Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery (7 page)

TO MY RELIEF, THE JET LANDS at the Uvalde airstrip
instead of continuing on to Anacacho, but I know Paul will be
waiting.

He gets out and leans against his car until the
engines wind down, then walks slowly toward me, not with the proud
bearing I remember, but stooped as if someone laid a whip across
his back.

My feelings for Paul I was so positive had faded,
tumble forward as tears come. “I’m sorry—so sorry.”

He gathers me to him and hugs hard.

I feel him shaking and look up.

“
They want me for questioning.” He
motions behind him. “Oh, Paul.” I crane to see a police car parked
down the road at a discreet distance.

“
I know the sheriff pretty well,
in fact I helped him get elected, but the only special favor I’m
allowed is to get you settled before...” He doesn’t
finish.

“
No warrant is out?”

“
He didn’t mention a warrant.” “Do
you have representation?”

“
I didn’t think I needed
any.”

I start to chastise him for not getting an attorney,
then realize the man is obviously in shock and not thinking
clearly.

“
Don’t worry. From what you’ve
said, this sounds like a routine interview. Let me drop off my
stuff and I’ll come with you.”

It’s a short drive to the motel on Highway 90 with
the patrol car not far behind. Paul parks in front of the fourth
cabin from the office. After pointing out an all-night café across
the highway, he unlocks the door.

The room is spare but spotless and a card on the
television touts a satellite. Luckily, I have my cell, since there
seems to be no telephone. I dump my fold-over and suitcase on the
double bed and join Paul for the trip to the municipal
building.

After we are ushered into the sheriff ’s office,
Paul introduces me.

The man grabs my hand as his electric-blues look
into mine and connect with a surprising jolt. “I’m Bill
Cotton.”

He’s wearing some sort of aftershave—a delicious
smoky scent of sandalwood.

I snatch my hand away and move to the nearest chair,
relieved that no one else seems to catch the moment.

The sheriff produces a tape recorder, mumbles
information into the microphone, and sets it before Paul.

“
Okay, Paul, if you’ll just give
us your name, address, etcetera, we’ll get you through this as
quick as possible.”

The sheriff ’s eyes grab my attention for the second
time. Angela would call them Paul Newman blue. Maybe, but the
resemblance ends there. Beneath brown wavy hair, his face is sharp
with angles: high cheekbones, a well-balanced but somewhat
patrician nose, and a square jaw. But in a pleasant contrast his
full lips turn up at the corners.

The sheriff ’s questions are relatively simple. When
did Paul see Reena last? What were the circumstances surrounding
her departure? Why did Paul wait so long to report her missing? How
many others knew of his hideaway?

He looks up from the notes he’s been taking, rivets
his eyes to mine, then finally breaks the charged silence with a
low, “And what do you do?”

My response is almost conspiratory, as if no one
else was in the room. “I’m a prosecutor for Harris County.”

He turns to Paul. “Is she the attorney of record?”
“I’m here as a friend.”

He cocks one brow. “A DA? In that case, I guess we
won’t have to watch you so close.”

“
Thanks for your vote of
confidence.” I match his stare for a few seconds, then say, “I do
have a favor to ask.”

“
Shoot.”

“
Would it be possible for me to
visit the murder site?”

“
I don’t see why not. My guys are
done up there. Can you handle a horse in rugged
terrain?”

“
No problem.” “What’s your
reason?” “Curiosity.”

He studies me for a moment then says in a slow, lazy
drawl, “Remember what happened to the cat.”

That finally gets me and I struggle to keep my voice
even. “I believe a cat has nine lives, but for the record, how do
you think Reena got up there?”

That gets his attention. “Pardon?”

“
I’m asking how Reena got there.
She didn’t ride. She was scared to death of horses.”

He turns to Paul. “That’s pretty important
information, Carpenter, why didn’t I hear it from you?”

Paul couldn’t look any worse or more guilty. “Sorry,
I guess I haven’t been thinking very straight. But Allie’s right, I
never saw Reena go near a horse.”

The sheriff adds a few sentences to his notes, then
rises. “You’re free to go for now, but don’t leave the county.”

As we start for the door, he says, “Oh, by the way,
we may have a jurisdictional problem here. I know the main house
sits in Uvalde County, but doesn’t your property spill into Kinney
and Maverick Counties?”

Paul thinks a minute. “Yes, both.”

“
Do you know which county that
lean-to is in?”

Paul nods. “I’m not sure, but I have the survey at
the ranch.” “If you can’t come up with it, we’ll dig through the
records at the courthouse.”

The sheriff is now standing next to me, notes
clasped to him. I notice the creases in his short-sleeved uniform
shirt are still crisp even after what I assume is a long day. His
arms sport a fine sheen of sun-bleached hair over smooth,
well-tanned skin. The scent of his aftershave invades my nostrils,
making me a little unsteady on my feet.

He runs his hands through his heavy crop of hair.
“I’ve been meaning to call on you about another problem, so I’ll
just ask you now. Have you noticed any unusual tire tracks on the
Maverick County side of your land?”

Paul shakes his head. “I haven’t ridden the fence
line for years. But I’m sure if something was amiss, my new hand
would have mentioned it. He’s pretty alert. Looking for
wetbacks?”

“
At first we thought so, but
instead of the usual footprints the Maverick County sheriff found
bicycle tracks leading from the river toward the
highway.”

“
Bicycles?” Paul says. “How can
those poor bastards afford a bicycle?”

“
They can’t. Someone’s supplying
them. The sheriff and his deputy picked up a few discarded bikes
along Highway Two-Seventy-Seven. Seems they’ve been modified to
carry several hundred pounds of cargo and I don’t think we’re
talking suitcases. More than likely marijuana or cocaine. I’d
appreciate it if you’d check with your hand, then give me a call.
What did you say his name was?”

“
I didn’t, but it’s Luke Hansen.
I’ll talk to him first thing in the morning.”

The sheriff turns to me. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.
Welcome to Uvalde.”

For the second time, his handshake sends a spark
through me that makes my knees go weak.

“
You, too,” is all that comes to
mind and as the words leave my mouth I curse myself for being so
inane.

Paul and I return to the all-night diner for a late
supper. Once we are seated in a cracked red vinyl booth, he orders
salads, steaks with fries, and homemade apple pie, then pours vodka
from a silver flask into the two glasses of ice the waitress has
provided.

He shoves my glass across the tired Formica, then
hunches into his shoulders. Reena’s death seems to have aged him a
good ten years. I notice he’s no longer just thin, but
hollow-cheeked, and there’s a day’s stubble on his chin. Even his
voice seems to crawl from the deeps.

“
Lord, I’m tired.”

My next question seems to pitch him into a bluer
funk. “Have you seen Susie and Del?”

He looks away. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk.
But to keep the conversation afloat, I say, “Susie delivered a
little girl the Monday after I was here in January. Her name is
Allie. After me.”

“
I didn’t know that. Or maybe I
did once, and just forgot.” He’s been staring down at his glass for
the last few minutes, so I haven’t been able to read his reactions.
He looks up. “Del’s been overseeing the ranch business. We mainly
communicate by fax. As for Susie...” He shrugs and downs his
drink.

I’m surprised Paul no longer seems to care about the
ranch as much as he once did. When we first met, he was putting in
long hours and was proud of the way he expanded the cattle business
along with drilling two more oil wells.

“
Who’s handling your oil
properties?”

Before Paul can answer, from behind us a loud voice
underlined by a steel-tipped staccato says, “Paul Carpenter. I’ve
been looking all over town for you.”

He looks up and flushes. “Fanny.”

I look into dark brows knitted into a single line
accentuating flashing eyes.

In one ear, I hear Susie’s voice: “Paul’s been
seeing a woman for several months and he’s not trying to hide it.”
In the other: Reena’s, “Too damned bad the bank found Fanny.”

The diner falls silent as Paul slides from the
booth, grabs the woman’s arm and mutters, “Sit down.”

Her generous mouth draws into a downward curl. “This
booth is a bit too crowded for me.”

Though she struggles to break Paul’s hold, he wins
and pulls her next to him. “Allie, this is Fanny Hansen. Fanny,
this is my attorney, Alice Armington.”

I watch as she tries to collect herself, then
realize that Paul has just lied. It’s plain he’s lied to appease
her, but he has lied.

Despite her tough demeanor, Fanny is very pretty.
Her hair is almost the same brown as mine and is complimented by a
smooth olive complexion. She’s probably in her late thirties,
closer in age to Paul who is a good five years my senior. Her
sleeveless red linen dress, cut high at the neck, is chicly defined
by several twined ropes of white chalk. But what grabs me is the
major diamond weighing down her left ring finger.

“
You’re Paul’s lawyer?”

I give Paul a reproving look and say, “No, I don’t
represent Paul. I work for the Harris County District Attorney.” “A
DA?”

“
An Assistant DA with the Grand
Jury Division.” At this point I decide to go on attack. “And just
what do you do?”

She shoots back, “Real estate,” then blinks at Paul
and coos, “That’s how I met Paul.”

“
You live in Laredo?”

“
I have a condo there.” She
pauses. “But I have a place here, too. Two to three months now,
isn’t that right, darling?”

I make a few mental calculations and realize Paul
must have set her up in February. So much for his declaration of
undying love.

Paul’s misery grows exponentially at every word
Fanny utters. He’s been caught and can’t escape. He excuses
himself, leaving us to stare stonily at each other until he
reappears.

When he does, a wide smile has replaced his former
dejection. He settles next to Fanny, gives her a nudge, then turns
on the charm and tells a few slightly risqué stories. When the food
arrives, Fanny orders a Lone Star beer, then amuses herself by
snitching fries off Paul’s plate and begging in baby-talk for bites
of steak from his fork. I notice he hardly touches his food, but
ring it up to Fanny’s cloying ministrations.

Her act is so nauseating, I plead exhaustion, shake
Fanny’s hand while repeating all the polite phrases my mother
taught me, then shove my apple pie toward her and say in my best
French, “Bon appétit.”

Paul, who has abandoned his bewildered fiancée to
walk me across the highway to the motel, is standing much too
close. “May I come in?” he whispers.

The ring on Fanny’s finger has shaken me terribly.
“Is that your ring?”

“
Does it matter?”

“
You conveniently forgot to
mention this woman.”

“
Fanny isn’t... I knew I’d lose
you if I told you about Fanny, and... I can’t face the future
without you.”

“
There is no future.”

“
There has to be. After you left,
I called you every day. When you didn’t answer...”

“
I couldn’t. Not after Susie told
me you’d been seeing someone. And when Reena told me Fanny was to
be the next Mrs. Carpenter, what was I supposed to
think?”

“
It’s business. Believe me, this
woman means nothing to me. I can’t tell you why right now, but...”
His voice trails to silence.

I recover my wits enough to step away. “My job is to
help you find out who murdered Reena. Can’t you act just a little
sorry that she’s dead? If you don’t muster up at least a small
dollop of grief, you could be in real trouble.”

“
I’m already in more trouble than
you know.” His concern dissolves to a hopeful smile. “How about
breakfast at eight? Then I’ll take you to Susie’s.”

I don’t sleep well in strange beds. That fact and
the muted whump every time the air conditioner compressor engages
means there is no hope for any sort of continuous slumber. I try
counting sheep, but there are too many unanswered questions
surrounding Reena’s death, compounded by the glaring truth that I
still harbor more than a few unresolved feelings for Paul.

PAUL IS STANDING AT MY DOOR a little before eight
the next morning dressed in freshly pressed jeans and gleaming
boots, looking a lot jauntier than he did the night before. I feel
a small push of jealousy, knowing that he and Fanny probably ended
the evening together in bed.

I slide past him into the already warm day. “It’s
going to be a hot one and I forgot to bring a hat.”

“
Don’t worry, we can stop by the
house. Reena had at least a hundred. Hey, wait for me.” Paul
catches up, grabs my arm. “What’s your hurry?”