by Susan Slater
Chapter Twenty-two
The limo was too comfortable. Julie wryly admitted to herself that she could get used to this. The three and a half hour drive was light years more decadent in a limo than bouncing along in a pickup. She settled back against the dove gray leather upholstery—a nicer grade of leather than her favorite coat, she had to admit. A wisp of a headache hovered behind her eyes and she pulled down the blind that covered the window beside her and reached in her purse for a Motrin. She really was feeling better—maybe not one-hundred percent, but close. And she was enjoying watching her mother interact with Robby. Bev had brought a photo album from home, thinking Julie might want early pictures of Connie for her article. It turned out to be the perfect thing to share with Robby.
“Your mother was seventeen here.” Bev was pointing to a school picture that showed the two of them at a football game. “We fought over who was going to wear the heather gray cashmere sweater. It was my sweater, but I owed your mother a favor and that’s what she wanted for payment. It all seems so frivolous now, but we didn’t speak for a week. That explains why we don’t look very happy. And, you know, with her coloring the sweater looked so much better on her.”
“Did she date a lot?”
“It was a girls’ school but we had exchanges with two boys’ schools in the area—holiday dances, that sort of thing. We were really well chaperoned. Children today can’t even imagine how strict the rules were—and how well enforced.” Bev was pensive for a moment. “You know, there never was a steady boyfriend. Lots of dance partners but never dating just one individual. She was only a year out of high school when she married Skip.”
“Were you surprised?”
“About as shocked as I was to find out there was a you.” Bev playfully patted his arm. “For a long time it put a wall between us. I went on to school, dated, traveled. Skip was controlling, didn’t want us seeing each other, thought Connie had obligations that didn’t include an unmarried friend.”
“That’s not fair. Couldn’t she have stood up to him?”
“Not to Skip. If she had, I always got the feeling there would have been repercussions—I don’t know what, exactly, but life would have been made unpleasant.” Bev paused as if thinking about what she was going to say. “I always thought she could have done better. Oh, not where money was concerned. Skip always had plenty of that. Or prestige—a senator’s wife put her in an enviable position socially. But he was just too old for her. He wanted her for all the wrong reasons—to parade her beauty, to make himself look young. Toward the end they could barely tolerate each other. There’s no doubt in my mind that your father was the love of her life.”
“And me? Do you think she was happy about me?”
“I believe she loved you unconditionally. I can’t imagine the anguish of giving you up—having to give you up. She wanted children so badly. And then to conceive but have to keep it a secret … she must have been devastated. I can’t even begin to imagine losing your father in such a heinous way. How did she even survive the suffering she went through?”
Robby turned away and was staring at the landscape rushing by. Julie couldn’t help but think this was good for him to hear. He’d lived his life not knowing. This was truly a gift of “roots,” if nothing else. Gave definition to his life.
“If you loved your friend and she was Indian, why do you hate Dr. Pecos just because he’s Indian?”
The magazine Julie had just opened slipped to the floor. She saw her mother blush and then stammer, “I don’t hate him and certainly his ethnic background has nothing to do with my feelings. Well, not really.”
“You don’t want him to marry your daughter.”
Who had told him this? But then, Julie thought, it wouldn’t take a lot to figure it out. Her mother had been especially curt to Ben as they were getting ready to leave.
“I don’t want my daughter to suffer. I don’t want her to give up her career and get caught in some one-horse town—someplace in South Dakota or Oklahoma. She’s worked for national media firms, for heaven’s sake—she could replace Katie Couric someday.”
Julie tried not to roll her eyes. She was finding her mother’s discomfort amusing. It was about time Bev was taken to task by someone other than her daughter.
“I guess I think that’s Julie’s decision to make—not yours. I think your friend’s life would tell you what it’s like to live in a loveless marriage. Dr. Pecos loves your daughter. Why don’t you just leave them alone?”
This last wasn’t really said unkindly—more in wonderment—and Julie’s first inclination was to burst into applause. But she could see how uncomfortable her mother was—chastisement of the in-control Bev was not an easy accomplishment. Julie only hoped she’d listened.
Robby turned to her. “Do you have a time and place yet … for the wedding?”
“Christmas Eve afternoon in the Tewa Pueblo. The ceremony will be in the Mission Church.”
“That will be beautiful. Can I come?”
“I would be very disappointed if you didn’t.”
“Do you have a dress?”
Once again, Julie described Connie’s gift. “It’s so perfect. You’ll see what I mean. I couldn’t have found something that I liked better. I thought I’d decorate the Mission church in all white poinsettias with white roses around the altar. I’d like huge white velvet bows with smaller bouquets of roses at the end of each pew—”
“Who will stand up with you?” Bev interrupted.
“I’ve already asked Sally Johnston—remember her? I worked with her at the Journal and then stayed in touch when I moved to the TV station. And Carol Finley, another reporter friend. I’m just not sure about their dresses. I’d thought of a fitted sheath, with a neckline like the one on my dress and cap sleeves—but what should I do about color?”
“I like your all-white theme, but a touch of red might be perfect. In keeping with the season.” Robby offered.
“I agree with Robby. Why couldn’t their dresses be a deep red velvet, for example?”
“Red might work but velvet is too heavy, Mom. Carol will throw a fit. I know her. She’ll think of added pounds.”
“What might work better is a midnight blue—maybe even embossed—taffeta or another material that has body. The cap sleeves should look like bells. And something dark would be slimming. Your friend would thank you.”
“Robby, that’s a great idea. Carol’s a blond—she’d look stunning. If we can find the right material, the dresses can be plain—let the cut and the material be the attention-getter.” Julie was truly impressed. Robby had a wonderful knack for color and materials. She looked at him—close cropped black hair with a forelock that dipped almost to cover one eye, strong jaw, tall, sinewy, not skinny—a handsome kid with just the hint of something feminine, maybe the dark smoldering eyes with long lashes. But what a far cry from when she first met him. She willed herself not to look for hints of nail polish.
“I bet Bev and I could pull this thing together for you. There’s not a lot of time. What do you think?” Robby turned to Bev.
“Well … yes … of course, we could.” Bev first looked startled, then beamed and exchanged high fives with Robby. Julie hadn’t seen her mother this animated and outside herself for a long time. She owed Robby big time—just maybe her mother had turned a corner. But less than a month. Not a lot of time to be successful.
The sirens interrupted any further wedding talk. Julie lifted the blind on her window. Three, no four, patrol cars pulled alongside then passed them, but she could still see at least one behind the limo. Was the senator’s wife important enough to get an escort? But then, she felt the limo slow, pull onto the shoulder and stop. Had the hearse been pulled over, too? She couldn’t see.
Robby and her mother were seated facing her with the exterior door in between. Julie leaned forward, scooted off the seat, pushed the handle down and forced the door outward.
“Those exiting should do so with hands in plain sight.” Was th
at a bullhorn, or whatever those things were called?
“Oh, for God’s sake, what is going on here? This is a funeral procession.” Bev pushed in front of Julie and stepped to the pavement.
“Ma’am, that means you. Hands where I can see ’em.” Now, Julie could see the cop—actually four of them. All with guns drawn.
“Ms. Conlin?”
“Which Ms. Conlin do you want?” Indignant, Bev stood on one foot, sans crutch, shielding her eyes against the sun.
Julie crawled from the limo, “I think Lieutenant Samuels is referring to me. To what do we owe this pleasure?” Did that sound snide? Probably. And probably she knew why they were stopped. Their ‘person-of-interest’ was just stepping out of the car behind her.
“I’m here to take Robert Emmett Merritt into custody on suspicion of murder.”
“Murder?” Julie thought Bev was about to faint. She leaned back against the limo and propped herself up, hands splayed against the limo’s side. “That’s ridiculous. Just who was murdered?”
“My mother.” Robby added, “They think I killed Connie.”
“But you didn’t … couldn’t have … this is all some mistake. We are escorting the body of his mother and my dear friend to her home to be buried.”
“Minus one mourner.” Lieutenant Samuels stepped forward. “If you’re innocent, I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. You need to come with me, son. There’ll be time later to pay your respects.”
Julie hit Ben’s number on speed-dial. No answer. He seldom had his phone on during work but did regularly check messages. “Ben, Lieutenant Samuels is arresting Robby and returning to Albuquerque. Could you meet them when they get in? They should be downtown by one-thirty. There’s probably not a lot I can do, so Mom and I will continue to the res. I’ll call later.” She knew Ben would be pissed. But she also knew he’d meet Robby—maybe arrange bail, but on a murder case, that might be impossible. Would money help? There was five million dollars with Robby’s name on it, and he probably wouldn’t have access to it until the paperwork had cleared the courts. Who said timing was everything?
She watched as Robby was ushered to the lead patrol car—cop on each side, cop in back. Only then did Lieutenant Samuels place cuffs on him before pushing his head down as Robby slipped into the back seat. What were they afraid of? That he’d run? Jump out of the car? Wire mesh and double locks made that a little difficult. Robby seemed resigned. But she knew she could never forget his expression when he looked back. It was more than resignation. A mix of bitterness with fright? All of those and maybe a touch of defiance.
+ + +
Ben played Julie’s message twice. One o’clock. He’d been heading out for a late lunch—he was glad he’d checked messages first. He wouldn’t tell Robby this, but his first thought was—at least he’ll be safe. The murderer was out there—or was it murderers? Plural. Did the person who killed the caretaker also kill Connie? And try to kill Julie? Had someone hired Stan Devon to get his hands dirty? Who would stand to benefit from those particular three deaths? Family. It all came back to family. And he knew exactly who would benefit if Robby disappeared. Three people who would become five million dollars richer.
So maybe Stan Devon hadn’t taken the money and run. Did he stick around for yet a bigger paycheck? Connie’s death might prove to be a family thing. Why not a hire? Done before anyone realized that she’d already deeded the ten acres—and was dying and had a son. Then the same guy who had come up with a letter-bomb was paid to obliterate any evidence of murder or possible new wills by leveling the house. But running Julie off the road? Afraid she’d seen something? And breaking into his truck? All this on top of threatening Robby? Who would gain from all this? Big question marks, but what Ben knew for certain—Robby had nothing to do with any of them. All Ben had to do was convince Lieutenant Samuels.
Chapter Twenty-three
“He’ll be housed separately, if that’s a concern.”
“One of them.” Ben had snagged some time with Lieutenant Samuels after Robby was booked.
“I didn’t appreciate the lack of a call. I remember having a little chat about aiding and abetting. I had to put two and two together when I realized where the body was going.”
Ben didn’t comment. None was needed; the good lieutenant was obviously feeling pretty smug.
“So, you think you have your man?”
“I’m not a shrink, but even a layman can draw some conclusions. It’s just too coincidental—adoptive mother and biological mother murdered and laid out.”
“Robby says he was never in the house—at the house, but no farther inside than a room to the west of the garages.”
“Shame we can’t even check for prints.”
Did that sound a little snide? What did he mean? Was he trying to link Robby with the explosion? That was absurd.
“I’ll know more, of course, once we’ve had a chance to chat. If he has alibis, well, he has nothing to worry about.”
“I think you’re going to have a tough time coming up with a motive. This isn’t a kid motivated by money.”
“I don’t think you can say that for certain.”
“He didn’t have any idea that he was in the will.”
“Oh, I would think he could assume as much.”
“He has an adequate trust from his adoptive parents. He’ll get the bulk of it when he’s twenty-one—more than enough to see him through school and support him in the process.”
“Then, we play the psycho card.”
“And that is?”
“Stopped taking his meds, went berserk, felt abandoned—struck out.”
“Tough one to prove, don’t you think?” Ben hoped so, at least. If the transgender behavior came out—no, Ben couldn’t even go there. Lieutenant Samuels wouldn’t exactly be understanding, he’d bet.
“Can’t be ruled out.”
“You have four instances of criminal activity—death of the caretaker, death of the benefactor, bombing of her house, threat on Julie’s life—are you treating each separately?”
“For the time being. Until we find the thread that connects.”
“Any word on the whereabouts of Stan Devon?”
“That’s kinda interesting. Granted, he had a head start but he didn’t fly out of here. Looks like he cleaned out his office and just went poof. It doesn’t make sense, but I’d swear he never left.”
“You think he’s still in the area?”
“Can’t prove that he left. But why would he stay around? Fifty thousand in his pocket should be reason to take off. He has no criminal record—until now. And he’s got to know we’re after him.”
“Was he licensed?”
“Perfectly legit. Been a PI for twelve years, before that a military career.”
“Had he been in Albuquerque long?”
“About eighteen months—California transplant.”
“I wonder how Connie found out about him?”
“His surroundings wouldn’t have given a clue, but he had some real hotshots as clients.”
“Such as?”
“Your pal, the lawyer, for one.”
“Wayne Stanford?”
“One and the same. The name of a good PI probably comes in handy if you’re a lawyer. Mr. Stanford gave a user endorsement in an ad in UNM’s Law Review.”
“Well, it explains why Connie would have trusted him with fifty thousand.”
“You know, he could have just stolen the money … took it and disappeared. There was no reason for murder. No reason to even show up at the mailbox with an altered package.”
“But he wouldn’t want the caretaker to come after him or even go back to his client, for that matter. Murder was much neater. Put him in the driver’s seat.”
“But why? He would have known the consequences all too well. Another reason it doesn’t make sense that he didn’t just take off. He knew Ms. CdeBaca wouldn’t—maybe even couldn’t—do anything about it.” The lieutenant paused. “If I allow as how
your patient didn’t kill his mother, who’s next in line?”
“Let’s go back to Stan Devon for a moment first. I agree with everything you said—it makes sense that he would take off but as you’ve pointed out, it looks like he’s stayed around. So, what if the fifty wasn’t enough? What if he had an opportunity to make more? Probably, a lot more.”
“By?”
“Hiring out to kill Connie. You ask who’s next in line for wanting Connie killed? There are three possibilities.”
“The CdeBaca children?”
“Exactly. As far as standing to gain, I know for a fact that no one knew Connie had already recorded her gift to the Sandia Pueblo. Nor did anyone think he or she would be sharing their inheritance with a half-brother they’d never heard of. And no one knew of her illness.”
“Stan Devon did. Why wouldn’t he tell the CdeBacas? It’s my understanding that they wouldn’t have had long to wait. And there would have been no blood on their hands.”
“Unless Stan’s finding Robby—the one bone marrow donor who could have saved her life—might have changed things. If he was aware of her illness, he was aware of why finding Robby was so important. That and the promise of a handsome paycheck.”
“Okay. Let’s say that’s one theory. Do you have any profiles on people who strangle?”
“You mean like bed-wetting, fire-starting, torturing small animals?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“The dysfunctional family, of course—which is becoming ever more difficult to distinguish from what’s considered normal.”
“Your boy would fit the dysfunctional part.”
“But there’s just no way he could strangle his own mother. Strangulation takes a lot of strength and anger. If you could have seen his face when he found out his mother had been murdered … you’d know why I can say that.”
“Pity I wasn’t the one to tell him.”
