Accessories to Die For

by Paula Paul

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I don’t dare comment on your funky mood. I can see the opportunity for all kinds of trouble as a result.” He added sugar and handed her the cup.

  She accepted it with a mumbled “Thanks” and sat down at the small table while P.J. poured his own cup. The coffee had been heating all day. It tasted stale and slightly burned. “I don’t think my mood is funky,” she said, pushing the cup away from her. “I would call it concerned.”

  “Still thinking about Juanita and Danny,” P.J. said and took a sip from his cup.

  “I’m still thinking Juanita’s hallucination wasn’t a hallucination after all. I’m wondering if it’s possible Adelle may have seen the same man. Flirted with him, in fact.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Something they said. I’d tell you, but you’d laugh at me.”

  “No I won’t.”

  Irene took a deep breath. “Juanita called the man the lightning spirit because of a mark that looked like a bolt of lightning on his chin.”

  P.J. frowned. “So?”

  “Adelle said the man she was with had a little cut on his chin, maybe from shaving.”

  P.J. snorted.

  “You said you wouldn’t laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing,” he said just before a laugh sputtered from his lips.

  “P.J.!” Her voice had a warning tone.

  P.J. tried to look serious. “Okay, conviction by a shaving cut. Happens all the time.”

  “You’re such an ass. I shouldn’t even bother to tell you that Angel said something about word on the street is that Danny was seen with some stranger before the Frenchman’s murder. I’m wondering if they are all the same person.”

  “Who was supposed to have seen Danny with your suspect?” P.J.’s expression had sobered.

  “Some of Angel’s…well, acquaintances.”

  P.J. took another sip and shuddered. “You got any cream?”

  “No cream today. Just milk. In the refrigerator.”

  “By acquaintances, you mean gang members,” P.J. said. He emptied half of his coffee in the sink and filled the cup with milk.

  “Yes. Gang members, I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do with that boy. I don’t like him being around them, but he just seems to keep running into them somehow.”

  “His grandmother used to worry about the same thing. You sound just like her.”

  Irene rolled her eyes, but her face had returned to normal by the time P.J. closed the refrigerator door and turned toward her again.

  “So, what do you think it means if the guy Danny’s been hanging out with is the same guy who tried to pin a murder rap on him in Juanita’s hallucination?”

  “Danny’s being set up, what else?” Irene said.

  “You think this mysterious lightning guy is the real killer?”

  Irene shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s just that I can’t believe it’s Danny.”

  P.J. took a deep breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Chapter 14

  Angel could hear Irene and P.J. talking in the back room, but he could only distinguish a word now and then—not enough to follow the conversation. He was pretty sure they were talking about Danny and probably Juanita as well. He was worried about Juanita. Although she had insisted this morning that she was feeling better, she certainly didn’t sound like it or look like it. Her face was flushed, suggesting she still had a fever, and he could tell by the way she acted she felt sluggish. Still, she had tried to put on a good front.

  There were plenty of reasons to worry about Danny as well. He was into drugs. Just how deeply, Angel wasn’t sure. He did know he bought cocaine and weed from Dave Torres at least once, more than a year ago, long before all the trouble started. He knew because he’d seen him that time at Torres’s house once when he was out with Paco and they’d stopped by to buy weed. Angel no longer did drugs. He’d promised his grandmother he’d stop just before she died. Even if he hadn’t loved her well enough to do that, she’d done a good job of convincing him he didn’t want to end up like his mother.

  His grandmother had also warned him that he needed to stop running around with the likes of Paco. Irene had given him the same warning many times. It was true that Paco was a member of the Capitolistas, and it was true the gang was trouble. The Capitolistas were a local gang with no affiliation with big-time gangs like the Sindicato. At least not as far as Angel knew. When he told his grandmother that, she’d called him a niño ingenuo—a naïve little boy. She was adamant that Paco was un malo influencia.

  Nevertheless, Angel liked Paco, and he knew he was a good person at heart. Angel could see how Paco needed the Capitolistas. They were his family, and Paco had even less of a family than Angel had at one time. Angel’s father had simply disappeared one day, and his mother had died not long after. Paco had never known his father, and his mother was killed in an auto accident when she was fleeing from police with a boyfriend who’d killed a cop. The difference was that there’d been no abuelita, no grandmother to rescue Paco from street gangs.

  “You’re lucky, man,” Paco had once told him. “Look at this!” he’d said, referring to the modest home Angel had shared with his grandmother until her death. “You got a real house. A kitchen, a crucifix on the wall, a picture of the Virgin. No broken windows. No junk in the yard. Dude, you even got flowers out there. You got it made, man.”

  Angel knew he did have it made. He had Harriet Baumgarten, who’d helped him get a scholarship to Santa Fe University of Art and Design; he had Irene Seligman, who gave him a job at her consignment store; and he had a constant reminder of his grandmother’s influence. Paco had none of that. But Paco had once given him his last five dollars to buy some greasy chicken at a gas-station store when his grandmother had kicked him out of the house for being drunk. Angel had eaten the chicken, and then he’d gotten mugged and beaten up on the street. He remembered how his grandmother had cried when she found out much later what had happened to him, and how she’d promised never to kick him out again, no matter what he did. But he remembered Paco had come to his rescue. He’d seen him slip fifty dollars into a homeless man’s coat. The fifty was part of Paco’s share of a convenience-store burglary. He’d also seen Paco hand out ice cream bars to kids in the barrio. God only knew where he got the money for the ice cream.

  Paco had told him about Danny Calabaza buying drugs from Dave Torres. “The kid buys a lot of snow from Dave,” Paco had said. “I think he’s getting into it pretty heavy. Heroin? Naw, I don’t know about that. Maybe. Wouldn’t be surprised. You know he hangs out with that crazy dopehead that hangs out on the plaza sometimes. What’s his name?”

  “You talking about Jimmy Holland?” Angel asked.

  “Whoever. Anyway, I know they get high together sometimes. When the kid’s high, there’s no way to know what he’ll do. Maybe he really did kill that French guy. Wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Angel couldn’t get Paco’s words out of his head any more than he could get the grating sound of Juanita’s cough out of his mind. He knew Danny only as a kid who spent too much time hanging around the likes of Dave Torres, a relatively low-level dealer with ties to a Mexican cartel, and with a bum like Jimmy Holland. He also knew his reputation with the Native American flute. It was said he could make it sing so beautifully that it would conjure up spirits. Angel was too connected to his deeply spiritual if superstitious grandmother to doubt the authenticity of that.

  Angel had gotten to know Juanita because of her occasional visits to Irene’s store, when she’d stop by to chat. He’d steered several tourists who wanted to know the best place to buy Indian jewelry to Juanita, and she’d shown her gratitude by keeping him in homemade loaves of yeasty bread she made in her traditional outdoor horno.

  Living on the edge economically as he had done, and as he knew Juanita and her family had done, built a kind of kinship bond. That made him worry about her and Danny.
r />   He was still worrying about her when it came time to close the store, and Irene and P.J. were still talking in the back room. He locked the door, removed the receipts from the cash register for Irene to count, turned off the lights, and made his way toward the back exit. Irene and P.J. appeared to be in the middle of one of their standoffs as he walked through the back room and told them both good night. They didn’t even stop their argument long enough to bid him good night in return.

  The gas meter on his old Mustang was almost on the empty mark as he drove out of the parking lot behind Irene’s Closet, but he didn’t want to take the time to stop for gas. He felt an urgency to get back to his house to check on Juanita.

  He parked in the driveway and let himself in the back door, calling her name as he walked through the kitchen.

  There was no answer, and when he called out again, there was still no answer. He found her in the living room on the sofa covered with a heavy blanket, although the room was stifling in the early August heat.

  “Juanita!” he said once again as he walked to the sofa. She opened her eyes. They were bleary and unfocused, and he wasn’t certain she knew who he was or even that she had seen him. When he put his hand on her forehead, it was hot to the touch.

  He fumbled for his phone and called 911, pushing aside any thought that Juanita had warned him not to do that. Within minutes, an ambulance was there, and Juanita was attached to an oxygen mask and on her way to Christus St. Vincent Regional Medical Center. Angel followed in his Mustang.

  The first person he saw when he followed the gurney carrying Juanita into the emergency entrance of the hospital was Paco, along with Proferio Baldaras, known as Ironman, the Capitolistas’ head honcho. There were two more guys with them. Capitolistas, but Angel couldn’t remember their names.

  Chapter 15

  P.J. tried to read the look on Irene’s face after he told her there was something she needed to know. It took only a few seconds for him to decide it was best he not try to read it.

  “So tell me. What is it?” He could see the steel-like glint in her eyes, and there was that prosecuting-attorney hardness in her voice.

  P.J. cleared his throat—something he never did in front of a prosecuting attorney. When a lawyer cleared his throat in a courtroom, it made him appear nervous. But there was something about this woman that threw him off balance. No, he wouldn’t go there. He would just look her in the eye and speak.

  “It’s related to the Fairchild case.” He didn’t know why he was dancing around the issue. Why couldn’t he just come out with it?

  “Uh-huh.” Irene’s expression hadn’t changed. All of that steel-hard attitude was still there.

  “I’m not violating attorney-client confidence when I tell you that evidence is mounting to indicate Danny may be culpable. He may have murdered the man the Fairchilds were dealing with. For a while I feared the Fairchilds could have been guilty, but evidence is pointing away from them and toward Danny.”

  Irene looked at him long and hard. When she finally spoke, she said simply, “You’re a son of a bitch.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “You know as well as I do that you just violated your responsibility as an attorney. And if that’s not bad enough, you did it at Danny’s expense.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” P.J. said. “There may be evidence that Danny is a murderer.”

  “May be?”

  “Okay, there’s plenty of evidence. We have a witness who says he can prove Danny did it.”

  “You really are a son of a bitch,” Irene said.

  P.J. brought a hand up to simultaneously cover his eyes and rub his forehead, wishing with all of his being that he’d never brought this up. “Look,” he said. “I’m just trying to warn you that it doesn’t look good for Danny. All you’re doing now is trying to kill the messenger.”

  “So what are you going to do about all this evidence against him? I thought you offered to be his lawyer.”

  “Juanita didn’t want a lawyer.” If he’d doubted it before, there was no doubting it now—she was mad. Really mad.

  P.J. swallowed hard. “I’m going to take everything into consideration as we go forward with—”

  “Cut the bullshit, P.J. You’re going to use everything to help your client, and in the process implicate Danny. In other words, you’re selling him out for a few pieces of gold.”

  “Silver.”

  “What?”

  “It’s silver in that Bible story about the betrayal of Christ you’re referring to.”

  Irene gave him her best Jewish shrug. “Whatever.”

  P.J. loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt. “Has it never occurred to you that Danny could be guilty?”

  Irene looked stunned. “I…No! I mean yes…maybe. I don’t…”

  “And I’m not selling anyone out. My witness’s story still has to be checked out. It could be he’s lying, or at least confused, about seeing Danny kill that guy.”

  Irene shook her head. “You shouldn’t be telling me this.”

  “Oh, man!” P.J. took a deep breath and blew it out from puffed-out cheeks. “Do I ever wish I hadn’t!”

  “So you think there’s a chance this witness’s story won’t hold water?” Irene asked. “What exactly did he say?”

  “Didn’t you just say I shouldn’t be talking to you about this?”

  “Damn it, P.J.!”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re mad. You think I started it, and now you want me to finish it.”

  She glared at him without speaking.

  “He says he has proof Danny is the killer,” P.J. said after a pause.

  “What kind of proof?”

  “We’re not in a courtroom. I don’t have to say what—”

  “What kind of proof?” Irene asked again, pressing him.

  “Eyewitness.”

  “Credible?”

  “I’m not saying any more about this. It’s a matter for the courts, and I’m—”

  “Don’t give me any legal crap. You’re already in deep weeds with what you’ve said already.”

  “You know better than to ask the kind of questions you’ve been asking.”

  “Why did you bring this up to start with if you can’t tell me anything?” Irene was making no attempt to hide her frustration.

  “Because I wanted you to know how much danger Danny might be in, and there’s no need for any of your legal ethics lectures. I know all about that. I’m going to do all I can to help my client get as much money out of this lawsuit against that French auction company as I can, because I think it was a setup. I don’t want to hurt Danny in the process. I just want to do my job.” He paused. “It’s complicated.”

  “It’s always complicated.”

  He saw the look on her face, saw it dissolve from anger to something softer. “You didn’t have to tell me this, you know,” she said.

  “I know.” For some reason, he had an urge to kiss her. Instead, he said, “I’d like to talk to Adelle.”

  Irene frowned. “Why would you want to talk to her?”

  P.J. laughed. “Is that any way to talk about your mother? As if no one would want to speak to her? What I’d like to do is get some more information about the guy you said was flirting with her. I’d like to know if he’s the same person, or spirit if you will, who claims to have seen Danny kill someone.”

  Irene gave him a contemplative look. “I have to admit that’s an interesting question.”

  “If it’s not too late, I’d like to talk to her now.”

  Irene gave him a little laugh. “It’s never too late to talk to Adelle. She loves attention of any kind.”

  P.J. followed Irene in his pickup to her home on Hyde Park Road and walked with her to the front door.

  “Adelle, are you decent?” Irene called as they entered the old Victorian mansion. “I have P.J. with me.”

  There was no immediate answer, but when P.J. followed Irene into the old-fashioned parlor,
Adelle was looking regal as, impeccably dressed, she sat in a Queen Anne chair holding a crystal wineglass in her hand. Light from a chandelier glinted off the glass as well as her perfectly manicured, scarlet-colored nails.

  “What kind of question is that?” Adelle asked in a low, sultry voice. “I’m always decent.”

  “Hello, Adelle,” P.J. said.

  She gave him a nod and immediately turned her attention to the wine she was sipping.

  “P.J. would like to ask you something,” Irene said.

  “Try to be at least a little civilized, Irene,” Adelle said. “Offer the gentleman something. Scotch? A glass of wine?”

  “No thanks,” P.J. said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Indeed.” Adelle managed to pack a full measure of disdain into that one word.

  “Sit down, P.J.” Irene sounded cordial, as if she was trying to make up for her mother’s attitude. “Sure you don’t want something to drink?”

  P.J. dismissed the offer with a wave of his hand and turned to Adelle. “Irene says you don’t remember name of the man who spoke to you at the Green Corn Dance. Can you describe him to me?”

  Adelle shrugged. “He was just average-looking. Brownish-colored hair, brown eyes, average height, average weight.”

  “How about his voice?” P.J. asked. “Did he speak with an accent?”

  Adelle snorted. “You’re asking me about an accent in a place like New Mexico where everyone either has a Hispanic accent or a Midwestern touristy accent?”

  “Did he?” P.J. persisted.

  Adelle put her glass aside and folded her hands in her lap. “No,” she said. “He sounded cosmopolitan. By that, I mean no particular accent.”

  “Sounds pretty average.” P.J. stood up. “Sounds boring even.”

  “Boring?” Adelle said. “I wouldn’t say that at all.”

  “You wouldn’t?” P.J. sat down again.

  “Of course not. I told you he was cosmopolitan. We spoke of Paris, the art museums. The Musée National d’Art Moderne, in particular. He knows rather a lot about Nouveau Réalisme.”