His face remained polite, but I could see he had no intention of telling me anything of importance.
"My friend was at the funeral. She also said you came to her house this morning. Laura Armijo."
"Yeah, well," he said, "I guess she told you Richard Martinez caused a little stink at the funeral. Figured I better find out what happened." His voice was soft, discreet, with an accent that hinted slightly at West Texas.
"Has anyone filed a complaint against him?" I asked.
"Nope."
"Laura doesn't seem to think Cynthia's death was just an unfortunate coincidence."
"Laura doesn't want to think so," he said. He had crossed to the dispatcher's desk behind the counter and set the clipboard down. He breathed heavily as he lowered himself into the swivel chair. "Ya see, Laura was in the same condition herself about a year or so ago, and she lost her baby, too. Cynthia was her good friend, and this all hits a little too close to home for Laura's taste."
The man was perceptive anyway.
"Did you know the Martinezes personally?" I asked.
"In a town this size, I know most everyone," he answered. "I either went to school with 'em, or one of my younger brothers did, or one of my sisters babysat 'em. Twenty years on the department has brought me together with just about everybody here at some time."
I could well believe that.
"What about Barbara Lewis? I hear she was pretty tough to work for."
"They call her the office witch," he chuckled. He had a laugh like an old choo-choo train just starting off. "Barbara's about my age, couple years younger, I think. She grew up in a time when women were raised to believe they'd become wives and mothers, and some man would take care of them. She fit right into that cozy little picture until Archie Lewis ran off with his secretary about ten years ago."
"And there she was, forty-something, no work experience, having to support herself," I filled in.
"And three kids. She realized that she'd never make it on minimum wage plus tips, so she went for the top. That bank manager's job is one of the best in town."
"Not easy to get, either, I'd imagine, having no work experience."
"Well, Barbara's a fighter. You oughta go talk to her. You'll see."
"Where would I find her on a Saturday?"
He thought about it for a minute. "Odds are, she'll be home. That, or at the grocery store."
He proceeded to tell me how to get to Barbara Lewis's house. Drake and Rusty were waiting under the covered porch, in the only strip of shade to be seen anywhere, when I came out. Again, I felt guilty for being inside while they dealt with the heat.
"Don't worry about it," Drake assured me. "We found lots to do. We made lunch plans. Are you hungry?"
I tend to forget about food when I get busy, so I hadn't given it much thought. A glance at my watch, though, told me it was after one.
"Okay, you two, what are the plans?" I asked. I didn't want to leave Rusty in the car again, and Drake and I hadn't discussed whether we would stay overnight.
"There's a take-out chicken place about two blocks from here," he said. "We're going to get a big bucket with all the trimmings, and then we're going to that little park next to the hardware store. You and I are going to find a big shady spot under a tree, and Rusty's going to do whatever he wants."
What a sweetheart. He'd thought of all our needs.
"How did you know about the take-out chicken place?" I asked.
He walked his fingers along the dashboard, then pointed to a pay phone mounted to the corner of the building. A man with a plan. I liked that.
Thirty minutes later I was licking the grease from my fingers, leaning back against a tree trunk. Drake lay stretched out on the blanket he'd found in the back of my Jeep, which I'd forgotten was in there. Rusty had been hand fed the meat from two pieces of extra crispy, then allowed to lick the remains from the mashed potato container. All our cholesterol levels were buzzing, and somnolence was beginning to overtake all three of us.
"I just can't quite put this together," I told Drake.
"Not surprising, since you're almost asleep," he mumbled.
I stood up and stretched, just to prove that I could. His pessimism about my current mental capacity wasn't going to stop me.
"Just listen a minute, and tell me what you think."
He yawned, to warn me that I might not get much out of him either.
"The doctor at the clinic confirmed that Cynthia died after she miscarried. Richard seems pretty broken up about her death. He caused a little scene at the funeral, and now the police are asking questions."
"So?"
"That's what I mean. So what? Why am I here?"
"Because your friend Sally and her friend Laura think there's more to it than that. Because you tend to agree with them. Because, my love, you are an incurable snoop."
I straddled his stomach and threatened to sit on him. He groaned.
"I just meant that you have this wonderful insatiable curiosity," he pleaded quickly.
"I was pretty sure that's what you meant," I answered, planting a couple of kisses on his fantastic mouth.
Chapter 13
Barbara Lewis wasn't home. After working out in my mind what my questions would be, this was a letdown. Drake suggested we wait for her, in case she'd just gone to do morning errands. But I pointed out that the newspaper was still on the step, all the shades were drawn, and her porchlight was on. Looked like she had been gone overnight. Guess our trusty police chief didn't know everything.
"So, what now?" I asked. "Do we want to stay here overnight or head back to the big city?"
"Well, I had a feeling that question might come up, so I did a little more..." his fingers did that walking movement again.
"And?"
"Just drive," he ordered.
He pulled a scrap of paper from his back pocket as we fastened our seat belts.
"Okay, go north out of town," he said.
He didn't say another word as I guided the Jeep through the narrow streets. On the main road, traffic was fairly heavy as Saturday shoppers and errand runners did their rounds. Curiosity was consuming me, probably part of my inborn snoopiness, but I couldn't bring myself to pester Drake for the answer. He stared out the window, taking in the little town's sights as we cruised through. As the buildings began to thin out and the flat farmland become more prevalent, he consulted the paper once more.
"Okay now we want to watch for Lilac Lane," he said.
Lilac Lane? How quaint could we get? "Left or right?" was what I said out loud.
"Right."
It was about a half mile out of town. There wasn't a single lilac bush in sight. Lilac Lane was two-lane dirt and rather curvy, so I concentrated on the driving. We were climbing into the foothills now, the road rising steadily with every curve. The pines became taller, the grass greener. Daisies and columbine grew along the roadway in sporadic clumps. Occasional houses, some adobe and some log, sat back from the roadway, each in the middle of its own mowed patch of grass surrounded by tall pines. Drake watched the scenery go past, a relaxed smile on his face.
"Are you paying attention to the directions?" I reminded.
"There will be a little bridge up here soon," he said, "then we go three tenths of a mile past that."
The little bridge had concrete abutments with the date 1927. It spanned a small stream where clear water trickled over glossy pebbles. On the upstream side a log had fallen, creating a mini waterfall. I noted the mileage.
"Right hand side," he said. "Look for a narrow driveway."
It was marked by an entrance arch made of logs. A small discreet sign said Wildflower Inn: A Bed & Breakfast. Beyond a curve in the driveway, we could see the house, a log cabin, two stories high with dormer windows and European lace curtains. A wide porch ran the entire width of the house. Groupings of chairs and tables invited. Planter boxes thick with columbine lined the porch, while the upstairs windows had boxes of pink and white geraniums spilling from them.
It was the best of northern New Mexico, Colorado mining camp, and Switzerland—all put together.
"Drake, this is wonderful!" Again, the resourceful man. How had he found this place?
Our tires crunched over a layer of fallen pine needles as we parked. Two dogs, young collies, rushed out to greet us.
"What about Rusty?" I asked.
"The lady said as long as he gets along with her dogs, no problem. I couldn't picture Rusty not getting along with anyone," he said, "so I took the chance."
We got out, keeping Rusty on leash until we knew what would happen with the other dogs. They sniffed each other all over, then the other two strolled back toward the house. No worries. Meanwhile, a woman had come out the front door, drying her hands on a dish towel. She was probably forty-five or so, with shoulder length dark hair with a swoop of gray sprouting from the part on the left side. Her face was lined with the beginnings of character wrinkles, like she'd been an outdoor person all her life. She wore faded jeans with a hole across one knee and a loose plaid shirt, tucked in at the waist, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
"Welcome. You must be Drake," she said, extending her hand to him. "And Charlie." She took me into her welcoming hug.
"I'm Mary McDonald. Welcome to the Wildflower."
I was still staring at my surroundings, still taking in the beauty of the place.
"I'm amazed we got in on such short notice," I said.
"You got lucky," she said. "I had a cancellation just yesterday. I've only got three rooms here, and I'm usually booked all summer. But this couple from Canada—the airline got their connecting flight into Albuquerque messed up. Poor things, they're spending the weekend in Chicago. Can you imagine anything worse?"
I had to admit that their misfortune was our stroke of luck.
"Let me show you to your room," Mary continued. "Where are your bags?"
Inside, the cabin was just as lovely as outside. A large great room held several sofas and chairs, all overstuffed and comfy looking, upholstered in variations of navy and burgundy. On the wall to our left was a rock fireplace, its wooden mantle laden with an assortment of multi-colored candles. The wall ahead was lined with bookcases holding an assortment of worn volumes along with decks of cards, dominoes, and board games. A round game table and four chairs stood in the corner.
To our right, the dining area held a long table with eight chairs. A colorful gingham runner decorated the length of the table, with low centerpieces of fresh wildflowers. Beyond, a swinging door stood open to the kitchen, where I got a glimpse of shining ceramic tile and a large commercial stove.
"Technically, we're a bed and breakfast here," Mary was saying, "but I usually make up a pot of stew or beans or something in the evening. Anyone who doesn't have other dinner plans is free to join me."
She proceeded toward the stairs. We followed, hesitating as Rusty began the climb.
"He's okay," she assured us. "As long as he's housebroken."
I assured her he was.
"I keep one room off limits to pets, just in case I get guests with allergies sometime. Mostly I just warn them up front that there are pets around. Most of them seem to like it."
Our room was homey and quaint. The queen size brass bed was covered with a handmade quilt. We were in a corner of the house, so we had windows on two sides, both valanced with Dutch lace. White half-shutters could be closed for privacy. The view out the back showed nothing but pine trees, tall and thick. The other window looked toward the side yard, across an expanse of neatly mowed lawn to a small gazebo at the edge of the woods.
"I'll bring a bed up for Rusty," Mary said. "I keep a couple of them around, and I wash the covers between visitors, just like for the people." Her laugh reminded me of the little stream we'd crossed.
"Oh, dinner's at seven, if you're interested. If not, coffee's on at seven in the morning, breakfast at eight." She closed the door behind her.
Drake’s arms came around me from behind, his face nuzzled my ear. His spicy aftershave went well with the room and the view.
“This would be a great place for a honeymoon,” he murmured.
I felt myself tense up. “Drake, it just . . .”
“Too soon. I know.” His arms dropped heavily at his sides.
I turned to find him pulling things out of the small duffle we’d mutually packed. He set his shaving kit on the vanity with a plop.
“I’m going to check with Mary about that dog bed,” I said.
He hadn’t turned around when I closed the door behind me. Rusty padded along with me, sniffing corners. I didn’t see Mary in either the living room or kitchen, but that had been an excuse anyway. No one else was in sight, so I walked out to the front porch. The cushioned chairs looked inviting, but I wasn’t able somehow to think about sitting still. Walking was what I needed.
Rusty busied himself sniffing the woodpile at the side of the house, no doubt hot in pursuit of chipmunks, while I strolled across the lawn toward the gazebo.
Marriage. Why was I getting so defensive at the mere mention of it? Being over thirty and always single had never bothered me yet. I’d been jilted once, but that incident hadn’t bothered me that much at twenty. Certainly it wasn’t affecting me all these years later. The few times in the intervening years when someone had begun to act serious about me, I’d managed to lightly skirt away from the issue before the big M word had been mentioned. Was that what I was trying to do now? If so, why was I out here pacing the floor of the gazebo? Why hadn’t I just laughed off Drake’s remark and distracted him in bed?
Because Drake Langston was different than any other man I’d met before. I could actually imagine having him around all the time. I could remember how much I’d missed him when we were apart. And it was scaring me.
Scared is not a feeling I like. It’s not something I’m accustomed to. I pride myself on being a modern independent female, who doesn’t need anyone to make her life complete. And therein lies the problem. When Drake wasn’t near me I felt a big empty place. It left me feeling confused, and confusion is another feeling I don’t like.
Rusty had given up his probing of the woodpile now, and I watched him circle the house toward the front door. Drake was standing at the end of the porch, looking at me. He descended the steps and walked my way. Rusty trotted along beside him. The late afternoon air had grown cooler now. Drake had put on a long-sleeved shirt. He carried my light jacket.
“Thought you might want this,” he said, raising the jacket.
I rubbed my arms. The skin was cool.
He held the jacket up for me and I turned around to slip my arms into the sleeves. His hands stroked my shoulders, trailing down my arms to my hands. He rested his face against my hair.
“Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said gently. “I won’t mention it again until you’re ready.”
Tears welled up in my eyes and I turned to bury my face against his shoulder until I could make them go away. Why didn’t he push me? Then I could push back and I could justify that I didn’t need him after all. Why was he such an understanding guy?
“Let’s walk a little while before dark,” he suggested.
Rusty led the way down a narrow mountain path. Drake held my fingers lightly, pointing out a gray squirrel, then some elk tracks along the path. The tension was broken now. We were once again two people enjoying each other’s company.
The path climbed to the left, circling behind the house, eventually bringing us back to the driveway. Another car was parked there now. By this time the sun had dropped below the hills and the air had become nippy. A big fire blazed in the fireplace when we walked in, warming the large room to a golden coziness.
Mary introduced us to our fellow houseguests. Bob and Jean Braithwaite and Marvin and Bobbie Jo Connors. All from Lubbock, Texas. The women wore perfect makeup, designer jeans and shirts with lots of fringe and spangles. Their hair was fluffed to within an inch of its life. Both men wore ostrich leather boots and Rolex watches with diamond
s encrusted on the dials. I felt like a slightly well-to-do street person next to them.
“Well, ya’ll, we’re just on our way to town to check out the night life.” Marvin Connors grinned. “Ya’ll can join us if you want to.”
Night life? In Valle Escondido? I had a feeling these people had taken a wrong turn at Santa Fe. I glanced up at Drake. Maybe I just imagined his nose turning up.
“Oh, no,” he answered, “you go on. We’d kind of planned on a quiet evening by the fire.”
Thank God. I couldn’t imagine an evening with the glittering foursome.
They made some faux disappointment noises before tromping out the door. Jean Braithwaite’s raucous laughter drifted back toward the house. I turned back toward Mary. Her earthy country presence was reassuring.
“Ya’ll up for some green chile stew?” she mimicked with a wink.
“You bet,” said Drake. “What can we do to help?” We followed her into the large kitchen.
“Why don’t we just eat in here,” she suggested, “since there are only three of us.”
She handed plates to Drake, flatware and napkins to me. We set the small kitchen table while she lifted the lid on a large pot on the stove. The meaty, oniony smell filled the room. I excused myself to take Rusty upstairs. Poor thing. He’d have to settle for a bowl of dry nuggets while we indulged ourselves. I closed the door to the room, leaving him alone.
Drake was filling water glasses and Mary was placing cornbread muffins in a cloth-lined basket when I returned. Steam rose from bowls of stew at each of the place settings.
“So, are you two honeymooners?” Mary asked, taking a careful sip of her stew.
I swallowed hard, hoping the moment wasn’t about to become awkward. Drake covered it well though.
“No,” he said. “I’m here on vacation from Hawaii and Charlie’s investigating a suspicious case in town.”
Mary didn’t immediately ooh and aah over Hawaii like most people did, but looked questioningly at me.
“Well, it’s unofficial,” I said. “I’m a partner in a private investigation firm in Albuquerque. A friend here asked me to look into a suspicious death.” I briefly mentioned the highlights of the case.
Small Towns Can Be Murder Page 7