Male voices trailed across the hall now, telling me that Drake and Ron had settled into Ron’s office. I stood in the doorway. The talk was still about guns. I wandered back to my own office.
“Those two really hit it off, didn’t they?” Sally leaned against the doorjamb.
“I’ll say.” I motioned her to come in. “I need some input about the people in Valle Escondido, Sally. You grew up there. Give me some insight.”
“Like what?” She looked genuinely puzzled.
“Oh, I don’t know.” I realized the question was rather general. “I just feel like I’m talking to brick walls with those people. Like I’m not seeing into them.”
“In what way?”
Again, I couldn’t really put my finger on it. There was some key to the mentality of that town, some underlying current that I had felt but hadn’t quite stepped into. I couldn’t really explain it to Sally. Instead, I told her about the slashed fuel line.
“Wow, you’ve stepped on somebody’s toes,” she said, her eyes wide.
“No kidding. But whose? That’s what I mean about not being able to figure out those people. I can’t think of anyone I’ve pissed off that much.”
She stared at a spot on the far wall. Obviously, she didn’t have an answer for that one either.
“I like Drake, by the way,” she whispered.
The two male voices hadn’t slowed a bit across the hall.
“How can you tell?” I chided. “You met him for two minutes.”
“I just know,” she said wisely. “One can tell these things. He has an inner sensitivity, gentleness, kindness.” Her eyes took on a faraway look.
“Oh, you.” I tossed one of the trashed catalogs at her.
She jumped out of her mystical persona and giggled. “I’m going home now, if that’s okay,” she said. It was, after all, more than three hours past her normal quitting time. I waved vacantly as she departed.
How did she know about Drake? Sally was periodically into the study of mystical things but I had always attributed her “visions” to PMS or something else more logical. I had to admit, though, that she had always been more attuned to nature and feelings. I tend to want numbers, answers. Spell it out for me in cold hard statistics.
Maybe I needed to tune into my spiritual side more often. Maybe therein lie the answers to the Valle Escondido mystery, and to my feelings about Drake.
Chapter 18
Pop! Pop pop pop! The shots sounded like firecrackers blowing up in quick sequence. I stared at the target, my vision blurring, then clearing again. Ron had put his first three right in the bullseye.
Back to my own target. My arms were beginning to shake. My vision became clear as I gently opened both eyes. I relaxed my arms for a minute, flexing and rolling my shoulders to work out the cramping.
One more time. Raise the pistol. Take a deep breath. Line up the sights. Let the breath out slowly. Pause. Squeeze trigger. My shot was low and to the right. Squeeze, don’t pull, I reminded myself.
At least this was systematic. There was a goal; there was a logical way to that goal. None of the mystical hocus pocus that had nagged at me since talking with Sally. All yesterday afternoon and evening the vagueness of it had bothered me, like a slight headache that wouldn’t go away. I was glad we had come to the range. I found the intense concentration good for me.
Today was Drake’s last day here. Tomorrow morning I would drive him to the airport. He would be hundreds of miles away before I reached the office. Already something felt missing from my life. I didn’t want to let myself think about it. I just wanted to shoot a bullseye before the morning was over.
Ron had brought two pistols with us. We took turns using them, the third person standing by to retrieve the brass casings, which Ron would take home and reload. A system that worked well. By noon, each of had shot a couple hundred rounds. My improvement was beginning to show. Both men had a new admiration for the girl who had taken up a man’s sport.
We lunched at McDonald’s chewing down Big Macs like hungry wolves. After the first ravages of hunger were quelled, we slowed down and talked. Drake held my hand under the table.
We had brought two cars since Ron had to rush home to shower and change before giving a deposition at three.
“Do you need to go back to the office today?” Drake asked.
I couldn’t think of anything pressing, so we went home, let Rusty out in the back yard and made love. It felt decadent, being in bed at four in the afternoon.
“What’s going to happen to us, Charlie?”
He asked the question that I hadn’t had the courage to face.
“Will I go back to Hawaii and never see you again?”
I lay there, cuddled against his shoulder, realizing that would be impossible. He had become too much a part of my life. We had spent seven days together, inseparable and loving it. Having my own best friend to share with, to bounce ideas off of, to crawl into bed with. How could I simply let this go?
How could I move to Hawaii, abandoning everything familiar to me? My family, my business, my childhood friends were all here in New Mexico.
“We’ll work something out,” I said, kissing him lightly on the shoulder. “Even the stickiest problems have answers.”
Pedro’s enchiladas were especially good that night. The margaritas had just the right tang, the salt just the right bite. Colors seemed more vivid, Drake’s face more handsome. I wanted to preserve it all. The morning came much too quickly.
I wanted the airport scene to blur and pass just as quickly but it didn’t.
Every detail stood out, especially the unhappiness on Drake’s face. I still hadn’t committed to anything.
“At least promise you’ll come visit me again,” he asked as we stood in the departure lounge, watching his plane roll into place against the jetway. He held my hand, lightly staring at my fingers as if to memorize them.
That much I could promise, and I did.
“This isn’t a very sophisticated thing for a forty year old man to say,” he began, “but I’ll be miserable without you.”
My damned eyes reddened again. I squeezed his hand and nodded.
“Maybe I can arrange to come in September,” I told him.
“It’s going to be a long two months. I love you, Charlie.”
“I love you, too.”
A voice intruded: “Final boarding call for flight 26 . . .”
We kissed—then he was gone. Taking a great big piece of me with him.
Traffic on the freeway was medium heavy as I headed toward Linda Casper’s office in the valley. Linda was in my class in high school, a serious student when most of us were preoccupied with where we could get our hands on some beer and where the next party was. She actually memorized those passages from Shakespeare that I found deadly dull. She was one of those rare students who seemed to know what she wanted from life right from the start, and she set out to have it. When my parents were killed, our junior year, Linda was one of the few who seemed to know what to say to me.
We continued this friendship in college because I settled down a bit myself after the first two years. I realized that I was about to come into my inheritance when I turned twenty-one and that I couldn’t even balance a checkbook. An accounting course led to a real interest in numbers and finance. While our friends were still on the path to beer parties, Linda and I were coaching each other on anatomy charts and balance sheets. Now I do her taxes for her and she tries to keep me healthy. We hadn’t seen each other in almost a year, until a couple of months ago when I needed stitches removed from my head. A regular Wednesday lunch plan had evolved.
The waiting room held an assortment of people, most looking bored in wood framed chairs upholstered in beige tweed. The receptionist’s chair was empty, and I took the chance to peek at the sign-in sheet. It looked like Linda’s last patient had arrived over an hour ago. Undoubtedly he was gone by now. The people sitting around must be waiting for Linda’s associate.
“
May I help you?” The voice was almost cold, as she caught me snooping. I looked up.
“Oh hi, Charlie.” She warmed up when she recognized me. “Linda’s almost ready, I think. Want me to check?”
“Don’t disturb her,” I answered. “I can wait until she’s free.”
“I’ll tell her you’re here.” Her pale green uniform disappeared down the hall.
Minutes later Linda emerged. In a flowing print dress, cut well enough to conceal the chunkiness of her ample body, she didn’t look quite the same without the authority of her white lab coat. Her infectious grin was the same, though, as were the short blond curls, bright blue eyes, and faint freckles under her makeup. She greeted me with a hug.
After some discussion as to whose car we’d take and where we’d eat, we were on our way to The Cooperage. Once there, I figured I could opt for either comfort good such as prime rib or sensible food such as a salad. After my indulgences of the past week, I knew which it should be. We were lucky to get a table right away and fifteen minutes later I carried my salad-laden plate to our table.
"So, the fabulous Drake Langston has come and gone," Linda said, setting her salad plate down and squeezing into her chair.
I sighed.
"When do I get to meet him?"
When, indeed. "I don't know, Linda. I'm trying so hard to take this one step at a time. He's talking commitment, moving in together, marriage. Scares the hell out of me."
"Well, if you're unsure of your feelings for him, just say no."
"Unfortunately, that's just it. I'm falling in love with him. He's kind and considerate, wonderful in bed, and he does dishes. I mean, what more could I want?"
"So, just say yes."
I put down my fork. "You're just too damn sensible, Linda." We both laughed. "I know he won't wait forever for an answer, and I know a long-distance relationship will be hard to keep going indefinitely. I'm going to have to give it some serious thought."
I speared a chunk of lettuce and swabbed it around in low-cal Ranch dressing. "Linda, could I pick your brain, professionally?"
"Sure, anytime," she replied, chewing.
"I was up in Valle Escondido last weekend, that little town north of Santa Fe? Anyway, I met a friend of Sally's who'd had a miscarriage within the last year. A friend of hers had had two. Scary thing is, the friend died from the second one. What are the odds of that?"
"Dying from a miscarriage? It happens. Not often anymore. Didn’t she get prompt medical treatment?"
"Oh, yes. She'd been to her doctor that morning, and once she started hemorrhaging, they rushed her right back. It just seems curious to me that here are these two women, friends, living in the same town, and both have miscarried. That seems odd."
"Depends. Somewhere around half of all first pregnancies end in miscarriage," she said. "Thirty percent or so of second pregnancies, same thing."
"Really? That seems high."
"Lots of factors can be involved. Smoking and drinking are probably two of the biggest, but there could be environmental factors—any number of things."
I pondered all that. "I guess it just has Sally really freaked because, you know, she's pregnant. She tried so hard to get that way, it would really devastate her to lose that baby. Laura, that's Sally's friend in Valle Escondido, thinks that Cynthia's husband beat her."
"Well, that could certainly be a big environmental factor," Linda agreed. "Even stress, lifestyle, pushing herself too hard."
I thought of Cynthia's job, with Barbara Lewis breathing down her neck constantly.
"Oh, gosh, look at the time." Linda looked at her watch. "We better hustle a bit. I've got an appointment at one."
We finished our salads quickly and I drove her back to the office. We agreed to meet again the following Wednesday.
Back at the office, I found myself unable to settle into work, although I had plenty of it waiting for me. Where was Drake right now? He should have reached Flagstaff and would be visiting with his mother. What were they talking about? Suddenly, I wanted to meet her.
Sally had gone for the day, which was just as well. Linda's revelations were still fresh in my head and I didn't want to alarm Sally by getting onto the subject of miscarriages. I was shuffling papers around on my desk, looking busy but finding no focus whatsoever when Ron walked in.
"So, he's on his way, huh?" Ron asked.
"Yeah. Should be at his mother's by now." I could hear the flatness in my own voice.
"I really like Drake. Think he might become a permanent fixture around here?" His tone was playful.
"I don't know, Ron, I just don't know." I slapped an envelope down on my desk. "I just wish everyone would quit pressuring me about this."
I pushed past him and slammed the bathroom door. My shaky hands pressed hard against the cool porcelain sink. Tears welled, then rolled down my cheeks. My insides quivered like jelly. In the mirror, a miserable reddened face stared back at me. I missed him so much.
What was happening to me? I'd never felt so happy around a man or so miserable when we were apart. It was so unlike me to base my own happiness on another person. Is this what love feels like? I took a deep breath.
I splashed cold water on my face, used the potty, and went out to face Ron. He was seated meekly at his desk.
"I'm sorry, Ron. You didn't deserve that." My lower lip quivered as I said it.
He stood and circled the desk to put his arms around me. Made some there-there noises but refrained from any comment that might get his head bitten off again. Finally, I sniffed deeply and looked up at him.
"It's confusing, huh?" He was probably referring to the disastrous love affair he'd recently recovered from.
I nodded, feeling the slight sense of relief that a good cry can bring. I flopped into the chair opposite his desk.
"Hey, you'll figure it out," he said, returning to his own chair.
"He wants me to move to Hawaii," I whined.
"Life in paradise? Anybody I know would jump at the chance."
"So why am I not jumping? What about the office, our business, all my friends? What about the house I've lived in since the day I was born? How could I leave all that?"
"Scared to think about leaving? Or scared of a committed relationship?"
"That's exactly what I've been asking myself." I blew out a deep breath. "Well, I've got time. I'll work it out, like you said."
The phone rang, startling us both. Ron picked it up, answering in his usual gruff tone. Listened a minute. "For you," he said, punching the hold button.
I rose from the chair. "I'll go to my office so you can get back to your work."
"Charlie? Steve Bradley, in Valle Escondido here."
"Yes, Steve, how are things there?"
"Well, I thought I'd update you on the fuel line incident."
"You found some witnesses?"
"Nothing too helpful, I'm afraid. One neighbor on that road said they were coming home late that night and noticed a vehicle stopped along the side. Only thing is, it was raining so hard they really didn't get a good look. They described it as big and dark."
A big dark vehicle. "No plate numbers? They didn't recognize it as local?"
"Just big and dark. This is a little old lady who isn't exactly up on all the latest car models. You could probably stand her in front of the car in broad daylight with the license plates and brand name showing, and she'd still describe it as 'big and dark'."
"No other witnesses, I suppose." Not really daring to hope at this point. "What about any new developments in the Cynthia Martinez case?"
"What Cynthia Martinez case, Charlie?" he was beginning to sound impatient. "We have no evidence that hers wasn't a simple medical complication of pregnancy. There is no case."
"Okay." I agreed with him for the sake of maintaining civility but I was not convinced, by far. If there was nothing suspicious about Cynthia's death, why did my asking a few questions around town bring about vandalism to my car? There was no doubt in my mind that the inc
ident was a warning. No doubt at all.
I made a few more polite noises to Bradley, ending the conversation on a 'have a nice day' kind of note. My fingers were doing a drum-roll on the desktop. My mind danced from Valle Escondido to Drake to the stack of billing that awaited my attention. I couldn't seem to settle on a topic.
"You aren't by any chance looking for something to do?" Ron interrupted mental free-fall.
"Hmm? Oh, well, whatever." I indicated the stacks of papers I should be working on.
"If you're busy, it's okay," he assured me, "but I need some research done and . . . you're so much better at it than I am."
I flashed him a skeptical look.
"I'm doing a report for the state investigators newsletter. On missing persons cases. I just need some data. I think you can get it at the main library."
"Sure, I'd be glad to," I said, standing up and reaching for my purse.
"You would?"
"Why not? I'm not accomplishing anything here but moping around. I might as well be doing something constructive."
"Okay, here's the information I need." He handed me a slip of paper with some notes in his scritchy writing.
I neatened a couple of piles of paper on my desk and switched off the light.
"I'll probably go straight home after I'm finished," I told him, "unless you need this stuff tonight."
"No, tomorrow's fine. And Charlie? Thanks."
I lowered all the windows in the Jeep, letting the stuffy hot air out. It was our thirty-fifth day without rain and the heat waves rose off the streets as I made my way east. All the traffic in the downtown area seemed outbound. I had no trouble finding a parking spot next to the library. The small parking lot was ringed by young trees and I was lucky enough to get a space where a little late afternoon shade would cover my car. I thought longingly of the cool afternoon air at Mary McDonald's house in the mountains.
Air conditioning in the library provided a welcome contrast to the outside air. I found myself a computer terminal and logged on to the subject index. New Mexico statistics by county. M-I-S- brought up a listing where I should find missing persons information.
Small Towns Can Be Murder Page 11