Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis

by Maria Grazia Swan

  “Perhaps I should go. Dior is ready, and I would only get in the way,” I said in the sweetest way I could manage.

  Tristan hesitated a moment then glanced toward the detective who had been talking business on his cell. “Do you mind if I walk Monica to her car?” he said.

  “Uh, I—we—walked.” My cheeks were on fire.

  “Oh, from your house? I could give you a ride back,” he offered.

  “No, no. Actually I drove to the parking lot at the 40th Street trailhead, and then we walked over. We both needed the exercise.” I had to say something.

  “Okay then,” he turned to the detective again. “I’ll walk her to the preserve parking lot. If you need me in a hurry call me, I’ll jog back.”

  Detective Ross nodded his head, still involved in a deep conversation.

  A few minutes later, we walked out the open gate and headed toward the mountain.

  “Fiat, you have no idea what Dior here discovered. The crash was from a small, sealed garbage can that Dior must have tried to open. Instead it tipped over. That was the noise we heard. It was hidden under blankets and covered with hay.”

  “Please don’t tell me you found a dead body. And if you did, I don’t want to know.” I meant every word. Dior picked up the pace, and I tried to keep up with him.

  “No, no dead body, but a large, empty can of gasoline the detectives think was used to set the Kia on fire and then as to not waste what was left over, the rest was splashed on the bed and furniture in the extra room where I kept my mother’s things. The fire eventually got to my bedroom. Also she must have tried to burn some of her old documents and the hair coloring box she used to change her appearance.”

  “Angelique? How do you know for sure?”

  “The detectives. Avondo insisted he didn’t burn the car. He told them Lois was alive, asleep in the back seat when he left the Kia in the desert. Angelique, or whatever her name is, had put sleeping pills in Lois’s drink and convinced him they would leave her there—that by the time Lois woke up and found her way back to civilization, the two of them would be on a flight to France.”

  I stopped and turned to look at him. His eyes gave me the answer I sought.

  He too believed Rogelio Avondo. Angelique double-crossed her own lover and left him there to take the blame.

  OMG! It wasn’t just his eyes, so hard to read, mere slits as if to keep a seething rage from spilling over. His whole expression seemed frozen. I slowed my pace and reached for his hand. He attempted a smile, but his lips looked tightly drawn.

  “Do you think Lois knew he killed Silvia De Aguilar?

  He shook his head. “She died before the news was made public. We found a letter addressed to Angelique from the law office I had hired to help speed up her green card application. They needed to see her, something about fingerprints. I haven’t reached the lawyer yet, I’m guessing her false documents weren’t going to fool the pros, and she panicked. Lois had a copy of the letter in her belongings down at the ranch. She must have questioned Angelique about it.”

  “I’m guessing Angelique was in a hurry to leave the country before you got back in town, huh?”

  He stopped cold, as if I had sucker punched him. Wow.

  “Now you see why I must get rid of the house and anything connected to this.”

  I kept quiet.

  “You don’t agree?” he asked. His tone should have been my fair warning.

  I missed it.

  “I don’t know, Tristan. Maybe I read too much into things, but it seems like a pattern, the way you react to emotional pain, I mean.” I could have died after I let the last word out. Because he looked as if I had just shot him through the heart.

  “Do you care to explain?” Now the hurt in his eyes washed over me.

  “I’m not judging you,” I said, not sure I could trust my own voice. “Just thinking about how after your mom died you ran off to Colorado. You moved to Arizona from France at your father’s death, and now... you’re getting rid of everything connected with Angelique and your own past, and running away—”

  As if on cue, his cell chimed. He looked at it.

  “Got to go.” He turned around and broke into a jog.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I LOOKED LIKE hell and felt even worse.

  Yesterday, after dropping off Dior, I had made a beeline to my place where I hid for the rest of the day. I didn’t even peek out the door afraid of bumping into Brenda and having to explain why my eyes were red and swollen from all the crying.

  At the time of the tiff, I had felt confident that Tristan would know my comments didn’t have a speck of bad will in them. Maybe I watched too many movies where the two main protagonists have a shouting match, but in the end it helped clear the air, and they lived happily ever after. Sadly, I left out the part that said this wasn’t a movie.

  It was now the morning after, and I had to do something, anything, to apologize to Tristan without sounding like a complete halfwit posing as a home-schooled psychologist. So I did what came naturally under those circumstances. I got dressed, piled a pound of makeup on my face and puffy eyelids and drove to the office.

  There was a large U-Haul truck backed up to the rear door, the one none of us Realtors were encouraged to use. I could see that furniture was being move—in or out? That sounded like my favorite hamburger joint, so I suddenly got hungry.

  The bell chimed as I closed the front door behind me. Kassandra’s head peeked out from the closet she fancily called the mail room. I headed straight to the closet.

  “I’m hungry,” I said.

  “So? I’d like a Vodka martini. You get me one, and I’ll get you a donut,” was Kassandra’s answer. All my puffed-up, fake enthusiasm deflated instantly. “What happened to your face?” she asked.

  “My face?” A pound of makeup hadn’t done the trick?

  “Do you see anyone else here? Have you been crying? Shit. You’re upset over all that hoopla on Facebook, aren’t you?”

  “Facebook? Huh?”

  “Don’t huh me. It’s normal. I’d be upset too. Except this is Tristan Dumont we are talking about—the Frenchie who only has eyes for you. It’ll blow over. I mean, you have to admit, it was a pretty unselfish and spectacular idea he came up with. Of course he can afford it... wish I was the lucky girl who’ll get it.”

  I was stunned. Speechless. Dumbfounded. I stood there, my mouth open, my brain frozen.

  “The lucky girl who gets what?” Were the first coherent words I managed to spit out.

  “The reward of course.” Kassandra stopped doing whatever it was she had been organizing in there and, hands on her hips, stepped in front of me—well, towered over me would be more accurate. “You really don’t know what I am talking about. Do you? Where have you been hiding? It’s all over the Net. Hell, even our local channel was there for the announcement. If you ask me, that Jessie chick called them. She still has connections from when she wrote the gossip page of that thing, that trash paper, remember?”

  I nodded, then I went into the kitchen and sat. Kassandra followed me.

  “Wait.” She punched a number on her cell. “Hey, Scott, how about you let us use your tablet while you’re busy moving furniture? We are in the kitchen. Oh, wait, got any donuts left? Good. We can use that too.”

  She pulled back the chair next to mine and sat, a Cheshire cat smile on her face. I got up and went to grab my coffee mug, my hands shaking so badly I spilled coffee on my sleeve.

  Scott arrived in no time, all smiles until he looked at me. He rested his open tablet on the kitchen table, next to a box from the donut shop he liked. He turned to look at me twice before he crossed the doorway. Did I look that bad? My hunger had disappeared, but not my sorrow.

  Kassandra moved her chair closer to mine, pulled a sugarcoated donut from the box, and then slid the open tablet to face us. She bit into the donut, and a fine white powder landed on the tablet. She wiped it with her finger and then swiped the screen.

  It came
alive, showing a scene. What do you know? A previously recorded special from our local channel. Kassandra turned up the volume. I felt her eyes on me.

  My heart somersaulted, and I grasped my mug with both hands. There was Tristan, sleek and gorgeous in black, being interviewed by a lovely blonde who reminded me of Celine, Sunny’s daughter. Showy jewelry, fancy fitted top.

  “Here you have it,” she said into her handheld microphone. “Tristan Dumont is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward to anyone with information leading to the arrest of Angelique Dumont who may be traveling under the name of Pauline Chervais.”

  A photo of Angelique flashed on the screen along with other information on who to contact and how to remain anonymous. Voices and car engines could be heard in the background. Then the screen faded back to the program in progress. I put my head down, I wasn’t going to cry or whine in front of Kassandra or anyone else for that matter. But truth be told, I was damn proud of Tristan Dumont.

  “Hey, girlfriend, all this happened last night. How come you don’t know about it?”

  I shrugged. Cleared my throat. Sooner or later she’d figure it out, or maybe she already did. “Where was that interview done?” I asked.

  “According to Kay that’s outside Dale Wolf’s house. Makes sense because in the original footage you could see a small crowd of people surrounding Tristan and the reporter. The cameraman turned the lenses on Tristan and the chick interviewing him, but you can still hear some hecklers shouting, ‘Tristan, I love you,’ in the background. One screamed, ‘I want to have your baby.’ It didn’t hurt that they know he’s a millionaire.”

  “He is?” I asked like an idiot.

  “Okay, that’s it. I don’t know what happened between you two. You’re going to eat a donut, and I’m going to do you a reading. Way overdue if you ask me. We need to figure out what comes next and stop sniffling. Eat.”

  I looked up. She had a powdered sugar mustache. I couldn’t help but smile.

  I spent the following two hours watching Kassandra read my tarot cards. Deep down I doubted she was telling me the truth. Perhaps she was sugarcoating my future just as the baker did to enhance plain donuts.

  Just to put the last nail in the coffin, as they say in America, she also showed me the Facebook page set up by a group of Tristan’s fans. The photos of the man I loved and lost had been taken unbeknownst to him—I could tell—around the outside of his house, or driving his Land Rover, or with Alexander.

  “See?” Kassandra said. “Your man is famous. The little old ladies want him as a son, and the young girls all want him as a lover.”

  “Can they do that?” I asked.

  “Do what? Want to sleep with him? Of course they can. Why? Haven’t you been drooling over him since day one?”

  Blood rushed to my face. I had actually meant if they could just make up a page with his name without permission. Not that it really mattered at this point. I obviously was no longer in the picture. What picture?

  I went to the bathroom and saw my face again. It didn’t get any better. I looked scary. It was close to noon, better leave and go back to my hiding place.

  At least I wouldn’t need to explain or pretend. I could be my sorry stupid dreamer and count the ways I had managed to destroy the best thing that had ever happened to me.

  Kassandra was sitting at her desk, talking on the phone. Scott must have been in the back. I didn’t know. I could hear other agents talking and laughing, hanging around the furniture movers. I waved my hand at Kassandra and quickly left. If she tried to catch me, it would be too late.

  I parked my car, and when I turned around Brenda was standing by the open garage. “There you are,” she said in a forced joyful tone. “Are you coming in? We are getting ready to eat a late lunch. Why don’t you join us?”

  Hadn’t she noticed my face?

  “Who is we?” I asked.

  “Your favorite auntie and Dior,” she said. “Come on. Cheer up. We are celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?” I will not mention Tristan. I will not mention Tristan.

  “Tommy’s new job.”

  “What? Wait. Is Tommy here?”

  “No. Oh, I see what you’re concerned about. It’s just us. I thought you’d be more excited.”

  “Why would I be excited?” I said, following along to her back door.

  “About Tristan’s reward. And how quickly it paid off.”

  “Wait, wait. What paid off, and how come everyone knew about it except me?”

  “You didn’t know?” The minute I stepped into her house I could smell something baking. Chicken? The whole place was warm and welcoming.

  Dior rushed over and nearly knocked me to the ground. I guessed yesterday’s excursion was a success. I scratched behind his ears, and his wet tongue on my cheek cheered me up. My cell phone had been pinging since I got out of my car. Who was texting me?

  Brenda set two glasses and a bottle of pinot grigio on the table.

  “Here, earn your meal.” She handed me the wine opener. I poured the usual amount of wine for her, half of that for myself, and followed her into the kitchen. She took a sip then went back to check some carrots and broccoli cooking in her steamer.

  “It’s sort of funny,” she said, “I was on the phone with Greg, and the TV was on. We were watching the same channel because they had a special segment regarding the growing popularity of assisted living when a special news report or something came on. And there was Tristan being interviewed, and I said something about him being your boyfriend.”

  Was my boyfriend. I swallowed hard and kept quiet. “And Greg said some nice things about you deserving a good man like him and all that. Then I explained about our relationship. One thing led to another, and Greg set up an interview for Tommy who just now called me to say he got hired by Ford. You know, he’ll be trained to sell new cars. That Greg is full of surprises.” She sipped some wine and checked the chicken in the oven. Then she said, “I really like him a lot.”

  I went and hugged her.

  “Oh, I forgot. So Bob called me, all enthusiastic. He said some young woman working on a cruise ship saw Tristan’s reward offer on social media and recognized Angelique.

  “Get this. That conniving criminal was on a four-day Carnival cruise that left from Long Beach, stopped one day on Catalina Island, and then went on to Ensenada. The woman is a sociopathic genius. While everyone was checking flights and trains and country borders, she got herself booked on a leisurely cruise where your documents are hardly checked as you are not actually staying in Mexico. Ensenada is a day trip. Then you get back on the ship and go back to California. Of course she wasn’t planning on coming back. The minute she stepped on Mexican soil the authorities arrested her. She’s awaiting extradition.”

  I think I was hyperventilating. OMG! Now the car left at John Wayne Airport made sense. And though she might be a genius, Tristan beat her at her own game. I was so proud of him, I just had to call him and... then I remembered. I gulped down my wine and went to pour some more before checking my phone. I had three texts, but nothing from Tristan.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  IF ONLY I had a tablet like Scott’s, I could do this in bed instead of sitting here, staring at the computer while my feet got cold.

  I had discovered Facebook.

  I mean, I knew a little about it—wasn’t a big fan. But now I was hooked. I had learned more about Tristan from this Facebook page set up by his fans, AKA total strangers, than I ever knew. Okay, one fan I recognized—Jessie. How about that? A few of the women posting claimed to know Tristan personally. None of them was from Phoenix.

  I couldn’t stop checking every few minutes. I had just learned that he had a beauty mark on the back of his neck. Ah! Some woman who called herself Daisy posted she was his girlfriend at UA—one of many according to Daisy, who stated she was now happily married to husband number two.

  Then there was a rather close group of young men and women, with only first names, and they posted from Ph
oenix, where they had set up a twenty-four-hour Tristan watch. I assumed those were the people he had tried hard to avoid? The influencers.

  Except. New photos started to pop up, of an ice cream truck? OMG. Tristan had hired an ice cream truck to come over to where he was staying—Dale Wolf’s house—to serve free ice cream to the group who had actually helped him spread the word about the reward.

  Well, that made me feel warm inside. He really was a class act. The beneficiaries of the ice cream seemed to agree. One girl called him, “A modern-day prince.”

  I was tempted to sign up with the group. Common sense prevailed, and I walked away from the computer to go to the kitchen and get myself some ice cream.

  All that Facebook activity helped me forget my troubles for a few hours but only to miss him even more afterward. The sun had long set by the time I decided to turn off the computer and watch the evening news. When I hit the space-bar, the Facebook page opened back up, and a familiar image caught my eye. This was not a photo; it was a live video—Tristan in his black Land Rover, driving away. From where and to where? I had no clue.

  Ten seconds later a flurry of activity... Tristan was on his way to catch a private flight to... France? I missed the part where he thanked all the adoring fans for helping him and he asked the snoopers to please leave their posts and go home as he would be gone for a while.

  Someone had followed him to the Scottsdale Airport where Tristan Dumont and his Land Rover parked by a private hangar. I didn’t know when this was recorded, it couldn’t be happening as I watched, right? Then someone else said Tristan Dumont left the vehicle with a valet parking attendant and was seen boarding a small corporate jet. After that came a slew of good wishes, bon voyage, and I don’t know what else.

  I’d seen enough. I turned off the computer and sat there, stunned. Tristan, g-o-n-e.

  He flew to France. My mind still refused to accept the sad reality. I couldn’t stand it. Sitting up in my bed, my forehead pressed against my knees. Any hope of making right what I had destroyed had left with him in that private jet. I had it coming. Who was I to judge, to tell him how to live his life? Compared to his problems, my life had been a walk in the park. So Tommy was a jerk. He no longer bothered me much. Plus I loved Brenda, my only family in America.