Inked Up

by Terri Thayer

  “Who did this?” April said. “I really don’t believe her husband killed her. I saw his face when Mitch told him. No one can fake that kind of anguish.”

  April’s eyes misted over as she remembered the scene. Pedro’s grief was visceral. No one was that good an actor.

  Deana drained her glass. “Whoever did it was very angry. It was a brutal death.”

  “Wouldn’t she have cried out? Wouldn’t we have heard her?” April asked.

  Deana pushed her glass on the tap in the refrigerator, filling it again. She offered April water, which she refused. “She might not have had a chance to get a sound out. Besides, remember how noisy it was?”

  April had been the closest to the entry point. She’d heard kids all day long. By the afternoon, she’d tuned them out.

  “While it could have been a random act of violence, it’s more likely a personal crime,” Deana said.

  “As in husband?” April felt her spirits drop. Did Pedro stand a chance?

  Deana shrugged, shutting her laptop. “Or lover or business associate. Other family member. Crime of passion doesn’t always mean husband. Just someone with sufficient reason to want to throttle her and actually do it.”

  April shuddered. She’d made others mad enough to want to kill her. She knew what it was to face that kind of anger.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” Deana said, giving April a hug and a kiss.

  “Me, too. After I drop off something for Trish.”

  Deana raised her eyebrow in question.

  April said, “Don’t ask. That woman is a force of nature.”

  Deana laughed and waved good-bye.

  April drove to the Villarreals’ house, following the same route Mitch had used Saturday night. She didn’t know where else to look for Xenia’s sister. Maybe she was staying at Pedro’s with the kids. Today was a school day, but surely the kids wouldn’t have gone.

  The house sat at the crossroads of two county routes. A hundred years ago, these corners had been the hub of a well-traveled road. Faded signs painted on one building touted a stable and a general store. Prushka’s Bar and Grill had an odor of decades-old beer emanating from it. The only thing left besides the bar was a gas station and minimart, today’s version of the variety store. The place had been bypassed by the locals for prettier corners and overpassed by the highways for quicker ways to get into town.

  A few houses remained, the Villarreals’ rented home among them. April stepped onto the concrete porch and knocked. No answer. She went around to the back following a well-worn dirt path through the scrub grass. She opened the screen door and knocked directly on the back door.

  Still no answer. She peered in the window. The kitchen was untidy, as though the family had just stepped out. Cereal bowls were in the sink. Someone had spilled sugary cereal on the floor, and a stream of ants marched in and out of the pile. A pink plastic cup lay nearby.

  This was definitely life interrupted. April looked closer. A flyer about the Pumpkin Express was tacked to the family bulletin board.

  If appeared that no one had been back since Saturday morning.

  April walked around to the front. A package addressed to Xenia lay on the front porch. It was the same size and shape as the one in her car. She scooped it up. In for a penny, in for a pound. Buchert’s delivery service.

  She stashed the box in her car with the other. The dashboard clock read 10:30. She really had to get to work.

  She didn’t make it to Mirabella as quickly as she’d hoped. On the road, April was stopped by a uniformed cop. His car was parked crosswise in the road, blocking both lanes.

  He stepped to her car, military in demeanor, with a somber facial expression. Now that he was closer, she saw he was private security, not police. “Sorry, no through traffic.”

  April peered through her windshield. She thought she could see the WLUC truck up ahead. With her window down, she could hear noises. She strained to listen. The sounds were regular and repeated. She could almost make out words. The protest Mitch had told her about was underway.

  The security guard was closemouthed.

  Taking a different tack, April said, “I’m with Retro Reproductions. I’m due at work at the Mirabella mansion.”

  The man sighed. “License, please?”

  He took her license and said something into his shoulder mike. To her, he said, “All the other employees got here hours ago. We cleared them then.”

  She didn’t feel like explaining to this guy her work hours or ethic. It was none of his business why she hadn’t been at work early this morning.

  He handed her back her license and stood at attention at her door. They waited in silence. April leaned over her steering wheel and tried to see what was going on up the road.

  His radio crackled. He listened and waved her through without explanation. Evidently someone had vouched for her. Probably Ed.

  April drove onto the property of Mrs. Barbara Harcourt, owner of Mirabella, and parked her car next to the detached garage. She hesitated. If security had talked to Ed, he would get antsy, worried if she didn’t come right in. But she wanted to see what was going on.

  She could get there without using the road security had blocked. During her first days on this job, Mitch had shown her a shortcut through the woods to the old Castle site. She’d used it just last week, visiting his work site to help him after she was done for the day.

  She had to see him now. She needed to tell him what Deana had told her, that Xenia had been definitely murdered. The state police might not release that information right away. With the finding of homicide, Pedro’s chance of being released was greatly reduced. The police could find what they needed to charge him with murder.

  A tinny version of the Godfather theme grew louder. A roach coach rumbled up the Mirabella driveway, straining as the driver shifted gears on the slow grade. She’d forgotten. Mondays, the lunch truck came early. Within minutes, Ed’s crew would be out here, grabbing hoagies and meatball sandwiches.

  She made up her mind. She called Ed and left him a message on his voice mail that she’d be along in a few minutes and headed for the woods.

  She followed the dirt path, breaking into a slight jog over ground covered with fallen leaves. Her steps made a satisfying crackle, and she had a momentary sense memory of jumping into a pile of just-raked leaves as a kid. Ed had always pretended to be horrified, but he’d make a new pile and turn his back again, just long enough for her to get a running start and land in the middle. She smiled at the thought.

  She was stopped short when her ankle twisted in a depression in the earth hidden by the leaves. Damn heels. She wished she’d taken the time to change into her work clothes and shoes. But if she’d gone inside, Ed would never have let her out again.

  She rubbed her ankle. It was tender, but she could walk on it. The rhythmic voices got louder. She could understand the words. “Hell, no. We won’t go. We want our land back.”

  April slowed when she came up to a line of people standing in the clearing where the stakes, yellow pegs and string marked the locations for the third and fourth houses. From the back the group looked like ordinary folks.

  The rich didn’t have to protest. They hired lawyers and kept their voices quiet.

  Aldenville served as a bedroom community to Lynwood, the small city up on the hill. The doctors, lawyers and bankers chose not to live where they worked. They much preferred the quiet life in the valley. The country club was surrounded by elegant homes, some a half-century old, others built in the last twenty years. Here the professionals could mingle with their own kind. More business was done in the club and at the golf course than in their offices.

  On the other hand, the workers they needed to ensure their lives ran smoothly—the maids, golf caddies, launder ers and cooks—found the city the only place they could afford to live. Many would never be able to afford to buy even the smallest homes. Mitch had hoped to give a leg up to several families who spent most of their income on rent.
His plan was to build four homes here, and if those were a success, buy land and build more. Give them a taste of how the other half lived.

  The protesters had other ideas. April wondered if any of them had spray-paint cans in their cars.

  There were about twenty protesters, men and women, mostly middle-aged and older. On a Monday midmorning, the only people available are the elderly or unemployed. Sort of like the juror pool. One guy had on a T-shirt that read, “You bet your dupa I’m Polish” stretched over his big belly.

  Nice.

  Carrying hand-lettered signs, the group moved slowly up the gravel drive to the empty lot where the second Homes for Hope house would be built eventually, and continued on to the edge of Pedro’s lot.

  A crew of three men squatted by the foundation, drinking coffee and talking among themselves. Not good. Guys were being paid to sit around doing nothing. A large well-drilling truck was parked on the side yard. Well drilling was a noisy business—clearly, the drill was not running.

  April spotted Mitch over to the left standing out of the path of the protesters. Next to him was a short man dressed in a gray business suit. Both had arms crossed and were watching the action with thoughtful faces.

  She realized she was not going to be able to tell Mitch about Deana’s findings in front of this crowd. She had no desire to get caught up in the protesters’ venom. She’d talk to Mitch later, after work. April turned to head back to Mirabella.

  She’d only gotten a few steps when she heard Mitch call her name. He caught up to her and tapped her on the shoulder. He looked surprised to see her. And something else. Annoyance with her? Did he think somehow she’d get in his way?

  He said, “What are you doing here? You came through the woods?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he guided her by her elbow back to where he’d been standing. His fingers lingered on her skin and April felt herself tingle. The smell of him brought back memories of the night before, and she fought the urge to lean into him for a kiss. This was not the time or place. Instead, she said, “I heard the commotion and came to see if you needed any help.” She tilted her head toward the berm.

  Mitch introduced April. “This is Hector Valdez. He’s with the Mexican-American Coalition.”

  Now she understood Mitch’s agitation. He was nervous.

  The protesters walked in front of the camera, poking their signs up and down and mouthing the chants. The same reporter who had been at the A.maz.ing Corn Maze on Saturday was here, directing her cameraman to focus on an older woman with a cloud of wispy pinkish hair. The woman’s lipstick was smeared and she sounded hoarse.

  April realized with a sickening jolt that the woman was Vince’s mother. She saw his father holding a sign that read, “Protect Our Heritage.”

  Before she could decide whether or not to greet them, Valdez caught her attention.

  Valdez looked April up and down. “Are you, by chance, a lawyer?”

  She looked down at her pencil skirt and tugged on the hem of her matching jacket. He must not have noticed the scratches on her legs from coming through the woods.

  “No,” she said.

  “Too bad,” he said. “We could use one right about now. My counsel is late.”

  He stroked his chin and seemed to make up his mind about something. He touched her on the arm.

  “Come with me,” Valdez said, striding away without waiting for her answer. “I want to practice a little intimida tion of my own.”

  April looked at Mitch. Mitch gave her a reassuring smile. “Just play along,” he whispered. “Hector knows what’s doing. He’s on my side,” he added.

  She would do whatever she could to help Mitch, so she followed Valdez.

  “Stand next to me,” Valdez said quietly. “Don’t say a word or react to anything I’m going to say. Can you look tough?”

  April furrowed her brow earnestly. She fought the urge to giggle. Giggling was not intimidating. She glanced back at Mitch, who gave her a thumbs-up.

  She felt the eyes of the protesters on them and squared her shoulders. These people were trying to prevent a good family from a better life. What was wrong with a little deception?

  Valdez got in between the camera and Jocelyn Jones, the reporter. The cameraman stopped filming the protesters and swung the lens over to him.

  “Good morning,” he said cheerily. “I know you want to cover both sides of this story, so I’ve cleared my schedule and am available to talk to you.”

  “Not now,” Jocelyn said. “I’m filming the protesters. Perhaps when that is over.”

  Valdez shrugged his slim shoulders elegantly. “I am sorry. My colleague has to get back to court by noon.”

  Jocelyn lowered her microphone and looked at April. April thinned her mouth as she felt the reporter’s eyes take in her mode of dress. The suit might be three years old, but it was an Ann Taylor classic, well-made and expensive. She sucked in her tummy and thrust out her chest. The reporter was wearing a Boscov’s special, a cheap suit that probably came with matching slacks in the same brown polyester. Fashion round one to April.

  April felt a trickle of sweat crawl down her back. She pictured Jocelyn with a Glamour magazine “Don’t” banner over her face.

  That helped.

  “All right,” the reporter said, giving in. “What does MAC have to say about the protests?” The camera stayed on Valdez, so obviously Jocelyn would later film herself asking the questions.

  Valdez was prepared. His voice was smooth, unaccented. “MAC is well aware of the efficacy of protest marches. We have a long history of civil disobedience going back to Ce sar Chavez. However, these people are not residents of the valley. They’ve been bussed down here to put on a show. This is unlawful assembly and we will sue. Our attorney is assessing the situation.”

  April looked over at Mitch. His handsome face had been creased with worry. She saw a glimmer of hope as Hector talked. He seemed to think that MAC’s influence could put an end to the protests. April didn’t understand Mitch’s fascination with this guy. He didn’t seem too interested in the Homes for Hope houses.

  Jocelyn poked the microphone in April’s direction, but April took a step back and gave her a stern shake of the head. She tried hard to indicate silently she was far too important to bother with short, big-busted news reporters.

  One by one, the protesters stopped marching and watched the interview.

  Valdez continued. “My organization will not rest until we have rid this valley of the element that would destroy my people.”

  April touched Valdez’s elbow, and channeling a high-powered lawyer at a congressional hearing she’d seen on C-SPAN, whispered in his ear. “It won’t be pretty if I’m discovered,” she said.

  Valdez ignored her and continued. Bluffing seemed to be his forte. His voice rose as he directed his comments toward the protesters. “MAC is not going to lay down in the face of a little shouting.”

  April muttered, “Wrap it up.”

  Next to her, Hector Valdez stiffened. She glanced in his direction, but his attention was not on her. She wasn’t even sure he’d heard what she’d said. He was the kind of guy whose own words were the only ones that truly interested him. He talked, then waited for the next chance to spew his carefully constructed arguments. But now he looked rattled.

  April followed his gaze. A man was approaching. He was rail thin, tall and, despite the heat, impeccably dressed in jacket, vest and tie. He was smiling, or at least his lips were curved.

  He held his hand out for Hector to shake. Mitch started toward them, his face a storm of emotion. April saw Mitch’s eyes stray to the half-finished house behind him. He gave a nod to his crew, and they all stood with new purpose. The tallest one picked up his pipe wrench.

  “Hector,” the man said with no warmth.

  Hector’s eyes remained hooded as he returned the greeting. April glanced at Mitch. His mouth was set in a thin line.

  The protesters applauded the new arrival.

  �
�Mr. Ted Traczewski,” Jocelyn said, her microphone at the ready.

  Now April understood the activity. She knew that name. Traczewski was the head of the opposition movement, the Lynwood Border Patrol. They called themselves preservationists, but in reality they were only interested in saving their lifestyle without any thought to whom they hurt to maintain it. The influx of Mexican fruit pickers settling full time in Lynwood and the surrounding area had become a flash point.

  “Why are you here?” Valdez asked.

  Traczewski said, “A citizen has certain rights.”

  The reporter’s eyes were darting from one man to the other. The cameraman moved back so he could get both men in the shot. The air was as charged as if a summer afternoon thunderstorm was approaching. The two men were taking measure of each other, like rams in a field. The silence was excruciating.

  April could see how this was going to go. Hector was here representing his organization, not the Villarreals. Traczewski had his point of view to espouse. Hector and Traczewski would go toe-to-toe, touting their party lines. Immigrants are good. Immigrants are bad.

  Nothing would be said about Pedro, suspected of a murder he didn’t commit. Or about Xenia, dead.

  April had had enough.

  She turned to Jocelyn. “Xenia Villarreal, the woman that was supposed to move into this house next month, has died.”

  Mitch’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. April knew there was a chance that this kind of publicity would make things worse for him. Without Hector’s support, the house might never get finished. She looked away from him. The Villarreals needed to be represented.

  April grabbed Jocelyn’s arm. The reporter was startled but recovered quickly. She moved closer to April, her reporter’s instincts telling her April had something important to say. Mitch shot her a warning look.

  Traczewski and Valdez were annoyed at being interrupted. April knew it wasn’t too smart to make enemies of these powerful men, but tough. Xenia could not speak for herself. They could go back to their pissing contest after April had had her say.