by Linda Seals
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The next day as we continued the bed preparations and planted in the warm fall afternoon sun, Liz Burzachiello and I freely discussed our own speculations.
“What I want to know is, what was the catalyst for this? I mean, what caused Shannon to make that list, take it to Barry, or whoever?” I wondered, my knees in the dirt for traction, holding one end of a large nursery container so Liz could remove the plant.
“Yeah, did she find out something about Phillip Binder? Or did she think it was about Phillip and it was really about Barry? Or, maybe something about Cowboy?” Liz asked in a circle of connection, slipping the ninebark out and into place. She carefully loosened the roots, filled dirt around the root ball, and pushed it down with her hands.
“Speaking of Cowboy Binder, where does Andrea Brubaker fit into all this? Her doings with Cowboy took place a year or so before Shannon and Barry even moved here,” I wondered.
“Even so, did she just forgive Cowboy for her humiliation in her desire to help Shannon get a job here? You said it was her influence that got them jobs at Binder Enterprises.” Liz stood up to stretch, and bent back her head to look at the wispy cirrus clouds. The deep blue bowl of the sky seemed infinite.
“Andrea Brubaker forgive? Can’t see it. She’s the type to take a grudge unforgiven to her grave. I see her more as a voracious avenger than a gracious forgiver. She’s the type who always has to be on top—the winner—in any deal,” I remembered, pulling three rudbeckias out of their containers, and planting them in a triangular grouping next to the lavender. I thought about how much better it was to work with plants rather than people like Andrea Brubaker.
“If she’s looking for revenge in her dealings with Cowboy Binder, then her gracious good deed for Shannon doesn’t make sense, does it?” Liz asked.
“Not to me. And she made that large donation in Shannon’s name to the local non-profit, Nuevo something, to advance Shannon’s reputation in real estate at Binder Enterprises. Andrea Brubaker doesn’t strike me as the type to spend money, or do favors, and not want a return.”
“Maybe she used it as a conditional gift to Shannon. You know, ‘if I give you this money then you have to do what I say’ kind of deal,” Liz said as she started shoveling organics into the flower bed for the next group of asters to be planted.
“That sounds more like her. Not a gift. Not generous, but controlling, manipulating others with her money. But she said she hadn’t talked to Shannon since they’d moved, so what were her ulterior motives? I mean, what was she getting?” I stiffly stood up and shook the dirt from my gloves.
“Hey, why don’t you go over there and talk to Phillip, like you did with Barry? Maybe you could get some information out of him, like, uh, something about Barry, or his dad and Andrea, or—” Liz queried.
“Oh, right!” I snorted. “Phillip Binder is not Barry Correda. Meaning, I think he’s too savvy to inadvertently blab about something important. Barry was so full of himself that he thought he was fooling everybody with his tales. And besides, Phillip’s seen me talking to Barry and his guard would be up. I doubt I could ‘fool’ him like I did Barry. You know, the dimwitted, doddering ‘old lady’ routine.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But isn’t there something we can do?” Liz asked, always looking for action. She’d finished unloading the compost in the wheelbarrow, and stopped to drink some water from the large cool water jug set up under a tree.
“What’s this we business? We’re not doing anything!” I laughed, stopping for water myself. “I know you got the snoop bug after our last little adventure, but we’re not doing that again!”
We gathered five serviceberries for planting, and were prepping the holes when Liz reminded me that she’d be off the next day to attend the Rockies final home game for the season. Sister Louie had scored group seats up above home plate.
“Yeah, I’ve got it scheduled. Sounds like fun, but too bad it won’t make any difference for the Rox,” I said. “No Rocktober this year. What did I read someone called it this year? Slumptember?” The team, once within a half a game out of the National League West lead, had blown twelve of the last thirteen games, and was now out of the running. I’d been too busy to watch the last couple of games, but Liz jokingly pleaded with me to watch the last one, to see if I could spot them on TV. She said they’d wave.
I spent the next day working with Jorge Martinez and crew, placing large landscaping boulders in the gardens and finishing a gambion wall I had designed to curve around the side of the property to embrace a sitting area installed beneath two Austrian pines. We’d started early, and it was a long day moving sandstone and river rock. Even though I had a crew, I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing, so those days I schlepped far more stone than I should. I was tired and stiff.
With Jorge supervising the clean-up at the end of the day, I left the job site to dash home to clean up for dinner with Perry Davis and Denise Robicheaux, who’d called the week before to get caught up after their weeks of travel. They were back in town at their condo—the mountain cabin was rented out for several months—and, because their kitchen renovation wasn’t complete, and knowing my own overloaded work schedule, I’d suggested dinner out at a small Mexican place several blocks from my house.
Feeling rejuvenated from a hot shower and plenty of ice tea, I strolled into town. Golden sunlight just tipped the tops of the elm and ash trees that overhung Stone Street, and down the block I heard Jake Biccam pounding metal-on-metal outside his shop next to the community garden. Above the trees, slanted strips of grey white altostratus clouds banded into a brilliant lapis blue sky. As I approached downtown, it became crowded with families out on a school night, strolling along enjoying the perfect fall weather, and college students skidding up on fat tire bikes, ready for fun. Restaurants and bars claimed space on the sidewalks, and the chairs and tables became outdoor living rooms filled with people; half of which, it seemed, I knew. Nico Burzachiello smoked cigars with some pals in a corner, and called out a hello as I passed. A friend from book club stopped me to talk, but I had to hurry on so I wouldn’t be late for dinner.
At Ruby Cantina, Perry, Denise, and I found a table on the back patio strung with clear round lights like a Zihuatanejo beach bar. In between bites of carnitas and creamy pinto beans, I brought them up to date on the Shannon-Barry-Andrea-Cowboy-maybe-Phil connections, speculations, and scenarios. Denise was excited that I’d gotten to talk to a “real” policeman, as she called Henry Wade, and wanted to go with me the next time I talked to him. Perry’s face revealed she thought that encounter would be just as humorous as I silently did.
The three of us could have made our own scenarios deep into the night again, but since I’d promised Liz I’d at least look for them at the televised Rockies game that night, I prepared to go. Perry and I made plans to bike together in the foothills later in the month; we said our goodbyes, and I hurried home. I was already worrying that Patsy had gotten impatient, and dug out again.
But she hadn’t; both dogs were both asleep in the house when I came in. The Rockies game was more than half over when I got there, but knowing I’d probably be late from dinner, I’d recorded it. I could start at the beginning, and skip the commercials. I settled in with a gardening magazine, and looked up from time to time to watch and enjoy the still slugging Carlos Gonzalez and Troy Tulowitzki. I was tired and sleepy, and knew it would be time for bed soon. There was no sign of Liz et. al, of course, even though the crowd shots at the game were amazingly clear and detailed.
Then I saw him. I couldn’t believe it, and hit the rewind. Just a pan shot across the crowd behind the Rockies dugout and there he was.
It was Barry Correda.
Idiot. You’re an idiot. He looked like a little rougher model of Barry, with a two-day black stubble, unsaloned hair, and a torn, sleeveless muscle shirt. On his tattooed arm, and in his lap, was a very buxom brunette. His muscled arm was heavily draped over her shoulder, and they held spilling
beers, shouting and rudely gesturing towards the field.
I couldn’t believe it. First of all that it was Barry Correda—that he was alive—but then I couldn’t believe the stupidity, the arrogance of a man supposedly dead to go to a Rockies game and sit in such a prominent place. I replayed it again and again. Idiot.
Coming to my senses, I called Henry Wade and left a message on his machine. Then I composed an email for Isabelle McWilliams, first a sarcastic one about her conclusions about Barry’s accident that I had hastily passed onto to Henry Wade, and now just as quickly had to call in a “never mind!” of confused apology. That out of my system, I deleted that snarky copy, and composed a more kindly one to her instead, with just the information that Barry Correda was alive, and that I’d seen him at a Rockies game on TV. There may have still been a hint of jest in my tone.
Then I smiled when I thought of a line sung by The Dixie Chicks, things should get interesting, right about now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN