Accessories to Die For

by Paula Paul

  “Well, sir, I—”

  “Yeah, I know. Working and going to school. Not much time for the niceties. Bet your grandmother wouldn’t approve of the way this car looks.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay,” the cop said and tapped the outside of the door with his flashlight. “Go on home, but keep the speed down. No point in rushing through your life, kid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Juanita heard Angel’s deep sigh as he rolled up the window and started the car again.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” Angel said from the front seat. “That was too close for comfort.”

  Juanita still did not speak. When the car came to a stop again, Angel opened the back door and helped her out.

  “Wish I had a garage, so I could sneak you in without you having to be outside,” he whispered. “Just keep your head down, and keep that jacket over your head.” When they were inside, Angel pulled down all of the shades and turned on only one dim light situated on a table next to a sofa.

  Juanita tried to thank him for helping her, but all she could do was erupt into a spasmodic cough as she collapsed on the sofa.

  “Stay right there,” Angel said. “I’ll get you something for that cough.” He disappeared into another room. Juanita could hear noises—kitchen noises—but he worked in the dark, apparently still too cautious to turn on a light. In a little while he reappeared holding a steaming bowl and a glass full of pale brown liquid. “Eat the soup first,” he said, handing her the bowl.

  “What is it?” she managed to ask in a hoarse voice.

  “Sopa con pollo,” Angel said. “Chicken soup. My abuelita’s recipe. I keep some in the refrigerator, you know, just in case.”

  Juanita accepted the bowl and tasted the soup. She recognized the taste of cilantro and chile—not substantially different from her own recipe. He handed her a glass of brownish liquid.

  “Tequila, agave, and fresh lime. My grandmother’s favorite remedy for a cold. Drink all of it. It’s not too bad. Kind of tastes like a margarita. In a little while I’ll give you some more.”

  Juanita drank the liquid—it did indeed taste like a margarita. She drank it slowly, trying to let each swallow cauterize her burning throat. When she finished and handed him the empty glass, she’d begun to feel a little light-headed. Angel returned to the kitchen, and in a little while the scent of cooked onions seeped into the living room, where she waited.

  When he returned, he handed her a cup of steaming liquid with a command to drink all of it. The concoction tasted terrible and made her shudder, but Angel stood over her until she had downed all of it. “Onions and honey,” he said. “It’ll help your cough. I guarantee it.”

  Juanita fell back against the sofa, praying that she wouldn’t cough again, lest she be forced to drink more of the foul-tasting remedy. If she did cough, she was unaware of it. She awoke to the feel of something damp and cold on her forehead. Angel was bathing her head with a cloth.

  “You still have a fever,” he said.

  She shivered as the cold cloth on her head made her fever drop.

  “Fever’s good. Kills germs,” Angel said. “But not too much fever.” He reached for something on the table next to the sofa and handed it to her. “Aspirin,” he said. “Abuelita didn’t believe in them, but they are actually a miracle drug.”

  Juanita took the aspirin with water that spewed out of her mouth when she was gripped by another spasm of coughing. She was afraid of what would come next, but instead of onions and honey, Angel handed her another glass of the tequila mixture. In a little while she was asleep again.

  When she awoke, Angel was gone.

  —

  The next morning, Angel had the store opened and receipts from the previous day ready to be entered in a ledger when Irene arrived.

  “I guess you closed up early last night,” she said. She looked terrible—circles under her eyes, face drawn and pale—as if she’d been awake all night.

  “Well, things were slow,” Angel said, hoping he wouldn’t have to say more.

  “No need to apologize. I’m glad you weren’t here. We had a break-in.”

  Angel almost dropped the handful of receipts he was holding. “Oh, my God! Did you call the police?” That explained her exhausted look, at least.

  “Of course not.”

  “But…”

  “Someone took the necklace.”

  Angel felt light-headed. “From the safe? I don’t understand. Everything looked okay when I came in.”

  “I tried to make things look normal,” Irene said.

  “But nobody knew it was there!”

  “Except maybe Danny. I think he must have come back for it and looked in the most logical place. The safe was broken when P.J. and I got back here last night.”

  Angel felt a stab of regret. “It was an old safe. One of those things from the early 1940s. It wouldn’t be hard to break into, but it would have taken some time. I shouldn’t have left.”

  “That safe was such a heavy old thing, I never dreamed it could be opened so easily. P.J. said it was done with a hammer and chisel.”

  “It’s heavy because it’s made of concrete with a metal skin,” Angel said. “All it takes is a hammer and chisel and some time.”

  Irene gave him a scrutinizing look that made him feel uncomfortable. “I forgot you know something about safecracking. Something you learned from that criminal element you used to hang around.”

  “Look…I…uh, I’m sorry I left without telling you, but I was tired. You know, school and work, and…” Angel turned away from Irene as he spoke, but he could feel her eyes on the back of his neck.

  “Angel, are you okay?”

  “Me? Sure,” he said without turning around.

  There was a long silence before Irene spoke again. “You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you? I warned you about that street gang you used to hang out with. They’re not bothering you, are they?”

  “Oh, no. Of course not.”

  Another long silence. Angel had rearranged the rack of sports clothes twice. Now he was trying desperately to think of something to say that would sound normal. Irene was being too inquisitive, too sensitive to his mood. He couldn’t afford to let her know he was harboring Juanita. Her former criminal prosecutor mentality would kick in, and she would insist he turn the poor woman over to the police. There was no way he was going to do that.

  Finally he left the rack of clothing alone and turned around to face Irene. “Uh, how’s Adelle?” he asked.

  “Much better,” Irene said. “I think she’s pulled all the drama she can from her escapade. At least I hope so. Now she told me this morning she thinks she may be catching a cold.”

  “A cold?” Angel tensed, thinking of Juanita. “Uh, yeah. I hear there’s a lot of that going around.”

  “Really?” Irene said. “I hadn’t heard that. Kind of unusual this time of year.”

  “Yeah, well, you know. Dampness. The rain. People get caught in it. It happens.”

  “Adelle hasn’t been out in any rainstorms.”

  “Oh, good!” He turned away quickly from the odd look Irene was giving him.

  “Angel…?”

  “What?” He said it too quickly, too sharply.

  “What’s wrong with you? Do you know something about the break-in that you’re not telling me?”

  Angel felt his breath catch in his throat, and he could think of nothing to say. Just in time the gods smiled upon him. “Oh, look,” he said, “someone’s coming in the front door. A customer!”

  “We should be so lucky,” Irene said. “It’s P.J.”

  “Good morning!” he said as he entered.

  “To what turn of fortune do we owe this visit?” Irene asked. “You’re usually buried deeply in crime or a high-powered lawsuit this time of morning. Not that there’s a lot of difference from your perspective, I suspect.”

  Angel felt a sense of relief and went to the back to make the coffee. Irene and P.
J. would bicker and jab at each other for a few minutes, taking the attention off him. They did that a lot. It was some unfathomable attempt to deny the attraction they had for each other. He could hear them talking as he busied himself in the back.

  “I always appreciate a show of respect from the woman of my dreams,” P.J. said.

  Irene dismissed his comment with an “Oh, yeah, sure.”

  P.J. looked around the store for a few seconds. “You still haven’t told the police about the you-know-what?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And nothing else interesting is going on here?”

  “What do you mean?” Irene asked.

  “I take it you haven’t heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Juanita has surfaced again. Someone saw her riding in a pickup with a man who looked to be Navajo. Seems they think he dropped her off somewhere here on the plaza last night. I just wondered if you’ve seen her.”

  Angel dropped the glass coffeepot. It shattered, and water ran across the floor.

  Chapter 11

  Both Irene and P.J. ran to the back room, Irene leading the way, calling out to Angel. “Are you all right? What happened?” She stopped when she saw the water and shattered glass on the floor and Angel standing over it, looking stunned.

  “I’m fine,” Angel said. “Just clumsy I guess. Slipped out of my hand.”

  “You sure?” Irene asked. “You look…I don’t know…Disturbed, maybe.”

  “Sure, I am,” Angel said.

  “Which is it?” P.J. asked. “Disturbed or all right?”

  “Great!” Angel said. “Everything’s great.” He was on his hands and knees picking up glass shards. “Damn!” he cried when one of the shards sliced his index finger.

  “No, everything’s not great,” Irene said. “Your hands are shaking, and you’re as pale as a ghost.”

  “It’s nothing,” Angel insisted. He accepted the damp paper towel P.J. handed him and pressed it against the cut. “I guess I just didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  “Hold it until the bleeding stops,” P.J. said.

  Irene handed him a Band-Aid she’d taken from a first-aid box she kept in the back. “Put this on when the bleeding stops.”

  “Thanks,” Angel said.

  “Why didn’t you sleep well last night?” she asked. “Something troubling you?”

  “Of course not,” Angel said a little too quickly. “It was just, you know, one of those nights.”

  “Uh-huh.” Irene glanced at P.J. and back at Angel.

  “Really,” Angel said. “It’s nothing.”

  “Good!” P.J. said before Irene could make another attempt at probing Angel. “Did you by any chance hear anything about Juanita?”

  “Juanita? No! Not Juanita. Never heard a thing.”

  P.J. and Irene exchanged glances again.

  “She’s back in town,” P.J. said. “She may be in danger.”

  “No, she’s not!” Angel said. “I mean, I hope she’s not.” He was fumbling with the Band-Aid, trying to open it, and dropped it into a puddle of water beneath his feet.

  He bent to retrieve it, but Irene stopped him. “Where is she?”

  “Who?” Angel asked, looking up at her from his bent-over position.

  “Juanita.”

  “Oh, Juanita.” Angel straightened. Blood was still dripping from his finger. “I…Why do you ask?”

  “Because I think you know where she is,” Irene said.

  Angel wiped his bloody finger across the crisp white shirt he wore. “Ummm.” He sat down at the table and accepted another damp paper towel from P.J.

  “Angel?” Irene said in a tone that was part question and part warning.

  “Well, yes, I do sort of know where she is, but…” He looked at P.J. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  P.J. looked alarmed. “I’m not sure, but my advice is that you not say anything else to anyone until you do have a lawyer.”

  “She’s at my house,” Angel said.

  P.J. threw up his hands and turned away. “I told you not to say…I don’t need to be hearing any of this.” He started to leave. “It’s my duty to report whatever I hear regarding an escaped prisoner.”

  “She came to the store yesterday looking for you,” Angel said, looking at Irene. “Insisted she had to talk to you. She was in pretty bad shape. You know, upset. You had said you’d turn her over to the police, and I didn’t…well, I just didn’t think that was the thing to do because she was so sick. I thought that maybe I could fix her up with some of my grandmother’s remedies.”

  “Sick?” Irene asked. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “A cold,” Angel said. “At least that’s what I thought at first, but she coughed all night, and I’m afraid it’s pneumonia. But that’s not all. She’d been beaten, and she had a gunshot wound in her arm.”

  “Oh, my God,” P.J. said.

  “Pneumonia? Gunshot wounds?” Irene said at the same time. “We need to get her to a doctor.”

  “That’s the best thing to do,” P.J. said. “Get her to a doctor, and the police can—”

  “If she’ll go,” Angel said, interrupting him. “She insists she has to talk to Irene before she does anything.”

  “I’ll go to her now!” Irene said. “You can handle the store, can’t you, Angel?”

  “Sure,” Angel said. “But…”

  “What?” Irene asked.

  “Don’t say anything about turning Juanita over to the police when you see her,” Angel said. “I kind of promised her we wouldn’t do that.”

  “Sure you did,” P.J. said.

  “Clean up the mess, Angel,” Irene said. “I’ll take care of this.” Her own words alarmed her. She had no idea how she was going to take care of anything. No matter how legally correct it might be, it didn’t seem she could turn Juanita over to the police. Neither was she sure that no matter how medically urgent it might be, she would be able to convince Juanita to see a doctor. All she knew for certain was that she wished someone else would take the responsibility, or at least help her make a decision.

  “I’m coming with you,” P.J. said as she started to leave through the back door.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, suppressing a show of relief.

  “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” P.J. said as Irene drove the two of them to Angel’s house in the Agua Frio district of Santa Fe. “You know what can happen.”

  “Yes, I know,” Irene said. “As a lawyer you’re an officer of the court, and as an officer of the court you have certain obligations like not helping to harbor criminals. You could lose your license for doing it.”

  P.J. slumped deeper in the passenger seat but said nothing.

  “The thing is, all three of us could go to jail for this. You, me, Angel. It’s against the law for anyone, not just lawyers, to knowingly harbor criminals.”

  “Is that supposed to be comforting?” P.J. asked.

  “Just truthful. I can take you by the police station if you want.”

  “Of course I don’t want that. I may be a lawyer, but I’m a nice, compassionate guy.”

  Irene laughed. “Some would say those two are mutually exclusive.”

  “Yeah,” P.J. said without humor. “I know.”

  “I meant no offense,” Irene said. “Just trying to lighten up things a little.”

  “Let’s just get this over with,” P.J. said.

  —

  The house where Angel had grown up and where he now lived was an old one-story adobe that rambled across the lot as a result of several additions that had been attached over the years to accommodate new marriages and births in the large family. It was the traditional native New Mexican house, as unplanned as the myriad lives that had occupied it. Now, however, with all of Angel’s aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, parents, grandparents, and other ancestors either dead or living elsewhere, Angel was the only one of the Barreda clan still living there. He had confided to Irene that the only time he’d
rued his sexual orientation was when he realized he would not be likely establish the next generation.

  Irene followed a walkway shaded with piñon trees and cottonwoods to the front door of the house. The door was painted a traditional sky blue and set in brown adobe, giving the house a kinship to the land. She knocked first and called out to Juanita. “It’s me, Irene,” she said.

  She waited for several seconds, not hearing a sound from within. She knocked a second time and once again identified herself. This time the door opened no more than an inch at first, and finally wide enough that Irene could see Juanita standing in the doorway wrapped in a dark, heavy robe and wearing house slippers that were several sizes too big for her. Her face was pale and her eyes dark-circled and rheumy. There were bruises all over her face.

  “Irene! Come in, please,” she said in a voice hoarse from coughing. Her eyes grew wide with alarm when she saw P.J. standing behind Irene.

  “It’s okay. Mr. Bailey is a friend,” Irene said.

  “Bailey?” Juanita said. “P. J. Bailey?”

  P.J. nodded.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve heard of you. They say you are a good man.”

  “Good to know at least somebody thinks so,” P.J. said.

  Juanita’s response was a deep, rattling cough.

  “What happened to you?” Irene asked. “Someone hurt you, didn’t they?”

  Juanita turned her face away without answering except for another cough.

  “You’re not well,” Irene said. “Angel thinks you should see a doctor. You may have pneumonia. And your face! Someone must have beaten you.”

  “Yes,” Juanita said. “A man. He wanted the necklace, and I think he wants Danny dead.” She coughed again, almost losing her breath.

  “We have to get you to a doctor,” Irene said.

  Juanita shook her head. “No doctor. They’ll put me in jail again as soon as I’m well enough.” She collapsed in a chair in the living room. Irene and P.J. sat on the sofa across from her.

  “I have to tell you that in spite of everything, that may be your best option,” P.J. said.

  “Impossible,” Juanita told him. “I have to help Danny. I have to find him before…”

  “Before he’s arrested?” P.J. asked. “I understand. You think you need to talk him into turning himself in, but it won’t do either one of you any good for you to keep running from the police. The consequences will ultimately be—”