One Last Look

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Sonterra,” he barked into the receiver.

  I waited.

  “Shit,” he said, groping for his uniform shirt, which was in a heap on the floor, and pulling a pad and ballpoint pen from the pocket. “Where? Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be right there. Try to keep everybody calm. Is there an ambulance on the way?”

  The pit of my stomach opened like a trapdoor, and the rest of my vital organs fell through.

  Sonterra slammed down the phone and crossed the room to yank open a dresser drawer and pull out jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “What happened?” I ventured to inquire.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” Sonterra said, fastening his jeans and tugging the sweatshirt on over his head. “There was a free-for-all at one of the bars on Main Street, and it went from fists to pool cues.”

  I winced, imagining the damage. No sense trying to go back to sleep. I’d only lie there, staring at the ceiling.

  Sonterra planted a kiss on my mouth, grabbed his badge, and boogied.

  “Dead-bolt the door when I’m gone!” he yelled from the kitchen.

  I waited until I heard his SUV screech out of the driveway, then helped myself to a pair of his boxers and a T-shirt. Downstairs, I followed orders and secured the heavy-duty lock on the back door.

  “This situation calls for cheesecake,” I told the dogs.

  They seemed to agree, so we shared the leftovers.

  When the phone rang again at six-thirty the next morning, I was still in the kitchen with the countertop TV blaring. There was nothing about the bar brawl on the Tucson news, so I’d spent the last thirty minutes staring at the Food Channel and wondering why on earth anyone would want to make their own pretzels when they could be bought at any mall.

  I lunged for the receiver, expecting an update from Sonterra. This was ridiculous. I needed to get a life.

  “Did you hear?” Loretta asked.

  “Hear what?” I asked, peevish in my disappointment.

  “Kip’s been arrested.”

  I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said he’d grown an extra ear. But, then, his infidelity had taken me completely off guard. Life was full of surprises—and lately, most of them had been nasty ones.

  “What?” I asked stupidly, certain that I must have heard wrong.

  She started to cry. “It was on CNN a few minutes ago. He’s been charged with insider trading and stock manipulation.”

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered. “Are you still at the B&B? I’ll be right over!”

  “You don’t have a car.”

  “Loretta, the place is four blocks away. Hold on—I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll get dressed and wait for you out front,” Loretta said despondently.

  I dressed hastily in a sweat suit and sneakers, splashed my face with cool water, brushed my hair—very carefully, because of the stitches—fed and watered the dogs, and set out. I felt a little light-headed, and stopped once to grip somebody’s front gate with one hand, steadying myself.

  Danielle Bickerhelm appeared on the porch of the house next door, wearing sleek white silk pants, a silvery tunic, and designer sunglasses. I felt that worrisome sense of familiarity again, and wondered whimsically if anyone had ever seen her eyes. Maybe she was born wearing shades.

  “Are you all right, Clare?” she called, and picked her way down the steps of her small stone cottage. English roses bloomed tenaciously on either side of the walk, and the grass in the yard was overgrown, sprouting dandelion ghosts on tall, spindly stalks. “I heard about your accident. I’m so sorry you were injured.”

  My hand convulsed on the gate. “It wasn’t an accident,” I heard myself say, though I had not intended to bare my soul. Nor did I feel inclined toward idle chitchat. Loretta had just had another shock, and she was expecting me. “I was attacked,” I clarified.

  Danielle tripped lightly toward me, her mouth pulled into a little O of surprise. It seemed odd that she wouldn’t have heard the details, Dry Creek being so small; but I was focused on getting to my friend, doing whatever I could to help, so I didn’t dwell on that one wispy thought. “How terrible!”

  “Yes,” I agreed, with a slight shudder as the memories assailed me, weakening me further. “It was terrible. I’m looking for the Wagon Wheel B&B—can you tell me where it is?”

  “I’ll drive you there,” Danielle said, jangling her keys. Presumably one of them would start the BMW parked at the curb. “Forgive me, but you don’t look as though you’re in any condition to be walking around.”

  Relief rushed through me. I hadn’t exactly taken to Danielle, but riding certainly seemed preferable to crawling the rest of the way to the B&B, and besides, a little time in her company might stir my memory.

  “Thanks,” I said, and got into the car.

  Danielle took the wheel. “I suppose you’ve heard about the mess at Bubba’s Place last night,” she said cheerfully, as we zoomed away. “Even the women got involved. Lots of hair-pulling.” She paused. “They say women are meaner in a fight than men.”

  “Sounds as if you were there,” I commented.

  Danielle shook her head. “Police scanner,” she tossed off, as we whipped up in front of a large, rustic lodge. “Here’s the Wagon Wheel,” she said. “Have a good day, Clare. And do take better care of yourself. Children are a precious gift, you know.”

  Children?

  Was my pregnancy common knowledge? I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone in Dry Creek, but maybe Sonterra had.

  “How did—?”

  She looked at her watch. Lady President, with diamonds. Expensive car, pricey jewelry. The antique business must be thriving. “Sorry I can’t chat,” she said, briskly perky. “I need to make some calls before I open the store. I do have a wonderful cradle you might want to look at. Early Victorian. A museum piece, actually. Ciao for now!”

  I got out of the car, still feeling a little wobbly. I would visit her shop as soon as I could, I decided. I wasn’t much interested in the cradle, however old it was, but I did want to know more about her. It bothered me, knowing I’d met her before and wondering where and under what circumstances. And I still wanted to know how she’d learned I was pregnant.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said, closing the car door.

  I had barely stepped back before she raced off, leaving me in a cloud of road dust.

  As promised, Loretta was waiting on the lodge steps when I turned around. She looked remarkably composed, for someone who had just learned that her estranged husband might be headed for a federal hoosegow.

  “Who was that?” she asked, frowning after the BMW. Loretta wore a Chanel suit and matching Manolos, and her makeup, either smudged or nonexistent in recent days, was perfect. The effect was rather like that of Ms. Bickerhelm’s sunglasses—I felt distanced. Shut out.

  I put it down to hormone fluctuation.

  “Danielle Bickerhelm,” I replied, taking in the lodge as I started up the walk. It was a solid structure, more like a transplant from some evergreen environment than anything endemic to the desert. Like the antique store on Main Street, it seemed amazed to find itself in unfamiliar surroundings.

  I shifted my focus back to Loretta, taking in the outfit again. “When you said you were going to get dressed, you weren’t kidding. What’s with the corporate getup?”

  “I’m going to New York to see Kip. That’s where he’s being held.”

  Inwardly, I sighed. Who are you? I demanded silently. And what have you done with Loretta? On the outside, I smiled. “He must be out on bail by now,” I said.

  “You look terrible,” Loretta said, ignoring my remark and rushing forward to take my arm, as though she thought I might collapse right there in front of the B&B.

  “Thanks a whole heap,” I said.

  “I’m dropping you off at home. You should be in bed, Clare. I don’t know what I was thinking, letting you come over here—”

  “If you want to drop me somewhere,” I said, “make it the cop shop.”


  Loretta pondered that. “All right,” she agreed reluctantly, squiring me up the steps and setting me in the nearest porch swing. The view from there was truly uninspiring—a derelict gas station stood across the unpaved street, plastered with rusting metal signs that would have sold for a small fortune on eBay. The grass was even more out of control than Danielle’s yard, and scattered with broken bottles, old tires, and other debris.

  Loretta took hold of the latch on the screen door leading into the lobby of the Wagon Wheel. She paused, flushed. “I wish you could go with me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”

  “It’s a good idea,” I said.

  Loretta shook her head. “No, it isn’t,” she said with a sigh. “You just got out of the hospital. And this isn’t your problem, it’s mine.”

  “You’re my best friend, Loretta. Your problems are my problems.”

  She smiled wanly, but shook her head again. “No,” she said decisively. “Sit tight. I’ll have my car brought around. They’re already loading my bags.”

  I didn’t argue. I really didn’t feel up to tackling the Big Apple, but I would have done it, at a word from Loretta.

  I chose my words carefully. “Do you think this is wise? Rushing off to New York, I mean? Did Kip actually ask you to come?”

  She pretended not to hear, which was answer enough.

  Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up in front of the police station in her Lexus. Sonterra’s SUV was parked beside the entrance, coated with dust. Equally scruffy squad cars, the usual Crown Vics, were nosed in on either side, at odd angles, as though they’d been shot helter-skelter from some huge longbow.

  I turned to Loretta. “Stay in touch,” I said. I knew it was useless to point out that she might be rushing into something better left alone. In her place, I probably would have done the same thing.

  She reached over, squeezed my forearm. “You’ll be all right, won’t you? If I didn’t think Tony would look after you—”

  “I’ll be fine, Loretta. Go.” I opened the door, got out. My legs felt stronger now. It took a lot to keep me down—which only encouraged my enemies to try harder.

  I watched, waving once, as she drove away.

  “You must be here for the bad coffee, Counselor.”

  I turned to see Sonterra standing in the doorway of the station, grinning wanly. I nodded. Started in his direction.

  “Where’s Loretta off to in such a hurry?” he asked, as the Lexus vanished from view.

  “Kip’s been arrested in New York,” I answered, “and if you say you already knew, I’ll kill you. Insider trading and stock manipulation.”

  Sonterra whistled and came to take my arm. He led me solicitously into the front office, and I took a chair. He perched on the edge of his desk, with a creak of his service belt, arms folded. “Okay, besides the bad coffee, you wanted—?”

  “Information,” I said. “I don’t like being out of the loop.”

  Sonterra’s jaw tightened. “It was your average bar brawl. Extensive damage to people and fixtures.”

  “Danielle knows I’m pregnant.” I threw that out casually. Waited for a bite.

  “Danielle?” Sonterra looked honestly puzzled. I could see that he was riffling through some mental index and coming up dry, and that pleased me more than it should have.

  “Bickerhelm. Tall, bony. Owns the antique store.”

  “Oh,” Sonterra said, grimly enlightened. “Her.”

  “I was wondering how. How she found out about the baby, I mean.”

  He went to fetch the coffee, didn’t answer until I’d taken a couple of nerve-jangling sips. The stuff certainly lived up to its reputation—it could have qualified as toxic waste.

  “I might have mentioned it to Dave and Jesse,” he admitted quietly, referring to his deputies. “It’s the kind of thing a guy tends to be proud of.”

  “Maybe one of them passed the word,” I said, looking around. The place was empty, except for Rathburn, who was at his desk, on the phone, and Jesse, the younger of the two, dressed up in a spiffy new uniform and operating the fax machine.

  Sonterra studied me. “You’re going crazy, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve got that right,” I admitted. “I need a job.”

  “How about a hobby?”

  I gave him a look. “Like what? Crocheting?”

  He grinned. “My aunts make lace doilies. Looks pretty challenging to me.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Dave hung up the phone and hoisted his bulk out of his desk chair. “I’d like to run by the house and look in on Madge, if it’s all right with you, Chief,” he said. “She wasn’t feeling too well when I left for work this morning.”

  Sonterra nodded, and Rathburn took his leave.

  Jesse hummed a country-western song as he fed more documents into the fax machine. He was out of earshot, so I figured it was safe to prod Sonterra a little about the federal task force.

  “Any leads on Oz Gilbride and the coyote situation?” I asked.

  “Nice try,” he said.

  “I think I have a right to know what my future husband does for a living.”

  “He’s a cop.”

  I persisted, of course. “Damn it, what do the feds want you to do, exactly? And why did they have to pick on you in the first place?”

  Sonterra sighed, glanced in Jesse’s direction. His back was to us, and he was still humming. “I was accepted at Quantico, remember?” Sonterra said. Thanks to an on-the-job injury that nearly cost him his life, he’d had to drop his plans to join the FBI. “I guess they liked my application, and it might have something to do with my being part Latino. This place is a corridor for coyotes, and the illegals are more likely to trust me than a gringo, even if I am wearing a badge.”

  For Sonterra, this was a virtual soul-baring. I needed a few moments to take it in.

  I think he liked it when I was speechless. He grinned.

  I scanned the cells, all empty. I’m rarely stumped for words, and when I am, I recover quickly. “Didn’t you arrest anybody? After the fight at the tavern, I mean?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “They all made bail.”

  I leaned in a little. “Do you think Oz Gilbride was really involved with the coyote ring?”

  Sonterra narrowed his eyes. “Are you writing a book or something?”

  I grinned. “Maybe. The love scenes would certainly be hot.”

  He looked cocky. “Damn straight,” he said.

  I figured I wasn’t going to get any more details out of him, not for the time being, anyway. So I changed the subject. “I need a car.”

  He ran his eyes over me. “Not today, you don’t.”

  Just then, there was a flurry at the door, and a woman stumbled into the station. I sat up straight at the sight of her, and Sonterra cursed under his breath.

  Her face looked like fresh-ground hamburger, and the front of her blouse was stained with blood.

  “I want to press charges against Bobby Ray Lombard,” she said.

  Both Sonterra and Deputy Jesse rushed toward her, caught her by either arm just as her knees gave way.

  “Geeze, Micki,” Jesse blurted, as he escorted her to a chair. “Did Bobby Ray whup you again? I told you last time this happened you ought to show him the road.”

  I took a professional, as well as personal, interest. Got up, went into the restroom, wet a wad of clean paper towels at the sink.

  Micki looked up at me with shame and gratitude as I elbowed my way between Sonterra and Jesse and started cleaning her up as gently as I could.

  “My name is Clare Westbrook,” I told her, “and I’m an attorney.”

  “Micki Post,” she replied numbly. Her eyes were rapidly swelling closed, but I saw a plea in them as she studied me. “People always think it’s so easy to get rid of a guy like Bobby Ray,” she told me miserably. “They don’t know what he’s like.”

  “You heard the woman, Officers,” I said, dabbing away with the paper towel. “Ms. Post want
s to press charges.”

  “Pick him up,” Sonterra told Jesse.

  Jesse was ready to roll, flushed with conviction. “Last time we brought Bobby Ray in, he was high on something, and Dave and I had to mace him just to get him in the car.”

  “You want me to go along?” Sonterra asked.

  Jesse’s flush deepened. He shook his head. “I’ll call Dave on my cell phone or raise him on the radio. Have him meet me.”

  “Is there a doctor in this town?” I asked Sonterra, as Micki took the wad of paper towels, wiped her mouth with it, and checked to see if she’d spit out one of her teeth. “If so, get him over here. Now.”

  “Doc Holliday’s number is in the Rolodex,” Jesse called in parting, as he dashed for the door. “She’s been visiting her folks in Iowa, but she ought to be back by now.”

  Doc Holliday, I thought. Now, that’s colorful.

  Doc Holliday, as it turned out, was not a consumptive gunfighter holding a dead man’s poker hand, but a woman, a diminutive pixie-type sporting jeans, a blue cotton work shirt, a buzz cut, and a chip on her shoulder. When she caught sight of Micki, her eyes shot fire. She slammed her bag down on the nearest surface, opened it with one deft hand, and pulled out a stethoscope without looking.

  “If you don’t press charges this time, Micki,” she warned, checking the patient’s heartbeat, “I swear I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”

  A tear trickled through the blood streaking Micki’s poor, swollen face. “I will,” she said. “But his sister will just bail him out, like she did last time, and the time before that.”

  Last time, and the time before that.

  “This isn’t going to be like last time,” Sonterra vowed, drawing closer.

  Doc Holliday took him in. “Isn’t it?” she asked icily. Then she turned to me, clearly sizing me up. “Who are you?”

  “Micki’s attorney,” I said, and gave her my name.

  “I don’t have money for no lawyer,” Micki put in.

  “You don’t need money for this lawyer,” I answered.

  “Here we go,” Sonterra said with a sigh. Maybe he’d hoped my initial offer to represent Micki was an idle one, that I’d go straight home and start crocheting doilies.