What was that rustling sound she heard? Chanting?
Fear snatched at her, telling her she was going to be captured. Heart thudding, she waited for the ghost and his unearthly army to claim her...
“I was so damn scared.” Cere shivered and shook her head to clear it. She hadn’t recalled that awful night in years. She realized her fingers were shaking and put down her tilting glass so the others wouldn’t notice.
“Hell, we all were,” Freeda agreed. “I still don’t know how you got back to the car first.”
Cere didn’t know either. She’d closed her eyes and kept them shut tight when strong arms lifted her. “Someone carried me. I think it was that stupid kid who took us out there. I was surprised to open my eyes and find myself staring at the car door.”
Freeda turned to Audrey and laughed. “Needless to say, we rode back to town in total silence.”
“Quite a story.”
Freeda pounded on Cere’s shoulder. “She’s been dreaming of the ghost. He’s asking for help.”
Ignoring her, Cere pulled the pages closer and began to read the story.
Convicted of burglary as a teenager, Marco Gonzales claimed he was wrongfully accused and promised revenge on the town of Rio Rojo. While in prison he joined an activist group, and when he returned, he preached peace and tolerance as he pushed for civil rights.
However, when a rash of vandalism and burglaries hit the town, Gonzales became a suspect. Businesses were looted and small fires set to cover the thefts. One fire flared out of control and several businesses burned to the ground. Official reports indicate that following the fire, Gonzales was tracked to the Palladium where he killed himself with a shotgun. According to current Sheriff Rafe Tafoya, he was never charged with the final round of crimes, but the burglaries stopped after his death. The money taken in the thefts—said to be thousands of dollars—was never recovered.
Cere lowered the pages and whirled toward Freeda. “Wait a minute! After all these years, no one has ever tried to find the money he stole? What do you suppose happened to it?”
“Exactly! And look at that.” Freeda pointed to another picture below the handprint.
“All for love?” Cere read the smudged words written in Spanish that were described as being below the hand. “Why didn’t that kid tell us about that?”
“Too mushy.” Freeda giggled and wrinkled her nose. “That story says there may have been a secret woman involved.”
“She took the money and split,” Audrey offered in a matter-of-fact tone. “Or ran off with some other guy.”
Freeda nodded. “Maybe. Why else commit suicide? Unless the lover killed him. Or the woman. See? Romantic mystery, hidden treasure? Just right for Scope.”
Cere studied the story, but before she could read more, a sudden shout came from the front of the bar where a television set sat high above it.
“Hey, Cere, you got the network lead!”
She looked up, saw the anchorwoman and then her own face. She leaped to her feet and waved her fist in a victory pump.
“Top of the network,” Freeda screeched. “What are you going to do to top this?”
Chapter Five
Rafe shoved aside the papers that littered his desk. His stomach churned and he took an antacid from his desk drawer and popped it into his mouth. Damn, he hated paperwork. Countless hours of mindlessly filling out forms. But it was necessary—even more than when he’d been on the police force in Los Angeles. The forms were useful county records that showed what his department did. That could add up to more state or federal funds. Computers were supposed to help. Now he filled out forms and put the information into the computer. Double paperwork.
He pushed his chair back from the desk. Its protesting screech filled the quiet room. He should get that oiled. He rubbed his hand over aching eyes. He was tired, almost too exhausted to get out of the hard, wooden chair and go home. The clock must read midnight, if he could see it. He had been on duty since four that morning.
His office was dark except for the splash of light from his desk lamp. Beyond his office, light spilled into the corridor through the open door to the restroom across the hall. A sudden scraping noise jerked him upright in his chair. Naldo Sanchez, the ancient janitor, shuffled out of the restroom. His thin shoulders drooped as he pushed a galvanized bucket on rollers using a mop handle to maneuver it. Seeing Rafe, he waved.
“I’m done. Esta limpia.” He pulled out a red handkerchief and wiped his dark, wrinkled forehead.
If Naldo was finished, the room would be very clean. The old man was undoubtedly the cleanest man in Rio Rojo and took pride in the few janitorial jobs he still did. Despite the late hour and having worked through the evening, Naldo’s overalls were neatly pressed even if they were frayed around the cuffs. His gray hair was clipped so short his skull showed in places, an indication he cut his own hair.
Rafe wanted nothing more than to go home and stand under a hot shower but noting the older man’s stooped posture, he gestured at the seat across from him. “Sientese, Viejo. You shouldn’t be here so late. Tell me how you’ve been.”
With a wheeze, Naldo nodded and pushed his bucket aside. He folded the handkerchief into a neat square with bony fingers and put it into his pocket. From another pocket he pulled a plastic water bottle. The liquid in it was the color of watered down tea, but Rafe suspected it was laced with something else. He didn’t complain. Naldo did his work better than men half his age.
“Why are you working?” Rafe asked, lifting his feet to his desk and clasping hands across his midsection. “You should be retired. Spending your time fishing.”
The grizzled face softened into a toothless grin. “I don’t like to fish. This is mi...” He waved his hand toward the room. “Dinero loco. Spending money.”
Rafe grinned. Like so many in Rio Rojo—Anglo and Hispanic—Naldo mixed English with liberal doses of Spanish. Spanglish. He couldn’t imagine why the old man needed extra money. Naldo’s tiny house had been owned by his father and his used pick-up was bought with cash. For years the Sanchez family ran a pawn shop and Naldo had plenty of unclaimed collectibles he could sell any time he needed anything.
“Sure, Viejo. You’re a rich old man. I still hear rumors you got silver and gold coins buried in your back yard or tucked into a mattress.” Rafe worked for Naldo as a boy, helping clean yards and shovel snow from walks. He knew the old man enjoyed the rumors about his supposed wealth.
Naldo cackled and took a long drink from the plastic bottle. “Me gusto que trabajar. Keeps me out of trouble.” He might be slow in movement, but his brain remained quick, and his brown eyes were sharp. Since becoming sheriff, Rafe had learned that while people seldom paid attention to Naldo, few things happened in town without his knowing.
The phone jangled and Rafe jumped. He jerked his feet from the desk and sat up stiffly, stomach tightening as he reached for the phone. Calls this late usually meant trouble.
“Sheriff’s office.” Maybe it was Lottie wondering when he’d be by to pick up Ginny. He hadn’t intended to make her babysit so long.
“Good, you’re still open,” said a strange woman’s voice. “I’m trying to reach Sheriff Tafoya. Is he in?”
Why would anyone think he might still be in at midnight? “Maybe.”
“I need to speak to the sheriff. This is critical.”
He sat up straight. She was nearly shouting as noise filtered in from the background. “You have an emergency?”
“My name is Cere Medina and I work for Scope News Magazine in Los Angeles.”
Tension rippled through his muscles. “Lottie’s daughter? Is something wrong with Ginny? Why did Lottie call you?”
“Lottie?” The woman sounded surprised. “You know my mother?”
“Yes. Isn’t that why you’re calling?”
“No, no…the han…” There was noise behind her and she spoke to someone else. “I got the sheriff, I think.”
Her voice sounded slurred and he realized w
hy she was shouting. “Are you in a bar?”
“I work for a television news magazine. I may come out to do a story.”
This had to be Lottie’s doing. He’d watched her latest report at her mother’s house while dropping off Ginny. He’d been drawn by her intense gaze as though she was looking right through the camera lens. Her melodious, fluid voice flowed over him, but her story troubled him. Shots of a frightened boy, a mother in distress. He didn’t like her way of telling the story—interfering with what should have been a happy family reunion.
“You’re coming here for a story?” He winked at Naldo as he adopted a hint of sarcasm. “A national program is interested in our little town?”
“Well, yes.”
Why was she calling at midnight? She sounded half drunk. “What could we have that would be of interest to your audience?”
“The hand on the wall.”
His attempt at levity exploded like a bursting bomb, and Rafe shot to his feet despite his fatigue. “You’re joking, right?”
“I saw the hand when I visited my cousins years ago.”
Naturally. Maybe she was one of his former customers. This had to be a joke. “I see.”
“I read a newspaper story.” Eagerness took control of her tone as words spilled out like cards dumped onto a table. “I’d like to follow up and look into whether Marco Gonzales was murdered.”
“Marco Gonzales murdered? What the hell are you talking about?” Her words pounded him like punches in the gut. He fished out another antacid tablet from his drawer with his free hand.
“I’d like to investigate. Like solving a cold case?”
“Ah, hell.” He paced around his desk, gripping the phone until his hand cramped. Pictures of the frightened boy she’d used in her story popped into his head. If she could tread on a child’s privacy, what else might she do? What did Lottie say about how intrepid her daughter was? “Look, it’s midnight and I’m on my way home.”
“Sure, Sheriff. I’ll call you when I get there. We could interview you, you know, like a crime expert. We might even pay…”
“Yeah, right. Good night.” He put down the phone and dropped back on his chair, like a deflated balloon. “Damn!”
Naldo emitted a soft belch that echoed like an alarm in the quiet room. Rafe had forgotten he was still there.
“Que pasa? They wanna do another story on Marco?” Naldo wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Yeah, but TV this time. She says they’ll pay for an interview.” Rafe grunted.
“TV, huh? You gonna talk to ’em?”
“Hell, no. Hopefully I can convince her not to do it.” Rafe had answered a few questions for the Santa Fe reporter, but mainly tried to dissuade him from writing the story. Television and national exposure would be a nightmare. He’d have to deal with more trespassers—tourists like that Texan, Diaz, whom he’d chased off earlier. He fumbled in his drawer for fresh antacid tablets.
“Quienese?” Naldo asked, using his lips to point at the phone. “Who was callin’ you?”
Rafe stopped rummaging and glanced across the desk. A hint of a sparkle glistened in the old man’s eyes. Damn, another problem. Television was the sort of excitement to stir up a lonely old man’s life.
As far as Rafe knew, Naldo had not spoken to Gary Riggins. The reporter relied on old information, rumors, and filled in the blanks with speculation. The townspeople didn’t speak to outsiders, but the daughter of a local resident, waving a checkbook and the chance at television fame, might be another story.
“You don’t want to get mixed up in this,” he warned with a dismissive wave of his hand. “This is going to be big trouble, Viejo.”
“Yo se. I’m gettin’ too damn old por chisme.” The old man struggled to his feet and slid the bottle into his pocket. “Buenos noches.”
“Good night.” Popping the fresh tablets into his mouth, he crunched down hard as he snapped off his light. After a quick pass through the building to make certain all the doors were locked, he stepped outside.
A warm summer breeze brushed his cheeks, holding a promise of warmer days to come. The scent of freshly mowed grass filled his nostrils. The streets were quiet except for the far away barking of a dog. Nearly a block away, Naldo ambled along.
Rafe climbed into his Jeep and drove until he was even with the old man. He stopped and rolled down his window. “Need a ride?”
“Nah. It does me good to walk.”
As he drove on, headlights flashed in the rearview mirror. A dark SUV turned onto the street and pulled over beside Naldo, who waved it away. Rafe made a quick U-turn through a parking lot. This might be city jurisdiction, but he wasn’t going to take chances. As he came back around, he saw that the vehicle was a black Cadillac Escalade and Naldo was climbing into it. Rafe stopped beside it.
Diaz rolled down the window. Despite the darkness, he still wore sunglasses. In the dark his gravelly voice sounded menacing. “Problem, Sheriff?”
Ignoring the question, Rafe looked beyond him. “You okay, Naldo?”
The weathered face wasn’t visible, but the dark outline of his head bobbed. “Si, si.”
Diaz grinned. “Just giving the old man a ride home. Not breaking any laws, Sheriff. Not in your county.”
“Ees okay,” Naldo added. “Mi amigo.”
Rafe hesitated before driving on, watching the rearview mirror until the vehicle turned onto Naldo’s street, Maple Street, where Lottie had seen the black car. Damn Diaz. He’d been playing games earlier.
He drew a deep breath, listening to the silence of the town where he’d grown up. He’d come back from Los Angeles for that peace and quiet. Until now the town was just what he wanted. His parents spoiled Ginny and she enjoyed the freedom of small town life along with the attention of numerous relatives. If only he’d been able to convince Carmen sooner… He shook away that train of thought. He’d been as eager to earn big city wages as his wife had been about her opportunity to teach inner city youngsters.
Rio Rojo wasn’t perfect. Every town had its legends and the spell of Marco Gonzales had held this town in a vise for years. Rafe never believed in the ghost, never witnessed anything supernatural at the Palladium, though he made it sound that way to make money as a teenager. Now, like a restless ghost stirring, a hot breeze whipped down the street, making the elm trees rustle. A superstitious person might say the spell of Marco was rising, hoping to regain its grip.
As sheriff, he believed in reality. Like Diego Diaz in his black Escalade. He couldn’t be detained without a reason but Naldo’s acquaintance with the man was surprising. In his years as a police detective, Rafe learned to sense when someone was hiding something. Diaz fit that bill.
Trouble waiting to happen.
So was Cere Medina and her crazy ideas about Marco Gonzales.
Chapter Six
“Exile! I swear we’re in exile.” Cere guided the rental car northwest along a two-lane highway. “They may call it New Mexico, but the truth is we’ve been banished from civilization. When was the last time we saw a car?”
Freeda studied the passing countryside. “There weren’t that many on the interstate.”
More than an hour ago they had turned off northbound Interstate 25 onto the state road that led toward Rio Rojo. They passed through towns nestled in rows of canyons surrounded by parched, rocky hills dotted with scrub brush, ground hugging cacti, juniper and piñon trees. The towns consisted of boarded up buildings, sprawling discount stores and fast food places linked by rows of aging brick houses, newer low profile stucco homes and scattered mobile homes. The hills were populated by cows, scrawny horses, and a few goats. Overhead hovering buzzards circled as they patiently waited for their next meal. Every so often they passed a small cross by the side of the road, surrounded by fading flowers. A ridge of mountains outlined in blue rose along the distant horizon.
Cere pounded a fist on the steering wheel, unable to contain the frustration that had gripped her for two days. “I
should go back. File a protest. Alan can’t suspend me.”
Freeda sighed. “I wondered how long it would take you to start up again. You’re not suspended. You’re on vacation.”
Cere pressed her lips together, her muscles tensing. “I’m in exile. Scope gets the glory of a major scoop, Audrey gets a great new gig, you get job offers, and me? I get sent on vacation. Alan as good as told me to leave town or I’d be suspended.”
“It’s only for two weeks.”
“You know why they did it. Richard Waverly is personal friends with the network CEO. They play golf together, I hear.”
Freeda’s voice grew bored. “And I’ve heard all this about twenty times. You knew there would be repercussions when we followed the limo. You said so.”
“I didn’t know Waverly and his lawyer would try to get me fired for interrupting their beautiful family moment. Hah! Any tourist from the street could have gotten that picture of the kid and his dad.”
Throwing up her hands, Freeda squirmed in her seat until the car shook. “Enough! How many times are you going to go through it? They sent you on vacation. I say, enjoy it.”
“I can’t afford to. They could still fire me. Well, I’m not giving up. I’m going to work that Marco story and return with something outstanding. Alan called me the Queen of Chaos. Can you believe it?”
“Everyone calls you that. They just don’t do it to your face.”
“At least he seemed interested in the Marco story. He might pay my salary if it pans out.”
“Old news,” Freeda said in a sing song voice.
“Did I tell you he told me to look around for Hollywood connections? Lots of stars are buying up land here. How could anyone choose to live here?”
Dead Man's Rules Page 4