alarm went off, my head spun and my legs wouldn’t lie still. I remembered my vow to jog. A nice little jaunt up to the bird sanctuary would fix me up, I lied to myself. Stepping outside in a windbreaker and spandex, I doubted my decision. A brisk north wind whooshed down the little valley. Coffee would clear my head with a lot less effort. So would a trip to the French bakery to pick up pastry for my houseguest. Visions of croissants, pain au chocolat, and custard buns filled my head until replaced by a picture of svelte, athletic Brigitte. She wouldn’t let a breeze and a few gray clouds hold her back. And she probably ate muesli or fruit for breakfast. I tightened my shoelaces, stuffed my phone in the armband I’d borrowed from Celia, and plugged myself into peppy eighties pop music. One heavy foot after the other, I made my way up Upper Canyon Road.
If my Midwest relatives were plopped down in the middle of Upper Canyon, they might mistake it for countryside, rather than a millionaire’s row. The road is as narrow as a one-lane path in places, boxed in by protruding adobe walls and massive cottonwoods buckling the berm with their roots. Earthen-toned homes lie behind high adobe walls or, like Victor’s, blend in with nature-mimicking gardens of rock and native plants with names like Apache plume, bear grass, soap weed, and soft-leaf yucca. As I jogged, I admired my surroundings and again felt lucky to have snagged such a desirable address. Passing a real estate sign, I reminded myself that I was grateful to Teresa too. My new landlady could be selling her inherited estate for a bundle instead of simply depersonalizing it. A bundle as in well over a million dollars, most likely. I wanted to stay in my little casita, and I wanted Victor’s home to stay in his family.
Thoughts of my depersonalizing responsibilities distracted me from my lung-sucking agony. I’d call the art movers to take away some of the remaining items. Then I’d deal with the excess furniture. If the movers worked fast, I’d still have a few weeks to clean and have Teresa’s decorator come in for a look. Easy, if only I didn’t have a job, a teenager, and an off-the-books murder investigation to deal with too.
I turned up the music, letting ABBA pump up my legs. Panting and internally singing along to “Dancing Queen,” I never heard the vehicle coming. I never heard a skid of brakes or a horn either. Something made me turn back, a sixth sense like Flori claims to have or a gust of warm air preceding the silver grill barreling toward me.
Fear blinded me. I glimpsed flashes of red, a dark windshield, and a bulging headlight before I turned and leaped to the side, into a scrubby patch of ditch and brush. Expecting to feel my body breaking, I clenched, thinking of Celia. How stupid that I would die doing something for my health.
The vehicle sped by in a whirl of wind, dirt, and pebbles that pelted the back of my neck. I fell hard, my palms hitting the ground first, then my elbows and chest. My scream ended in a hiccup as my lungs compressed. Rolling over on my back, I couldn’t count the number of places that stung and throbbed, but the pain meant I was alive. For now.
Would the vehicle return
? I scrambled deeper into the undergrowth, pulling my headphones and phone with me. A bit of perky pop music filtered through the now dangling headphones, and my phone flashed its address book as if inviting me to call a friend. For a second I thought of calling Cass, who would surely be sleeping. Or the police. Then I imagined Manny telling me I’d overreacted. I pressed the button to mute the phone’s sound and listened.
In the distance, on the other side of the gentle valley of the trickling Santa Fe River, I heard a vehicle. The truck—I thought it was a truck—must be taking the higher dirt road back to town. I dared sit up and take stock of my injuries. It was not a pretty sight. A tear in my jogging tights showed gravel-burned skin, raw, filthy, and painful. I could handle scrapes. It was needles I couldn’t stand.
Blood whooshed through my head as I forced myself to take stock of the cactus spines protruding from my skin. I’d rolled onto a cholla, sometimes called a walking-stick cactus because of its hard, straight latticework skeleton. If you ask me, the plant looks more like an assemblage of vicious cucumbers, armed with spines and ready to dislodge into flesh at the slightest provocation. Two chubby cholla arms impaled my elbow. Almost worse, barely visible silken slivers carpeted my arms and knees and, I feared, my forehead.
Cringing, I grabbed a chunk of cholla with my nails and yanked. The cactus attacker released my elbow but shot a spine into my hand. Several minutes of unseemly cursing and plucking later, I had removed most of the biggest spines. The small, nearly invisible ones would have to wait until I got home. I wished they’d magically disappear. If magic was on the table, I wished that I was home, still in bed, about to awake to fresh croissants and a steaming pot of French roast.
No magic cure or fairy godmother bearing coffee appeared. I stood with a wobble and struggled out of the brush. The nearest house was a walled estate that had been for sale for nearly a year. I hadn’t seen the owners in ages and suspected that they’d moved out. Even if someone was there, they were unlikely to open the door to a queasy, bleeding stranger covered in cactus quills. On the road, I looked both ways. I kept my headphones off and I didn’t jog. I ran as fast as I could.
I let myself inside just as Linda stepped out of the kitchen. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and Hugo trailed her, tail raised and puffed.
“What happened?” she asked. “Are you okay? You’re bleeding!”
“Cactus,” I said, panting. “A cholla and maybe some other spiny stuff.”
Linda gasped. “Jogging is dangerous. Did you trip?”
“A truck came too close and I jumped off the road,” I admitted. “I shouldn’t have been running with headphones.”
Linda shook her head. I expected her to cite a news story about oblivious, music-loving joggers getting smooshed. Instead, she looked concerned the way Flori looks concerned. That is, mad. “What is wrong with people?” Linda fumed. “Was the driver texting? Too many people text and drive.”
I admitted that I hadn’t seen the driver. “They came really fast.”
“And didn’t stop?” Linda asked. “Did they slow down?”
“They seemed to speed up,” I admitted. “But, like you said, they might not have seen me. Probably texting.” I tried to laugh but instead shuddered.
Linda frowned. “Let’s get you fixed up,” she said, changing the subject. “I’ve had lots of experience with cactus spines, working at the homeless shelter. You’re lucky.”
I didn’t feel lucky, but I was certainly glad Linda was here. I trudged down the hall and, at Linda’s urging, stepped into the tub and ran warm water over my arms. The water felt nice and washed away grit. Yet when I ran a finger over my elbow, dozens of tiny pains prickled through my arm and jolted my nerves.
Linda held my arm gently and inspected the damage. “The tiny ones are the worst. I know a secret, though. Dad taught me. Tape.”
Tape sounded like a first-aid trick Manny would like. Although doubtful, I brought Linda some duct tape and bit my lip as she stuck it on and ripped it off along with spines and arm hair.
“Mmmm . . . did it work?” Linda asked. She peered at my ravaged arm.
“Thanks, it’s just great,” I said through clenched teeth, trying to keep things positive. I still felt spines or the pinprick holes they’d left.
“No,” Linda said, shaking her head. “Still some there. We can’t leave them. You could get an infection. Glue. That’s what we need. That’s the trick.”
I was even more doubtful of this approach, although if nothing else, the white glue reminded me of icing, always a sweet thing, and the scent returned me to Celia’s grade-school days.
Hugo leaned on my ankle and purred. I reached down to pet him with my glue-free hand, and he hopped in the tub to bat at the drip of water.
“Blow on your arm,” Linda said, and I saw again what a saint she must be to needy souls at the shelter. Linda, who could scare herself silly crossing a street, was rock solid in the face of other people’s troubles.
After a few minutes, she inspected my glue. “Just about right. It has to be dry enough to rip off in one piece but not so dry it’ll stick to your skin forever. Never, ever use a superglue. I’ve seen that before and it’s an awful mess.”
I sat on the edge of the tub, dutifully blowing on the glue and feeling pretty content despite the pain and spines. Near death will do that to you. So will a happy cat batting at water and a little pampering by a good friend.
The doorbell shattered my warm feelings. I jumped.
Linda did too. “Are you expecting someone?”
I wasn’t. I made a shhh gesture, hoping the visitor would go away. The ringing, however, turned to pounding.
“I’ll look. You stay here,” Linda said, getting up.
Her kindness propelled me to action. “No!” I said. “Please, Linda. I’ll see who it is.”
“I’m coming with you,” she said, grabbing a toilet plunger.
We tiptoed down the hall and I lifted a slat of the front wooden blinds. Heart racing, I peeked out, expecting to see . . . who? Don brandishing a knife? The murderous vehicle, driverless, revving and aimed at my door?
What I saw was a silver Audi idling in the driveway. A bulldog drooled on my doormat, next to long legs in dark jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. Fear fled, followed by embarrassment. Jake! I had an unfortunate habit of answering the door looking like a mess. The last time he’d dropped by unannounced, I’d just suffered a blender eruption and was covered in a Spanish garlic soup.
He must have spotted the movement of the blinds or felt the wave of embarrassment. “Rita? Are you okay?”
I opened the door a crack, thinking perhaps I could make the excuse of not being fully dressed. Winston didn’t allow that. He rammed his massive head through the crack. His handsome owner peeked around the door.
“What the—” Jake started.
“Cholla,” Linda answered matter-of-factly. “And Rita won’t say so directly, but someone tried to run her over.”
Chapter 23
Who did this?” Jake demanded. In a Bugs Bunny cartoon, steam would be puffing out his cowboy hat. His boots would grow spurs, and a roadrunner would zoom by. I stifled an inappropriate giggle, thinking I might be giddy or possibly concussed. I was definitely shaken, although I didn’t want to show it.
“It was probably an accident,” I said. “You know how distracted drivers are these days.”
“I know something else about these days,” Jake said. “You and your friends are investigating a murder.”
What could I say? He was right.
Jake’s expression softened. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Really. Linda treated me with glue.” I looked around for Linda. She’d slipped away. From the kitchen, I heard the coffeepot sputter to a start.
“I see,” Jake said, his eyes on a spot above my eyebrow. “And tape?”
Wincing, I yanked a stray bit of tape from my elbow.
“Coffee!” Linda called. She came out, wiping her hands on her pant
s. “You two talk. I’ll walk over to Mom’s.”
Before I could protest, she said, “I need some exercise and time to think. Don’t worry, I’ll look out for cars. I always do.” She nipped down the hall and returned with a box of Band-Aids and her coat already buttoned. Handing Jake the box, she said, “Take good care of her. There are tweezers in here too, along with some disinfectant.”
Lovely. Instead of impressing Jake with a stunning soufflé, I was a disheveled patient.
Jake stepped outside to consult with Linda. Winston woofed happily and barreled down the hallway, Hugo literally on his stubby tail. While the dog and cat duo played, I poured two cups of coffee. Black, the way Jake liked his, and real cream for me because I felt sorry for myself.
The caffeine jump-started my brain, and a question brewed. I sprung it on Jake as soon as he stepped back inside. “Why are you here?” Okay, so this wasn’t exactly my best hostess line, but why was he here and pounding on my door early in the morning?
“Let’s sit,” Jake said.
He held out a kitchen chair for me and laid the box of Band-Aids on the table. Then he sat, moving his chair so close to mine that our knees nearly touched. He leaned in. For a second I expected a kiss. I closed my eyes and waited. Instead of a tender kiss, pain seared through my right temple. I opened my eyes to see Jake wielding the tweezers.
“Got it!” he said, holding up a cactus spike as thick as a toothpick.
I groaned. “I’m a mess.”
“You aren’t looking your best, I’ll admit that.” He winked to let me know he was teasing. “And, I’m here because you called me.”
I did?
Jake leaned in, again within kissing distance. I caught a whiff of manly cologne as he held the tweezers near my forehead. “Hold still, I see a patch of tiny spines. What’d you do? Tangle with half the cactus in Santa Fe County?”
“I called you?” I asked, still trying to work that out.
“You did,” he said. “Or at least your phone did. I heard ‘Dancing Queen’ and a scream and the line went dead. I tried to call back, but no one answered. Winston and I were mighty concerned.”
