by Paula Paul
“They meant no harm, Adelle. They were concerned that you would hurt yourself.”
It was at least the third time Irene had said that to reassure and calm her mother after she’d rescued her from the hospital.
Adelle continued to rant. “That thing they put me in. That…”
“Straitjacket?” P.J. offered.
“That restraining garment,” Adelle said, giving P.J. a disdainful look. “Uncalled for. Unnecessary. Humiliating. I should file a lawsuit against them.”
“Not advisable,” P.J. said and added, “speaking as an attorney.”
“I don’t see why not!” Adelle was still fuming.
“It would be humiliating for you, my dear. It’s best you keep it quiet.” P.J. spoke in his best counselor voice. “Remember, the hospital is obligated not to divulge patient information. No one ever need know a thing about it.”
“It was a horrendous mistake on their part,” Adelle insisted.
“No doubt.” P.J. sounded soothing. “But it would be even more horrendous for a person of note such as you are to have the ugly details of her misfortune made public, especially when it’s no fault of your own. I’m sure you know that when one is well known, one must make certain sacrifices.”
Adelle’s expression softened. “Well…I know you’re right, of course. There is a certain kind of noblesse oblige involved, isn’t there?”
P.J.’s face took on a serious expression. “That is such an admirable thing for you to say, Adelle. There aren’t many people left who have any sense of noblesse oblige.”
Adelle sighed. “The very definition of nobility is that there are so few of us.”
“So true.” P.J.’s expression was serious. He could see Irene standing behind Adelle, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and revulsion. “But I’m sure others recognize all the signs of the noblesse in you,” he added as he tried to ignore Irene’s face.
Adelle smiled.
“As well as the oblige.”
The smile became a puzzled frown.
“Well, they do,” P.J. said. “You’re the kind of person people look to when the community is in turmoil.”
“They do? Oh, I mean, of course they do.” Adelle frowned again. “What, exactly, are you talking about?”
“Take that man at the Green Corn Dance. The one you called Hutch, who was so attracted to you. He must have known you were a force to be reckoned with.”
“Him? All he wanted was…A force? To be reckoned with? What do you mean?”
“Everyone knows you, Adelle. I think he was afraid of your influence. Afraid of how you might foil him.”
Adelle frowned again. “What influence?”
“Why, he must have known a woman of your caliber was intimate with the art and cultural scene in Santa Fe. He must have feared you might have some inside information on the theft of Native American artifacts.”
“Well…” Adelle preened a little. “Of course I…Inside information?”
“I think he knew you suspected he was involved,” P.J. said.
Adelle’s expression was blank for a few seconds. “Oh, yes, yes, of course,” she said, then took on another confused frown.
P.J. continued to press her. “He may have even been afraid you could identify him.”
“He was quite average-looking,” Adelle said.
“So you said.”
Adelle was silent for a few seconds again before she added, “There was one thing I forgot to tell you.”
P.J. saw Irene’s shoulders straighten, and he sensed a tension in the room. “Go on,” he said to Adelle.
“I…well, I sort of saw something,” she said. “It was another man. I think he was following us.”
“Following you?”
“Not in a sinister way. At least I don’t think so, but he had a gun. He kept feeling the outside of his jacket. He was quite well dressed. Expensive-looking sports coat.”
P.J. nodded his head, and Irene moved from behind Adelle to stand beside P.J. so she could see her mother.
“He was sitting at the bar, watching us,” Adelle continued, “and once his jacket sort of came open, and I saw a gun in a shoulder holster. I’ve never seen one of those, have you? It was like in the movies.”
“Can you describe him?” Irene asked. “The guy with the gun?”
“All I can say is he certainly wasn’t at all ordinary-looking. Not like Hutch.”
“Hutch,” Irene said. “The guy you had the drink with.”
“His last name is Hutchison,” Adelle said. “So they call him Hutch.”
“Uh-huh,” P.J. said, trying not to sound impatient. “You said the man at the bar wasn’t ordinary-looking. Can you describe him?”
“Tall,” Adelle said. “That’s the first thing I noticed. He was tall.”
P.J. nodded, still working hard at not appearing exasperated.
“He had a sort of…you know…Continental look. You can always tell, you know. European men are so…”
“Was it the way he was dressed?” Irene asked.
“Yes,” Adelle said. “And no.” She paused and appeared to be thinking. “He was dressed in jeans and an open-collar shirt with that lovely sports coat. Not too unusual, I know, but it was the way he wore them. With a certain élan, I would say. And his hair. You can always tell European men by their hair.”
“What else?” Irene asked. P.J. could hear the impatience in her voice.
“I would say he was French.”
“He had an accent?” Irene asked. P.J. thought she was pushing too hard. Adelle needed to be handled carefully.
“No accent. He spoke perfect English. It was the way he pronounced cognac. The French way. You know how they make the G and N sound like one consonant while English speakers say kohn-yak.”
P.J. had no idea what she was talking about, but he nodded. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Oh, yes,” Adelle said. “He was quite…well…attractive.”
“The same man you saw attacking Juanita?” P.J. asked.
“Of course not,” Adelle said. “That man was a much rougher type. Not the Continental type at all.”
Irene turned toward P.J. with a puzzled expression. “Where are you going with this?” she asked.
“I have a deposition later today in the Fairchild case. The man being deposed may be the same person she’s talking about.”
“The man who’s accused of cheating your client?” Irene asked.
P.J. nodded.
“What good will that do?” Adelle asked. “One of my husbands was a lawyer, so I know about depositions. I can’t go into the room when you question him.”
“You could be waiting in the lobby,” P.J. said.
“I’m not sure that’s legal,” Irene said.
“Waiting in a lobby is perfectly legal,” P.J. assured her.
Irene gave him an irritated look. “You know what I mean.”
“I want this guy identified. I have no way of knowing if he’s the man who killed Armaud or if he knows anything about Danny,” P.J. said, “but he may be the one who has been cheating my client. He goes by the name of Leon Macy.”
Irene shook her head. “But if he sees Adelle…I mean, what if he thinks she knows more than she actually does? I don’t want her life endangered.”
“I don’t see this as a big risk,” P.J. said.
“Maybe not, but she’s not your mother.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” P.J. asked, sounding defensive. “She doesn’t have to be my mother for me to be concerned. I can assure you—”
“No!” Irene said.
“Will you two stop talking about me as if I weren’t present?” Adelle said. “Of course I’ll go and sit in the lobby to see whether or not I can identify this man.”
Irene shook her head. “Adelle—”
“Noblesse oblige,” Adelle said.
Chapter 19
Adelle settled herself into one of the plush chairs in the lobby of P
. J. Bailey’s law firm. She was dressed in a powder blue Gucci suit and shoes that matched perfectly. She knew she looked fabulous, and no one need know the entire outfit came from Irene’s consignment store. Adelle didn’t consider it vain to think she looked remarkable. It was simply true. She could tell by the way the receptionist looked at her. That envious expression was unmistakable.
Adelle sat with her legs crossed, facing the door, knowing her legs were still shapely in spite of her age. Knowing, too, that her face was still sufficiently tucked to make her appear younger than her years. The husband before the Nebraska jerk had at least had enough money to pay a good plastic surgeon.
While she sat, two men walked in. She recognized Hutch first. He was with the handsome, cosmopolitan man she’d seen in the bar wearing a gun. They both smiled as they entered, and she knew by the looks in their eyes that they appreciated the picture she presented sitting there.
“Hello, Adelle. How are you, my dear?” Hutch said and moved to stand in front of her. He picked up her hand and kissed it. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here, either,” she said, giving him her most charming smile. Her eyes shifted to the other man, the one she’d seen in the bar. Was this the man P.J. had spoken about? The one he was going to depose?
“I hope you’re not having trouble of some kind,” Hutch said. “I’m always concerned when I see someone in a law office.” He laughed. “That’s because I’m a lawyer myself.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” Adelle said. “Perhaps I could have had you handle my situation. Complications with the divorce settlement from my last husband. It’s a rather large estate,” she said with a smile to cover her lie. She didn’t want either of the men to wonder why she was sitting in P.J.’s office.
“Of course I would have handled it for you,” Hutch said. He returned her smile and sat down next to her. When he saw Adelle’s eyes turn toward the man who had accompanied him into the room, he picked up her hand again. “Forgive me for not introducing you,” he said. “This is my client, Leon Macy. We’re here for a conference with Mr. Bailey.”
“I see,” Adelle said and returned his smile with a charming one of her own.
“I hope we won’t keep you waiting,” Hutch said. “I expect this will be a rather long meeting.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Adelle said. “I’m not waiting for Mr. Bailey. I’m going to see one of Mr. Bailey’s law partners.”
“Well, good luck,” Hutch said just as the receptionist announced that Mr. Bailey would see the two men now. Hutch squeezed her hand just before he stood to go into the meeting room. “I’ll call you,” he whispered.
Adelle could hardly sit still once the door was closed. What was going on in there? she wondered. The man with Hutch was the man P.J. had wanted her to identify. Just what did Hutch have to do with all of this?
“I’m sure Mr. Bailey will appreciate your help, Mrs. Daniels,” the receptionist said. “You’re free to go now. Mr. Bailey will be in touch with you later.”
“Oh, of course,” Adelle said, wondering how she could manage to find out what was going on in that deposition. She stood and walked reluctantly to the door. To her surprise, the receptionist followed her out.
“I don’t know why they built the ladies’ room so far down the hall,” the receptionist said in a chatty voice as they walked together.
“Don’t they always,” Adelle said. She walked past the restroom door as the receptionist entered, but after a few steps she turned back and hurried into P.J.’s office lobby again.
Without hesitating, she walked to the conference room door and pressed her ear against the wood, listening. Within a few seconds, she turned the knob and stepped inside.
“My God, Adelle! You can’t come in here. This is a deposition.”
“Of course it’s a deposition, don’t you think I know that? However, I have something to say.”
—
Irene could hardly keep her mind on helping the steady flow of customers in and out of her store the next morning. Without Angel there to help, it was almost impossible to keep up. The police had contacted her about Angel. They wanted to question him about Juanita and about why he had been harboring a fugitive as well as about who had attacked him outside the hospital. Irene was of no help to them, and she wasn’t going to divulge what little she knew about his harboring Juanita.
In between customers, she’d alternately called the hospital to check on Juanita and called Angel’s number in the vain hope that he would answer his phone, wherever he was. She tried not to think of the possibilities of just where that might be, but images of his slight but handsome body lying dead in a ditch somewhere kept creeping into her mind.
At least the news about Juanita was encouraging. She’d been moved out of intensive care, but she was still not allowed to have visitors. That was not an entirely a bad decision on the hospital’s part, in Irene’s opinion. Maybe her arm-twisting with the doctor was still working. It at least meant Juanita wouldn’t be going back to jail soon, although she was told a policeman now stood guard outside her room. Standard procedure, Irene knew, just in case the prisoner tried to escape. That wasn’t likely since Juanita was still so sick, but there was no doubt in Irene’s mind that as soon as Juanita was able to walk, she’d be out looking for Danny again.
Maybe Danny was dead, too. Lying in a ditch somewhere along with Angel. No, she wouldn’t allow herself to think of that. She had to concentrate on helping a customer who was interested in the St. John knit dress that regularly sold for $3,000, but was a bargain in Irene’s Closet for $1,700.
“That’s a lot of money for a secondhand dress,” the customer said. She was a tall woman in her fifties. Irene pegged her by her speech as being from Ohio. Cleveland. Not Cincinnati.
For a moment Irene forgot her standard reply. Her mind was still on Danny and Angel as well as Juanita in the hospital, and her mother hanging out in P.J.’s office the day before to see if she recognized someone who could be a killer. Adelle had told her that she couldn’t identify the man for certain. What a disappointment that must have been to P.J.
The customer seemed irritated and spoke again. “Too much.” She was looking at herself in the three-way mirror near the back of the store, turning right and then left, glancing over her shoulder to see the back, staring at her image from the front. “Too much,” the woman repeated for the third time.
Irene was startled for a moment. “What? Oh! It’s a high-end designer outfit,” she said, finally remembering her usual retort. “And it’s almost flawless,” she added. “Looks like it’s never been worn.”
“Designer?” the woman asked. “Who?”
“Danny Calabaza…”
“Is that someone new?”
“No, he’s missing.”
“Missing? From where?”
Irene put a hand over her eyes and shook her head. “Sorry. I’m a little distracted.”
“Apparently.” The retort was caustic as the woman headed toward the dressing room to retrieve her clothes.
“The designer is St. John!” Irene called to the woman as she disappeared behind the dressing-room door. The door slammed, and Irene’s shoulders slumped. She knew she’d just lost a sale. If Angel had been here, he’d have told the woman how wonderful she looked in the dress and how it flattered her figure which, in this case, was true. He’d probably have sold her several hundred dollars’ worth of accessories as well. Maybe even another outfit. But Angel wasn’t here. No one knew where he was. The thought occurred to her yet again that he could be dead.
The woman was almost out the door before Irene noticed she was leaving. “Thank you for shopping with us. Please come again,” she called in her automatic voice. It was too late. The woman had moved away and couldn’t have heard her.
Feeling worried and depressed, Irene retreated to the back of the store to pour herself a cup of coffee. She sat at the table that was positioned so that she could see the front d
oor and took a sip of the coffee. In the next second, she hurried to the sink to spit it out. It tasted like burned wood or something worse. Angel always made the coffee, but she’d had to make it this morning, and she’d obviously been distracted and done something wrong. It seemed she couldn’t do anything right today. That thought depressed her even more, and her head had begun to hurt.
Irene was again seated at the table with another cup of undrinkable coffee in front of her. Her eyes were closed and her head was in her hands. She was listening for the sound of a customer entering the front when a noise at the back door startled her. She always kept the back door locked, and now someone was obviously trying to enter. That realization frightened her because no one had access except Angel, who was missing.
“Who is it?” she called.
There was no answer.
She kept backing up and was about to turn around to run to the front when she stumbled backward, hit a chair that was behind her, and fell to the floor. At the same moment the door opened and someone entered. From her position on the floor, she couldn’t see the person well.
“Dios mío! Are you okay?”
“Angel!” Irene said to the figure that was now hovering over her. “Where the hell have you been?” She regretted her harsh words immediately when she noticed his pale, bruised face and the blood that had soaked through a shabby bandage on his shoulder.
“It’s a long story,” Angel said. He helped her to her feet, then jerked his head toward the back. “I got Danny out there. You gotta help us.”
“Danny…?”
“In my car. I told him to stay there until we were sure the coast was clear.”
Irene struggled to her feet. “Danny’s in your car? Get him in here! I’ll close the store.” She had already started for the front.
“Wait!” Angel called. “What about the others? Can I bring them in, too?”
Irene turned around to stare at him. “What others?”
“Some of my friends. Well, not friends exactly, but…people I know.”
Irene saw the look on his face—like a little boy caught stealing cookies. “Capitolistas.”
An even guiltier look crawled across Angel’s face. “Sort of.”