He was more difficult to understand than Rudy, speaking with the distinct vowel reduction typical of a Slavic language. He managed to express that his business was with the sires and not me, then pulled himself up into his van and drove away.
“Are you still worried, Rudy?”
“About my bulls? Si. Ari used to cull them, in this business that’s good. But now he collects them. More interested in...”
“...Quantity rather than quality,” I finished his sentence.
“Si.”
I didn’t really expect that sprinkled sugar cookies would get me a warm reception through the door, but they couldn’t hurt. The trick was going to be visiting Naomi Gaines without my dad seeing my Jeep parked in front of her house.
A speech therapist worked with him in his home, three times a week, so I planned my visit based on that schedule, figuring I had an hour. Still, I drove around and parked on the side street.
Mrs. Gaines opened the door before I knocked, with letters in her hand ready to put in her mailbox. Busted! Maybe I was stumbling into some luck after all.
Her reflexes were slow. I’m certain she would have slammed the door shut if she thought I would just go away. An odd look of fear crossed her withered face. “What is it?” she said. “Is it your father?”
“No. Dad’s just fine. Doing better every day.” The fear failed to diminish. Her eyes regarded me with clouds of disapproval. I ignored the reception. “I need to have a word with you.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t the time today,” she said.
My voice demanded. “Please. It’s important.”
She studied me. “Very well,” she said, offering a tight-lipped smile of resignation. She accepted the plate of cookies and cleared away from the door. “We can have a cup of tea.” She rounded the corner to gather her tea service set, along with her manners and her nerves, I suppose.
I looked around the tidy living room. A mantle clock, engraved with a date of 1955, looked like it hadn’t worked since 1957. Delicate African Violets, arranged on a tiered table, were catching every possible ray of morning sunlight. Old family photographs lined the walls. A formal wedding portrait with Naomi as the glamorous bride and Mr. Gaines, striking in his presence standing behind her, had begun to fade. Other photos depicted graduations and anniversaries, and casual shots of family gatherings and beach vacations. I had only one question. Were any of them named McGinnis?
Naomi scuttled back into the room grasping her silver tray, pouring two cups of Earl Gray and passing the cookies. She glanced at her watch as if it was a stopwatch and the timer had been set.
“Mrs. Gaines, thank you for your concern over my father. It’s reassuring to know he has such a caring neighbor,” I said.
“Your father’s a good man, Breecie.”
“He wants me to return to D.C. and get married, but I’m not going to be able to do that until I solve a little puzzle down here.”
She fiddled with a slice of lemon, finally sinking it into the bottom of her cup. “I just don’t know why you would want to talk to me.”
“Because I’m looking for a woman. I’ve tried to ask you about her before. Her name is Erin McGinnis.”
She gulped down her tea and shook her head. “And you’re still thinking I might know of her?”
I nodded.
“I really don’t. Not that I can say, anyway. My memory isn’t all it used to be.”
“But I’m sure you must remember your maiden name.”
She put her teacup down and clasped her hands in her lap, signaling the end to our brief discussion. “Well, I don’t know what that has to do with anything,” she said. “I haven’t been a McGinnis in over forty years, and it’s a common enough name.”
Not in Trinidad, I thought. There wasn’t a single McGinnis listed in the town’s phone directory.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Shrine & The Snake
I was at my computer when the email came in. I had asked my P.I. to look into George Baird. One day later, he turned up a preliminary background check.
Baird was a retired Colorado Supreme Court Justice, which could probably explain away his knowing my dad. His reputation was impeccable. His rulings satisfied both men and women, rich and poor, and of significant merit, both Republicans and Democrats. He had a wife and four grown children and still maintained an office in downtown Denver, probably to get away from the wife. And yes, he was afflicted with a curious condition called Alopecia, but it wasn’t a threat to his health.
The investigator continued to work on the McGinnis-Gaines connection, but didn’t have much else for me. Every time he looked for Erin McGinnis, he came up empty. One thing for sure, Naomi had no further comment. I was beginning to believe it might really be a wacky coincidence.
I hung up from the call. So far the only thing I’ve paid to find out is that old bald Baird is married. Big surprise. I wonder if Kate knows?
Remembering my first major task of the morning, I lamented the one gigantic flaw in Ari’s rambling house. There was only one laundry room, in the garden level opposite Jonathan Marasco’s apartment. For me, that meant I had to haul my wash down three flights of stairs. I was okay at getting the clothes into the washer, bad at going back down and moving the wet clothes to the dryer before mildew set in and I had to start all over, and horrible at reclaiming them and hauling them all the way back up.
Two hours later I stood at the folding table, quickly tossing the cleaned and dried lingerie into the bottom of my basket and covering them with towels and sheets just in case one of my housemates walked in on me. Halfway through my pile of clothes, I came across a monogrammed Polo knit shirt.
J. M. It must have clung to the dryer tub when Jonathan had last done his laundry. I laid it out flat across the table, grabbed the rest of my clothes, then swirled around to turn off the light.
It’s Tuesday morning. By almost ritualistic habit, Jonathan is out doing his something, I thought.
I flipped the light back on and laid the shirt, innocently enough, on the top of my basket. I walked over to Jonathan’s door as if I didn’t know better. I’d barely touched the door to knock on it when it creaked open. The fact that it was unlocked was spooky enough.
“Jonathan?” I tapped. “It’s me, Breecie. I just found some laundry of yours I thought you might need.” I knew my words went unheard. After a few silent seconds I pushed the door open, certain I was alone.
Even though he occupied the lower level, morning sun flooded the apartment. The walls, draped in a Chinaberry red, served as the background to massive canvasses depicting colorful sailboats and shorelines. The furnishings were simple but elegant, and all probably antique. Mahogany and bamboo. Fine textured tapestries. It was the kind of space Hemmingway would have approved, with a definite South Pacific feeling not at all like Ari’s Southwestern Villa. It suited the apartment just the same. I found myself walking in with reckless abandonment, unconcerned that I didn’t belong in this Pandora’s Box.
Two halls led off in separate directions. I put my clothesbasket down on the sofa, wandering into the next room—an office. The furnishings were made of the same refined quality but it was definitely a working office. Two computer monitors covered the desk. Stacked books and file boxes scattered across the floor presented an obstacle course I chose not to maneuver.
I moved back into the main living area and across to the second hall. My pulse started racing and I didn’t know why. The weird combination of the thrill of being somewhere I shouldn’t be and the surprise joy of an impromptu Easter egg hunt, I guess.
Jonathan Marasco’s bedroom housed one small futon next to a nightstand of cinderblocks and particleboard. Across from his bed a structure gleamed in the shadowy corner. I reached for the switch plate.
“Oh, my god!”
The brass altar came alive under the dappled sunlight. Candles, too many to count, had been burned down to the final threads of wick. Dozens of photographs, most in brass frames but others tatter
ed and worn, probably from being inside plastic wallet holders, littered the tiny shelves. Only two faces appeared in all the images: a woman of about thirty, blonde and very beautiful. And a curly-haired little girl with a maze of freckles across her nose.
That’s his dead wife and daughter. He’s turned his bedroom into a shrine.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?”
I reeled around in my heels just before I jumped out of them. “Jesus, Ari. You scared the crap out of me.”
“Get out of here, girlie, or you’ll get us both in trouble and with the shit kicked out of us. Leave it to the fucking attorney to break the house rules.”
“It was an honest mistake.”
“You’re in his fucking bedroom, darlin’.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“Oh yeah, you were. Stinkin’ thinkin’.”
“The door was unlocked.”
“Because I have to repair a leaky faucet. Now get out of here.”
I grabbed my basket and ran out of the apartment, but not before I caught sight of the animal cage on the other side of Marasco’s front door. It didn’t look like a cage for mammals. It didn’t have the wire grids, but instead thick acrylic walls framed the box. I’d seen them before in a pet shop. They were reptile cages.
Feeling like the three flights of stairs were twenty-three, I fled to my apartment and locked the door.
Chapter Thirty-Two
An Intentional Death
I elected not to be home when Jonathan returned to the ranch just in case Ari opened up a beer or two or three, then opened his damn mouth.
Was it Jonathan trying to spook me away? Why? I had learned my lesson and left the man alone.
My wedding planner, Mrs. French, whom I had yet to meet with, apparently received plenty of instructions from sources unknown. She would fax me a few details now and then. Clearly, if my bridesmaids and I would just show up at the church on time, she could manage pulling off the wedding of the century. Hell, my P.I. said they’d even found old press file photos to make it seem like I was there in D.C., socializing and attending state dinners and engagement celebrations. Kind of like Osama. Is it live or is it Memorex?
That left one small problem the planner didn’t know about. Adam intended to have a best man and five additional ushers. Boy, would Mrs. French have a hissy-fit when she’d find out I could only come up with one attendant, if I was lucky.
It was time to visit Kate and start begging.
Kate seemed to be on the gradual rebound, or at least on a lesser descent. I tracked down her favorite ex-patient guest, Jennie, and explained Kate’s condition. Jennie dropped everything and flew out to spend a full week, one that equaled a year’s worth of daily therapy with Dr. Phil.
I found Kate squatting amidst the front gardens of The Lost Cat, her fingers deep in soil planting Echinacea and Cosmos flowers. Another positive sign she was on the mend.
“Guess what?” Kate jumped up. “I got an email from Macayla this morning.”
“Wow. She finally answered you?” Kate had told me she’d been trying to contact her daughter for weeks, with no response.
“Well, she’s not exactly writing me. It was a forward.”
“Sounds like a start.”
“Yeah.” Kate brushed the dirt from her hands and leaned over to hug me. “What brings you by?”
I recanted my self-guided tour through Jonathan’s apartment and how I was avoiding both housemates. “Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask you a favor, so I’ll just cut to the chase. I need a maid of honor. Seems like it would be a good reason to drag you back to Washington with me.”
Kate grimaced and wrinkled her sculpted nose. “I don’t know, Breeze. Seems like I’m suppose to be convinced that this marriage is a good idea before I stand up for you.”
“You thought of that too, did you?” I laughed. “Adam says wedding presents have already begun pouring in. That ought to be a good omen.”
“You wouldn’t be the first person to send back a few unopened toasters.”
I reached for a nearby garden rake and began working the soil behind her, something I had never done in my entire life. “I have to keep going forward, Kate, until I have a valid reason not to. It’s as if I’ve been preparing for this marriage for years. Since I was a little girl. I can’t remember any other dreams but that I would be Senator Chancellor’s wife.”
Kate sat back down and patted some tender roots into the rich soil. “Maybe that’s the problem,” she said. “Maybe you haven’t had any room to nurture new dreams. Do you love him?”
“Well, now. That’s a novel question,” I said.
“I’m serious. And you think my life’s fucked up?”
“You’ve never heard me say that.”
“You don’t have to,” Kate said. “Tell you what, Breecie. I’ll keep my busy social calendar open, and if you still need me in October, and you can tell me you love him with all your heart, then I’ll be there. Just don’t put me in one of those chintzy purple bridesmaid dresses.”
“Strictly Vera Wang and I’m buying,” I said.
I spent a few more hours in town, ending my shopping with the purchases of fresh sunflower bread at the Claire’s Bakery, and a bouquet of spring flowers at a corner stand.
Back at the ranch, there was no sign of my housemates, which suited me just fine. I wanted a cup of chamomile tea, a book, and my cat on my lap. I grabbed my mail and headed up to the third floor.
“Benny!” He came prancing out from my bedroom at the sound of my voice, hungry for attention. Unfortunately, mine wasn’t quite yet available to give. I kicked off my shoes and checked phone messages while filling a teakettle with water.
‘Breecie, It’s Adam. We have to talk. I need you to grace me with your goddamn presence at one of the most important dinners in this campaign. You humiliated me with your no-show stunt at Galileo Grille. Now I’m giving you plenty of notice, so call me.’
‘You ran off too fast today.’ It was Kate. ‘If I am you’re bridesmaid, or maid of honor, or whatever, I have a lot of responsibilities, and I’m going to take them seriously. You can count on me.’
‘It’s Dad. I’m out of oatmeal. This bitch of a nurse doesn’t think it’s in her job description to pick me up my damn oatmeal. So I’m thinking, since you insist on sticking around, you can bring me some. And none of that instant crap.’
‘Breecie. It’s Mrs. Gaines calling. Naomi. I’ve decided maybe we do have something to talk about. I’m going down to Sante Fe for three, maybe four weeks, but I’ll call you when I get back. I promise. It will be okay, dear.’
What had finally changed Naomi’s mind?
The teakettle had yet to sound, but my internal alarm was blaring. I reached to grab a mug, spilling the open can of tealeaves across the small island. I turned the faucet on and wet the sponge, then stretched across the island to clean up the mess.
The acute pain came in a series of three shattering jolts to my back. I knew I must have surprised an intruder that now stood behind me, delivering the hard blows. My chest jutted outward and upward with each hit. The next sensation jarred my body like currents of electricity, upward from my hands, though my arms, and back to the chest and the central part of my body that had received the initial three jolts.
I didn’t remember anything else after that.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Anything But Lucky
The doctor told me I was lucky to survive the electrocution. He said I was lucky the 220 volts of electricity knocked me off my feet and broke the lightening rod that connected me to the surface of the kitchen burner.
I felt anything but lucky. I felt fear. But then, there was no intruder in my home. No hand delivered blows to my spine.
Kate increased the energy in my hospital room by the same 220 that knocked me out. She jumped around receiving incoming floral arrangements, checking my ice-water supply, strumming her fingers through my unruly black hair, and taking command of my televisio
n remote when it came time for her soaps to air.
With both my hands and arms attached to I.V.’s and monitors, I found them rendered useless. When the phone rang, Kate picked it up and passed it to me.
“You have one helluva way to try and weasel out of a dinner date with me,” Adam said. “Should I fly out there?”
“No reason for you to come. They just held me overnight for observation. I’m sure they’ll release me as soon as the doctor makes his rounds.”
Widow's Row Page 15