Dead Man's Rules (27 page)

The woman nodded eagerly as she took Cere’s hand. “She’s my angel. Rafe’s doing a good job with her.”

Cere turned to Mr. Tafoya, as her mother excused herself and yanked Freeda away. “Rafe told me you and your brother own the newspaper?”

Pride surged into his warm brown eyes as they shook hands. “Willie handles the editorial side. I do sales and composing. I used to do the printing, but we send it out now. We always wanted Rafe and Willie’s little girl to take it over eventually, but she’s gone to Albuquerque and Rafe, well, at least he’s doing what he enjoys.” His eyes found Rafe who stood in deep conversation with a tall, slim woman with long black hair.

An unwelcome spark of jealousy raced through Cere. She forced her eyes away. “You wanted him to be a journalist?”

“He majored in journalism, worked the police beat. Then the law enforcement bug bit him and he went to a police academy in California. Being a law enforcement officer is hard work, but he’s good at it. He could have done well in the city. Always been smart, dedicated.”

Cere let her eyes drift to Rafe. He laughed at something the woman was saying. Even from a distance, she could make out the thick black lashes as he winked at her. Her muscles tightened, and Cere fought off the unwelcome sensations piercing through her. “I’ll bet you’re glad to have him back home, Mrs. Tafoya.”

“Please,” she said with a light touch of Cere’s shoulder, “we’re Art and Stella. I was afraid he’d never come back, but it’s good to have him so close.”

“He told me about why he came back, how his wife was killed.”

The couple traded glances, and Stella looked her over again. “He really came back for Ginny. She shouldn’t grow up in a violent area and she needed to be around family. That little girl means more to him than anything.”

“Taking care of Ginny, people. That’s Rafe. That’s his life,” Art added. “What do you think of our town? Besides that it’s too quiet. I read the blog we re-printed.”

“You write pretty good,” Stella said, her warm smile widening.

“
Well
, Stella. Well—not good.” The tall man who had been part of the Tafoya group earlier had come up behind Stella. He nodded at Cere and held out his hand. “Hello, Cere, I’m Willie Tafoya. Thanks for letting us reprint your article. Stella is correct. You do write well. Next time you do a blog, let me know. We’re always looking for material. I’ll give you a byline. But, pardon me, you were telling Art about the town?”

The praise surprised her and she shook Willie’s hand with a beaming smile. “I’ve never spent much time in little towns, so it’s different. When I go to the store, they call me by name. I cashed an out of state check and no one questioned it. Of course, my uncle runs the bank.”

Art nodded. “That’s the way things are in a small town.”

“Everyone knows everyone,” Stella agreed.

She made a quick decision, one she hoped she didn’t regret. “Like Marco Gonzales? I heard that he helped you and your brother found the paper, Mr. Tafoya.”

All three smiles vanished and Willie grew rigid while Art shifted uncomfortably. They exchanged glances, but Willie was the one who spoke. “Like hell, he helped. Maybe he talked about it, but we worked for old Mr. Clarkson long before he came back to town.”

“So you knew him?”

Stella fidgeted, her gaze lowering. Cere noted that her black lashes were as long and curly as Rafe’s.

Art looked across the yard, eyes purposely avoiding Cere. Again, the response came from Willie, whose pointed jaw had grown noticeably tight. “It was hard to miss him. He made certain everyone in town got to know his name.”

“But no one wants to talk about him. Why?”

Stella brushed her fingers through her neatly curled hair. When she looked up, her brown eyes were hard as marbles. “That’s another thing about small towns. It’s like a family, you know. You keep your secrets from strangers. Marco talked a lot, but not all of his ideas were wrong.”

Cere sensed undercurrents in the conversation. Willie fixed Stella with a pointed glare and looked ready to correct her again. Art folded his thick arms across his chest in a position of defense. All three were visibly uncomfortable.

Cere turned to Stella. “The other day you said he burned down the newspaper office. Did someone see him do it? Or ask him about it?”

“Kinda hard to ask,” Willie answered, “since he died that night. Someone did see him running away from the building with his shirt singed. Old Mr. Clarkson was working late and he barely got out. I remember when Marco was a kid he used to say someone should burn down the whole damn town. Urban renewal, he called it.”

“Yeah, right,” Art added with a harsh laugh.

A chill ran through Cere. No one had told her that someone saw Marco start the fires. Why had that information not appeared in the Riggins story?

“Cere, are you trying to impress my parents?” Rafe’s voice was light, and his arm touched her shoulder in a gentle, playful touch. “Is she regaling you with stories of being a fearless reporter?”

“We were talking about Rio Rojo and its storied past,” she said.

His mother frowned, while Willie snorted in disgust.

Art swiveled away and placed his hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Ginny keeps telling us about the rabbit pens. Lottie’s busy so do you mind showing them to us? Come on, Mom, Willie. Please excuse us?”

****

Needing a rest, Cere sank onto a chair near the edge of the patio. The party was winding down. Her gaze roved around the remaining guests. Rafe and his parents stood in a group at one corner of the yard. The clustering included the tall, dark-haired woman he’d been laughing with earlier. Stella seemed to know her well since they kept laughing together and playfully jostling.

She studied Rafe, tall, handsome and commanding. Why had he hidden the information about Marco living with Naldo and that Marco’s things were in Naldo’s box? What else did he know? He was hiding more. She could see it in his dark eyes. What was it about Marco that made everyone close up or become hostile?

“Cere?”

She jerked up and searched for the name of the tall, lanky man with the silver-blond hair and quick blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Mr. Gennaro, won’t you join me?”

He sank onto the chair beside her. “It’s Tony. I wanted to welcome you and offer you and your mother dinner any night.”

“Thanks.”

Freeda claimed the man had a crush on her mother, and her aunt confirmed that he’d had one in the past. From his nervous look, Freeda was right.

“Your mother is pleased you’re here. I hope you stay for a while.” At Lottie’s laugh across the yard, he jerked around. Cere followed his glance. Lottie leaned close to Bradley, and Tony’s face reddened. Who would have thought her mother would have two men pursuing her?

“I saw your article you did in the paper,” he continued. “I hear it was put on the internet. Are you going to put us on the map?”

“Maybe. I’m working on the old mystery of Marco Gonzales. Did you know him?”

Like the others, he drew back, and a curtain seemed to come down over his blue eyes. “Why dig up that particular thing?”

“Do you think he committed suicide?”

“I never really thought about it.”

“But you were here when he died?”

“I was away, in Europe, studying at a culinary academy, but I wish I had been here.” His placid face hardened into a grim mask, and a muscle twitched along his jaw line. “Maybe I could have made a difference. He burned my dad’s restaurant the night he died. Maybe…”

He blinked, shook his head and rose, wiping his hands together as though clearing away the subject. “No use talking about it. I just wanted to extend an invitation to you and your mother. Good night.”

Another closed door in her face. She studied the guests remaining, morose that she hadn’t learned anything new about Marco. Or had she? She had been right about one thing. Most of these people had known him and all had strong reactions to his name. Their blunt refusals spoke volumes even if no one would talk.

On impulse she took her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in the number she had been calling. Perhaps it belonged to someone in the backyard. No phone rang, she got no answer, and no one checked their phone. Heaving a sigh, she hung up. Another dead end.

Seeing no sign of Freeda, she began to clean up, throwing trash into the big plastic containers at the edge of the yard. As she worked, thoughts of Marco appeared in relation to the party guests. These people were his age. Where would he have fit in with this crowd in the present world? Would that quest for civil rights have transformed into civic responsibility? Maybe he could have ended up mayor instead of Bradley Foster. Or would his reputation as bad boy have proven stronger? Would he have become a hardened felon when he went back to jail?

The photo of the fierce young man with the raised hand returned. What happened to Marco? Had the town beaten him down to the point of despair? To suicide? His cousins thought he was railroaded but they hadn’t known him. Her uncles knew him and called him a hell raiser; her aunt labeled him crazy. Willie and Art made him sound like an outcast.

Cere put the last of the trash in the bins and rolled them one by one to the back gate. She opened the gate and pushed them through. As she slid the second barrel into place, a breeze stirred and a plastic cup flew out and fell to the ground. She reached down to pick it up and her breath caught. In the soft dirt between the gate and the alley was a footprint. An oval marked the center. The side of the left heel was worn. A shiver ran through her. She knew that boot print.

Was one of the guests the person who shot at her and Rafe? A more sinister thought hit her. Could one of their guests be Naldo’s killer? She started to look over the fence but an engine came to life at the end of the block. The lights of a vehicle came on, spotlighting her before backing away. As it turned, she saw it was a dark SUV. Diaz? Had he been parked in the alley? Maybe spying into the yard? She shivered and hurried back through the gate.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Rafe watched Cere from inside his office with more interest than he cared to admit. She stood in the main corridor of the courthouse, chatting with old Mrs. Peabody from Public Records. The thin, elderly woman was smiling patiently and nodding at Cere. Every so often she took a pencil from behind her ear and made a note on a yellow pad. He knew the topic of their discussion.

Damn Marco Gonzales.

He drew his gaze away, thinking about the party the previous night. He hadn’t spent much time with her, though he had been constantly aware of the pleasant tinkling of her laugh. She had looked very good in a pale yellow sundress that turned her skin the rich color of a caramel sundae. This morning she wore a gold blouse and matching slim skirt that not only showed off the tan, but her curves as well. A bright lime green bag with a designer pattern stamped across it was slung over her shoulder, pulled tight against one breast. He fought off the rush of desire that went through him every time he looked at her.

Mrs. Peabody turned from the counter and stepped away in brisk precision, her low heels clicking on the marble floor. Cere stood alone, staring down at the polished top as though the blank surface was interesting. Her delicate fingers tugged at her lower lip, face set, eyes unfocused.

He pushed away from his desk and approached her. “What are you thinking? You look a million miles away.”

Her head jerked up like a frightened deer and she glanced around the hall. “Rafe! Where did you come from?”

Disappointment surged through him as he pointed at the office door and then the entrance to his personal office. “You didn’t notice my office is right across the hall? I thought maybe you were hoping to run into me.”

Her face colored slightly and her lashes swept down. Shyness? From her? His earlier excitement returned. Then a playful gaze swept up to him.

“You wish, Tafoya. You know damn well why I’m here. I’m getting information about Marco and the fires he
allegedly
set.”

For an instant, he was jealous of a dead man. Did she ever think of anything else?

“Did you learn anything last night?” He was afraid of the answer.

Her eyes became troubled, stormy as sea water churning up sand. “People are hiding things. Even you.”

He couldn’t dispute that, but he wouldn’t enlighten her. “If you’re expecting me to spill all about a developing murder case, you should know I’m within my rights to silence.”

“It’s not all the murder case and you know it.”

He stood up straighter, hitching his thumbs in his belt. He couldn’t tell her all he knew. Too many lives were involved; too many people might get hurt. If he trusted her, he might say more, but he didn’t think she would keep a confidence where a story was concerned.

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“You claim Marco’s death and Naldo’s are not related. How do you know? Did you read the letters in the box?”

“What good would it do? Like I said, there were a number of things in there, like letters from Naldo’s son. I didn’t read those either.”

“May I see the letters from Marco?”

“Hell no! What are you really doing at the courthouse?”

She gestured toward the heavy wooden staircase that split through the center of the century old building and her eyes roamed around the wide gloomy halls. “Actually I wanted to get a look at this place where Marco’s trial was held. Is this where the jail is? Would he have been kept in a cell somewhere?”

“If you’re looking for a stone wall with his name chiseled on it, you’re out of luck. The jail was in the basement, but it’s no longer in use. We share space down the block with the city. The area below was covered with drywall and turned into a museum that is only open on weekends. I’ll take you down there if you want.”

She shrugged and pointed upstairs. “What about the courtroom? That’s where he was tried, isn’t it? When he was seventeen? Didn’t that old man Naldo work here?”

“Not back then. He was operating a pawn shop. I think the court room is open if you’d like to see it.”