Fire Dancer

by Susan Slater

  Julie scanned the first page. Connie was well aware of the ravages of leukemia. She had outlined briefly her knowledge of what was happening to her body. The letter contained directions—what documents would be needed. What needed to be filed. The final ceremony, where and when and how she wanted to be dressed—

  “Missy?”

  “Yes, Rosa?”

  “The men, they leave now. They tell me to get you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be right there.” Julie hastily pushed the papers together and, walking to the bed, stuffed everything between the mattress and box spring. Safe for the time being. She caught her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. Yuk. No makeup. And there wasn’t time to remedy that now. With eyebrows so pale as to be non-existent, she looked a little alien. Maybe a touch of pencil. She dashed into the bathroom and applied a quick feathered line to each brow and a swipe of mascara to her lashes—just enough to keep her from looking dead. Damn. She needed to keep those references from her vocabulary.

  The young man she’d talked with earlier was waiting for her in the foyer. She could see the others loading a gurney into the back of the rescue unit parked at the front door.

  “I spoke with Dr. Bancroft. She’s going to meet us at the OMI. I’m sure she’ll stay in touch. Will she be able to reach you at this number?”

  With a jolt Julie realized he was asking whether she’d stay here now that her hostess was dead. Would she? She didn’t know but thought she would for a few days.

  “I expect to be here most of this week but let me give you my cell.”

  “Good. I’ll make certain Dr. Bancroft has this number.” He held out a form on a clipboard and she filled in the blanks. Her name. Address. Phone.

  He waved from the cab of the ambulance. Somehow he was just too chipper. She felt drained, and dreaded the phone calls she had to make. She was just closing the front door when she saw the police cruiser turn into the drive and slowly pass the ambulance on its way out.

  It looked like those calls would have to wait. She opened the door and waited for Lieutenant Samuels to walk across the circular brick entry.

  “That anything I should know about?” He waved over his shoulder at the retreating ambulance.

  Julie sighed.

  “Then get me the lady of the house. I think we have some things to discuss.” His demanding voice irritated her.

  “You passed her on your way in.”

  “Explain.”

  “Connie died last night. She was terminally ill.”

  “Shit.” He whacked the nearest column with the manila envelope in his hand and turned to watch the ambulance make the turn onto the county road.

  “Thanks. Your condolences are accepted.” Two could play at bad manners. Julie started to close the door.

  “Okay. Unprofessional of me. Let’s start over. I came here to arrest Ms. CdeBaca for the murder of Art McNamara or complicity in his death. I can be allowed a little disappointment.”

  A second cruiser turned in the drive but Julie barely noticed. Murder? Connie implicated in the caretaker’s death? Julie could only stare. What was there to say? This was so preposterous.

  His tone softened. “I’d like to talk. Maybe you can help. If there’s an offer of coffee, I’ll get rid of these guys and be right back.”

  Julie nodded. He could have a whole pot. Her morning could not get any more bizarre.

  “The kitchen’s back here.” It hadn’t taken him long to send his backup on their way.

  “Great house.”

  “It is, isn’t it? One of the things Connie was most proud of.”

  “Who gets all this now?”

  “The house has been taken care of.” She briefly explained Connie’s generous gift to the pueblo. “I think it will make a wonderful museum. She and Skip had no children, but there are three children by Skip’s first marriage. I’m assuming most things will be divided among the three of them.”

  “Sounds like she planned things well.”

  “She had some time. Maybe not as long as she thought.”

  “But enough to tie up loose ends. Save others the trouble of second-guessing her wishes. There’s something to be said for that. My grandmother put notes on everything the year before she died. Pictures, glassware, jewelry—everything. It made my mother’s job a lot easier.”

  Julie knew he was trying to make amends. Offer personal information, draw her in. She’d try to be nicer, too. She was curious about how Connie could be implicated in a murder. As they entered the sprawling kitchen, Julie was almost surprised to see Rosa working at one of the gleaming stainless steel sinks beneath a bank of windows. Julie hadn’t been thinking. There was no reason for her to stay. She should have suggested that she go home earlier.

  “Rosa. I’d like you to take the day off. This has been so difficult. Come at eight tomorrow and we’ll get started sorting Connie’s things. I’d appreciate your help.”

  “Yes, Miss. Thank you.”

  Rosa’s red-rimmed eyes clutched at Julie’s heart. She, too, needed a time to mourn but it wouldn’t be for awhile. And phone calls. That would be the tough part. She watched as Mark Samuels poured himself a large mug of coffee. He was settling in. She might as well relax; he didn’t seem like the type who could be rushed.

  “What makes you think Connie had something to do with the letter bomb?” Julie leaned her elbows on the counter after scooting the stool closer.

  “Fingerprints. One perfect capture on the tape used to wrap the package the bomb was in. And another on a fragment of a thousand-dollar bill. The package was addressed to Mr. McNamara. I’m betting we can prove the writing’s hers.”

  “There’s simply no way Connie could have killed someone.”

  “Fingerprints don’t lie. She’s implicated, all right.”

  “But a bomb. How could she have done that?”

  “Not difficult at all. Access to materials and the internet and it’s practically done.”

  “Bomb-making materials? How would she have access?”

  “Actually, she’s a prime suspect because of the material used.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ever notice those silver or white boxes usually on a pole beside railroad tracks?

  “I think so.”

  “You’ll see more of them in remote areas—on the reservations, for example. The railroad stores leftover explosives there and sometimes forgets about it. It can be there for years.”

  “Explosives used by the railroad? For what?”

  “Explosive-hardened steel is many times more resilient. Rails are often treated after they’re in place.”

  “I still don’t see why this would make Connie a prime suspect.”

  “One of the locked boxes was broken into—three days ago. The box is located about two miles from the edge of Ms. Bigrope’s property on the Sandia reservation.”

  “It still means she’d have to have bomb-making knowledge.”

  “As I said, easy to pick up on the internet.”

  “I’m not buying it.”

  “Why not? The particular type of explosive used is exactly like what’s used by the railroad—exactly like the stuff that was stolen.”

  “I think you’re really stretching to make this fit.”

  “I never rule out an accomplice.”

  “That’s truly ridiculous.”

  “Can you vouch for her whereabouts every minute over the last few days?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “May I say I’ve been doing this long enough that I’ve seen about everything? And I never assume I know someone. Just means you’re going to be in for a surprise.”

  Julie wasn’t going to contradict him. It would be pointless. She wondered briefly if he was married. He wasn’t wearing a ring. Maybe he’d had experience in one of life’s little surprises from someone he’d “known.”

  “So tell me about this illness that just happened to take her life at an opportune time.”

  Julie st
arted to protest then thought better of it. It did seem a little opportune, didn’t it?

  “Her doctor would be of more help. In brief, Connie found out she had leukemia about two months ago.”

  “Treatment?”

  “She apparently chose to forego conventional treatment.”

  “Any reason?”

  “It’s my understanding that Connie was faced with four months to live—if she was lucky. There was no guarantee chemo would extend her time by much. Trying to buy an extra month or two didn’t make sense to her. Not with the side effects that were pretty much a given.”

  “I’d say that makes sense to me, too. Who found her body?”

  “Rosa, at about six o’clock this morning.”

  “I understand your letting her go home, but I will have to interview her. Do you have an address?”

  “I’ll check. But she’ll be here tomorrow. Should I just have her contact you?”

  “That’ll work.” He made a note. “Last night was just a regular evening? Nothing unusual?”

  “Nothing that pertains to her death. She had a small dinner party and went to bed early.”

  “Names of those attending?”

  “Just Connie and I, my fiancé, and the company lawyer.”

  “You’ll be able to give me those addresses and phone numbers?”

  Julie gave him Ben’s full name and office numbers, then followed with the same information on Wayne.

  “Were you the last one to see her alive?”

  Laughing, she said, “I’m beginning to think I need my lawyer present. Is this an interrogation?”

  “Sorry.” He took a sip of coffee. “Habit, I guess. But something doesn’t smell right. Ms. CdeBaca’s death seems too convenient. Whether you want to face it or not, your friend was mixed up in something that involved a murder—either of her planning or as a follow-up to her involvement.”

  “I just can’t—”

  “I know I’m asking a lot, but I need you to step outside your friendship and be objective. I’m not even factoring in the skull incident.”

  “What skull?”

  He quickly filled her in. “She called it some kind of joke, said it probably wasn’t even aimed at her. But a skull with a heart around the bullet hole, a dead caretaker, and now her own death—I don’t know about you, but I’m not laughing.”

  “I can’t believe all this. Funny how you think you know someone, been around them all your life only to find out nothing’s as it seemed.”

  “Is there any possibility she took her own life? Knew what she’d face with a murder investigation? And opted out? Especially under the circumstances? Her illness and all.”

  Julie knew she had guilt written all over her face. “I’m sure of it. That she took her own life. Not that she did it because she feared the consequences of a murder investigation.” She slipped off the stool and headed toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  She didn’t look back, but she knew he was biting his tongue. A suicide under any circumstances would be handled differently. Should she feel guilty about not mentioning the letter of instructions? Probably. But somehow putting Connie through more—even deceased—was too much. There had to be dignity in death. She knew she wasn’t original in that but she believed it, too.

  She separated the three pages from the will and took them back to the kitchen. She really had Mark Samuels’s attention now.

  “She left this.”

  He took the first single sheet and carefully held it by the edges and looked at it. “Have you read it?”

  “Just scanned the first couple paragraphs. Nothing out of the ordinary—she’s to be laid out in her wedding gown, and then taken to the reservation. She’s Mescalero Apache and will be buried according to her tribe’s customs.”

  He was silent as he read each of the three pages. Then, went back to page two and reread the entire page.

  “I thought you said the CdeBacas had no children of their own—the only children involved are from the Senator’s former marriage?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, the son mentioned here—mentioned as the sole inheritor of her half of the estate is Ms. CdeBaca’s by a former marriage of hers?”

  “I’m confused. There was no former marriage. She married Skip when she was nineteen. Connie doesn’t have children.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He held out the second page. “Hold it by the corners.”

  Julie started to scan the page and then stopped to read each word. “The estate will be divided between my husband’s children and my child. I have left a package of instructions as to how I want this to be carried out. The package also contains proof that, in fact, the young man in question is truly my son—raised by others but no less unquestionably of my blood. What separated us in life unites us now without rancor, or duplicity. I will expect every courtesy to be extended to him in this difficult hour.”

  Julie handed the page back and just sat there. A son? How old? Who was the father? Was he the secret result of a tryst even Skip didn’t know about? Wow. She could only imagine Byron, et.al. Talk about being pissed.

  “Is this son thing a surprise?”

  “Try shock. My mother was her best friend and I know she didn’t know.”

  “So, you don’t know the background? Where he is now, how to get in touch?”

  “Not a clue. I know as much as you do. There isn’t even a name mentioned.”

  “Where are these papers she mentions—the ones that will prove parentage?”

  “I imagine in Connie’s private safe in her office at work.” Crossed fingers against a probable lie. She was certain they were a part of the envelopes she’d found in Connie’s bedroom.

  “What’s the office address?”

  Julie gave him that and both Byron and Cherie’s phone numbers. She didn’t have particulars for Jonathan.

  “Interesting, she wants to be buried in her wedding gown. Her husband died fairly recently. You think that’s some kind of togetherness thing?”

  “I really don’t know what to think. But she was dressed in the gown when we found her.”

  “This morning?”

  Julie nodded.

  “Odd. Possible overdose? Dress first then administer fatal dosage.”

  Did he see her wince? This line of reasoning was just too painful. “Her doctor didn’t rule that out. She’ll be present at the autopsy.”

  “Well, nothing’s going to happen today. We won’t get results before next week. Look, thanks for the coffee. I’m taking up your time and I know you have things to do. If you could find me some kind of zipper plastic bag for this, I’ll be going. Here’s my card. Call if you find anything or have a question … hell, call just to say hello.” He grinned.

  Was that some kind of veiled pickup line? Or was he still just trying to be nice. She couldn’t tell. “Thanks.” She opened five drawers before finding the storage bags, extracted one and watched him carefully slide the document inside. Then she walked him to the front door and returned to the kitchen. Another cup of coffee was in order. Eight thirty and this was the first chance she’d gotten to call Ben. She fished her cell out of her pocket.

  He was shocked and upset that he couldn’t help.

  “Are you going to be all right? I can’t get away until this evening. I don’t like thinking of you facing this all alone.”

  “I’ll be fine. I need to make the obligatory calls and put things in order here. I may run by the office later and make copies of the will. I want you back here, too, but I hate to think of you driving so far in one day.” What could he actually do anyway?

  “Not a problem. I can get back by ten tonight. I’ll call you when I’m heading out.”

  They talked for a few more minutes. Julie shared with him the cop’s idea that Connie had stolen explosives and made a letter bomb. Ben agreed with her—there was just no way. Not Connie. But a bomb that killed the caretaker had her fingerprints on its wrapping? How did you explain that? Ben was stymied. A lo
t of questions without answers. And they might not ever know now that she was gone. But Julie was to be careful and grab a motel room if she would be more comfortable. Staying in the house alone might be too oppressive.

  Oh yes, would he believe that Connie had a son? She was kidding, wasn’t she? No. And there were papers to prove it, apparently. Yet, no one knew about this child. Not even Julie’s mother. Bizarre. How could things get any stranger? Ben asked that she let him know where she’d be. They said their goodbyes and she slipped her cell back into her pocket.

  There was a list of phone numbers for family members beside the kitchen phone. Might as well use the landline. She dragged a stool up to the counter, took the phone off the hook and got started. Cherie first, but it was Sunday morning and she was out. Tough to think of Cherie at church services, but maybe not too farfetched. Still, no one in the family struck her as religious. The day-nanny was sweet and promised Miss CdeBaca would call the minute she got in. Julie hadn’t realized Cherie still used her maiden name. She couldn’t remember her husband very well and thought that he was a “former” now anyway.

  Jonathan’s secretary, male and very into himself, offered stilted condolences and would leave a note for Mr. CdeBaca who was out for the morning. Julie didn’t even entertain the thought of church—not for Jonathan—more like some hike in the mountains or cycling tour. Only Byron was at home and seemed genuinely upset. Or elated. She couldn’t tell at first.

  “Do you know when the autopsy will be done?”

  “No idea. The police lieutenant thought we’d have results later in the week.”

  “I have a copy of her will on file at the office. Have you notified Wayne?”

  With a pang, Julie realized she hadn’t even thought about him—not since checking to see if he’d gone. “No. In fact, I’m not sure I have a number for him.”

  “I’ll give him a jingle. I’m sure there’s some protocol he needs to follow to get the ball rolling, so to speak.”

  Julie hesitated only a second and then decided not to tell him about the will drawn up by a Denver law firm. Some sixth sense said this new one would negate the old and might be very, very different. Ah, this was not going to be pretty. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” She needed to pay attention.