“You actually worked for Mr. Winslet before Phillip, then?”
“Oh yes. Phillip didn’t actually work at Winslet Oil & Gas.” Stan ran a finger over his mustache. “He was just there. I believe Bartholomew put him on his board of directors and let him have a corner office, but everyone knew it was in title only.”
“A figurehead, so to speak?”
Stan nodded. “Soon after, Bartholomew ran into Winifred again at some event. They reconnected and began dating almost immediately.”
The waitress returned with the receipt and Stan’s card. “Thank you. You have a nice day. There’s a nice ceremony to award the marathon winners this evening. You should check it out.”
They thanked her, and she went to seat another table. Stan signed the check, pocketed the card, and looked back at Landry. “Long story short, Bartholomew and Winifred married months after they reconnected. Phillip was the best man at the wedding.”
“So they’re friends, but he’s on the board still?”
“Once they were married, they merged Winifred’s family business that focused on oil and gas with Bartholomew’s and created Winslet Industries. It took a lot of hard work, dedication, and many long hours to grow it into the empire it is today.”
The corner of Landry’s mouth slid up. “The American dream, right? Boy works hard, falls in love with a well-off girl, they marry and merge, and live wealthily ever after.”
Stan stood and realigned his chair under the table. “Pretty much.”
Landry pushed up from her chair and adjusted her sling. “How does Phillip fit into the Winslet story today?”
Stan motioned her forward and fell in beside her. “For many years, Winifred worked in the office with Bartholomew, and Phillip actually started showing up for board meetings. The three of them spent much time together. Bartholomew and Phillip took trips together in their younger years—hunting, fishing, hiking, climbing—many adrenaline-driven trips. Their friendship never wavered.” He opened the door of the café for Landry.
She stepped out, blinking against the sun. The Jeep was gone. Stan led her to his rental car. He unlocked the doors via the remote fob then opened his own door. Landry fumbled the door handle with her left hand and plopped inside.
“I’m sorry. I forgot about your arm,” Stan said as he cranked the engine.
“It’s fine. I prefer to do it myself.” Unless it was Nickolai opening the doors for her.
Ruh-roh, as Marcie would say, she needed to stop thinking like that. Thoughts like that led to feelings, and she didn’t have time for those right now. Especially not with someone who confused her.
Plain and simple, Nickolai Baptiste perplexed her.
Back to the subject at hand. “So Phillip really is a dear friend to both Bartholomew and Winifred?” She latched the seat belt and adjusted it around her sore shoulder.
“Pretty much.” Stan fiddled with the vents. “It wasn’t long after Winifred stopped working every day that Phillip’s time in the office dropped to weekly. Then every other week. Then just for board meetings.”
That didn’t jive. Landry shook her head. “Bartholomew’s assistant told me that Phillip came to the office a couple of times a month to have lunch with him in his personal suite.”
Stan pulled onto Apache Trail. “I’m sure he did. I meant Phillip didn’t come in to actually work in the office.”
Landry thought about that for a minute. “He’s one of the board of directors?”
“Yes.”
“Then what did he do when he worked there? I mean, for all the years you said he worked. I’m assuming the board members don’t actually do any work, right?”
“Right.” Stan turned on the blinker and whipped into the motel parking lot. “He was Bartholomew’s assistant. Until he stopped. That was about the time Bartholomew hired a young woman. She worked for about five years; then he hired Monica.” He pulled the sedan into the parking space closest to their room and turned off the engine. He sat very still.
Landry waited.
A minute passed. Then another.
“I don’t see Phillip’s rental, but the Jeep is here. Wonder if they went off somewhere together.” Stan opened the driver’s door and slipped from behind the wheel.
Landry was pretty certain that he’d wanted to say something that had nothing to do with a rental. She released her seat belt and eased out of the car. She approached the Jeep and realized it was securely locked. “Oh no. My motel room key is in the console, and it’s locked up. Nickolai must have the keys. Guess I’ll have to run to the office and get another one.” Without waiting for a response, she headed to the office.
She didn’t want Stan to accompany her because she wanted to talk to Margaret without an audience present. If she was lucky, her husband wouldn’t be there.
She pulled open the door and stepped inside the office. Margaret looked up as she entered.
“Hi. Remember me?” Landry slipped into her chipper voice.
“Yes, ma’am.” Margaret rose from her seat at the desk. She glanced over her shoulder as if she didn’t want to be caught speaking to Landry.
“How can I help you?”
“It seems I’ve left my room key in my rental, which Mr. Baptiste has. Is there any way you could give me another key or let me in my room?”
“I’d have to charge you for another key. I guess I can ask Vanessa to let you in. Mr. Hauge isn’t in his room?”
Vanessa! Just who Landry wanted to speak to anyway. “Um, I think he is, but if you’ll just ask Vanessa to let me in, I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Just wait here and I’ll get her.” Margaret turned and shuffled toward the back. “Don’t know why you walked all the way over here when Mr. Hauge could’ve just let you in with his key,” she mumbled under her breath as she moved out of Landry’s view.
Wait a minute … hold up. Stan had a key to her room?
Phillip Fontenot was actually quite likable.
Nickolai chuckled as Phillip regaled him with yet another story of his and Bartholomew’s misspent youth. Phillip pulled the rental car into the mechanic shop’s parking lot.
“Ahh, I’m gonna miss making memories with Bart.”
“I’ve not heard anyone else call him that.” Nickolai released his seat belt but didn’t move. Phillip hadn’t turned off the engine, and Nickolai had learned never to cut off a potential suspect when he was on a talking spree.
Phillip laughed and slapped his thigh. “That’s because he hated it. With a passion. Would knock someone’s block off for calling him that. So, of course, I had to call him Bart all the time. Or Barty. He hated that even more.” He eased the car into PARK.
Nickolai grinned. He and Chris had that kind of friendship. Knowing what aggravated the other and playing to that. “I’ve been there.” He didn’t reach for the door handle. As long as Phillip made no move to get out, neither would he. “My partner and I are like that.”
Resting his hands on the steering wheel, Phillip shifted to face Nickolai. “Look, you know that Landry gal is a cutie, that’s for sure, but we both know this kind of business ain’t for a female. I’m rooting, you know, for you to find the map.”
Nickolai smiled, not sure how to respond. Phillip’s cluster of “you knows” meant the subject was a sensitive one. Nickolai needed to respond carefully. A week ago, he’d have buddied up with the older man, but now … having gotten to know Landry as he had, and feeling … what?—he didn’t know what to say.
“So where are you on finding it?” Phillip pushed.
“Well …” How much should he say? “I’m making strides. I know who sold it to Bartholomew and why. I know there wasn’t really another bidder upping the price, but I know who made it look that way. I know a copy of the map is here and it’s not as familiar as others from the area.”
“I see.” Phillip frowned, clearly not pleased with Nickolai’s progress. “Do you believe the murderer is also the one who took the map?”
“It’s the logic
al answer.” Nickolai studied the older man’s facial nuances, called microexpressions. The little ones that he didn’t even know he was making but that a cop was trained to pick up on. “I see no other reason why Bartholomew would have been murdered on that exact day, at that exact time he was going into the bank with the map.”
Phillip plucked a string from his shirt and cleared his throat. “Ahh … well, it does seem like too much of a coincidence.”
Nickolai mentally counted off three signs of deception—self-grooming, clearing his throat, and significant pause. Phillip knew more. “I want to make sure I’m thorough, though. That I run down every lead.”
“The police back home aren’t saying much about where they are with the murder investigation.”
With the commander overseeing the case, there’d be no information leaks, or heads would roll. “I’m sure it’s hard to be patient, but you want to make sure the right person is brought to justice.”
Phillip nodded. “Of course. It’s just so much stress on Winifred. It’s hard for those of us who care about her to watch.”
Nickolai recalled what Landry had overheard. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure it is. I know she’s a lucky lady, having so many people to step up on her behalf. Like you and Stan, for example, looking out for her interests.” He waited.
“Yes, that’s true, you know.” Phillip spoke slowly, as if weighing every word. “But Stan was never very close to Bart.” His upper lip curled. Just a hair and just for a fraction of a moment.
If Nickolai hadn’t been trained to detect microexpressions, he’d have missed it. But he was trained. Well. And he noticed. “Oh, so he was more of just an employee, while you’re more of a friend, right?”
“Right. I mean, here’s how it is. I also sit on the board of directors, of course, because I’ve been with Bart and Winifred since before they married. I want you to fully understand, you know, I was there from the start. You know how it is when you’re close to people and you want to help them, so I helped build the company alongside them.”
Verbal garbage. More concealing of information. “So you worked at Winslet Industries before Stan was even hired?” Nickolai stored all the signs of deception away. He’d process it later.
“Well, he was an employee before I was officially a board member.” Phillip’s voice rose, and he took a deep breath before unclipping his seat belt, turning away from Nickolai.
Three more signs of deception: voice rising, running out of breath, and breaking of eye contact. Interesting. “I guess Bartholomew and Winifred didn’t confide in Stan. Not like they do you.”
“Bart never confided in Stan.” He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m not, you know, positive about Winifred. There were times in the past that there were possible indiscretions. You understand I don’t know for certain, but, you know, rumors were spoken.”
“About?”
“I’m not sure.” Phillip opened the car door. “Let’s go see if this mechanic knows anything.”
Nickolai followed suit, but he didn’t like the way Phillip had muscled in on the investigation, even if he was a fun person. He stretched his strides to enter the office first.
The stench of gasoline and burned coffee filled the small space. Part of Nickolai felt right at home—the station always had a burned-coffee smell.
“Can I help you?” An old, thin man in coveralls stuck his head around the corner. He reminded Nickolai of the old nursery rhyme … the crooked man who lived in a crooked house.
“I’m here to speak to someone about my truck.” Nickolai nodded at the large window where his truck was up on the lift. “Officer Hogan told me I could check on my truck’s status.”
“Oh, I was just finishing up.” He wiped his hands on a rag. “I’m Davis Emmerson, lead mechanic.”
“Nice to meet you. Nickolai Baptiste.” He didn’t bother introducing Phillip. “Have you found out anything?”
“You were a lucky one, Mr. Baptiste, that’s for sure.”
“Oh?”
Davis nodded. “Your brake lines were cut.”
Just as he’d suspected. “You sure they were cut?”
Davis smiled. “Mr. Baptiste, I’ve been working on cars since before I could stand good. I’m the best in town. Trust me when I tell you, those lines were cut. It was clean and straight.”
“Have you told Officer Hogan this yet?”
Davis nodded. “He called about twenty minutes ago and I gave him the news. I’ll have a written report to him later today.”
Nickolai stared at his truck. Landry’s tire. The note. His brakes. Who wanted them gone so badly?
“It’ll take me a day to get the parts to fix it up, but I can do it. We always take photos for documentation, but you might want to call your insurance and file a claim. Some of them still want to send their own adjusters out.”
“I’ll do that today. Thank you.”
“No problem. Is there a number where I can reach you?”
Nickolai wrote down his cell and his motel room number and slid it across the counter to the mechanic. “Thank you again.”
“No problem. You have a nice day.”
Nickolai stepped out into the dry Arizona air. So much to process. He needed to lay it all out and see what jumped out at him. He had to be overlooking something.
“Where to now?” Phillip asked, clearly excited about being in the investigation.
A fact Nickolai intended on rectifying right now.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
This was Vanessa?
For some reason, in Landry’s mind, the motel worker named Vanessa with a boyfriend who collected maps was tall and svelte and couldn’t be more than twenty or so. She didn’t know why she’d thought that, but the Vanessa waiting on Landry was none of those images.
The motel’s housekeeper was fifty if she was a day, stood no more than five feet, and wore her graying hair in a long braid down the middle of her back. Her tanned skin was leathery looking, but her dark eyes were bright. Vanessa’s flip-flops flapped across the asphalt as she walked toward Landry’s motel room.
She obviously wasn’t going to do much talking, so if Landry wanted to find out anything, she’d better ask away. “Vanessa, I understand you took copies of my map to your boyfriend?”
The housekeeper’s steps faltered; then she straightened and put her hands on her hips. “I did not steal. Margaret gave to me when I ask.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you stole the copies. I know Margaret gave them to you.” She lowered her tone and moved in closer to Vanessa. “I wanted to know what you did with it. After Margaret gave the copies to you.”
Vanessa hesitated a moment then gave a little nod of her head before continuing to Landry’s room. “I give to Tarak. He has many maps.”
“What does Tarak do with the maps? Does he hang them on the walls? Put them in scrapbooks?”
Vanessa snorted a laugh. “No hanging. No books. Tarak compares them.” She stopped outside of Landry’s motel room.
“Compares them? To what?”
“Other maps of the mountains.”
“Why?”
Vanessa looked at Landry as if she were crazy. “To find the Shis-Inday.” She shook her head and unlocked the door.
That was new. Landry stepped into the cool room, opening the door wide enough for Vanessa to step inside. “What is the Shis-Inday?”
Glancing over her shoulder, Vanessa let out a sigh. “The Shis-Inday are the Men of the Woods, fierce Apache warriors. The Superstitions are the home of their Thunder God, and Shis-Inday are protectors of the mountain.”
Landry had read some of the myths and mystiques of the area. “That’s the legend Tarak believes?”
Vanessa’s eyes narrowed. “It is not legend. It is fact. I am from the Chihenne tribe, and it is so. Tarak is also Apache, from the Bedonkohe tribe. Geronimo was Bedonkohe. Some of Tarak’s ancestors are Shis-Inday.”
“So why is Tarak looking for these Shis-Inday men?” Landr
y leaned against the door frame.
“Tarak is a proud Apache. We grew up hearing the generations old stories of the great Shis-Inday warriors, from his own tribe. His name, Tarak, means protector.” Vanessa’s voice softened.
“He’s proud to be Bedonkohe, I’m sure.” Landry still didn’t understand.
Vanessa shook her head, slowly. “Tarak will join the Shis-Inday. It is his destiny. It was foretold to him by the shaman of his tribe. I will be with him, as foretold by my medicine man.” Her eyes brightened. “Tarak must find these great warriors then join them. I will go with him, and we will make home with his ancestors.”
Now it was starting to make sense. “Tarak collects these maps, compares them, because he is searching for the protectors of the Superstition Mountains so he can join them?”
Vanessa smiled wide and nodded. “Yes. Yes. And we will be as one and with the Shis-Inday.”
“What, exactly, are they protecting? Just the mountains?”
The housekeeper glanced over her shoulder and actually stepped into Landry’s room. She lowered her voice, as if someone might overhear the great secret. “The Bedonkohe ancient ones know of the cave holding the pesh kitzo. It was put there by the Thunder God for the tribe to use in emergency.”
“Pesh kitzo?”
“Yellow metal. Gold.”
Landry’s heart quickened. The lost mine!
Vanessa continued. “The Shis-Inday are to protect the yellow metal of the Thunder God. They have since Thunderbird left it there for the Bedonkohe to have in time of great trouble.”
“Does Tarak know where the gol—er, yellow metal cave is in the mountains?”
Vanessa shook her head. “Once he finds the cave, the Shis-Inday will reveal themselves to Tarak and he will join them. Then he will call for me, and I will join him.”
Sounded more like folklore than reality, but Landry had learned many years ago not to discount Native American customs or beliefs, even if they weren’t in line with her Christianity. “Have you or Tarak ever met any of these Shis-Inday warriors?”
Vanessa nodded. “Tarak has had them call to him on his spirit journey. I have seen them, in the distance, in many of my dreams.”
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