Yeah, I was going to need some luck. And some help.
I refolded the paper and stuffed it into my pocket.
Cocky.
Bastard.
I stepped out to the front of the store to find Clarice watching Fletcher walk down the sidewalk.
“Better looking than most of our customers,” she said.
“I didn’t think he was your type.”
“He’s not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know hot when I see it.”
Clarice waggled her eyebrows suggestively.
I ignored it.
“Ever seen him before?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed him around town. He’s pretty noticeable.”
Clarice gave me another eyebrow waggle. When I didn’t react, she threw in a wolf whistle. I think she was trying to see if she could embarrass me.
She should’ve known better. People born and raised to lie, cheat, and steal don’t embarrass easy.
“Who is he?” Clarice asked me.
“No one,” I said—though what I wanted to say was trouble.
The man was shady. Shifty. Slippery.
Perfect for what I’d decided to do next to help Marsha. Unfortunately, I couldn’t trust GW Fletcher to be untrustworthy in just the way I needed.
Clarice stepped up and waved a hand in front of my face.
“Hey—you still there?”
I blinked and shook my head.
“Sorry—I was just thinking about an errand I have to run tomorrow.”
“Oh?” Clarice said, cocking her head and folding her arms across her chest. “Can I help?”
She couldn’t know what the “errand” was specifically, but she’d obviously guessed that it had something to do with Marsha.
“Yes. You can help,” I said.
I walked to the register, opened it, and took out a twenty-dollar bill.
“You can run down to El Zorro Azul and get us some dinner. I’m starving.”
Clarice looked annoyed, but of course that didn’t stop her from taking the money.
“Can I invite Ceecee over to eat with us?”
I opened the register and pulled out a ten.
“Thanks!” Clarice said, snatching the money from me and hurrying toward the door.
When she was gone, I picked up the phone we keep near the counter.
I needed a partner for what I was planning. A grown male one.
GW Fletcher? Too sketchy.
Eugene? Too square.
Victor Castellanos? Too square, too—but maybe I could do something about that.
I dialed.
“Hey, Victor. It’s Alanis,” I said. “What are you doing after school tomorrow?”
It’s time to hit the road, and your horse is raring to go. You’ve got your armor and your battle club, and you’re ready for a ruckus—even though you don’t know who you’re fighting or why. In fact, you don’t have a clue where you’re going, either. So you might want to hold your horse and check your GPS before you set out. It’s way too easy to get lost in the desert, and all the bravery and determination in the world won’t keep you from cooking in that suit of armor.
Miss Chance, Infinite Roads to Knowing
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
We were in the black Caddy heading down Route 89A toward Sedona. Victor Castellanos was slumped beside me in the front seat looking like I was taking him in for a root canal.
“You didn’t have to say yes, you know,” I told him. “You could have told me you’d be washing your hair tonight.”
“That would have been lying,” he sighed. “And for some reason I find it hard to lie to you.”
“Why—you’re afraid I’ll call your mom?”
Lucia Castellanos had been one of my mother’s most loyal customers, which was how my mother had ended up with so much of her jewelry. I’d returned it all, yet Victor still didn’t trust me.
Lucia, on the other hand, didn’t just trust me. She seemed to think I was her handsome fortysomething son’s last, best shot at wedded bliss.
Victor slumped in his seat even more. Any lower and he’d be a puddle on the floorboards.
“My mother has nothing to do with it,” he said. “I’m happy to be your go-to guy for…whatever this is.”
He turned his head to look out at the brush-pocked desert and jutting buttes we were passing.
“And what are we doing, anyway?” he said. “Why make it a big secret?”
“Okay, you’re right. Cards-on-the-table time.” I saw the turnoff I’d been looking for and put on my signal. “What’s your preference? Gas station or 7-Eleven?”
“For what?”
“To rob, of course. You’re going to be the getaway driver.”
Victor’s eyes went wide.
“I’m kidding, silly,” I said. “You don’t stick up one of those places in broad daylight. We’re hitting a bank!”
Victor finally got it. He shook his head and let out a growly sigh.
“Funny. So where are we really going?”
“We’re going to look at houses in Sedona.”
“Look at houses?”
Victor looked even more alarmed than he had a few seconds before. I could see the terrifying question burning in his eyes.
Did Mom put her up to this?
“There’s a housing development I want to check out, that’s all,” I said. “You’re my beard.”
“Your beard?” Victor squeaked. “Why do you need a beard?”
“The usual reason. The house is in a Christian gated community, and I bat for the other team.”
Victor squinted at me, then shook his head again.
“No, you’re not,” he said. “Not the way you kiss.”
“Oh, yeah? How many lesbians have you kissed?”
“None,” he said. “And that includes you.”
“Don’t get out much, do you?”
Victor finally smiled. A little.
“See? This is fun, right?” I said. “It’s called joking. You should do it more often.”
“Are you telling me to lighten up?”
“Let me guess—you’ve heard that before.”
Victor folded his muscular arms across his broad, manly chest and pouted like a five-year-old.
“I can be light,” he said. “I’m light all the time. I—hey!”
He’d noticed the sign pointing toward Sedona. I was turning us in the opposite direction.
“You said the development was in Sedona.”
“It is.”
He jerked his thumb at the sign behind us. “Sedona’s thataway.”
“I know. But Cottonwood’s thisaway.”
“What’s in Cottonwood?”
“Don’t worry. This is just a little detour. Why don’t you show me how light you can be?”
Victor went back to pouting instead.
I parked the Caddy on the corner of a quiet street lined with squat one-story ranch houses and even squatter scrubby trees.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Victor said.
“Yeah?”
He pointed out the window.
“No 7-Elevens or gas stations,” he said.
I reached out and pinched his cheek old-school grandma–style.
“Thatta boy! There’s that fabled Castellanos lightness! Keep working on it till I get back.”
I picked up the notebook and pen I’d brought along and got out of the car.
“How long are you going to be gone?” Victor asked before I could close the door.
“Anywhere from ten seconds to forever, depending on how this goes. I’m guessing it’ll be somewhere in between.”
I started to close the door, then stopped myself.
“By the way, I left the key in the ignition. Just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“Oh, you’ll know.”
I closed the door before he could ask how.
It didn’t need saying.
Gun shots. Screams. Sir
ens.
Even Victor Castellanos would know he was really my getaway driver.
I walked a winding half-block to 3801 Pioneer Drive—home of Michael LoTempio, Arizona State Trooper.
The house was cute. A little candy-pink bungalow with a yard of white stones. A mesquite tree filled with twittering birds stood to the right of the walkway.
More importantly, there was only one car in the driveway. A Subaru Forester.
A wife car. A mom car. A not–Michael LoTempio’s car.
Or so I hoped.
If it were Michael LoTempio in the highway patrol car that had been lingering around the Riggs’s house…and if LoTempio saw me when I’d spotted the car a few days before…and if LoTempio had bashed Riggs’s not-exactly-ample brains out for getting him in trouble with that bust gone wrong…and if LoTempio were home now…and if he recognized me…
If all that? I was about to be in a hell of a lot of trouble.
I comforted myself by counting all those ifs as I walked up to the house. How unlucky would I have to be for this to go suddenly, disastrously, murderously wrong? Pretty damned.
But I couldn’t help remembering something Biddle said, too: luck is a sucker’s game.
Never count on being lucky…or not being lucky. Sure bets or nothing, that was the way to play.
This was not a sure bet.
I rang the doorbell anyway.
The classic two-note chime—DING dooooonnnng—echoed through the house. A moment later, the door opened and I found myself facing what I could only assume was Mrs. Michael LoTempio. If it were Mr. LoTempio, it was pretty amazing how much he looked like a slightly pudgy, long-haired Ellen DeGeneres.
“Can I help you?” Mrs. or Mr. LoTempio said.
“That’s what I’m hoping.” I smiled and stretched out a hand. “Gladys Kravitz. I’m new to the neighborhood.”
“Nice to meet you, Gladys. I’m Marion LoTempio.”
The woman returned the smile and gave my hand a dainty, ladylike shake.
“Did you move into the Rogers’s place?” she said. “I saw the moving van there a couple weeks ago.”
My smile widened. It looked like relying on luck hadn’t been such a bad bet after all.
“That was us!” I said. “Pioneer Drive’s newest pioneers!”
“Well, welcome. I’m sorry I haven’t popped by to say hello. Things have been”—Marion’s gaze slipped away to the side, her eyes going glassy; then she blinked and looked me in the eye again—“you know,” she said. “So how’s the neighborhood suit you so far?”
“That’s just what I’m here to talk to you about, actually. We’ve loved it here. Really, truly loved it. It’s been so beautiful. So quiet. Except for Sunday night.”
I let that hang there as if Marion should know what I was talking about.
“Sunday night?” she said, blinking at me in bafflement.
I nodded. “The night of the party.”
“Party?”
There was more blinking.
“Yes,” I said. “Those neighbors of ours—what a blowout they had! The talking, the laughing, the fireworks—I don’t think it stopped until dawn.”
“Are we talking about the McNallys or Joyce and Herman?”
Something about the names “Joyce and Herman” made me think they weren’t party animals.
“The McNallys,” I said. “Abner and I didn’t get a wink of sleep because of them. That’s why I’m going around today.” I waggled my notebook. “I wanted to see who might sign a petition calling for a block curfew.”
Marion eyed the notebook warily.
“I’m really sorry you had that experience,” she said. “But we’ve never had any problem like that ourselves.”
“So you didn’t notice anything strange Sunday night.”
“No.”
“Not even the mariachi band?”
“Mariachi band?” Marion blinked again, then narrowed her eyes. “I’m surprised my husband didn’t notice anything. He was working a late shift Sunday—got home sometime in the middle of the night—and he didn’t say anything about fireworks.”
“Well, those sort of came and went. So what kind of work does your husband do?”
“He’s an Arizona State Trooper.”
“You don’t say! And he always has to be on patrol in the middle of the night?”
“No, not usually. There was some kind of last-minute scheduling mixup and he ended up covering for a friend. If you want, you can talk to him about that night yourself.”
“He’s…here?”
I tensed.
Marion shook her head.
I relaxed.
“No,” Marion said. “But his shift was over forty minutes ago. He’ll be home any second.”
I tensed again and did something about it.
“Hey, that’s perfect!” I said, starting to back away from the door. “I’ll pop back and talk to him once I’ve spoken to some of the other neighbors. Thanks for your time. It was lovely meeting you!”
I gave Marion a little wave, then turned and hurried off up the street.
After maybe half a dozen steps, I heard the LoTempio’s door close behind me.
That didn’t stop my hurrying, though. Because any moment Michael LoTempio was going to come cruising up the street—and I knew now that he didn’t have an alibi for the night Bill Riggs had died.
Now here’s a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it. We can only assume that one of the things she wanted was a skirt so poofy you could park a golf cart under it. What’s she got down there? She’s not telling. What she’s not hiding is her familiar: the black cat at her feet. This queen doesn’t make things happen with a royal decree. She’s got some black magic mojo, and she’s not afraid to use it.
Miss Chance, Infinite Roads to Knowing
I made it back to the Caddy without being spotted, recognized, and run over by Michael LoTempio.
“Something wrong?” Victor said as I swung down into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove off almost—but not quite—quickly enough to do a Dukes of Hazzard–style peel out.
“Everything’s ducky,” I said. And I almost told him why.
We had a strong suspect lined up, and hopefully we were on our way to line up more. Slowly but surely we were getting Marsha Riggs off the hook.
Then I looked over and saw the way Victor had his big hands braced against the dashboard, long legs stiff and straight to push him back into his seat, teeth gritted, one eye closed. All because I was suddenly going 35 in a 25 zone.
I could just imagine his reaction when I told him we were poking our noses into a murder. So I didn’t tell him.
“Ready to look at some real estate?” I said.
“Sure,” he grunted, still bracing for an imminent crash. “But I’m not in any hurry.”
I got the message and eased off the gas.
For the moment.
The signs started ten miles outside Sedona.
A handsome, grinning gray-haired man clenching a fist and raising a club in victory as a golf ball rolls toward a hole.
OAK CREEK GOLF RESORT AND ESTATES
THE PERFECT PLACE TO PUTTER AROUND!
A EUREKA RESORTS INTERNATIONAL DESTINATION
Then: a regal gray-haired woman dressed in immaculate white laughing with three other Stepford Wives as a waiter brings them fruity drinks by a pool.
HEAVEN HAS A NEW NAME
…AND DAIQUIRIS
OAK CREEK GOLF RESORT AND ESTATES
A EUREKA RESORTS INTERNATIONAL DESTINATION
Etc.
“Is that where we’re headed?” Victor asked after the fifth sign.
“That’s right.”
“I’m not sure I’m going to fit in.”
Victor’s skin isn’t all that dark, but he was Darth Vader compared to the Casper the WASPy Ghosts on the billboards. The only brown-skinned person in any of the ads had been the guy bringing the daiquiris.
“Just try to t
hink like a Republican, and you’ll be fine,” I said.
“I am a Republican.”
I glanced over to see if Victor was joking.
He wasn’t.
“Well, then this’ll be easy,” I said.
I hoped I was right.
There was a gate with a guard, but all I had to say was “we’re here for a presentation” and we were waved through.
Despite the sign, Oak Creek Golf Resort and Estates didn’t seem like heaven to me. It looked like your typical housing development/timeshare getaway targeting upper–middle class families and retirees from back East. I knew such places well, though I’d never actually been to one. For years I’d peddled timeshare units like these over the phone. In a way, it was nice to see that they actually existed. Sometimes it had felt like I was selling rainbows and unicorns.
We drove past rows and rows of tidy two-story townhomes and villas with the occasional tennis court, swimming pool, or fountain to break up the monotony. Some of the houses were half done and there were stretches of empty street where construction had yet to begin, but it was clear what was coming: more of the same.
Then I noticed who was building it. A sign in front of one of the nearly finished houses told me.
ANOTHER QUALITY HOME BROUGHT TO YOU BY
HUGGINS CONSTRUCTION
The “former co-worker” who’d found Bill Riggs’s body had driven to his house in a Huggins Construction truck. So now I knew the connection…sort of.
It seemed a bit unlikely that a front-office guy like Riggs would pal around with someone from the construction crew. And even if he did, why was his buddy dropping by his house early on a Tuesday morning?
Curiouser and curiouser.
And then even curiouser still.
As we cruised past, I noticed two workmen—Huggins Construction employees, presumably—scrubbing graffiti off the side of the unfinished house. The red paint was faded now, but you could still read the message.
INDIAN LAND FOR INDIANS!
INDIAN LIBERATION FRONT
“Is this really Indian land?” I asked Victor.
He shook his head.
“Couldn’t be. They would never have gotten permission to build here if it was.”
I nodded as if that were true.
There’s no such thing as never, Biddle used to say. Just a higher price.
But tribal politics wasn’t my concern just then.
We’d passed Oak Creek’s sales office on the way in. I turned around, headed back to the small lot in front of the building, and parked the car.
Fool Me Once: A Tarot Mystery Page 11