A Black Place and a White Place

by Patrice Greenwood

We waited while the boy—this insolent, adolescent boy—wept openly. The honesty of his grief, however confused it might be, made my throat tighten. Lisette was silent, the strong mother; or perhaps she had to lock all her feelings away to avoid breaking down as well. I felt so sorry for them both.

  After a minute or two, Jeremy’s sobbing subsided. Tony gave a quiet cough. “Ma’am, we should go now. Best to get it over with.”

  Lisette raised her head and shot one glare at Tony, then with one of her short sighs, nodded. She coaxed Jeremy to his feet, keeping an arm around his shoulders. He clung to her like a frightened kitten as they started toward the door.

  I collected Jeremy’s phone and earbuds, then my own phone. Tony held the door while we filed out. He locked it, and we walked up the path to the welcome center.

  I saw Tony type a surreptitious text into his phone. He slid it back into his pocket and stepped out in front of the Roans, walking a little faster, as if to hasten them on. I brought up the rear, keeping an eye on Jeremy in case he stumbled. Occasionally he let out a strangled gulp of a sob.

  The sheriffs had taken over one of the offices in the welcome center. They whisked Lisette into it as soon as we arrived, then one of them—taller, younger, and thinner than his partner—returned outside to keep an eye on the rest of us. He looked vaguely familiar, but I wasn’t about to stare at him. Rather than stand in the hall, I led Jeremy into the reception room, where there was a bench. Tony followed, keeping us in sight, and the sheriff looked in as well, then returned to the hall, standing where he could see us.

  I offered Jeremy his phone and earbuds. He grabbed them, as though frightened that he’d forgotten them. Shoving the buds in his ears, he turned on the phone and ignored me, falling still. I’d expected him to dive into a game, but it looked like he was playing music. His hands were quiet.

  And so, we waited. After a while I glanced at my phone, and realized we were not going to get to the dining hall for lunch. I stood and stepped toward Tony.

  “I’m going to grab a couple of sandwiches from the snack bar. You want something?”

  “Yeah. Anything.”

  The snack bar had a cooler with pre-made lunches—a sandwich and a bag of chips in a plastic box. Maybe a cookie hiding underneath. They looked boring. I scanned the labels to see what our choices were. They were all labeled “turkey.” I went into the trading post and asked to buy three of them, as well as three cans of soda. Returning, I offered Jeremy a box. Mechanically he opened it and started eating, gaze locked on his phone. Tony accepted a sandwich. I opened my box, but couldn’t bring myself to eat the sandwich. Instead I opened the potato chips and started nibbling them, one at a time. The sheriff watched us, making no comment.

  I had finished the chips, and Tony had eaten his sandwich, when the office door opened and Lisette came out. The sheriff immediately herded Jeremy in. Carrying his half-eaten lunch, the boy shot a frightened glance at his mother before the door closed. Lisette stood still briefly, facing the door, then went to the chair where Jeremy had been sitting. Her shades masked her eyes, but her movements were taut with tension.

  “I bought Jeremy a sandwich,” I told her. “Would you like half of mine?”

  She shook her head.

  “Coffee? A soda?”

  “No, thank you,” she said in a tiny voice.

  Her furrowed brow made me suspect she was close to tears. Her long fingers were laced together in her lap. She seemed frozen, in a way: afraid to move, or even think, lest she break down in this public place. I left, giving her space, and threw away the sandwich I couldn’t eat.

  Jeremy’s interview took less time than Lisette’s. When he emerged, he ran over to her and threw himself into her arms again. She held him, silently stroking his head.

  “Ma’am?”

  I looked up and saw the younger sheriff standing over me. He cleared his throat.

  “Would you come in, please?”

  I knew I’d be interviewed, but hadn’t expected it to be immediately. I exchanged a look with Tony, who gave a small nod as if to encourage me.

  The office was small. The door was heavy; no sound penetrated. Behind a desk piled with paperwork that was not his own, the senior sheriff sat regarding me. He was Hispanic, maybe forty, about my height and probably twice my weight. His cop stare was probably meant to intimidate, but I was used to Tony and remained unruffled.

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  I sat in one of the visitor’s chairs, a square-framed thing of wood and padded cloth, not unlike some of the chairs in our second room. Utilitarian. Inoffensive. Boring.

  The sheriff took down my name and phone number and so forth. His handwriting was slow and painstaking. Finally he looked up at me.

  “Tell me how you found the body.”

  I winced inwardly. I suppose I had found another body. At a distance, but I was the one who had noticed it. I gave him a concise description of the trail ride, and how I was riding at the back, with Tony behind me, and how I had seen the body hanging from a tree.

  “How come you’re the only one who saw it?”

  “It wasn’t in our line of sight. I was looking at the scenery and the trees, and happened to look along the arroyo as the others were climbing the bank.”

  “Did you know Wesley Roan?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “But you know Mrs. Roan.”

  “We met this weekend, in the dining hall.”

  “You just met, and started hanging out together?”

  “Women do that,” I said.

  He stared at me. I stared back.

  “She tell you anything about her husband?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “What?”

  “She said he had lots of money, and that he wanted a pretty wife.”

  The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “What else?”

  I thought back. “I think that’s all she told me about him.”

  There were a couple of things she hadn’t told me, but had confirmed when I asked. And there were things I had observed about Wesley’s behavior. But that’s not what the sheriff had asked, and his attitude was patronizing enough that I didn’t feel like being helpful. I suspected he wanted to build a case against Lisette, who must of course be a suspect. I felt certain she was innocent, and wasn’t about to offer up substantiation for his suspicion.

  “What’s your impression of Wesley Roan, based on what you saw of him?”

  “He was obnoxious.”

  “To his wife?”

  “To everyone, as far as I could tell.”

  “Did you hear him say anything obnoxious—” He stressed the word slightly, as if sarcastic about my choice of phrase. “—to his wife?”

  “I’m not sure I heard him speak to his wife at all. But pretty much everything I heard him say to anyone was rude. The man was a bully.”

  “A bully? Did he threaten people?”

  I thought a moment. “I don’t think I ever heard him make a threat. But I wasn’t around him much.”

  “What about arguments?”

  “He was in arguments whenever I saw him in the dining hall.”

  “With anyone in particular?”

  “With everyone who’d join in.” A memory tickled and I added, “There was a man in a hat with an American Flag on it that he argued especially loudly with. I think it was over football.”

  “Do you know that man’s name?”

  “No.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  I did so, pausing now and then to let the sheriff catch up with his notes. He put down the pen and looked at me.

  “Did Mr. Roan say anything obnoxious to you?”

  “To me? No. He never spoke to me at all.”

  “What did you think when you saw him hanging from a tree?”

  “I didn’t know it was him. I was too far away to tell. All I knew was that it looked like a body hanging from a tree, and I was horrified, of course.”

&n
bsp; He gave me another cop stare. I held his gaze.

  “All right,” he said finally. He pushed a business card across the desk toward me. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

  I nodded, picked up the card and glanced at it: Sheriff Enrico Romero. As I stood and started for the door, he spoke again.

  “Are you glad he’s dead?”

  I turned. “What kind of a question is that?” I asked, rather offended. “A man’s been murdered. Why would that make me glad?”

  Sheriff Romero shrugged. “You obviously didn’t like him.”

  “That doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.”

  Cop stare, then with a jerk of his head, he invited me to leave. I did so.

  I pulled the door shut rather firmly as I stepped out. The younger sheriff, who was approaching, gave me a disconcerted look, then a frown. Having had enough of sheriffs, I put my nose in the air and walked past him to the reception area, where Tony was seated alone, trying not to laugh. His eyes gleamed at me with delight as I sat beside him.

  “So, did he break one of Miss Manners’s rules?” he asked.

  I looked toward the junior sheriff, who had opened the office door. I waited until he went in and closed it before answering.

  “He was a bit offensive. He implied that I might be happy about Mr. Roan’s death.”

  Tony looked surprised. “Not too subtle.”

  “He was not subtle, no.”

  “Well, he’s old school. Traditions are pretty ingrained in Rio Arriba County.”

  I’d heard that. Not just traditions, but ancient anger could still be found in pockets in northern New Mexico. Growing up, there were rumors, warnings; don’t go up to Rio Arriba at night. I remembered a football game when the marching band had accompanied the team to Española, and the girls had been warned not to walk anywhere alone.

  “Lisette—Mrs. Roan—she left?” I asked Tony.

  “Yeah, her and the kid. He was pretty broken up.”

  I wished I had thought to give her my phone number. I wanted her to know she had at least one friend here, during this nightmare. She probably had friends at home she could call—certainly her aunt if no one else—but that wasn’t the same as being in the room with someone, looking in their eyes. I sighed.

  “So . . .” Tony said. “lunch sucked.”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Want to go find dessert?”

  I glanced toward the trading post, with its candy and snacks. “What do you have in mind? We’re going to the Abiquiu Inn tonight.”

  “I hear Bode’s has ice cream. They have a little restaurant, too.”

  “Bode’s?”

  “That convenience store up the road. Want to check it out?”

  I remembered seeing a store on the way up to the O’Keeffe house. “Sure,” I said. “Can we go to the room first? These boots are killing my feet.”

  We walked out and down the path to the Ghost House. The sky had darkened, and a few flakes of snow were drifting around on a chilly breeze. Not ice cream weather, in my opinion, but I sympathized with Tony’s desire to get away from Ghost Ranch for a while, and to eat something more interesting than the sandwiches we’d had.

  As we walked, I scanned the surroundings, hoping for a glimpse of Lisette. There were not many people out and about. The air was still, as if weighed down by the glowering clouds. I shoved my chilled hands in the pockets of my jacket. When we were skirting the Ghost House’s courtyard to get to our room, the house’s door opened and the short-haired woman stepped out. She gave us a startled look, then hurried away up the path.

  Our bedroom room was blessedly warm when we stepped in. I took off my coat, changed into my walking shoes, put on my sweater, then put the coat back on. Tony didn’t bother changing out of his cowboy boots. He must have been more comfortable in them than I ever had been, or perhaps he was still enjoying memories of being a ranch hand. That kind of tedious work was always better as a memory than as a reality.

  We went out to my car. The Roans’ SUV was still next to it, empty. I had an idea, opened my purse, found a business card, and wrote my cell number on it, with “Please call” beside it. I tucked it in the window of the driver door.

  “That’s the Roans’ car,” I said in answer to Tony’s inquiring look.

  “Ah. You know, you shouldn’t talk to them about the murder.”

  “I don’t intend to, but she’s alone here, except for her son. I just want to offer some emotional support.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We got in my car and I drove gingerly down the dirt road to the highway. The events of the morning had left me feeling rather forlorn, and the weather wasn’t helping. Gray skies made the landscape look washed out, desolate. The vibrant colors were muted. Living things were hidden or asleep, mostly. Winter indeed.

  Bode’s was just a few minutes’ drive. Several gas pumps stood outside, but when we went inside I realized it was not just a convenience store. It was much bigger than I had expected, and much better stocked: obviously a hub for the wider, more dispersed community in the Chama River valley. There were an impressive array of wines, huge stacks of cases of beer, racks of T-shirts and other clothing, and a rather intimidating shelf of “outdoor gear” including several varieties of hunting knives. There was even a decent selection of better-quality teas, albeit in teabags.

  Plenty of activity here as well; half a dozen people were shopping, and a hubbub of voices came from the tables by the lunch counter. Tony and I strolled over that way. The menu wasn’t long, but had enough variety that if I’d been a long-time guest at Ghost Ranch I would probably have come to Bode’s now and then for a change of pace. I spotted espresso drinks on the list and ordered a cappuccino, along with a fresh-baked muffin to share with Tony, who opted for regular coffee. He gallantly picked up the tab, and we tucked ourselves into the modest chairs at a tiny table for two.

  “Mm,” Tony said, after sampling his coffee. “Better than the cafeteria.”

  I sipped my cappuccino—very comforting—and sighed. “What a morning.”

  “Yeah. Gonna be rough when you go back to work.”

  I blinked. “Why?”

  “You’re gonna have to tell your people you found another body.”

  I reached across and whapped his shoulder as he chortled. “It’s not funny!”

  “Face it, babe. It’s a thing.”

  My shoulders slumped. “I’m a corpse-magnet.”

  “A what?”

  “That’s what the Bird Woman called me.”

  He laughed helplessly. “D-damn!”

  “It’s not funny,” I said, struggling not to laugh.

  Tony gave up and laughed aloud, squeezing his eyes shut.

  “Tony Aragón, stop laughing or I won’t share my muffin with you!”

  “Hey, I paid for that muffin!”

  “Well, it’s mine now.” To demonstrate possession, I picked it up and peeled off the baking paper wrapper. A whiff of spice reached me, and I tore off a chunk of the soft, moist muffin and ate it. My stomach, which had been hunkered down and uncooperative, grudgingly approved this offering.

  Tony managed to control himself, and held out his hand. I divided the muffin and gave him his share. His eyes were still laughing, but at least with his mouth full he couldn’t say anything offensive.

  “I wonder who killed him,” I said quietly.

  Tony swallowed. “Not our job.”

  “I know. I just—I’m amazed at how many possibilities there are. We first saw him yesterday morning, and I can count off half a dozen people he angered since then.”

  “More than that,” Tony said.

  “More?”

  “You didn’t watch the football game.”

  “Oh. Was he awful?”

  “Any time anyone said anything against the Texans, or in favor of the Cowboys, he was ready to pick a fight. If you even cheered for the Cowboys, he’d cuss you or call you a name.”

  “Did he do that to you?” I ask
ed in a small voice.

  “He did it to everyone. He took all the fun out of watching the game. That’s why I didn’t stick around.”

  I wrapped my hands around my warm cup and sipped. The cappuccino was just the perfect temperature now, so I took a bigger swallow. “Was his son there?”

  “Yeah. Kid was trying to watch the game, but he was obviously embarrassed by his dad’s behavior.”

  “Poor Jeremy.”

  “That kid’s gonna have problems,” Tony said.

  “He’s already got problems.”

  “One less, at least.”

  I looked up, thinking that rather a cold remark, but Tony’s face showed sympathy for the boy’s position. And what he’d said was true. I remembered the flash of glee, however short, that I had glimpsed on Jeremy’s face when his mother told him the bad news.

  What a mess.

  I glanced at my phone. No calls or texts. It was just after one o’clock, and we had an empty afternoon. We’d had a half-conceived plan of hiking again, or driving over to look at the White Place, but the weather was off-putting. Indoor activities would be preferable.

  “Maybe we could visit the museum,” I mused aloud.

  “Dinosaur bones?”

  I shrugged. “It’s something to do.”

  “Rather catch a movie.”

  “We’d have to drive to Española.”

  “They have some DVDs in the cantina, where we watched the game.”

  “Oh. But isn’t there another game on? I mean, wouldn’t people be watching something already?”

  “Maybe. Worth looking, though.”

  I conceded this, though I wasn’t terribly enthusiastic. We finished our drinks and got up.

  “I think I’ll pick up a bottle of wine,” I said.

  “That’ll pass the time.”

  I ignored this quip. In fact, I wanted to be able to offer Lisette a drink. If she didn’t get in touch, I’d take the wine home and serve it to Tony with a home-cooked meal.

  Tony wandered off while I browsed the alcoholic offerings, which included many more cases of cheap beer than bottles of fine wine. I chose a Cabernet from a local vintner I recognized—one of the better New Mexico wineries—and grabbed a corkscrew from a nearby display, then went to the checkout counter to pay for them. A wiry, grizzled little white guy was there buying a heap of canned goods.