Dead Man's Rules

by Rebecca Grace

“Great! Thanks.” She kissed his cheek and turned away.

  He walked to the gate, almost fearing she might come after him. As he opened it, he glanced back. She was pacing the porch, chewing on a nail. His earlier desire faded. Her mind was elsewhere—on a new story idea.

  He wanted to tell her to stop her crazy drive for the truth. Wanted to promise to keep her safe, but maybe she was better off with the damn ghost. That was where her mind was.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The sun felt good on her bare arms as Cere sank onto a rickety wooden chair on the porch outside Robby’s house. The sound of a blaring television came through the open door.

  “Tell me about Naldo,” she said after tapping the audio record button on her cell phone.

  Robby was a gangly youth, all arms and legs with a lean torso covered by a too large T-shirt and baggy Bermuda shorts. A gold earring pierced one eyebrow.

  “He was a nice old guy,” he said, scratching a bony arm. “Why do you wanna know?”

  “I’m doing a story for the paper.”

  Willie had called her personally to approve the idea, but it meant more than a feature story. She knew what Rafe’s acquiescence meant. He was allowing her to ask questions about Naldo—and perhaps Marco—without arousing suspicion. “What was he like?”

  “He liked to gossip, but never bothered anyone. He just liked to talk. He was a hard worker. Always fixing things.”

  This she had already heard from Jerry and the guys down at the Matador where she joined them at the counter to launch her initial round of interviews. Thinking of their claims she posed her next question.

  “What about rumors he had buried treasure?”

  His thin lips drew into a sneer. “He kept his lawn so nice there was no way he would dig it up. He kept his money in a box in the house. As for talk about coins, ppffft, he talked about ’em plenty, but I never saw them. I think they’re gone.”

  “Do you think whoever killed him was after his money?”

  “Sure. Everyone knew he had cash around. He didn’t believe in banks.”

  “No one ever came to visit him? No family?”

  “I heard he had a wife and son. She died before I was born. His son went to prison. He’s probably still there.”

  Rafe said they couldn’t find the son. Perhaps he was still in prison. She would have to check.

  Across the yard a green-and-white police cruiser slowed and stopped in front of the old man’s house. She got to her feet. “Can we talk again? Or would you like to come over to the house with me? Mayor Foster arranged to get me inside.”

  BJ Foster hitched up his gray pants and lumbered up the sidewalk. He was shaking his head, cowboy hat bobbing. “I told Daddy this isn’t a good idea, but he says if you write something in the paper it might get people thinking and shake loose some ideas.”

  Cere gave an understanding smile. “No new leads?”

  He held up his hand, eyes frosty. “Whoa! I’m not giving interviews. You can go through the house, but I’m not saying anything for the record.”

  “Is it okay if Robby comes?”

  Behind her, Robby shifted. BJ fixed him with a cold stare. “I guess. As long as neither of you touches anything.”

  “What about the house and its contents?” she asked as they approached the front steps. “What will happen to it?”

  “We reached the grandson but he can’t come right now. Personally I can’t imagine Shark with a family. He’d come out of prison every few years and go right back. He’d been in trouble with the law since Daddy was sheriff.”

  With a jerk of a meaty hand, BJ removed the crime scene tape that sealed the front door. He pulled out a key. “I can’t stay long, so don’t expect to take your time.”

  The inside of the house had the musty smell of an area that had been closed up. A thin layer of dust covered all the surfaces of a cluttered, claustrophobic living area. Cere could picture Naldo sitting on the sagging chair in front of a large television. A quilt was folded neatly across the arm. Religious curios and trinkets crammed nearby shelves.

  “That cabinet is where he kept his box with the money,” Robby volunteered, pointing at a mahogany cabinet with a glass front.

  The objects inside were shoved together, remnants of the investigation. A picture frame caught her eye, and she opened the cabinet door.

  “What are you doing?” BJ protested.

  “I want to see these pictures.” The rose-colored plastic frame held three pictures. In one, a young man and a plump woman posed. The woman held a baby. The hairstyles and clothes were out of the 50’s. Another was a school picture of a frowning youth of about thirteen. The final picture was a snapshot of the same boy standing beside three other boys. One was Marco.

  She looked toward BJ. “Shark hung with Marco?”

  He walked over to look at the picture. “That was before my time. Look at those guys. Thugs.”

  Marco and Shark had long hair that curled over their shoulders and wore tight black T-shirts. The other two boys wore slacks and cotton shirts. Their hair was thick but much shorter.

  “Who are those guys?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  “May I take this picture?”

  “Why?” He frowned at her, blue eyes troubled.

  “I want to show it to Mom. Maybe she’ll know who they are.”

  He started to shake his head, then shrugged. “Hell, go ahead.”

  She slipped the snapshot out of the frame. On the back was a date written in pencil—1976. Were these guys still around? Could they tell her about anything?

  The murder scene in the kitchen had been cleaned, and the bedroom held no clues. It had a twin bed with a neat quilted spread. The walnut dresser held several pictures of Naldo and his wife and a recent graduation portrait. Probably the grandson.

  As they left the house, Cere turned toward the garage where Marco lived the last few months of his life. “May I check the garage?”

  “Nothing to see.”

  “I’d like to see inside.”

  He opened the door, and she peered into the interior. If Marco had once lived there, any signs of his presence were long gone. The walls held only racks of garden and automotive tools. Tour concluded, Cere headed home, feeling disillusioned.

  Her mother was making lunch when Cere returned. “How did it go?” she asked, as she slathered mustard on slices of bread and placed thin pieces of roast beef on it.

  Cere sank onto a chair at the table and took out Naldo’s snapshot. “Who are these guys? One is Naldo’s son, one is Marco, but who are the others?”

  Lottie frowned and lifted the glasses she kept on a chain around her neck. She peered through them at the picture. “Why that’s Art and Willie.”

  A shiver ran through Cere. “Rafe’s dad and uncle?”

  “Yes.” She took one final look and handed it back to Cere. “I’m positive.”

  Cere re-examined the picture but saw little resemblance to the men she knew. “They were friends with Marco?”

  “In junior high. Then Berto went to reform school, and the Tafoya boys stopped running around with Marco. I think their parents worried he might lead them in the wrong direction.”

  “Was that how Marco got his reputation for being wild? Hanging out with Berto? BJ called him ‘Shark.’”

  “Berto was wild. It wouldn’t surprise me if he committed those burglaries. He was here when that second round occurred.”

  She put the picture into her purse. Did Rafe know his father and uncle were once Marco’s friends? Or was that yet something else he hadn’t told her?

  “How was your date?” Lottie placed plates with sandwiches on the table and sat across from her.

  “I’m not asking you about how your night was.”

  “Disastrous. I was home by midnight. You were fast asleep.”

  She paused with her sandwich halfway to her mouth. “Disastrous?”

  “It was silly. But... I read those songs and letters you le
ft in the dining room.”

  This time she nearly dropped her sandwich. “You did? Did you learn anything?”

  Her mother carefully avoided her eyes, focusing on her own sandwich. “The Marco who came out of jail was different than the boy who went in. But I knew that. He was over me at the end. He even forgave me...”

  “Forgave you for what? Not returning his interest?”

  Lottie sighed and pushed away her sandwich. “I must tell you something, but it can’t leave this room. It can’t go into a story.”

  “Of course not.” Cere held her breath as her mother hesitated.

  “Everyone thought Marco was obsessed with me, that it was one sided. They still think that.” She took a deep breath, eyes glued to the table. “The truth is... I was just as crazy about him. He was so intelligent. His grades were horrible, but he taught himself. He knew all the romantic poets and could quote poetry. No one saw that. He could have done so much. If it hadn’t been for me, he would have.”

  She paused, but Cere didn’t prod her. She knew when to not interrupt a reluctant subject.

  “I never told anyone about my feelings. Not even Millie.” She looked up as tears filled her eyes. “My family hated him so I couldn’t admit the truth. He accepted it and let everyone think it was one-sided. He took those beatings...for me.”

  Cere took her mother’s hand as tears flooded her eyes. “Oh, Mom...”

  “It’s more than that.” Lottie swallowed hard, as though choking on something. “I knew Marco never committed the burglaries.”

  The hand she held trembled in her grip. “How?”

  “I was with him...all those nights. The money was ours...his and my babysitting money...what we’d saved. That ring was mine. He got it at the pawn shop doing odd jobs for Naldo. Bradley caught him with our money. We were going to run away...”

  Tears cut a pale swath down the makeup on her cheeks. “I...I never came forward during his trial. I think my parents realized something… They packed us up and took us to the lake. It was only thirty miles away, but I couldn’t get to town. We stayed until the trial ended. He went to jail...because I was too cowardly to admit I loved him.”

  Cere felt tears fall on her hands as her own eyes overflowed. “Oh, Mom...”

  “I want to know how he died. I owe it to him. I was afraid to come through for him once. I want to do it now. You do it. Bradley’s so sure...but he’s not right. I can’t prove anything...and...damn, sometimes I’m such a coward.”

  She stared at Lottie. She had never looked so defeated. Squeezing her hand, Cere nodded. “I’ll find out the truth, Mom. For you and Marco.”

  Chapter Forty

  “Did I tell you about the first time I saw that hand print?” Rafe asked as he and Cere arrived at the Palladium parking lot. “It was early twilight just like now. Dad and I were looking for old bottles. He said we might find some in the lot.”

  “You’ve never discussed that.” She shifted beside him and he fought to keep his eyes from straying to the sight of her shapely legs as she uncrossed them. In form fitting capris, her tanned calves curved in an inviting line.

  He turned away and they climbed out of the car. “I was a kid and I’d heard the stories so I asked him if we could go inside. He had a flashlight and shined it on the wall. It was spooky.”

  She pursed her lips and tugged the lower one, deep in thought. She’d been quiet most of the evening. His pulse quickened as she licked her lips.

  “I remember that night we came with your cousins. You were so brave. The rest of us were jittery going home, but you were quiet. Composed.”

  She stopped and stared at the building, still reflective. What was she thinking?

  “Did you really have a crush on me?” he asked, adopting a playful attitude.

  Her head jerked to him. “What?”

  “That’s what Freeda said.”

  She rolled her eyes, and a smile slid across her face. She elbowed him playfully. “Dream on, Tafoya. I was only twelve.”

  “Yeah, trouble.”

  They picked their way through the overgrowth and entered the building. Rafe helped her across the broken planks of the wooden floor. Floorboards creaked as they walked into the main room. A small animal scurried off to one side, and she drew closer to him until he could smell her perfume.

  “Something scares you now that you’re no longer twelve?”

  “Creepy, crawly things.”

  He gave her a mock stern look. “They don’t scare Ginny.”

  “She’s been around male cousins too long.”

  “She didn’t want to go to Santa Fe with my sister. She would rather get her nails done by Cere. You’re her new best friend.”

  “After the dog and rabbits. I had fun doing her nails. I never thought of being a mother, but taking care of her, I could do it...”

  Rafe whirled toward her, keeping his voice playful although her admission struck a sharp chord inside him. “You?”

  “I’ll think about it once this is solved.”

  “Of course.” He’d been pleased when she called. He had been trying to think of a reason to get in touch with her. Then she revealed her motive—she wanted to get into the building. Now she stood in the middle of big room, surveying it.

  “I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I thought if I saw the hand again, I might get a new clue. Mom liked the idea.”

  He moved to stand beside her. “I’m pleased you asked me to come. It shows you have some sense.”

  “I needed your permission to get inside.”

  “Like you wouldn’t climb through the broken door and come in anyway,” he said.

  Rafe was right, and they both knew it. Cere wasn’t certain why she asked him to come. She wanted to ask about his father and maybe while they were here she could broach the subject.

  Stepping around cracked steps they made their way to the second floor. The door where she had been locked was blocked with police tape, but she had no desire to visit that room. She stepped inside the room with the hand print and played her flashlight over the image.

  The outline and the words under it were dark smudges on the wall. What did they mean? She closed her eyes, thinking about all she knew that she hadn’t known the first time. Marco had loved Lottie. He faced her angry family, only to have her betray him. He’d forgiven her while he was in jail, and she said he was over her. Who had the romantic words been written for? Who was the final mystery woman? Rafe said it wasn’t his mother. How could he be sure? Lottie said Rosalie loved him. Had he loved her at the end?

  “It’s strange to think of them all growing up together,” Cere said softly, her fingers touching the print gingerly.

  “Do you really feel a connection to him?”

  She stood still. Wherever Marco’s ghost lurked, it wasn’t there now. “I’ve been to places with psychics. It’s not like that. I feel like he draws me back here, to see something. But I have no idea what it is. Mom doesn’t think he committed suicide. His final letters were filled with hope. He didn’t come back for revenge or kill himself out of grief. There was something else. I need to talk to your Aunt Rosalie.”

  “Good luck. She just took off. I’ve never asked Mom about her. I guess I can. I’m just not sure what good it will do.” His voice was quiet, but she sensed an edge.

  “I thought you wanted to learn the truth.”

  “Marco is gone. We can’t bring him back.”

  “We could help his memory.”

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Tell you what. I have a songwriter friend in L.A. I can send some of the songs to him and see if he can sell them.”

  The gesture touched her. “Mom claims Marco didn’t commit any burglaries. She and Mr. Foster had a fight over his comments the other night. She’s furious that he’s so smug.”

  “How would she know Marco didn’t commit them?”

  Cere bit her lip. She couldn’t betray her mother’s confidence. “She just does. We agreed he didn’t commit sui
cide. Do you think he was guilty of the fires? The thefts? What if Shark committed the first round of burglaries? Naldo’s son?”

  “I’ve thought of that. Maybe that’s why Naldo gave Marco a place to stay when he came back. Berto went to jail not long after Marco for something else. It’s possible.”

  Cere studied the hand print and the words below it. “All for love.” Maybe she could never get to the bottom of Marco’s death, but selling the songs could help Marco’s image. No. His burning eyes seemed to appear inside the hand print. They blazed from the dingy wall, as though saying that was not enough.

  ****

  After a quiet trip back to town, they drove to Rafe’s house and called Gus to ask permission to send off the songs. There was no answer so she called her mother to let her know where she was.

  “I was just on my way out the door,” Lottie said. “Tony is taking me to dinner.”

  The news surprised but delighted Cere. “You still haven’t made up with Mr. Foster?”

  “Not exactly. Maybe we both need to take a step back.”

  “Mom’s going to dinner with Tony,” she said as she hung up. “I hope I haven’t caused problems with Mr. Foster.”

  Across the room that served as a home office, Rafe dug through papers that cluttered his desk. “If it’s meant to be, they’ll make up.”

  “This place needs organization,” she teased, approaching him.

  “You want to clean it up?” He tossed papers into a drawer waving at the remaining piles. “Be my guest.”

  She shook her head. “My office at home is the same.”

  “I knew it was beyond you to be domestic. Since Ginny is gone and Lottie is busy, how about if I grill steaks for dinner?”

  Her insides tightened and she tried to keep the grin to a minimum as she nodded in agreement. “I might even dazzle you with my salad making abilities.”

  ****

  “Have you ever thought of going back to L.A.?” she asked as they sat in the living room after dinner, sipping coffee. Dinner had been enjoyable. His steaks had been succulent and he enjoyed her salad. For once they kept the conversation on their parallel lives in the city.

  She was aware of how close they were on the loveseat, but it didn’t bother her. She liked the feel of his hard thigh pressing against her leg.