Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery (15 page)

He’s layering something in a casserole, hands
engaged, so I circle his waist with my arms. “Hi.”

His voice resonates through his back. “You’re
finally up.” “And hungry.”

“
Music to my ears. It’s lasagna.
How does that sound?” “Magical. Shall I do a salad?”

“
Sure.”

We stand hip to hip, sharing a glass of Chianti, not
saying anything. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know we’ve
done this before and for the first time since coming out of
whatever I suffered after my concussion, I feel a genuine rush of
love for this man.

I push the romaine aside, pull him to me, and plant
a nice long kiss on his mouth. This turns into an even longer
engagement and he responds by guiding me out of my small kitchen,
past the minute dining table set for two and to the couch.

I finally find a second between kisses to say, “Will
the lasagna keep?”

“
Who cares?”

Somehow, I know Duncan will be a generous lover.
When we make it to my bed, he says he wants us to take some time to
become reacquainted, but what begins as gentle exploration, ignites
and rapidly propels forward.

Afterwards, we sit at the dining room table—Duncan
in his red plaid boxers, I in my black teddy—and wash down the
lasagna and salad with the rest of the Chianti.

We try to clean up, but can’t keep our hands off
each other. Leaving the lasagna pan to soak, we barely make it to
the bed.

Now, after a delicious reprise of our pre-dinner
encounter, Duncan sleeps beside me. He has a gentle snore, but it’s
enough to keep me awake—that and the three-carat square-cut diamond
on my ring finger.

I hold up my hand to catch the reflection of the
bathroom night-light. It’s a beautiful ring and Duncan’s endearing
plight will be forever engraved in my memory.

I have been well-fed, well-bedded, and have just
become engaged to a wonderful man. Why then am I bleeding
tears?

MY BEIGE WOOL SUIT is the perfect foil against the
chill of the early November morning. Not only is the suit perfect,
but my life is about as perfect as it can get. There’s a bounce to
my step as I make my way along the path from the parking lot to the
vinecovered brick building that houses Perkins, Travis,
Attorneys-at-Law.

I love my new job. The firm is small but powerful,
driven by Richard Perkins and Will Travis, who are renowned for
their expertise in corporate “roll-ups” and real estate coups.

I’ve been here three months, arriving just in time
to be well vetted, then chosen as lead attorney in the
Dixon-Renchen negotiations.

“
P&T,” as they are fondly
referred to by associates and staff, let me call the plays from the
beginning and I took to it like the proverbial duck. Now, I’m
sitting in my very own office, basking in my first major
success.

Duncan and I reserved a church and a reception hall
for late March and put in a bid on a home in the old Tanglewood
area of the city. It’s a remodel with three bedrooms, two and a
half baths, and a wonderful kitchen—an absolute requirement for
Duncan.

Though we are still in our separate apartments, we
haven’t spent a day apart since he slipped the ring on my finger,
and we would be married now, if there still weren’t those large
holes in my past.

Sad to say, absolutely nothing has happened in the
memory department. Knight now believes these mental lapses are
hysteria-driven and is insisting I get therapy. I have been able to
put this off due to my vital part in the Dixon-Renchen deal. But
he’s threatening action soon.

The phone interrupts my glow. “Allie Armington.”

Avery Dixon’s voice purrs in my ear. “My favorite
lawyer. Do we have a deal?”

“
Copies of the agreement are being
couriered to you for your final signature. Renchen’s already
signed, sealed, and delivered.”

“
That’s my girl.”

Despite Dixon’s politically incorrect referral, I
enthusiastically blot up his exclamations of praise. The
negotiations have been tricky, impeded by the two major egos
involved, but thanks to my insight and a soft touch, I have landed
my client a really sweet contract.

We chat a few moments then an incoming call ends our
conversation with my promise to meet him for a celebratory drink
the following evening. I depress the hook and let the phone ring a
few times before I alight from my cloud.

“
Armington.”

“
Alice Armington?” The voice is
not familiar, but decidedly Texan. “Speaking.”

“
This is Raymond T. Gibbs of
Jaynes and Gibbs in Laredo. I’m calling about the estate of Paul
Carpenter.”

Paul’s estate? Paul dead? I break into his monotone.
“Are you saying that Paul Carpenter is dead?”

“
Oh, yes, for quite some time.
Lessee here.” Silence as pages shuffle. “Mister Carpenter was found
dead at a remote site on his ranch, Friday, May fourth.”

The moan comes from the depths of my soul as Paul’s
face etched in terror, slides into place. I am standing above him,
hand jammed in my vest pocket, clutching my Beretta, while I stare
into his pleading eyes.

The sudden pounding in my ears is accompanied by a
blinding ache at the base of my skull that is so debilitating, I
can barely hold the phone.

His voice threads weakly through the commotion in my
brain. “Miss Armington?”

“
Yes, I’m listening. Go
on.”

“
Well, there’s very little left of
Mister Carpenter’s estate. Seems the drug runners have all but
cleaned out his ranch. Happening all over the counties bordering
the Rio Grande. Those hombres got cojones bigger’n Dallas.” There’s
a pause followed by, “Excuse my language, ma’am. It’s just that I
get so danged mad when I think about how helpless we are against
these dogs. Now, where was I?” A long sigh is accompanied by more
shuffling paper. “The reason we’re contacting you, Miss Armington,
is about a brown envelope addressed to you that was found in Mister
Carpenter’s safe deposit box at the bank. As a matter of fact, the
envelope was the only thing in the box. Sorry it’s taken so long,
but we had a heckuva time tracking you down.”

I want out of the conversation. The pain of those
last moments with Paul are too grim to handle. “Just send the
envelope to...”

“
Well, I would have done that
already, ma’am, but the envelope comes with explicit instructions
that it is only to be opened by you in the presence of witnesses
and if you are unable or incapable of opening said envelope, it is
to be destroyed while still sealed.”

I’m sitting in the dark when
Duncan comes in humming something from
Brigadoon
. When he switches on the
dining room light, I see the sacks in his arms indicating a feast
is in store, but my stomach turns at the thought.

He doesn’t notice me until I rise, then he looks at
my face and lowers the sacks to the table to take me in his
arms.

I don’t know how long we stand there, but I finally
get myself together enough to say, “Paul Carpenter is dead. A
heroin overdose.”

I relate as much of Gibbs’s speech as I can
remember, then wait for Duncan to spout some sort of miracle
solution.

“
And you remember you were
there?”

“
I must have been there, Duncan. I
remember the look on Paul’s face. Pure terror. He was tied up. I
think I went to find him.” I search the ceiling, hoping to jar
another memory loose, but nothing comes.

“
The date of his death and the
date you were found couldn’t be that coincidental...” His voice
trails. “Do you think you might have walked in on something you
weren’t supposed to see?” Here comes my old friend panic. The
headache is back despite the powerful analgesic I took only an hour
before. It’s the third dose since I got the news of Paul’s
death.

“
Why can’t I remember?” I’m
wailing now, shaking uncontrollably inside Duncan’s embrace, afraid
if he releases me, I’ll spin out of control.

DR. DAVID SOLOMON SITS STARING AT ME, balding head
pitched slightly forward. He’s combed as much of his hair as he can
to cover the baldness. Besides the fact that it looks silly, to my
mind that makes him vain. I hate that in a man and it’s even worse
for a shrink.

He’s been waiting some time for me to answer his
last dumb question, but I want out of here so badly I can taste it.
It’s the third session in ten days and so far nothing has happened
except for the usual panic attacks, followed by jackhammer
headaches.

“
Who are they?” he asks
again.

I try to stanch my rising anger. He’s been
brow-beating me for almost an hour with zero results and I’m sick
of his smooth, reasonable voice. “I heard you the first time,
Doctor. If I knew who they were, I’d tell you.”

He smiles and spreads his hands. “Don’t shoot. I’m a
friend.” Those words and his gesture are disturbing. I’ve seen and
heard the same somewhere in one of those holes.

He lunges forward in expectation. “Have we hit a
chord?”

I repeat the words to myself as I open my hands. I
can see his hands. Almost hear his voice. I’m angry about something
and it’s hot. We’re outside, under trees, leaning against...? A
fence? No... no... a car. I stretch for the memory but it’s
gone.

“
A man said almost the same
words—opened his hands like that. I can’t see his face, but I know
we’re outside and talking about something that has made me
angry.”

“
Very good, Miss Armington.”
Solomon makes a few notes in my thin file, then stands and extends
his hand. “How about Friday?”

I’m standing, too. If Knight weren’t so high on this
man, I’d be out of here in a minute and never come back. “Do you
really think this is doing any good?”

Solomon smiles. “Well, so far we know Paul Carpenter
was probably at the same site where you were attacked. And since
you keep referring to ‘they’ and ‘them’ this indicates to me there
are others involved. Notably, another man besides Carpenter that
you seem to know well.”

“
So?”

“
My guess is you were so
traumatized, you’re repressing the events from January through
April. We know you made two trips to Uvalde. One at the end of
January, then one at the end of April when your friend Reena was
murdered. There is something interrelated in those trips. Perhaps
something happened during your first trip that triggered events on
your second visit.” His smile widens as he rubs his hands together.
“Quite a little puzzle, isn’t it?”

He’s so damned pleased with himself, I want to punch
him in the puss or mess up his careful “do.” Anything to wipe that
smug look off his face. Instead, I smile and nod. “Quite.”

Duncan rises as I exit Solomon’s inner sanctum. He
sees the look on my face and leads me through the door without
speaking. We are halfway from Solomon’s office to Bammel Lane when
I finally say, “We made a little headway.”

“
Want to talk about it?” His voice
is almost too soft. This has been as hard on him as it has on me.
It’s almost as if he wants the past to stay buried. Not that I
blame him.

Gibbs, the Laredo attorney, has called a couple of
times to ask my pleasure, but I’m too scared and torn to make a
decision. I can’t make up my mind whether to accept the envelope or
just blow it off and let them destroy the document.

I hate myself for feeling this way. Scared of my
shadow. Jumping when the phone rings. It’s not my modus. When I
mentioned this to Solomon, he gave me little help. “You’ll face
this when you’re ready.” But the question remains: Will I ever be
ready?

Once I’m settled on the couch, Duncan shoves a
tumbler of Scotch into my hand, then sits beside me.

After I go through the small breakthroughs and
Solomon’s trauma theory, Duncan says, “I did a little checking
right after you were flown in from Laredo.”

That’s a surprise. “Really?”

“
Don’t get excited. I was politely
stiffed all the way around. The ER in Laredo found you on a gurney
outside the entrance. They sometimes leave them there after a
transfer has been completed, especially if they’re busy—and they
were.

“
Then I called the Uvalde Police.
Never heard of you.” “Did you try to phone the Dardens?”

“
I made two or three calls. Kids
took messages, none returned.”

My pulse begins to race. I know there’s something I
should remember about the Dardens.

“
Don’t you think it’s strange that
your friend Susie hasn’t called you? She has to know Paul is
dead.”

Duncan has asked the question I’ve been afraid to
ask myself. But then, I haven’t called Susie either.

“
I don’t understand why she hasn’t
called to see if you’re okay? You were in Uvalde for three days.
Certainly, you must have seen her.”

“
I’m sure I did.” I put down the
drink, no longer interested in it.

“
Isn’t she supposed to be your
best friend? Didn’t you tell me you two used to talk on a regular
basis?”

I want him to stop this. The pain behind my eyes is
almost as bad as it was when Knight kept shining that damn
light.

“
I’ve given Susie’s silence a lot
of thought. But for some reason I can’t make myself pick up the
phone, either. Maybe we had a fight.”

Duncan puts the telephone on the couch next to me.
“Then why don’t you make the first move? You don’t have to tell her
you can’t remember anything. Just say you’ve been busy with a new
job and a fiancé that demands all your waking hours.”