Closely Akin to Murder (23 page)

“Who?” I demanded.

“How much?”

“I have about a hundred dollars. I would have had more if my purse hadn't been rifled in a certain hotel room in Acapulco.”

“Hey, I needed to leave town. Farias is a very powerful man who trampled a lot of people to get to where he is. Santiago wasn't the only guy in town who couldn't utter Farias's name without adding a string of obscenities.”

“Wasn't Farias sending him money every year?” I asked, remembering Gabriella's odd expression when I posed the question to her.

“Farias can be generous when it's in his own interest. He can also be more deadly than a scorpion.” He nervously glanced at the window as if he expected to see a leering face. “Give me the hundred dollars and
I'll tell you the identity of the third person in the car when it crashed.”

Lightning flashed, and seconds later thunder rattled the house. What could have been more befitting than a dark and stormy night?

Chico took the money and scuttled
back to the sleeping bag and the camaraderie of his minuscule companions. “I don't remember the girl's name, but she was there at Hotel Las Floritas with a saggy old actress. She stayed in the bungalow for the most part, washing and ironing her mistress's clothes or whatever. She was pretty in a somber way, with good bone structure and almond-shaped eyes. She could have had some Indian blood.”

“And on New Year's Eve, she was in the bungalow across from Oliver Pickett's,” I said to prompt him. “What did she see that the Landonwoods felt was of such significance that they wanted her to accompany them to the embassy?”

“The same person Santiago saw, I suppose. He was too scared to admit he'd seen anything or anybody, but the girl had guts. It doesn't make much of an epitaph, does it?”

“No,” I said glumly. “Are you sure Santiago never so much as dropped a hint about this person? A reference to sex or surprise that the person wasn't at a party elsewhere?”

“Even when he was drunk, he'd refuse to talk about that night. That's how deeply scared he was—and after
thirty years. When I told him about you, he turned a delicate shade of green and bolted for the can.” Chico stuffed the money in his pocket and began to roll up the sleeping bag. “Will you give me a ride to Phoenix? The bus station will be watched, so my best bet is to hop a freight train going any direction but south.”

I nodded and stood up. After he'd put the bread and peanut butter in a backpack, I pinched out the candle and we trotted through rain to the car. Once inside, his body odor was overpowering, so I switched on the air conditioner before backing onto the street.

“You don't think it's rude to leave without thanking Beatrice Pickett for her hospitality?” I asked.

“I'll send her a thank you note from Canada.”

I turned onto Old Madrid Road. “Did you meet her partner Maisie?”

“And recognize her? Yes, I knew who she was as soon as I saw her. She's held up better than some of us, but I don't think anyone from Hollywood's going to crawl across the desert to beg her to take an ingenue role.”

This reminded me of something I'd neglected to ask him. “What did Chad Warmeyer do after the Landonwoods were killed?”

“I never saw him again. He left his clothes in his hotel room, and after a few days, the owner took them. They didn't fit very well, but he didn't seem to care.”

The worst of the storm had moved eastward, and only occasional streaks of lightning took potshots at the eerie rock formations. This was likely to be the last time I could question Chico, but I was thoroughly bewildered. Margaret and Arthur Landonwood must have believed that the Mexican girl's evidence would vindicate their daughter—but how could it? Ronnie
had steadfastly maintained her guilt since the day she'd confessed.

Chico took a grimy handkerchief from his backpack and blotted his face. “Do you know where the freight yard is? The longer I hang around, the better chance Farias's goons have of finding me. God, I shouldn't have come here in the first place. I'd be a lot safer in a guerrilla camp in Guatemala.”

“They'd hardly look for you at the Tricky M Ranchettes,” I said in a matter-of-fact voice. His only reply was a snuffle. “Come on, Chico,” I continued, “Manuel is recovering from his injury and the limousine is back at the agency. Farias is not going to launch a full-scale manhunt for you. It might be wise not to go back to Acapulco anytime soon, but there's no need to worry about being tracked to the far reaches of . . . Manitoba or whatever.”

“What's the weather like in Alaska this time of year?”

“Chilly,” I said, then frowned as headlights bore down on us from the direction of Phoenix. The road was wide enough for two cars to pass, but the ditches were filled with muddy water and I had no desire to get mired on a shoulder.

Chico slithered onto the floor of the car and pulled his backpack over his head. “Don't let them take me,” he said, apparently sharing none of my reservations about whimpering in front of witnesses.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “People live out here, for pity's sake.”

“Promise you won't let them take me.”

I eased as far over as I dared and slowed to a crawl. “The only place they could take you is home with them, and I wouldn't count on any invitations for bed
and board. The people I met weren't nearly as hospitable as Beatrice.”

The approaching car stayed in the middle of the road, its headlights on high. Its driver braked until the car came to a stop, forcing me to do the same. Car doors opened on both sides and two men emerged. I couldn't make out their features, but I had no difficulty spotting the handguns they carried. They spoke to each other, nodded, and advanced on us.

It seemed I owed Chico an apology for the implication he was paranoid. It would have to wait, I decided as I jammed the car into reverse twisted around in order to see out the back windshield, and stepped on the accelerator. The car shot into the black vacuum. I couldn't estimate how far we'd come from the gate of the Tricky M; I'd been driving slowly in order to pelt Chico with final questions. Not more than a mile, I reassured myself.

“What's going on?” wailed Chico.

“I'll tell you later,” I said, straining to see the pavement in the red haze of the taillights. I increased my speed as headlights bathed the interior of the car in a glare. My neck felt as if it were wrapped with barbed wire. Chico's high-pitched keening was almost—but not quite—loud enough to drown out my litany of profanities.

I saw the railroad ties. It was no time for thoughtful decisionmaking, so I careened beneath the gate. The car pursuing us missed the turn, braked, and began to back up. I took the opportunity to turn around on the blessedly broad pavement and stomp the accelerator to the floor. I saw headlights in the rear-view mirror as I took the first corner I came to, and then the next. I hadn't explored the complexities of the
Tricky M design during my previous visits, and I was terrified I'd find myself trapped in a cul-de-sac.

“Would you be quiet!” I snapped at Chico, then sent the car skidding around yet another corner. The headlights were no longer visible, but they would be before too long. The only exit from the development was through the gate. It was possible I'd achieved the minor advantage because they stopped to let one of the men out of the car. Unfortunately, they both had lethal weapons. I had a nail file. In a showdown, Chico would be as ineffectual as a faculty advisor.

I cut off my headlights as I circled around the boundary of a cul-de-sac. There was nothing to be done about the telltale brake lights, however, except reduce my speed to avoid using the brakes. The rain that I'd been cursing provided some camouflage; our hunters would have to be within a matter of yards to spot us.

Which might give me time to find the trailer, and more specifically, the barn beyond it.

I told Chico about the men, then said, “You have two choices. You can get out of the car right now and go hide in the desert—or you can help me look for the trailer. The road to the barn's not paved, so they might not notice it in the dark. That will give us a chance to alert Beatrice and Maisie. They don't have a telephone, but they do have rifles.”

Chico sat up only far enough to peek over the dashboard. “Who were they?”

“Your friends, not mine. They both had guns and they acted as if they knew who was in this car.” I coasted around a corner and saw the trailer. “The road's behind it, right?”

“Just past it,” he said, kneeling on the seat in order to look out the back. “I don't see them.”

“Well, I don't see the road and I don't want to turn on the headlights,” I said. “You'll have to tell me how to get to the barn. I don't want to stray off the road and run over a cactus.”

He stuck out a bony finger. “Turn here and keep going in that direction. The barn's about a quarter of a mile farther. Maybe it'd be better to stop and go knock on the door.”

I looked at the road. “Here they come. I don't want to get caught outside the trailer. We'll hide the car in the barn and come back on foot.” I yelped as the car hit a puddle and chocolate-brown water blanketed the windshield, momentarily eliminating visibility (which wasn't all that good to begin with; I do not recommend driving in the desert at night without headlights). Reminding myself to keep my foot off the brake, we bounced down an incline.

“Are you sure we're on the road?” I asked in what might have been a somewhat churlish voice.

He craned his neck to look behind us. “They went by the trailer and turned. Maybe this idiotic idea of yours is working.”

We hit a particularly vicious hole. Once I'd gotten the car back under control, I said, “Idiotic? Would you prefer to walk back to the pavement and ask the nice gentlemen for a lift to the freight yard? I'd be delighted to stop and let you out.”

“There's the barn. I'll open the doors so you can pull the car inside.”

I waited while he did so, then drove into the barn and cut the engine. “Do you hear anything?” I asked him as I came to the barn door.

“All I hear is rain, and I don't see any lights. We ought to be safe for the time being.”

I'd taken my flashlight out of my purse, and now I did a cursory examination of our hideout. It had served as a storage room in its later years; there were boxes of junk, tires, machinery parts, and a pile of rusted tools.

“We'd better wait for a while,” I said, snapping off the flashlight. “If one of the men stayed at the gate, he'll know we're still somewhere in the development.” I recalled Chico's remark about rats. “I'm going to sit in the car. If you prefer to sit elsewhere, feel free to do so.”

He ignored my acerbic suggestion and climbed back in the car. “What did the men look like?”

“The lights were blinding. I saw their silhouettes and their guns.” I rubbed my neck, hoping to ease muscles that were harder than steel cables. “I don't understand how Farias could have known to send them here to find you. He'd have to know where Beatrice lived, as well as the fact that you'd met her at Las Floritas. I'm convinced she sent him a substantial amount of money after Oliver's estate was dispersed, but she wouldn't have included directions to her house.”

“He has contacts.”

“But this is absurd,” I said as I rolled down the car window and took a deep breath. The air in the barn was damp and musty, but an improvement over that emanating from the passenger seat. “There's no way those men could have known that you were at the Tricky M, but they recognized my rental car.”

Chico took the jar of peanut butter out of his backpack and stuck his finger in it. “Maybe they were your friends, after all.” He transferred a dollop of peanut butter to his mouth, noisily sucked his finger, then thrust the jar at me. “Want some?”

The combination of body odor and peanuts was too much. I got out of the car and perched on the fender,
careful to keep my feet well off the barn floor. Chico's blithe assertion could be true, I thought with a shiver. The men had seen me behind the steering wheel; they hadn't seen Chico. Either they wanted me—or they knew Chico was in the car. Both scenarios suggested that they'd been tipped off.

Tipped off by the two women in the trailer, obviously. One of them had driven by the model home, seen my car in the driveway, and continued to the nearest available telephone. But had I said anything to them to imply I'd encountered Chico in Acapulco?

“When you arrived here, did you tell Beatrice and Maisie about me?” I called.

“I may have said something about a reporter wanting to talk to people involved with Oliver Pickett's death,” he said indistinctly. “Your name may have come up.”

“Did Jorge Farias's name come up, too?”

“You sure you don't want some peanut butter? It's high in protein.”

“I want you to tell me exactly what you said to Beatrice and Maisie, Chico. If you're not forthright, you're going to find yourself tied to a cactus in plain view of the street. I'll take my chances in the desert.”

“Jeez,” he said as he got out of the car, “all you do is threaten me. At my age, I deserve a little respect.”

“Tell me,” I said wearily.

“It took three days to get here, and I'll admit I may have been worse for the wear. I walked most of the way from Phoenix to here, except for a short ride in the back of a truck filled with hogs. Bea was in the trailer. She gave me a bucket of water, bar of soap, and a towel, and told me to leave my clothes in the garbage can. While I was getting cleaned up, she went into town and
picked up some clothes at a thrift shop. Once I was presentable, she offered me food. I told her what had happened in Acapulco and how Farias was after me, then asked if she could loan me a small sum. She said it would take a couple of days to get the money together and offered to let me sleep here. You know the rest.”