By eleven o’clock I’d finished everything I’d brought with me and was beginning to wonder exactly how I’d fill my time in the mountains. Nothing was exactly fast-paced here. However, the cabin was still dusty so I took that up as my next cause. Located cleaning supplies in a bathroom cabinet and started giving everything the once-over. Rusty watched with ears cocked, finally getting the idea that we were staying awhile.
Dusting the bedrooms, each with simple furnishings of bed, dresser with mirror, and nightstands didn’t take long and I was working my way downstairs when the telephone rang. Startled at first, I dashed for it.
“Hi, hon. How’s everything going there?” Drake asked.
“Slow. But fine, really.”
“I’m testing the phone we have down here at the hangar,” he said. “I want to be sure I can forward the calls to the cabin phone so I don’t have to stay here all day. Can’t leave my sweetheart alone on our honeymoon.”
I grinned at the phone. “So, how do we know it’s working?”
“Just call me right back. If you get a busy signal, it worked. I’ll be home in about thirty minutes.”
I checked the phone then bustled a bit faster to finish before he arrived. My feather duster flicked over the coffee table and mantle. On either side of the fireplace were floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled to capacity with a variety of books and I found my attention diverting to them. The Romero family appeared to have very eclectic tastes in reading material—there were volumes of classic literature standing amid paperback romances and mysteries. I pulled a couple of favorite authors from the shelves and started a to-be-read pile.
The lowest shelf on the right hand side was devoted to family picture albums. I pulled one at random from its place.
The faces were completely unfamiliar to me, as I knew they would be—scenes of family picnics outside the cabin here, mostly. The little log house appeared to be well used in the summer months, when dozens of Romeros congregated here. Little girls in bright shorts and tank tops jumped rope in the driveway while the men sat on the long front porch, most of them holding cans of beer. Other shots showed the family seated at picnic tables laden with food, pretty women with fluffy hair setting bowls of corn and chile in place. Somehow, without snow on the ground, the yard looked much more spacious.
There were winter scenes too—indoor shots showing a younger Eloy and a pretty woman wearing matching ski sweaters, posed beside a decorated Christmas tree. Which reminded me that the holiday was only a week away.
I started to replace the album on the shelf and noticed that a thin photo folder had leaned into the space I was aiming for. I pulled it out and slid the thicker album into place. The folder was an old fashioned one, dark brown cardboard with a gold swirl around the perimeter and the name of a commercial photographer in Taos imprinted on it. It opened to reveal a sepia photograph of a stately couple in mid-nineteenth century clothing. The man was seated in an extremely straight chair, one hand propped on the head of an elaborate cane, the other on his left thigh with the elbow at a jaunty angle. The woman stood half behind him, her hands resting on his right shoulder. Neither showed the slightest hint of a smile. Eloy’s grandparents?
I gently reached to the edge of the photo to pull it from its sleeve, thinking there might be names or a date on the back. When I pulled it out, a flat plastic bag slipped out with it. It drifted to my lap as I turned the photo over. There was nothing written on the back. I gently picked up the plastic bag. It was nothing more than a flimsy sleeve, about six inches square, and it contained a few scraps of brownish paper that looked like torn newspaper clippings. I carried them to my computer table and opened the sleeve to let them slip out. Picking one up, I discovered that the paper was heavier than newsprint and the black scribblings on it were not in English. They looked like a Middle-Eastern language.
What on earth were they, and what were they doing so carefully hidden away in a mountain cabin in New Mexico? A chill went through the room. Despite my heavy sweatshirt, I felt the goose bumps rise on my arms.
Chapter 3
Quickly, I opened the little plastic sleeve and slipped the scraps back into it. Slipped the plastic and the photograph back into the folder just as I’d found them and put the folder back on the shelf in its original place. I rubbed my arms to chase away the chill and glanced at the thermostat on the wall. It wasn’t any colder than before, so why did I get such a strange sensation? I shook my hands out and picked up the feather duster once again, dispelling the odd feeling. It’s what I deserved for snooping through other people’s things.
I finished dusting the room quickly and decided to check the fridge for some idea of what to fix for lunch. Rusty was sitting by the front door, head cocked.
“Want outside?” I asked him.
He stood and wagged heartily. When I opened the door, though, he went to the edge of the porch and looked anxiously around the yard. He came back to me, staring up with his deep brown eyes topped by questioning eyebrows.
“Drake? Where’s Drake?” I teased.
He wagged tentatively and glanced around the yard once more.
Hmmm. I looked at my watch and realized that it had been well over an hour since Drake had called to say he’d be home in thirty minutes. The dog had a better sense of time than I did. Now what? Had he merely gotten tied up talking with Eloy? Had customers walked in? Or could he be stuck along the road in a snowbank? I called Rusty back inside, then dialed the phone to Drake’s hangar number only to get a steady busy signal, indicating that the calls were being forwarded to me at the cabin. Rats. I cursed that we hadn’t made a better plan for what to do. Winter can be dangerous in the mountains. It takes a half-second for a vehicle to slip off the road, and if he’d hit a tree he could be unconscious, and it was miles back to town, and I didn’t know if I had the keys to the old Scout here with me or if he’d taken them.
The phone rang and I spun so quickly I smacked into an end table and had to rescue a lamp before it crashed.
“Did you just try to call the hangar?” Drake’s voice came clearly over the line.
“Yes! Where are you?”
“At the hangar. Oh, gosh, hon, what time is it?”
“Nearly one. I thought you’d be here over a half-hour ago.”
“Oh, geez, I’m sorry. I did too. I really was going to walk out the door right after I called you before. Uh, something’s happened here. I’ll explain it all when I get there. I’m coming now. Maybe I’ll just bring Eloy with me, if that’s okay. He kinda needs a place to go this afternoon.” He hung up without further explanation. I stared at the dead receiver in my hand.
Wondering what was going, I returned to the kitchen where I located some cans of homestyle chicken soup and put it on the stove to heat. Set the table with places for three, and opened a package of rolls I’d bought at the bakery in town. That should take care of lunch.
The two vehicles pulled into the driveway exactly thirty minutes later and Rusty jumped up, paws on the front windowsill, when he heard the sound. He raced to the door, wagging furiously. I watched as both men parked. Drake appeared to be watching the road behind them until Eloy was safely on the front porch.
They stomped snow off their boots and shrugged out of their jackets in the mud room, while I ladled soup into bowls.
“Whew! It’s good to be back here,” Drake said, kissing me quickly.
“What’s going on with you two?” I hustled them to the table. I was suddenly starving now that I knew Drake was safe again.
We spent a few moments buttering rolls and taking test sips of the hot soup before anyone answered.
“Eloy may need your investigative services,” Drake said.
“What’s happened?”
Eloy took it from there. “I got word this morning that I’m about to be arrested.”
“What!”
“My cousin Steve is with the Taos Police Department. He found out that there’s a warrant out for me and the county sheriff’s guys are suppo
sed to come get me.”
“Whatever for?” The clean cut, athletic Eloy didn’t seem capable of anything more serious than a parking ticket.
“That’s just it, Charlie. The charge is murder.”
My mouth must have dropped open. “Well, surely your cousin will do everything he can to prove your innocence, won’t he?” I said, dropping my soup spoon into my bowl.
“That’s just the thing. This isn’t his jurisdiction—it’s county. And there’s another family high up in the sheriff’s office that wouldn’t lift a finger to help out a Romero. In fact, Ray Tenorio would love to pin something this serious on me. There’s been bad blood between the two families for ages—it goes way back.”
“But doesn’t there have to be some evidence? I mean, they can’t just arrest a person for murder because your cousin doesn’t like his brother.” I knew it sounded sarcastic, even though I didn’t mean it that way.
“I don’t know what they’ve got, Charlie. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to have killed. I want to hire you to check around and see if you can find out what it is and help find the truth before they come get me. Drake says you’re really good at that.” Eloy was ripping his bread to shreds.
I shot my husband a look and he responded with the appropriate guess-I-blew-it grin.
“Gosh, Eloy, I don’t know. I don’t know anyone here, don’t have any way of getting to records or anything.”
Rusty stood up then and nosed the front door, wagging tentatively.
“Looks like we’re just about to get some answers,” Drake ventured.
A white Blazer with bright blue sheriff’s department markings and a bar of red, blue and white strobes on top was coming up the driveway.
“I gotta hide,” Eloy shrieked. He nearly tipped over his unfinished soup as he jumped up.
“Slow down,” said Drake calmly. “That’s not gonna solve anything, and you know it. Let’s just find out what they have to say.”
Eloy sank back into his chair and held his head with his hands. “If they take me away, just don’t let my mama find out, okay?”
I wasn’t sure how we would do that, but didn’t have time to think about it as heavy boots stomped onto the porch and a fist hammered at the door. “Sheriff’s Department! Open up!”
Drake opened the door and stood with his body blocking it.
“What’s up, Sheriff?”
“You probably already know that,” the uniformed man responded. He was shorter than Drake, probably five-eight, and about fifty pounds heavier. His brown uniform jacket was unzipped and the shirt beneath it pulled strenuously at each of the five buttons. The name patch Velcroed to his jacket said TENORIO. His cocoa-colored face was jowly and a black mustache drew a thin line across his upper lip.
“Actually, I don’t know anything about this,” Drake answered. “Maybe you should explain.”
“We’re here for Eloy Romero,” Tenorio said. “I’ve got a warrant for his arrest on charges of first degree murder. This is Romero’s cabin, his truck is parked outside—I think that gives me probable cause to believe he’s here.”
“Murder?” Drake went wide-eyed. “Gosh, what happened?” he asked innocently
“We got a search warrant on Eloy’s house. Found a weapon registered to him in a closet there. Ballistics tests connect it to a murder in Albuquerque about five years ago. Nobody’s prints but his on the thing.” He stroked the tiny mustache with one finger. “C’mon Eloy,” he shouted. “Let’s get going.” Drake stepped aside to admit him.
Eloy and I rose from our chairs. His eyes were desperate as he gave me one final look. “Charlie, see if you can straighten this out. Please. I’ll find a way to pay you. I didn’t do anything.” He walked slowly to the front door.
The deputy accompanying Tenorio handed Eloy his jacket and waited while he slipped his boots on. Eloy tossed Drake the keys to his truck. “Just move it out of your way and lock it up,” he instructed.
I took Drake’s hand and squeezed tightly. We watched as the two officers cuffed Eloy and recited his rights to him before shoving him none too gently toward their vehicle. With lights strobing, they turned around and steered down the snowy driveway.
“Now what?” I asked. “Do we really want to get involved with this?”
He sighed. “Just what we needed on our honeymoon, huh. Geez, I don’t know. Maybe we can just ask a few questions. Or better yet, let’s get in touch with that cousin of his with the Taos Police and put him on the trail. He’ll know everyone here and he should certainly be better equipped to find answers than we can.”
“I agree.”
We went back to our soup, which was stone cold now. Didn’t matter—neither of us had an appetite anymore. I placed a call to the Taos Police, asking for Steve Romero, but he wasn’t in.
I turned to Drake. “How much do you know about Eloy?” I asked.
“Not much. He’s employed by the ski area in the winter, and they’ve loaned him to me as a helper this season. Usually he’s a ski instructor but he’s making more money this way.”
“What about the rest of the year?”
“He told me he works for an outfitter that raises llamas down in El Prado. In the summer he leads guided pack trips and I think he guides hunters in the fall.”
I carried our soup bowls to the sink, wondering if this seemingly harmless man could be capable of murder.
We spent the afternoon sitting around, mentioning Christmas—only a week away—now and then, but having no energy to do anything much about it. By three o’clock the cabin was completely in shadow and a gloom had settled inside as well as out. I suggested a walk outside before darkness fell completely, but remembered that I didn’t have suitable boots. We found some snowshoes on the service porch and some Christmas decorations in a box under the stairs. Tomorrow would be soon enough to make a trip into Taos to get boots. We could ask some more questions about Eloy and the charges against him. Then we might snowshoe out into the woods and cut a Christmas tree. Eventually, we might even feel like decorating it.
Drake prepared dinner that night, and we hashed and rehashed all aspects of Eloy’s case, as we knew it. But that wasn’t much and we soon felt stalemated. We each chose a book from the shelves and spent a quiet evening by the fire, escaping to fictional worlds.
The next morning we awoke to another six inches of fresh snow, so Drake bundled up and decided to learn how to plow the driveway. For a guy who lived in Hawaii until a few months ago, I have to say he’s very adaptable.
Rusty and I watched from the front windows, both of us impressed with the progress. He cleared parking spots for Eloy’s stranded pickup truck and our Jeep, then disappeared around a bend in the driveway, throwing snow off to the side. Within a few minutes he was back.
“Milady, your Jeep awaits,” he grinned. “The county road has already been plowed. They must have come along during the night. So we’re off for a big day on the town, if you’re ready.”
Taos sits in northern New Mexico’s high desert country at about seven thousand feet in elevation. The Rio Grande River runs to the west of town, cutting a treacherously deep gorge through the volcanic rock and sagebrush. Wheeler Peak, highest in New Mexico, guards the town on the east and it is in the shadow of this thirteen thousand foot giant that intrepid Ernie Blake cut the runs for the Taos Ski Valley. The slopes delight expert skiers and terrify beginners, but the sight of the mountain inspires awe in everyone.
The town itself began to the south and west of ancient Taos Pueblo, inhabited by Indian people for nearly a thousand years. The town’s old plaza was once the site of a massive pueblo uprising, when the Mexican and Indian population rebelled against the territorial government and an enraged group murdered the governor in his own home, a block away. His wife, her sister—the wife of pioneer Kit Carson—and the children of both families escaped through a hole in the adobe wall, a hole they carved with the kitchen spoons. There’s a lot of history in this little town.
Nowadays
, the plaza stores carry touristy souvenirs and very pricey art, and you’re more likely to see one of the handful of movie stars who live around the area than any real-life pioneers. The real people, those whose families have lived here for ten or twelve generations, like Eloy’s, don’t hang around the plaza much now. They’re more likely to be in the snack bar at Wal-Mart, visiting and showing off their grandkids.
Drake and I first proceeded to the county jail to find out what was happening with Eloy. Tenorio was out, luckily, and the officer on duty didn’t seem to have any particular objections to our visiting Eloy, as long as we didn’t mind sitting outside his cell to do it. The visiting room was being cleaned at the moment. He provided us with two frigid metal chairs for our comfort. Eloy perked up immediately when he saw us.
“What have you found out?” he breathed anxiously.
“Nothing yet, I’m afraid,” Drake responded.
I was glad he didn’t admit that we hadn’t tried terribly hard.
“Eloy, have your got yourself a lawyer yet?” I asked.
“I tried. I got one phone call last night. I called my sister’s husband, Mike Ortiz. Unfortunately, he was out and hasn’t called me back.”
“Have the police been more specific yet about the charges?”
“Well, like they said yesterday, they got my gun from my closet at home. It has only my prints on it, and they say it was used in a murder. I just don’t know how that could be. The gun was always on that closet shelf. I’ve owned it for years, and I don’t ever remember it being gone. I mean, I didn’t see it every single day, but wouldn’t I know if it was stolen or something?”
“I’d certainly think so,” I told him. “And besides, it doesn’t make much sense that someone would steal your gun and return it later.”
Honeymoons Can Be Murder: The Sixth Charlie Parker Mystery (The Charlie Parker Mysteries) Page 2
