Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis

by Maria Grazia Swan

  “Oh, Tristan, it’s not you.” I sighed. “Actually I think it’s a great idea, sitting here all alone is getting under my skin. I miss walking Dior and having dinner with Brenda. Yes, I would love to meet this Alexander. I bet he’ll share some pretty interesting college stories.”

  Tristan laughed. “Not if I can help it. How about if I pick you up, around... I don’t know... ten o’clock? We can eat and then get into Alexander’s Jag and go down to Tucson. That way I can drive back the horse trailer and Tache. Is your Aunt Brenda still down there?”

  “She is. I’m pretty sure she mentioned something about some guy—Leo—a newcomer who I thought was supposed to drive Tache to your house. No?” Why did I say that? I knew very well Leo didn’t.

  “Oh, no, no. You know how I feel about my horse. We’ll talk tomorrow then. See you around ten or so. Hope you have a pleasant day.” He let that linger.

  I mumbled, “Huh.”

  So formal. I just knew he fully assumed someone to be monitoring our calls. Who? The cops? What for? Neither of us knew the dead woman. Although it was weird that she would be killed in Tristan’s home. By whom? A silver Escalade, screamed my subconscious mind.

  The smell of fresh coffee trumped my conscience, and I went to toast a bagel and pour some milk and sugar in my cup while counting how many hours until I’d see Tristan.

  I was spreading cream cheese on my bagel when an email showed up on my cell, the listing agent had a counter for the property on 8th Place. YES! I replied I would be at the office in thirty minutes and would take it from there. To his credit he didn’t discuss a thing, only told me my buyer had until 6 p.m. to decide. Very professional. I would be the same.

  Forty minutes later I arrived at Desert Homes Realty and parked my leased SUV next to Sunny’s Cadillac. Kassandra’s Kia wasn’t there because she had the weekend off. Too bad, oh well. I only needed to take care of Greg Coste’s contract. Fingers crossed the counteroffer was within reason.

  I opened the front door and the first thing I saw was Miss Medical Marijuana Card sitting at Kassandra’s desk. That killed a big chunk of my enthusiasm, but I managed a smile. “Good morning, I’m expecting a counter and—”

  She waved some papers in the air. “Here you go. Found it in the printer when I opened up this morning.” Well, I felt like dirt for having such a negative attitude when I saw her. My mouth was still open when I approached her desk and she handed me what she had waved and some other stuff. “Your mail,” she added matter-of-factly.

  “My... mail?”

  “Yes, why? You look like I just announced that the IRS is auditing you.” Then she laughed.

  I collected the stack of papers and headed to my desk in the very back of the office. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of watching me leaf through the junk mail as most of what the mailman delivered to the office was the equivalent of what I got at home, addressed to resident or occupant.

  Anyway, Greg Coste’s counteroffer was my priority. I needed to see what it was so I could discuss it with my buyer without sounding unprepared.

  To the weed smoker at the desk’s credit, she had the contract assembled correctly and stapled except for the last page. I checked. All signatures and initials had been completed. Then came the one-page counteroffer. Not bad, the only change request was the sale price. We had offered ninety percent of the asking price. The seller wanted five percent more. That was it. Straight shooters. It was up to me to convince my buyer that this was still a good buy.

  Then I side-glanced at the mail. I noticed a folded page of today’s The Arizona Republic’s real estate section—a colorful photo of the home on 8th Place, the same one Greg Coste wanted to buy. Damn. Not good. I read the well-written ad. It was bound to get a few interested lookers. How was that for bad timing? For the ad to run today it had to have been purchased at least two weeks prior. I had to mention that to my buyer, and now I really, really was ashamed for all the bad names I had called the front desk girl. Thank God I never said a word out loud.

  I prepared a few written notes as to not get sidetracked and then called Greg. Another surprise awaited. He had already seen the ad in the newspaper and was a little concerned. The rest was easy. Forty-five minutes later I had a signed/accepted counter, and I rushed to scan it and email it to the listing agent. Now all I needed was a confirmation from the agent and I could pack up and go home or go celebrate... or whatever.

  One thing I couldn’t do was call Tristan and tell him how I missed him.

  I was still in the room we all shared for our scanning, faxing, and printing needs when the seller’s agent called and announced we had a deal. I promised the earnest money would be delivered to the escrow company before noon on Monday, and then I rushed back to my desk to share the good news with Greg Coste. I came around the corner. Someone sat in my chair, at my desk in the bull pen, and was going through my stuff. What the hell?

  “Oh, there you are, Monica,” was Detective Liz Reid’s, A.K.A. Eve’s, smug greeting.

  I stood next to her since she occupied the only chair, and she didn’t appear in any hurry to get up and leave. “Hope you don’t mind. I have a few questions,” she said.

  “Let me guess.” Two can play the smart-ass game. “You want to know who I told about the message on the ripped card. Correct?” I looked her straight in the eyes to let her know just how annoying I found her.

  “Very good, very good.” Her fingers played a tap game on top of my piled papers. She waited. The sooner I told her, the faster she’d get out of my chair and my life, at least for now.

  “First, I told Tristan since I felt that was implied. He was in France and suggested perhaps the woman was an old friend of either Angelique or his dad. That was it. The next day I called the ranch and spoke to Brenda.”

  Liz Reid nodded. “You mean your aunt?”

  “You know she is not legally my aunt, but yes, Brenda Baker. She was busy and handed her phone over to Angelique. I gave her the same message, repeated the phone number twice, the end.”

  “You really like Tristan Dumont, don’t you?”

  Mercy me, where did that come from?

  And then I heard myself say, “What’s there not to like?”

  She chuckled, nodded. “How about Angelique Dumont?”

  “What about Angelique? She’s a nice person. Much better now than when I first met her.”

  “Oh, in what way?”

  “She wasn’t well. I remember how frail and weak she was. That’s why she had Lois Thomas, her personal assistant, always by her side. But now she’s like a new person, healthy, happy. At least she was the last time I saw her. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  Silver Escalade screamed my brain, but my lips smiled quietly. I must have given her all the right answers because she kept the same fake smile and got up quickly from my chair. She made a sort of funny bow as she moved away, her arm accidentally hit my stack of papers, and everything tumbled to the floor.

  “Shit.” It slipped from my lips. We both bent to pick up the contract pages and the spilled junk mail. We grabbed one envelope together, and I heard her “Ah!” before my eyes glanced at the source of her excitement. On the floor under my desk, plain as day, sat a white envelope with my name and the Desert Home Realty address written in a very elegant, old-fashioned cursive. I recognized the handwriting even before seeing the return address of Silvia De Aguilar.

  “Oh,” was all I could say while pulling on the letter the detective held in a solid grip. “Excuse me. This is addressed to me.” Another tug.

  The frown between her eyes seemed to take on a life of its own, and the yank she gave to the envelope made me lose my balance. I slipped backward but didn’t let go, and the envelope ripped in two. The contents fell to the floor. We looked at each other and then at the envelope that had been inside the ripped one. This one was clearly addressed to TRISTAN DUMONT in the same cursive in all capital letters. I jumped up, grabbed my phone, and started to take pics of both
envelopes as something told me that Detective Reid and her Cheshire Cat smile weren’t going to let me touch either one any time soon.

  TWELVE

  BY THE TIME I made it back to my car, lunch time had come and gone. Both Sunny and the front desk woman whose name turned out to be April, reassured me that the detective couldn’t just take my mail without some legal paperwork. It didn’t matter much, Detective Eve had taken both the ripped envelope and the sealed one and left me heartbroken, holding a piece of paper she gave me as a receipt of some sort. In a way it was stupid. I would have never opened the one addressed to Tristan anyhow, but I felt—violated.

  I drove like a maniac all the way home. Only after I was in my living room did I remember I hadn’t called Mr. Coste to tell him about the accepted contract. Oh, damn.

  Okay, first things first. I phoned my buyer, and his thanks made my day a little better. Just a little. That was the easy part, calling Tristan was a whole different story. And I was no storyteller. More like a sappy, trusting fool. Twice the poor dead woman entrusted me with her messages, and twice I let her down.

  My stomach in knots, I paced around like a robot mentally rehearsing what to say to Tristan. I hadn’t seen him since the trip at the airport. My house was so quiet it made me even more jumpy. This wasn’t fair. Why was I getting caught in the middle of stuff I had nothing to do with? If my family back home had been a little more understanding maybe I would have talked to them. Them? My mother who went to early daily mass? Who never accepted I wasn’t married in the Catholic Church and then divorced? Nah. Scrap that. My cell chimed; I grabbed it with both hands as a mini lifebuoy.

  “Yes?” God, heavy breathing, Monica? Really?

  “Monica, are you okay?”

  “Brenda. Yeah, sorry. I’m so glad you called. I need some advice.”

  “You? Asking for advice? That’s a good one. Go ahead. I can use a laugh. What’s the problem?”

  “Oh, well. Wait.” I lowered my voice. “Are you alone? It’s—confidential.”

  “For God’s sake, yes, I’m alone, and that’s my big problem. I may pack up my stuff, grab Dior, and drive back home.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I’m not sure, and that’s also a problem. I can’t get hold of Lois; my calls all go to her voicemail. Angelique is up in Phoenix, and the Lopezes are pretty upset over the missing money.”

  “Who are the Lopezes? Do I know them? What money?”

  “Yes, you know them, the older couple who used to take care of this place before Tristan bought it. He let them stay, and the old man keeps an eye on the hired help, but this morning he couldn’t pay them. He swears the money was in the account yesterday. It’s all gone this morning.”

  “Wow, no wonder you want to pack up. What’s Tristan saying?”

  “I doubt he knows what’s going on. The account and transfer of funds was set up way back when Angelique decided to move down here. I’m trying to stay out of this. I may have wasted my time, but I’m not going to waste money I don’t have feeding hungry workers. Anyhow, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “What indeed.” Suddenly my conscience wasn’t screaming guilty as loud as before. Still, I went ahead and told Brenda about the letter and the pushy detective. Just sharing with her made me feel a little better. And I told her about the Sunday plan of driving down to the ranch and picking up Tache.

  “I don’t know, Monica. I may drive back tonight, it’s pretty depressing around here. I need supplies, and I’m not sure who is taking care of the horses. You may want to let Tristan know that when you tell him about the letters.

  “By the way, the Leo guy has been acting like he owns the horse trailer. I think he’s packing his belongings in there. I hope it’s only his belongings. I don’t trust the guy. I’m going to go get Dior. He’s out back with Tristan’s mare.

  “You know what? Let me talk to Bob and see what he thinks about that woman detective taking the mail. He ought to know. He may not work homicide, but the law should be the same either way in my opinion. Okay kiddo. Let’s do that. I’ll have Bob Clarke give you a call. Talk to you soon.”

  I couldn’t sit still. So much kept churning about in my mind. Tristan was away what? Five days? And everything went down the rabbit hole. Damn.

  Might as well go check the mail. Found a lonely letter addressed to Brenda from her car insurance company. I turned to go up the driveway and saw Bob Clarke crossing the street. What do you know, he was over at the widow’s, and I hadn’t even noticed. I waited for him to catch up to me.

  “I talked to Brenda,” he said and patted my arm in a friendly, reassuring manner. Why couldn’t that blonde detective be more like Officer Clarke?

  “Oh, so what do you think? Am I wrong at being upset?”

  He shrugged, shook his head. What did I expect? The so-called blue wall of silence was alive and well I guess. He followed me into the house, and I felt like I should be offering him a glass of wine or something. Then I remembered it was just past lunchtime, and I’d had nothing but coffee and toast all day. Forget the wine, plus even if he wasn’t in uniform, he might be on call.

  His phone went off, and he excused himself and walked outside. Well, so much for that. I had run out of excuses. I had to call Tristan and tell him what happened without sounding like a victim.

  Just then Bob came back in, and he somehow looked/acted different. “Monica, just got off the phone with Detective Reid. Tristan Dumont is on his way to meet with her and Detective Ross. They would like to know if you’d care to join them.”

  “Join them? Who? I’m confused. What is it some kind of party? Wait, have they found Silvia De Aguilar’s killer?”

  Bob kept shaking his head. “No, Monica. Tristan is meeting with the detectives to discuss the letter De Aguilar mailed to you, addressed to him. Out of courtesy the detectives asked if you would like to be present, so you’ll know everyone is acting properly and following the law. To put it simply, they are acknowledging you are a good soul caught in the middle, and they are trying to make you feel better even if they don’t have to.”

  It didn’t take a genius to know that Bob’s patience was running thin. I looked at him, transfixed, my mouth open, trying to decide if they were doing me a favor of sorts or using me as a scapegoat. Either way, it was worth the trip.

  “I’m in,” I said. “Where should I go?”

  “I’ll take you there,” Bob said.

  I ran back to my bedroom, grabbed my purse and car keys—wait, Bob was driving. Fast detour through the bathroom, checked my mascara and lipstick and back to the kitchen where I grabbed a banana to eat in the car and a bottle of water.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Bob nodded and headed toward the door.

  “Is this a new car?” Bob’s vehicle wasn’t a cop’s car nor the old sedan he drove when off duty. “New to me,” he said. “My squad car is in the shop, so I’m using an unmarked car.”

  “Wait, like, it’s a real cop car except people don’t see you coming? That’s cool. I didn’t see any of the lights on top. Do you have a siren?”

  “I can assure you, Monica. Everything is there, just like any police car except not in plain sight, and please, please, no touching.” He stopped my hand from reaching a latch under the thing that usually would house the glove compartment. Looked different in this car.

  This wasn’t my first visit to the Phoenix Police Department nor my first sit-down interview with the Adam and Eve duo—except this time I was there as a guest. Fingers crossed this wasn’t a lousy trick.

  We came in from a back entrance, so I had no idea if Tristan was already there or not. My heart was thumping in overdrive in anticipation of seeing him. Apparently, we had arrived before Tristan, and Bob lead the way to a pleasant, sunny office that wasn’t anything at all like an interrogation room, real or movie-like.

  Eve, AKA Detective Reid was waiting. “Tristan Dumont is on his way up,” she said.

  I recognized some of t
he folders on the large desk. They reminded me of the ones she carried that day when she confiscated my ripped business card. Could this be her office? Bob Clarke sat on a chair by the window. I assumed he had a partial view of downtown. Couldn’t tell for sure.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Detective Reid pointed to the two chairs lined up at the opposite side of the desk. And just then, Tristan and Detective Ross entered the room.

  Tristan hesitated a second then walked over and pulled back the empty chair next to mine. I looked up. My eyes found his, and his held mine while he sat. I couldn’t find my voice.

  “The detectives have shown me the original ripped business card and the envelopes.” Tristan spoke softly as if we were the only two people in the room.

  I nodded, like a wind-up toy. “Monica, I’ve waited for you before reading the contents of the letter. Since Silvia De Aguilar trusted you, you must be part of this.” I heard the catch in his voice. This was the first time Tristan had addressed me by my real name.

  By now Adam and Eve had undoubtedly decided we must be lovers. Well, the joke was on them. Somehow, I didn’t feel like laughing. My face heated up, and a large lump expanded in my throat. I tried to clear it by swallowing; it didn’t work. The tension in the room was intense. I wondered if there was more than the sharing of the letter on the agenda.

  “Just to clear the air,” Detective Ryan Ross said, “we have concluded that Miss Baker was telling the truth in regard to having met Silvia De Aguilar for the first and only time at the Dumonts’ residence. And of course, the letter establishes that Tristan Dumont and the victim didn’t know each other nor had any previous contact until the time when he found her body in his home. Should we proceed?” He looked at his partner, Detective Reid, Eve, and then to me.