Dead Man's Rules

by Rebecca Grace

  “No bank account?” she said incredulously.

  Rafe shrugged. “Lots of people who grew up out here didn’t trust banks after the Depression. Hell, he was his own banker when he ran the pawn shop. Always kept cash on hand.”

  “People in town knew this?”

  “Of course.”

  “So it was someone from around here,” she concluded. “I mean, the townspeople are pretty guarded. They don’t talk to strangers, right?”

  Since he’d come back to Rio Rojo, he’d met everyone in town. He couldn’t imagine anyone shooting the old man—even for the money.

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean the killer’s local. If I have one complaint about this town, it’s that people talk too much, too loudly. You should hear that group at the Matador. They used to tease Naldo all the time. Maybe he told someone himself. He loved to gossip. Maybe he told Diaz. He said he knew the guy.”

  She nodded. “That was the impression I got when I told him the old man was dead. But for some reason I thought he was upset—like he didn’t know.”

  “If he knew him, if he even cared, why not go to the scene and get the details? Unless he already knew the details.” He turned to her, his hand on the seat. “Listen, do you want to take the Jeep and go back to town? I hate to strand you out here until a deputy can come out.”

  She glanced toward the Palladium and then turned to him and gave him a radiant smile that made his heart skip. “Why don’t you tell me Marco’s story while we wait? The one Gary Riggins didn’t get right?”

  Damn, this woman never quit. And that smile was merely a ploy. She knew its potent effect. Cere Medina, reporter-charmer in action. Rafe turned away, and stroked the scar under his beard thoughtfully. Still, maybe he’d give her a few details—just enough to make her bored.

  Cere could tell she might finally be getting through to him. She increased the stakes. “I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something you’re trying to hide. It isn’t fair either. Someone shot at me. Was it because I want to do that story or because of the money?”

  Rafe seemed to consider her comment and finally nodded. He gestured toward a piñon tree. “Let’s go sit in the shade. Maybe … a few questions.”

  With the Jeep on one side, the tree on the other side and the Palladium sheltering them from the hill, no one could shoot at them except from the wide open space of the road. Cere found a flat rock near where he perched to serve as a seat. He picked at the grass at his feet, eyes averted from her.

  “To tell the truth, I don’t know much about the case, but what do you want to know?”

  “Riggins made it sound like murder in his story. Do you think he was right?”

  “He wrote what he thought would sell. Suicide is too benign to sell.”

  Cere recalled the blazing eyes that called out to her in the night, the voice that wouldn’t leave her alone. “I think Marco’s story deserves to be told one way or another. Riggins’ assistant says you started helping him and stopped. Is that true?”

  His booted toe kicked at a rock on the ground. “I sensed the story wasn’t going to serve any purpose except stir up trouble. From what I know, it appears there were two Marcos. He was a hell raiser when he was young. Riggins barely touched on that, but Marco was sent to state prison for breaking into a bunch of stores.”

  “Riggins said he was arrested for crimes he didn’t commit.”

  He grunted and tossed down the piece of grass. “Yeah, well, he claimed Bradley Foster framed him.”

  “Mr. Foster? Why would he do that?”

  Rafe’s large shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Exactly. What would be the point? He was deputy sheriff. He’d have more to lose if he got caught framing some silly kid.”

  Rafe was right. She might not like Bradley, but he didn’t seem the type to take such a chance.

  “The thing is,” Rafe continued, “and this is only hearsay I got when I was young and told those ghost stories, when Marco was convicted, he apparently put on a big show in court. Jumped up on a table, waved a fist and promised revenge, that he’d come back and get even with the town.”

  Cere gulped. Why had Riggins left that out of his story? It was a wonderful anecdote. “Who might be able to tell me about that?”

  “I don’t know. It was one of those urban legend type things. We all said it, but no one knew who started it. Or anyone who heard it.”

  Which was probably why Riggins left it out. “And then? He went to jail?”

  “Back then some hard-case kids ended up in prison, not juvie hall. He served time with felons and supposedly changed. Educated himself and turned activist. When he came back, he claimed he wanted peace, equality for minorities, but no one trusted him or believed his motives. He tried to shake things up, organizing marches, giving protest concerts. He was a songwriter and wasn’t afraid to openly challenge the status quo with his music and speeches.”

  He paused, and she thought of the defiant figure in the newspaper picture, fist upraised. The man looked unafraid.

  “It must have been a jolt to this sleepy little place,” she said.

  “Exactly. And right after he got back, another round of burglaries started up, similar to those earlier ones. Stores reported break-ins at night with cash registers robbed. Foster was sheriff by then and found no concrete evidence of the culprit, but everyone remembered Marco’s vow of revenge. He got blamed.”

  She took a deep breath. “I heard… he might have burned down the old newspaper office. That’s why there aren’t news stories about him.”

  His lips pressed together in a straight line and she wondered if he knew where she’d heard that. “Over a period of a couple of months, the violence escalated. Someone threw Molotov cocktails into businesses. Half of Main Street got hit. A hardware store, a couple of restaurants. The theory was that Marco did that in secret while preaching peace during the day.”

  “Quite an enigma.”

  “He did some good. My dad and uncle were college educated, but they worked as janitors, doing odd jobs, like running the presses at the town paper. Marco urged them to start up their own paper since that one was failing. After it burned, they did just that.”

  A sudden realization hit her and she shivered despite the warm morning breeze. “Marco was a hero to your family. I don’t understand why you didn’t want to tell me about that.”

  Rafe looked lost in thought, tugging at his beard. He seemed to weigh his words before responding. “People still disagree about his motives.”

  “I see why Gary posed his story as one big question.”

  “One more thing. Some people say he got hooked on drugs in prison and got depressed because things weren’t changing. They think his comment about love wasn’t about a woman, but was aimed at how he felt about the town. They say he tried to destroy it and then killed himself because it wouldn’t change.”

  Cere touched his arm. “Will you do an interview for me? Tell the story about how he helped your family?”

  Rafe drew back, startled. His black lashes flew up and down. He lurched to his feet, and wariness invaded his dark eyes. “You never quit, do you, Medina? Hell no!”

  The request had come too soon. Another couple of minutes and she might have had him. “I understand, but who might talk? Len and Frank seem pretty adamant. Is there anyone else?”

  “Marco didn’t have a mom or dad. He was brought up by an uncle, Frank’s dad. I don’t think he had anyone who would claim him by the end.” He shook his head, as though casting off the taste of something bitter. “Let it go, Cere. Let the ghosts rest in peace and maybe they’ll leave you alone.”

  Cere hesitated, not certain how to proceed. Rafe had opened up a new side of himself when he admitted the truth about his wife. She could see now why he had come back to Rio Rojo. The pain as he spoke of her death was palpable. The idea of the uncaring city was not new; she had grown used to its indifference over the years. But to have it brought home in such a graphic manner must have made a big impact on him. She
thought of Ginny with her crooked part and well washed T-shirt, and a wave of sympathy surged through her. She wanted to reach out and attempt to share in his anguish.

  “Cere?” he prompted, bending down toward her.

  She pushed away thoughts of his pain. She needed to forget the personal issues. Her own safety was at issue. “I need to tell you something and this isn’t about a ghost. It’s real. Someone left a message on my voice mail, telling me not to look into Marco’s death. That I could put my mother’s life and mine in danger.” She described the creepy voice.

  “You should have told me this immediately.”

  She chewed on her lower lip. “I knew you’d use it as an excuse to get me to stop.”

  “And now?”

  The truth was she was tired of being his adversary. But she didn’t know what else she wanted.

  Before he could respond, a plume of dust rose in the distance and the faint sound of an engine came from the road.

  Sunlight glinted off the windows. For an instant she feared it was Diego Diaz in his big black SUV.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  BJ Foster stepped from his car and hitched up gray pants. He lumbered toward them trying to look official, but with his blue shirt pulling out of his wrinkled pants, the image didn’t fit. He reminded Cere of the stereotypical small town sheriff.

  “So tell me about this evidence you found,” he demanded, giving Rafe a skeptical look. His light blue eyes slid over to Cere, and Rafe introduced them.

  His gaze lingered on her a bit too long, and Cere shifted uncomfortably as she said hello.

  “You want to see the box?” Rafe asked.

  BJ’s attention swiveled back to Rafe. “Yeah, the strange thing is, you’re the only one who’s told me about that money box. Most everyone else seemed to think he had it spread out in bundles underground. We’ve been chasing people away from his yard.”

  Rafe’s jaw tensed as he shook his head. “Look, I wasn’t the only kid who ever worked for him. I watched him get money out of that box. I’m certain other people saw him do that too. They just haven’t told you.”

  “His coins in there too?”

  “I didn’t see that little pouch he used to carry around, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Uh-huh and you’re the one who knew where the murder weapon was too.” His hard eyes narrowed. “Seems to me you’re my top suspect.”

  Rafe shook his head, disbelief visible on his hard face. Cere could imagine the two men battled quite a bit. Or maybe the police chief was just trying to put on a show for her. Rafe’s phone beeped. He checked the number, held up a hand, excused himself and stomped away, a scowl on his dark face.

  BJ turned to Cere with a wide smile. Tall and sturdy, tending toward pudginess, he stood over her like a towering oak. “I hear you was locked in a room out here last night?”

  Cere wasn’t used to being on the asking end of questions. She countered with a question of her own. “Do you have any suspects who might have killed that old man?”

  He drew back as though shocked she would ask. Sunburned, with a scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, BJ Foster looked like Huck Finn grown up, a well fed Huck Finn.

  “Well, missy, not right now.”

  “Rafe certainly didn’t do it.”

  His wide, ruddy face lit up. “I know, but little Chico there gets too full of himself sometimes. Acts like I don’t know what I’m doing just ’cause he spent a few years in the city.”

  “I see.” Cere donned a grin that she hoped showed her understanding. It wouldn’t pay to get on the police chief’s wrong side. He might be useful in answering some questions.

  “My dad told me about meetin’ you.”

  “I enjoyed meeting him.” Another bright smile—her reporter smile.

  “Whatcha doin’ out here today with him?” He gestured toward Rafe who was walking in a large circle, talking on the phone.

  “I wanted to look at the hand print. I should talk to your dad about that. He was sheriff when Marco Gonzales died?”

  BJ’s pleasant smile dissipated. “My dad won’t talk about it. That boy made lots of trouble for the town.”

  “What if I said he was murdered, and I could prove it?” she asked, hoping to get a reaction from him.

  His response was a clenched jaw and a redder complexion. Animosity filled his clear eyes. “That opinion ain’t gonna make you popular. Everyone knows he killed himself.”

  “The story in the paper seemed to suggest otherwise.”

  “That writer was a damn fool. Tell me about the other night.” Exasperated, he pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket.

  Cere didn’t press for more answers. She could hold her questions until later. For now, she recounted the story of getting locked into the room.

  “Can you take me upstairs and show me?” BJ asked.

  “You don’t want Rafe to do it? He found the box.”

  His blue eyes flickered to Rafe who had finished his business and was putting away the phone and coming toward them. “Yeah, I guess.”

  Cere regretted her suggestion as soon as the two men entered the Palladium. She should have gone too. If state investigators took over the case, there was no telling when she would get another look at the hand print. She waited patiently until they came out. Rafe dangled a black leather band as he approached.

  “Is this yours?”

  “My watch. Where was it?”

  “Under the piano.”

  His grim look stopped her, and she realized he held up only half of the band. There was no watch attached.

  “It’s all we found. And you can’t go back in,” he said as though guessing her thoughts. “It’s now a crime scene. It may hold the key to finding Naldo’s killer. And that killer may worry you saw him. You need to be more careful.”

  “Rafe, are you worried about me?” The question was accompanied by an impish grin and a flash of her bright eyes.

  He fought back the warmth that surged through his blood as his gaze fell to her upturned lips. He leaned back on the hood of his patrol vehicle, kicking at pebbles in the road. He dipped his head, hoping she couldn’t see his face under the brim of his hat. “I protect all my constituents.”

  The burst of laughter that erupted from her small frame only drew more heat into his blood, and he shifted uneasily, aware of an urgency spreading through his lower regions.

  “I’m glad you find this so amusing,” he replied, through gritted teeth. At times he wanted to shake some sense into her. Why didn’t she realize she might be in danger? “We may be dealing with a killer here and he may have kept your watch for a reason.”

  The flirtatious smile froze, and her face sobered somewhat as she lifted the broken watch strap. She slid it into a pocket without saying anything.

  “Look, Cere, all I’m saying is I doubt they intend to sell it.”

  “If they want to use it to threaten me again, I won’t give in.”

  While she refused to be cowed by threats, and he admired that quality, she needed to stop being foolish. If only he could convince her to go back to Los Angeles before she got hurt. In the distance a car turned off the road.

  “One of my deputies is coming. I’ll have him drive you to get your car. I better stay out here.”

  “I can…” she began, but he crossed his arms across his chest, gave her a hard look and shook his head.

  “There will be a lot going on. As a civilian, you’ll be in the way. Not to mention your mother is going to be worried when she hears about the shooting.”

  She looked ready to protest further but at his comment about her mother, her eyes widened and she shrugged. With a deep sigh she turned toward the arriving car. “You’re right. She will be worried.”

  He walked her to the patrol car and made the arrangements to get her back to town. As she settled onto the seat he leaned over to speak through the open window. “You need to stay out of trouble, okay?”

  “I will go home, take a shower to g
et rid of the dust, then get a manicure and have lunch with my mother. How much trouble can I get into?”

  Rafe’s rumbling chuckle sent a tremor of awareness through Cere. “Trouble finds you. See you later, Cere. I’ll call you.”

  The low, intimate sound of his voice sent another shiver snaking along her spine as the car bumped over the prairie to turn around. The thought of seeing him later shimmered like a piece of promised jewelry. His concern for her was obvious, but she wasn’t certain how to feel about it. She’d always taken care of herself. Having someone else worry set off sensations she didn’t particularly like.

  As they reached the main highway, her cell phone buzzed. The display showed the call came from Freeda. She tapped the talk button.

  “Hi, sweetie, are you back?”

  “Well, I don’t know what to do.” Freeda’s voice cracked. “I was having breakfast at a diner and I heard that he was here a couple of days ago. They don’t know where he was going or if he’ll be back. But he was here!” She sounded near tears.

  “Hey, you better give it up and come back, okay?”

  She sighed heavily. “I suppose. I’m out of money. My payment from that last job didn’t go into the bank today like I expected, and Daphne is heading back. Nena is going to send money, but it won’t arrive until tomorrow.”

  Cere shook her head. She should have known. “Things aren’t going so well here either. I lost my watch, someone…” She stopped, unable to tell her story in front of the deputy. “I’ll tell you about it when you get back.”

  She tapped the phone off and started to put it away, but it still showed coverage bars. She scrolled to the number from the note left on her car. Despite Rafe’s warning, she still wanted answers about Marco. She needed to find the person who wanted to talk to her. Rafe had given her some of the story, enough to further whet her appetite. She wanted the rest. The number rang on and on. No answer and no voice mail.