Hold of the Bone

by Baxter Clare Trautman

  “Okay. Drive safe. I’d rather see you later than in a coffin.”

  Frank frowns; another great visual. She finds the highway and locks the cruise control onto eighty. The storm chases her all the way but doesn’t catch her.

  Chapter 22

  Frank lets herself into Caroline’s plush condo and calls hello.

  “I’m in the kitchen!”

  She finds Caroline at the stove, stirring spaghetti sauce. Frank hugs her from behind and murmurs into her ear. Caroline turns into her, laughing low and rousing a tickle of desire. Frank makes small talk to keep Caroline warm against her, so that she can caress her lips along the willing neck, circle a light, teasing tip of tongue round the curve of an ear.

  Caroline leans back, observing, “Aren’t you the amorous one?”

  “Hm.” Her lips seek Caroline’s throat for a last course, then Frank gently releases her. “How hungry are you?”

  Arching a brow, Caroline answers, “I could eat something that’s not necessarily on the menu.”

  “Me, too.” Frank tugs her through the door. “I’m ravenous.”

  They undress each other in the bedroom’s dark. Caroline’s body rarely sees the sun and it glows beneath Frank’s bronzed hands. She cups a breast, bending, and it is like taking the whole cool of the moon in her mouth. She recalls the moon galloping over the Santa Lucias.

  “On the bed,” she instructs Caroline. “Belly down.”

  Caroline complies in a languorous pose.

  Frank kneels and strokes, reaching and fondling. She kisses her lover’s pale mounts and plains, straddles an alabaster thigh as Caroline spreads to receive Frank’s palm, writhing atop it, panting, grinding hard into the bed. Burning slick against Frank’s upturned hand, they surge together, mare and rider become one, the climax of one spurring the other.

  Frank slides onto the bed and leaves an arm draped around Caroline’s silvery waist. Sharing a smile, Caroline murmurs, “That was wild. What got into you?”

  “Just felt like riding bareback.”

  Caroline laughs into her pillow. Drowsy and content, they lie, each petting the other like a companionable dog. Twining Caroline’s long hair round a finger, Frank tells her, “I’m starved.”

  “Go put the water on. I’ll be right there.”

  Frank pads naked into the kitchen. She sets a pot of water to boil, snags a handful of nuts, and wanders back to the bedroom. Caroline is sound asleep. She studies her lover for a moment, then covers her lightly with the spread. She returns to the kitchen. Too hungry to wait, Frank rips a hunk from a baguette by the stove, dunks the bread into the sauce, and devours half the loaf in huge, bloody gobbets.

  She is restless after eating, more energized than sated from the intense coupling, and she stares into the open freezer. There’s caramel gelato, her favorite, but tonight it’s not appealing. She turns off all the lights and feels her way to the bedroom. Caroline always sleeps with the drapes closed and Frank parts them to reveal a swath of sky. Clouds scull beneath a moon in repose. She wonders if the stars are shining over Celadores and the ranch, keeping the mountains company in their silent watch. Slipping in beside Caroline, Frank falls asleep in the shifting beam of moon and cloud.

  Ten minutes before the alarm goes off, Frank is fully awake. She cancels the alarm so it doesn’t wake Caroline and turns to the window, irked to find Caroline has gotten up in the night and closed the curtains. She dresses quickly, leaves a note, and lets herself out. The storm has passed without rain and the sun rises through a brown haze. If she wasn’t driving, Frank would have closed her eyes to better picture dawn at the cabin, the clear light and fresh shadows, dogs and chickens at ease in the yard, Sal rolling a cigarette.

  She gets to the station well before the rest of the squad. They trickle in while she copies her notes for Lewis.

  Braxton asks, “How’d the trip go?”

  “Okay. No signed confessions. How’s everything here?”

  She hadn’t heard from Pintar, so is surprised when he says, “Caught a hanging off Normandie, by the fish market.”

  “No shit?”

  Incredibly, Braxton blushes. “Yeah, I think it was Pintar’s first double-clutch.”

  Frank can’t hide her grin but autoerotic hangings are rare in the ’hood and she asks, “Sure that’s what it was?”

  He shows her the pictures of a tattooed young man tied off over a pile of skin mags with his junk hanging out. She looks closely at the knots. They’re loose and easily slipped if he hadn’t lost consciousness.

  “Hope it was worth it.”

  “It was damn embarrassing all around. First the kid’s sister finds him, sweet little thing, then she has to translate for the mother. Man,” he wags his head, “I’ll be happy if I never get another one of those. What a waste.”

  Frank claps him on the back as they settle in for the morning meeting. Frank gives the professional highlights of her trip, then afterwards drags a chair over to Lewis’ desk.

  “Whatcha got?” Lewis asks.

  “Seems like every time I go up there I come back with more questions than answers. Turns out Saladino had a regular habit of beating his wife. She dies from a fall—” Frank makes quote marks in the air “—and no one thinks that’s suspicious. Then Saladino disappears the day after this supposed fall.”

  “Yeah, but he couldn’t a known she was gonna die.”

  “No, but when she does, there’s a lot of upset people. The daughter, Cass, accused him of killing her and takes off after him in a hot rage, and Mary Saladino had three brothers that all threatened to kill him.”

  Lewis lifts her brows. “Oh yeah? Any of ’em still around?”

  “Nah. All dead. But see what you can dig up on a—” Frank has to sift through her notes. “—Roderick Dusi. One of the brothers. He and Saladino used to get into regular fights.” She closes her folder, continuing from memory. “Then, we got Saladino’s boss. John Mazetti. He owned the ranch. Tension between him and Saladino about how to run the place. Seems Saladino wanted to get it back, thought he could someday. Mazetti’s at a cattle auction when the wife dies—at least, that’s the story. I want to track that down. See what you can find out about cattle auctions in Merced, where they’d have done that and if they have any kinda records going back that far. Mazetti’s son says he didn’t buy anything, but he might have had to register for one of the auctions or something.”

  Frank flips a page on her notepad, smoothes it down.

  “Then we have the girls’ boyfriends. Turned out they followed them to LA.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, didn’t find ’em, though. Supposedly. I talked to both of ’em. The one, Sal’s ex, he seems on the level, but the other one’s a surly bastard. For what it’s worth, Sal assured me they’d have had nothing to do with her dad’s death. Which leaves the girls themselves.” She lifts another page.

  “You think one of ’em killed their pops?”

  “Who knows? Cass is hysterical. They go to all the trouble to drive down there to look for him, but they don’t even go to the uncle’s house where he was staying. That’s kinda weird. After the worksite, that’d be the second place I’d go. Just to see for myself. They go to all that trouble, then turn around and come home. Wouldn’t you have hung out and waited for him to turn up, either at the house or at work the next morning?”

  “I would’ve, yeah.”

  “But they didn’t. Just tucked tail and came home. From what I’m hearing about Cass Saladino, that doesn’t sound like something she’d have done.”

  “What’d the sister say about it?”

  “Says they weren’t thinking clearly.”

  Frank bends a finger for each of her next points. “She didn’t tell me about the boys following them down, she didn’t tell me her old man beat on her mom, and she didn’t tell me they had a fight the night before she died. Why’s she holding out?”

  “She afraid to say too much ’cause she knows somethin’.”


  “That’s what I’m thinking. Plus she’s still arctic about all this. Didn’t ask me one question about her old man. Not one.”

  Frank hasn’t put it into notes about why the Saladinos were allowed to stay on the ranch, and she is glad Lewis doesn’t think to ask.

  “That it?”

  “That ain’t enough?”

  Lewis grins, “Naw, I mean you done?”

  “I’m done, Sister Shaft. What you got?”

  The big cop sits back, neatly crossing her ankles up on the desk. “What’s the first thing you’d do if somebody disappeared on you?”

  Frank plays along. “Very first thing?”

  Lewis says impatiently, “After twenty-four hours.”

  “File a missing persons.”

  “Zac’ly. I done a little sleuthing. Know when they finally get around to filing one on Saladino?”

  Frank shakes her head. It’s a good question. She’s glad Lewis has thought of it, and thinks reassuringly of the retirement forms on her desk.

  “Not until almost seven years later. Like nobody’s in a rush to find this dude.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Ain’t it, though? They coulda at least been collectin’ social security or something. Life insurance maybe. Like they don’t want anybody to know he gone.”

  Writing a note to follow up on that with Sal, Frank warns, “He might have been getting paid under the table. Run a financial on this guy. See what you can find.”

  Lewis drops her feet and taps at her keyboard, asking, “You gonna go back up there?”

  “Yeah. Have to.”

  “Damn. Sorry about that, LT.”

  “Nah, don’t sweat it. It’s not that bad.”

  But Lewis is engrossed in her notes. She grunts and keeps typing. Frank wanders to her office and double checks her calendar. Meetings all morning, then ironically enough she has to teach a sexual harassment class at the Police Academy. On a hunch she swiftly types a name into her computer and scrolls through the results. Jotting an address onto a pink pad, she tears off the paper and crams it in her pocket. With luck, she can follow up when school’s out.

  Chapter 23

  Sal’s daughter lives within an easy forty minutes of the academy. Frank cruises west through sluggish late afternoon traffic. Snoop vibrates through her speakers and she slaps time on the door. The lazy autumn light falls golden, even through the smog, and Frank is almost happy. Turning off Sunset, she twists up narrow, overgrown roads that are a firefighter’s worst nightmare. She slows to read house numbers and wonders if Sal ever visits her daughter. Passing the address she wants, she backs up into a skinny driveway and climbs a small porch shrouded in fragrant, pale-blossomed vines. A woman cracks the door at her knock.

  Frank holds her badge out but is speechless. For a vertiginous moment, the separate worlds of Los Angeles and Celadores bleed together at the edges.

  “Hello,” the woman smiles.

  Frank croaks, “Cassandra Parker?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You’re the tarot lady, from the bookstore.”

  “Yep.”

  “And you’re Sal—” Frank corrects herself, “Diana Saladino’s daughter?”

  “Yeah,” she says, puzzled until she sees Frank’s badge. “Oh my God, you’re the detective Mom told me about.”

  Frank nods.

  Parker laughs. “What are the odds?”

  “Indeed.”

  Frank folds the badge away, trying to slow her ricocheting thoughts. “I guess we were never properly introduced. I’m Lieutenant Franco, LAPD.”

  “Homicide.” Parker nods. “That makes sense.”

  “Glad it does to someone. Mind if I ask a few questions?”

  “I’m so sorry. Please.”

  Parker holds the door wide. She shows Frank into a cozy living room cluttered with cowboy decor. Two mutts wag their tails and slobber on the outside of a sliding glass door.

  “I just put the kettle on for tea. Would you like some?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  Frank studies the photographs ringing the room, pictures of the same three kids at various ages, a young Parker beaming between her mother and father, one that appears to be Sal with a baby in her lap.

  Parker reappears with two mugs. “Green tea,” she says handing one to Frank. “Hope that’s okay.”

  “Great.” She tips her head to the pictures. “These your kids?”

  “Yep.”

  One of the dogs barks, but Parker silences it with a look. She makes a downward motion and both dogs sit.

  “You’re good with animals, just like your mother.”

  “One of the few things we have in common.”

  Parker settles into the couch and Frank perches on an old, leather recliner. “You don’t get along?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she answers without rancor. “We’ve just never been close. She’s not exactly the maternal type.”

  “What type is she?” Frank asks, suddenly more interested in Sal than Sal’s father.

  Parker tucks her legs beneath her—like her mother, Frank notes—and plays with a swirl of sun-streaked hair. Knowing her age, Frank guesses the sun comes from a beauty parlor, and decides this acorn has rolled a bit from its tree.

  “If Mom were a tarot card,” she reaches to the credenza behind her and flips through a deck, “she’d be this one.” Parker slaps down the picture of a red-robed man flanked by three sticks, standing on a promontory with his back to the viewer, watching three ships sailing on a golden sea. “See how alone he is? High up on his mountain? He has his staffs, they’re creative and budding, but basically he stands alone and watches the world go by.”

  “Do you think she spends a lot of time watching the world go by?”

  “No.” She slips the card back into the deck and shuffles it absently. “She’s cut herself off from it. She stays isolated on her mountain while life goes on despite her.”

  “Why do you think she does that?”

  “I think she made a decision a long time ago not to have much to do with people. I think losing her immediate family in such a short time frame pushed her into a sort of self-imposed exile. I don’t think she’s ever gotten over all that.”

  “How difficult was that for you?”

  “I get it now that I’m older, but as a kid . . .” she shrugs.

  Frank sips at her tea. “But you have dogs in common. And you’re both apparently . . . gifted.”

  Parker twists her hair and gives the ceiling a rueful smile. “Something else I hated about her when I was a kid. I just wanted a normal mother, not one the whole town whispered about.”

  “Seems like you have that in common, too.” Frank clarifies, “Having a parent that embarrassed you.”

  Parker stops twirling her hair. “Did she say that?”

  “Said it was hard having a father that drank so much. What do you remember about your grandfather, hearing about him?”

  The fortune-teller frowns and resumes twirling. “Let’s see. That he drank a lot. That he was incredibly handy. Apparently he could fix anything. That he didn’t have the best temper. I guess he used to hit my grandmother, but I hear he was good with the horses and dogs.” She smiles. “Guess we got that from him.”

  “When you say he hit your grandmother, was that a regular thing?”

  “I don’t know how regular it was, but apparently it wasn’t unusual.”

  “So he had a habit of beating her.”

  She squirmed in her seat. “I don’t know that I’d say a habit.”

  “What was his relationship like with your mother?”

  “You know, it’s funny. She never talks much about him. Never has.”

  “Is she evasive?”

  “I wouldn’t say evasive. More like uncomfortable. Like it hurts to talk about him.”

  “Even after all this time?”

  “I think so. I think it just devastated her, his lea
ving and all. Apparently now we know why, but it didn’t help then.”

  “What has she told you about your grandmother?”

  “Not much about her either, other than she was a terrific gardener, had the original green thumb. I know Mom wishes she were as good a gardener. I think she loved her a lot.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “From what I’ve been able to glean over the years, it sounds like they did a lot together—pruning, canning, sewing, baking, reading. Apparently my grandmother read to her and Aunt Cass every night. That was one thing I loved about my mother,” she adds. “She used to tell the greatest stories.” Parker eyes her shrewdly. “You should get her to tell you about the zopilote.”

  Frank steers the conversation from storytelling back to the Saladinos. “Do you think your grandmother was as close to your aunt as your mother?”

  “You know, I couldn’t say. I think Cass was more of a tomboy, less domestic. I think she spent more time tooling around with my grandfather doing ranch things.”

  “I understand there was bad blood between the Saladinos and Mazettis, yet your family was allowed to stay on. Do you know why?”

  With a warm glint, Sal’s daughter teases, “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

  Frank grins. “Oh, you might be surprised.”

  “Alright. It goes back a long way. The Saladinos were the first owners of the ranch, other than the Native Americans that used to live there. We’ve always had a relationship with that land. When we’re there, it seems to thrive. When we’re not, it fails.”

  “So it was a barren wasteland before the Saladinos got there?”

  “Not at all. Apparently it was always very productive land. Where the cabin is? That’s where one of my great-great-grandmothers was born. She was Native American, one of the last of the Esselen tribe. You know the Esalen Institute? That’s what it was named for. Anyway, she married whichever great-great-grandfather it was that settled there, and the rest is history. They say the land needs a Saladino, but what I really think it needs is that old Esselen blood.”

  “You believe that?”

  Parker chuckles. “You’re a detective. It’s hard to argue with the evidence.”