by E M Kaplan
Josie gave a noncommittal shrug. “Just thought I could help.”
“But not help yourself this time. Just tell me what in hell you think you’re going to do out there?”
“Ease up a little on me, would you?” Josie said with a small smile, tamping down the flashback of Aunt Ruth riding her hard when she came home from school with bloody knuckles. Without Aunt Ruth, Josie probably would have hit the streets and never stopped fighting. She might not have made it out of her teenage years.
“No, I absolutely will not, for crying out loud. You always could use more looking after—just like your father, you are, God rest his soul. Thought he was invincible. Big as a moose he was. And a thick skull, too. You sure got that part of him. This nonsense can’t be good for you. I don’t know how in the hell Drew to let you come.”
Josie sighed. Aunt Ruth had met Drew only once—way back at her college graduation. She knew that Drew was her doctor. And somehow she’d latched on to the idea that Drew was taking care of her, especially since Josie was so far away from “living family,” as Ruth put it, pointedly excluding Josie’s mother, who was alive, yet not in so many ways.
Josie said, “That might be part of it. I’m tired of feeling sick. Now, I’m doing something. I don’t have time to think.
“Just try not to hurt yourself. You hear me, girl? You need to get some rest. I can tell just by looking at your face. You’re starting to get an old look around your eyes. And you’re way too young to be looking like you’re on your third divorce. You’re sick and you need some rest. Just go on out there to that resort and lie by the pool and get some more color into your cheeks.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Josie said slowly. “Anyway, I hear they have cute pool boys up at the Castle Ranch. Sounds like Libby might have found one of them for herself.”
Aunt Ruth slapped the kitchen counter. “Dammit. She told you already. I wanted to see your face. Don’t know much about the guy myself. She won’t tell me much. Of course, Jack nearly had a fit when he found out. Was ready to get a rifle and go out there to shoot the guy. But from what it sounds like, she initiated it.” She leaned into Josie and whispered, “God’s truth, I feel kind of proud of her. Anyway, no harm done.”
Libby came bounding into the room. “The car’s out front. I put your stuff in the trunk for you. Here’s the keys.” She was breathless from running, it seemed. And she was smiling, as usual. Josie wondered if there might be more going on in her cousin’s head than she cared to let on—or that she knew how to express. Like maybe there was a genius in there, but the rough red-headed exterior was hiding it from them.
On the way out, Josie said, “I ran into Kelly Peters—a girl I knew from high school—at the airport. She and her crowd are still hanging out at that bar they were always trying to get into back when we were in high school. Changed the name of the bar and added some naked women, but it’s the same place—out on Stone and something. They were always hanging out in the parking lot there as kids, just watching the door, trying to get someone to let them in. Now they hang out inside.”
“Well, sounds like they were successful at last,” Aunt Ruth said. “It’s good to have goals in life and reach them.” They exchanged wry smiles, and Josie was able to shake off the dust of the high school blast from the past. “Anyway, Josie-girl, sorry Jack wasn’t here to see you. As you know, Sunday night is poker night. Just like Monday. And Tuesday. And every night that he can manage. Recipe for a long, healthy marriage.” She grinned.
Libby broke in, “Except this Friday night. That’s the party. You’re coming, right Josie?”
“Yep. You bet,” said Josie. “What did you think? I didn’t come all this way for nothing.” Of course she was kidding. Kind of. The dread in the pit of her stomach had eased a little on seeing her family, but it was still there. They walked her out to the car, squeezed her all around, saying they’d see her at the party in a couple of days, and let her go.
But that same thought rang in her head all the way out to the Castle Ranch. She hoped that she hadn’t come all this way to find out nothing about Leann’s death. She thought about Libby and Leann, contrasting the two women in her head as she took a road north east around the mountains—the road would eventually cleave the mountains and end up on the backside of them, where Puerta nestled. Even now, Libby seemed like a child. Yet, she worked for a paycheck. Had sex, apparently. She fit into a role that had been almost perfectly designed for her. She lived and had people who cared for her and took care of her. She didn’t have much money, but had enough. Whereas Leann had had plenty of money. That was about the extent of what Josie knew about her so far. Had people really loved her? Had she been content? Had she been happy?
Josie rode out into the desert in silence with her window rolled down on the two-lane road that led to the ranch. No streetlights shined except the moon and stars. The air had a chill in it and a sweet, dry smell that was better than anything ever put into a bottle and sold by Madison Avenue. Intoxicating, she thought, and numbing. She felt, not for the first time that day, tired and low on hope of finding anything useful. She didn’t want to find nothing, but at the same time, she hoped that was exactly what she’d find.
CHAPTER 11
Josie awoke the next morning disoriented, wondering where Bert was. Usually he drummed her out of sleep with a wagging beat against her night table followed by a cold, wet nose prodding whatever part of her was closest to the edge of the bed. A few minutes passed before she realized she was in a room at the Castle Ranch in the foothills of Puerta.
She’d arrived last night to find just one man sitting at the front desk. As she’d gotten close enough to see his face, she knew he was Drew’s cousin Antonio even before he held out his hand and introduced himself. He was thinner, older, and browner than Drew. Otherwise, they might have been brothers.
“Welcome,” he had said, immediately followed by, “Drew is furious with me for not telling him about the accident here. And furious with you for knowing about it and coming here anyway.” Accident, was how he referred to the death.
“Furious?” she tried to imagine Drew in a state of fury. She could call to mind only one time that he’d been remotely angry—back in school. Some guy she hardly knew had been bothering her all freshman year. One night, his behavior had bordered on stalking and, well, borderline assault. Drew had flipped out and beaten the crap out of the guy. Her hero. Though, she remembered with some satisfaction, she’d gotten in a lick or two herself. Which had been difficult with the shirt half-ripped off her body.
“Livid,” Antonio had confirmed.
She wasn’t quite sure how to react, except with disbelief. No one was after her now. She wasn't in any danger from anything except maybe getting a little too much sun. Maybe death by nostalgia if her classmates kept shoving her down memory lane.
“He’d like you to call him when you get a chance. Are you two…?” Antonio had begun to say, and then added a hasty, “Never mind. None of my business. Totally unprofessional of me.” Then he finished checking her in. “I know you have your own plans with your family celebration while you are here, but if there’s anything that you need, please don’t hesitate to contact me through the front desk here. That’s zero on your room telephone.”
She’d nodded and figured that she’d call Drew when she felt like it later. She wasn’t sure how that was going to go. Then, she mentally kicked herself for having a love-hate relationship with him entirely on her own. No participation from him needed. Hopefully, he was happily oblivious to the soap-opera drama…totally in her head.
“One other thing,” Antonio had said. “I set you up with an appointment with our nutritionist, Lillian Horner, first thing in the morning. Now, this is a spa, so ‘first thing in the morning’ means whenever you happen to wake up. Lillian will ask you some questions to help her set up a menu to suit your needs while you’re here with us. Other than that, in your room there’s a brochure of facilities that we offer here including a massage therapist on s
taff, the big pool that you’ll see on your way over there, and a nice, fluffy pillow—which it looks like you will need any minute now.” He caught Josie midway through a jaw-cracking yawn. “In spite of recent events, I hope you can enjoy your stay here,” he said and Josie thanked him, feeling flattered by his personal attention. He had an odd, shy formality about him that reminded Josie of Drew’s professional, office manner.
Then, an attendant had shown her to her rooms—a low stucco bungalow, one of a cluster that surrounded a large patio and swimming pool. An electronic key card whisked in the door and let them in. The kitchen had prepared her a snack of a bowl of chicken broth and crusty bread which she ate in the sitting room of her suite, barely noticing her surroundings, focusing only on the clear, golden liquid in the heavy white bistro bowl, the tiniest slivers of green onion gliding across the surface. Hard bread surrendered its crusty form when she dunked it in the bowl. A thick silver spoon scraped as much broth as it could from the bottom of the bowl. She tipped the bowl up and drank the rest down, warmth trickling into her stomach. Then she’d stripped down to her bikini underwear and t-shirt, crawled into bed, and fallen into a dead sleep.
In the morning, she lay in bed staring out the large picture window at the foothills. From this distance, they were tinted blue, framed by the feathery mesquite leaves of the tree directly outside her room. At the lower corner of the window, she could see part of a sage bush and hear the bees buzzing around it. A saguaro cactus was carefully positioned to frame the same view—every aspect of what lay in her vision out the window seemed calculated, very skillfully, for the enjoyment of a person lazing in this particular bed. She’d read somewhere that a saguaro cactus grew only an inch a year. No gardener alive had the patience to cultivate such a saguaro for such a view. But a skilled xeriscaper might have carried one in by crane as easily as installing the festive colored tiles on the fountain that cascaded into the swimming pool—she peered out the window to see that more clearly. Artifice, she acknowledged. But pleasant all the same.
As she showered and dressed, she repeated the names on the list that Obregon had given her: Dr. James Bosarch. Det. Mike Flores. Lillian Horner. Tammy Roberts. Maria Garza. Already, she was going to meet one person on the list—Lillian Horner, the nutritionist. After that, she intended to find the dining hall and kitchen—along with food, she realized, as her stomach rumbled. She put on shorts and a clean t-shirt and slipped her feet into sandals. She opened the front door to her bungalow and went out to the patio.
Flagstones lined the pool and led up to a natural-looking fountain that flowed into the pool. Bright colored flowers—late petunias and leafy Mexican birds-of-paradise—lined the stucco walls of each bungalow and of the main building. In many areas, the patios were roofed, with long chaise lounges scattered in the shade like cots laid out for the invalid and the lazy. Clearly a luxurious retreat—places like this always made her feel guilty. When she dined out at a nice restaurant, it helped her to justify that it was for work, for her career. But this…this had a measure of work in it, too, she knew. Maybe she could give herself a pass on feeling guilty. She strolled around the pool taking it all in.
“Just get here?”
She turned around, looking for the source of the melodic, masculine voice. She found it by the pool cleaning equipment. A man in blue jeans, a baseball cap, and sunglasses was propping a net up against the tool shed. If he was the pool boy, he was not the regular one. His skin was pale to translucent. He confirmed her thought as he sank back into a chaise lounge in the shade, far out of the sun. He swung his tennis shoes up on the padded cushions and stretched out.
“Got in last night,” she said cautiously.
“You missed all the ruckus,” he said. “The police and reporters. News hounds, all of them. You know about it, don’t you?”
By it, she assumed he meant Leann’s death, so she nodded. She figured she'd practice her interrogation skills on him because he looked non-threatening. She sat in a nearby chair so that he would not have to crane his neck to look up at her. She wanted him to feel at ease. Maybe he'd seen something that he could share with her. He didn’t seem to notice her sitting. He kept right on talking.
“I’ve known him a while,” he said. “You know, the guy.”
“Peter Williams?” She widened her eyes quizzically at this underfed guy and inwardly moved him to her suspicious character list.
“Since Catholic prep school in Boston. I played with the Williams brothers in soccer. They were both assholes back then, too, but we were all kids, so it didn’t matter.”
In his lounge chair, her new acquaintance was thin with long, muscular arms. She could see the purplish veins standing out on the backs of the forearms, as she imagined a guitar player might have. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his Oakleys, and after a while, when he took them off, she saw he had light brown eyes and a startlingly symmetrical face. Photogenic, she thought. A very square jaw despite his almost painful leanness.
“I’m Josie Tucker,” she said.
He tilted his head and smiled. After a pause, he held out a large, smooth hand with neatly trimmed nails, no more black polish on them. “Patrick.” Then, “I’m getting the vibe that you knew them, too. You did, didn’t you?”
She shook her head. “Not really. Just a little from the wedding. Kind of a long story. I was in the wedding, but basically I was a stand-in for someone who got pregnant and couldn’t fit into her dress anymore.”
He laughed. “Like a body double? That’s odd.”
“Guess you could say I was the understudy to a bridesmaid.” She watched his face and decided it was open and friendly, but nothing to write home to Ma about, so to speak. She could tell that he knew she was studying him—and it amused him.
He said, “I’ve been an understudy plenty of times, but that’s a new one on me. Understudy to a bridesmaid. I can’t imagine you being anyone’s understudy.” He shot her a look that made her feel like she'd forgotten some of her clothing. Like her shirt.
Ah, actor-type, she thought, attempting to feel a little supercilious in return for the look he'd just given her. He had a definite California look to him. Expensive blond highlights. Distressed jeans that probably cost more than her month's grocery bill. His line, can't imagine you being anyone's understudy. She failed to suppress a slight smirk at his compliment, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. He was probably used to a higher success rate. If that was the case, she was going to ruin all of his averages.
She said bluntly, “I don’t react well to pick-up lines.”
“I’m in trouble then,” he said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. He had something strange going on. Like he was in character. If she were Holden Caulfield, she'd be tempted to call him a phony. And she wasn't comfortable with the way he stared at her, as if she were on stage and he expected her to perform. He didn't push for any more information about her though, so she deflected the conversation back to him.
“So, what about you, Patrick? Were you here when it happened?”
He frowned suddenly and got a pained look. His hand traveled to his stomach. “I’ve been here for the last month. So…yeah. I'm from LA.” Then, a weak smile. “My friends in LA thought I had a drug thing like everyone else in LA, but it’s a spastic colon. Not glamorous. Not exciting. Just flat out debilitating. So, here I am.” She had an irritating twinge of empathy from her own stomach.
And could he say “LA” any more times in one sentence? He seemed dead set on letting her know that he wasn’t from around here. Maybe separating himself from the locals as much as he could.
“You just had to be different, huh. Couldn’t be an alcoholic. Didn’t like heroin…bad for the teeth.” She lightened her tone to a teasing banter. That made him grin. So, encouraged, she tried a little more to push the line of questioning, amateur though she was. “So you were here…Did you see what happened?”
He nodded. “I was here, but I don’t know what happened.” He looked uncomfortable agai
n. “The night before, they were swimming and laughing. Right out there.” He gestured toward the pool with his sunglasses. “I was late for breakfast the next morning. By the time I came in, she was…she had already passed away. They took her to a doctor, but I think she was already gone. Bee sting, if you can believe it.” He shook his head in what seemed like disbelief…but he was an actor. Did she trust his responses to be genuine?
Josie raised her eyebrow. “Can a bee sting kill you that fast if you’re allergic?” She wondered it out loud and made a mental note to re-skim those allergy pamphlets from Drew.
Patrick shrugged. “That’s just what I heard. A lot of stories have been flying around this place. If you ask Clay—he’s one of the servers—he might have heard something else. That’s the way it goes with rumors. You know how it is with misinformation. Someone half-sees some little thing and it goes to the next person, changing a little bit. Then, the next thing you know, it's on the internet with Photoshopped pictures. Unbelievable.” She watched him gesture with his pale hands. The littlest fingernail on his left hand was black, maybe from being smashed.
“You’ve had a lot of experience with rumors, have you?” This crack got an even wider smile from him than her last comment. He seemed to think it was really amusing, but she couldn’t imagine anyone having much gossip to say about him. He was so pasty and nondescript for an LA party boy.
“Yeah, maybe I know a thing or two,” he said. “In a normal place, a person does something or says something and in two hours, it spreads like wildfire through the tabloids, gossip sites, Twitter, and Facebook, and across the world. But the staff here is really well-trained. They don’t go talking with outsiders very much. It’s a very private place.”