Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries)

by Heather Haven

  Carlos went on haltingly. “The night of the robbery, when I thought that brute hit Mira, it was just like it was happening again to Rosa. I didn’t think about how it looked to everyone. In fact, I wasn’t thinking at all, just…being.” He reached up and touched his side of the Plexiglas where my hand rested. “I’m sorry, Lee.”

  I shook my head numbly, not daring to speak for the tightness in my throat. Carlos went on, “Will you tell Mira what I’ve told you? Tell her I’m sorry I frightened her. And tell her I love her. Keep telling her that.”

  “I will,” I managed to get out. I took a few quick breaths to steady myself. “I’m glad you told me this, Carlos. It explains a lot. I’ll tell Mira tonight verbatim. I can repeat conversations from weeks back word for word. It works great with used car salesmen and old boyfriends,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Carlos forced a smile, and we both dropped our hands from the glass. When he looked away for a moment, I took the opportunity to brush at wet cheeks with my free hand.

  “Once I was in here, I had a lot of time to think.” He went on. “I realized what was going on inside me. But I didn’t want anyone else to know because, well, I was afraid it might help build an even stronger case against me. People might think it gives me more of a reason for wanting the man dead.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “But I don’t want to frighten Mira, and I don’t want her to think I’m crazy. Or any crazier than I am.” He let out a raspy laugh and cleared his throat.

  “You’re not crazy,” I reassured him. “But things like that aren’t good bottled up. They tend to come out when least expected. Carlos, Mr. Talbot has to know about this, too. I’m not sure if anyone else does, especially if it could hurt your defense. That’s for you and him to decide. Tell him tomorrow just as you’ve told me.”

  He looked at me and nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s go on,” I said, shaking off the past. “Tell me what happened Saturday when you got the phone call from the robber.”

  Carlos sat up straighter, relieved to be free of what went before and to talk about the present. “I got the call around noon, the day after the statue was stolen. The man on the phone said he would sell it back to me for fifty thousand dollars. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “What couldn’t you believe?” I leapt in. “That he called you? What?”

  “Lee, Mira and I had that statue appraised just days before and were told it was worth nothing. Nada. So why would a man steal a worthless statue in the first place and then call me the next day offering to sell it back for that amount of money? None of it made sense. That’s one of the reasons I went there. I was curious.”

  “Well, curiosity killed the cat. No offense, Tugger,” I muttered under my breath. Louder I said, “Why else did you go there?” He shrugged but said nothing. “Don’t close up on me now. Did you want to hurt him or pay him back for what he did to Mira?” Carlos and I looked at each other for a moment. Carlos shook his head, but I stared hard at him, doubt filling my mind.

  “No, not hurt him. I just wanted to confront him, Lee, I swear,” he said, running slim fingers through jet-black hair. “Face him, let him know he couldn’t do what he did to Mira again and not answer to me for it. It sounds stupid when I say it.”

  “And? What else?”

  “I’ve already told you,” he said, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. “I’ve never been blackmailed or had anything held for ransom before, let alone a statue I was told was worth next to nothing. I was curious, I tell you! So I went to the bank and took out the money—”

  “You were walking around with fifty thousand dollars on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Carlos,” I said, reeling in my chair. “Do you know how that looks? It looks like blackmail that went wrong.”

  “I know. It looks bad.”

  “It looks bad? You are a master of understatement,” I said dryly. “Where is the money now?”

  “I don’t know. They took it with the rest of my things. I guess the police have it.”

  We were running out of time. “Did you kill him, Carlos? Tell me the truth now. No bull. I can’t help you if I don’t know the truth.”

  Carlos looked me directly in the eye and said, “Lee, I am innocent. He was already stabbed and dying when I got there. I swear to God. I swear on everything and everyone I hold dear. I swear on my love for Mira. I did not kill that man.”

  “Okay, Okay,” I said letting out the breath I’d been holding since all of this began. “I believe you.”

  “Thank you,” Carlos whispered.

  We instinctively knew we had crossed a hurdle. A basis of faith had been reestablished between two lifelong friends.

  “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, tell me more about this statue,” I said. “Where did you get it?”

  “I found it on one of the dirt roads on the rancho a week or so ago. It was lying near the side, under a clump of bushes. I dropped my canteen and when I went for it, I saw the statue. I thought it was interesting, so I brought it back for Mira. She likes things like that. Mira thought it might be real, so we took it to be appraised.”

  “Didn’t you wonder where it came from?”

  “Yes, I did but, frankly, it’s just one of several strange things going on there lately.”

  “Like what?”

  “When I go home, sometimes I see weird lights out by the abandoned mine. Mom keeps blowing it off, saying it’s nothing but a vaquero driving one of our trucks or a car cutting through our property. At first, I thought so, too, but it keeps happening more and more. That’s really why I’ve been taking those early morning rides. I’ve been trying to see if something is going on at the mine. You know the one.”

  I did indeed. When we were kids and my folks visited the rancho, Carlos, Richard and I would ride out to the abandoned mine, them on ponies and me on a rickety mountain bike, and try to get inside. We never could, though.

  “But each time I ride out there, nothing.” Carlos continued, “The place is sealed up like it’s been for the past thirty years. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Ever since our old foreman retired three years ago and his nephew took over, it’s been different around there. I know it doesn’t sound like much but, Lee, you’re good at this.”

  “Good at what?”

  “Finding out about things, you know, after they’re over.”

  “Well, thank you, I think.”

  “Lee, go to Los Pocitos Minerales,” Carlos said, nearly jumping out of his seat and then stealing a look at the guard before sitting down again. He lowered his voice, saying, “I think all of this is tied together. It has to be. I mean, finding the statue on the rancho, having it stolen here, and then a man from Mexico getting murdered. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “I was going to start here in the Bay Area. How can I—?”

  “Please!” he begged. “Help me. Besides, Mom’s there by herself, and you know what she’s like when she has a jumping competition coming up. She doesn’t see or think about anything else. She could be in danger.”

  “Why do you think Tex may be in danger?” I could feel my eyebrows rise up to my hairline.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s all in my mind,” he admitted in a dejected tone, once again running fingers through his hair, adding to his disheveled look, so out of character for the well-groomed young man I knew. “No, it’s not,” he contradicted himself. “The rancho is different now.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  He thought for a moment before speaking. “Well, the lights for one thing. But also, sometimes I see a few of the hands whispering to each other and then looking at us. Like there are secrets or something.”

  “Has your mother noticed it? Has she said anything?”

  “Other than saying they’re behaving squirrelly? No, but I know Mom. With me being so far away, she wouldn’t want to worry me. Besides, she’s got a competition coming up in July, and there’s no way s
he’ll leave her Aztecas. She works with them several hours every day.”

  Aztecas are by way of being the national horse of Mexico, a cross between the Andalusian stallions and Criollo mares but highly refined. Tex Garcia was a real rootin’, tootin’ cowgirl, tortilla style, in that when she took off her handmade Stetson, it was only to don her Charro hat for a jumping competition. She was well known for sleeping on bales of hay in the stables, whenever her horses sneezed or something like that, just to be near them. You could say she was devoted.

  “I don’t like her being there alone without us knowing what’s going on. She’s been training one of the vaqueros, Paco, to take over for her when she comes for the wedding. She trusts him but says he isn’t ready yet to run the ranch by himself. I don’t think she’ll leave no matter what I say.” Carlos looked at me. “Please use that ferreting skill you’ve honed so well. Go to Los Posos. Will you?”

  “You really think the answer is there?”

  “Yes, I do. And if isn’t, I’m screwed.”

  “All right,” I said after a moment. “I don’t know if I can find out anything at the rancho, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “That’s all I can ask of you,” he said simply.

  I replaced the phone, got up to leave, and glanced back over my shoulder. There, burned in my brain, was the image of Carlos sitting in the red plastic chair, looking hopeful and bereft at the same time. And about a hundred years old.

  On the drive back to Palo Alto, my mind ran through a dozen scenarios, not the least of which was leaving the rest of the family to do the investigation in Palo Alto while I went to Los Pocos by myself, as I promised Carlos I would. It all seemed such a mess. With murder charges against Carlos here in the States, what was the purpose of going to his rancho? Yet Carlos seemed so certain that the rancho, the dog statue, and the murder were somehow tied together.

  Noshing again on my lower lip while driving down University Avenue, I noticed a parking space on a side street near one of our entrances and couldn’t believe my good fortune. Usually I have to park several blocks away, no matter what time of day.

  Getting out of the car, I thought more about my conversation with Carlos than I did about Leonard Foley. It was eight-fourteen. I had to get back in sync for my nine o’clock meeting on the Bingo Bango project before Leonard showed up.

  D.I. is located on the third floor of one of the few remaining designated historical buildings in Palo Alto. The Northeast corner bears a bronze plaque with an official California historical building seal. This designation is due in some part to an early twentieth century bank still living on the first floor, having once occupied the entire building. Mostly, though, it’s due to Lila’s efforts in the mid-nineties.

  The building still has the original everything, including the ornate glass enclosed elevator that makes more noise than an aerobics class filled with out-of-shape oldsters. This lift dangles from a cord no thicker than a jump rope I used in the eighth grade. Yet the yearly inspector has the effrontery to state it can support the weight of all that brass and glass plus two full-grown people. Maybe it can, but I will never be one of those people.

  I raced up the stairs and across the burgundy plush carpet toward the black polished double doors bearing a rectangular gold plate on which were written the words:

  Discretionary Inquiries, Inc.

  Data, Information, and Intelligence

  Room 300

  As I turned the polished brass handle, the door opened on silent hinges and into my family’s and my world.

  Even though it was after eight p.m., Stanley, who keeps the front office hopping, was speaking to what sounded like a potential client over the phone. He hadn’t seen me in several weeks, so his face showed happy surprise as I trotted by, even though he didn’t miss a beat of the conversation.

  I looked forward to being in an office I hadn’t visited for a while and closed the door happily behind me. Unlike the opulent but impersonal décor of the rest of D.I., my office is done in pale apricot tones with modern Mexican touches. Sergio Bustamante sculptures, whimsical and colorful, are everywhere. They fill me with delight every time I look at them. The office interior is in direct defiance to one of Lila’s edicts that all offices be in line with the rest of D.I.’s furnishings. That would be gag-me-with-a-spoon maroon and grey. On this matter, I dug my heels in and threatened to go to the Board if I didn’t get my way. Lila was scandalized and backed down but to this day, refuses to set foot in my office, an unexpected bonus. No worries about a surprise visit from the boss.

  Once settled in, I opened my bag and took out the copy of the memo, still riled that the scanner hadn’t worked. Making several copies on my desktop copier, I popped them inside the file. When Leonard showed up for our nine o’clock meeting, we would give him several copies with our blessings, and tell him to do with them what he will. Then I would tell Richard what to do with his scanner.

  Before Leonard arrived, I had scheduled ten minutes for a debriefing meeting with Lila to fill her in. For the next five, I entered the day’s information into the database with fingers flying over the keyboard. Fortunately, I had been going into my email and voicemail after work each day from home, so there wasn’t much of a buildup. Most of my other assignments had been passed on to Pete or Manny, so after I wrapped this up tonight, maybe I could get some sleep and play with my cat before going to Mexico, finding the blue dog statue, and oh yeah, getting the murder charges against Carlos dropped. My stomach clenched as I thought, how the hell am I going to do it all?

  I glanced at my watch again and got up. Grabbing a quick cup of coffee, I headed for the South Conference Room, one of my favorites. Another untouched by Lila’s decorating mandates, this was originally created as a smoking room for the bank manager and other gentlemen back in the nineteen twenties. It remains pretty much the same now as it did then. Sometimes, when the windows have been closed a long time, you can still smell the faint lingerings of pipe tobacco. When the windows are open, you can hear the water splaying into the three-tiered fountain outside on the patio and the chirping of bathing birds. The furniture and wall paneling is done in cherry wood, with accents of forest green leather. Several brass hanging lamps sporting real abalone shades from the nineteen-twenties throw a soft glow on the walls and the burnished wood of the long conference table. Abalone shell shades are very old world, very beautiful, and very politically incorrect. According to California law, today the only thing the average person is allowed to do with abalone in the ocean is to pat it lovingly on the rump if it happens to swim by.

  I walked into the room and found Richard seated at one end of the table, tapping on the keyboard of his laptop. I don’t think he goes to the bathroom without dragging that thing along. Speaking of Richard, it was unusual for him to be included in on these meetings. Not only is he the technical side of things, with a heavy leaning on computer research, Richard is what we refer to as our “loose cannon.” Yes, he has a brilliant mind and computer-know-how up the wazoo. His genius at statistical compilation has given D.I. the bleeding

  edge in detective work, not just in California but also throughout the country. I use the phrase “bleeding edge,” because it’s what the techies say when something surpasses the industry’s idea of the leading edge on things. It is the highest form of praise. I find the metaphor squeamish, myself, but I try to stay up on these phrases, so when the family has dinner together, I know what the hell Richard is talking about.

  Getting back to him being a loose cannon, the last time we let him meet with clients, he was twenty minutes late and arrived carrying mounds of paperwork in a plastic laundry basket tucked under one arm. In his free hand, he was gnawing on a liverwurst and onion sandwich, which stank up the whole room for days afterward. That was three years ago, and this is the first time he has seen the inside of a conference room since that time. However, as he used to be Leonard’s boss and wanted to give good ol’ Len the information we’d gathered face to face, Lila thought we�
�d take a chance and let him sit in with us.

  Richard looked up, saying, “Before we do anything else, here’s the tax report you asked for on Mesoamerican Galleries.” He tapped several papers to the side of the computer. “You know, we’re not supposed to be able to get other people’s tax returns unless we have their permission, so it would be better if you did that kind of thing only through me, okay?”

  “Sorry. It might help Carlos’s case, though,” I said. I updated them briefly before snatching at Meso’s papers, leaving out my conversation with Race.

  “Having glanced over it, myself,” Lila said while I read, “their first year’s income is commendable. It’s not a great deal of money but justifiable for keeping a business open and promises a bright future.”

  Richard grunted, still pecking away. He looked up. “Unlike many of the other galleries around. Victoria told me she heard a rumor at the gym the other day from the interior

  decorator of Race Holbrook’s gallery, who said if Holbrook doesn’t get a cash infusion soon, he’s probably going to go under.”

  “And that’s with four ex-wives to feed,” I said. Mom sniffed, while I wondered just how desperate Race might be to keep his gallery open.

  “That’s enough,” Lila said. “We should be concentrating on the matter at hand, Leonard Fogel’s dilemma.”

  Mom, Richard and I went over the process, hours spent, and outcome, in preparation for Leonard. He was ten minutes late and showed up wearing the same ratty Home Depot T-shirt, baggy jeans, and worn down rubber thongs that covered him nearly every day. You’d never know this was a kid worth over four million bucks.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Alvarez,” he said deferentially. “Hey, Richard, my man,” he said gregariously, and they did that masculine hand slapping thing that looks pretty silly to me, but men like doing it, so there you are. He turned to me and became serious, saying, “Whatcha got for me, Lee?”