Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery (2 page)

Those limpid pools dry to dark holes and she hisses,
“Don’t believe everything Susie Baxter tells you.”

I start to add that Darden is now Susie’s last name,
but think better of it.

We trade trivia until the drinks arrive.

Reena downs her vodka, then orders another before
the wine glass reaches my lips.

Since I am an attorney and Reena’s opened the door,
I’m surprised how casual “Okay then, how is Paul?” sounds when my
heart is fluttering so.

“
Oh, dear.” Her voice drips with
sympathy. “I thought you’d be over him by now.”

That’s a gut-shot. I know I should pay attention to
the growing lump in my stomach, but I don’t. Instead I flash my
most nonchalant expression. “It was a summer romance. Nothing
more.”

She’s not quite buying, so I quickly change the
subject. “What’s the graveyard?”

Reena lowers her voice as her eyes soften and brim
once again. “There’s another woman. It’s just a matter of time
until Paul asks me for a divorce.”

“
I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s a
lie, but what the hell? I don’t owe Reena a thing. Besides, it’s
pure pleasure to see her in pain. “But, if Paul’s wells are still
pumping, you should come out of this marriage a very wealthy
lady.”

Reena crumples. “He made me sign a pre-nup before we
eloped.” Between sobs she blubbers, “He canceled my Visa and Amex
cards after the December bills. Now, I have to beg him for spending
money. The only thing in my name is the title to my little red
Mercedes.”

I want to tell her she could probably break the
agreement if she got a good lawyer. Instead, I find myself
wallowing in the first real satisfaction I’ve felt in years.

I take a small sip of wine. “So, why don’t you fill
me in on your terrible existence.”

Reena gives me a penetrating stare, then nods.
“Okay, okay. So Paul didn’t quite turn out to be the husband I
thought he’d be. The minute we got back from the honeymoon he was
out of bed before dawn and away all day, busy with the cattle and
the oil. On top of that, he hunted every damn weekend from
September through February.”

She sighs. “When Paul wasn’t away hunting with
someone on their property, he invited the men and their wives to
hunt on the Anacacho. At first, it was fun being the hostess with
the mostest, but after seven years of those long evenings, and
Paul’s latest...” She must think better of her next words because
she shakes her head. “Let’s just say it’s turned into the marriage
from hell.”

Reena downs her second drink. “The weekends are bad
enough, but for the last ten months, Paul has been spending most of
the workweek in Laredo. Says it’s oil or an ‘urgent bank matter.’
But I know better.”

Laredo? That’s a new twist. Paul always did business
in San Antonio, boasting his was the third generation to do
business with the venerable Frost Bank.

I offer a sympathetic, “Maybe you’re imagining
things.”

She grabs my hand. “Come back to the ranch with me.
See for yourself.” She squeezes hard. “I’ve never begged before in
my life, Allie, but I’m begging now. Please?”

Go with her? After what she did? Then I see her
pain, and realize she must be desperate. Why else would she want to
see me after all these years? Am I the only one left she can
trust?

Allie-the-attorney kicks in. Get real. For as long
as you’ve known her, Reena has never played it straight. She wants
something.

But what?

I silently damn my inborn curiosity, pick up the
menu, and study it a moment before saying, “Let me think it over
while we have a bite. After all, you said you were buying.”

Reena nods and pastes the “Double F” smile on her
face. She’s got me and she knows it.

THERE’S A LIMO WAITING outside the restaurant and
when we stop by my apartment on Bammel Lane to pick up some
clothes, Reena insists on coming up.

I don’t mind. The building is a very nice, secluded
mid-rise near River Oaks. I live on the third floor. That puts me
in the treetops. In spring and summer, I’m surrounded by an
ever-darkening green cocoon. In late fall and winter, I’m treated
to Houston’s Oz-like skyline in the distance.

All in all, it’s not a bad flat. Combined living and
dining with a nice-sized porch. Pullman kitchen. A large bedroom
with attached bath and walk-in closet. Down the hall is a small
study with a foldout couch across from a half bath.

After running from room to room oohing and aahing,
Reena joins me in the bedroom.

“
You always did have wonderful
taste, Allie. Your print collection is—is fabulous.” She shakes her
head. “I wish mine were that good.”

Susie told me about Reena’s collection. Interspersed
among several works by well-known Texas artists are two fine
pieces: a small Georgia O’Keeffe preliminary sketch of a cow’s
skull and a pen-and-ink cartoon attributed to Frederic
Remington.

Uh, oh. Reena’s being nice again. Bail out. Bail
out.

I ignore my better judgment and zip the
fold-over.

It’s then I remember my trusty Beretta Tomcat .32,
retrieve it from my nightstand drawer, and stick it in my
purse.

I love this gun, a gift from Dad when I joined the
DA’s office. Fits right in the palm of my hand and is so light I
barely know it’s there.

My father has always hunted, and believes that
everyone should know how to use a gun. Because of this, Angela and
I got BB guns for our sixth birthdays, .22s for our tenth, and
finally Fox 410s at twelve.

When my sister announced she was leaving to find her
fortune as a high-fashion model in the Big Apple, Dad marched us
out to the range and spent several weeks instructing us in the use
of small firearms. Though I’ve never used the gun except for target
practice, I feel comfortable with it and carry it with me wherever
I go.

We zip out the Gulf Freeway to Hobby Airport. When
we arrive at the private aviation hangar, there’s no jet.

Reena tears up and I’m about to offer comfort when
the woman behind the counter motions her over.

After a few whispered words she returns. “It’s just
a small delay. Paul had unexpected business in Laredo. The plane
will be landing in a few minutes to take us to the ranch, then pick
him up in time to join us for dinner.”

The flight takes a little over an hour. Anesthetized
by the vodkas, followed by two glasses of red wine, Reena falls
asleep immediately, giving me time to arm myself for a meeting with
Paul.

Seven years. What will he look like? How will I feel
when I see him? He never said goodbye. Our short but intense love
affair ended as suddenly as it began.

“
Come home,” my mother had sobbed,
then blurted the tragic news. Her mother and father gone forever.
Early morning fog on the highway. Tractor-trailer smashed their car
to smithereens. When I didn’t answer, she turned the screw. “Angela
is giving up a major assignment in Paris. She’s already on her
way.”

Since it was “only” my senior year, there was
nothing to do but pack up and go. No time to steal a night wrapped
in Paul’s arms. Only time for a hurried explanation and his
sympathetic, “Do what you have to do. We have a lifetime to
share.”

Angela fell weeping into my embrace, then led me
upstairs, where Mother lay in the curtain-drawn bedroom staring
into nothing. I went to her, arms open, but she sighed. How well I
knew that sigh. Not now, it said. Not now.

The following morning we drove to Temple for the
funeral. It was a crisp, blue-sky day with gum trees flaming
against the green slash pines, and blurring to a bright Christmas
streamer as we hurried east.

I hunched in the front seat next to Dad, who gripped
the wheel in silence, his mouth drawn in a tight line. In the back
Mother’s tears, punctuated with choking moans, were blotted by
Angela’s kisses and Kleenex.

To her credit, Mother held up during the service,
but she was hopeless at the grave. As the caskets were lowered, she
keened, and collapsed in Dad’s arms. He swooped her up like a
feather, nodded for Angela, then headed for the car.

Minutes later he stood by my side as people murmured
their sympathies.

Mother’s lifelong friend grabbed Dad’s hand. “Poor
thing. Too bad she was an only child. No one to share her grief.
Thank heavens she has Angela...” She glanced in my direction and
rushed on, “... the two girls to lean on.”

I ignored the slight. By age five I learned the fine
art of dissociation—an effective weapon against rejection. Angela
was Mother’s favorite and everybody knew it.

Paul called every night the first week, then every
other the next, and, finally, not at all. I couldn’t understand
what was happening, but there was little I could do. Trapped at
home in Lampasas, I was too proud to call him or mention his
strange behavior to Reena or Susie, though after the truth came
out, I remembered Reena never answered the phone.

By that time I was dealing with a more pressing
problem. I was pregnant. There was nothing else to do but call
Paul. When I finally got up the courage, I was informed he was on
his honeymoon.

That news forced me to make the most agonizing
decision of my life. The following morning Angela trumped up a
modeling interview in Dallas and asked me to go with her. Mother
was too dazed to protest, but Dad thought it was a good idea for us
to escape Mother’s pervasive grief and offered to stay home while
we went on our lark.

Some lark. I remember only Angela’s tears, not
mine.

Though Paul’s abandonment and the loss of our child
were devastating, I didn’t learn Reena was the cause until I went
back to UT after the Thanksgiving break.

The screech of tires meeting the runway pulls me
back to the present and I peer out the window as the plane taxis to
the hangar at the far end of the airstrip.

We deplane and Reena introduces Miguel Alvarez, who,
with his wife Adelena, is in charge of the house. He nods mutely,
takes the shopping bags and luggage from the pilot, then races to
open the doors to a late-model station wagon with “Anacacho Ranch”
painted on the side.

We travel down the tarmac away from the hangar, then
through an electric gate, and continue for a mile or so down a
paved lane.

When we pull onto the highway, Reena sighs. “Too bad
we didn’t bring a driving drink. It’s still a couple more miles to
the house.”

Several minutes later we pass the Darden mailbox,
and the past burbles forward. Susie’s adoring upturned face. The
way she took as gospel every word Reena spoke. Now, though
separated by only miles, the two women seldom see each other.

“
So, that’s where Susie and Del
live?”

“
If you can call it living. Del
tells me the house is a pigsty.” Reena must read my disapproval.
She turns to peer out the back window. “You can’t see the house
from here. It’s set almost a mile back in those trees. As the crow
flies, Susie and I live only a mile apart but it’s almost two by
the highway. There’s a dirt road from the airstrip to the Anacacho.
Goes right past the Dardens’ barn. Very convenient for Del since he
manages both ranches.”

We travel the remaining distance and turn between
two large sandstone pillars supporting a wrought-iron “Anacacho,”
then drive slowly up the long, cedar-lined road to the house.

The impressive two-story structure of massive ochre
and gray stones built in the late thirties by Paul’s father looms
at the end of the drive. An imposing three-story tower dominates
the east end of the building, a detail Paul forgot to mention, or
omitted because it might have sounded too grandiose to a hick-chick
from Lampasas.

Miguel pulls up before a wide, covered, slate porch
that seems to circle the entire house. He helps each of us from the
car, then rushes to open one of the massive oak front doors. I
follow Reena into a generous entry hall, bounded on one side by a
wide, circular staircase.

“
Miss Armington will be in the
room next to mine,” Reena says. “Put the shopping bags on my
bed.”

Miguel gives a silent nod, then glides upward,
carrying the load of luggage and packages as if they were air,
while Reena heads for the living room, her stiletto heels echoing
on the polished tiles.

The seductive aroma of red chiles being blackened
permeates the room.

Reena smiles. “Adelena’s starting one of her
fabulous moles. Want a drink before the tour or after?”

“
Now sounds good.” I hurry behind
her, suddenly needing a little Dutch courage to face
Paul.

I’m barely in the room when Reena lets out a yelp.
“What happened to my paintings? They were here when I left this
morning.” She whirls to face me, then points to the wall above a
long refectory table. “Paul threatened to take them but I never
really believed he would.”

I step to the table and run my hand over the surface
of the wall. Not a nail hole to be felt. It’s as dry as a bone.
There’s no way a group of paintings could have hung here this
morning. The repairs to the wall are excellent, with several layers
of painting and sanding. I turn to say as much, but Reena has
headed for the bar.

She pours two glasses of wine and drags me toward
the front door. “We’ll tour the stables before it gets too
dark.”

The stables are hardly that. The air-conditioned
building houses ten stalls next to an office sporting a large teak
desk across from an overstuffed brown leather couch. In one corner
sits a tall safe.

“
This appeared a few days before
Christmas. Paul won’t tell me what’s in it. But never-you-mind,
I’ll find out before too long.” Reena shows me a notebook filled
with every combination she’s tried.

She leads me back into the center walkway and to the
next door. “You have to see the tack room. You won’t believe
it.”