Dead Man's Rules

by Rebecca Grace

She turned to the young deputy. Rafe had introduced him as Zeb. Short and wiry with thick glasses and a pale complexion, he looked more like a banker than a law enforcement officer. Even his cowboy hat looked too big for his narrow head.

  “Are you from Rio Rojo, Zeb?”

  “Yep.”

  “Your family’s from here?”

  “We moved here twenty-five years ago when I was three. They came to live in a commune near Casitas. They didn’t like the living arrangement but they loved the area. Lots of ex-hippies live here.”

  She thought of the older men in their rock T-shirts and long hair. “Is your mother an artist?”

  He laughed, displaying small white teeth. “How did you guess? She runs a studio on Main Street in a brick building that was a five-and-dime until the insides burned up.”

  She shivered. Was it a makeover of one of the buildings Marco might have destroyed? She’d have to check. Maybe some good things had come from Marco’s alleged reign of terror. She had Zeb point it out as they passed through town on the way to the Gonzales garage.

  Len wasn’t around and a young counter man handed her a receipt and the keys to her car. “It’s around back. I guess the rental company is paying the charges,” he said.

  Her mother wasn’t home yet and in a way she was pleased. Her ride with Zeb had given her a new idea. Instead of taking a shower, she grabbed her camera bag. Given the problem with the hand print her story needed other visual options—like rebuilt stores downtown and Naldo’s house. She didn’t know which stores had been rebuilt, but she could get shots of the house.

  Leaving her car at home so she didn’t attract attention she walked the few blocks to the murder scene. In daylight, the property she’d originally considered shabby gave a different impression. There was no sign of violent death except for the ring of yellow crime tape strung around the driveway and through bushy shrubs to the edge of the unattached garage. Fresh green and white paint on aging wood and trim on the garage doors and the scattering of ceramic figures on the lawn demonstrated loving care. That made the yard painful to view. Rose bushes were trampled, and piles of dirt sat beside shallow holes.

  Wow, were people digging up this place in search of treasure? What would they think when they found out that the money box had been found? Was it a coincidence that the box was found in the building where Marco had died?

  Discovery of the box enhanced her story. The cash would provide great pictures—if she could convince Rafe to let her photograph it. The focus would remain on Marco, but the new murder provided a fresh angle to the old mystery.

  She surveyed the street. Seeing no sign of anyone she slipped under the tape and into the yard. An outline for the story leaped into her head—she would open with a walking shot in the yard with its holes, talking about the search for treasure.

  “But this isn’t the first time murder has visited Rio Rojo,” she murmured. The scene would shift from the colorful yard to a gloomy interior. “Thirty five years ago, a man met his doom in this room. And this is all that is left.” The camera would then zoom into a spotlight framing the hand print.

  She would recite some of Marco’s story and the camera could follow the trail of blood down the wall, as she read the words he left in Spanish. “Words of love, but meant for whom?”

  Cere stopped her soliloquy. Anything else here? Maybe she should check the back yard. Holes back there might be bigger since a fence blocked the view from the street. She hurried along a broken sidewalk on the side of the garage until she was sheltered by the fence in the backyard.

  “You ain’t supposed to be in there.”

  Cere whirled around. An elderly woman with bright alert eyes peered over the fence, a frown twisting her leathery face.

  “I’ll report you to the cops.” She stood less than five feet tall with startling white hair and wrinkled skin over a bony figure. A thin hand waved a wooden cane with surprising vigor.

  “I wasn’t going inside. Just looking.”

  “So’s everyone else.” She pointed her cane at more holes in the yard.

  Recalcitrant neighbors were Cere’s forte. She transformed into the understanding reporter, calling forth her brightest smile. “I bet it’s tough for you as a neighbor. Hi, I’m Cere Medina, Lottie’s daughter.”

  “Lottie?” A frown of confusion crossed the wrinkled face.

  “Her brothers are the Winslows. My Aunt Millie runs the Mane Attraction beauty shop.”

  The old woman nodded, connection made. She moved closer to the fence. “You lookin’ for someone? Your mom don’t come this way. Her brothers neither.”

  “I’m a reporter. Did you see anything?”

  The silver head shook. “I was in bed. My grandson, Robby, found the body, you know. I guess it was pretty bloody.”

  Bingo! Her heart quickened, reporter’s senses coming alert. “Is Robby home?”

  “He’s at work. He’ll be home tonight. Do you want to talk to him?” The alert eyes grew even sharper.

  “I might. I’m doing a story on the murders...”

  “Murders?” The bent elderly woman straightened, a look of fear shading her eyes. “There are others? Like a serial killer or something? I see that on TV all the time.”

  Guilt shot through Cere at the startled reaction. “Nothing current. I meant Marco Gonzales.”

  “He used to live back there, you know.”

  “Back where?”

  The neighbor’s cane came up and pointed at the brick side building. “The garage. Used to be a little room. Naldo fixed it up for him.”

  “Marco lived here at one time?” She cast a glance toward the Sanchez garage, trying to disguise her eager interest.

  “After he got out of jail, his folks wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with him. No one wanted him around. His sister used to come by sometimes.”

  “His sister?” This was getting better. She’d heard of cousins, but this was a closer connection. She tried not to sound too eager. “What was his sister’s name? Is she still around?”

  The woman waved a leathery hand. “She died a coupla years ago. Her kids are still around, Gus, Sophie. But Linda stopped comin’ by after they had a fight. I heard ’em. She was tellin’ him to stop being a bum. He said no one would hire him. That’s why he worked the ranches and did odd jobs. Sometimes he gave speeches at the VFW Hall or at the church. Always talkin’ he was. Sometimes I could hear him in the garage, singing. He had a pretty voice. He shoulda been a singer. Even Naldo told him that.”

  Her heart pounded so loud she feared the neighbor might hear. A connection between Naldo and Marco? Why didn’t anyone ask about it? Why hadn’t Rafe asked? The answer was simple. He had known all along.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Cere donned her warmest smile as she approached the fence. Damn Rafe. He hadn’t wanted her to know about this connection, but now perhaps she had found a good source for her story. “Did you know Marco?”

  “Nope. He never talked much to me, but he spent lots of time with my boy, Nick. Wanted him to go to college. Like an education was gonna do Nick any good.”

  Cere held her breath, triumph rising inside her. “May I speak with Nick?”

  She shook her head, dismay turning her features more gray. “Nick’s dead. He was wounded in Vietnam and never recovered. Now there’s just me and his boy, Robby.”

  “But you’ve heard what they say about Marco, right? Do you think he killed himself?”

  The woman leaned forward on her cane, wizened face growing set, voice low and filled with disdain. “He didn’t kill himself. Naldo knew it. I think Naldo knew who did it.”

  “Do you think that’s why Naldo’s dead?” Cere asked, nearly choking.

  The elderly neighbor snorted. “His killin’ had nothing to do with Marco. They wanted that money. I told Naldo over and over not to keep cash around. And them gold coins he used to brag about…” The white head shook from side to side.

  “Everyone knew about the money, right?”

&n
bsp; A grizzled finger shot up. “Wait, I gotta go. I hear my story coming on.” With surprising speed, she turned and hobbled to the house.

  Cere’s glance zeroed in on the brick garage. Finally! A way to tie the old death to the new murder. Looking around to make certain no one else saw her, she dug out her camera and shot video of the garage, the hole-covered lawn and the little house.

  ****

  A relationship between Marco and Naldo! Cere couldn’t get the thought out of her head as she showered and changed into silk shorts and a matching top. She also couldn’t forget that Rafe withheld the information. With time remaining before she had to meet her mother for lunch, Cere drove back to the Gonzales garage, a faded red brick building that hugged a street corner at the edge of town. Its signs had been painted over the logo of a gasoline company now out of business. Several older model cars huddled on the cement pad in front. Open hoods yawned on two of them. The upper half of a portly body disappeared into the engine area of one while the young mechanic who had given her the keys to her car earlier twisted a wrench under the other open hood. Inside, Cere found Len working on a car engine that rested on a counter. He didn’t look particularly surprised to see her.

  “May I ask you a few questions?” she asked.

  Len shoved back a faded baseball cap on his head. “The rental company paid for the tire.”

  “I know, but I have a couple of questions for you.”

  He leaned against the counter and wiped the grease from his hands with a grimy rag, giving her his full attention. “Yeah?”

  “Rafe told me someone sliced my tire.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m trying to figure out who did it. Do you suppose it might have something to do with my questions about Marco?”

  Surprise widened his dark eyes and he stopped wiping his hands. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I was asking questions at the Matador the other day. I think someone followed me when I went to the Palladium last night. Even you indicated I could be asking for trouble.”

  One side of his face scrunched up in a scowl. “I’m sorry for that. I was trying to scare you.”

  She summoned her most forgiving tone. “Scaring the city girl, huh? But I’m serious about whether someone might not want me asking about Marco.”

  He relaxed visibly, leaning back against the counter. “I can’t see anyone following you because of it. Marco got a bum deal for sure, but no one cares about it anymore. I don’t talk about it, ’cause it ain’t worth discussing. Can’t change things.”

  “Did you know him well?” He seemed young to know much about Marco personally, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

  “I was four when he died, but his songs are good. One of my cousins was talking about trying to get them published.”

  “Really? I might be able to help with that. What’s your cousin’s name? I’ll call him.” She wasn’t certain what she could do, but her offer might open some doors.

  “Gus. He’s working up at the Hollister Ranch so you can’t reach him. You got a card or something? I’ll have him call you.”

  She pulled a card out of her purse and added her mother’s phone number. He took it and shoved it into greasy jeans. She could feel his curious eyes on her as she slid into her car and drove away. Finally, she felt like things were moving along!

  ****

  Even the menu at the Matador with its wilted salads was no obstacle to Cere this time around. Now that she knew Frank, the owner/cook, was related to Marco, she was determined to talk to him again.

  Against its background of Western music, the restaurant buzzed with voices when she entered. The same handful of men she’d met before sat at the counter, and several nodded at her. One even smiled. The waitress, Josie, handed her a menu and told her to grab any booth.

  She glanced around. Her mother wasn’t there yet, and she debated whether to sit at the counter, but she saw Ginny alone at a table in the corner, a coloring book and crayons around her. She spotted Cere and smiled, waving small fingers.

  Cere walked past the counter. “Hi, Ginny, why don’t you join me? Mom’s going to be here in a few minutes.”

  The girl nodded, straight black hair falling across her face. Someone had made an effort to comb her hair and put in barrettes again, but again the part was crooked and one barrette clung to a thin strand of hair. The orange jeans were new, but her matching striped T-shirt bore a ketchup stain on the front. A pang of sympathy tugged at Cere as she thought of the small girl losing her mother in a shootout. Ginny’s little hand found hers and together they walked to an open booth.

  She settled the girl next to her. “How are you today, Ginny?”

  “Okay,” she murmured, head down. Orange polish dotted her nails. Had Rafe done that? Cere smiled at the thought. She tried to think of what to say to the girl.

  “Did you see the rabbits this morning?”

  Ginny’s head jerked up, long lashes fluttering. “I helped feed them.”

  “Which is your favorite?”

  “All of them. Mrs. Lottie said I could name them.” She waved and Cere turned to see her mother coming through the door.

  Lottie swung into the booth as the waitress approached with plastic glasses of water. She put them on the table and glared at the girl. “Ginny, you’re supposed to be coloring, not bothering the customers.”

  “I asked her to join us.” Cere said. “We’re becoming good friends.”

  Ginny nodded enthusiastically.

  “I always wished Mom had bunnies back when I was growing up,” Cere said, smoothing Ginny’s hair.

  Josie still stood over them, shifting her weight back and forth impatiently. “Do you know what you want?”

  “Is the chili relleno on special today?” Lottie asked.

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll split an order along with a big salad.”

  “A salad?” Cere asked when Josie left with their order.

  “I’ve invited Millie and your Uncle Norm and Bradley over for dinner.”

  Ginny shifted to her knees and Cere couldn’t help herself. She reached over and smoothed the girl’s hair back from her face, removing the drooping barrette.

  Her mother pulled a brush from her purse and held it out. “Why don’t you fix her hair? I’m sure Ginny would like that.”

  Taking the brush, Cere glanced around. The table was no place for this, but lunch had not arrived, and she had a feeling ceremony was not observed in Rio Rojo. Fixing someone else’s hair was not Cere’s forte, but she brushed through the silky strands, straightening the part. Ginny sat obediently as though she was used to it. At the end, Cere finished by re-fastening both barrettes.

  Lottie winked at Cere with a knowing look as she took the brush back. “I knew you had a few maternal instincts.”

  “You did that on purpose.”

  “How’s the coloring today?” Lottie asked, turning attention back to Ginny.

  The little girl smiled. “I have a new picture for you.”

  “I’d like to see it,” Lottie said.

  With childish agility Ginny slid off her perch and skipped across the restaurant. She returned with a sketch pad and crayons. She climbed into the booth on Lottie’s side.

  “It’s not done. I couldn’t decide on colors for the flowers.”

  With the two occupied, Cere excused herself and crossed to a glass case near the front counter. It held trinkets and souvenirs, but they weren’t of interest to her. She pretended to be looking at them before turning to Jerry Orozco who was digging into a plate of green chili.

  “Hi, have you heard anything new on old Naldo’s killing?”

  “Nah,” he said, jerking a thumb to his left. “But me and Sam keep chasing kids away from his yard.”

  “I was by there this morning and saw all the damage. Have either of you come up with any new theories on who might have done the killing?” She looked from Jerry to the round-faced Sam who sat next to him.

  “You investigatin’
?” Sam asked. “We saw your article. Pretty good.”

  “Thank you. I want to do another one. I met his next door neighbor today. She said her grandson found the body.”

  “Mz Padilla,” Jerry said with a nod, sopping up green chili with a tortilla. “Robby found him on the floor. What did she tell you?”

  “Not much. I’m going to talk to him later.”

  Frank came out of the kitchen, wearing a tight gray T-shirt that strained against his huge middle and was covered by a dingy apron. A white sliver of a cap sliced across the top of his thinning salt and pepper hair.

  “Hello, Mr. Gonzales,” she said with a nod, hoping he’d read the blog too. “I hear your chili rellenos are great. That’s what my mom and I just ordered.”

  His hazel eyes were wary as they examined her. There was no hint of the welcome the others had given her. He nodded and turned away to put a steaming plate of enchiladas in front of another man at the counter.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” she said, leaning toward him as he neared her.

  “Uh huh.” Despite the cool tone, he slowed.

  “I hear you’re Marco Gonzales’ cousin?”

  “So?”

  “I know you don’t like answering questions, but I hear he was a talented songwriter, that he tried to do good things for the town. I hear he wouldn’t commit suicide.”

  His lips tightened, but for once he didn’t walk away. “He was railroaded,” he said in a low voice. “Town leaders didn’t like his music, his ideas and blamed a bunch of robberies on him. Just like the first time. They convicted him anyway. The town would’ve deserved it if he burned down buildings, but he didn’t.”

  A bell sounded and he waved his hand. “Look, I don’t have time to talk.” He stomped back to the kitchen.

  Sam put a couple of bills on the counter and headed for the door, while Jerry looked more interested in his lunch. Across the restaurant, Lottie was viewing Ginny’s latest creations.

  Frank’s comments had stirred her interest. Cere stepped behind the counter and followed him into the kitchen. “I understand you’re busy right now. May I set up a time to talk to you?”

  The kitchen was hot and smelled of fried onions and chili. Her stomach growled, but she didn’t look to see if their order was up. Josie stood in a corner chopping vegetables for salads.