Alibis Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  I turned into the neighborhood right behind the blue Corvette and followed Clover to our street. As I began to pull into my driveway, I noticed her movements became erratic so I parked the red ’Vette and walked over. Her car sat at a skewed angle in their driveway and Clover was leaning out the open door as if she couldn’t work up the energy to stand up.

  I rushed up to her side. “Clover, what’s wrong?”

  She looked up at me with bleary eyes.

  “Sweetie, it’s nine in the morning. Are you drunk?”

  “Prob’ly.”

  I extended a hand to help her out of the low car seat.

  “Come on, let’s get you inside so you can sleep it off.”

  “I slept already,” she insisted. “Think I passed out at the party. Missy went off with some guy from a frat house.”

  It was so hard not to deliver a lecture, but she wasn’t my kid. I took her hand and she got to her feet. She fumbled for her keys, which she’d forgotten to take out of the ignition. When she stood up and faced me, I was shocked at how ravaged her face was. She looked ten years older than the last time I’d seen her.

  “Clover …”

  “I know. I—I hate my life.” Her eyes welled up and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “I know, hon. Life is hard at this age.” I hated my patronizing tone.

  We stumbled toward the front door. I thought of my appointment across town, but I couldn’t leave her alone in this state of mind. Who knew what she would do? I took her key and unlocked the door. She tripped over a shoe that had been left in the middle of the living room and flopped onto the big sectional sofa. In thirty seconds she was snoring softly.

  Great. Now what?

  I took my phone from my purse and called the insurance lady, explaining I’d run into a little snag, and moved our appointment ahead another hour. I eased a small pillow under Clover’s head and draped a knitted throw over her. She didn’t move a muscle in the thirty minutes I watched her, and I found myself getting antsy to complete my meeting at the insurance company.

  Wondering whether Clover would even remember I’d been here, I wrote a note suggesting we have lunch if she was up to it. I propped the note on the coffee table so it would be the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes, locked her front door securely and headed back on my mission.

  Chapter 41

  The insurance woman had probably never finalized a claim so quickly. I signed what she told me to and collected my check. She started to say she hoped I would insure my next car with her agency, but I was halfway to the door before she got her sales pitch off the ground.

  Outside, I got out my phone and checked my bank balance. There was enough in savings to cover the difference, and having the insurance check in hand meant I had no further excuse not to get myself another car. I cruised past the dealerships all crowded together on Lomas but couldn’t make myself stop. Clover’s state of mind hadn’t been good; already I was worried I shouldn’t have left her alone.

  The late-morning traffic in this part of town wasn’t bad, and this time I edged the red ’Vette into the Delaney driveway beside the awkwardly parked blue one. With hands cupped around my face, I peered through the front window. It gave me a limited view across the dining table and into the living room, but I couldn’t see the girl on the couch from this angle. I was debating whether to ring the doorbell when I saw movement.

  Clover emerged from the hall that led to the bedrooms. The afghan was wrapped around her shoulders and her long hair fell across her face. At least she was upright. I stepped to the door and it opened before I could press the button.

  “Hey, Charlie.” Her face had a foggy look.

  “Hey. You doing okay?”

  She nodded but couldn’t quite come up with a smile.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” She pushed the screen door open.

  “Sounds like you had a rough night,” I said, looking around the room. Nothing had changed.

  “So … you were here.”

  “Yeah. You don’t remember? You drove yourself home.” Scary, scary thought.

  “I … yeah, I woke up in my car out in front of one of the fraternity houses on campus. I drove home okay, then it seemed like …” She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. “Like I just didn’t want to think anymore. Thanks for bringing me in.”

  I wanted to fire questions at her: what potentially lethal combination had she drunk, snorted, swallowed or shot up last night; where was Zayne; what kind of game were the girls playing; why did she tell me she hated her life? But the vulnerability was still there. It would be like firing a gunshot next to a baby deer. She would probably tuck herself into a ball and cower in fright. I took a different tactic.

  “Look, I was hoping for some company today,” I said. “Drake and I found this little cabin on the east side of the mountain and I wanted to walk up for a closer look. You feel like getting outside a bit?”

  It was probably a dumb idea. She looked like she needed about twenty hours sleep followed by a salon makeover.

  “Can we get some breakfast on the way?” she asked.

  “Absolutely. I know a great place.”

  She stared down at the short-shorts and tank top she’d been wearing when she came home. “Let me shower and change out of these clothes.”

  I made two travel mugs using their machine with the plastic cups of specialty coffees, helping myself to supplies in the messy kitchen. Clover emerged twenty minutes later, looking like a new person. She’d pulled her wet hair up with a clip, and her face looked fresh and younger without the heavy eye makeup. Her manner was still subdued, but for someone who’d dragged herself home after an all-night party she was moving amazingly well. I supposed I could have done the same at nineteen. I pulled out the keys to the loaner red sports car. Despite Clover’s improved appearance, there was no way I would trust her to drive.

  Rush hours were over and the lunch crowd not quite out yet, so traffic was almost sane as we headed east on I-40.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, shifting in her seat as we entered Tijeras Canyon.

  “There’s a little café up here. You can’t see it from the freeway but we discovered it a few years ago. The guy makes the best breakfast burrito.” I glanced her direction with a smile. “The biscuits and gravy are absolute heaven, too.”

  She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes for a moment. “Umm. I bet the last time I had biscuits and gravy was when Mrs. Higgins babysat us as kids.”

  I had to laugh. The dish was one of Elsa’s breakfast specialties. She’d filled my young tummy with it many times. I found the café, which looked smaller and more rustic than I’d remembered. Clover gave it a skeptical eye. The Corvette stood out among the pickup trucks in the small parking lot.

  “I really do need to get serious about shopping for a vehicle,” I said, once we’d taken seats at a corner table and made our menu choices. “Any ideas?”

  “I always liked your Jeep. Get another one.” Now, on her second cup of coffee, she’d revived. “If it were me, I’d get the sportier one. Some of the models look like any old sedan. You’re a sporty person, Charlie.”

  “Thanks. Coming from someone your age, that’s a high compliment—I think.”

  She gave me a wan smile, the first since dragging herself out of her car and informing me she hated her life. I wanted to get into the subject, ask the difficult questions, but our food arrived and the moment was lost.

  As we dug in, our limited conversation turned to the meal and the fact that Mr. Randel’s biscuits really were just a little better than Elsa’s. Our neighbor had him beat on the gravy, though. There was something about the way she seasoned hers. By the time we finished eating, Clover’s mood lifted and she’d nearly convinced me to run back to town and visit the Jeep dealership.

  “My dad is really good friends with the guy. He could get you a good deal on a new one,” she offered.

  “Except he’s in … some other country
right now.”

  “Well, yeah. I’d talk to him for you, if you want.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about it. I’m not above doing a little name-dropping if I go there. I’ll tell him your dad is my neighbor.”

  By her smile, I realized she had very few opportunities to help people and she’d enjoyed offering me this one little thing.

  “So, ready for a walk up to this spectacular cabin I told you about?”

  “I thought you said it was a tiny place.”

  “Spectacularly tiny? Yeah, it’s not much. I want to see if it’s as good on a second view as I thought it was the first time.”

  Clover grabbed the breakfast check, pulling a debit card from her purse to pay. I let her cover the meals and I laid a little cash on the table for the tip. Taking the role of an adult was new to her and she seemed to enjoy it.

  Back in the car, we put the top down and let the warm spring air tousle our hair. I felt reassured at Clover’s improved disposition. Maybe her comment this morning had been made in the aftermath of a hangover.

  We cruised along the eastern side of the Sandia mountains, through the little village of Cedar Crest. I’d printed an aerial view of the cabin and hoped I would spot the turn. We would be driving past the small towns of Golden and Madrid, where I’d spotted Bobby Lorrento that day at the wine festival. At some point after that—about seven miles farther on—there should be a narrow dirt road with a turnout. Maria Greenwood had described her family parking alongside it when they went to visit Grandma Sarah. After that, we would be on foot.

  The four-lane road narrowed to two when we passed the turn to Sandia Peak. A big portion of the traffic always went that way, up to the ski runs in winter, to the picnic areas in summer. It was a winding scenic drive nearly all Albuquerque natives had taken at some point in their lives. I slowed my speed to adapt to the road’s width. Clover had become quiet.

  “Everything okay?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t about to lose her breakfast or something.

  She nodded but her face was pale.

  “I can stop if you’re feeling ill.”

  She took a deep breath. “No, no. I’m fine.” She attempted a smile but it didn’t reassure me.

  I watched from the corner of my eye as I came up with inane conversation to take her mind off her stomach, taking the curves in the road more slowly. By the time we’d passed through both of the east mountain towns, where she’d declined offers to stop, I supposed she would be all right. I concentrated on finding the landmarks for the turnout I was seeking.

  Maria had said there used to be a mailbox on a post, but I was skeptical it would be there all these years later. She’d also remembered a tall pine tree, the only one in an area where most of the vegetation was piñon, sage and cedar. The tree could also be long gone. I intended to rely on Drake’s sectional map, together with the aerial photo. We had done some measurements and calculated the path to the cabin began six-point-nine miles from the ballpark at Madrid. I had my eye on the odometer.

  We rounded a curve in the road and there it was, the pine tree and the turnout. I passed it a little too fast and had to turn around. When I steered the low sports car onto the dirt edge, I saw a battered old mailbox lying on the ground. Its post was missing, but this had to be the place.

  Clover still seemed preoccupied, although she followed willingly enough as I scouted the area until I discovered the old, well-worn path.

  “This has to be it,” I said.

  She nodded and followed as I started out. A dozen yards up the trail, obscured by a thicket of dense chamisa and a big cottonwood tree, stood a small fenced paddock. This must have been where Sarah Locke would leave her horse tied when she went to town for supplies. With a rugged enough vehicle and a little clearing of the current-day brush, it could serve as a parking spot out of sight of the road.

  The faint trail led upward, the ground rising steadily a couple hundred feet in elevation, until it disappeared. Clover and I reached the spot and saw it dropped down to a dry arroyo where a narrow stream probably ran only after a decent rain. The path followed the streambed, where vegetation grew thicker. A couple of times I had to push through and look around to see where the worn trail began again.

  Maria’s estimate of a half mile seemed fairly accurate. We rounded a few turns and soon I could see the cabin’s roof beyond the next rise.

  “Good thing we wore our hiking boots,” I said to Clover when we reached the clearing where Drake had landed the helicopter that first day.

  I unzipped my small daypack and pulled out two water bottles, handing one to my companion. “Ready for some of this?”

  Clover nodded, but she hadn’t said more than a dozen words in the last thirty minutes.

  “Let’s sit on the steps,” I suggested. “You still look kind of pale.”

  She complied without a word.

  “Clover, what’s happened? You say you feel all right, but you don’t look it.”

  She stared at her water bottle.

  “Did something happen at the party last night?” Another thought occurred to me. “Is it something to do with Zayne?”

  She chewed her lower lip a minute. I remained quiet while she put her thoughts together.

  “It’s Ryan Subro, the jerk. Just because he was popular in school, he acts all entitled. He’s started doing the same thing to me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Asking for, um, photos. Last fall, he was doing it with Zayne. She ignored him awhile, him and his friends. They all do it. One night she got really drunk and she sent him one.”

  I’d been through the photos on Zayne’s phone, and I had a feeling I knew which pictures she meant. Several showed parts of her anatomy in ways that would certainly be provocative.

  “Once she’d sent the photo, he said she owed him sex. He wanted …”

  I cleared my throat, hoping she wouldn’t describe the acts.

  “He wanted everything. Problem was, the minute she gave in he started saying she was a slut. All his friends started harassing her—put out or we’ll trash you.”

  I put an arm around her shoulders. “Oh, god, that’s awful.” No wonder Zayne had decided to get out of town.

  “Where did she go?”

  Tears dripped from her chin and she shook her head.

  “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay.”

  Chapter 42

  I left Clover on the porch to compose herself while I roamed the property and took a few measurements of the cabin. There was still no way to get inside without breaking something, but I got a rough idea of the interior layout by peeking, as well as I could, around the edges of the curtains. There were no surveyor stakes, so it was a wild guess where the property lines were.

  By the time I finished my notes and drank the rest of my bottled water, the girl’s expression had calmed. She almost smiled when she saw me, but from her earlier breakdown it was clear she wasn’t ready discuss her sister’s whereabouts.

  Conversation on the way home revolved around my decision on a vehicle. I got the name of her father’s friend at the Jeep dealership. It couldn’t hurt to have a contact. Drake was on a job near Santa Fe today, but he’d be home tonight. If all went well, I might actually have my new Jeep without having to pull his attention away from his business.

  I dropped Clover off at her house and headed for the RJP offices. Ron was—no surprise—on the phone. I assumed the conversation was another employment background check.

  I logged onto my computer and started to take a serious look at the new Jeeps. The local dealership claimed the best prices in the state and a whole lot of other razzmatazz designed to get a person to click buttons and sign up for news. I just wanted the basics. Clover was right—the Wrangler was definitely a sporty-looking vehicle. The Renegade bridged the gap between sporty and sedate, and it got better mileage. Plus, it came in some very cool colors. This was starting to get complicated.

  Normal office noises went on in the background as I read specs and r
eviews, and my head began to swim. When Ron appeared in my doorway, I was happy to take a break from my research.

  “Guess who that was,” he said.

  “No clue.”

  “I called Detective Lujan with the major crimes unit in El Paso.”

  My brain had to switch multiple gears to remember this was about the missing Super Bowl ring. I made an impatient little hurry-up gesture.

  “So, it seems Bobby Lorrento’s ring isn’t the only item this Jay Livingston has scammed someone on. Lujan found several other complaints in the El Paso and southern New Mexico area where a man of his description has sold memorabilia that turned out to be fake or of lesser value. In at least two other cases, he used the ‘borrowed house’ ploy to make it look as if he lives in an upscale neighborhood.”

  “Have they caught up with him?”

  “Not yet. But here’s where it gets interesting. They traced his real residence to an apartment building—nothing special, just an average furnished place in an average neighborhood. No sign of Livingston so they talked with the manager. It seems our guy moved out last week without a word, even though his rent was paid through the end of the month. Just packed his few possessions into a bunch of suitcases and loaded it all into his vehicle. The van had New Mexico plates.”

  Which means very little. El Paso is not more than a few minutes down the road from the state line.

  “Information from New Mexico DMV showed the car registered to Jay Livingston with an address in Albuquerque.”

  “He lives here in town, after all?”

  “Don’t know that, yet. He could have provided a false address on his car registration, so I’m going to check it out before I mention it to anyone else.”

  Much of what we knew about Livingston, so far, had been fake. For all we knew, he could be on his way to anywhere in the world.

  “Want to ride along? You’ve actually met him. I only have a driver’s license photo, and we all know how lifelike those are.”

  “I … um …” I glanced at the vehicles on my computer screen, decided I was tired of reading specifications. “Sure. I’ll go.”