by Susan Slater
“I was looking for Mr. Devon. But it appears that he’s gone.”
“Yep, it appears that way. Mr. Padilla is going to be one pissed-off landlord.”
“Looks like Mr. Devon left suddenly.”
“He was here at noon. I stopped by to fix an electrical outlet. Musta gotten out of here real fast. I told Mr. Padilla when he rented to this guy he was going to be trouble.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Just a hunch. And the people who came in and out of here. Not the type you’d want to meet in a dark alley. You know what I mean? And he never kept regular hours. He’d be gone for weeks and the phone would just ring and ring. Too cheap to even get an answering machine.”
Connie nodded. Stan’s whole operation was cheap. A real one-man show. And why, why had she trusted him? Because he had been referred—a discreet referral by a friend. And hadn’t she gotten what she wanted? He had made contact with Robby. Even though he’d lied about actually talking with him. He had given her the material she’d requested.
“I’d better go call Mr. Padilla.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“And who can I tell him you are?”
“Bev Conlin.” The first name that came to her mind.
“Well, Ms. Conlin, in my books you’re far better off finding this empty room than making connections with Mr. Devon.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
Connie hurried out to the Rover.
Did it matter she was out fifty thousand dollars? Maybe under the circumstances, no. She’d just saved another hundred thousand, but it was the principle of the thing. The lying, the murder. What would happen when the police came to talk with her? And they would. She thought the scraps of wrapping she saw this afternoon looked like the wrapping she had used. The wrapping with her prints all over it. One summer job at the BIA had put her prints in the system. Would it even take them until Monday morning to show up on her doorstep? Stan had been clever. Maybe he’d committed the perfect crime. If there was such a thing.
She reached in her pocket for the black address book or whatever it was. Barely three inches by four, and about a half inch thick. Important enough to be kept in a safe. She jumped at the tap on the car window. The janitor. She quickly stuffed the book into her purse and pressed the button to lower her side window.
“Yes?”
“Just checking, ma’am. Mr. Padilla will be here in a few minutes. He said he’d like to talk with you.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I have a dinner party. I was just checking my list. Do you have a card? I would be glad to call him.”
“Well, no, but it’s Padilla Enterprises in the phonebook.”
“I’ll call tomorrow. Thanks again.”
With this, the window whirred shut and she turned the key in the ignition. Close. She needed to be careful. Not call attention to herself. But if there was a silver lining to all this? Robby was safe. Art McNamara wouldn’t be out to kill her fire dancer. Hadn’t Stan really given her a gift worth far more than the fifty grand he’d pocketed?
Chapter Thirteen
“Come in, Ben. You are handsome as always.” Connie offered her cheek then, closing the heavy carved door behind him, linked arms and led him toward the living room. “I’m so glad you could come. I was beginning to think Gallup Health Services was holding you hostage.”
“They’ve just been understaffed.”
“Isn’t that everywhere? There’s a shocking need for help both on the reservations and throughout Indian Health Services.”
“The passing of the bill to let tribes handle their own health needs has brought with it a new set of problems.”
“I wondered if it would work. Maybe it’s too soon to pass judgment. Well, here we are. Wayne, have you met Ben?”
Ben tried to give Julie a reassuring look over Connie’s head as Wayne stepped forward but felt it fall flat. The handshake was firm enough. There was no love lost between them, yet the man was a professional. He wasn’t about to make a scene in front of his boss and old girlfriend. Or at least Ben hoped he wasn’t.
“What can I get you?” Wayne walked to the bar.
“Nothing for me. Julie?”
“Wine. Red if you have it.”
“How about my favorite Merlot?”
“Great.” Julie sounded wooden.
“And I know what the lady of the house is drinking. Let me fix you one of my specialties—a margarita like you’ve never tasted before.”
Connie laughed and shrugged, “My weakness. What can I say? Julie, I must show you the Indian corn maiden by Maxine Toya.”
Ben watched the two women leave the room. One darkly beautiful and sensuous in wine velvet cropped pants and big shirt, almost barefoot other than the wisps of leather straps that bound her feet to a sliver of wine-colored sole. The other woman vibrant with copper-gold hair and brown eyes. Her skin-tight jeans accentuated every hollow and curve that he loved. Too freckled to be a classic beauty but with a body that would turn every head in the room. Including the bartender’s, Ben decided as he turned back to watch Wayne.
He found himself studying the fair-haired man busy behind the bar. Handsome? Yes. With rugged, model good looks. He half expected Wayne to strip down and pirouette in jockey briefs. There was the hint of a good body beneath the casual bulky sweater and jeans. And his smile? A real dazzler. Not believable but only because he seemed so in control of it. No spontaneous grin, more of a studied ‘turn it on or off at will’ sort of thing. Instinctively, Ben didn’t like this man then admonished himself for premature, judgmental thoughts. Just because five years ago Wayne was engaged to Julie? No, it wasn’t that simple. And maybe he was influenced by Julie. He’d make himself be fair.
“Interesting that you don’t drink. How ’bout a soft drink?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Is that an Indian thing?”
“I’m not following.”
“Not drinking. It’s pretty well known that you guys can’t hold your liquor.”
Ben found himself counting to five, then, “What is it they say? The Indian gave the white man tobacco and he couldn’t handle it and the white man gave the Indian booze and he couldn’t handle that. Doesn’t every race have its Achilles?”
“Interesting. But then you’re not a full breed, am I right? Isn’t there some question about your father? As to who he is? Other than he seems to have been white.”
“Are you going somewhere with this?”
“Hey, man, no offense. Just curious.” Wayne flashed his fake smile and returned to making himself a Tanqueray martini. Ben sensed it wasn’t his first of the evening.
“Actually, I have to drive back to Gallup tonight.”
“No. Why?” Julie was walking back into the room and paused in the doorway. “I can’t believe that you have to get back tonight. Tomorrow’s Sunday.” She walked up to him and slipped an arm around his waist.
“I promised to help with evaluations of some of the elderly whose family can only bring them in on weekends. Hey, I’ll be back Monday.”
“I hate to break this up, but Julie here’s your Merlot, and Connie, your marg. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m starved.”
Ben and Julie hung back as Wayne walked past them to join Connie in the foyer.
“How are you doing?” Julie whispered motioning toward Wayne.
“Okay.”
“That good?”
“Don’t think we’ll ever be buds.”
“Understatement.”
Ben grinned, “Hey, I think the prize is worth fighting for.” He kissed the top of Julie’s head. “Now let’s go find some food.”
“I think we’re too intimate a group to eat in the formal dining room so I asked Rosa to set up a buffet in the sitting room off the library.” Connie had taken Wayne’s arm. “Follow us.”
The room wasn’t small. A fireplace dominated the south wall. Indian artifacts were everywhere, mostly pottery but a glassed case of beadw
ork looked collector-worthy, Ben thought. The buffet was on a rollaway steam table and judging by his nose’s reaction, they were in for a treat. Rosa was tending a sizzling skillet of fajitas surrounded by pots of beans and rice with all the condiments.
“Any idea what happened today up at the lodge?” Julie had filled Ben in and he was more than vaguely worried about the two women being alone most of the week. This house was isolated.
“None. The man killed was someone from the past. I have no idea why he returned.”
Interesting, Ben thought as he watched Connie’s eyes shift quickly from his to the food table. She does know. I’d bet on the fact that she knows.
“What’s more interesting is the poor guy was duped and killed. Looks like he was expecting some kind of payoff and when he reached for the package—with a couple hundred-dollar bills in plain sight, the bomb went off,” Julie added.
“Bomb? Someone died? Somebody want to fill me in?” Wayne was looking from one to the other.
Connie spoke up. “Did you ever know Art McNamara? Skip hired him as all-around handyman. He did everything, and a part of his salary was living scot-free up at the lodge. Skip must have kept him on five years or more and then Art left to find his fame and fortune somewhere else. It’s been twenty years since I’ve seen him. It was a shock to find he’d come back.”
“Came back to be killed?” Wayne asked.
“It would seem so. It all seems too bizarre.”
“Sounds like someone followed him here. Do you know where he was living before?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did you like the man?” Ben asked.
“Like?” Connie seemed to be searching for words. “I really didn’t know him. It wasn’t a matter of liking or not liking.”
I’ve struck a chord, Ben thought. Connie’s testy answer belied a lot more involvement than she wanted everyone to think. He caught Julie’s eye above Connie’s head. She had noticed it too. Something wasn’t quite right. For one thing, Connie didn’t seem frightened. The fact that a man had been blown to bits a scant two miles from her front door seemed to mean nothing. But in deference to his hostess, he’d let the subject drop.
Conversation was kept to small talk while they ate and it wasn’t until the flan was served and Ben had stoked the fire, piling on two more logs of piñon, that Wayne broached the subject of Connie’s decision to give up the land grant.
“I still can’t believe you’re doing this.” Wayne sipped what Ben thought was at least his fourth martini. “You know, I can’t keep Byron and Cherie from suing. In fact, I expect Jonathan to lead the pack.”
“That would be my guess.” Connie sighed and leaned against the back of a tan leather couch. Ben thought she looked tired with a hint of dark circles under her eyes that defied makeup. More than once during the evening he’d noticed a tremor that she sought to conceal by holding her drink with two hands. She seemed worried, almost preoccupied with something and it was more than her decision to give up the land grant. A couple sleepless nights and dreading the legal battle that was inevitable—that would tax anyone, but couple that with a murder—could this Art McNamara have something to do with the land? With giving it back?
“If you could have been on the mountain with us yesterday afternoon, you’d understand why Connie’s decision is the right one.” Julie smiled at Connie. “I’m not sure I really understood until then.”
“I don’t think secondhand sentimentality should overrule sound judgment. Forgive me, Julie, but I just don’t think you understand the ramifications—”
“I understand that you might be more interested in protecting your job than being fair.” Julie met his stare.
“That’s underhanded. I look around and see the beauty Connie has created. Created for her family—Skip’s children and grandchildren. This is a legacy.” Wayne gestured to include their surroundings, sloshing some of his martini onto his jeans. “I feel I have a duty to represent those who aren’t here—those who had no idea what you were thinking of doing.”
“I know how you feel Wayne. I’d like to hear from Ben.” Connie put her drink down on a side table and leaned forward. “Can you understand why I’m doing this?”
“You have the ability to right a century-old wrong. You’re not just thinking of a handful of people but of a tribe who stands to be reunited with their birthright. You are giving back the center of their religion, their access to herbs that have healed their people for centuries. I cannot praise your decision enough. It’s a gift which cannot be measured in money.”
“Thank you.” Connie smiled. “I knew you would understand.”
“Jesus. You’re letting some Mormon-raised half-breed, some pretend Indian give advice? The Indians could have everything you mentioned, and we could still build an exclusive community.”
“I’ve come to think the two are incompatible. And I think you owe Ben an apology.”
“I don’t owe him a goddamned thing. He’s a user. He’s used the system to get his education—eight years free, just a little tab for the taxpayer. I have student loans to pay back but not Mr. Half-breed who, I bet, can wax eloquent on just about any Indian topic we throw his way. Yet, he was raised in Utah by some middle-America, middle-class all white couple and to keep his luck going plans to marry into all white—”
“Shut up, Wayne. You’re drunk. Don’t mix your anger at me with an attack on Ben. I left you. I gave your ring back before I met Ben.”
“This has nothing to do with you. If you can’t see how you’re attached to a user, then I can’t change your mind. But the next time he puts that half-red dick in you—”
Ben stood, “Enough. If you have a beef with me, let’s step outside.”
Wayne pushed up out of an overstuffed chair. “I think we can settle this right now.” His swing just grazed Ben’s temple as he ducked, but Wayne caught Ben’s perfectly thrown right that landed squarely on his chin. Ben caught him as he crumpled to the floor.
“Sorry, that was more reflex than intention. I wasn’t planning on losing my temper and certainly had no plans to deck him.” Ben eased Wayne to the couch.
“Served him right. It was stupid of me to invite the two of you and think Wayne was adult enough to act like one.”
“You couldn’t have known. I haven’t seen Wayne for five years. I’ve been surprised that he’s still interested.”
“More like sore loser. He seems more than a little controlling,” Connie said. “I won’t let him leave here tonight. He’s coming around but he’s bound to have a pretty sore jaw. Can you put him in the guest room off the foyer? I’ll get him a bag of ice. Then let’s have a nightcap and call it a day.”
+ + +
“Tired?” Ben was stacking piñon logs in the horno fireplace across from their bed.
“A little. I’m glad you’re not driving back until the morning.”
“You think I’m fool enough to leave you here with a half-crazed jilted fiancé who just may sleep it off and come looking for his former love?”
“I have to admit I feel better having you here.” Julie crossed her legs yoga-style in the middle of the Taos cottonwood-post bed.
“I love you, Julie. That was a stupid thing I did tonight.” Ben stood, tossed a match into the crushed newspaper nestled beneath the logs, and watched the fire roar up the flue. “But he was out of line. What do you think? Should I send our hostess roses?”
“That would be nice, but I don’t think you have to do anything. Connie’s pretty understanding.”
“Did you notice how tired she looked?” Ben crossed to the bed, sat on the edge and flopped back. Most of his six foot two inch frame was on the bed and he scooted over until his head rested in her lap.
“She worries me. Too many things going on. I know this is crazy, but I swear she knows more about that letter bomb than she’s letting on.” Julie absently stroked Ben’s hair.
“The guy who was killed was an old bodyguard of Skip’s?”
“Righ
t. But last week when I dropped her off at the road to hike in and check the lodge’s propane tanks? I think she spent a lot more time talking to this Art McNamara than she wants us to know. When I turned into the long drive that leads to the lodge, I saw them. And the conversation wasn’t pleasant; I’d bet on that. At one point Connie sort of slumped against the banister. And then this guy just takes off running when I pull up. Something’s strange. And now he’s dead.”
“Of course, it sounds like the guy could have made some enemies in his line of work.”
“But the fake money. Obviously, a payoff.”
“And a double-cross.” Ben sat up and pulled Julie against him.
“I hope Connie’s not mixed up in all this somehow … Hey—that tickles.”
“I need to get out of here by five-thirty and I’m thinking of doing a little more than just tickling you.”
“I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Damn.” Connie paced, lit a cigarette, puffed once, twice, put it out, emptied the ashtray in the fireplace, lit another. “Damn, damn, damn.” Thank God she’d found Stan’s little black book which contained her initials, phone number and the numbers she assumed belonged to the psychiatrist who had treated Robby. Even a notation to call the shrink. But there were other numbers—probably all people who would not want it known they had used Mr. Devon for some dirty work. If Stan was smart, the black book was the only place her name was recorded. She wished she knew for certain. But at least she had it. And she had time to prepare her story. When the cops came, she knew what she would say.
First, she needed to do a few things. Things she’d put off. Put off because she’d been counting on not having to do them. But it was time to empty the safe, put her papers in envelopes and write notes to the addressees. For the first time since learning of her illness, she was admitting defeat. There would be no life-saving treatment. No son was going to step forward and offer to save her life. She knew that now. And strangely, she was beyond tears.
