Small Towns Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  Sally spoke up. "It just seems odd to me, in this day and time, for a woman to die from a miscarriage. I don't know, maybe it still happens, but..."

  The unfinished sentence dangled in the air between the three of us.

  Chapter 3

  "Would it be a problem for you to stay overnight?" Sally asked the question as we drove out of Laura’s narrow lane.

  Something in her voice got my attention just before the words of refusal came to my lips. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. Her blue eyes were wide, her mouth set with a tension I'd seldom seen. Suddenly the question was important.

  "I suppose I could," I answered neutrally. "What do you have in mind?" As if I didn't know.

  She didn't speak for a minute. When she did, there were tears in her voice. "Charlie, what's the matter with me? I didn't even know Cynthia Martinez. But, somehow I desperately care about what happened to her. Do you suppose we could stay around awhile and look into it?"

  "Sure. Let's find a room for the night, then we'll phone home so nobody worries." Even as I said it, I realized that as long as I could get my neighbor to feed my dog and let him out, there was no one home to worry about me. "Will Ross mind you staying?"

  "Oh, no. Not for one night. He'll be working anyway."

  We stopped at a small variety store that was about to close early because it was Sunday afternoon. We each picked out toothbrushes, toothpaste, and an oversize t-shirt to sleep in. At home I sleep in the nude, but felt a little funny about it in the same room with Sally. Although she's a friend, she's also an employee. We decided we could rinse out our undies in the sink and wear the same clothes tomorrow.

  The Ponderosa Inn had a vacancy. Despite the fact that this was a holiday weekend, obviously Valle Escondido was not crowded with vacationers. It just isn't your destination kind of town. The room was clean, but stiflingly hot. We opened the door and cranked the air conditioner all the way up. Within a few minutes, it became bearable. For our twenty-three dollars, we'd rented two double beds with equally saggy-looking mattresses, towels only slightly thicker than the sheets, and a view of the parking lot. Heat waves rose off the blacktop, so we closed the door.

  "Now what?" Sally asked after we had each called home. My neighbor, Elsa Higgins, had been more than glad to take Rusty in for the night, no questions asked. Ross, as predicted, was easy-going about whatever Sally wanted to do.

  "I guess that's up to you," I told her. "Did you just want to hang out, or did you have in mind that we try to get to the bottom of the situation with Cynthia?"

  She squirmed a little, knowing that I'm a sucker for the underdog, and have at times risked my own life to prove a point.

  "Well... I was kind of thinking we could ask a few questions," she said.

  Actually, I had been thinking the same thing myself. "Okay," I said, "you're the native. Tell me if anyone you know around here might help us."

  She looked a little blank. We both stretched out on our beds to think.

  "Well," I continued, "we should find out where she died. If she was home, who else was there. If she went to the hospital, who was her doctor. If there was anything suspicious about the death, there might have been a police report filed."

  "Like I told Laura, I didn't know Cynthia when I lived here. As far as I can remember, I didn't know her family, although it's a pretty good bet that a third of this town is named Martinez."

  I picked up the phone book from the nightstand between us, and thumbed through the pages while she talked. There were two Richard Martinezes listed, one Rick, and two others with the initial R.

  "There isn't a hospital here, only the clinic. But I think I do know one of the doctors there," she said brightening somewhat.

  "Would they be around on a Sunday afternoon?" I asked.

  "Umm... Not likely. And tomorrow's a holiday." She sounded disappointed at this revelation.

  "But there must be a number people use for emergencies. One of the doctors must be on call."

  "Probably," she agreed.

  "Why don't we take a little drive, get some dinner, and you can show me around the town? I'd like to get my bearings."

  The late afternoon sun was still high in the cloudless sky. It had been more than a month since the last rain, and the brown-tinged grass and droopy shrubs showed it. Even the ponderosa pines were grayish in the heat. It would probably be another month before the seasonal rains began. This is the time of year when sprinkler systems work overtime. The heat waves in the parking lot were intense. Even so, it was at least ten degrees cooler here than in Albuquerque. I was glad I'd pulled my shoulder length hair up into a ponytail and worn light cotton clothing.

  Valle Escondido consists of one main street, and I had already seen most of it. The town sits at the opening to a small valley surrounded by mountains. There is only one way in. The road eventually runs out at the base of the hills. Coming into town from the south, we had passed a lumber yard, two car dealers, a motorcycle repair shop, and other service-type establishments. Our motel was next, followed by the small shopping center where we'd visited the variety store already. The center also housed a grocery store of respectable size, and two fast food places. Across the street from the grocery store was the clinic. Just past that, a turn-off to a small plaza. We circled it.

  The bustle and glamour of Santa Fe's plaza were entirely missing here. A few tired-looking trees stood in the middle of the square, the grass beneath them worn away and untended now. The buildings—a hotel, drygoods store, cafe, and saddlery—looked sadly unused. Their exteriors were shabby compared to the newer buildings in town.

  Small side streets led to residential areas. Now Sally directed me to drive north. We passed Rosa's where we had eaten lunch. Beyond the curve in the road the businesses thinned. A fairly major side street led to the high school. Sally had me turn there, and we cruised the parking lot so she could reminisce. Out here the residences became larger. This must be the right side of town. Eventually these, too, petered out, the land becoming flatter. Farms with a few horses, cows, and sheep dotted the countryside. Beyond the flat land the mountains rose sharply, defining without question the hidden valley the place was named for.

  Backtracking into town once again, we decided on a small diner that looked reasonably clean and comfortingly crowded. As we got out of the car, Sally pointed out the town government building across the street. It was a one-story adobe, like most everything else in town, and housed the mayor's office and police department. She thought they had probably a half dozen officers by now.

  The diner served regular down-home style cookin' according to their sign. The chicken fried steak came with cream gravy, mashed potatoes, and a spoonful of canned green beans. Pretty much the way Elsa makes it "down-home." Sally had a large salad, lean turkey, and milk because of her condition. I knew it wouldn't hurt me to follow her example, but the chicken fried steak looked so much better. Again, I vowed to start an exercise routine soon.

  "So, when does Drake arrive?" she asked, once we were working on our dinners.

  "Next weekend," I answered.

  Drake Langston was the helicopter pilot I'd met while on vacation in Hawaii a couple of months ago. He lives there and has, on more than one occasion, suggested that I join him. It's tempting. I'm just not sure I want to pack up and move three thousand miles away to be with a guy I've known mostly over the telephone. He'd been extremely patient with my uncertainty so far. His upcoming vacation was meant to be an experiment in finding out how well we really do get along.

  "Bet you can hardly wait," Sally continued. "I'd be on pins and needles to see him again."

  "I guess I am kinda nervous about it," I admitted. "It's strange, thinking about him actually being here, staying at my house and all."

  "Why? You stayed at his house when you went there," she reasonably pointed out.

  "Only the last couple of days. After I got bashed over the head, and the doctor said I had to either stay in the hospital or have someone watch over me
." I really hadn't admitted to Sally or anyone yet, just how close I'd come to falling in love with Drake during that ten day trip. I pride myself on being more level headed than that. But his sexy smile had made an impression on me that holds to this day. The reminder of his tender lovemaking did have my insides fluttering again at the prospect of more.

  I caught Sally trying to read my face.

  "So," I said, changing the subject, "you mentioned that you know one of the doctors at the clinic? Well enough to ask some questions about Cynthia?"

  "I can try. You know how doctors are about confidentiality, though. We may not learn a thing."

  She was right. I was beginning to seriously question what we thought we might learn about a woman we didn't even know, who may or may not have died under perfectly normal circumstances.

  Back in the room, I again picked up the phone book. There weren't that many Richard Martinezes listed, and I could think of only one way to find out which was our man.

  I dialed the first number. "Is Cynthia there?" I asked.

  Chapter 4

  The first two calls resulted in wrong number responses. My third such request met with anguished silence. In the background I could hear voices, like a house full of people milling around. I hung up.

  "What's the custom here?" I asked Sally. "Do people come to the family and bring food, and all that?"

  She nodded emphatically. "Definitely."

  I read off the street name from the phone book. She knew where it was. "What do you think? Shall we mingle?"

  The house on Vallejo Road was easy to spot by the number of cars around it. The late summer sun cast a golden light over the boxy little house, softening and hiding the cracks in the plaster and the peeling paint on the trim. Long shadows filled the yard. The heat had abated somewhat, and I noticed that most of the doors and windows stood open.

  "If you see anyone you know, introduce me," I told Sally.

  Inside, the house was like an oven. The first person we saw was Laura Armijo. She looked surprised to see us here, but didn't say anything about it. She introduced us to her husband, Bobby, a good-looking man of average height with jet black hair and eyes to match.

  "Have you heard anything more about how it happened?" I asked Laura. We had moved off to a corner, keeping our voices low.

  "They say she lost the baby, and the doctor couldn't make her stop bleeding," Laura said. “She just had a doctor’s appointment Friday morning. She came to work late and started hemorrhaging badly that afternoon. Someone called an ambulance, but I guess it was too late.” Her eyes brimmed.

  "How far along was she?" I asked.

  "Four months, I think."

  "Anyone talking about ... what we discussed earlier?"

  She shook her dark head. "Not here, anyway." She pointed across small living room. "That's Richard. Standing in the corner."

  Sally and I had become separated somehow, and I glanced around to find her talking with an older blond woman near the doorway to the kitchen. She introduced the woman as Mrs. Green, her sixth grade teacher. Their conversation seemed to be an attempt to cover about fifteen years worth of "how've you been lately," so I meandered toward Richard's corner of the room.

  The crowd seemed at a loss for what to do next. People stood in little clumps, not moving, speaking only in hushed tones and sobs. Shock was evident on every face. I watched Richard for several minutes before approaching him. He was a tall man with wavy black hair, thick lashes over deep brown eyes, and a pencil thin mustache. He wore a pale blue dress shirt open at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up. There were damp circles under the arms. His eyes were red rimmed, his hair disheveled like he had run his fingers through it several times. He took frequent pulls from a Budweiser can in his hand.

  Another man, about the same age, but shorter and stockier than Richard stood by him. He sipped at a beer, too, and the two of them kept a steady conversation going except when interrupted by the sympathizers in the crowded room. Richard maintained his control pretty well, but occasionally emotion would register strongly on his face. The emotion I saw there was anger.

  Gradually, as the people shifted about the room, I worked my way over to him. He gave brief acknowledgement to each person who spoke to him. I was curious to see what reaction I would get.

  "Richard, I'm so very sorry," I said, extending my hand to him. "Such a shock this is."

  "Yes," he said. His voice was softer than I expected.

  I wanted to ask questions, but knew I was already drawing curiosity from both Richard and his companion. Surely they were wondering who the hell I was. Questions from me would certainly draw questions from them. I moved on.

  At least I was getting a look at the potential adversary first hand. I could learn more by watching Richard's face and body language than by asking him direct questions at this point anyway. Sally was still engaged in her conversation with Mrs. Green, so I casually wandered through the room.

  The house was quite small, I realized, and jammed with people. The living room formed an L with an insignificant dining room, where the table was crammed with covered dishes, molded gelatins, and cakes. Someone had found the plates and forks, and set up an impromptu buffet, but few at this point were partaking. Through a door was the kitchen, the counters littered with the foil wrappings from the various food dishes. Otherwise, it appeared neat and clean.

  On the pretense of looking for the bathroom, I stepped into a hallway, from which I could see into two bedrooms and the bath, all at once. One of the rooms had obviously been planned as the baby's room. Pastel prints hung on the walls, a white crib stood in one corner. Perhaps Cynthia had decorated this room when she was pregnant the first time a year ago, saving it now for this baby which would never come. My throat closed up slightly at the thought.

  The other bedroom was obviously the master. A double bed, unmade, stood in the center of one wall. A dresser with a portable TV set on top was across from it. A woman's hairbrush lay on the nightstand. Clothes were strewn over a chair. I stepped into the room. A handful of coins lay scattered over the carpet. The alarm clock lay on its side. Disorderly, but did they necessarily indicate a struggle? It was almost as though Cynthia had gotten up for church this morning, leaving Richard in bed, her nightgown draped over the back of a chair. She would make the bed and tidy the room when she got home. Only she hadn't.

  A framed photograph of Cynthia stood on the dresser. She had been in her late twenties or early thirties when the picture was taken. I was startled at how beautiful she’d been. Long dark hair fell in soft curls below her shoulders. Full lips, high cheekbones in a slim face, eyes the color of a chocolate bar, rimmed with elegant lashes. Hard to imagine why a man would want to hit her.

  Both bedrooms were dark and quiet, and I didn't want to be caught snooping. I ducked in and pretended to use the bathroom, then nonchalantly worked my back through the crowd in the living room. Sally looked relieved to see my face.

  "I wondered where you'd gone," she said. "The last time I saw you, you were shaking hands with Richard."

  I held up the hand, showing it to her. "Look, it's not even broken."

  She shot me a look.

  "Okay, okay. I'm ready to leave if you are," I suggested.

  The cars out front had thinned a bit. The sun had set, but it was not yet pitch dark. We tucked into our room for the night. I switched on the TV for company and Sally pulled out a mystery she’d brought along.

  “What are you reading?”

  She held it up so I could see the cover. “Whose Death Is It, Anyway? By Elizabeth Daniels Squire. She has this older woman sleuth who can never remember anything. It’s hilarious.”

  I left her chuckling over some passage in the book while I flipped channels on the TV. Nothing held my attention. Somehow, I couldn't forget that empty nursery.

  Chapter 5

  The sun was bright, the sky cloudless by the time we opened our curtains the next morning. It would be another warm day. July 4th. I didn't have much
hope of finding a doctor in his office, but we had decided to try. With one clinic in town, three doctors on staff, surely someone must be around, even on holidays.

  There were three cars in the clinic's parking lot, a dusty gray compact with a small dent in the right front fender, a snappy blue sports car, and a brand new four-wheel drive Suburban. It was a pretty easy guess which one did not belong to a doctor. We parked next to it.

  The clinic itself was a more modern looking structure than most of the buildings in town. It was stuccoed the obligatory adobe brown, however it did have a contemporary image. A carved wooden sign beside the walkway announced the doctor's names: Evan Phillips, Rodney Phillips, Brent Fisher. They all had groups of letters after their names, Evan Phillips boasting the most.

  "I went to school with Rod Phillips," Sally told me. "Should have known he'd end up in practice with his older brother. There's been a Dr. Phillips in this town since anyone can remember. I think they pass the title down through the generations."

  "No Spanish surname doctors? I thought this town was predominantly Hispanic."

  "Actually it's about half Hispanic, half Anglo," she said. "As for the doctors, I don't know. Guess it's just timing. There was a doctor Hidalgo when I was a kid. He and Rod's father had their offices in a little place just off the plaza. This clinic was built about the time I was in high school."

  We pushed through the glass entry doors, passing a tall slim man on his way out. He nodded politely without smiling, smoothed his blond hair with one hand, and headed toward the blue sports car. A sleepy-looking receptionist sat behind the front desk, sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup. She covered a yawn when she spotted us, then smiled apologetically.

  She was the kind of girl everyone always said "she has such a pretty face" about. Twenty-three or -four years old, she was a good hundred pounds overweight. Her light brown hair was cut extremely short, giving the impression that her head was much too small for her body. Her makeup was well done, though, emphasizing large blue eyes, which she must have seen as her best feature. She was right. Her name tag read: C. Smith.