Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery

by Louise Gaylord

  For the next few weeks Paul called several times a day. After a few long, impassioned tries, the messages abruptly stopped.

  I have to admit there were times I thought about Paul and what he said that soft January morning, but not with the longing I once felt.

  Duncan gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Well? What about it?” “Your offer’s too good to pass up. Nobody makes pesto better than you. Chianti Classico or Montepulciano?”

  His eager grin throws his whole face off-kilter. “You choose. Come up about seven.”

  Dinner is divine. I help Duncan clean up and we settle on his couch. It’s very comfortable to be in his arms and feel his lips on mine. For the last two months Duncan has let me make the moves, but tonight he wants more and he deserves it.

  It’s time to tell him about Paul.

  I move away and say, “We have to talk.” He tries to pull me to him.

  “Please, Duncan.”

  He lets me go. “Want some wine? I have a feeling this is serious.”

  After he fills two glasses and sits, I give him a brief synopsis of my relationship with Paul, carefully omitting the pregnancy. Frankly, I’m torn about not giving full disclosure, but what happened was so many years ago and I dealt with my loss as well as I could. Still, I know how the past can sometimes jump up and bite you in the rear.

  “I appreciate your honesty, Allie.”

  He takes my hand in his. “I owe you the same.”

  Damn. I’m not into true confessions. Not now, anyway. I scramble to break the moment, but find no way to do that without seeming callous.

  “You once asked why I left Chicago. Remember?”

  I nod. “But it’s really not necessary to...”

  “I was engaged to my boss’s daughter. I thought she was the one, but when it came down to actually planning the wedding, I balked. Joe Pine, our illustrious DA, is Mother’s half-brother. He took me in until I could find a place to live and helped me get the job.”

  I smile. “Seems we both have a past. So let’s be a little careful.” Duncan smiles back, his voice buzzy. “I love you. Is that okay?”

  When I find my own words, they’re a little buzzy, too. “I love you right back and it’s more than okay. But I need a little time.” He gathers me to him and whispers, “Do I have a choice?”

  It’s after nine-thirty when I open the door to my apartment. Though I’m still “intact,” the level of intimacy between Duncan and me has accelerated.

  I regard this new plateau in our relationship as sort of a promise of a promise. Since we declared our feelings, it seemed a little silly not to allow a greater range of latitude between us and, it was all I could do to put on the skids.

  Duncan knew all the right moves, yet I never felt pressured to do anything I wasn’t willing to do. It was actually his choice to stop when we did, but he made the suggestion with grace and diplomacy.

  We were still sort of in our clothes when he kissed the base of my throat and said, “This has to be your call, Allie. Is it my bed or the door?”

  I knew he meant it. I still don’t know why I chose the door, but when I did, he kissed me long and hard, then moved away so I could put myself together.

  “I guess I better get out of here before things get worse.” “Things are pretty bad right now,” Duncan whispered. “In fact, I’m about to ask you to reconsider.” “How about a rain check?”

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  I nodded, then slipped away and through his door.

  I barely notice the blinking light on my machine because I’m still decompressing from being wrapped in Duncan’s arms. When it grabs my attention, I wander over and idly push the play button.

  Susie’s voice is broken with sobs. “I don’t know how to tell you this except straight out. Reena’s dead. You have to come, Allie. I’m sure Paul will send the jet. Please don’t say no.”

  I’m shocked by my reaction to the news. It’s as if some great hand ripped a hole in my stomach. All I can see is Reena, shiny blonde cascades framing her porcelain face. Those huge blue eyes. I can almost hear that croaky laugh as she describes the latest cockamamie stunt for the evening.

  Tears stream as I call Duncan. He’s here in seconds. Pours me a stiff drink and sits beside me until I’m calm enough to have a few rational thoughts.

  At his suggestion, I check the times of the messages. Susie’s call was around eight. There were hang-ups at eight-ten and eight-thirty.

  We sit huddled together and wait in silence.

  When the phone rings we both jump. I pick up the receiver. It’s Paul.

  “Allie?”

  “Oh, Paul, I’m so sorry. When...?” I can’t finish the sentence. “Last Friday. We fought. She took her car.” He pauses. “I have to be honest. I was glad she went, but when her mother called on Sunday, I told her she was visiting a neighbor. Reena wasn’t many things, but she was a good daughter. She didn’t let a weekend pass without talking to her family. First thing Monday I went to the sheriff in Uvalde. They saw the buzzards and found her.”

  I shudder. “How did she die?”

  “They didn’t say. They’re not giving out any information until they have all the evidence.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “At my place in the mountains.”

  “But Reena doesn’t ride. How did she get there?” Silence.

  “Paul?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure they think I did it.”

  I must confess that immediately occurred to me. But then, I rationalize, Paul would be stupid to leave Reena’s body at his private hideaway, a spot surrounded by rugged terrain, accessible only by horseback.

  “Can you represent me?”

  “No, I can’t. I have next to no trial experience. I’ve only been third chair in a child abuse case. You need the best criminal defense you can find.”

  “But will you come?”

  I cadge a glance at Duncan, who’s now alert. “I have a week off before the next Grand Jury session.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” There’s relief in Paul’s voice.

  “I should be able to clear things up here by early afternoon tomorrow. Have the jet at Hobby by three.”

  I hang up and turn to see that Duncan’s face has lost some of its sympathetic glow. “You’re going?”

  “I have to. Reena Carpenter was an old friend and Paul is... was her husband.”

  “The Paul you told me about?”

  When I nod, his hands grasp my shoulders. “Let me come with you. I’ll get a room at a motel. I’ll go to the funeral with you, then we can come home.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that. What about your caseload?”

  “Damn the caseload. Damn the law.” He squeezes me hard and whispers, “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Chapter 7

  TO MY RELIEF, THE JET LANDS at the Uvalde airstrip instead of continuing on to Anacacho, but I know Paul will be waiting.

  He gets out and leans against his car until the engines wind down, then walks slowly toward me, not with the proud bearing I remember, but stooped as if someone laid a whip across his back.

  My feelings for Paul I was so positive had faded, tumble forward as tears come. “I’m sorry—so sorry.”

  He gathers me to him and hugs hard.

  I feel him shaking and look up.

  “They want me for questioning.” He motions behind him. “Oh, Paul.” I crane to see a police car parked down the road at a discreet distance.

  “I know the sheriff pretty well, in fact I helped him get elected, but the only special favor I’m allowed is to get you settled before...” He doesn’t finish.

  “No warrant is out?”

  “He didn’t mention a warrant.” “Do you have representation?”

  “I didn’t think I needed any.”

  I start to chastise him for not getting an attorney, then realize the man is obviously in shock and not thinking clearly.

  “Don’t worry. Fr
om what you’ve said, this sounds like a routine interview. Let me drop off my stuff and I’ll come with you.”

  It’s a short drive to the motel on Highway 90 with the patrol car not far behind. Paul parks in front of the fourth cabin from the office. After pointing out an all-night café across the highway, he unlocks the door.

  The room is spare but spotless and a card on the television touts a satellite. Luckily, I have my cell, since there seems to be no telephone. I dump my fold-over and suitcase on the double bed and join Paul for the trip to the municipal building.

  After we are ushered into the sheriff ’s office, Paul introduces me.

  The man grabs my hand as his electric-blues look into mine and connect with a surprising jolt. “I’m Bill Cotton.”

  He’s wearing some sort of aftershave—a delicious smoky scent of sandalwood.

  I snatch my hand away and move to the nearest chair, relieved that no one else seems to catch the moment.

  The sheriff produces a tape recorder, mumbles information into the microphone, and sets it before Paul.

  “Okay, Paul, if you’ll just give us your name, address, etcetera, we’ll get you through this as quick as possible.”

  The sheriff ’s eyes grab my attention for the second time. Angela would call them Paul Newman blue. Maybe, but the resemblance ends there. Beneath brown wavy hair, his face is sharp with angles: high cheekbones, a well-balanced but somewhat patrician nose, and a square jaw. But in a pleasant contrast his full lips turn up at the corners.

  The sheriff ’s questions are relatively simple. When did Paul see Reena last? What were the circumstances surrounding her departure? Why did Paul wait so long to report her missing? How many others knew of his hideaway?

  He looks up from the notes he’s been taking, rivets his eyes to mine, then finally breaks the charged silence with a low, “And what do you do?”

  My response is almost conspiratory, as if no one else was in the room. “I’m a prosecutor for Harris County.”

  He turns to Paul. “Is she the attorney of record?” “I’m here as a friend.”

  He cocks one brow. “A DA? In that case, I guess we won’t have to watch you so close.”

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence.” I match his stare for a few seconds, then say, “I do have a favor to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Would it be possible for me to visit the murder site?”

  “I don’t see why not. My guys are done up there. Can you handle a horse in rugged terrain?”

  “No problem.” “What’s your reason?” “Curiosity.”

  He studies me for a moment then says in a slow, lazy drawl, “Remember what happened to the cat.”

  That finally gets me and I struggle to keep my voice even. “I believe a cat has nine lives, but for the record, how do you think Reena got up there?”

  That gets his attention. “Pardon?”

  “I’m asking how Reena got there. She didn’t ride. She was scared to death of horses.”

  He turns to Paul. “That’s pretty important information, Carpenter, why didn’t I hear it from you?”

  Paul couldn’t look any worse or more guilty. “Sorry, I guess I haven’t been thinking very straight. But Allie’s right, I never saw Reena go near a horse.”

  The sheriff adds a few sentences to his notes, then rises. “You’re free to go for now, but don’t leave the county.”

  As we start for the door, he says, “Oh, by the way, we may have a jurisdictional problem here. I know the main house sits in Uvalde County, but doesn’t your property spill into Kinney and Maverick Counties?”

  Paul thinks a minute. “Yes, both.”

  “Do you know which county that lean-to is in?”

  Paul nods. “I’m not sure, but I have the survey at the ranch.” “If you can’t come up with it, we’ll dig through the records at the courthouse.”

  The sheriff is now standing next to me, notes clasped to him. I notice the creases in his short-sleeved uniform shirt are still crisp even after what I assume is a long day. His arms sport a fine sheen of sun-bleached hair over smooth, well-tanned skin. The scent of his aftershave invades my nostrils, making me a little unsteady on my feet.

  He runs his hands through his heavy crop of hair. “I’ve been meaning to call on you about another problem, so I’ll just ask you now. Have you noticed any unusual tire tracks on the Maverick County side of your land?”

  Paul shakes his head. “I haven’t ridden the fence line for years. But I’m sure if something was amiss, my new hand would have mentioned it. He’s pretty alert. Looking for wetbacks?”

  “At first we thought so, but instead of the usual footprints the Maverick County sheriff found bicycle tracks leading from the river toward the highway.”

  “Bicycles?” Paul says. “How can those poor bastards afford a bicycle?”

  “They can’t. Someone’s supplying them. The sheriff and his deputy picked up a few discarded bikes along Highway Two-Seventy-Seven. Seems they’ve been modified to carry several hundred pounds of cargo and I don’t think we’re talking suitcases. More than likely marijuana or cocaine. I’d appreciate it if you’d check with your hand, then give me a call. What did you say his name was?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s Luke Hansen. I’ll talk to him first thing in the morning.”

  The sheriff turns to me. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Welcome to Uvalde.”

  For the second time, his handshake sends a spark through me that makes my knees go weak.

  “You, too,” is all that comes to mind and as the words leave my mouth I curse myself for being so inane.

  Paul and I return to the all-night diner for a late supper. Once we are seated in a cracked red vinyl booth, he orders salads, steaks with fries, and homemade apple pie, then pours vodka from a silver flask into the two glasses of ice the waitress has provided.

  He shoves my glass across the tired Formica, then hunches into his shoulders. Reena’s death seems to have aged him a good ten years. I notice he’s no longer just thin, but hollow-cheeked, and there’s a day’s stubble on his chin. Even his voice seems to crawl from the deeps.

  “Lord, I’m tired.”

  My next question seems to pitch him into a bluer funk. “Have you seen Susie and Del?”

  He looks away. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk. But to keep the conversation afloat, I say, “Susie delivered a little girl the Monday after I was here in January. Her name is Allie. After me.”

  “I didn’t know that. Or maybe I did once, and just forgot.” He’s been staring down at his glass for the last few minutes, so I haven’t been able to read his reactions. He looks up. “Del’s been overseeing the ranch business. We mainly communicate by fax. As for Susie...” He shrugs and downs his drink.

  I’m surprised Paul no longer seems to care about the ranch as much as he once did. When we first met, he was putting in long hours and was proud of the way he expanded the cattle business along with drilling two more oil wells.

  “Who’s handling your oil properties?”

  Before Paul can answer, from behind us a loud voice underlined by a steel-tipped staccato says, “Paul Carpenter. I’ve been looking all over town for you.”

  He looks up and flushes. “Fanny.”

  I look into dark brows knitted into a single line accentuating flashing eyes.

  In one ear, I hear Susie’s voice: “Paul’s been seeing a woman for several months and he’s not trying to hide it.” In the other: Reena’s, “Too damned bad the bank found Fanny.”

  The diner falls silent as Paul slides from the booth, grabs the woman’s arm and mutters, “Sit down.”

  Her generous mouth draws into a downward curl. “This booth is a bit too crowded for me.”

  Though she struggles to break Paul’s hold, he wins and pulls her next to him. “Allie, this is Fanny Hansen. Fanny, this is my attorney, Alice Armington.”

  I watch as she tries to collect herself, then realize that Paul has just lied. It’s plain he
’s lied to appease her, but he has lied.

  Despite her tough demeanor, Fanny is very pretty. Her hair is almost the same brown as mine and is complimented by a smooth olive complexion. She’s probably in her late thirties, closer in age to Paul who is a good five years my senior. Her sleeveless red linen dress, cut high at the neck, is chicly defined by several twined ropes of white chalk. But what grabs me is the major diamond weighing down her left ring finger.

  “You’re Paul’s lawyer?”

  I give Paul a reproving look and say, “No, I don’t represent Paul. I work for the Harris County District Attorney.” “A DA?”

  “An Assistant DA with the Grand Jury Division.” At this point I decide to go on attack. “And just what do you do?”

  She shoots back, “Real estate,” then blinks at Paul and coos, “That’s how I met Paul.”

  “You live in Laredo?”

  “I have a condo there.” She pauses. “But I have a place here, too. Two to three months now, isn’t that right, darling?”

  I make a few mental calculations and realize Paul must have set her up in February. So much for his declaration of undying love.

  Paul’s misery grows exponentially at every word Fanny utters. He’s been caught and can’t escape. He excuses himself, leaving us to stare stonily at each other until he reappears.

  When he does, a wide smile has replaced his former dejection. He settles next to Fanny, gives her a nudge, then turns on the charm and tells a few slightly risqué stories. When the food arrives, Fanny orders a Lone Star beer, then amuses herself by snitching fries off Paul’s plate and begging in baby-talk for bites of steak from his fork. I notice he hardly touches his food, but ring it up to Fanny’s cloying ministrations.

  Her act is so nauseating, I plead exhaustion, shake Fanny’s hand while repeating all the polite phrases my mother taught me, then shove my apple pie toward her and say in my best French, “Bon appétit.”

  Paul, who has abandoned his bewildered fiancée to walk me across the highway to the motel, is standing much too close. “May I come in?” he whispers.

  The ring on Fanny’s finger has shaken me terribly. “Is that your ring?”