* * *
Instead, I spent the afternoon with a client—Susan Cramer—who wanted to discuss yard decorations for the upcoming seasons. She’d left a message the day before requesting my help, but I’d forgotten about it in my preoccupation with the trip to Denver. She was fine about me coming over on a Sunday, so over I went, happy with the prospect for work. Susan Cramer has excellent taste and a generous budget, so the short afternoon was a delight in creativity and anticipation, designing displays for her large collection of pottery containers. She wanted the tall ruddy orange pots I’d found for her in Santa Fe as the foundation centerpieces, and we agreed on using natural materials I could harvest or find: fresh evergreen boughs, ornamental squashes, and pumpkins to finish the fall; then big pine cones, and red twig dogwood and bittersweet branches into the winter. Susan and I tramped around in her yard in the slanting light of late afternoon, and then stood in cold, dim sheds taking stock of what she had and what she needed, so I was chilled to the bone when I got home—disgusted with myself that I hadn’t dressed more warmly, but energized with ideas all the same. The afternoon reminded me how glad I was that people like Andrea Brubaker and Chloë Austin were no longer in my life.
A message from Betty Huckleston was waiting for me when I got there. She knew my plans to talk to Andrea Brubaker that day, and I knew she’d want to hear about it at length, but I’d been jonesing for an espresso ever since I’d left Denver, and I needed a hot, potent cup of joe. The dogs were exuberant and oblivious to my morning’s events, and they wiggled around me as I stood in the toasty kitchen grinding coffee. One cup was never enough, so after two wonderful, bitter, tiny cups, I loaded up St. Andre cheese and apples on a plate, went to relax in the study, and gave Betty a call.
We were well into our conversation when she said, “So Chloë Austin uses oxycodone, hmm? ‘Splains some things, huh, Toots?” in her own Ricky Ricardo imitation. We both laughed and she continued, “That’s pretty cool that you could expunge the demon Chloë from your psyche!” as we both laughed again at her mock hyperbole. “And you didn’t even have to say anything!”
“Yeah, all that time in the past I spent berating myself for not having the guts to stand up to her! Ha! This time I didn’t believe the snarky insults were true—the harpoons were missing their mark—so I didn’t feel defensive and closed down. I could just be there, and observe her being a jackass! You know, those people never see their part in anything. They just shift the blame to the person in front of them.”
“What was Andrea Brubaker doing that whole time Chloë was spouting off?” Betty asked.
“She seemed like she wanted to just check out. I know that feeling. I guess the Dewar’s helped that over time; helped her be talky, too. And self-centered. I think if she wasn’t the center of the conversation, she wasn’t much interested in it.” I cut a piece of crisp apple, its clear juice beading on the knife, for myself and one for the patient Pecos at my feet. He softly plucked it from my fingers and carefully held his lips around it like he was checking it for contraband before gulping it down in one bite. Patsy Cline was already asleep on the kitchen floor.
Betty queried, “So Andrea Brubaker passed along to Ernesto Mondragón the very thing that Shannon had asked her not to? Shannon trusted Andrea to help her and Andrea betrayed her?”
“Yep,” I said sadly. “Andrea betrayed her just like Barry betrayed her. Andrea doesn’t see it that way, of course. She’s blinded by her desire for revenge on Cowboy Binder. She was only interested in the goods to get him. That’s all she wanted from Shannon. She didn’t care what Shannon wanted, or needed. She even had the cowardice to blame Shannon for her problems!”
“So something Shannon found out about Nueva … that started the whole sad process?” Betty said. “You think it was that list you found? Had to be, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, my guess is that was probably in the envelope Shannon gave to Andrea, but I don’t know the whole significance of it. But why would Ernesto Mondragón be involved in something up here?” I continued. “I know the Nueva guys disappearing looks pretty fishy, but what were they doing, and how was Ernesto connected?” Pecos looked at me wistfully as I bit into the last piece of apple, so I shared it with him.
“I’m still thinking about Andrea,” Betty said. “What was that nonsense she was talking about Shannon’s ‘affair’? And Barry ‘taking care of her’? Good god! What have you been eating, Toots? It sounds like you’ve got a herd of cows with you.”
“Healthy, crunchy apples, my dear. Okay, and maybe a little triple-cream cheese over a double espresso. A perfectly good dinner, so don’t start with me.” I stood up to take my plate back into the kitchen, the phone tucked on my shoulder. “I think Ernesto has told Andrea a bunch of pretty transparent lies as red herrings, and Andrea doesn’t want to know, or to acknowledge, the truth. The truth would taint her game plan, her goal of revenge. She’d have to give it up, and she’s not going to do that for anybody.” I thought a moment. “All that money, all that privilege, all that stuff she has, and it’s not enough. She’s still consumed by a revenge she can’t have.”
“And Ernesto’s using her desire for revenge to cover up something he’s doing to get her to go along!”
“Yeah, Andrea Brubaker can feign innocence, and still get something out of it—revenge, money, power—who knows what would be enough. You’d have to wonder how far Ernesto Mondragón’s touch goes in the rest of her affairs. She seemed very willing to take his word for things.”
“So, back on point,” Betty said, her nose to the trail. “We can connect Shannon, Nueva, Andrea, Ernesto, and then to Barry? And then to Binder Enterprises? I know I’m talking about the ‘hows’ right now when we’re more interested in the ‘whys’ but I need to get it straight. I guess Andrea gave us confirmation about our suspicions. I remember now that Andrea said that she and Ernesto helped Shannon get on the board at Nueva, but I hadn’t put that into the mix.”
“It stuck in my mind only because in Santa Fe, Andrea so unctuously bragged about her donation to Nueva. She wanted it to make her look good. Then, too, Henry Wade mentioned that the Shannon and Nueva files had similar characteristics,” I said, standing at the kitchen sink windows, looking out into the dark. The sweet autumnal smell of the apple cores drifted up from the compost bowl on the counter.
“It seems Andrea had an idea all along that something wasn’t right,” Betty said.
“But she lied to herself, and said it didn’t concern her. That way she could look the other way. In doing that, she gave Shannon up to those bastards!” I said angrily, and began to pace around the kitchen.
“They’re scumbags!” Betty agreed. “So what are they all doing that one of them would commit murder to keep Shannon quiet? Some real estate scam? You mentioned drugs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Something makes Barry start the charade that convinces people that Shannon’s death a month later was a suicide. That covers up for her murder. Everybody believed it, but you, Toots. I think they may have gotten away with it if you hadn’t stuck your big nose where it didn’t belong!” we said in unison, mimicking Chloë Austin’s taunt. I stopped pacing to laugh.
“But seriously, I guess if lies were told about me, I’d want someone to stand up for me, that’s all. I just wanted to do the same for Shannon,” I said.
“I’d stand up for ya, Toots,” Betty Huckleston said.
“I know you would. And I would for you! That’s just what you do, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” Betty said. “But Andrea Brubaker didn’t. But it sounded like Barry and Ernesto were friends, and she said that Ernesto had recommended Barry, like he’d known him before. But Henry Wade told you Barry didn’t really exist before, so did Ernesto know him as Momo Morgan, too? How did Momo Morgan become Barry Correda?”
“I don’t know, but I knew something was wrong with his image that first time! It was his shoes! They weren’t right at all for the suit. But he didn’t know
that. He was playing a part—Barry Correda. Okay, okay, I know that one thing wouldn’t have proven anything, but I remember thinking about his shoes; it was like he was wearing a costume and forgot a piece.”
“Jeez, the things you think about!” Betty Huckleston laughed.
I laughed, too. It had been a long day; hard to believe that I had started the morning talking to Andrea Brubaker—that seemed so long ago. But now I needed to look forward. It was time to hang up, and start getting ready for the next day—scheduled for a large property clean up in the mountains with Liz and Louie Burzachiello. There were lemon bar lunch treats to be baked, and I started the shortbread crust as I said good-bye to Betty. That was its usual lengthy affair, and it took another half hour to get off the phone.
After a quick mix of the sweet and tart lemon curd, I poured it onto the cooled, buttery crust and got it into a hot oven. As it baked, I prepped the rest of my next day needs—essentials bag, lunch, tools, Wanda the trailer—until the pan was out of the oven, and cooled. Not trusting the pork thief dog, I made sure everything was off the counter, and out of her eager lips. Then I was off to bed, the good Pecos already at his usual spot at the foot of it. Patsy joined us as soon as I turned off the light, snuffing and circling around in her bed a few times until it was just right for the Doyenne of the Depot.
The next morning Liz, Louie, and I were raising dust going up Rist Canyon west of town, with Wanda bumping along behind us, as the tawny foothills gave way to ponderosa pine forests and aspen stands. We’d been jabbering about my visit to Denver the day before, and both twins were sharing my anger at Andrea Brubaker’s offhand revelations about the betrayals of Shannon. As they speculated about Barry Correda alias Momo Morgan, I followed the directions the new client had given me on the phone, and I hoped I’d gotten it right in the twisting roads of the backcountry. It was a beautiful late fall morning, and a great day to be working.
We turned south at Stove Prairie Road and continued a couple of miles before turning onto a well-maintained dirt road. After several turnoffs and turns, we arrived at the locked gate described by the client. I had the code, which I entered, and we drove through, locking the gate behind us. A twisting dirt road led through stands of ponderosa pine.
Off to the right, in the fenced property next door, Liz pointed out a grubby sign laying half hidden in the grass. “Hey, look! It’s a Binder ‘Land For Sale’ sign! Looks like it’s been there a long time, though,” she said.
I slowed down so we could see it better. “I guess they’re still sitting on these big properties out here,” I said, and noticing the road in front of us, added, “but it looks like they got a showing or something. Look, you can see several tire tracks in the dirt. Our client has been out of town for months so it can’t be them, and that land’s vacant, so it can’t be somebody living up there. See, the tracks turn off at the gate for the property next door.” Liz and Louie Burzachiello didn’t pay too much attention to my musings. Jeez, the things you think about! I could hear Betty’s voice in my head laughing with me. Well, I didn’t want to think about anything concerning Binder Enterprises anyway, and who cared if they had showing or not?
After several miles of dirt road we turned in at a more elaborate gate. The gravel drive split grass pastures leading to an impressive log house nestled on a slight rise. The Mummy Range, dusted with the early snow of the season, provided a deep blue grey and white backdrop. Admiring the views, we unloaded our tools and quickly set to work. Starting with the multi-level decks, we cleaned around the house perimeter and the flower beds before we moved on to the yard, surrounding shrubs, and trees, where I pruned dead branches while they raked and hauled tarps full of debris to the trailer.
At the far end of the property we stopped for a brief lunch, and two scrub jays immediately appeared in the pine branches overhead, looking for a hand out. A yellow jacket buzzed down and landed on a lemon bar in Liz’s hand, and she did a frantic hopping dance to dislodge it, but ended up flinging it my way, causing me to lumber uncoordinatedly in the opposite direction, twisting and dodging the unseen foe. The insect soon flew away on its own, and we were both safe, but her sister was very much amused at our Stan and Ollie antics, and took pictures of us with her phone. I knew I looked ridiculous, but Liz was not amused at her twin’s derision, and started on what I imagined to be the same endless Burzachiello argument they’d had for all of their fifty years.
Even with the sisterly bickering, we made good progress, and I was confident that we’d finish before dark and I’d have time to research some future work for the client. He had asked me to give him an estimate on pruning a stand of trees at the far northwest part of his property where he planned to make a meditation space, and I wanted to get a look at it to be able to give a good estimate.
When we finished, Liz and I unhitched the trailer, so I didn’t have to worry about getting into awkward maneuvering situations with it, put the tools in the dusty CR-V, and ourselves in as well. “He said to follow this little track down past that outcropping,” I told them as I looked at a faint two-rut path that dropped out of sight behind elephant-size grey granite boulders.
We followed it slowly as it wound through the forest with glimpses of sharp rocky ridges ranging blue and hazy through gaps in the trees. After a mile or so the track stopped in a small grassy meadow; I pulled alongside the trees and we all piled out of the car. I walked down a small hill and started looking over the area to be pruned as Liz and Louie explored the trees beyond. I knew the naturalistic feel the client wanted for their Zen space, and I was designing the pruning cuts I’d suggest to him when Liz came back through the trees. She motioned to me and said, “Come ‘ere, you gotta see this!”
As we walked through the underbrush she was shaking her head and muttering something about discrimination and bigotry when we caught up with Louie, peering around a large lodge pole pine. She pointed at a couple of grey metal low buildings about a hundred feet away on the other side of the property fence. They were half obscured by the forest, and at first I thought they were deserted until I saw a couple of junky cars pulled up to one building. A new black Mercedes, closer to us, was parked head-in at the corner of the smallest building. It was the Mercedes she was pointing at.
Liz started in, “Look at that! Even out here! Even out here you can’t get away from those racists! Look at that, Lily! It’s that stupid Erik Lambertin crap, ‘Support Your Rights!’ You can see that red, white and blue bumper sticker a mile away!” It was the same bumper sticker I’d seen on Bernice Thorton’s neighbor’s, Old Man Crotchety, ’88 Buick, and on the dark limo at Binder Enterprises. Erik Lambertin spouted vehement anti-immigrant ignorance that pandered to people’s fears, and unfortunately had more than a few followers.
Louie chimed in, “Yeah, whoever owns that car puts his racist view on his bumper, but look who’s doing the work here!” As I looked at the activity outside the farthest building on the other side of the trees, the workers did indeed look Hispanic. There were about eight of them, and they stamped around in the November cold, loading a small van with boxes.
Liz and Louie Burzachiello were hissing insults toward the Mercedes’s owner and I ruefully acknowledged the stupidity of some people. But it was time we headed back to the car before it got too late.
Liz said she had to take a leak before we started back and went off into the trees. As I turned back to Louie I saw she had pulled a pen and a pad of paper from Liz’s back pack, and was scribbling on the pad.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m writing that jackass a note, and I’m gonna stick it on his windshield! He deserves to hear about what a hypocrite he is!” she said hotly as she jabbed the pen on the paper to emphasize her points.
“What? No, Louie, wait!” I said in alarm.
She folded the paper, peered around the tree, and started toward the car seventy-five feet away.
“Louie, wait!” I hissed as I tried to stop her.
“Nobody’s go
nna see me! Besides, someone needs to call him out on dis, ya know?” Louie huffed back at me, her Jersey accent surfacing. She was at the chamisa bushes on the edge of the client’s property and started to climb the fence.
I had to stop her. I knew both Louie and Liz Burzachiello were passionate about their beliefs, as was I, but this wasn’t the time or place to make a show of it. Besides, the car was on someone else’s property. Liz was nowhere in sight so I ran after Louie. She’d reached the side of the first building when, out of breath, I caught up with her.
“Louie, come on! Really, this isn’t the place to do this!” I said in a loud whisper.
“If he—gah! What’s that smell?” she asked as she grabbed my arm, her other hand going up to her mouth.
The strong smell of ammonia overwhelmed me, and I instinctively looked down to see if we were standing in a big litter box.
Close behind me I heard a loud and gruff voice growl something in Spanish. I jumped, and wheeled around to see a small and wiry Hispanic man right behind us, pointing a black assault weapon at the two of us.
He cocked it sideways like I’d seen in gangsta videos. Louie and I froze. He said something else in Spanish, but seeing that we didn’t understand, pushed us down on the ground next to the side of the building. Keeping the gun pointing at us, he talked into a walkie-talkie, gesturing at us, and looking toward the other buildings. He seemed young and nervous. Right then I saw Liz in the trees on the far side of the lot where she’d last seen us, and I knew she had seen what had just happened. More importantly, the guy with the gun hadn’t seen her; he was still looking at the building’s main door.
I could see that Liz was frantic. Frankly, so was I. But, keeping my eye on the guy with the walkie-talkie, I discretely gestured to her to run, to go for help. Still looking at the guy, I tried to slowly put my hand up to my ear in the “phone” position without being noticed. I didn’t succeed. Louie saw my gesture, and looked over to where Liz was hiding in the trees. Louie struggled to stand up, but I put a restraining hand on her and said in a whisper, “Don’t look at her, Louie! We don’t want him to see her. Just sit here. Liz has gotta go for help.”
In the trees Liz made a sign that Louie discretely affirmed, and then Louie settled on the ground again just as the guy glanced over at us. He jerked his gun at us to make sure we knew he meant business, but he kept watch on the main door, as if he was waiting for someone. He hadn’t seen Liz, and she had now vanished in the trees.
“What are we going to do?” asked Louie, her whisper trembling.
“It’s going to be okay, Louie,” I whispered back as I tried to convince myself of the same thing. “Liz is going for help. We’ll think of something. Maybe it’s all a mistake, I mean, we haven’t done anything. Maybe we can play innocent.”
“Innocent? He doesn’t look like he cares about innocence or not!” Louie hissed as she glanced at our guard who was now looking across the lot. I was glad that Liz had gone before she was seen.
“God, that smell! A meth lab? Gotta be something. The guy’s reacting like something illegal’s happening here. But he doesn’t know we know. Maybe he’ll just try to scare us to make us get out of here,” I said, drawing in part on wishful thinking. Louie just shook her head, and we sat in silence. I could feel the cold ground we were sitting on permeate a stiff chill up my spine.
“Issst!” I heard close by behind us, around the corner of the building. It was Liz, out of sight from our guard. She was supposed to be going for help, not getting herself caught with the two of us! I whispered to Louie to watch the guard who was now standing about twenty-five feet away, watching the front entrance with occasional nervous glances at us. I slowly inched backward toward Liz.
“What are you doing here?” I hissed at her when I got closer.
“I want to change myself out for Louie! Come on, Lily, nobody can tell us apart. Send Louie for help, I’ll stay here with you,” she whispered.
I thought about it for a moment but remembered some of the tales Liz told about Louie’s utter lack of a sense of direction. She’d never find her way out to find cell reception or even be able to tell others where we were. I reminded Liz of her stories.
“I know, I know! But maybe she could just follow the road back? At least she’d be safe!”
“Liz, I’ll keep her safe, I’ll figure something out. But you’ve gotta get out of here now! Get to where there’s reception, or a land line, and call 911. Do you know where we are?”
“Yeah, more or less. I could meet them at the road and bring them in.”
“Then go now! Take my keys, and use my car to get out of here,” I whispered as I slowly reached into my inner jacket pocket. I stopped as the guard glanced at us, still not seeing Liz now hidden around the corner. I looked blankly ahead, trying not to show anything on my face. He looked back the other way.
“No!” Liz whispered, poking her head from around the corner. “You guys might need it, you know, if you can get away.” She was tearing up, and I feared I might also.
“Liz, go! We’ll be okay,” I whispered back. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
Liz Burzachiello reached around the corner to give her sister an affectionate jab in the back and then slid back into the trees. Louie glanced over her shoulder, tears in her eyes, and whispered, “Bye, Lizzy.”
My mind racing, I sat with Louie on the ground and we both watched our guard pace in front of the building. I couldn’t really get a grasp on any plan of action, and Louie was nervously playing with her jacket zipper, looking scared. I saw the guard say something in his walkie-talkie and then he motioned for us to stand up. He looked cold and nervous as he raised his gun at us. “Vamos! That way!”
We stood up and moved along side of the building the guard gestured toward with his gun. My mind was now blank with fear and I struggled to keep myself calm. Louie didn’t look any better.
The main door banged open, and out stepped Barry Correda.
But now he’d dropped his pretty boy façade completely. He was Momo Morgan, looking like a rough hood in need of some personal hygiene—dirty t-shirt, pants hanging absurdly low on his hips, days old beard, and gummy-looking hair. He stopped when he saw me and sneered, “What da fuck?” He gripped my jacket and shoved me toward the door, his gun at my head.
He turned to Louie and snarled, “I recognize you, too, you bitch! You spied on us!” He banged the side of the building with his gun, and then obscenely grabbed his crotch, turning to yell something angrily in Spanish at our guard. Barry cuffed him on the side of his head and shoved him away.
“Inside!” Barry Correda shouted, and pushed us into the building and slammed the door. We stumbled into a large cold room with boxes stacked along the walls, and Barry shoved us back against one of the crates with his gun. The smell was overwhelming, and there was an unrelenting assault of loud rap music beating down on us. Barry called on his walkie-talkie and then paced along the far wall. I muttered an aside to Louie, “Just remember he thinks you’re Liz.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Barry Correda screamed at us.
From a side door in came the guy who was unfortunately familiar as the cretin Barry was talking to at Binder Enterprises when Liz Burzachiello and I pulled the speaker phone trick.
“Ya think, Eddie?” Barry pointed to Louie Burzachiello. “Recognize her, too?”
“Yeah, she’s this one’s fuckin’ little sidekick,” Eddie said, poking his gun into my shoulder as he turned to Barry. “I guess this one’s too old to do things herself, or somethin’, so’s the little short one is always with her. The two of ‘em here saves me having to go look for one of ‘em. Don’t know what they’re doing here. Don’t matter, though, ‘cause they’re dead meat.” He pulled his trucker hat down lower on his forehead, and gave me a nasty grin full of bad teeth and foul breath.
How did this guy know who we were, what we did? I wondered. He walked over to Barry and they stood talking together when the door banged open again.
“Hey, Correda, when is—what is she doing here?” Phil Binder entered the room, and stopped when he saw Louie and me.
Glaring at me he said, “What are you doing here?”
He shouted at Barry, “You said she was a nobody! What is she even doing here?” His face was sweating, and he rubbed his hands through his hair.
He turned back to me, his crisply ironed pin-striped shirt, pressed chino pants, and tasseled loafers looking very out of place in a cold, dirty warehouse that smelled like cat pee. “You’ve screwed everything up! Now—now we’re going to have to take care of you!”
I didn’t think he meant that in a good way. He went to stand with Barry and Eddie, and started whispering and gesturing wildly. Eddie came back over to us and said, “We’re moving! Get the fuck outside.” He stopped us and asked Barry, “Did you check ‘em for cell phones? We don’t want ‘em trying anything funny with phones.” He jerked his gun at us.
Louie hesitated, but then pulled hers out of her pants pocket and tossed it on the floor. I told him I didn’t have a phone, and he roughly checked to see if I was telling the truth. Mine was still in the car, but that felt like a hollow victory at this point. He shoved us out of the building and toward the Mercedes. Barry Correda and Phil Binder followed, arguing.
Barry came up from behind me and sneered, “Where’s yer car? I know ya didn’t walk here, ya fat bitch.” Then he tripped me, slapping me to the ground. I hit it hard.
All of a sudden I was calm. Things right for that moment seemed to be in slow motion.