Brenda had left to show Detective Reid the rooms Lois and Angelique had occupied at the ranch. She had no idea where Rogelio/Leo’s room was. His clothing littered the floor of Angelique’s room.
Luckily this was Saturday night, and I didn’t have any real estate business planned for the next day. Greg Coste’s inspection was scheduled for Monday, and my phone had been quiet.
All that took second place to my concerns regarding Tristan. Where would he sleep if most of the house had burned? Bob mentioned that the fire had been set on the side of the home where Tristan’s rooms were located. I remembered when I visited him after the car accident, resting on a lounge chair he told me belonged to his mother. He had recreated his mom’s sitting room where she would sit and read to him when he was a child.
Oh, my God... it wasn’t Tristan’s stuff the arsonist was after—it was his mother’s irreplaceable personal belongings. Angelique. It had to be her. It just had to. The odd conversation I had with Brenda regarding Angelique’s feelings toward Tristan’s mom popped into my mind. Angelique had called her a home-wrecker and claimed Philippe Dumont was supposed to marry her, Angelique, not the home-wrecker.
That had to be the reason behind the fire. To erase memories of Mrs. Dumont from the face of the earth? Revenge? After all Tristan did for ungrateful Angelique?
I wanted to know. No, I needed to know how he was handling the loss. I had already told Detective Reid everything and anything I knew about the brief, unfortunate encounter with Rogelio/Leo. Even adding the small detail about not seeing any car around the Dumonts’ residence on either day when Silvia De Aguilar visited.
Detective Reid said that the poor woman indeed had a car, which was now missing. A 2012 white Kia Soul. Oh, I called those cars the cube because of the square-looking shape, and I definitely didn’t see any Kia around as I’d driven by on that Wednesday and noticed the silver Escalade parked in the motor court of the Dumont residence.
By 2:00 a.m. both Phoenix PD and the Tucson group met in the same kitchen where I could hardly keep from falling asleep and told us we were free to leave. Someone would contact us if needed.
Since neither Brenda nor I had any means of transportation, Bob Clarke drove us home. I sat in the back with Dior who eventually ran out of enthusiasm and fell asleep on my lap. Brenda sat up front with Bob and two coffee mugs. They did have a good, friendly relationship. I could tell. I must have dozed off because at some point I realized we had just left the 51 and were on Shea Boulevard, nearing home. Imagine my surprise when Bob’s headlights shone on Brenda’s Honda Pilot parked in front of her closed garage door.
“How, how...” Did I sleep with my mouth open? My lips felt so dry I could hardly talk.
“Tristan texted me,” Brenda said. “He left the keys under the back doormat. What a kind soul. In the midst of all this tragedy he made sure my car would be waiting when I got home. A nice, nice boy.”
I kept quiet, aware she was looking at me from the rearview mirror.
That was my cue to jump out of Bob’s squad car and run to unlock my door so I could cry my eyes out in the privacy of my own home. First, I kicked off my shoes, noticing the heels covered with caked mud from running on that grassy field. Then off came the bra. I already felt much better, but I couldn’t help checking my phone for texts every five minutes.
Sunshine already filtered in from between the closed bedroom louvers by the time I fell asleep. Tristan never called.
It was minutes before noon when I dragged myself over to Brenda’s back door. Just like old times.
“There you are, sleepyhead,” was her welcoming greeting.
I walked up to the kitchen sink where she was rinsing something and hugged her from the back. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
She laughed and tried to free herself from my hug, but she didn’t try too hard. Dior was jumping around like a crazy mutt. I bet he also had missed his old place.
“You hungry? I’m making cheese omelet, baked apples instead of potatoes, and crescent rolls I had in the fridge. That’s the best I could do until I run to get some groceries.”
“Sounds heavenly,” I said, my head still resting on her shoulder. “Did you watch the news?”
She shook her head. “No. But Bob called. The stolen truck has been located, minus the thief of course.”
I went to pour myself some coffee. “Oh, where was the truck?”
“Somewhere around Sun Lakes.”
“Sun Lakes? That’s not the way to Mexico from the ranch; it’s the opposite. Isn’t Sun Lakes a retirement community?”
“It is, but it wasn’t in Sun Lakes. The detectives speculate the truck ran out of gas and maybe Angelique Dumont picked him up. Both Angelique and the Escalade are also missing. And Lois... that concerns me, I wish I had paid more attention when she came around and complained about Angelique’s behavior.” The oven timer chimed. “Let’s eat,” Brenda said.
Neither of us mentioned Tristan, and yet I knew he was as much in Brenda’s thoughts as he was in mine. Dior acted rambunctious. He wanted to go for a walk I supposed. I cleaned up the dishes after we ate, walking around the kitchen with Dior’s nose inches from my fanny. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Brenda, I’m going to get some real clothes on and take sad eyes here for a walk.”
“Yes, but you need to promise me you won’t go anywhere near the Dumonts’ place. Promise?”
What?
“Why would I do that?”
“Monica, look at me. I can see it in your eyes, and I understand. But this is not the time. I’m sure Tristan would call you and ask you over if he thought that was a good idea. The house fire made front-page news last night and this morning. Along with Angelique Dumont’s disappearance. The cockroaches of humanity are all over the Internet expressing their opinions. You cannot let yourself get mixed up with this. Tristan understands that; he’s keeping his distance to protect you.”
Deep down I prayed she was right and that was the only reason for Tristan’s silence. Funny how I got religious in time of need.
“Ok, you’re right,” I conceded. “Just a quick run around the block.” I swear Dior speaks English. He was wagging his tail faster than windshield wipers in a hurricane even before I reached for his leash. We made a brief stop by my place so I could trade my bathrobe and slippers for dog walking clothing. Then I pocketed a few treats and a few poop baggies, and out we went.
It had been weeks since Dior and I had walked the neighborhood. And on a Sunday too. The familiar streets seemed unusually quiet—a few older folks working in their front yards and waving at us, a kid rushing over to pet Dior. The usual. But this wasn’t enough to keep my mind from drifting toward Tristan and his quandary.
Where had he slept if his room was charred? Had the firefighters been able to save some of his mom’s personal belongings? Luckily, he left his car parked by the police headquarters. Stop it, Monica. Might as well head back.
“Well, he did poop. So that’s good,” I said to Brenda as I removed the leash from Dior. He made a beeline for his water bowl and drank and splashed water around as noisily as he usually did after a walk. I didn’t know if Brenda heard us. She was busy measuring liquid soap next to the washing machine, and the dryer was on. And so was the television. Our local ABC channel was announcing breaking news.
A young reporter who looked familiar, but whose name escaped me, said something about reporting events, “...as they happened, where they happened.” I don’t know what he was reporting. Visible on the screen were the desert, dirt, rocks, and some dried-up bushes. Oh, wait, uniformed cops and other people also in uniform gathered around a wreck of some sort, and then the young man said, “It appears they located the missing car of Silvia De Aguilar, the woman found...”
“Brenda, Brenda, they found it. Hurry. Come see. Where is this place? That doesn’t look like a car... Brenda.” I shook like the last autumn leaf in the wind.
“Calm down; don’t scream. I’m right h
ere.” Brenda patted my arm.
Dior seemed confused and came over to check me out. I couldn’t breathe.
“Someone set that car on fire,” Brenda said.
“Who? How do you know?”
“Monica, calm down and listen to the reporter, he just said some kids out riding their ATVs early this morning found the charred vehicle. They called 911 and reported it. That’s the trail they ride every Sunday morning, and the pile of charred metal was not there last Sunday.” Her voice sounded a bit shaky. I still couldn’t control my quivers. “Let’s sit down. Do you want a glass of water?”
I shook my head but sat on the edge of the couch.
We couldn’t see what was happening with the car. The reporter had moved away and was interviewing the kids who found the burned vehicle. They had tried but couldn’t find the license plate. It had been nearly three hours since the police, firefighters, and tow trucks got there according to the kids. They seemed quite excited.
Then something else must have happened because boys and reporter stopped talking for a minute or so. I grabbed Brenda’s arm. “What’s happening? They look stunned.”
“We have been asked to move back,” the reporter announced. “There are new developments.”
Just then a vehicle, possibly a van, drove by their camera, creating a lot of dust. And that was it. The screen changed and returned to the regular program.
“What happened? Where did they go?”
“Monica, you’re hurting me. What’s gotten into you? So they found the missing car. Whoever stole it probably burned it after finding out it belonged to a possible murder victim. Why are you so upset? Poor Mrs. De Aguilar has no use for the car where she is now. She’s at peace.” Embarrassed, I let go of her arm, “Let’s turn the television off,” Brenda said.
Just then the breaking news reporter reappeared, minus the kids. He stood near a make- shift parking lot. I noticed other media vehicles in the background, and you could tell the mood had changed. “We are asked to leave,” he announced. “Apparently in the wrecked, charred interior of the vehicle they found human remains, burned beyond recognition.”
Brenda dropped the remote.
SEVENTEEN
SHOULD I GO or should I stay? This must be the let’s pretend phase of my driving by Tristan’s house project. Deep down I knew at some point this afternoon I would find myself casually cruising by his place, just to look, mind you, as I had no plans of crossing the gate, assuming it was open of course.
The yummy food provided by Brenda had been digested a while ago, and I still paced my small living room debating the pros and cons of my plan. Well, the pros were bound to win. No doubt. I had to know.
On this Sunday afternoon I would find myself leisurely cruising by his house. Time to stop fighting the urge and go. I rummaged through my so-called pantry to see what item I urgently needed from the grocery store right now. Couldn’t think of anything. Probably because my brain wasn’t functioning straight, but I settled on salt. Yes, absolutely. After all, salt was essential to every meal. Essential. I liked that word, a lot. I showered, even washed and blew dry my hair, light make up, no need to overdo it.
I was just going to Fry’s for some salt. I put on some nice, casual, grocery-store-appropriate clothing and quickly walked to the garage I shared with Brenda, hopped in my leased SUV, and out to the store I went.
Once I was totally out of sight of Brenda’s place, I breathed easier, feeling a little less nervous. Sheesh, it’s not like I was going to rob a bank or something.
The Fry’s store at Tatum and Shea is humongous—I kid you not. I always think they should provide shoppers with roller skates at the door. It’s that big. Since I had no clue on what isle I could find the salt and I didn’t see anyone to ask, I walked around aimlessly until I found it, bottom shelf, same isle as rows and rows of spices. Good to know. I used the self-checkout, and soon I was heading toward the south side of Shea Boulevard.
With the plastic bag holding the lonely salt container sitting on the passenger seat, I slowly made my way to the Dumonts’ neighborhood. My heart pounded so fast you’d think I had a date with destiny instead of a casual drive to spy on the state of affairs of the love of my life.
Thankfully no one would recognize me in the leased SUV. Not that anyone would care about my driving by anyhow. The closer I came to the house, the harder it was to breathe. Would he be there?
Sudden memories of the first time I saw him came hurtling at me. I was delivering escrow papers for Sunny, my boss and Tristan’s real estate agent. He looked no different from the other construction workers up at the end of the unfinished driveway. Well, except for the ponytail and those eyes... amber velvet.
I shook away the image and slammed on the brakes. What the hell? In my soul I had built images of Rebecca and the dark elegance of Manderley, of all those old, forbidden mansions associated with lovers’ drama and spouses’ mysterious deaths. Never mind the blue desert sky and mild winter weather. A storm brewed in my mind.
The whole street looked more like a circus than an upscale estate. Cars cruising slowly, bicycles riding even slower, some just left on the sidewalks. Was there a parade? Did I miss the memo?
I inched forward, noticing two media vehicles. I recognized the local channel’s logo. And I couldn’t decide what to do. Never in a million years would I have expected this kind of crazy scene. What was everyone looking for? Did something else happened that I didn’t know about?
I did notice a tall chain-link fence newly installed around the whole lot where the fire-damaged home stood. As I approached at a slug’s pace, I could tell the temporary fence had been set up as protection from the crowd of lookie-loos of which I was now a part. And... in case of doubt, it clearly stated Rent-A-Fence at the very top. Why, oh why, did I not listen to Brenda?
And then I noticed him, Neighbor Bob. Good, a familiar face. Neighbor Bob who lived a few houses down from us, was a retired National Guardsman. We all looked up to him as a sort of an armed good guy/protector. He was licensed to carry, as he proudly and often reminded us, and he also assured us he had a gun for every occasion. I thought he liked very much to play the badass role. If he really was tough or not, I had no clue. But he was friendly, and I decided to go say hello.
I scoped the area I knew so well and found a spot where I could park my vehicle without getting into trouble. I also noticed that the Dumont gate was locked. And for good measure, it had a yellow Do Not Cross police tape spanning it.
No clue if Tristan was locked inside or if he’d ever even set foot there at all. I figured if I joined Neighbor Bob’s vantage point, I’d have a much better view of the side that supposedly had the fire damage. I grabbed my bag and then paused to really look at all the commotion, completely unjustified in my opinion.
There weren’t any celebrities involved, no scandalous lifestyle. Why so much interest? Of course not having followed the news put me at a disadvantage.
And that’s when I really looked at the unfolding scene. Few appeared to be local folks. Most of the people standing around either filming or recording something seemed a bit out of place, and then it dawned on me... these were the influencers. I was pretty sure that was the term used on YouTube and other social media sites I made a point to avoid. A few of the people had their own entourage which would explain the circus-like atmosphere.
What a sad statement. I shook my head as if that would help me get a clearer picture of the whole mess, locked my car, and headed toward Neighbor Bob’s premium spot. He gave me a polite hand wave from afar. Good, now I could pretend to be there with a purpose besides the salt. It occurred to me that with all the commotion I hadn’t seen a single cop car.
Perhaps they had located Angelique, arrested Leo, and figured out who the dead person in the burned car was. Maybe that was Leo, if he was a bad driver and got stuck in the desert with his dead half-sister’s Kia and something went wrong...
I was so focused on my interpretation of the facts that I bu
mped into some guy standing around with a group of people taking pictures or videos of the locked gate with the yellow tape. Weirdos. The encounter somehow caused my handbag to slip from my arm, and I barely caught it before it landed on the street. The man bent to help me, or so I thought, until I felt something sharp pushing against my left side, right below my rib cage. Stunned, I assumed a spider or an ant bit me, except—the man’s arm grabbed me around the waist.
“Hey... Get your...” I looked up and met the unflinching hateful eyes of Rogelio Avondo. I stopped breathing and tried to cry out. He held me with one arm, and now the sharp pressure against my skin increased. He hissed, “Keep your f**king mouth shut and start walking. You and I are going for a ride, in your car. Move.”
Something in my mind screamed. No, no. My lips quivered; no sound came.
He literally forced me upright and made me move. Everything came to a standstill. The only thing I knew for sure was that if I got into my car, he would take me somewhere and kill me.
I let my body go limp while my eyes searched for Neighbor Bob, but the spot where he stood was now empty. Rogelio was as aware as I of the unsuspecting, indifferent crowd preoccupied with the real or imagined drama unfolding in some new or revised desert version of Manderley, the mansion at the end of the driveway. The young rich man and the missing older wife made for a great tale, more interesting than the real-life crisis feet from their precious lenses.
It didn’t matter how much I resisted; Leo was almost twice my size. He lifted me up ever so slightly until my feet no longer touched the ground, and he kept walking. Slowly, painfully we reached my SUV. The keys were safely anchored inside the pocket of my purse along with my cell phone. He only had two arms and two hands, and one of the two was busy holding a knife against my body. It was now or never. Think, Monica, the knife is to your left. And just like that, I screamed and pivoted to my right, hitting his stomach with all the strength I could put into my elbow and flung my handbag with the car keys in it as far as I could, toward the crowd that suddenly fell silent.
Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis Page 11