by Sharon Sala
“We’ll be in before noon,” Wilson said.
“See you then,” Greg said.
Wilson disconnected, then looked at Cat.
“Your car is fixed.”
She sighed. “We’ll see how long I can keep it in one piece. I sure didn’t do your truck any good.”
Wilson couldn’t bring himself to joke about the truck, because it just reminded him of how close she’d come to dying.
“That tornado was not your fault. Besides, as long as you didn’t go into the pond with it, I could care less.”
Cat carried her coffee and toast to the table, and sat down. Wilson took the chair beside her, kissed the side of her cheek, then whispered against her ear, “Love you, baby.”
She paused with the toast halfway to her lips, then surprised herself by turning her head and meeting his lips halfway.
“Love you, too,” she said softly.
Wilson grinned, then leaned back. “I’ll sit with you while you eat, then Dad and I will go get your car.”
Cat thought about going, but she had too many bruises to want to face the world. Instead, she reached for the jelly and put a spoonful onto her toast. She took a bite, and as she did, her stomach rolled. Startled by the unexpected nausea, she swallowed quickly and reached for the coffee. The cup was in her hand when her stomach rolled again.
Wilson and Carter were in the middle of a conversation about where else they needed to go while they were in Austin, and Dorothy was at the sink.
“Uh…excuse me. I just remembered something. I’ll be right back,” Cat said, and headed for her bedroom.
The closer she got, the more certain she was that she was going to throw up. It was too long after the wreck for concussion symptoms, and it couldn’t be food poisoning, because they’d all had the same thing last night and no one else was ill. She hit the door with the flat of her hand and dashed through the room, making it to the bathroom just in time.
She threw up until there was nothing left in her stomach. Finally she flushed the toilet, then staggered to the sink to wash her face and hands. She was brushing her teeth when Wilson came in.
“Honey, are you okay?”
She nodded.
“Why are you brushing your teeth? You didn’t finish your breakfast.”
She shrugged, then rinsed and wiped her mouth.
“I just threw up. I think I’ve taken too many pain pills on an empty stomach. I’ll let my tummy rest a bit and then give food a try later.”
Concern was in his voice and in the gentleness of his touch. “Are you sure?” He felt her forehead, thinking she might be coming down with a fever.
“I’m fine,” she said. “In fact, I feel much better already. I told you, it was those pain pills.”
“Maybe. Still, you should take it easy while we’re gone. Mom is going over to Charlie’s for a bit. One of the kids is sick, and she’s going to babysit the others while they go to the doctor.”
“Oh, no. Which one of them is sick?”
“I don’t know. I just heard the tail end of Mom and Dad’s conversation. Are you sure you’re going to be all right here while we’re gone?”
“Absolutely. I’ll just go back to bed. I feel a little shaky.”
“Want me to tuck you in?” Wilson asked.
Cat grinned. “That is so not what you want to do to me, and we both know it.”
A muscle jumped at the side of his jaw; then he kissed her, hard and quick, his nostrils flaring as he pulled back.
“I’m out of here before I get us both in trouble,” he said softly.
Cat crawled into bed.
Wilson stood beside the bedpost, looking down at her—at the wild tangle of long dark hair, and her hollow eyes and dark bruises.
“Even beat all to hell and back, you look sexy.”
“I’m going to sleep now,” she said as she rolled over and tucked her hands beneath her cheek.
Wilson pulled the covers up over her shoulders, then turned off the light as he walked out of the room.
A short while later, Cat heard vehicles leaving, then nothing more as she slept.
Montoya kept one eye on the gas gauge and the other on the clock. He planned on being in Agua Caliente before sunset, to spend the night with an aunt and uncle who lived there. Although they had no phone, and he’d had no way of warning them he was coming, he knew he would be welcomed and that there would be a place for him to sleep.
As he drove, he kept going over the things he knew about Tutuola. The only thing that made sense was that someone killed him for the money, then set fire to the home to try to hide the deed.
He was a good detective and knew enough to trust his instincts. And his instincts were telling him to follow the money. All he had to do was backtrack Tutuola’s trip to Chihuahua and, along the way, locate as many people as he could who’d seen him flashing cash around. Someone would tell. They always did.
The only fly in the ointment was Conchita’s behavior. His absences were frequent but never long. This time his captain had given him a week to follow up on any leads he found, and after that they would either close the case or it would go cold.
Montoya didn’t like unfinished business. He was hoping for a good ending. And along the way, he would find something nice to bring back to his wife as a peace offering. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the way his life worked.
It was early evening when he drove into Agua Caliente. It had been at least four years since he’d been here, although he’d seen his tia Maria only last year at Christmas, when she’d come to Chihuahua to stay with his mother, her sister. It didn’t surprise him to see that very little had changed. Such was the way in the small villages of Mexico. With no way of supporting a family, fewer and fewer of the young people stayed in the places where they’d been born. They usually gravitated toward the cities or tried crossing the border into the United States.
He drove up to the small adobe casa where his aunt and uncle had been living for the past forty-five years and got out. He stretched wearily, then reached inside the car to get the gifts he’d brought with him, before going to the door. Even though his uncle’s house had a fairly fresh coat of whitewash and, inside, wooden floors to walk on, their existence was at poverty level.
A couple of chickens were pecking the ground a short distance away, and there was a goat tied to a stake. A blast of hot air hit him as he shut the car door and shifted his gifts more securely. He glanced around at the cluster of small adobe buildings and shook his head.
Dios Mio…Agua Caliente is a blister on the face of the earth.
Before he reached the door, it suddenly swung open. The little woman in the doorway threw up her hands in a gesture of delight, then hastened forward, talking a mile a minute.
Luis laughed as he was led inside. For the moment, his quest, Conchita’s unhappiness with him and the demands of his job were forgotten. It wasn’t until they’d had their evening meal and were sitting around chatting about family occurrences that his uncle finally asked him what he was doing there. Luis began to explain.
“A short time ago, a man was murdered in Chihuahua. We have few leads on the case, other than the fact that he was in possession of a large sum of money when he came to our city. We believe he was probably killed for it, and I’m backtracking his route. What we do know is that shortly before he came to Chihuahua, he was in a fire in Nuevo Laredo that nearly killed him, and that he had recently done business with a man from Dallas, Texas.”
“Ah…so you will go to the United States?” his uncle asked.
“Sì, but not for long, I hope. Conchita is not happy with me at the moment.”
His uncle frowned in understanding. “It is difficult to do your job, is it not?”
Luis nodded. “Unfortunately, crime does not wait on holidays and important family dates.”
His tia Maria had been listening from the chair in front of her hand loom, where she was working on another serape to sell to her neighbor’s uncle, who came throug
h Agua Caliente on an irregular basis and took their goods to the seaside resorts of Puerta Vallarta, Cozumel and even Mazatlan.
“This man you seek. He is very bad?”
Luis nodded. “Es verdad…El Diablo…muy mal.”
She gasped. “El Diablo?”
“I will show you a picture, then you will understand for yourselves,” Luis said, and ran outside to his car to get the file.
He came back with the booking photo, and then handed it to his uncle, who looked at it and frowned, then handed it to his wife.
“Dios Mio! A monster, for sure,” she said. She started to hand it back to Luis, then hesitated and looked at it again. “You know…my friend, Paloma Garcia, talked of a man she once knew with such markings on his face.”
Luis’s eyes widened. Could it be possible that he was going to get his first lead from his own family?
“This Paloma Garcia…can I talk to her?”
His aunt nodded quickly. “She lives two houses down. Would you like me to go get her?”
Luis shook his head. “No, I will go to her, but why don’t you come with me to make an introduction? I don’t want this woman to be uneasy around me. You know how our people are when it comes to talking to the authorities.”
Maria nodded and got up from her loom. Together, they walked the short distance to a small casa sitting a bit back from the street.
The air was much cooler now, and Luis glanced up as they walked.
“You know, I forget how beautiful the night sky is when the view is not marred by streetlights and noise.”
Maria nodded. “Sì. We have been here so long now, I would not want to live anywhere else.”
“That I understand,” Luis said, and then moments later they were at the door.
Maria knocked. “Paloma. It’s me, Maria.”
There was a brief moment of silence, then the sound of a chair scooting back on a wooden floor.
“She’s coming,” Maria said, and smiled at her nephew, happy to be a part of his investigation, even if hers was a small, unimportant role.
Then the door opened, and Luis was face-to-face with a small woman of indeterminate age, wearing a red dress with multicolored embroidery around the neckline and matching embroidery a few inches above the hem. She had sandals on her feet and a red paper flower in her hair. Luis guessed that in her younger days, she’d been quite pretty.
At that point, Maria made the needed introductions.
“Paloma, this is my nephew Luis Montoya. He is a detective from Chihuahua. There is a question he would ask of you. Is it all right if he comes in?”
Paloma’s smile had gone from welcoming to stiff so fast that Luis almost thought he’d imagined it. But the sparkle that had been in her eyes was gone, and she wouldn’t look directly at him anymore. Instead of a verbal answer, she shrugged as she stepped aside for him to enter.
Maria frowned. She could tell her friend was uneasy, but Luis’s smile reassured her that he knew how to deal with the chilly reception. She sighed, then hurried back up the street, anxious to get in out of the chill of a desert night.
Paloma waved toward a chair beside a small chiminea holding a brightly burning fire.
“Sit there,” she said, and took a chair on the opposite side.
Luis had the photo of Tutuola with him, and he laid it facedown on his lap as he sat.
“Thank you for taking time to speak to me,” he said.
Paloma nodded, but looked away.
Luis waited for her to relax. This behavior was typical of his people, and he knew why. They didn’t have much reason to trust the police. Then he looked around at the inside of her small home and was taken aback. The amenities were surprising.
Besides the little fireplace, there was a new wood floor, and windows with real glass and curtains instead of outside shutters. There was a hand loom in the corner, not unlike the one his aunt used, but the colorful pile of hand-pulled yarns was huge. The walls smelled of fresh whitewash, and there was a lit oil lamp on a small table. He couldn’t help but wonder where she’d come by the money to do all this.
“Your home is very comfortable,” he said.
Paloma nodded.
“Your floor looks new.”
She nodded again but still didn’t meet his eyes.
Luis sighed. The conversation was going to be one-sided unless he shocked her into talking. He took the picture from his lap, then leaned forward and placed it in hers.
Paloma had no choice but to look, and when she did, she was unable to stifle a gasp.
“You know this man?” Luis asked.
Paloma shuddered, then took the picture and handed it back.
“Sì, I know him.”
“What is his name?”
“Solomon Tutuola.”
Luis resisted the urge to clap his hands. Finally, a lead.
“How do you know him?” he asked.
She hesitated only a moment, as if choosing the way she would describe their relationship.
“When I was younger, I knew many men. He was one of them.”
Now Luis understood. Paloma had once had what his mother would call a bad reputation.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
She shrugged, then finally looked up. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m investigating his murder.”
There was a long moment of silence; then Paloma seemed to relax.
“Bueno…El Diablo es muerte.”
The devil is dead. After reading his rap sheet and remembering how the people he’d interviewed had described him, the appellation seemed even more apt than when the Realtor had used it.
“You didn’t like him?” Luis asked.
Paloma shook her head. “No, no. He was bad. He was mean to everyone. Always pushing, demanding, using people for his own gain.”
“So…I asked before…when was the last time you saw him?”
Paloma shrugged again. “Not so long…maybe a month. I don’t know. Time doesn’t mean much in Agua Caliente. One day is like the next.”
“I understand,” Luis said. “One more thing…when you last saw Tutuola, was he alone?”
Paloma nodded quickly. “Sì, sì, he was alone.”
“Where did you see him?”
“He came to my casa…like he had a right.” She frowned, then made the sign of the cross. “He was as he’d always been, mean and demanding. I sent him away.”
Luis tried to imagine how this tiny woman would be able to handle a man of Tutuola’s size.
“How did you manage that?” he asked.
She smiled, and for the first time Luis got a glimpse of the pretty young woman she’d once been.
“I put a curse on him. He was a superstitious man. It frightened him. He gave me much money to take the curse away. I took his money, but I did not remove the curse. I am glad he is dead.”
Luis sighed. So…Tutuola already had the money when he came here.
“Did you see his money?”
“No. He went out to his car and came back with a handful. He threw it at me. I took it.” Then she glared at Luis. “He gave it to me. It was mine to do with as I wished.”
“Of course. I’m just trying to find out who else might have known about the money…maybe someone who followed him and killed him for it.”
Paloma immediately thought of the American woman who’d been in her house, and the look of horror on her face when she realized that Paloma knew Tutuola—and that he was alive. She remembered the woman calling him the devil and almost fainting.
Paloma had seen the scar on the woman’s neck. She understood that kind of fear. If the American woman had taken the money, it didn’t matter to her. Solomon deserved to die.
“I saw no one,” she said.
Luis nodded, then stood up.
“Thank you for taking time to speak with me. It has been very helpful.”
Paloma nodded, then got up, too, and opened the door, anxious for the detective to leave. But Luis paused o
n the threshold.
“Oh…one last thing.”
“Que?”
“When Tutuola was here, did he say where he’d been or how he came by the money?”
“No. All he wanted was food and sex. He took both without asking. I am glad he is dead.”
Now Luis was the one who was ashamed—ashamed that any member of his sex would do such a thing.
“I am sorry you were mistreated,” he said softly. “Thank you for your time.”
“De nada,” Paloma said.
Luis was on the doorstep and about to walk away when he stopped and turned around.
“I wish you a long and happy life, Paloma Garcia.”
Paloma’s eyes filled with tears, but she only nodded and closed the door.
Luis sighed. The world was harsh to women alone. He thought of Conchita and how many times he had left her in the same condition, then tried to assuage his own guilt by reminding himself that she was never without her comforts.
Still, as he walked back to his uncle’s house, his heart was heavy. Tomorrow he would continue to head east. It remained to be seen what would happen next.
Six
Cat’s bruises were fading faster than her memories of being swallowed up by the storm. She was grateful to still be here on the McKay ranch, instead of back in Dallas. Wilson had taught her that being with family was a great aid to healing, both in body and spirit. Now she was so entrenched in this world and very thankful she didn’t have to return to the back alleys of Dallas to run down perps who’d skipped out on their court dates.
When she thought about it, which was often, it seemed as if Marsha’s murder had been the detonator that had blown up her carefully balanced world. Before, she’d been a loner—never sharing anything of herself with anyone but Marsha and, occasionally, her old boss, Art. Before, she wouldn’t trust and she wouldn’t love, and she couldn’t bring herself to do what was needed to change any of it. She’d been lost in a sparse and lonely routine.
But then Marsha had been murdered, and despite every intention she had of keeping Wilson out of her life, he wouldn’t go away and he wouldn’t give up. Now, she could only thank God for Wilson’s perseverance. She couldn’t imagine her life without him.
