“Tia Lottie likes it.” Freeda twisted to look out the window and heaved a big sigh. “Dad saw something in it. There’s a strange beauty.”
Cere’s frustration dissipated at the sound of her cousin’s voice. How insensitive could she be? Of course Freeda was thinking of her dad.
They entered a narrow canyon lined with craggy sandstone walls. Only the winding two lane road and a rushing creek between thickets of cottonwood and spruce trees fit between the imposing walls.
“Do you remember living here with Uncle Joe?” Cere asked.
“I remember the commune. It has always seemed weird that your mom’s family lived so near my dad but they didn’t meet until they went to school in Los Angeles.”
Cere knew the story from her mother, but she doubted Freeda’s dad ever explained it. “I think it’s why they became friends at UCLA. Both were from New Mexico. When my dad started dating Mom they set up Uncle Joe with his sister.”
“Dad’s commune isn’t far away. It’s near the Colorado border.” Freeda tapped a postcard against her knee, probably the card she’d received a month ago from Uncle Joe.
Where was he now? Still in New Mexico? Was that why Freeda insisted on coming? To look for her father?
“Maybe we can go up that way before we go back.”
“Maybe.” Freeda’s normally animated face grew glum as she glanced at the card. For all her openness, she never wanted to discuss why her father took off and disappeared. Maybe it was time to change the subject.
“I don’t remember this place much at all,” Cere said. “We only visited one time and my memories are of that dance hall. At least I’m no longer having spooky dreams.” Three dream-free nights had convinced her that seeing the picture had triggered the unpleasant memories from her childhood.
“But you’re going to do the story.”
“Oh, hell, yeah. I called Gary Riggins, who wrote the article, but he’s on assignment in Mexico. I left voice mail and talked to his assistant. I brought my video camera so I might have you shoot my interview with him and the sheriff—if he talks to me.”
A laugh burbled from Freeda. “You think he’ll agree after our drunken phone call?”
Cere wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue. “It was your idea. He knows Mom, but I don’t think he told her. I kept waiting for a lecture.”
“Won’t happen. She’s just thrilled you’re coming.”
“I had to get out of town. Take a vacation…” She stopped, as Freeda tilted her head toward her and gave her a warning look. Cere waved her hand. “Okay, I just remember this place scared me last time when we went ghost hunting. Thinking back, it had to be because of that stupid kid who told the ghost story. I think he got a charge out of scaring us.”
“I had a crush on him. Ten years old, and I thought he ought to notice me.”
Cere rolled her eyes, but she joined in Freeda’s quick laughter. “Me too. He was my first crush, except I don’t recall his name. All I remember was that he had the longest, curliest eyelashes I’d ever seen.”
“His name was Chico.”
“So much for first love.” She waved at Freeda’s purse. “Write down that name. We should look up good old Chico.”
“He’s probably bald and paunchy with five kids.”
Cere reached out and punched her cousin on the arm. “That would be your first thought. If he’s still sexy. I don’t care how he turned out. Maybe he’ll take us to see the hand again.”
Freeda punched her back. “Naturally that would be your first thought—the damn story.”
Cere guided the car around a rocky outcropping and relief swept through her as the road dipped down a hill to a wide green valley dotted with houses.
“Well, look at that. A rusty welcome sign with what looks like bullet holes. Looks like we made it.”
On first glance, Rio Rojo didn’t appear any more welcoming than the fading sign. It spread across the valley between sandstone-topped mesas. The town was a conglomeration of paved and gravel streets with small squat buildings that looked like they had been tossed there by some careless giant playing a game of build-a-town.
Freeda put away the postcard and sat up straighter, interest shifting. “Small town, USA. Obligatory junkyard, followed by a cemetery. Wow, look at how tiny it is. And no grass.”
“Lots of flowers, though,” Cere said. “I wonder if that’s where Marco is buried.” At Freeda’s frown, she turned her attention in another direction. “Look, an old drive-in. It hasn’t been used since the 80’s. ‘Top Gun’ was the last movie to show.”
The center of town arrived quickly as the highway transformed to Main Street, a wide avenue that hosted a cluster of sandstone and brick buildings—none higher than two stories. Many of the store fronts were empty with wide, dusty windows. Faded facades above the functioning stores bore faint reminders of former owners. An old grocery store building advertised hardware, and what looked like a converted burger stand housed a real estate office. A theater marquee with missing letters offered showings of a movie that was two months old.
“Shades of 1960,” Freeda said with a good-natured laugh. “It’s like we drove through a time tunnel in that canyon or we’re on a tour of the back lot at Universal Studios. If we turn down a street, we’ll discover the fronts being held up by two-by-fours. Marco transported us to the Twilight Zone while he was haunting your dreams.”
“I don’t see the shops, bistros, or galleries Alan mentioned.” Cere craned her neck as she drove by each side street. “I promised Audrey silver and turquoise earrings. I doubt I’m going to find anything here.”
“There’s a Walmart.” Freeda pointed at a wide lot leading to the big box store. The lot held more cars than they’d seen since leaving the freeway. “They’ll have postcards and T-shirts.”
Cere grimaced at the scene. “If this story doesn’t pan out, maybe we can convince Mom to go to a spa in Santa Fe.”
“The ghost won’t like that.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we’re leaving town.” Cere pointed at another junk yard followed by open prairie. “You better call Mom and find out where we turn.”
“I thought you printed a map.” Freeda twisted toward the back seat to find Cere’s purse.
“I think I misplaced it when I was printing out the map on how to get to the Palladium.”
Freeda sank back onto her seat. “So we have a map on how to get to the story location, but no idea how to get to your mom’s house?”
“Something like that,” Cere snapped. She knew what Freeda was thinking. She was more interested in the legend of Marco than visiting her mother. “Call her.”
Freeda picked up her cell phone, squinted at it and waved it impatiently. “Still no service. It’s been that way since Albuquerque.”
“Even in town?” Cere pulled over to the side of the road to make a U-turn and stopped. “Hey, I remember that sign. Lockhart Lake. With the cabins and the big trout? We saw that sign when we were headed up toward the Palladium that night.”
“You remember that?” Freeda asked, her voice filled with amazement.
Cere’s heart began to pound as excitement pulsed through her. “That means it’s somewhere on this road. You want to go there before we head to the house?”
“You didn’t want to do that story and now you’re all over it like gangbusters.”
“I need to do something big. I want to be able to call Alan with some ideas and get taken off suspension. Don’t you see how important that is?” Cere stiffened and she clenched the wheel as her insides twisted. “My suspension could end up being dismissal.”
Freeda blew out a heavy sigh. “Okay, I’m sorry. Let’s do it.”
“The directions are in the side pocket of my bag.”
Twisting in her seat, Freeda picked up the bag and removed the map along with the folded up copies of the newspaper articles. She studied the printed page.
“Looks like it’s five miles out.”
She pulled th
e car back onto the road. “Good. It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”
“In the meantime, Tia is waiting lunch and I gotta pee.”
“You can go in the bushes. You’ve done that plenty of times before.”
The far side of Rio Rojo was only slightly different from the canyon entrance. The creek reappeared as a wide flat river on one side. Small houses and mobile homes dotted the other side. Some properties had corrals with horses and cows, old weathered barns or chicken coops. Tiny front lawns were bordered by gravel driveways filled with pick-ups and old cars.
After five miles only a sagging overhead sign and a narrow line of parallel tracks indicated the turn off for the dance hall. The sign carried the faded letters “Pal di m” grooved into gray wooden boards. Amid Freeda’s protests, Cere jerked the rental car to the right. It bounced over dirt and gravel bordered by thin wispy grass.
“We’re not getting off,” Freeda protested. “I really have to pee.”
“This whole thing was your idea and you’re wimping out? Afraid we’ll run into Marco? I just want to look around.”
“I’m not scared. Oh, hell, let’s go. Maybe there’s an outhouse or something.”
“It’s gonna be a big story.” And if it wasn’t, she’d find a way to make it important.
They bounced along at least two miles before a large, long building came into view. It sat forlorn and deserted near a huddled group of cottonwood trees. Its sagging rock structure was exactly like the picture in the newspaper. Cere could also see the slanting roof was rusting and the wooden boards of the front entrance were dusty and gray. Boards covered the line of windows. She stared at it, calling up memories from their youthful visit. That night it rose against the dark sky like a hulking monster. Now it hunkered like a wounded animal. She pulled the car to a stop in a gravel parking lot.
“I’m gonna pee behind that bush,” Freeda said and launched herself from the car.
Cere moved slower, stepping out and stretching to ease the stiffness caused by the long morning drive. The dry air hit her like a hot, sharp slap across the cheeks, though its warmth felt good on her legs after the car’s air-conditioning. “I’m going around back,” she called. “I remember that’s how we got inside.” Cursing at the uneven ground and the rocks that she could feel through the thin sole of her sandals, she rounded the building and drew up short. A man sat on the edge of a slanting stone wall that bordered the stairs up to the building’s veranda.
Was that a ghost? Her ghost?
He jerked to his feet at the sound of her footsteps, looking as discomfited as she was.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked in a raspy voice.
“I’m sorry… I thought this was public…”
He was tall, lanky, wearing a beaten up black cowboy hat and Oakley sunglasses, even though he stood in the shade. His jeans looked new and the boots resembled the snakeskin designer type Alan wore. His bolo tie had a huge shiny black rock at its center. Onyx?
“This is private property,” he grated. “You have no business here.”
She stepped forward, wishing she had a business card to offer. “I’m Cere, Lottie Medina’s daughter. I’m a reporter with Scope TV newsmagazine.”
“We’re looking for Marco Gonzales,” Freeda said behind her. “His ghost wants Cere to help him.”
Cere whipped around. “Freeda!” Leave it to her cousin to be so open about their search.
“Hi, I’m Freeda Ferguson.”
The dark glasses swiveled from one to the other and his thin lips turned up in a crooked, but sinister smile.
“You girls don’t get out of here, you’re gonna find more than Marco.” His voice lowered to a ghastly whisper. “Don’t you know he’s dead? He comes back every year on August 17th, the night he died, looking for girls who don’t have the sense to realize he was a killer. Lots of bodies buried up there. He killed ’em.” He jerked his head toward the hills behind the building.
Cere’s heart thumped in a quick rhythm, as though she’d just completed a mile long run. She jumped as Freeda caught her arm.
“Uh... we should get going.” For once Freeda’s voice sounded unsure.
“Who are you?” The man was spooky, but Cere wasn’t going to let him think he frightened her, despite that whiskey rough voice.
He shifted, allowing her to catch sight of a crow bar on the stairs. “I’ve been called the ghost of Marco Gonzales.”
A sudden gust of wind whipped around the side of the building, and a violent shiver surged through her. For a minute she was in her dream with the outstretched hand and the searing eyes pleading for help.
She whirled toward Freeda and as they had when they were children, they turned and ran back to the car. Driving quickly with no regard for bumps or flying rocks, Cere guided the car away from the building, checking the rearview mirror to make certain he wasn’t following. Neither said a word until she had turned onto the highway.
“Who the hell was that?” she asked, glancing over at Freeda.
“I don’t know, but I’m glad I peed before we saw him. He scared the hell out of me.” Freeda shivered and reached over to turn down the air conditioning.
“He wanted to scare us with that talk about the ghost and bodies in the hills.” She chewed on a nail, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and then forced herself to place both hands firmly on the wheel. She and her cousin shared that habit of chewing their nails, but she refused to destroy a brand new manicure.
“Maybe this Marco story isn’t a good idea.”
Cere waved her hand. “I’m not going to let some weirdo scare me. But let’s not tell Mom about this Marco thing for now. Let her think I’m here to visit while I nose around.”
“I’m not going to argue. I’m sorry I brought the whole thing up.”
Cere looked into the rearview mirror one last time. She could still see the man’s sinister smile.
“I’m the ghost of Marco Gonzales.”
The heck with that. If Marco was responsible for buried bodies, it would only make the story more interesting.
Chapter Seven
Rafe leaned forward in his normal booth at the Matador while his daughter Ginny hopped away to the play area in back. They had breakfast at the restaurant most days, and he had just put in his order. Normally he’d lean back and enjoy that first cup of coffee, but today a restless energy filled him. From the moment Lottie Medina gleefully told him about her daughter’s imminent arrival he’d been on edge. He hadn’t mentioned the drunken midnight call. Hopefully Cere was coming to see her mother and the Marco reference was a joke.
He looked up as the bell over the door tinkled. Cere would have been recognizable even if her mother wasn’t beside her, their arms linked. She had big city woman stamped on her like a mailing label. Sunglasses on her head, a tote bag with a designer logo, and sparkling gems in her ears that were probably diamonds. Her auburn hair was swept back from her face, and the color of her manicured nails was matched on painted toenails. He prided himself on the ability to instantly size up people and he knew her type immediately—spoiled, demanding, used to being the center of attention.
Sleek as a well-groomed cat, Cere glided across the room. Her bright yellow cotton shorts outlined a narrow waistline. Not skin and bones like so many LA women, she exuded health and vitality. The shorts and an avocado-colored, sleeveless shell clung to her curves, which were womanly and nicely rounded in all the right places. She was of medium height and her caramel legs were muscular, not that long, skinny look so many West Coast men favored. The beaded sandals were impractical—strappy models with heels that could probably take out an eye.
What he didn’t expect was the burst of energy that emanated from her flashing eyes. They seemed to burst like fireworks as she studied the open room. Her wide engaging smile displayed small white teeth.
A third woman joined them. She was taller than Cere with thick black hair pulled away from her face in a ponytail. She wore a cotton shirt
over a tank top, cargo shorts and black hiking boots. All three women giggled like school girls as they settled into a nearby booth. Lottie sat on one side, the younger women across from her. Their voices rang out over the country music that blared from speakers overhead.
Had she noticed him? No, it was foolish to think she’d glance in his direction. He pulled his gaze away as Naldo shuffled by with a broom, sweeping up a child’s wayward Cheerios.
“Que tal, Viejo.”
Naldo nodded and Rafe gestured him to sit down. He hadn’t talked to the old man since their midnight chat.
“Digame about Diaz,” he said as Naldo slid into the booth.
Naldo shrugged, his wrinkled face scrunching. “Don’t really know him.”
“You said you did.”
“He used to live here. Long time ago. Before you was born. Left town, maybe forty years ago.” His neatly clipped fingernails tapped on the table top and his eyes watched them, avoiding Rafe.
“Is he still around?”
“Nah, gone back to Texas, I think.”
“Did he tell you I caught him nosing around the Palladium?”
Naldo’s head jerked up, and a sheen of sweat broke out on his dark skin. Fear glistened in the old man’s dark eyes for the quick second that they rested on Rafe before he lowered them back to the table. “Don’t matter. He’s gone.”
“Do you know why he was out there?”
“Gonna buy the place, he said.” Naldo smiled a broken-toothed grin and pushed himself to his feet. “Here comes Josie with your breakfast.”
Rafe watched him shuffle away as a fresh bout of skepticism filled him. Naldo’s behavior might set off alarms, except the old man liked sending up false smokescreens. It was why so many rumors abounded about him. Only a visit to his house and a bottle of Jack Daniels might loosen his tongue.
A plate of sausage and biscuits arrived with a very welcome distraction—Ginny. Rafe helped her into the booth as Josie Morales put down her pancakes. When he re-settled, he positioned himself to look away from Lottie and her distracting daughter.
****
Clapping her hands like a little girl, Lottie smiled at Cere and Freeda. “I can’t tell you how happy I am you girls came.”
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