Dead Man's Rules (31 page)

One of these days the truth will came out and I can came home. I don’t know why I am send here for something I didn’t not do. Someday everyone will know they was wrong about me.

The letter sounded as though he had been telling the truth when he said he did not commit the original crimes, but slowly the tone changed, from one of hope to one of resentment.

I hate this prison and being here. Being locked up is the worst that can happen to a man. I can’t do nothing without permission, cannot go outside when I feel like it. I don’t know why no one could tell the truth. I’ll never forgive the people who put me here. You’ll see. I’ll get them all. Expecially her.

The words chilled Cere.
Her?
Who was he talking about?

Cere did not find much new information in the letters, except Marco became an angry, bitter man. He also grew intellectually, taking classes and working on his writing. In the end he focused his anger not so much on a personal level, but at the system.

I can see why I was an easy target. Rebellious and too immature to see and recognize that I was nothing special, just another cheap hood.

History has always dealt harshly with rebels. My reasons were not even valid. My actions were a show, the vain performance of a confused adolescent.

Cere picked up the second packet and began going through it. These letters were different. They contained songs, but not folk or protest songs. One letter explained them.

I know you think I’m crazy, but I think she regrets what she did. Why would she write me that letter? I wrote this song. I had to do it in Spanish so the guards can’t read it. I can’t give it to her, but maybe you can. Type it on the old typewriter and translate. Make it nice for her and then give it to her, okay? Tell her to think of me singing it to her, just like the old days down by the pond.

These were love songs, some very touching. A few were written in Spanish. Cere fought tears as she read them. Marco had been a sensitive young man, in love with the wrong woman.

Only one letter referred to the mystery girl as writing to him, but he kept sending love songs to his sister. Had Rafe seen these? What was his take on Marco’s ill-fated romance?

Thoughts of Rafe brought a bout of physical awareness. Cere tugged absently at her lip. He always seemed to be on her mind these days. He was like Marco in a lot of ways—putting on the gruff show but she could see the sensitive side. She envied his wife whom he described so reverently. It was obvious he kept a warm place in his heart for her. Could anyone ever replace her? Cere chased away those thoughts. Someone might, but it wouldn’t—couldn’t—be her.

****

Carrying her video camera, Cere walked from one end of the downtown Rio Rojo main street to the next. She stopped on one corner to photograph the street that had once burned, noting the newer buildings. Only at one end where she could see exposed brick that was painted over with white could she tell where the old town ended and the fire stopped.

On one side block she saw a sign for the
Rio Rojo News.
She walked down the street until she was in front. The name was printed across the plate glass window in gold script and she could see Stella behind a high counter inside.

While her mind was on the Gonzales story, Cere hesitated. Since she was here, perhaps she should stop in and see if Willie had time to talk to her about Tres Padres. Rafe hadn’t provided many answers the night before. Mainly they’d flirted and verbally sparred.

Stella looked up, saw Cere and waved. “How nice of you to come by,” she said, walking around the counter as Cere entered. “Ginny told me about her afternoon with you. Quite a little handful, isn’t she?”

Cere grasped her fingers and squeezed them. “She’s fun. I’ll do it any time.”

“You looking for Rafe? Or Ginny?” She tilted her head to the side. Beyond the counter, Cere saw an open entrance that yawned into the back area, which hummed with activity. The scene was chaotic, reminiscent of
Scope
at deadline, except on a more modest scale. Several people sat at battered desks in front of computer screens frantically typing on keyboards. Their faces carried identical looks of determination and concentration.

To Cere’s surprise Rafe sat at one of the desks, tapping at a keyboard with two fingers. They moved like pistons. He was concentrating so hard on his work he didn’t notice her arrival.

“The sheriff is writing for the paper?” she asked, pausing by his desk. Hadn’t his father mentioned that Rafe had a degree in journalism?

“I help out every so often,” he acknowledged, stopping. He surprised her with a warm smile. “This becomes a family operation when help is short and there’s a deadline.”

“I won’t interfere.”

He hit a key and looked across the desk to his uncle, who was also at a keyboard, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. “There’s the story on the high school requirements, Uncle Willie. Got anything else?”

“Thanks. Hi, Cere.” Willie waved and tapped his keyboard, his face carrying the demeanor of a man with too many things on his mind. He turned to a thin-faced blonde who was toiling away at another keyboard.

“Caroline, where’s the story on the drugstore closing? All I have here is the press release from their Santa Fe office. Did you ever call the place?”

“I didn’t have time. We can use the release and follow up later.”

“I hate using straight releases,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Maybe I’ll hold it until next week.”

“Want me to do it?” Rafe asked.

Willie whirled toward them. “I need you to do the water rights story and road closures.”

Rafe snapped his fingers and sat back at his keyboard. Cere drew a deep inner breath and stepped forward.

“I can do the drug store story,” she volunteered.

Rafe drew back, dark eyes wide with surprise. “You?”

“I can write. Besides, you helped me. Gus brought by the letters so I owe you; I might as well repay your uncle.”

“You helped me too.” He gestured toward Ginny who sat in a back corner at a small, plastic desk, dark head bent over a coloring book.

“I know, but maybe we can talk later about the letters.”

He rolled his eyes and chuckled. “I should’ve known. You wouldn’t volunteer without an ulterior motive. Take the help, Willie. I want to see if she is a reporter, like her card says.”

The rebuke was issued in a teasing way, and Cere took it in that spirit. “Maybe I want to show you I can write.”

“Okay.” Willie held up a sheet of paper. “Here’s the release. Give me two inches.”

“Two inches?” She wrote in minutes. How long was a story that ran two inches?

“Newspaper talk,” Rafe said. “Just write it. We’ll let you know if it’s long enough. And try not to make it too tabloid.”

Cere tossed down her purse. “I can write, Tafoya! Prepare to be dazzled.”

Willie punched the keyboard of a nearby computer and the screen flashed to life. “I’ve got you logged on. Just click on the post button and it will come to me for the final edit and I’ll send it on to composing. Do you mind explaining to her how to use the word processing system?” he asked his nephew.

Rafe’s glance swept over her, and her heart thudded. His dark eyes smoldered as he agreed. He leaned down and she caught the tangy scent of his aftershave as he brushed across her to capture the computer mouse. Luckily she had a vague idea how to use the program. She certainly wasn’t learning from him. Her senses were too aware of the big hands maneuvering the mouse, the dark hair sprouting from the neck of his white shirt, which was open at the collar and the muscles of his biceps as he moved.

“You all set?” he asked finally, looking down at her.

Cere blinked, fearing he might notice how distracted she was, so she simply nodded. As he moved away, she settled herself at the computer and read the release. It explained the local chain drug store was one of dozens being closed in the state. Cere looked for Rafe, but he was on the phone. She turned to Willie.

“What about current prescriptions? This doesn’t say when the drug store is closing.”

Willie gave her a blank stare. “That’s why the release should be rewritten.”

Cere nodded. What a stupid question. That was why he had been looking for the re-write. She needed to get the information, and given his busy demeanor, she had to do it on her own. “Is there a phone book around here?”

“Phone book?” Willie asked, brow furrowed.

“I want to get a quote from the local manager.” She would have looked it up online, but she wasn’t certain the computer linked to the internet.

He tapped a pencil eraser on the copy. “Yes, but you don’t need to take that much time.”

“Is she causing trouble?” Rafe had the phone to his ear, but his attention focused on them.

“She’s looking for a phone book to get quotes,” Willie said.

“Don’t make up quotes if you don’t get the guy,” Rafe warned.

She started to protest, but a full smile crossed his lips, followed by a wink that set her pulse racing. Cere crumpled a piece of paper and threw it at him. “I don’t make up quotes.”

He tossed back a thin book that contained white and yellow pages. She located the number and made the phone call.

Twenty minutes later she looked over at Willie. “I’ve emailed that story to you. Anything else I can help write?”

He stopped typing, a surprised look on his face. “You got quotes and wrote the story?”

“I’m used to daily deadlines. I could run over and take a picture of the store if you want. I have a digital camera with me.”

Willie turned to his computer. “Let me look it over.” He punched a couple of keys and busied himself reading. When he looked up after reading it, she saw approval in his eyes.

“Nicely done.” He flashed a sign of approval to Rafe. “Thanks. You brought me a winner.”

Rafe’s nod warmed Cere, generating an unwelcome heat in her lower body. She glanced around, pretending to be indifferent. “Do you have a soda machine?”

“In back,” Willie said. “I’ll buy if you’ll help me with a couple of other stories.”

“Deal.”

As she walked by, Rafe brushed her arm. “Nice going. He isn’t easy to please.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Sitting back on the hard wooden chair, Cere rubbed her eyes. She was too tired to move. A glance at the clock above her told her why. The red digital numbers read one-thirty.

Rafe placed a cup of hot chocolate in front of her and leaned against the desk. Willie had left moments ago after sending the weekly edition to the printer.

“Thanks for the help,” he said. “It’s usually not this hectic, but one of the reporters quit last week and Uncle Willie is taking his time replacing him. He’s hoping my cousin, Estrella, returns from Albuquerque. She got laid off last month and hasn’t found anything. He doesn’t pay much, but she’d have a place to live.”

Cere started to comment that Estrella probably wanted to make it on her own, but stopped. Instead she gratefully sipped the warm, sweet liquid. “Maybe she knows how tough this job is. I didn’t realize a weekly newspaper could be so difficult.”

“Some weeks it is.” He turned a chair around, straddling it, arms resting on the back.

She tried not to focus on the thick forearms with their mat of dark hair. She feared he could hear her heart thudding. The large cluttered room was unnaturally silent.

“What a tough life—long hours as sheriff, taking care of Ginny, working for your uncle.”

“I don’t mind. Reporting was my first job. When I went to Los Angeles I worked the crime beat. It helped me decide to change careers. I could see how hard Carmen was working as a teacher. I wanted to be one of those directly doing something so I went into law enforcement.”

“Now you want to help this little town?”

A heavy sigh escaped him as his gaze traveled around the darkened room. “This place means a lot to me.”

She licked her lips, curious about how much he might open up. “Was your wife from here?”

“No. We met in college. We talked about coming back, but I wanted to stay in the city.”

“She must have supported that.”

He lowered his head, hesitating before giving his answer in a soft, almost cracking voice. “She’d go wherever I wanted.”

She could hear the pain and regret in his tone. Would she ever meet anyone who made her feel that way? “Your dad is pleased you’re back. I bet your uncle is too.”

“Uncle Willie was the one who urged me to leave. Mom and Dad lived in Albuquerque when I was born but Willie stayed here. He always lived for the paper.” Rafe stood and stretched, rubbing his face. “Need a lift? Didn’t you say you walked over?”

“This isn’t L.A. No need to worry about...” She stopped. She’d almost said “violence.”

Reaching for her bag she noticed the envelope with Marco’s songs. “Oh, Marco’s cousin brought me these. I don’t think you’ve seen them. Do you have time to take a quick look?”

Exhaustion sat on Rafe like a heavy cloak, but he couldn’t refuse her request. She had helped out and he owed her. She’d looked so focused as she worked. The stories might be inconsequential to her, but she gave each her full attention. Now she looked at him with a hopeful smile. He took one of the worn pages and read it. He had never seen it before. The words surprised him.

“You’re certain this is his?”

“Yes, why?”

“Frank showed me some of his stuff—all folk songs. My Spanish isn’t good, but this is a love song.”

“I know. Remember the spurned girlfriend? Apparently Marco wrote these when he was in jail and mailed them to his sister so she could type them and give them to the girl.”

The hair rose on the back of his neck. “Who was she?”

“I don’t know. I read every letter, but he never gives her name.”

Rafe was too tired to think about the meaning of the love songs. He wished Cere would simply drop this. What difference did any of it make?

She rose to stand beside him and he caught a whiff of perfume. A slow steady pounding began in his temples. She leaned close, brushing his arm as she read the page in his hand. He forced himself to ignore her creamy caramel skin.