Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis

by Maria Grazia Swan

  “Fiat?” He had recognized my number. His voice gave me goosebumps up and down my spine.

  “Uh, yes... uh, can you please not get Uber? Please? Because, uh, because I’m here.” I spit it out in one breath and waited.

  “You are—here—where?” Even in my state of idiocy I could tell Tristan was walking as he spoke.

  “Um, right now I’m idling at the cell phone waiting lot by Terminal 4, but in five or ten minutes I will be parking at the curb of the American Airlines arrivals, north side of the terminal, you know, by luggage? I’ll be waiting for you.” I swallowed, held my breath, praying he couldn’t hear the throbbing of my heart in my throat.

  “Fiat?” Ouch, was he mad at me? “Fiat, you... I... girl, what am I going to do with you?” His voice caught, the tenderness palpable. He wasn’t mad which made me feel shakier and truth be told—vulnerable. Could I trust my voice?

  Breathe, Monica, breathe.

  “Okay then, remember, north side.” More swallowing. “See you soon.” Why did I hang up on him? Because I was scared, scared of what I really wanted more than anything in the world. To be with him.

  Tonight, the next day, forever.

  I put the car in drive and headed toward Arrivals.

  Four lanes, all one-way only, were the access route to the ground-level arrivals. The place was depressing in daytime with so little natural light, the cacophony of idling engines, and landing planes. It was downright spooky at night. Only advantage, few cars and even fewer people hanging around the exit doors waiting for their rides. I found an easy parking spot right by door number three. I would wait fifteen minutes, and then let Tristan know where I was. The closer we got to the now inevitable meet time, the more my stomach churned independent of the hollow red indentation left by the waistband rivet button. Ouch. I kept my eyes bouncing back and forth from the clock on the car console to door number three.

  Travelers with tired faces and sleepy eyes came through the magic door dragging their luggage, but not Tristan.

  Then my cell chimed. “Fiat, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” He sounded stressed, ticked off, all of that. “My luggage didn’t make it, I guess not enough time between flights. I must fill out some paperwork. I hate the idea of you out there waiting. Would you like to come in?”

  Come in? Nooo.

  I cleared my throat. “Don’t stress yourself about it. I’m in a well-lit spot and have a soft throw to keep me comfy. Go ahead; do your thing. I’m smack in front of door number three. Sorry, it sounds like a line from The Price is Right.”

  He chuckled. “Well, I can’t wait to see what surprise door number three holds.” He paused. “Thank you for being so sweet and so patient. I’ll be out quickly. Don’t leave me.” The last part was an obvious attempt at making me smile.

  Leave him? As if.

  By now many of the waiting vehicles had collected their live cargos and left. It felt odd, middle of the night, middle of the week. Not much going on. Still I waited and waited. One good outcome was the fact that my sense of fear/anxiety about what would come next had shifted from extreme to mild. Unfortunately, the snare around my waist had now turned into an itchy nightmare.

  All that was forgotten when through door number three walked the love of my life, Tristan Dumont, looking good enough to deserve his very own cover as People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. He wore black clothing, everything black, as black as his hair now barely clearing his shoulders. Even the large briefcase he carried was black.

  I couldn’t contain myself, kicked off the throw, opened the driver’s door, and rushed his way without even locking the car. He saw me, and his smile told me all I wanted to know.

  I quickened my pace. Then I heard, “Tristan.” A loud, really loud female voice calling his name.

  We both stopped about ten feet apart, looking at each other and then looking for the owner of the voice. People around us seemed to disappear as I noticed her coming from behind him, probably from another door? She looked like—an Eskimo. Okay, the television version of an Eskimo, as I’ve never been to Alaska or other cold places where they live. It was the icky green parka with fur around the hood and knee boots also with fur that gave her the look. She moved slowly, pulling a large suitcase on wheels, her eyes on Tristan. How the hell did she recognize him from the back and so far away?

  He had now followed my stare and turned his head to see.

  The woman waved, quickened her pace, and something about her gesture stirred memories in my head. Oh, God, it was her—the redhead, Smith. Yes, her last name was Smith, J. S. Smith, or Silly Jess as Tristan had called her. She had left town after the uproar of that famous psychic found face-down in the canal with a bra knotted around her neck. Now I remembered.

  “Tristan, I thought it was you by the luggage carousel, you were leaving as I came down the escalator.” All smiles and giggly voice, “Didn’t expect to find you still hanging around Arizona.”

  Unless I had suddenly become invisible, by now she must have recognized me.

  She had, and her smile froze. She quickly readjusted her attitude and nodded at me. “Monica, how nice to see you.”

  Was she aware I was there to meet Tristan and not just to tour Sky Harbor by night?

  For the longest twenty seconds no one spoke. Considering all the mean things she wrote about Tristan and his family when she still made a living as a gossip columnist, his silence didn’t surprise me. Then she let go of the suitcase strap and rubbed the palm of her hand. Even from where I stood I could see the bright red marks. She kept rubbing. Must have been as painful as the noose circling my waist.

  “Hi, Jessica,” I said. “Are you moving back to Phoenix?”

  “Yes, flew in from Chicago,” she said to Tristan. “I have a job, thanks to our old friend Alexander. Remember him?”

  “From U of A?” he asked, finally acknowledging her presence.

  Jessie nodded enthusiastically as Tristan’s weariness began to show. He turned to me and took my hand, pulling me closer, and with that I felt validated.

  “Monica was kind enough to pick me up.” His eyes squarely on Jessie’s face. Not a single word of encouragement to a friendlier conversation. Simply polite. I realized I had been standing there with my mouth open, as I tend to do when I find myself in an awkward situation, and this was as awkward as any. But I hung on to Tristan’s hand.

  “Oh.” Her voice had lost the cheer, and she shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “I had hoped to hitch a ride to the place I’m staying, it’s close to P.V. Mall, an Airbnb,” she added.

  Tristan didn’t say a word, didn’t squeeze my hand. I knew it was my call. So like the fool I am, I offered a ride to the hand with the red, swollen palm. It was the right thing to do.

  Thankfully, Tristan took charge, and with Jessie in the back seat, next to her humungous suitcase, he sat himself in the passenger seat next to me and winked when our eyes met for a moment.

  “Don’t you have any luggage?” Jessie asked.

  “Unfortunately, it will be arriving with the next flight.” He shrugged, “The airline delivers, not a big deal.”

  “I’m taking the 51 north,” I said.

  That way we wouldn’t drive by Tristan’s house before getting to where I assumed the Airbnb was. A year ago some Italians friends stayed in a cute one-bedroom by the mall. They’d told me that complex was listed in many Airbnb brochures. Then again, I could be wrong.

  “What’s Alexander doing these days?” Tristan asked. “Alexander was a student at the University of Arizona when we were there,” he said to me.

  I nodded.

  “He’s married. I don’t know his partner, but he’s the one hiring me,” Jessie said.

  Did she say he’s married to a he? Interesting. I liked gay men in general, they seemed to always do things better, like better clothes, better cars. I kept that to myself since I had never heard of Alexander before.

  The short trip was pure torture, the forced conversation, the long silences. Finally
she told me to get off on Cactus Road and head east. Perfect, it sounded like her Airbnb was indeed in that familiar complex. Fifteen minutes later Tristan helped Jessie carry the suitcase to the second floor. He rushed back to the car the minute she was safely inside.

  Alone at last. Let my panic attack begin.

  I stopped at the light on the corner of Cactus and Tatum. It was mostly out of habit as there wasn’t a car around and right turns on red lights are legal in Arizona. The truth was that all I could think about was being alone with Tristan, and the anxiety grew in my chest by leaps and bounds. I couldn’t even look at him; what was wrong with me? I didn’t feel that terrified on my wedding night. Ok, well, I was already pregnant when I got married, so that wasn’t a fair comparison.

  And I felt his fingertips on my neck. Just there, under my hair, back of my right earlobe. I grasped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles must have turned white. The amber glow from the dashboard bathed our faces in a surreal radiance and mingled with the precocious, barely there sunrise stretching in the east.

  The brief drive to Tristan’s house was filled with sexual tension fueled by a sense of anticipation. When we reached the gate, he pulled a key ring and the remote from his briefcase. I hesitated, never having driven to the top of the driveway before. Did he sense my hesitation? He stroked my arm, his eyes on the front door.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said matter-of-factly.

  And I finally smiled and let the stress slide off me like whipped cream on a chocolate sundae.

  We walked to the front door, and a motion sensor light came on as we approached. Tristan kept his arm around my waist, unlocked the door, and whispered, “Watch the step. I need to turn off the alarm.”

  I waited.

  “Well, what do you know?” I could hear him from the other side of the wall separating the foyer from a small guest closet. “The alarm is already off. Maybe they forgot to reset it after you checked the mail.”

  A picture of Angelique’s silver Escalade flashed through my mind’s eye.

  “I didn’t tell anyone aside from you I was arriving tonight,” he said.

  I waited, the front door still open, letting a slice of light bounce off the foyer floor.

  Then Tristan was by my side, his arms around me. I sensed him kicking the massive front door closed while lifting me slightly off the floor and walking me toward the den. His lips teased my neck, my cheek. The warmth of his body against mine set my soul on fire. I wouldn’t have cared if Angelique walked in on us.

  A sense of urgency rushed through me—he already had my heart; I wanted him to have my body. He tightened his embrace, and his lips searched for mine in the magic of the dark house. We stood, kissing. My back pressed against something, he lifted me slightly and the light came on. I had my back on the light switch?

  Suddenly he froze. No, don’t stop. He moved me to the side until now my feet rested on the floor. And he stepped away from me. Why? What did I do wrong?

  Then I saw the body on the floor of the den.

  A woman’s body, curled up, one arm bent over her head as if attempting to shield herself from harm. The clothing she wore was a non-descript gray.

  “Is she?” I couldn’t say dead, I just couldn’t.

  Tristan nodded. He had yet to look at me. He set himself between me and the body as if to keep me from seeing the poor woman. How could I not see her or the large, dark spot her head rested in? “Do you know her?”

  A shrug, he shook his head. No, he didn’t know her.

  All his attention was suddenly, intensely focused on me, his amber eyes mere slits. “Fiat, you need to get out of here. Now.”

  “Me? Why? I...”

  “Imagine what it would look like to the outside world. I don’t want you to get dragged into whatever this is. Please.” His voice calm yet determined.

  “Let me open the door for you; don’t touch anything. Get in the car, and drive home. You picked me up at the airport and gave me a lift home. Period. You never came in the house.” He checked his watch. “Jessica will make a perfect witness. Do me a favor; stop by an all-night drive-through and get yourself a soda or something, so we’ll have proof you went home and... Fiat” —Oh, the tenderness in his voice— “you know I’m trying to protect you.” He paused. His eyes found mine, held, then a whisper. “Sweetie, please go. I need to call the police. And don’t call my cell. I’ll contact you.” Such concern and determination in that face I so loved.

  I was too stunned to talk or react in any way. He practically dragged me away, but I had to look back. I couldn’t resist—the dark spot had to be blood. And next to the body, a woman’s purse, open, the contents spilled out. A black, worn purse with a tarnished silver clasp.

  EIGHT

  IT HAD TO be her. The strange woman who rang the doorbell when I went to pick up Angelique’s mail, the one who wanted to talk to Tristan about his father. How did she get into the house? Or better yet who let her in?

  I walked into my safe little home still holding the pint of milk I purchased at the all-night Quick Mart around the corner. I bet they didn’t get many requests for milk at five am. Then again how would I know? I didn’t often wander around at five a.m.

  My great idea of surprising Tristan had turned into a nightmare. My brain searched for some sort of logic. Who was that woman? Whatever fueled her need to talk to Tristan had cost her life. It couldn’t be an accident; someone had to let her in the house. Who?

  I should have told Tristan the dead woman was the person who’d come to the door asking to speak to him. But everything happened so fast. I went to the airport full of romantic fantasies, sweet nothings whispered in the dark, a night of passion?

  On cue, the old Catholic guilt kicked in. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife. Or husband in my case. The church said nothing about a marriage that wasn’t a marriage. Damn, I brought this on myself. This what? Enough already.

  The milk went in the refrigerator, and I headed for the bedroom to rid myself of the jeans from hell, shedding my clothes as I walked. Maybe we wouldn’t have had sex anyhow. We did kiss, but that was all. I saw myself on the mirrored doors of my bedroom closet—the new black push-up bra with matching panties cut low enough to show my pierced navel. No sex, heh? Hypocrite.

  My suspicions regarding the identity of the poor soul on the floor still messed with my head. I shouldn’t have listened to Tristan and left. He also told me not to call. I would have to wait until the noon news to find out what really happened? Damn.

  I filled the bathtub and sat in it, my cell phone close by just in case. Should I call Brenda? By now it was past six a.m. Call and say what?

  Ironically, I ended up warming the just-bought milk in the microwave and drinking it all up. Got into my flannel nightie, and against all odds, I fell asleep.

  The cell awoke me at eight forty-five a.m. Kassandra’s voice thundered in my ear.

  “Did you hear about the murder?”

  “Kassandra, please, I have a splitting headache. What are you talking about?” said my lips, while my heart sank.

  “At the Dumonts’ residence. Turn on your TV. Were you sleeping? The spokesperson for the Phoenix PD said the death appeared suspicious. That’s code for murder.” Her voice was downright shrill, like she was reporting some entertaining circus act directly from Vegas. “They showed a wide shot of the Dumonts’ place. You think they used a drone? Media everywhere. This has to be good. You think he finally snapped and killed her? I’m sure it’s the wife. They said an older woman.”

  I couldn’t talk, I’d hyperventilate.

  Shut up, Monica, remember Tristan’s forewarning: “Imagine what it would look like to the outside world. I don’t want you to get dragged into whatever this is.”

  He was so right. A surge of love and gratitude toward him overwhelmed me. I couldn’t find my voice.

  “Hey, girlfriend, am I boring you to death?” Kassandra pounded on me with her sick sense of humor. “So I’m thinking we order
carry-out for lunch, we’ll hole up in the kitchen and watch the news as it happens on Scott’s large new tablet. What do you say? You in?”

  “Kassandra, honestly, are you trying to get us fired? The Dumonts are Sunny’s good friends. Remember her? Sunny Novak, our broker and boss?”

  “Oh, cool it, she won’t be in until the afternoon. She’s in a meeting with Kay, Dale Wolf, his associates, and a band of lawyers. Come on, it’ll be fun, you can be like a newscaster and tell us who the people are and all that.”

  “What people? What makes you assume I know people that you don’t?” This wasn’t fun; this was sick. Did Kassandra know something I didn’t?

  “You’re such a party-pooper. You sold them the house, and you were at their housewarming party when that guy... what was his name? You know, Sunny’s old boyfriend who died. Wait, seems to me like that Dumont house is bad luck. That’s two dead people in what? A year?”

  It wasn’t even ten a.m., and I was already exhausted. I cleared my throat. “I did not sell them the house. Sunny did. I only did the paperwork because that was my job. When that unfortunate man died, I was working the event as B&B Catering’s assistant. Okay? I’ll get ready and come in but forget the hiding in the kitchen part. If you’re bored, check your tarot cards. They may tell you more secrets than Scott’s new tablet.” I shut my cell. Why was I so angry at Kassandra? She was just being herself. Every word she said made sense. Could it be the truth that hurt and infuriated me? Enough. I had to do something. What?

  While waiting for the much-needed coffee to brew, I called Brenda down at the ranch.

  “Monica? You okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I retorted as if she had asked me if I was responsible for the dead body on the Dumonts’ floor. Breathe, Monica, breathe. “Sorry, Brenda, didn’t mean to jump at you. Kassandra just called me, and...”