by J. J. Cagney
What? Oh, right! Donald’s wife was coming into her office.
Cici dived toward her office phone, picked it up, and pressed it hard—too hard—to her ear. She dropped her gaze to her desk but peeked up from under her lashes as she made noncommittal noises into the phone. The dial tone caused her headache to pound harder.
Susan entered the room, her eyes puffy and her nose red and raw. The woman’s posture was bent inward.
Carole waved to get Cici’s attention as she pretended to get off the phone.
“We can discuss those stoles more later. Thanks for the call.”
Cici hung up, trying to overcome her grimace. Stoles? Really? Already, she’d failed at this cloak-and-dagger crap.
“I’ll get that coffee, Cee. Susan, you want anything?” Carole asked, her hand cupping Susan’s shoulder with solicitude.
Susan shook her head.
“Never mind on the coffee, then,” Cici said, dropping the phone back into its cradle. She stood and rounded the desk. “Susan. I was deeply sorrowed to hear of Donald’s untimely death.”
Susan fell into Cici’s arms in a fit of tears.
Carole raised her eyebrows even higher as Susan began to bawl, sputtering incomprehensible words in between sobs.
“What was that?” Cici asked, running her hand up and down Susan’s back in a soothing gesture.
Susan reared back, her eyes fierce. “Donald was having a blasted affair.”
“Er. That’s not what I expected.” At Carole’s rolled eyes, Cici took Susan’s hands and led her to the small seating area opposite the desk. “Let’s sit here and you can tell me.”
Once Susan sat, so did Cici. Carole hovered by the door.
“I was down in Albuquerque this weekend for a conference,” Susan began on a sigh.
Easy enough to confirm. Sam would already be looking into it, Cici was sure.
“The call . . . I was shocked. Donald doesn’t hike. He has a heart condition.”
That was news. “Really?”
“Taking a stroll down our street has been the extent of our physical activity for the past year. So for him to be at the top of a trail . . . no, nope. Something happened. Or someone.”
Susan dabbed at her eye with an already-soaked tissue.
“I knew I should have found his lack of interest in me more worrisome, but with menopause . . .”
Cici shot Carole a panicked look. This interview took a side turn into a place Cici never anticipated.
“Such a challenging time in a marriage,” Cici murmured.
Carole smirked, probably because Cici managed to sound normal.
“And to find out some woman posed to be me on that phone call. Dammit.”
Susan slammed her palm down on the arm of the chair, causing Cici to jump.
“If Donald had to go and get himself killed, the least the rat bastard could do was have the thoughtfulness and dignity to die doing something seemly.”
“You have no idea who this woman is?” Cici asked.
Not only did Cici want to know, Sam needed to find the connection to solve Donald’s case—and for a chance to solve Anna Carmen’s, which remained a painful mystery not just to the two of them, but for the community at large. Anna Carmen Gurule was voted teacher of the year and had many hopeful parents at Capitol High School hoping their child would be taught by the young, enthusiastic woman.
Her death left a huge hole in the community—one Cici desperately sought to fill.
You could help me out here, you know, Cici yelled mentally at her silent twin, her disposition souring.
Nope. Anna Carmen proved her same stubborn self even in death. Anna Carmen made a point to pop in on the mountain yesterday basically in Technicolor, but now refused to come back—even when Cici begged her.
“No idea. How stupid does that make me that I had no idea he was cheating?”
Susan’s eyes filled with tears once more and she put her face in her hands as she sobbed.
“Thirty-one years together, and it’s all over. Not just our life together, but the life I thought we had for all those years. All I have to show for it is a shih tzu I can’t stand.”
And a fat bank account, thanks to Donald’s thirty-plus years with one of the most prestigious law firms in the region.
Cici leaned forward and pressed her palms to Susan’s, wishing she had more to offer the older woman. A fresh bout of sobs burst out of Susan’s trembling mouth. Carole offered a tissue, and Susan used it plus two more before she calmed enough to continue.
“We’ll need to have a funeral,” Susan muttered.
“Absolutely. If that’s what you want, we can do that.”
Susan raised her head, eyes burning with hate, but also filled with a deep-seated despair that worried Cici.
“Just don’t say anything about Don being a good man. He’s obviously a lying, cheating SOB in addition to being a blood-thirsty attorney. He deserved what he got up there. Since he’s stabbed me straight through the heart.”
“Perhaps there is a misunderstanding in here, Susan. Donald seemed to care for you, very much.”
Susan stared down at her lap, shredding another tissue. She picked at a sculpted nail and pursed her lips. Then, much to Cici’s shock, she leaned forward and held Cici’s gaze with a flinty one of her own.
“He seemed to care for his work, too, but after a trip down to Madrid last week, he quit.”
4
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires. – Shakespeare
“He quit?” Cici stuttered.
“He didn’t even have the nerve to tell me,” Susan wailed. “See? How could I be so stupid about him having an affair? He didn’t talk to me about anything important.” She jabbed her pointer finger toward Cici. “You tell that young man of yours about Don. He needs to know.”
“Who?” Cici reared back, about six follow-up questions ready to spill from her lips.
“That detective,” Susan said. “He needs to know. He’s going to need to know everything . . .”
Susan once again collapsed into Cici’s arms, shaking there. Many long, wet minutes later, Carole cleared her throat.
Cici jumped. She’d forgotten the secretary had remained in the room with her.
“Come on, Susan. Let me get you home,” Carole said, her voice soft. “Come on now. You’re beyond exhausted. So much emotion and nothing makes sense.”
She clucked as Susan gripped her tissue, shaking. Carole placed her arm around Susan’s waist. “Do you have family coming in? Who can I call to help you?” she asked, leading Susan from the room.
Cici returned to her desk, exhaustion grappling with each of her muscles. With a sigh, she picked up her cell phone. She texted Sam.
He called her within minutes. “What’s going on, Cee?”
Cici dropped her head forward, letting her aching eyes slide closed. “Like I told you, Susan Johnson just left my office. Sam, she said Donald quit working last week. I don’t . . . that seems weird.”
Sam made a grunting noise. “I’m following a lead now.” His voice roughened as it always did when he was concerned. “Walk me through your conversation? But, first, where’s Susan?”
“Carole took her home.”
“You’re at the church by yourself?” Definitely a hard edge to Sam’s words.
“No. Our pianist and choir are here, practicing. And we have a knitting group in one of the classrooms.”
“Don’t stay alone, Cee. Promise me.”
Cici shivered, once again reliving the beseeching look in her sister’s eyes—their desperation for truth but also fear, Cici was sure, for her.
“I won’t.”
“Okay. Tell me what Susan said. Everything you remember.”
Cici launched into a recitation.
Sam remained quiet. “I’m researching Donald’s heart problem. I’ll get on his sudden retirement, too. I hadn’t gotten over to his law firm yet.”
“All right.”
&
nbsp; “Susan told you to tell me about that?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
Sam waited a beat, and Cici bet he was thinking.
“I’ll call you later. Make sure you made it home safe.”
“Sam,” Cici said on a sigh. “I can handle this.”
“Not sure I can,” Sam mumbled before he disconnected.
Cici spent the next couple of hours welcoming other congregants for their activities and following up with her emails and paperwork. Carole came back and said Susan was resting. Her sister was on a flight that arrived in a couple of hours. Cici jotted down a note reminding her to visit with Susan tomorrow.
By four, the most pressing business of the day was complete, but Cici remained unsettled by her conversation with Susan. She wanted answers—not the additional questions Susan’s revelations created.
Linda Yoder stopped in to let Cici know the knitting group was leaving.
“You look wrung out,” the older woman said with concern. “Need anything?”
“No,” Cici said, finding her first smile of the afternoon. “I’ll feel better once I clear my head. But thank you for asking.”
“All right. Well, see you next week.” Linda waved, trotting off at a fast clip, her knitting needles clacking together in her large canvas tote.
Cici stood and stretched, her words to Linda revolving in her mind.
She went home to her large fur babies, Rodolfo circling her legs and licking her ankles. Cici pet both him and his sister, Mona. Cici walked them a couple of miles before feeding them dinner. Still unsettled by the last couple of days, Cici stared at her garage.
Sometimes, the best course of action is to take a deep breath and take a ride.
Cici strapped on her helmet, and patted the handlebars of her vintage 1965 Electra Glide Harley she inherited from Anna Carmen.
The electric-blue motorcycle had sat in her garage for the better part of the last fifteen months, driven just far enough to keep all the mechanics well-lubricated and in top working order.
That changed today.
Cici shoved the key in the ignition and headed south on Saint Francis. She let out a whoop of sheer joy at the freedom of riding the bike. After a few harrowing miles, braving both the nutty locals and the confused tourists on I-25, Cici exited onto NM-14 where she turned south again for a ride down the scenic highway that led to the small artsy town of Madrid—a popular tourist destination even though it only boasted a handful of shops and restaurants on its one main drag.
Oh, how she loved the vibrations up her arms, the wind streaming over her body, the low growl of the engine. Anna Carmen always said there was nothing like riding her hog.
Cici smiled inside her helmet.
“You got that right,” she said with a soft, heartfelt sigh. “Miss you, sis.”
The late summer sun cast a golden haze over the foothills, spilling across the road and warming Cici’s back, almost as if her sister was offering a heavenly hug.
Cici’s breath hitched with bittersweet memories as she pulled into the parking lot of the little café she liked, its red umbrellas shading much of the patio. She pocketed her keys and pulled the leather gloves from her hands. After setting her helmet in its place, she combed her fingers through her long, wind-blown hair.
“Hey, RG! What’s your pleasure today?” asked Jaycee, the bright, bubbly teenager who acted both as hostess and head waitress. She was in her senior year at Saint Michael’s, a cheerleader and all-around awesome young woman—and the girl dating Juanito Sanchez, much to old Mrs. Sanchez’s chagrin. Cici was glad she was part of the youth congregation at her church.
“Blessings, Jaycee. I wish you’d call me Cici. Everyone else does.”
Jaycee rolled her brown eyes. “Uh-uh. My mom would kill me, seeing as how you’re our preacher and all.”
“Reverend,” Cici replied, her shoulders drooping a bit. Not that the semantics mattered that much, but still. She’d worked hard for her degree—spending years of her life steeped in the Bible, Greek, Latin, and too many philosophical debates.
After some serious soul-searching at Anna Carmen’s funeral and during the ensuing weeks, Cici had broken off her already tenuous relationship with Lyndon and moved home with a grief-laden heart to take over the church her sister had begged her to head.
Maybe, Cici often wondered, if she’d accepted the position sooner, Anna Carmen wouldn’t be dead. Maybe, if Cici had focused more on her own family instead of chasing silly dreams of trips to South America, she’d be riding down NM-14 with her sister next to her, not just wishing she were there.
The burden of grief caused her stomach to roil and her head to pound.
“Something soothing?” Jaycee asked, eyeing her with concern. “Chamomile?”
“Yes. That’s perfect. Thank you.”
Cici settled into one of the metal chairs. She laid her gloves on the table and tipped her head back to stare at the red awning overhead.
“Mom said you’re doing Mr. Johnson’s funeral on Saturday,” Jaycee said. She rested her hand on the back of Cici’s chair. “The tea’s steeping.”
“Yes. That’s what his wife wanted. How’d you hear that?”
“Email prayer chain.”
“Ah,” Cici said with a nod.
Carole, always efficient, must have sent that message before she shuttered the church for the evening. “We’ll make it happen.”
“I’ll miss Mr. Johnson,” Jaycee said. “He stopped in here about once a week.”
Cici knit her brows. “He did? Why?”
Jaycee shrugged. “I never asked. But he stopped by at least once a week for coffee and apple pie.”
Cici wondered if Susan knew about this proclivity of Donald’s. What on God’s green earth had the man been doing in Madrid? His office was near the Plaza. Madrid was a good twenty-five, maybe thirty minutes from there.
“Sit tight,” Jaycee said. “I’ll bring out your tea with a scone.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need the scone.” Cici was fit—walking two large young dogs kept her that way for the most part. But Cici only stood five-foot-five, meaning that with each passing year, she had to watch her carb intake with greater care.
“They’re fresh. Right out of the oven,” Jaycee said in a coaxing voice.
“Bring me two,” Cici said.
Baked goods were her weakness. Well, one of her weaknesses. The other was craft beer, specifically local microbrews that she blamed Sam for introducing her to.
Thankfully, her congregation, who already knew to bribe her with cookies and muffins, did not know of her penchant for beer. And Cici planned to keep that secret as long as she could.
Offering the sermon at Donald’s funeral this weekend held no appeal, especially now that Cici must wonder if this was where Don met that lover of his. Cici sighed, hating how her thoughts twisted, becoming as bitter as Susan’s were earlier.
“You’re thinking awful hard.”
Cici’s lips quirked upward. “Sam. Do you use your badge to stalk me?”
“Don’t need to. Jaycee called. Said you looked down.”
Sam slid into the chair next to her. His eyes stroked over her face and for the first time all day, Cici began to relax.
“I’ve been here all of ten minutes. Did you drive with your lights on?”
“I was in Madrid, picking up a gift. I’d waved to Jaycee when I passed the restaurant earlier.”
Cici wrinkled her nose. “Please tell me it’s not for Jeannette.”
Sam tipped back his chair and crossed his arms. “I won’t.”
Cici shook her head. Jeannette was Sam’s on-and-off girlfriend. They’d met about a year ago when she began working as the mayor’s executive assistant. Apparently, she was on again, which meant Sam was going to go MIA for a few weeks, only to call Cici to go to the bar, where Cici would drag him home, drunker than a tourist hitting the local brewpubs.
She’d have to stay the night in his guestroom on t
hat lumpy, musty futon she despised. If the last few times proved true, Sam would spend the next week sulking before they could finally get back to their weekly hikes and easy camaraderie.
Jaycee set her large cup of tea and the pot in front of Cici, along with a white paper sack. Cici smiled her thanks and turned back to Sam, who eyed her tea with suspicion.
“Tea?”
“I’m tired, heartsore, and on Anna Carmen’s bike.”
“The bike, huh? I wondered when I saw it out front.” Sam swallowed and nodded. “I’ll have tea, too,” he said to Jaycee. “But the iced version.”
Jaycee bobbed her head and darted off.
Cici rolled her head along the back of the chair. “Why?”
“Why am I with Jeannette?”
No, that wasn’t what Cici was thinking, but she was curious, so she kept her mouth shut.
Sam stared at the bustling sidewalk across the street. Tourists, laden with shopping bags and cameras, jostled their way in and out of the glassblowing gallery and other small art studios. From this angle, his blue eyes were opaque—a strange black. Cici shifted in her chair and Sam turned back toward her.
“Because I can’t have the woman I want.”
Cici closed her eyes as tears pressed against the lids and burned into her nose.
Sam brought his chair down with a soft thump as it hit the patio paver but he didn’t say anything for another long moment.
“Anna Carmen was my best friend. She helped me through a hard time—she helped me see what I couldn’t then.”
Cici’s lip trembled as she lifted her teacup. “I miss her, too. So much. Yesterday . . . it all came bubbling back up.”
Sam’s hand settled on Cici’s shoulder in that gesture of comfort she’d come to depend on.
“I know you do. And, yeah, I figured it would.”
Jaycee sidled up to their table and settled Sam’s large glass of iced tea on the table. Condensation formed on the glass, dripping down to wet the white napkin beneath it.
“I thought of something,” the girl said.
Both Cici and Sam turned their faces up to the teenager.
“Mr. Johnson told me one time he was meeting someone about a case.” Her brow wrinkled for a moment before she shrugged. “Does that help?”