Dead Man's Rules (21 page)

Cere wasn’t used to being on the asking end of questions. She countered with a question of her own. “Do you have any suspects who might have killed that old man?”

He drew back as though shocked she would ask. Sunburned, with a scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, BJ Foster looked like Huck Finn grown up, a well fed Huck Finn.

“Well, missy, not right now.”

“Rafe certainly didn’t do it.”

His wide, ruddy face lit up. “I know, but little Chico there gets too full of himself sometimes. Acts like I don’t know what I’m doing just ’cause he spent a few years in the city.”

“I see.” Cere donned a grin that she hoped showed her understanding. It wouldn’t pay to get on the police chief’s wrong side. He might be useful in answering some questions.

“My dad told me about meetin’ you.”

“I enjoyed meeting him.” Another bright smile—her reporter smile.

“Whatcha doin’ out here today with him?” He gestured toward Rafe who was walking in a large circle, talking on the phone.

“I wanted to look at the hand print. I should talk to your dad about that. He was sheriff when Marco Gonzales died?”

BJ’s pleasant smile dissipated. “My dad won’t talk about it. That boy made lots of trouble for the town.”

“What if I said he was murdered, and I could prove it?” she asked, hoping to get a reaction from him.

His response was a clenched jaw and a redder complexion. Animosity filled his clear eyes. “That opinion ain’t gonna make you popular. Everyone knows he killed himself.”

“The story in the paper seemed to suggest otherwise.”

“That writer was a damn fool. Tell me about the other night.” Exasperated, he pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket.

Cere didn’t press for more answers. She could hold her questions until later. For now, she recounted the story of getting locked into the room.

“Can you take me upstairs and show me?” BJ asked.

“You don’t want Rafe to do it? He found the box.”

His blue eyes flickered to Rafe who had finished his business and was putting away the phone and coming toward them. “Yeah, I guess.”

Cere regretted her suggestion as soon as the two men entered the Palladium. She should have gone too. If state investigators took over the case, there was no telling when she would get another look at the hand print. She waited patiently until they came out. Rafe dangled a black leather band as he approached.

“Is this yours?”

“My watch. Where was it?”

“Under the piano.”

His grim look stopped her, and she realized he held up only half of the band. There was no watch attached.

“It’s all we found. And you can’t go back in,” he said as though guessing her thoughts. “It’s now a crime scene. It may hold the key to finding Naldo’s killer. And that killer may worry you saw him. You need to be more careful.”

“Rafe, are you worried about me?” The question was accompanied by an impish grin and a flash of her bright eyes.

He fought back the warmth that surged through his blood as his gaze fell to her upturned lips. He leaned back on the hood of his patrol vehicle, kicking at pebbles in the road. He dipped his head, hoping she couldn’t see his face under the brim of his hat. “I protect all my constituents.”

The burst of laughter that erupted from her small frame only drew more heat into his blood, and he shifted uneasily, aware of an urgency spreading through his lower regions.

“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” he replied, through gritted teeth. At times he wanted to shake some sense into her. Why didn’t she realize she might be in danger? “We may be dealing with a killer here and he may have kept your watch for a reason.”

The flirtatious smile froze, and her face sobered somewhat as she lifted the broken watch strap. She slid it into a pocket without saying anything.

“Look, Cere, all I’m saying is I doubt they intend to sell it.”

“If they want to use it to threaten me again, I won’t give in.”

While she refused to be cowed by threats, and he admired that quality, she needed to stop being foolish. If only he could convince her to go back to Los Angeles before she got hurt. In the distance a car turned off the road.

“One of my deputies is coming. I’ll have him drive you to get your car. I better stay out here.”

“I can…” she began, but he crossed his arms across his chest, gave her a hard look and shook his head.

“There will be a lot going on. As a civilian, you’ll be in the way. Not to mention your mother is going to be worried when she hears about the shooting.”

She looked ready to protest further but at his comment about her mother, her eyes widened and she shrugged. With a deep sigh she turned toward the arriving car. “You’re right. She will be worried.”

He walked her to the patrol car and made the arrangements to get her back to town. As she settled onto the seat he leaned over to speak through the open window. “You need to stay out of trouble, okay?”

“I will go home, take a shower to get rid of the dust, then get a manicure and have lunch with my mother. How much trouble can I get into?”

Rafe’s rumbling chuckle sent a tremor of awareness through Cere. “Trouble finds you. See you later, Cere. I’ll call you.”

The low, intimate sound of his voice sent another shiver snaking along her spine as the car bumped over the prairie to turn around. The thought of seeing him later shimmered like a piece of promised jewelry. His concern for her was obvious, but she wasn’t certain how to feel about it. She’d always taken care of herself. Having someone else worry set off sensations she didn’t particularly like.

As they reached the main highway, her cell phone buzzed. The display showed the call came from Freeda. She tapped the talk button.

“Hi, sweetie, are you back?”

“Well, I don’t know what to do.” Freeda’s voice cracked. “I was having breakfast at a diner and I heard that he was here a couple of days ago. They don’t know where he was going or if he’ll be back. But he was here!” She sounded near tears.

“Hey, you better give it up and come back, okay?”

She sighed heavily. “I suppose. I’m out of money. My payment from that last job didn’t go into the bank today like I expected, and Daphne is heading back. Nena is going to send money, but it won’t arrive until tomorrow.”

Cere shook her head. She should have known. “Things aren’t going so well here either. I lost my watch, someone…” She stopped, unable to tell her story in front of the deputy. “I’ll tell you about it when you get back.”

She tapped the phone off and started to put it away, but it still showed coverage bars. She scrolled to the number from the note left on her car. Despite Rafe’s warning, she still wanted answers about Marco. She needed to find the person who wanted to talk to her. Rafe had given her some of the story, enough to further whet her appetite. She wanted the rest. The number rang on and on. No answer and no voice mail.

She turned to the young deputy. Rafe had introduced him as Zeb. Short and wiry with thick glasses and a pale complexion, he looked more like a banker than a law enforcement officer. Even his cowboy hat looked too big for his narrow head.

“Are you from Rio Rojo, Zeb?”

“Yep.”

“Your family’s from here?”

“We moved here twenty-five years ago when I was three. They came to live in a commune near Casitas. They didn’t like the living arrangement but they loved the area. Lots of ex-hippies live here.”

She thought of the older men in their rock T-shirts and long hair. “Is your mother an artist?”

He laughed, displaying small white teeth. “How did you guess? She runs a studio on Main Street in a brick building that was a five-and-dime until the insides burned up.”

She shivered. Was it a makeover of one of the buildings Marco might have destroyed? She’d have to check. Maybe some good things had come from Marco’s alleged reign of terror. She had Zeb point it out as they passed through town on the way to the Gonzales garage.

Len wasn’t around and a young counter man handed her a receipt and the keys to her car. “It’s around back. I guess the rental company is paying the charges,” he said.

Her mother wasn’t home yet and in a way she was pleased. Her ride with Zeb had given her a new idea. Instead of taking a shower, she grabbed her camera bag. Given the problem with the hand print her story needed other visual options—like rebuilt stores downtown and Naldo’s house. She didn’t know which stores had been rebuilt, but she could get shots of the house.

Leaving her car at home so she didn’t attract attention she walked the few blocks to the murder scene. In daylight, the property she’d originally considered shabby gave a different impression. There was no sign of violent death except for the ring of yellow crime tape strung around the driveway and through bushy shrubs to the edge of the unattached garage. Fresh green and white paint on aging wood and trim on the garage doors and the scattering of ceramic figures on the lawn demonstrated loving care. That made the yard painful to view. Rose bushes were trampled, and piles of dirt sat beside shallow holes.

Wow, were people digging up this place in search of treasure? What would they think when they found out that the money box had been found? Was it a coincidence that the box was found in the building where Marco had died?

Discovery of the box enhanced her story. The cash would provide great pictures—if she could convince Rafe to let her photograph it. The focus would remain on Marco, but the new murder provided a fresh angle to the old mystery.

She surveyed the street. Seeing no sign of anyone she slipped under the tape and into the yard. An outline for the story leaped into her head—she would open with a walking shot in the yard with its holes, talking about the search for treasure.

“But this isn’t the first time murder has visited Rio Rojo,” she murmured. The scene would shift from the colorful yard to a gloomy interior. “Thirty five years ago, a man met his doom in this room. And this is all that is left.” The camera would then zoom into a spotlight framing the hand print.

She would recite some of Marco’s story and the camera could follow the trail of blood down the wall, as she read the words he left in Spanish. “Words of love, but meant for whom?”

Cere stopped her soliloquy. Anything else here? Maybe she should check the back yard. Holes back there might be bigger since a fence blocked the view from the street. She hurried along a broken sidewalk on the side of the garage until she was sheltered by the fence in the backyard.

“You ain’t supposed to be in there.”

Cere whirled around. An elderly woman with bright alert eyes peered over the fence, a frown twisting her leathery face.

“I’ll report you to the cops.” She stood less than five feet tall with startling white hair and wrinkled skin over a bony figure. A thin hand waved a wooden cane with surprising vigor.

“I wasn’t going inside. Just looking.”

“So’s everyone else.” She pointed her cane at more holes in the yard.

Recalcitrant neighbors were Cere’s forte. She transformed into the understanding reporter, calling forth her brightest smile. “I bet it’s tough for you as a neighbor. Hi, I’m Cere Medina, Lottie’s daughter.”

“Lottie?” A frown of confusion crossed the wrinkled face.

“Her brothers are the Winslows. My Aunt Millie runs the Mane Attraction beauty shop.”

The old woman nodded, connection made. She moved closer to the fence. “You lookin’ for someone? Your mom don’t come this way. Her brothers neither.”

“I’m a reporter. Did you see anything?”

The silver head shook. “I was in bed. My grandson, Robby, found the body, you know. I guess it was pretty bloody.”

Bingo! Her heart quickened, reporter’s senses coming alert. “Is Robby home?”

“He’s at work. He’ll be home tonight. Do you want to talk to him?” The alert eyes grew even sharper.

“I might. I’m doing a story on the murders...”

“Murders?” The bent elderly woman straightened, a look of fear shading her eyes. “There are others? Like a serial killer or something? I see that on TV all the time.”

Guilt shot through Cere at the startled reaction. “Nothing current. I meant Marco Gonzales.”

“He used to live back there, you know.”

“Back where?”

The neighbor’s cane came up and pointed at the brick side building. “The garage. Used to be a little room. Naldo fixed it up for him.”

“Marco lived here at one time?” She cast a glance toward the Sanchez garage, trying to disguise her eager interest.

“After he got out of jail, his folks wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with him. No one wanted him around. His sister used to come by sometimes.”

“His sister?” This was getting better. She’d heard of cousins, but this was a closer connection. She tried not to sound too eager. “What was his sister’s name? Is she still around?”

The woman waved a leathery hand. “She died a coupla years ago. Her kids are still around, Gus, Sophie. But Linda stopped comin’ by after they had a fight. I heard ’em. She was tellin’ him to stop being a bum. He said no one would hire him. That’s why he worked the ranches and did odd jobs. Sometimes he gave speeches at the VFW Hall or at the church. Always talkin’ he was. Sometimes I could hear him in the garage, singing. He had a pretty voice. He shoulda been a singer. Even Naldo told him that.”

Her heart pounded so loud she feared the neighbor might hear. A connection between Naldo and Marco? Why didn’t anyone ask about it?
Why hadn’t Rafe asked?
The answer was simple. He had known all along
.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Cere donned her warmest smile as she approached the fence.
Damn Rafe.
He hadn’t wanted her to know about this connection, but now perhaps she had found a good source for her story. “Did you know Marco?”

“Nope. He never talked much to me, but he spent lots of time with my boy, Nick. Wanted him to go to college. Like an education was gonna do Nick any good.”

Cere held her breath, triumph rising inside her. “May I speak with Nick?”