Gossip Can Be Murder (2 page)

Drake smiled. “She’s got the enthusiasm of a cheerleader, doesn’t she?”

“Used to be one, in junior high.”

He gave me another close look. “Problem with Ron?”

“It’ll be okay.” I sipped from the glass he’d handed me. “You sure you don’t mind my going off for a week?”

“To Santa Fe? Heck no. In fact, since I’ll be working up there in the Pecos area, maybe we can both break away and meet somewhere for dinner in town.”

We finished our wine and decided we better get home and pack for our respective journeys. Something about he way his eyes gleamed told me that we were going to make the most of our last night at home.

Chapter 2

Eager as we were to get home, I convinced Drake to stop by my office at RJP Investigations on the way. I’d left some of the files for the Graham and Valdez case,
Walters et al versus Starland Helicopter Manufacturing and S-Jet Engines
, on my desk and decided it would be safer if I put them in the locked file cabinet. Ron’s and my little business enterprise is located in a converted Victorian house in what’s now a combination residential/office neighborhood near downtown. Although we’ve never had a security problem, I’ve always taken reasonable precautions about leaving sensitive information out in plain sight. I’d originally planned to come back here this evening to organize paperwork, and type up some of Ron’s notes. Considering his attitude today, I decided screw him. I’d rather spend the evening with Drake. I would get him on his way in the early morning, then I could come back to the office to wrap up a few things Sunday morning and leave for Santa Fe when I was finished.

“Do you want to look over the file on the engine data?” I asked Drake as we climbed the stairs to my second floor office.

I didn’t hear his response as I hit the light switch and I turned to look at him. He shook his head. “Not now.”

“Sorry. I know this is hard for you.”

“It’s just that Mike Walters and I worked together several fire seasons. He was a good pilot. I can’t stand the idea that all these lawyers are trying to place blame with him, and I just can’t believe the accident was his fault.”

“I know. And it wasn’t. Didn’t our simulated crash this morning prove mechanical failure? Isn’t that enough to clear him?” I sat down at my desk, opened the file and picked up the printout of our test data. “Or almost enough?”

“What we did today proves that a loose nut would cause that particular engine failure. I still have to prove
that
exact nut failed in
this
accident.” And Ron continued to put pressure on Drake to hurry the investigation.

I watched his profile and saw the jaw muscle flexing. This was the first instance where the firm’s work had caused friction between my husband and my brother. “It’s okay. Let’s put this out of our minds and deal with it later.”

After a minute or so he blew out a long breath. The jaw muscle relaxed and his military-sharp posture loosened up.

“Look, there’s nothing here I can’t do tomorrow morning.” I said. “Let’s grab some dinner.” I gathered the folders quickly and took them to the fireproof file cabinet in Ron’s office.

“Pedro’s?” I asked, knowing he’d hear the hopeful tone.

“Sure.”

A couple minutes later I’d locked the drawers and switched out the light. 

Drake rubbed the back of my neck as we walked down the hall toward the kitchen together, a silent apology for his testy attitude earlier. I slipped my arm around his waist and pulled closer to him.

We locked the back door and drove in Drake’s pickup truck the few blocks to Pedro’s Mexican restaurant near Old Town. By the time we walked in and got our first whiff of green chile and tortilla chips, the earlier conversation had receded to the back of my mind. When Pedro brought our customary margaritas with extra salt, my stomach began to growl.

“No Rusty tonight?” Concha, Pedro’s wife, waitress, and chief cook, asked as she set plates of steaming green chile chicken enchiladas in front of us.

Our rust-brown Lab is a fixture here, as much as we are. He normally takes a spot in the corner beside our table and manages to catch any loose, unwanted tortilla chips that fall his way. Pedro always brings a heaping basket of them, just to cover that situation.

“No, we’ve been out all day. He would have gotten bored at the wine festival, I’m afraid,” I told her. “But he’ll be jealous that we came here without him.” I knew we’d get a huge sniff-over from the dog the minute we walked in the house and he’d know exactly where we’d been.

She set the hot plates down and scanned the table. “Just a minute.”

About the time I’d blown the steam off my first bite and put it into my mouth she came back with a basket of fresh sopapillas—three of them. “Here’s a spare napkin. Take Rusty one of these and the extra chips. So he won’t be angry with me.”

Drake laughed as she walked away. “Good thing that dog isn’t spoiled.”

I pulled one corner off my little pillow-shaped pastry and let the steam billow out. As I poured honey into the hollow interior I told Drake, “Well, I’m not performing this part of the routine for the dog. Can you imagine what a mess he’d make? He’ll just have to eat his sopa without the sweet.”

Thirty minutes later we made our way to the truck, carrying our little bundle of doggie goodies. An hour after that, with two duffle bags packed and waiting near the front door, we fell into bed. Drake reached for me hungrily.

“I hate time apart,” he said, nuzzling into my neck.

We spent the next forty-five minutes relieving that sadness before we fell into a deep sleep. The alarm went off way too quickly as the first light of Sunday’s dawn began to gray the windows. I rolled over, planning to snuggle into Drake’s warmth, only to find that he was already wide awake staring at the ceiling. My little whimpery sounds got his attention and he pulled his hands out from behind his head and wrapped me in a cozy embrace. That lasted about three minutes before I could tell he was antsy to get moving. First day of a new job.

We grabbed a quick breakfast of cereal and I stuck the bowls in the dishwasher while he walked Rusty over to Elsa Higgins’s house next door. Bless her heart, she’s always a willing sitter even on a moment’s notice. When I’d called her as we were leaving the wine festival she’d even offered to come over and pick up the pooch right then. I felt guilty that my requests had become so routine that she assumed the need was immediate. I vowed to bring her something from Santa Fe and to manage to spend more time with her. Our times together are becoming precious, as she is approaching ninety. She’s an amazing lady, putting up with me all these years, and now caring for my dog as well.

Drake came back with a baggie full of homemade chocolate chip cookies, picked up his duffle, and we both walked out to our vehicles. He watched me as I started my Jeep, asked me if I’d checked the oil and topped off with fuel (the answer to both of these was that I was going to stop at the first station I came to), then he kissed me so well that I wanted to switch off the engine and take my husband and our bags back inside. With a reluctant smile I backed out of the driveway and watched him do the same. He turned left at Central, heading out to the airport on the west side of town, while I aimed for that promised gas station. I even remembered to check my tires’ air pressure while I was at it. Marriage to a pilot. He’d done a good job of training me in the wisdom of being prepared.

At the office I pulled out the files on the crash case and reread the notes. I felt a pang of sadness that Drake and Ron were at odds over the case. More so that I’d had words with my brother yesterday. Normally, we work together really well. I pushed the thoughts aside, resolving to keep doing my best for the business, but not to let Ron’s wishes take over my life. He’s got his own set of problems.

Turning back to the file I saw that, in a phone message from Graham and Valdez, Rick Valdez had requested copies of several of the documents Ron had obtained, along with Drake’s informal notes. Soon, Drake would be required to give an official deposition—something he was looking forward to like a case of the flu—but for now Valdez simply wanted to review the initial findings. I stacked the pages and started the fax machine. Once they’d gone through I re-inserted them into the files in the correct order and noted the date and time the faxed pages had been sent.

I typed letters to a couple of other important clients, paid some upcoming bills and entered monthly statements into the computer before I realized that most of the day had slipped away and I really ought to be heading north. I locked the files away again, making sure to leave Ron one of our loosely coded messages telling him what I’d done with them. I scanned the rest of the office to be sure I hadn’t left anything terribly crucial undone. I couldn’t imagine having a whole week—especially spur of the moment as it was—to myself. There was always some little crisis that brought me back into the office but I would leave things in good shape for now.

Downstairs, in the reception room, I left my outgoing mail and jotted a note for Sally including the name of Casa Tranquilidad and the central phone number, just in case my cell didn’t quite connect there in the mountains. I also reminded her that Ron had an optometry appointment mid-week and that he probably wouldn’t go unless someone nudged him. Sometimes I feel like everyone’s mom.

I snacked on a granola bar that had probably been in the console of my car for at least six months and managed to hit a bunch of the weekend traffic on I-25 heading toward Santa Fe. By the time I reached the edge of town I felt more than ready for some classes on how to relax.

Chapter 3

They don’t call Santa Fe the City Different for no reason. The street layout follows no sort of grid but is instead a meandering maze of twists and turns that can lead a driver in circles. I know it’s historic, I know you can’t redesign a city that’s been around since before 1600, but moving around this place is a pain in the ass. I absolutely hate getting entangled anywhere around the plaza or government offices so I took the St. Francis Road exit and made my way north.

Gradually I left the commercial areas behind, then the smaller residential streets. Following Linda’s map, I drove a winding dirt road north of the city, into foothills dotted with piñon trees and juniper. In the higher elevations near the ski area, distant aspens had already begun to turn, and their myriad shades of gold, yellow and celadon painted the hills in a palette of autumn. The contrast with the pure blue sky felt almost startling. This is the sky for which the Spanish
azul celeste
surely must have been invented. I began to relax at the sight.

As I rounded the final curve at the top of the hill, I got glimpses of Casa de Tranquilidad between stands of piñon and ponderosa pine. A winding adobe structure, it seemed designed to fit the hills like a boa draping a woman’s shoulders. Late afternoon sun burnished the various buildings in rose-gold. The drive was paved in slate tiles, which curved around a circular entrance and framed a planter of brilliant purple petunias. I pulled my Jeep to the front door, under a wide, shady portico.

A valet, uniformed in green and gold, met me and offered to park the car but I told him I’d rather do it myself. It’s just a quirk of mine. He directed me to a small, discreet lot on the north side of the building, behind an adobe wall. I grabbed my duffle bag and walked back to the front of the building.

A woman was pulling two large trays from the back of a small SUV parked under the portico. The trays, stacked high with homemade cookies that smelled like they’d come from the oven minutes earlier, looked like they were about to get the better of her.

“Can I give you a hand with those?” I asked, dropping my duffle beside her vehicle.

“Oh, sweetie, you sure can.” She lifted one tray toward me, leaving the other one balanced a little precariously on the edge of the vehicle’s cargo space. I reached out and caught mine, just as she had to let it go and make a grab for the other. “Whoa, that was a little too close.”

We stood there, frozen in a little ‘what’s next?’ moment in time. I have to admit that it was tempting to make a run for it, keeping five dozen elegantly decorated butter cookies all for my very own.

“I’ve got to get these to one of the conference rooms,” she said. “Could you spare a second out of your way?”

“Sure.” I followed her lead. We walked through a lobby filled with heavy, hand-carved furniture and Two Gray Hills rugs. Enormous arrangements of fresh flowers topped a table in the center of the room and several side tables. Down a corridor and past a dining room, doors to a meeting room stood open and a jacketed waiter was setting up a large coffee service. He tilted his head toward an empty stretch of table and we deposited our treasures there.

“Whew! Thanks so much!” The woman turned to me and held out her hand. “Samantha Sweet.”

I introduced myself. She was a stocky woman in her late fifties, short graying hair in a shaggy cut, smile wrinkles at the eyes and mouth. She had that jovial, open friendliness that reminded me of the actress Kathy Bates.

“I don’t know why I tried to handle both of those at once. I know better. Just get myself in a hurry sometimes.”

“Hey, no problem.” We walked back outside where I retrieved my duffle.

“If you ever need customized, homemade baked goodies, that’s what I do,” she told me, reaching into the pocket of her white slacks and pulling out a business card. “Sweet’s Sweets.” She rummaged into a large paper sack in the car and came out with a baggie that held four exquisite little cookies. “There you go—a sample.”

I swear that my salivary glands went into overdrive just looking at them.

“Thanks, Samantha. Nice meeting you.” Knowing about this great lady might give me the excuse to hold an office party at Christmas this year.

She thanked me again and climbed into the SUV, waving through her open window as she pulled away. I hefted the duffle again and headed inside.

The front desk was made of golden pine, topped with hammered copper. An extremely polite young lady greeted me, tapped my name into the computer and scrunched her eyebrows slightly.