Dead Man's Rules

by Rebecca Grace

  “And they know you keep driving it up to the Palladium and over all these rocks n’ things?”

  “How do you know I’ve come up here more than once?” she demanded.

  His black sunglasses turned to her and their shiny blackness reminded her of a bug’s hard emotionless eyes. “I ride all over these hills. Patrolling. It’s my job. I see lots of things.”

  She gulped as her gaze swung around to his horse and she noticed a rifle sticking out of a leather holder. “What else do you do? Maybe a little target practice?”

  “I’m a good shot, if that’s what you’re saying.”

  Lottie came up beside her and pinched her arm. “Cere, don’t accuse the man. He’s going to help us.”

  “Is he?” Sudden fear raced through her. Hadn’t he once bragged bodies were buried in these hills? Bodies that had never been found? How hard would it be for him to kill them right now and bury their bodies? They might never be found. She swallowed hard and decided to lie. “Just so you know, Mr. Diaz, the sheriff knows where we are. And he’s checking on you too.”

  He’d been leaning over the tire and now he jerked up. “Really?” Offering no other response, he ambled over to the other car to check the stuck wheel. “You got a spare, Mz. Medina?”

  “Yes.”

  “The wheel rims are the same size. Maybe if we put it on your daughter’s car, she can drive back to town. You still haven’t told me why you went through that gate.”

  Lottie tugged at her hair, looking nervous. She pointed to the torn up road. “I wanted to go up to the lake. We used to stay at the cabins up there. It’s only twenty miles out of town, but thirty years ago, it seemed much farther. The air is so cool, lots of grass and sometimes we’d see deer. I wanted to see it again.”

  “Well, this road ends at the base of the next hill. The creek changed course and took it out. You would have had to turn back anyway. The only way to get there from this side is on horseback.”

  “Oh, drat.”

  His sudden bark of a laugh made Cere and Freeda jump.

  “Yep,” he said. “Oh, drat. Got a blanket?”

  “Certainly.” Lottie unlocked the trunk and produced a green and blue striped stadium blanket. While he worked with it, placing it around the wheel, Cere and Freeda took out the spare. The tire wouldn’t go far, but Diaz was right—it would get them back to town.

  With the blanket under the tire, he had Lottie drive forward and back up slowly until she freed her wheel from the sand. Then he walked back to where Cere and Freeda were struggling with the nuts on her wheel.

  He made quick work of the changing process, though he barely used his left hand. A long jagged series of scars ran across it. But his right hand showed amazing strength. If he wanted to choke someone to death, he could probably do it.

  She also noted his old boots. Both heels were worn. Was there an oval in the center of the heel? Trying not to be obvious, she studied the ground looking for familiar prints in the soft sand. Nothing.

  Finally, he straightened, and shook the dust from his hands. “That should get you back to town. I’ll lead you to an open area where you can both turn around.”

  Lottie hesitated, gazing down the canyon with longing. “I guess I’ll never see the lake again.”

  “It means that much to you, Mz Medina?”

  Her sad smile was answer enough. “Yes, it does. And please, call me Lottie. My students call me missus. It always made me feel old.”

  “Well, Lottie, tell you what. I could arrange to get you up there. You ride?”

  Her laugh was quick and almost girlish. “Are you kidding? I did when I was a kid. I could even ride bareback, but I haven’t been on a horse in years.” Sighing, she turned away. “Oh, well, it isn’t that important. Thank you, Mr. Diaz. I’m sorry my daughter’s been so rude and hasn’t thanked you.”

  “It’s okay. I never mind helping ladies. Especially good looking ones. And you can call me D-V. Mr. Diaz makes me feel old too.” He smiled, a sincere grin that for once wasn’t mocking.

  Freeda elbowed Cere’s side and whispered. “Wow, your mom just made another fan. I’m telling you, she’s doing a whole lot better than either one of us.”

  Bradley Foster was bad enough. No way would Cere let this jerk charm her mother. She pushed forward.

  “Mr. Diaz, were you up here yesterday? Did you hear the rifle shots?”

  His smile vanished as his face jerked toward her. “Rifle shots? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Someone shot at me. Came close to shooting my head off. You mean you didn’t see that while you were patrolling?”

  He drew back as though she slapped him. “You think I did it?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone. But who else is up here regularly?”

  He didn’t reply as his lips tightened into a straight line. He looked from one to the other, but only Lottie spoke.

  “Cere didn’t mean to accuse you…”

  “Right.” The sarcastic tone was back in his voice and he walked over to his horse. After heaving himself up onto it, he tipped his hat to them. “I’ll lead you over to a place to turn around. Then I suggest you get the hell out of here and stay the hell out. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

  ****

  “Well, you were right. The prints on the shells match a set of prints on that old box.”

  Rafe’s stomach twisted at the pronouncement from Jack Landis, his connection at the state crime lab. So the person firing at Cere had handled the box—and probably killed Naldo. When had the box been put there? The night before? Or just before they arrived? Had the shots been an attempt to get them to leave? Maybe they had interrupted him on his way back to retrieve the box.

  “Any hits on the prints in the database?” he asked.

  “Nope, sorry.”

  He reached for the antacids in his desk. Part of him had hoped the prints would hit on a man by the name of Diego Diaz. Maybe he’d been caught drunk driving or been locked up on some petty charge in the past. But it appeared that wasn’t the case. He popped a couple of tablets in his mouth.

  “You want me to keep trying?” Jack asked.

  He liked working with Landis because the man was thorough, but he had no idea what else he could do if the prints weren’t in the criminal database. “You have other places you can check?”

  “I have some things up my sleeve.”

  “Go for it. Did you get anything on that name I sent you? Diaz?”

  “Diego Velasquez Diaz. Texas DMV lists his address as north of Dallas. One of the gals says it’s a pretty upscale area. Ranch living and horse farms. Two vehicles registered to him. White Mercedes convertible. Black Cadillac Escalade. Sounds like a man with money.”

  “But no criminal history?”

  “Nothing I can find. Want me to check for employment history? See where all that money came from?”

  “Yeah, do that. And give me his exact address.”

  After he hung up Rafe turned to the computer on his worn desk. He called up Google maps and typed in the address for Diaz. It zeroed in on a location and he tapped up the street view.

  He popped another couple of antacid tablets as he studied the gates and fenced walls that hid most of the homes.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Smoke rose from a grill in the middle of Lottie’s back yard. The tangy scent of barbecued ribs, seared hot dogs and hamburgers swirled through the warm evening breeze. Tinny country music wailed from oversize speakers in one corner of the yard and provided a low background for voices and the steady swell of laughter.

  Surveying the festive scene, Cere cursed her bad luck. This would have been the perfect place to ask questions. Because the crowd was made up of her mother’s friends and relatives, many were Marco’s age. But she’d promised no Marco tonight.

  The guests circulated around tables heaped with ribs, burgers and buns, bowls of potato salad, and platters of appetizers. Others gathered near a keg of beer that squatted near tubs of
ice covered soft drinks. Guests with filled plates congregated at long wooden tables with benches running along both sides. The day’s prickly heat was dissipating and in the distance, thunderheads loomed over the line of mesas, shielding the yard from the setting sun but holding no threat of rain.

  Cere and Freeda strolled among the serving tables, making certain the platters didn’t get too low, and bowls stayed filled with chips and dips.

  “Try the guacamole.” She pointed out a bowl to her cousin, Pat. “I made it.”

  He dropped a couple of spoonful’s onto his paper plate. “Where have you been? I thought you were coming by the bank.”

  Cere pointed at the table as she unwrapped a tray of deviled eggs and miniature quiches. “For the past two days Freeda and I have been up to our elbows helping Mom.” After the drama at the Palladium and the close call in the canyon all three agreed they needed something frivolous to occupy their time. The party presented a great distraction as well as an opportunity for Lottie to see old friends and get to know neighbors better.

  Her Marco story had received minimal attention. Cere emailed Alan pictures of the Palladium and hinted at writing a blog on what she had uncovered so far. Locked in her room alone, she went through Frank’s book but it didn’t contain much help. The type in the articles was faded and smudged due to the liberal use of paste. One comment scribbled in blue ink under an article about the trial stood out.

  Farce. That trial was a FARCE!

  Riggins had still not surfaced. His stay in Mexico had been extended and the phone number from her car remained unknown. She received no more threatening calls, but she had the uneasy sensation of being constantly watched. Could it be Diaz? His appearance as a ranch hand had surprised her and shocked Rafe even more. According to him the man had no criminal record, not even a parking ticket.

  Lottie appeared beside her and whispered, “Bradley’s here. Be nice, okay?”

  The portly man smiled as he waddled toward them. “Evening, ladies. Looks like a good party.”

  “It will be better now that you’re here, Bradley. May I get you something?”

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. Foster,” Cere added as her mother hurried off to get him a drink.

  “Bradley, please. Are you enjoying your visit? I hope you haven’t been back to the Palladium. There’s no telling what kind of mischief’s in that place. They say there’s ghosts.” One side of his jowly face creased with a wink.

  “I think I made friends with any ghosts.”

  A hearty laugh rang out. “I bet you did.”

  “I’ve been thinking of coming by City Hall to see you.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be happy to show you around.”

  Actually she wanted to view the courtroom where Marco had been convicted. She might shoot an on-camera stand up there, holding up the typed, yellowing sheet so the camera could zoom in on the word, FARCE! Maybe if she asked Bradley in that setting, she could get him to talk about arresting Marco or his trial, particularly the shouted threat. He might know if Marco had an attorney and provide his name.

  Her mother returned with his drink and Cere excused herself to fill her own plate and find a place to sit. Freeda perched on the edge of a lounge chair, entertaining her cousins Pat and Normie with tales of nightlife in Hollywood. She didn’t feel like joining them. Spotting her Aunt Millie, she approached and held out her plate.

  “Mind if I sit with you?”

  “Please do.” Millie shifted her wide hips and waved a rib at the bench. She was Cere’s favorite aunt. Honest and fun loving, the plump woman thrived on gossip and food.

  “What do you think of Bradley?” Millie leaned toward her, sharp eyes focused on the pair.

  “I’m pleased to see her dating, and he seems to like her.”

  Millie seemed to sense her wariness and waved a chubby hand. “Bradley’s okay, but he likes to run everything. I tried to set her up with Tony Gennaro. He’s been so lonely since his wife died and he had a crush on Lottie in high school. Course lots of boys did. Lottie was very popular.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Cere struggled with a rib, wiping greasy fingers on a napkin.

  Millie cleared her throat as she leaned closer, speaking in a low voice. “Speaking of the old days, I hope something I heard was wrong.”

  A warning bell went off in Cere’s head. She had a good idea what was coming. “What?”

  “You’re not really doing a story on Marco Gonzales.”

  Drawing a quick breath, she cast a glance in her mother’s direction. Lottie was laughing at something Bradley was saying and could not overhear them. And it wasn’t like she raised the subject. Instead of answering, she posed a question. “Did you know Marco?”

  Her aunt’s round face grew pink. “What does your mother say about this?”

  “She thinks it’s a terrible idea.”

  Millie’s nod was curt, silver curls dancing on top of her head. “Course she would. It’s bad enough we have a new murder.”

  “Could they be related?”

  “Heavens no! Course if Marco was still alive, he’d be the first person I’d suspect. Now you forget all this talk about death and murder.”

  “Mom, murder is all anyone is talking about these days.” Pat playfully tapped his mother’s shoulder and slid in across from them. “Great guacamole, Cere.”

  “Thanks. It’s an old family recipe from my dad. Did Freeda give you an earful?”

  “She’s quite a pistol. I don’t know how the two of you survive. Makes our little town sound so boring. What do you hear about the murder? We don’t get much gossip at the bank.”

  “Pat, don’t!”

  “Mom, this town needs a good mystery,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Hasn’t had one in years.”

  “Since Marco Gonzales?” Cere asked.

  He tapped his mouth as though yawning. “B-o-ring. That was no mystery.”

  “Remember when we were kids, and went to the Palladium?”

  “I remember we got scared as hell. Scattered like jack rabbits. I haven’t been out there in years. I hear kids vandalized the place.”

  “They vandalized her car out there the other night.” Millie waved a rib at the table.

  “What were you doing?” Pat asked. “Looking for ghosts again?”

  “I’m thinking of doing a story on Marco for Scope.”

  Pat drew back, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Wow, going national? Some newspaper just did a story and I didn’t see anything new. You think a national audience cares about some suicide in a tiny town?”

  Millie nodded an “I told you so” at Cere.

  “Did you go to his trial?” she replied, focusing on her aunt.

  Millie’s rapid blinks indicated her surprise at the question, but her next response was a forced laugh. “Oh, heavens, no! We were more interested in flirting with boys at the lake than sitting in a hot courtroom in the middle of summer.”

  “Did you think Marco committed suicide?”

  “Of course not.” Then as though realizing the alternative, she shook her head. “But you never know. He was always crazy. Probably wanted to make a statement. Didn’t know it would kill him.” Her voice had grown mocking and a thick hand patted Cere on the arm. “I’m sorry. He was so… so full of himself in those last days.”

  At that moment the back gate swung open, and Rafe stepped into the yard, preceded by Ginny. While she’d been hoping he would come, Cere’s stomach still jumped. All her senses went on alert as a smile spread across her lips. Even though she had not seen him for two days, he had been constantly on her mind along with those final moments at his house. Had he meant to kiss her? Should she have pushed it?

  He didn’t see her, moving into the crowd, nodding at guests, a wide grin on his dark face. His white polo shirt emphasized wide shoulders, and tight faded jeans outlined long, hard thighs. His thick black hair ruffled in the evening breeze.

  Ginny bounced beside him, shiny black hair tied in pigtails held in place by th
in yellow ribbons that matched her shorts set. She made a beeline for Roxie, who was tied to a tree in the corner.

  Cere self-consciously stroked her hair, tucking it behind her ear. Suddenly she wondered if her sundress was too revealing. Perhaps she should put on a jacket, even if the evening was warm. Rafe stopped to talk to her Uncle Dick and several other men. He didn’t seem to notice Cere, and disappointment flooded her.

  Ginny had seen her and ran over. “May I untie Roxie and play with her?”

  “I think Mom wants to keep her tied up so she doesn’t jump on everyone.”

  “I could hold onto her leash.”

  “Why don’t I get you something to eat, and then you can play with Roxie inside later.”

  “Can I go eat by her?” Ginny countered. “She looks lonely.”

  “Yes, you may.” Cere excused herself and led Ginny to the food tables. As she filled a plate to Ginny’s order, she caught the spicy clean scent of Rafe’s shaving lotion.

  “For some reason, I didn’t think of you as the maternal type,” he murmured close behind her ear.

  Giddy sensations filled her at his nearness. “I know a hungry girl when I see one.”

  “Cere says I can eat with Roxie and then play in the house.”

  Rafe made no protest, and as soon as Cere handed Ginny the filled plate, the little girl carried it toward Roxie.

  “I have a feeling she’s hungry but she still may feed some to the dog,” Rafe said, heaping ribs onto a plate.

  Lottie appeared, ever the efficient hostess. She threw an arm around her daughter. “Is Cere taking care of you? Be sure to try the guacamole. She made it herself.”

  Rafe gave her another appreciative look that set her insides twitching. “Domestic too? Maybe I underestimated you.”

  Knowing her warm cheeks were growing pink, she retorted, “I’m a damn good reporter too. Wait until you see that Marco story.”

  Before he could reply, her mother gripped her arm in a tight hold. “Don’t you start.”

  “I’m behaving.” Cere held up her hands.

  “See that you do, missy. No one wants to talk about that.”

  “No one wants to talk about what?” Her Uncle Dick had joined them. A wavy crop of snowy hair made him appear older than his sixty years. Ever impeccable in a polo shirt and Dockers, Dick Winslow looked every inch the bank president.