Seventh Grave and No Body

by Darynda Jones

  “And what was that?”

  “She said she knew the woman, but they had never been friends. In fact, she said she’d felt threatened by her at one time. She seemed genuinely worried about the call, but still laughed it off.”

  That could have been a very costly mistake. “Did she meet with her?”

  “I don’t know. I know she didn’t want to, but my sister was a people pleaser.”

  I knew the type. I’d been accused of being one myself once or twice. I took out my memo pad and made a note to check Anna’s phone records. “Did she give you a name?”

  “She did, but I can’t remember what it was. I’m so sorry.” Guilt engulfed her.

  “No, please don’t be. Did she ever mention a Phoebe Durant?”

  “Not that I recall.” She glanced down, and the pain that leached out of her hit me like a wall of sorrow.

  I strained against the crushing weight of it, the direction of her thoughts so tragic, so heartbreaking. And there was nothing I could do to reassure her.

  “She’s not coming back, is she?”

  I lowered my head, too, and answered her as vaguely as I could. “I wish I could say.”

  She nodded and closed the door between us.

  All in all, the morning had been a complete bust. And my headache was becoming a pain in the ass. No other family members remembered anything about a phone call from an old friend. They didn’t recognize any of the other victims or their names. And they couldn’t say for certain if their missing family members were having any trouble at work or in their personal lives.

  Uncle Bob had Anna Gallegos’s phone records, but all the calls she received had been accounted for. The only people who’d called her were family or close friends.

  “Maybe this woman called her at work,” I said into the phone as I ordered my usual mocha latte at the Java Loft, only in decaf. The woman behind the counter gazed at me like I’d crossed my eyes and stuck my tongue out at her. “Can you get those records?” I asked, ignoring her.

  “Sure can,” Ubie said. “She worked at the Plant Source, a nursery over on Candelaria.”

  “Thanks. Let me know.”

  “Oh, before I forget,” Ubie said, “Zeke Schneider, the guy who attacked you yesterday, was in prison, all right, but he was down in Cruces. Got out a couple of months ago. The guy who died in Santa Fe was his father, Zeke Schneider Sr.”

  “Sounds like he had a healthy home life.”

  “Doesn’t it? There was apparently a clerical error when recording the man’s death, and they accidentally entered the wrong Schneider. And guess who Zeke Schneider Jr. worked for when he got out.”

  “God?” He said guess.

  “Bruno Navarra.”

  “The crime boss?”

  “The crime boss who was in prison with Reyes.”

  I turned and looked out the plate-glass window at my intended. He leaned against a post outside, keeping a watch on the horizon. The guy took his bodyguard responsibilities very seriously. He just needed a suit and some dark aviator shades. As it stood, he looked more like a supermodel relaxing in the sun. Poor guy.

  “Thanks, Ubie. I’ll get back to you.”

  “We still on for dinner tonight?” he asked.

  “Does it involve food?”

  “I sure the hell hope so.”

  “I’m in.” I had no idea there was a dinner in my very near future, or what the special occasion was, but who could say no to free food? “Later, gator.”

  I hung up and did a 360, checking out the patrons in the room. Everyone seemed legit. Or, well, alive at least. But I felt a departed close by. I could feel the coolness radiating off one, the gentle vibrations that hummed through me whenever one was near, and I caught the subtle hint of a cologne I hadn’t smelled in years. White Shoulders. It had been one of my favorites growing up.

  Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I dialed Neil Gossett’s number for the second time that day.

  “If you’re going to call me a slut again, you can save your energy. I already know.”

  “Wait, did she call you back?” I asked. “You’re not actually going out with her?”

  “No. And no.” Disappointment saddened his voice.

  “Oh, okay. I’m calling about another matter.” I was half whispering into the phone even though Reyes was outside. But just in case… “Was there anything between Reyes and a crime boss by the name of —”

  “Bruno Navarra, aka Bumpy.”

  “Um, yes. That was a really good guess.”

  “You know the three guys I told you about who attacked Farrow his first day in gen pop and he took them out in less that thirty seconds?”

  I knew the story well. Neil had been a rookie guard, and what Reyes did that day had affected him greatly. He’d never forgotten it. “Of course.”

  “They were Bumpy’s men.”

  “No way.”

  “Sorry to say. Bumpy’s not a nice guy.”

  “And did a man named Zeke Schneider Sr. know him?”

  “He did. Why?”

  I couldn’t tell him any more than that. I was taking a huge risk as it was. If anyone figured out my connection to Zeke Schneider Jr., I could be accused of murdering him.

  “Let’s just say that the man makes an impression.”

  “So, you’re not mad at me anymore?”

  “Gossett, I’m not mad at you. I met the woman this morning. She has a silver tongue, I’ll give you that.”

  “Told you. So, did she mention me?” he asked, his voice filled with hope.

  “You’re such a slut.”

  12

  I don’t want you to forget this moment.

  In about a week, I’ll come up with a scathing retort.

  — T-SHIRT

  I’d called Dad and left another message while we headed toward the nursery where Anna Gallegos worked, but we were met with the same answers the families had given us. No one knew anything. Even Anna’s closest coworker – a man everyone called Gallagher because of his resemblance to the comedian – had no clue about the phone call. Anna had never told him.

  So we were at a dead end once again.

  “I feel like a salad,” I said as we climbed back into Misery.

  “You don’t look like a salad,” Reyes answered.

  “Maybe it’s the fact that we are at a nursery with plants and crap. You should totally make me one of your famous taco salads with grilled chicken in green chile and top it off with guacamole and sour cream.”

  A delectable dimple appeared at one corner of his mouth. “I have a famous taco salad?”

  “You do now. You should call it the Charley Davidson.”

  He laughed softly as he buckled his seat belt. “Last week you wanted me to name a burrito after you.”

  “And?”

  “The week before that, it was a burger with both red and green chile.”

  “Yes, Christmas style, like me. I’m multicolored and sparkly like Christmas. I’m not sure what your point is.”

  I steered Misery back to the bar, turning south on Wyoming as Reyes lounged in my passenger’s seat, his powerful legs slightly parted. He rested one arm across the console, his long fingers absently touching the gearshift between us. I decided to find out a little more about this crime boss before I told Reyes that the man who’d attacked me worked for Bumpy. Angering most people wouldn’t get you killed. A crime boss was not most people.

  He sat staring out the window and seemed a thousand miles away when he said, “If you keep looking at me like that, we aren’t going to make it to the grill.”

  “I’m just so amazed at how fast you healed.”

  He turned toward me. “You can, too, once you figure it out.”

  “I hope I never have to.”

  “I hope so, too. What else did you find out from your uncle?”

  “What?” I asked in alarm. “Nothing.”

  He paused a long moment before he said, “About the suicide-note victims.”

  “O
h,” I said, relaxing, “not much. They still haven’t found a connection. We just don’t have much to go on at this point. They’re sending the notes off to the crime lab. Hopefully there will be some residual evidence that we missed.”

  He nodded.

  He’d been so quiet all day, it really had me wondering. “Are you okay?”

  “Don’t I seem okay?”

  “I don’t know.” I slowed to a stop at a light and regarded him suspiciously. “You seem a little distant today.”

  He turned to look out the window again. “I’d be better if you didn’t lie to me.”

  Damn it. I should have known he’d feel that. “It’s nothing.”

  “Then why lie?”

  “Because,” I said, having no plausible excuse. And I usually rocked at coming up with excuses on the fly. I thought about saying, Because you’re a sissy and I’m not, but that made no sense even to me. “I need to do some research before I can explain.”

  We entered a packed bar with nary a seat to be found. Reyes went straight for the kitchen as I hunted down the little señoritas’ room to relieve myself for the ten thousandth time that morning. Either decaf produced more urine than regular coffee, or Beep was already pressing on my bladder.

  “It’s hormones,” Cookie said as she came out of the end stall.

  “Oh, fancy meeting you here.”

  “I came down for lunch, but there are no tables.”

  “I noticed. Wait, hormones are making me pee every five minutes?”

  “Yep. At first it’s hormones. The third trimester is a different story entirely. There’s nothing like a baby kicking your bladder for the sheer enjoyment of it.”

  “Well, that sounds fun.”

  “Did you get anything good today?” she asked me.

  As we washed our hands, I told her what we didn’t learn and the miniscule bit that we did. “Uncle Bob is getting the phone records from Anna’s work. Hopefully whoever called her is the key to all this.”

  “Perfect. I’ll cross-reference them. If there are any names they don’t recognize, I’ll see if Anna’s sister remembers her mentioning them.”

  “That’d be great.” We stepped out into the restaurant and were met with the dull roar of conversation.

  “I’m getting mine to go, if you want to come up,” Cookie began, then stopped short.

  Uncle Bob was sitting at the bar, looking at a menu.

  “I might,” I said, watching her drink in my surly uncle. “I lied to Reyes and he busted me. Now might not be the best time.”

  “What did you lie about this time?” she asked, keeping her gaze zeroed in on Ubie.

  I frowned. “You act like I lie every day.”

  “You do. I know because you suck at it.”

  “Why does everybody say that? I rock at lying. I could totally be a criminal lawyer.”

  She patted my head. It hurt. “What did you lie about?”

  We stood waiting by the to-go counter for Cookie’s order. I glanced around to make sure Reyes wasn’t hovering nearby. “I believe the guy who attacked me at the asylum was sent by Bruno Navarra.”

  That was enough to get her attention. “The crime boss?”

  “The one and only. Remember the three assassins sent for Reyes while he was in the big house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bumpy sent them.”

  She gaped at me. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No, for reals.”

  “Yes, for reals. Zeke Schneider Sr. worked for him there, and Zeke Schneider Jr. was working for him on the outside.”

  “So, is Bumpy still in prison?”

  “I actually don’t know. I didn’t think to find out. I have to do some research before I tell Reyes.”

  “Fine, I’ll find out and let you know.”

  “Thanks, Cook! God, I love research. Especially when you do it.”

  She turned her attention back to Ubie.

  I laughed softly. “I’ll wait here for your food. Go talk to the man. You haven’t seen him in —” I looked at my invisible watch. “— hours.”

  She ran her hands over her hair – not sure why, since it stuck out every which way regardless – and did a quick shimmy before heading toward her main squeeze. Uncle Bob’s expression when he saw her was priceless. Those two were so in love, it hurt. Like literally. My head was killing me, and contemplating their love only made it worse. And it was kind of nauseating.

  “Can I help you?” Reyes asked, sidling up to the to-go counter like he owned the joint.

  “I would like a Reyes Farrow’s famous taco salad.”

  “I don’t think Reyes Farrow has a famous salad, taco or otherwise.”

  The noise had died down, as it always did when he entered the restaurant. “I bet he can whip something up.”

  “He does have a taco salad. I’m just not sure how famous it is.”

  “That’ll do.”

  He pretended to take out a pad and hold it with his left hand while his right retrieved an invisible pen from behind his ear and wrote down my order. I smiled and propped my elbows on the counter, plopping my chin into my palms to watch him. I felt the longing glances and hoped Reyes could shake them off. He wasn’t really himself today, and I didn’t want anything to rock his boat off center. I figured getting almost ripped apart and then healing overnight took its toll. He was still recovering. He had to be.

  He put the pen back, tore a page out of the order book, then passed it to Sammy, who was cooking today.

  Sammy’s brows slid together. “You spelled anchovies wrong,” he said.

  “No,” I called to him. “Taco salad.”

  “Oh, then he’s a worse speller than I thought.” He winked at me, playing along.

  Reyes copied me, propping his elbows on the counter and leaning close until his mouth was at my ear. “What are you hiding from me?” he asked, his breath warm against my cheek.

  I turned my face into him, inhaled his earthy scent. He always smelled like a lightning storm at dusk, but he also smelled like sandalwood, one of his favorite soaps.

  “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

  “Despite what you may think, I am not keeping secrets from you. I have nothing more to hide.”

  “I beg to differ. What’s my name?”

  He leaned back for a better look at me. “If I tell you, I’ll lose you.”

  I placed both my hands on his face. “That’s not possible.”

  After slipping on a sad smile, he said, “I’ll lose you forever,” then turned and went back to the kitchen to work on our lunch.

  I couldn’t ever remember seeing him that sad. What did he know, and what secret did he think I was keeping from him?

  Since there were no tables in the bar, Reyes and I ended up eating in the kitchen in silence. He knew I’d been lying earlier, but he’d also been talking about some secret I was keeping since yesterday. What happened yesterday that made him think I had some huge secret I was keeping from him?

  I shook my aching head, befuddled.

  “Where to now?” he asked, taking my salad bowl.

  “I have to make a quick stop at the Sunset Cemetery and check on a grave there.”

  “I’ll be ready in five.”

  I hurried to my office to get cleaned up after lunch and to check in with Cook. She’d already found Bumpy Navarra’s whereabouts. Lo and behold, they were right smack in the heart of Albuquerque. He owned a series of strip malls and had a management office on Menaul, though I couldn’t imagine he kept many hours there. She also had a home address and an address where he had most of his mail sent. It was another business address with no business name attached. Interesting.

  “Great,” I said to Cook. “Now I just have to figure out how to ditch my affianced and go talk to him.”

  Cookie whirled around from her computer monitor. The movement was very silver screen dramatic. “You’re kidding, right? After what happened last time?”

  “I know. Effing
hellhounds. They’re really effing up my plans for a long and prosperous life.”

  “Why are you using the fake F-word?”

  “I don’t want to use the real F-word in front of Beep.” I decided to be just as melodramatic and turned in a huff to leave, but the door to my office was slightly ajar and I ran into it face-first. “Fuck,” I said, holding Barbara as she absorbed the brunt of the injury. “And now I said fuck. Son of a fucking bitch. I’m going to be the worst mom ever.”

  I met Reyes at Misery, still holding on to Barbara for dear life. When he raised his brows in question, I scowled at him. He didn’t ask. Smart boy.

  On the way over to Sunset Cemetery, I took out my phone and dialed Ubie. He’d been called away before I got a chance to talk to him at the bar.

  “Hey, pumpkin, what’s up?” he asked, but he seemed distracted. Possibly even a little distressed.

  “I don’t understand, Uncle Bob. If someone did this to them, why take the body? I mean, why not kill the person and pretend they committed suicide?”

  “Suicide is a lot harder to fake than people think. Could be that whoever is doing this is worried the medical examiner will figure it out.”

  “Then why even have a suicide note at all? It makes the whole thing even more suspicious and bizarre.”

  “Maybe they were hoping we would just give up once we couldn’t find a body. Maybe they thought the note would be enough.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, thinking – not the safest thing for me to do. “I have a theory.”

  That seemed to intrigue him. “Shoot.”

  “I think that this is very personal for the assailant. I think that whoever is doing this is making a statement. He wants people to know that the person who supposedly wrote the suicide note did not deserve the life they’d been given.”

  “You’re getting pretty good at this stuff.”

  I deflated. “You already knew that.”

  “It’s one of several working theories. But you’re definitely on the right track. This is very personal, and whatever these people have in common will lead us to a suspect. I’m certain of it.”

  “Okay, well, let me know what you find out.”