Chili Con Carnage (13 page)

One corner of her mouth pulled into a grimace. “I was going to say too guilty,” she admitted. “But I’ll settle for wrong.”

I swallowed hard and wondered how smart it was to bring up a thing like guilt when she still had that knife in her hands.

She didn’t give me a chance. “Looking back on it, I guess it was all wrong, right from the start.” Gert shook her head. “When I saw Robert waiting for me that morning a couple weeks ago . . . well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Right then and there, I should have told Robert to get lost. But I thought about Julia and . . .” Her eyes misted.

“Julia died three years ago,” Gert said. “And yes, if you talked to the doctors like I did, they had lots of reasons to explain her death. Her heart wasn’t strong. Her lungs weren’t working. Blah, blah, blah. I believe she died of a broken heart.”

“Because of Roberto.”

She nodded. “Those last few weeks she was alive, I did everything I could to find Robert, but, well, we’d cut off all contact with him a few years prior to that. We had to, you understand that, don’t you?”

She didn’t need my approval for what must have been a heart-wrenching decision, so I didn’t bother to give it.

“I couldn’t find him.” Gert’s despair showed in her shrug. “I was at the end of my rope, out of ideas. I made one last phone call and the person on the other end of the phone said he wasn’t sure, but he might have some information about where Robert was staying.” Like it must have then, her smile was filled with hope. “I found him. I talked to him. I told him what was happening with his mother. And Robert . . .” Her smile fell. “He told me he was busy and he didn’t have time to come see Julia.”

“Wow.” There wasn’t anything else I could say. “What did Julia say?”

“I never told her. In fact, I lied. I told her Robert was on his way. That he would be there any day. That if she just hung on a little longer . . . Of course, I’ll never know for sure, but I’m convinced if Robert had showed up, she would have pulled through. But in the end, she died without him. If he’d been a different kind of person—” She hung her head and I gave her a minute to compose herself.

“Anyway . . .” Gert ran a hand over her cheeks. “Here I was in Taos, looking at the nephew I hadn’t seen in years and thinking about how much he’d hurt his mother, and you know what I wanted to do?” She clicked the box cutter open and stared at the blade. “I wanted to rip the bastard’s heart out. Only . . .” Gert closed the blade again. “Only I thought about Julia and about how after all he’d done to her, she still loved Robert. And so I told him that I wouldn’t give him any money, but if he needed some, I might be able to help him get a job. I told him I’d recommend him for a job with the Showdown.”

“So that was that.”

“Well, not exactly. Nothing was ever that easy with Robert. At first, he dug in his heels and simply refused. Then he tried to convince me to loan him some money and he promised he’d pay me back fast. He said he’d just quit some high-paying job—”

“Did he say where?” It meshed with what Karmen had told me. “Did he say what he was doing?”

“I never asked. I didn’t care. Because I didn’t believe him. Oh, I might have felt a little tenderness toward Robert for Julia’s sake, but I never forgot the truth—Robert was a liar.”

“Which is why you recommended him for a job.”

I didn’t mean to make this sound like an accusation, but the way Gert’s gaze snapped to mine told me that’s exactly what happened. I couldn’t afford to offend her. Not when I still didn’t have the whole story, and not while she was still holding that knife. I jumped in with what I hoped sounded enough like an apology to keep her happy.

“I’m just not getting it, that’s all,” I said, with another step toward the door. Just in case. “You obviously hated the guy and you had very good reason. He played you for a sucker. And he hurt your sister big-time. You knew he was using a phony name. You knew he was a creep and a liar—”

“It was a roadie job!” Gert’s voice ping-ponged through the Palace. “It wasn’t some real job where he’d have real responsibilities and make a real difference. Besides, I never thought he’d actually show up when Tumbleweed and Ruth Ann got to town to interview applicants. And once I found out he had . . . well, I knew it wouldn’t work out. He’d get bored. He’d come to work late. He’d miss days. I knew Robert, and I knew he wouldn’t last more than a couple weeks.” The thought brought her up short and she gulped. “Looks like I was right about that.”

She was, and the thought unsettled us both. I went to the fridge, pulled out a couple bottles of water, and handed one to Gert. It wasn’t until she set down the box cutter that I felt some of the tension in my shoulders dissolve. She opened her water bottle and took a long drink.

“Robert was such a brilliant boy,” Gert said. “He always had such promise. You know he won a big culinary prize once.”

Split-second decision, and I decided that for now, I’d keep my mouth shut about the prize and about what he’d done to make sure he won.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Gert said, “but he was smart, and energetic, and determined.”

All well and good, but I couldn’t help but wonder . . .

“So why was he working as a roadie?” I asked her. “And what was he doing before he joined the Showdown?”

She took another drink. “Probably something illegal.”

I drummed my fingers against the countertop. “That would explain the alias.”

This was something Gert had obviously not thought about. “You think he was hiding out from somebody?”

“That might explain how he ended up dead. Unless . . .” Hey, I’d been called a lot of things in my life, but
smart
. . . well, hardly ever. Smart or not, this seemed as good a time as any to come right out and find out what I’d wanted to find out from Gert in the first place.

“Unless you know something about how that happened.”

Gert’s gaze snapped to mine. “I’m happy he’s dead. Does that make me a terrible person?”

“Only if you killed him.”

There were tears in Gert’s eyes when she clenched her fists. “You know, Maxie, I’ll tell you the truth. When I found Robert here in Taos, all I could think about was the way Julia always believed she could still get through to him. And when I heard he was dead . . . well, I didn’t exactly jump for joy, but I thought about karma, and about how what goes around, comes around. I figured Robert had been taught a lesson. You know, for the way he treated his mother and all the pain he’d caused her over the years.”

“But you didn’t kill him.”

Gert didn’t bother to wipe away the tears that stained her cheeks. “No,” she said. “Sometimes I wish I had, but you might as well know the truth. I didn’t kill Robert. I didn’t have the nerve.”

Where did all this leave me?

The rest of that Saturday as I worked the window at the Palace, I thought about everything I’d learned from Gert and Karmen, from Alphonse and Sylvia, and even from Carter, and my head spun with possibilities and theories that on first glance looked promising and on closer inspection turned to puffs of smoke and blew away on the winds of logic. Yeah, I know. Me and logic, we’re not exactly on a first-name basis. But hey, I know go-nowhere when I see it, and when I tried to put together the pieces of the puzzle that were Robert/Roberto’s murder . . . well, go-nowhere pretty much described it.

By the time the sun had set behind the mountains in a splash of Kool-Aid cherry, grape, and orange and the Showdown was officially closed for the day, I was no closer to making sense of the whole thing. I rolled down the metal window cover on the front of the Palace and realized things weren’t going to get any better.

The day’s receipts were waiting for me.

Yeah, that was me groaning even though there was no one there to hear me.

The Chili Chick part of working the Palace, the dancing and the acting like a fool all in the name of bringing in business . . .

The talking to customers . . .

The swapping of stories and recipes . . .

This was all the stuff I loved, and believe me, I came by it honestly. Whether it was glad-handing, schmoozing, or storytelling, I’d learned from the best. No one knew more than Jack about how to keep customers happy and coming back for more.

Just thinking about my dad made me smile. That is, right before my heart squeezed from missing him. Before the thoughts had a chance to swamp me completely, I pulled up one of the stools to the table and plunked down.

“I wish Sylvia was here.”

I never, ever in a million lifetimes thought I’d say it, but facts were facts and fact is, keeping the business side of the Palace straight was one of the things Sylvia did best.

Me? Not so much, though I will say, I made a valiant effort.

I sorted the cash receipts from the charge receipts. I counted change and dollars to make sure the cash register balanced, and when I lost count, I started again. When it didn’t balance, I started again. When it finally all worked out, I was so relieved, I grabbed a lite beer from the fridge, toasted my brilliance, and when the first gulp of bitter beer hit my empty stomach, I realized I hadn’t eaten all day.

I remembered that in spite of Sylvia’s lecture about preservatives, sodium content, and overall yuckiness, I’d recently bought some deli meat and it was in the fridge in the RV along with a half a loaf of almost-fresh bread. My stomach growling, I closed up the Palace and walked around the corner to the place I was quickly learning to call home, where I made a sandwich, grabbed some potato chips to go with it, and got comfortable in the plushy driver’s seat of the RV. Sometimes when the temperature was just right, the phony leather seats still smelled like Jack—spicy like a puya pepper and as smoky as a pasilla bajio—and I tipped my head back and breathed in deeply and decided right then and there that something was missing.

I dug the shoe box from under my bed and fished out that old photograph of me and Sylvia. Once I’d tucked it in the visor where it came from, I felt better somehow. Calmer. I stared at the picture, thinking of all the years we spent on the road and . . .

I woke up nearly two hours later, my ham and Swiss untasted on the paper plate in my lap and the muscles in my neck and shoulders screaming about my poor choice of spots to nap.

I stood, stretched, and groaned, wolfing down the sandwich at the same time I glanced at the clock on the microwave. Ten twenty-five. If I moved fast, I’d still have plenty of time to do what I wanted to do that night.

I slung my purse over my shoulder, stepped outside, and locked the RV door behind me. Earlier in the day, I’d checked the address on Roberto’s employment application on an Internet map program, and I had a general idea of where I was going.

What I still hadn’t figured out was how I was going to get there.

I checked my phone again, squinting at the little screen and the route that would take me to the other side of Taos. Too far to walk. Too pricey to take a cab. What I needed was right next door, and I realized it the moment my gaze flashed toward Puff’s trailer. I hurried over and rapped on the door.

When he opened the door, Puff’s smile was wide and his eyes were dreamy. “Hey, Maxie! You come over to party?”

“Dang, I wish I had time. What I really wanted—”

“I’ve got Cheetos.” As if I needed the proof, he reached around the door and held up the bag for me to see. “And we can call out for a pizza.”

“Maybe when I get back.” How’s that for a weaselly way to avoid an invitation? “What I was wondering is if—”

“You going somewhere?” One hand against the jamb to steady himself, Puff looked around. “Where you headed?”

“I need to go see a friend.”

Fortunately for me, he wasn’t thinking straight enough to ask how I could have a friend in a town I’d never visited before. Puff swayed a little. “How you gonna get there?”

Just what I was hoping he’d ask!

I explained, about the friend and about how that friend lived on the other side of Taos and about how if Puff would just let me use his bike— “Sure.” He clomped down the steps. “You know you can always count on me, Maxie. To use my stuff or you know . . .” He skimmed a look over me. “Or for whatever, you know?”

I did, and rather than think about it, I said, “I really appreciate this, Puff. And you know I’ll be careful. I’ll be back in just a little bit and—”

His bicycle was tied to the back of the trailer with a series of long loops that marched like soldiers down the metal bar that joined the handlebars to the seat. He untied it and lifted it and plunked it down in front of me.

“Thanks.” I hoped my smile didn’t look as tight as it felt. “You’re a great pal, and I appreciate it, but I was kind of hoping . . .” My own gaze slid over to Puff’s ancient Yamaha parked nearby. “I thought maybe I could—”

“Well, you understand, don’t you, babe?” Like it would somehow protect his precious bike from my leering gaze, Puff stepped between me and the motorcycle. “She’s like my lady. You know what I mean? I gotta treat her with respect. That means I can’t just let anyone hop up on her and take her for a ride.”

“I know what I’m doing when it comes to bikes,” I told him, and it was true. Edik owned a delicious Harley and had actually let me ride it a couple times. “I’ll be careful.”

He nudged the bicycle toward me. “You’d better be. I love this little bicycle.”

I am not a whiner. It doesn’t fit my personality and it’s mostly a waste of time. I tried, anyway. “But, Puff . . .”

“But nothing.”

“If I took the Yamaha, I’d be back sooner and then we could party sooner. You know, get that pizza and—”

“You don’t mean it.” When Puff shook his head, his body swayed from side to side, too. “You, Maxie Pierce, are trying to bullshit me.”

“I am.” There was no use denying it. “Because I’ve got to use your motorcycle. But that doesn’t mean that when I get back—”

“Yes, it does.”

“Come on, Puff!” I made one last, valiant effort. “It’s just a short ride and I’ll be really careful and I’ll fill the gas tank when I’m done.” I knew this was a stroke of genius and I sparkled up at him. “That will save you a bundle. How often do you get an offer like that?”

“Never.” Puff scratched a hand through his hair.

That is, right before he pushed the bicycle toward me, turned around, and marched back into his trailer. “I’ll leave the door unlocked,” he said, just before he closed it. “Come right on in when you get back and we’ll get that pizza.”

“Pizza.” I happen to like pizza, so the fact that I gave the bike a little kick when I grumbled the word had nothing to do with food and everything to do with mood. I briefly considered seeing if I could hot-wire the motorcycle, telling myself that I’d be back before Puff ever knew it was gone, but fortunately, I came to my senses when I realized that with my luck Puff would hear the engine roar to life and take a potshot at me with the old BB gun I knew he kept under his bed. Still mumbling, I climbed onto the old bicycle. When I wheeled out of the fairgrounds headed for Roberto’s apartment complex on the other side of town, the tires crunched against the sandy ground and the frame squeaked.

Thirty minutes later, huffing and puffing and glad that I’d quit smoking or I’d be in even worse shape, I was standing outside a two-story adobe building with a pitted asphalt parking lot and a blue neon sign out front that flashed the message
Rooms by the Day or Week
.

Roberto’s place was on the first floor. There were no lights on at the neighbors on either side, but someone must have been home on the left; I clearly heard country music wailing away from inside. I wasn’t about to take the chance of being discovered or of having Puff’s bike snatched. I stashed the bike behind a couple scraggly mesquite trees and, keeping to the shadows, made my way to Roberto’s front door.

Since there was already one member of the family sitting in the slammer and the details could be incriminating, I won’t explain how I got inside the apartment. I will say that as soon as I closed the door behind me, I realized that music must have been coming from just on the other side of Roberto’s living room wall. The volume was pumped so high it nearly deafened me, and the beat vibrated through my bones.

The good news was that I didn’t have to worry about making any noise. Even if I did, nobody was going to hear me, anyway.

I was sure the cops had already been there—something told me it would have been one of the first things they did after Roberto’s murder—but I wasn’t taking any chances. If they came back with their powders and their brushes, there was no way I wanted them to find my fingerprints. I debated about turning on the lights, then, when I finally made up my mind and pulled my sweatshirt sleeves over my hands so I could touch a finger to the nearest switch, nothing happened. Grumbling (it was something I was doing a lot of that night), I fished my little black Maglite out of my purse and shone it all around.

From what Gert had told me, Roberto had come to town specifically to ambush his aunt and ask for money. He was new to Taos, and his apartment was living proof. There was nothing but a shabby tan-colored couch against one wall of the living room and a big-screen TV on the other. The carpet was beige and stained in more than a couple spots.

The postage-stamp-sized dining room was attached, and the only thing in there was a card table that tilted to one side. It was piled high with books.

In the slender beam of light, I looked through the pile, reading over each title.
Concepts of Organic Chemistry, Fundamentals of Chemistry, Chemistry in Context.
I might have been surprised by Roberto’s choice of reading material if Sylvia hadn’t told me that once upon a time, Robert Lasky had been a chemistry major. Then again, that was a long time ago, and I wondered why Roberto had kept so many of his old textbooks at the same time I thought about what I’d learned from Karmen. She said Roberto was a smart guy. Maybe this proved it. Or maybe he just kept the books around so he’d look smart when folks came around to visit.

It didn’t take more than a minute to look through the kitchen. There was nothing of interest in there, or in the bathroom. The bedroom, too, was as basic as can be. It consisted of a mattress on a frame with no headboard, a dresser that was mostly empty, and a couple laundry baskets with what looked like a couple weeks’ worth of clothes heaped in them.

Honestly, did I think I’d find anything else?

The thought weighed down on me, and I nearly plunked onto the bed to wallow in my misery when I remembered I was in Roberto’s room and this was Roberto’s bed.

I shivered. And not in the way I used to back when things were good with Edik and I thought about being in his room in his funky little apartment above the art gallery. Maybe it was the noise of my chattering teeth that snapped me out of my thoughts. Or maybe it was the sound I heard, one that had nothing to do with my teeth. Or my knees, for that matter, even though they were knocking together, too.

In the silence between songs before the singer started up again with a tale about a girl, a pickup truck, and a star-studded night, I clearly heard the front door of the apartment open and someone step inside.

For one crazy instant I thought about pretending I belonged there, striding out to the living room and demanding to know what the person wanted and what he was doing in my apartment.

The cooler head I usually do not have prevailed.

By the time the footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the bedroom door, I had already turned off my flashlight and flattened myself under Roberto’s bed.

Whoever it was, whatever the person wanted, he wasn’t any more willing to advertise his presence than I was. Like me, he had a flashlight, and from my hiding place, I saw the slim, silver beam glide across the carpet that was the same color (and with the same sorts of stains on it) as the living room carpet. He crossed the room to the closet and I heard the door squeak open and thanked my lucky stars that though it had been my first thought, it wasn’t where I’d decided to hide. He did another turn around the room—it didn’t take long—and marched back out into the hallway.