Dead Man's Rules (18 page)

“And you still want me to go on?” she said out loud as though she could converse with the phantom from her dream.

She attempted to move with as little awkwardness as possible as she approached the kitchen. Her mother wouldn’t offer sympathy this morning.

Lottie sat at the table, blonde hair neatly in place. A mug of coffee rested in front of her and she stared straight ahead, deep in thought. She blinked at the sound of footsteps and hopped to her feet immediately.

“Good morning, sweetie. Let me get you some coffee.”

Cere dropped onto a chair at the table. “Thanks, Mom.”

“I hope you’re over this foolishness.” She poured a cup of steaming coffee and brought it to the table. “Would you like something else? Did you eat last night?”

“No, but I can make myself an omelet.”

“No, relax. You’re on vacation.”

Cere lifted the mug to her lips and sipped the fragrant liquid. Luckily some things never changed, like her mother’s strong coffee. It provided an instant jolt. She clasped her hands around her mug and frowned at her shredded nails.

Her mother bustled around the kitchen, getting eggs and cheese from the refrigerator. “What would you like to do today?”

“I need to go back to the Palladium and pick up my car.”

At the stove, her mother’s lips pressed together in disapproval. “I can take you this afternoon. I have a doctor’s appointment this morning. I should be back by one.”

Cere didn’t want to wait. “I’ll call Rafe. I might have lost my watch in his car.”

“Good idea. Tell him I’ll return his shirt after I wash it. Honestly, I can’t imagine what you were thinking last night.”

Her shoulders slumped. At times her mother could still make her feel like a recalcitrant teenager. “How did you know I was gone? I thought you were out with Mr. Foster.”

“Bradley had to run an errand, so I put dinner in and came back to see if you might change your mind or if Freeda had come back. When you were gone, I knew immediately where you were. When you didn’t come home, I called Rafe.”

“Mo-o-om, I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years. I don’t need Mr. Macho Sheriff to look after me.”

“Hmph! Look at you—all bruised and cut up. Freeda left a message to ask you about a ghost. That’s what she was talking about, wasn’t it?”

“I had a couple of bad dreams about the Palladium after you sent me that newspaper. Freeda and I went out there with Normie and Pat years ago when we came to get her.”

“They weren’t old enough to drive.”

“Rafe… took us,” she admitted. “He was at their house and told us about that ghost.”

Lottie burst into laughter and clapped her hands together. “Well, it serves him right then.” She dished up the omelet and brought it to the table. “I’m going to get dressed. Take your time with breakfast and then sit outside with the rabbits. You can check on your watch later. Why don’t we meet for lunch at the Matador?”

Cere held up her broken finger nails. “I might see if Millie’s manicurist has an opening this morning. Have you heard anything from Freeda?”

“That crazy girl. She really thinks she’s going to find Fergie this time. I shouldn’t have let her go with Daphne. I should have known she’d take off on her own.”

“Mom, she’s also old enough to take care of herself.”

Lottie wrinkled her nose. “You, I kind of trust. The only thing that might get you in trouble is chasing a story. We both know Freeda does a horrible job of taking care of herself.”

Cere laughed. “We’ll hear from her when the money from her last paycheck runs out, or her credit card gets maxed and cops pick her up for sleeping on a park bench.”

Lottie sighed and walked to the door. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Nena will never forgive me if I let harm come to her precious little girl on my watch. “

With her mother gone, Cere concentrated on the omelet. She didn’t have time to worry about Freeda. If Rafe wasn’t around she was going to head for the beauty parlor. Without her mother to hold her back, she might ask Millie and the other stylists if they knew anything about Marco. Diners and beauty shops. She had already tapped one resource. On to the next.

She was finishing breakfast when the phone rang. She felt butterflies in her stomach when she heard the deep voice on the other end of the line.

“How is Lois Lane this morning?” Rafe asked with a chuckle.

“Sore, and thanks again, Tafoya. I’m glad you called.”

“Really?”

“I have another problem—I lost my watch. Is it in your Jeep?”

“I’ll check. Or you can look for it when I pick you up.”

“Pick me up?” Her heart skipped. He wanted to see her?

“I’ve got some time this morning. I thought I’d take you to get your car. Len towed it in and when I drove by a few minutes ago I saw that he was putting on a new tire.”

The offer was nice but had a patronizing ring to it, and she disliked the excitement she felt at the idea of seeing him. “I can walk over to get it.”

He drew a deep breath. “We need to talk. I might as well tell you because you’re going to find out when you see the bill. That tire didn’t go flat. It was slashed. I noticed it last night.”

“Slashed?” Her heart skipped. “Like on a rock?”

“No, like with a knife.”

“I was right! Someone was there and you knew it all along.”

“I didn’t want to worry you last night. Since it happened on county land, I’m looking into it. Can you be ready to go in half an hour?”

“You don’t suppose it was the ghost of Marco who did that?”

“Don’t be smart. This has nothing to do with Marco. Someone was playing games, and it needs to be stopped.”

“Diaz?”

“Maybe. I called Texas this morning and gave them his plate number, so we should get some answers about him by the end of the day. If he’s still around. No one has seen him since you saw him near Naldo’s.”

Cere drew a quick breath, thinking of the gruff voice on the phone. Maybe the time had come to tell Rafe about that call.

****

Rafe tried to pretend he wasn’t fascinated by the sight of Cere’s rounded rump disappearing into the dim light through the Palladium door. He didn’t want to admit any sort of fascination with her, even though she was constantly on his mind these days. He dragged his eyes away, guilty for enjoying the view.

The drive to the Palladium should have further discouraged him. She peppered him with questions about who might want to stop her story about Marco to the point of vandalism. He had few answers for her—at least few he would give her.

Rafe let her lead the way, knowing he couldn’t stop her. He should have fixed that lock so she couldn’t get in the previous night. She turned to him.

“Something on your mind, Sheriff?”

Rafe couldn’t resist a smirk. “I was thinking about you sitting on your rump out back with all those stickers in you, then crawling out of that cactus patch.”

Her quick smile made his heart beat faster. “Are you flirting with me, Tafoya? Or do you just like the idea of me on my hands and knees? Or my aching butt?”

He didn’t know what he was doing. He felt lighthearted just being with her. In jeans, a T-shirt, and walking boots, and with her thick hair tied back, minus the red nails and theatrical make up, she didn’t resemble the city woman who had looked disdainfully around the restaurant two days ago.

She was waiting for his answer to her playful question, an inquisitive look in her eyes, a twist to her full pink lips that made his blood run warm. He turned away.

“You wish I was flirting, Medina.”

Cere laughed and dropped her gaze to the dusty floor. Thin outlines in the dust showed evidence of her earlier entrance. Her breath caught suddenly, and she pointed at the floor.

A knot twisted inside him as Rafe followed her finger. Beside her footprints were other prints in the dust. Larger. Several of them covered hers. Their eyes met. Her eyes were wide brown orbs, curious, but not frightened. Rafe felt an insane desire to touch her, but he kneeled down beside the footprints instead.

“Looks like boot prints made after you were here,” he pointed out.

“So they prove someone was here,” she said with a shudder, voice barely above a whisper.

“We don’t know it was Diaz.” He picked out the prints he had made several days ago and then found the prints he judged to belong to Diaz. “These boots look bigger. But I can’t tell. This heel is rundown at the back. See? Those over there were probably made by Diaz and those boots are new. I saw them when I was in here the other day.” He rose to his feet, slapping his hands together to get rid of the dust.

Cere turned to him, and her fingers brushed his wrist, setting off electric impulses. The touch was gone as quickly as it came.

“Please don’t tell Mom about what happened out here. I don’t want to worry her.”

“She was right. Coming out here was a bad idea.”

A look of determination came into her clear brown eyes as she stared at the prints. “Whoever it was wanted to frighten me. They could have hurt me if they wanted. I was alone, vulnerable, but they only tried to scare me. Well, I don’t scare easy.”

“That’s too bad,” he replied wryly.

She whirled around and walked into the main room. Rafe followed her, keeping an eye on the foot prints which disappeared on the dustless dance hall floor. At the top of the stairs gloominess enveloped them as she pointed out the room where she had been locked.

“Damn, I forgot my flashlight. Will you be okay while I run down to get it?”

“Fine, Sheriff,” she said with a bright smile.

He turned and hopped down the steps until the crack of wood slowed him. Perhaps he should barricade the stairs before someone fell through and sued the county. For certain he needed to put up fresh barricades on the doors.

She waited until she heard Rafe exit the building, leaving her in total stillness. The dusky smell was overwhelming, but the old building was not as frightening in the morning light.

Sun filtered in through cracks, settling on the rounded wooden railing that was dusty but looked like it could still gleam with a good coating of varnish or furniture oil. The walls were faded and yellowing, the door moldings a dirty, faded green. What had this place looked like forty years ago? Again, she could almost hear the twang of a Hank Williams song or maybe Glen Campbell or Willie Nelson.

She looked at the door where she had been. It remained closed and she tried the door. It was locked, but she saw no sign of a latch. The door’s only locking mechanism was an old skeleton keyhole. Someone would have needed a key to lock it from this side. She had felt no key on the inside so she had not locked herself in. Had she heard someone turn the key?

Her breath caught and she turned away. She’d wait until Rafe came back. Maybe he could pick the lock or knew where they could find a skeleton key.

Across the hall, another open door beckoned. Now she remembered being twelve years old, accompanied by her cousins, Freeda and Chico-Rafe leading the way. She moved toward the door, as though she was being drawn to it.

By Marco’s ghost?

No, if there was a ghost, he’d have led her in the right direction the previous night.

“Stupid,” she whispered. The ghost with the built in GPS.

She moved forward, hearing the creak of the wind on the roof, the rustling of leaves through the broken boarded up windows, the squeak of her boots on the floor boards. The building seemed to shudder, or maybe that was Rafe opening the door downstairs.

She forced herself to walk faster, palms growing damp and she wiped them against her jeans. The dark room yawned black in front of her and she pushed her way inside.

The only sound was labored breathing—hers. Dust hung thick in the air, and the room smelled musty. Light filtered in through cracks in boarded up windows. Pieces of furniture were piled around three walls, but the fourth, at the opposite end of the room was bare. A dark smudge took up one corner.

“Cere?”

The voice was Rafe’s and came from the hall.

“In here.”

“Did you find it?” he asked, standing in the doorway.

“I think so,” she said, throat parched, voice threatening to break. “Do you have your flashlight?”

The light shined on the wall.

Cere could hardly breathe as she looked at it—the hand on the wall.

Chapter Twenty

She stared at it for a minute, fighting the uneasy feeling that coiled in her stomach. The print was a dark, brownish smudge on the faded, dirty wall, though the outline was unmistakable—a palm print surrounded by four outstretched fingers and a thumb. Small dark specks and a smear below it spoke of bloody violence, though real color was long gone.

She moved closer to it, but didn’t touch it. Her initial moments of elation were followed by a blanket of disappointment.

“Damn,” she whispered, aware her voice shook slightly. She wasn’t certain if she was overcome by what she was seeing or so disappointed she wanted to fall down and cry.

“You okay?” Rafe asked, standing beside her.

“How do you suppose Riggins shot his picture?”

“What’s wrong? Afraid it won’t look good on television?” Sarcasm filled his voice.

“It’s not as obvious as I thought it would be. I had visions of this ghostly print, but this would need...” She made a face, sizing it up. “I guess I could bring in very bright lighting.”

“Or enhance it digitally,” he finished dryly.

She had been thinking just that, but she wasn’t going to let him know. She stiffened and fixed him with a cold, tight lipped frown. “Hey, Tafoya, I don’t embellish!”

Turning her attention back to the hand print, she followed the bloody trail down to the words written below. She took the flashlight from his hand and moved forward, playing the light over the smudged words.

“Todo por amour.
All for love,” she read, translating into English. “This is something. The last three words on his mind before he died.”

“Yeah, right. They say he died for love.”

She looked up at him. His gaze was fixed on the words. “Is that why they say he might have committed suicide? Because some woman spurned him?”