Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery

by Louise Gaylord

  Del touches my arm. “I know you’ve never forgiven Reena for taking Paul away, but there wasn’t a mean bone in her body. She never intended to hurt anyone. It just never occurred to her that she was.”

  I don’t answer.

  Del drains his beer, then half whispers, “Okay then, don’t admit it. But you and I know you miss her too.”

  It’s my turn to look away as sadness wells. Del is right. We all worshipped at Reena’s shrine. She was the center of our world. When we were with her, anything was possible.

  I grab Del’s hand. “I guess that’s one thing we can agree on, no matter what she did, everybody loved Reena.”

  He sadly shakes his head. “No. Not everybody.”

  Del walks me across the highway and unlocks the door to my cottage, then opens his arms and says, “How ’bout a hug for an old friend.”

  “You bet.” I let him fold me to him, then I rest my head on his shoulder. It’s a brotherly hug offering no more than much-needed comfort.

  We stand there for a moment, then Del steps away. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  “I did, too. You can collect one anytime.”

  I wait until he disappears, then close the door behind me, letting the dull hum of the air conditioner numb my thoughts.

  The evidence against Paul is mounting. The million-dollar insurance policy on Reena was a stupid move, especially since half the county knows he’s been seeing another woman.

  I make my way across the room by the dim glow of neon from the motel sign and grope for the bedside lamp, when a voice comes out of the darkness.

  “It’s about time.”

  I recognize the voice and the aftershave. Bill Cotton. My pulse zips into the tattoo I’ve come to expect when he’s in proximity.

  I switch on the light to see him in the only comfortable chair in the room. “How did you get in here?”

  “Friends in high places.”

  I settle on the straight chair in front of the desk. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “Do you?” He’s mocking me, but his voice has a warm cast to it. “Not too well in this place. It’s the pits.”

  “You ought to try the jail. What did Del want?”

  “To tell me about an insurance policy Paul took out on Reena.”

  “Old news. But why was Darden so anxious for you to know about the insurance policy?”

  “Beats me.”

  He smirks. “Maybe what he wanted was a little sympathy and a warm body.”

  “Maybe your mind is in the sewer.”

  He laughs. It’s a nice laugh that comes from somewhere near the bottom of his belly.

  I rearrange myself on the hard seat searching for comfort. “If you already know about the policy, then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Well, I have two bits of information for you.”

  When my brows arch he says, “The car was clean. Other than your prints we found zip, zero, nada. Whoever had the car last must’ve worn gloves.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean Paul.”

  “No. But why didn’t Paul come to us with this important piece of evidence?”

  Since I’m not Paul’s attorney, I squelch my urge to mount a defense. “Go figure. What’s the other bit?”

  “I’m allowing Carpenter to leave the county tomorrow. Seems his CPA needs him, tax extension or something, so one of my boys is driving him to Laredo bright and early.”

  “What possible difference could that make to me?”

  He gives me a lazy grin. “I didn’t want you to think he was standing you up.”

  “We didn’t make breakfast plans.” I check my watch and stand. “It’s late and I’m exhausted. See you tomorrow.”

  The sheriff pulls himself out of the chair and crosses the room to stand much too close for comfort. “Tomorrow?”

  His eyes don’t leave my face, but I feel as if he’s stripping my clothes from my body. I realize I’m trembling, but not from fear. No man has ever sexually stirred me so—not Paul nor wonderful, steady, comfortable Duncan. A momentary wave of guilt cuts through my heat, but quickly fades as he closes the distance between us. He’s not touching me, but he might as well be. And, if he does, I don’t think I can be held accountable for my next move.

  I use every bit of will to break the moment and slide toward the door. “Reena’s autopsy report? Nine o’clock?”

  The minute there’s space between us, my strength resurges and a crazy thought burbles through my head that maybe this man’s aftershave contains Kryptonite.

  “Oh. Right.” He stands there staring at me, face soft with longing.

  “Thanks for dropping by.” I nod toward the darkness and say, “See you tomorrow.”

  He runs his hand through his thick mop, then smiles back. “Tomorrow.” Then slips past me and steps into the night.

  My reaction to Bill Cotton’s visit only adds to my frustration as I check my heart rate and find it has hardly diminished in the minutes since his departure. In fact I’ve been wandering about, slowly peeling my clothes away, dropping them wherever I stand until I collapse on the bed and pull the sheet over my bare body.

  The air conditioner wheezes, sending a small rush of tepid air across me. It’s then I realize I didn’t have time to deal with the cooling problem, much less with the evening crowded with new revelations.

  The news of Paul’s trip to Laredo troubles me. He didn’t mention one word about it at dinner. There were several phone calls during the evening, all taken on the second floor, but he remained a winning host throughout. To my surprise he took my exit reasonably well, and was even gracious enough to walk me to the station wagon.

  He took my hand. “There’s so much I want to tell you. So much I need to tell you.” He sighed. “There’s been a lot going on in my life. A lot I’m not very proud of. Now that Reena’s dead, I’m afraid I might be next.”

  “You know who killed her, don’t you?”

  Paul started to reply, then seemingly changed his mind. “If anything happens to me, there’s a copy of the combination to the safe in the stables taped underneath the top left drawer in my dresser.”

  He kissed my forehead, then whispered, “Remember, I love you. I always have. I always will.”

  As if on cue, the air conditioner belches. I fret about the ominous symptom of impending air-conditioner-death for a moment, then pitch to my side, pulling the pillow over my ear, hoping to block the noise.

  Del’s news about the million-dollar policy gives me pause. It’s true Paul has changed. So have I, but I always considered him a prudent person. Why would he make such a blatant move?

  I roll to the other side and, just as that infernal machine burps again, pull the sheet around me in anticipation of a shot of cooler air. Nothing happens for a moment, then there’s a huge grinding sound and I realize it’s in its final death throes.

  One last whump, then a wheeze, then merciful silence. No matter that there’s not a breath of air coming through the open window. Tomorrow I will change rooms, hoping to find a healthier cooling unit, and an end to the sheriff ’s too-easy access.

  Chapter 12

  AT SIX A.M., I PULL MYSELF from a second night’s torture and stagger to the bathroom. No pleasure palace there. The washbasin stands alone, offering no accommodation for even the barest of necessities.

  The sink is aces compared to the tub, the bottom of which is etched brown with rust. I am a shower person, but I need a miracle to get the gushing downward spate up the pipe to the showerhead. I crank the transfer handle that jerks, then trembles while the partly clogged nozzle above coughs and clinks until it gives forth its anemic offering. Nothing can make the stream any stronger than a puny trickle and I long for my stinging spray in Houston.

  Though I manage to get the soap out, my mousey-brown crimp fails the squeaky-clean test. I hate that. Call it a fetish, but clean hair matters. The only answer is to towel dry it and, before it kinks, twist it into a knot on the top of my head.

 
By the time I make it to the Medical Examiner’s office, which is a few doors from Cotton’s, I am very out of sorts.

  My nose quivers as the smell of death rushes forward. It’s not exactly the odor of decay, but the antiseptic veil that covers it.

  Dr. Keene, the ME, is nowhere in sight, but Cotton is already there, slumped in one chair, wearing a crisp uniform. “Did your mama say it was all right to wear your hair up?” His taunt is softened by a lazy drawl and an amused look on his face.

  I ignore the jibe and sit. “Where’s Keene?”

  “My men just hauled in a ‘floater.’ Some galoot drowned in a cattle tank out by Knippa last week.”

  He grabs a folder from Keene’s desk. “Are you sure you want to see these? They’re pretty graphic.”

  “I’ve seen about everything there is to see.”

  “Okay. But remember, you asked for it. Hope you have a strong stomach.”

  It’s a blessing the photos are in black-and-white. The first shot from behind the corpse shows the full body, face up. Reena is clothed in her trademark long-sleeved shirt, long pants, and sling-backed flats.

  The scavengers have taken their toll. Blackened claw prints punctuated by droppings trail across the blouse and down the slacks. To one side, her shattered sunglasses glint in the sun.

  I pick up a magnifying glass from Keene’s desk and study the picture. There appears to be only a few wrinkles in the groin area of the slacks and the creases are still sharp at the knees. Reena couldn’t have been riding a horse. Was she knocked unconscious away from the site, then slung across the back of a saddle like a bag of feed?

  The next shot is taken from foot to head. It’s then I see the gaping slit in her throat that begins below the left ear, goes downward and across the mid-line of the neck, then ends below her right ear.

  I shiver and stutter, “They cut her throat? I thought it was a shooting.”

  “Shooting would be too merciful. Whoever did this wanted her to suffer. It’s called a necktie job. Usually mob connected.”

  That doesn’t make any sense at all. “So, you think it was a professional killing?”

  He shrugs. “We don’t know. There’s so little evidence...”

  His voice trails to a halt as the third glossy sends me reeling. It’s a close-up of Reena’s face. Those delicate features that trapped many a male, obliterated by the sun’s relentless rays and the hungry predators’ feast. Only gaping sockets remain. Her lips have vanished. Teeth jagged stubs.

  I can almost feel the buzzards’ tough beaks, pulling—picking, slashing—tearing. I try to knock the gruesome picture away. No use. I’ll remember it as long as I live.

  The sheriff ’s voice intrudes. “Want some water?”

  I shake my head, afraid to look up, afraid to betray my feelings.

  Keene’s return saves me. He’s a dried-up bone of a man savaged by the South Texas sun. Unimposing in every way except for piercing black eyes and straight bushy brows.

  He speaks to the sheriff, first describing the state of the “floater,” saying he’ll have some results by tomorrow.

  Then, he turns to me. “I see you have the pictures.”

  I nod and squeak, “Her throat was slit.”

  Keene nods back. “Never saw one of those before. People out here usually settle their differences with a gun or a noose.”

  Nothing in my career as Assistant District Attorney has prepared me for what I’ve just seen or for what Keene says next.

  “FYI, the subject was involved in a sexual encounter sometime shortly before her demise.”

  He lays the information on me in a rather off-hand manner, then I realize he’s of the old school and is embarrassed to say such things in front of a woman.

  I sit up at that and notice that Bill Cotton does, too. “With the man who slit her throat?” I ask.

  Keene smiles a little. “Looks like it. That’s the one concrete piece of evidence we have. If we’re lucky, the DNA results will give the bastard up.”

  He runs his finger down the report. “No defense injuries. Fingernails clean. Not a crack in her manicure. There was no attempt to ward off an attack. It appears she knew her killer—well.”

  I flip back to the first photo. “But she was fully clothed.”

  “They probably had sex first,” Keene said. “Then he killed her.”

  My mouth drops open at that. “Oh, come on. Are you telling me the killer waited for Reena to put herself together before he swacked her?”

  The sheriff reaches for the photo, examines it a minute, then says, “Maybe it wasn’t the person she had sex with. Maybe it was someone who caught them in the act. Like a jealous husband?”

  “Could be,” Keene says. “But then that would mean there’s a witness still walking around. That doesn’t seem quite logical. I mean, if I killed someone in front of a witness, that witness would have to go, too.”

  I can’t believe Keene’s overlooked such an obvious clue: Reena’s shoes. “Maybe Mrs. Carpenter wasn’t even killed at that site. She wouldn’t have gone riding in those shoes.”

  I hand him the photo.

  He examines it for a few minutes and when he looks up, his face holds new respect. “You’re right. She couldn’t have ridden a horse very well wearing shoes like that.” He picks up the report and rereads a paragraph on the second page. “Nope. No contusions noted on her feet or ankles. ’Course the body was pretty badly decomposed.”

  Keene stands, indicating the meeting is over. But when I rise, the room spins, then grows dark. I lurch sideways into the sheriff. He guides me back into my seat, then sits beside me.

  Through the haze, I hear Keene say, “Have her lower her head between her knees, while I rustle up some smelling salts.”

  I don’t have the strength for that, so I tilt into his chest, realize he’s trembling, and feel him for the briefest instant barely touch the top of my head with his lips.

  The ammonia snaps me to and I see Keene’s grinning face only a few inches from mine. “I was wondering how long it would take for all this to hit you. Those pictures were pretty grisly.”

  I sit up, head still a little too light for comfort. “I’ve seen plenty worse, but I knew her. Guess I’m not as tough as I thought.” Keene slides behind his desk. “Don’t sell yourself short, little missy. I’ve seen big fellas keel over much quicker’n you did.”

  Cotton has shepherded me down the street to the only drugstore in town that features a soda fountain and a few booths.

  “Two orders of eggs over easy with ranchero sauce, a side of beans, and some black coffee.”

  He shoots me a brief smile, then busies himself with his cell phone. “Hey, it’s Cotton. Just checking in.”

  I see his jaw bunch and his mouth flatten to a hard, thin line. Finally, he lets out a long breath. “Stupid sonovabitch. I ask him to do one simple little thing and he screws up. You got an APB going?” His nods are accompanied by a lot of “uh-huhs,” then he flips the phone shut.

  “Well, your boyfriend has slipped my deputy.”

  I frown, because what he says isn’t registering.

  “Paul Carpenter is missing. He managed to shake off the deputy I sent with him to Laredo. I don’t need to tell you what this means, do I?”

  My stomach vacates the premises. Though Paul is not technically a fugitive, he can now be arrested if they find him.

  “Bad news is, Carpenter’s on foot. Leaving us with no car to trace. We didn’t let him take his cell, so that’s a dead end, too. CPA said he was with another client when Carpenter arrived, then got waylaid in the hall on some tax matter. By the time he got to the office where my deputy sequestered Paul, more than twenty minutes had passed and Paul adiosed.”

  My mind races. If Paul was planning to run, wouldn’t he have told me? I think back to the last evening we shared and his parting words: Remember, I love you. I always have. I always will.

  Was that his way of saying goodbye?

  “Did Carpenter say anything to
you about... anything?”

  “You were the one who told me Paul was going to Laredo when you paid me a visit last night. Remember?”

  “Right.” He looks a little sheepish. “I was a damn fool to let him get so near the border. The whole thing’s my fault. His CPA’s office building is a single story and only blocks from the bridge. All he had to do was mingle and cross.”

  “He wasn’t under arrest, was he?”

  “You know he wasn’t. Don’t try to be his lawyer. It’s too late for that.”

  Breakfast arrives, but my concern for Paul and the horrific pictures of Reena have killed my appetite. I shove my eggs around the plate and watch the sheriff demolish his.

  By the time we get to the Anacacho station wagon, the sheriff is all business. I’ve been given strict instructions to notify him immediately should Paul contact me, and cautioned not to speak to anybody about this latest development.

  He helps me into the station wagon, then pushes on the door until it softly clicks. “Where will you be?”

  There’s no point in lying. In all probability, he’ll have me tailed as a precaution. “I thought I’d drive out to Anacacho. Paul might have contacted Miguel by now.”

  “Not a bad idea. I’d like us to work together on this, are you game?”

  “Fine by me, but you better give me your cell phone number.” He studies me for a minute. I guess he’s trying to decide whether or not I can be trusted. If he were to ask me that question directly, I honestly don’t know how I would answer. My main mission is to find Miguel and hopefully, through him, find Paul.

  He pulls out a pad, scribbles a number, and hands it to me. “Just use the area code, not the one.”

  He nods, then turns away to begin the trip back to his office in the municipal complex.

  I reach for the key, then sit back and sigh. What on earth could Paul have been thinking? Did he slip his escort on purpose, or did “they” spirit him out of that CPA’s office against his will?

  He’s been missing long enough to get back to Anacacho, but I’m sure he won’t go to the ranch house. Maybe the lean-to? It’s quite possible Paul might hide there. If that’s so, I want to get to him first.