Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis Read online

  Kay laughed it off. “You’ve come a long way. I’m very proud of you, Monica. Go get them, girl.”

  That got me thinking. What if I got home and had difficulties with the electronic signatures? So I went back to my computer and got to work. If a problem arose, Kay had my back.

  By two p.m. the contract had been signed and sent to the listing agent with a twenty-four-hour response time. I went up front and let Kassandra know. Really though, I had hoped to find out something new about the Dumont case. Still couldn’t call it what it was—a murder.

  Kassandra had two lines going, so I waved at her and motioned I was leaving. She nodded.

  I sat in the car in the parking lot, hungry and depressed. I had to talk to Tristan, just had to. How? Every scenario I ran though my head had a bad ending. Did Tristan know that the dead woman was the same one who’d left that scribbled message for him?

  Wow, where did all the cars come from? No wonder Kassandra was busy, the whole office was in. And too busy obsessing about the perfect contract and Tristan, I hadn’t even noticed. Damn. I turned on the radio, searching for local news.

  It’s not like I knew what the hell I was doing. When I was driving that was all I did, drive. Not even answering the phone. I could do that, thanks to Bluetooth. That was such a weird name for—a service. Was it a service? Well, it serviced me. I landed on a station that sounded local. They spoke of Peoria, a suburb west of Phoenix, and the subject was... another shooting by our local police. That would probably be the main topic for the next twenty-four hours. I left the radio on and headed home.

  However, I was going to make a slight detour. I would drive by Tristan’s house. I often did that when I came back from the preserve, so why not today? No one would know. To appease my sense of guilt, I ended up driving all the way to the end of 40th Street where I entered the parking lot and lingered, looking around before driving slowly around the empty lot. I made a U-turn and headed toward the side road that led to the Dumonts’ residence. If someone asked, I could say I was coming from the mountain preserve, and I wouldn’t be lying.

  TEN

  THE SCENE REMINDED me of a Fellini movie, weird characters hanging around just because. Some of the cars and vans had signage. Local TV stations? Other vehicles seemed empty, and that would explain the people wandering outside the Dumonts’ gate. I didn’t notice any of the yellow tape cops use to seal off the place like you see on TV detective shows, nor did I see any police cars. They must have been parked up by the house, or maybe the crime squad used unmarked cars. Better not get too close.

  I sent silent thanks for the generic SUV I was driving. OMG, what if I had shown up in my hot pink Fiat? The last thing I needed was to get noticed. I bet some of the wandering souls were snoopy neighbors. Like me? Time to split, I headed home. Poor Tristan, he must be going through hell. Maybe Angelique made it home. I’d driven there hoping to get answers. I left more confused than before.

  I parked in the garage then walked down to the curb to check our mail. On the way back, I sorted out Brenda’s mail from mine. Of course mine consisted mostly of junk.

  “Monica, Monica.”

  Someone was calling my name? I turned around and saw Bob Clarke quickly crossing the street. I hadn’t even noticed his car parked by the widow’s place.

  “Hi, Bob, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.” Always polite, of course. “How about you? Your aunt Brenda seems to be concerned about your state of mind. Can we talk?”

  Can we talk? Officer Clarke wanted to talk to me? As Bob, Brenda’s friend, or as Officer Bob Clarke? Stop it, Monica.

  I shrugged. “Sure.” I unlocked my front door. “Want to come in?” He knew me well enough to be aware I didn’t cook like Brenda, and most of my wine was “borrowed” from Brenda’s supply. “Come on in. Wait, is this about the—you know—the dead person at the Dumonts’ house?”

  He cocked his head a little as if trying to read me. “Yes and no.”

  “Seriously?” I rolled my eyes. “What did Brenda put you up to now?”

  Bob glanced around my living room and then made himself comfortable on the couch. “She didn’t put me up to anything. But she knows you’re very concerned because you dropped Tristan Dumont off from the airport, and she said you tend to feel guilty about everything.”

  I nodded, blood rushing to my face. If Bob knew about my driving Tristan home and Bob was an officer of the law, did he share the information with Detectives Adam and Eve? They obviously all knew each other.

  “If you feel guilty about not being there when he found the victim, don’t be. Nothing you or Tristan Dumont could have done, she was dead long before he got home. And it would have really upset you to see her, I’m sure.”

  I nodded, bit my lips. Better not say much as I tended to babble away. “Detective Eve, I mean Reid, Liz Reid, said that the name of the dead woman was Silvia De Aguilar and that she was the same one who showed up at the Dumonts’ on Tuesday when I was there to get their mail.”

  He nodded. “Oh, so you already spoke to Detective Reid?”

  “She showed up at the office, because of the business card. Do you know where they found that ripped piece of my business card?”

  “I don’t know the details.” His eyes on me. “It could have slipped out of the victim’s purse when she fell. Most of the contents were spread out on the floor. Is that why you are concerned?”

  “Concerned? No. Guilty? Yes. You see, the woman had asked me to give the other half to Tristan Dumont, and, well, I had it in my wallet when I went to the airport, but then forgot. Do you think Detective Reid will give it to him?”

  “Not very likely, it’s part of the evidence. I doubt he would blame you. He didn’t know the woman at all. Supposedly you’re the only one who had any contact with her, so don’t be surprised if you get another visit from the detectives.”

  “Bob...” I kept my eyes focused on the coffee table—wow, so dusty. “Bob, how did she... the woman...” If I said her name, it would become personal. “How did she die?” There, I asked it.

  “I don’t know, results from the autopsy haven’t been released. Supposedly she had been dead for a while, but I’m going to guess—maybe a gunshot to the head? Because of the way the body was positioned. Again, I’m guessing, only saw photos, so please, don’t...”

  Dead for a while? The dead woman had tried to return my call on Wednesday morning. Angelique’s silver Escalade was also at the Dumonts’ on Wednesday. Damn. I wasn’t going to let my mind go there.

  “What’s going through your mind, Monica? Anything you’ll like to share?” Bob Clarke’s tone had morphed, as if the man talking to me was suddenly Officer Clarke. Could he read my mind? Time to stop blabbering and let him know I had work to do. I did, and he left.

  My work consisted of worrying about two things: Greg Coste’s contract and Tristan. And yes, worrying couldn’t change a thing, but it was who I was, and I guess Brenda knew that. So I did the next best thing; I called Brenda. If I caught her at a bad time she wouldn’t hesitate to tell me.

  The phone chimed once, twice, three times, then, “Let me guess—you’re mad at me because I sent Bob to check on you.” Ah, vintage Brenda.

  “No, not really. More like wanted to thank you for it.”

  “You what? Monica, are you sick? Did you eat today?”

  “Yeah, yeah, mock me all you want. I mean it. Bob helped me sort out some stuff. Like the ripped card I was supposed to give to Tristan but forgot, and now the detective has it.”

  “Whoa there, kid, slow down. Have you told me about the ripped card? What kind of card? Like a birthday card. What?” She didn’t know about it? Then I remembered. I shared the info with Angelique, but probably didn’t mention it to Brenda. Time to put her up to date.

  “That’s what got Angelique so riled? And this morning she had a screaming scene on the phone, and I’m pretty sure it was with Tristan. This is all very unusual, she wanted to bring Tache up to the house in P
hoenix. Leo, the newcomer, would drive up with the horse trailer. I’m guessing there is a lot going on at the house with investigators and the ever-present media, so Tristan doesn’t want his horse to get upset. Eventually I believe she drove up by herself without Tache. I haven’t seen Lois in a few days. I don’t know, Monica, I seem to jinx everything I get into.”

  “Brenda, are you kidding me? None of this is your doing. Okay, I’m not sure what it’s all about, except that the poor dead woman must have known Tristan’s father. Maybe before he met Angelique?” I waited for a yes or a maybe; I got a long pause. The only reason I knew Brenda was still on the phone was because she coughed, that smoker cough I knew so well.

  “I guess you don’t know the romantic past of Angelique and Mr. Dumont Senior.” Brenda paused, and I could bet she was smoking. “That Angelique gets chatty when she has a cocktail or two.” Wow, Brenda was certainly snarky, and here I thought she loved it down at the ranch with the new business and the girls as Lois and Angelique liked to call themselves.

  “I’ve never seen Angelique drink, and no, I don’t know about her and Tristan’s dad. Brenda, please don’t tell me he was having an affair with Angelique while Tristan’s mom was alive. It would break Tristan’s heart.”

  “No, no. Quite the contrary, Angelique claims they were each other’s first love. The Dumonts owned a large home in Martinique, and Angelique’s family lived on the property. I think she said they worked for the Dumonts, and according to her story she was barely sixteen when Tristan’s dad, who was eighteen, came to spend his summer vacation there. You can fill in the blanks, right? So he returned every summer and promised her she would be his bride as soon as he was done with college. Well, she says he met Tristan’s mom and never went back to Martinique and left her without as much as a goodbye.

  “Fast forward twenty-five years later, he’s a widower, and they accidentally bump into each other somewhere in France, and the flame instantly reignites. So you see, in her mind, Tristan’s mom was the home-wrecker. Therefore it was only fair that Tristan stepped up to the plate and finally gave her what she considered to belong to her all along.”

  I couldn’t breathe. Either Brenda had developed a case of powerful hate against her quasi-employer Angelique Dumont, or Angelique had lost her mind. I didn’t believe the story, not for a minute.

  “Hey, Monica, you still there, or did I put you to sleep?”

  “I—I can’t think straight. This is—crazy. Do you believe it? I mean, I don’t know how Tristan’s dad was, but according to Tristan, he was honest, intelligent, giving. I mean, it’s not like he had to marry Tristan’s mom because she was pregnant. She was a widow with a young boy. A boy he raised as his own.” I had to stop and catch my breath.

  “Exactly. Kiddo, I’m proud of you. You didn’t lose your cool for even a second. Anyway, Angelique seems to have a crush on that new guy, Leo. Even Lois noticed, and that created a lot of tension. I think that’s why Lois isn’t around much and why Angelique drinks. Hey, this is the longest conversation we have had in a long time. I should send Bob over to talk to you more often.” She laughed, more a short cackle than a laugh, and I heard loud barking in the background. “Speaking of the devil,” then louder, “Hi, Leo, where did you find this vagabond dog of mine? Dior, want to talk to your pal Monica? Come here, big boy.”

  I could hear heavy breathing at the other end of the phone. “Hi, Dior, this is Monica. How is my big pooch doing? Do you miss me? I miss you too.” A loud bark nearly deafened me. Then strange sounds.

  “No, no. Dior, don’t lick the... no. Stop it. Bye, Monica.” Some loud laughing in the background and that was it.

  Thank God I was sitting down. Wow, just wow. Talk about soap opera. I closed my eyes and summoned Angelique’s image in my mind, I couldn’t remember ever getting a sense of her being sort of... hmm, sort of what? Liar? Cheater? Gold digger? No, not really. But she was very frail and sick the first time I met her. Hence, the ever-present Lois to assist her. And Brenda had labeled them recluses because they refused to eat with everyone else. That part I did remember as we served their food in their room and... they had their own cache of wine. And none of this was my business, except for Tristan.

  How did I even get myself into this senseless sort of mess? Never mind me, how about Tristan? Why did he have to be the one to find that poor woman? Unless... unless she really had needed to talk to Tristan. What if she knew he was coming back that night? But how? I only found out hours earlier. Had she been able to reach him? He did have a cell phone, and so did she. If only I had answered her call Wednesday morning while I was showing Greg the house on 8th Place. What if? I wanted to scream, instead I whispered, “Oh, Tristan,” again and again. Maybe the power above would hear me and—

  My cell chimed. Tristan.

  “Hello...” Not sure I could trust my voice. Choking on my own breath.

  “Fiat, how are you?” I looked up to an imaginary heaven. Owe you one.

  “A lot better now.” Breathe, Monica. “What’s going on? Are you home? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, of course. Oh, you mean...” A pause. “Everything... has been... removed. And yes, it feels a bit... creepy, lots of mixed feelings. The detective working the case seems to think that the victim may be the same person who came to the house while you were picking up the mail.”

  “Yes, so I’m told. How did she get in the house?” I really wanted to say words of comfort to him, but I had no idea how to do it without getting personal. What if someone was recording us? I suspected we shared the same concerns.

  “Is Angelique there?” I waited. His silence made me nervous. “I spoke to Brenda, and she said Angelique drove up to Phoenix.”

  “Yes, she did.” Short, not sweet. To a perfect stranger the conversation would appear a little cold but not distant. But I wasn’t a stranger, and I sensed the weariness in Tristan’s voice. My whole being wanted to find soothing words, to ease whatever pained him. If only I could. We exchanged meaningless pleasantries as polite casual friends would, perhaps both hoping to convey deeper meanings with our silences rather than unnecessary, incriminating words. Still, I knew in my soul that whatever was going on in the Dumonts’ household couldn’t be good.

  ELEVEN

  THE WEEKEND HAD sneaked up on me while I wondered about the lack of news concerning Greg Coste’s contract—that and the death of Silvia De Aguilar. Better keep myself occupied on other things instead of obsessing over the absence of progress on both subjects. And I did miss my old buddy Dior. A good run with him and—poof—stress would have disappeared.

  All that heavy thinking before nine a.m. on a Saturday morning? Ouch.

  I could make some calls, but not yet. Better start by making coffee. Would Tristan be having breakfast with Angelique? Their spacious white kitchen must be lovely with the morning sun filtering through the shutters. I closed my eyes trying to remember if there was a breakfast room, but I couldn’t think of one. All I could think about was Silvia De Aguilar’s body on the den floor. What kind of monster would leave a human being to die alone in the dark? Could she had been saved?

  I had just replaced the filter in my Mr. Coffee machine when my cell chimed. Oh, good, maybe the listing agent had a signed contract or a counteroffer? Nope, neither.

  “Tristan? Good morning.” Best part of waking up, is Tristan on my phone. I hummed quietly. The jingle would now stick in my mind for hours.

  “Oh, you’re up, good morning.”

  “Already made coffee,” I lied then waited.

  “Well, Ross, the detective who spent the whole day here at the house, has determined the dead woman, De Aguilar, is definitely the person who came by when you were picking up the mail. Such a strange coincidence. Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes. Detective Reid, who is Ross’s partner said the same thing, well, more or less. Does Silvia De Aguilar sound familiar to you?”

  “No, not at all. Have absolutely no idea who the poor woman was.”

  �
�She’s the one who wrote that message for you, on the back of the ripped business card. Uh, by the way, I’m really, really sorry about the card, I meant to give it to you at the airport, then forgot and now, uh, Detective Reid took it. She said something about evidence. You should demand it’s returned to you. I feel terrible.”

  “Fiat, you had told me about it. It’s not a big deal. All it had on was a phone number, apparently belonging to the dead woman’s cell and then Tristan’s father. But since I have no idea who this woman was, I also don’t know if she meant my adoptive or my biological father. Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter now. So please, don’t stress over it. It’s not your fault. None of this is. Anyway, I called to see if you’d care to join me for breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Breakfast—tomorrow?” What had just happened here? “Wait. Tomorrow is Sunday, right? I guess it’s okay. Do you want me to meet you somewhere?” Something felt odd, rehearsed. Fingers crossed Tristan didn’t ask me to have breakfast at his house. There was no way I could sit there and eat while pretending everything was fine. I could never unsee that body on the floor. Except, for the rest of the world, I had not seen the body on the floor. This was just so weird.

  “Fiat, are you okay? You don’t have to go if you don’t feel like it. I thought it was nice of Jessie to...”

  “Jessie? Jessie from the airport Jessie?” What the hell?

  He chuckled. “Relax, it’s a joint invitation—Jessie and Alexander. They asked me and suggested I bring you along since you know Jessie. I think it’s her way of thanking you for giving her a lift.”

  For all his cheerful conversation I still couldn’t see why I would be invited. Something wasn’t right unless... unless Jessie and her boss, this Alexander dude, knew about Tristan and me. Knew what?

  “It’s at Alexander’s place. We are probably going to catch up on old times, and I thought if you are free, afterward we could all drive down to the ranch and bring Tache home. I cleared all that with the detective in charge. They don’t need to go tramping around anymore. They are sure everything that happened was contained downstairs between the entrance and the den. They didn’t find anything connected to the victim anywhere else.” He stopped and seemed to be waiting for my answer. “Well this isn’t going how I had hoped. I didn’t mean to upset you, Fiat. You know that, don’t you?”