Dead Man's Rules (36 page)

The touch was warm, gentle and carried promise of things to come. Too soon he had to break it or beg her to take him to the bedroom.

“Cere,” he whispered into her hair. “You know how much I want you.”

“I can feel it,” she said with a giggle.

He jostled her and pulled back, only slightly embarrassed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.

“I like it,” she whispered.

Her radiant smile made Rafe’s heart skip. Hell, everything about her tonight turned his insides to butter. Why the hell didn’t she just go back to California? He hadn’t been joking about one night stands. The problem was he wanted her and not for only one night. He wanted to hold her, but he feared he might never be able to let her go. He would make a fool of himself and try to get her to stay. He had persuaded Carmen to move to Los Angeles. She had gone and paid the ultimate price. He’d never ask anyone to sacrifice for him again.

He jerked away and held her at arm’s length. “Behave.”

“Want to talk about Marco?” she asked with a coquettish grin.

He laughed. “Maybe.”

“I just wish I could hear his songs. I’ve been waiting for Freeda to come back and sing them for me. I don’t know much about music.”

“I can play the guitar and sing. Not well, but I can do it.” Suddenly he was willing to do anything, even sing Marco’s songs if it meant putting distance between them. At least singing might keep them from personal talk.

“Drink your wine and I’ll get the songs and Mom’s guitar.”

He sipped the wine while she retrieved the song sheets. The tunes were simple, and once he familiarized himself with the guitar, he began to put the words to music. A chill ran through him as he sang. He smiled at Cere, perched below him on the top step of the porch.

“Wow,” she said with a laugh when he finished the first song. “You’re not a bad singer. I didn’t realize you had hidden talents.”

He touched the folded paper, thinking about the songs and what they meant. “These aren’t bad.”

“I told you he was special. He accomplished a lot for having the deck stacked against him. There’s no telling how far he could have gone if he had lived. Why hasn’t it occurred to anyone that a man like that doesn’t give up?”

Rafe sighed. She was right, even if she was going about her investigation the wrong way. What could he do? What good would opening up old wounds do for anyone? Marco was dead. He moved to the next song, strumming Marco’s written chords.

“You’re not going to believe this, but I feel a connection to him,” she said. “It’s like it’s always been there. Remember the first night at the Palladium? I thought you saved me. Now that I think about it, I wasn’t carried out. Something, someone led me, let me know I was safe.”

His lip twitched in annoyance. “We were all safe. There was nothing there. Are you saying the ghost helped you? Formed a connection? That’s why you’re dreaming him?”

“Not anymore. I think that was triggered by seeing his picture in the paper. It must have set off my subconscious.”

“Better not tell Freeda.”

“Don’t laugh, Tafoya. Last week when I got locked inside, I knew that I’d get out safely. Sometimes I feel he’s watching me or talking to me. It’s like I can hear him.” She stopped as though she realized how crazy that sounded.

Rafe peered at her over the top of the guitar. “Do you think your ghost will protect you from the person who almost ran you down or threatened you?”

She inhaled sharply, small face growing serious. “You don’t need to remind me of that.”

“The threats are not from a ghost. They’re real.”

“I know. I want to stop, but I feel bad for him. Look at those love songs. He poured his heart out and Mom never saw them.”

“My mother says her family was against her seeing him.”

“Have you asked your mother about Marco?”

He didn’t answer, pretending to work on the next song. He wasn’t certain how to explain, but he could see her determination. Maybe it was time to be more honest. He set the guitar aside. “When I discovered my mother’s involvement, it bothered me. I thought maybe he killed himself over her.”

“How did you find out?”

“Bradley Foster told me. It stopped me from publicly asking questions about the mystery woman.”

“Some mystery,” Cere said. “Everyone knew Marco wanted my mother. He painted their names on the wall of the Palladium.”

“She might not be that final mystery woman. There’s something else I haven’t told you.” He slid down from the chair to sit on the step beside her. “The woman could have been my Aunt Rosalie. She wrote to him in jail and he came to see her when he got out. That was how Mom got to know him.”

“And they started going out?”

He shrugged. “Apparently.”

Cere put her hand on his arm, gripping it. “Rafe, she was the one who gave Mom his letters. She might be the key. Can you get her to talk to me?”

“I’ve never met Aunt Rosalie. She moved away years ago.”

“Mom said...she was in love with him.”

A jolt of surprise reverberated inside him. “What? How does she know? Mom said…” He stopped. Again, there was too much at stake, too much he couldn’t reveal. He sighed and shook his head. “All that happened a long time ago. I’m not sure it’s worth digging up.”

Cere stared at him, but for once there was softness in her gaze. When she touched his arm this time, it was a gentle squeeze. “That’s why you tried to stop me from doing the story, isn’t it? You didn’t want me dragging your mom and her sister into this.”

His nod was quick. “Now you can see the problem.”

“Rafe, I don’t think he killed himself.”

His stomach knotted, but he made the declaration he had been ignoring since the first morning he took up Marco with his mother. “Neither do I.”

“As sheriff, Rafe, you have the power to re-open that case.”

Rafe sighed heavily, a finger stroking the scar on his face. For years he hid it behind his beard. Now it was a reminder of how things could go wrong while trying to do the right thing. A young gang member had sliced his face in a knife fight while Rafe was trying to save his life.

“I’ve thought about it. If I hadn’t discovered my mother’s involvement, I might have done it.”

“So now what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want more people to be hurt.” He leaned toward her and touched her lips gently with his, ignoring the urge to wrap his arms around her and hold onto her. “That includes you.”

She stroked his face, touching the scar with exploring fingers. “I’m not as fragile as you think.”

He pulled her hand away, kissed it and got to his feet. “That’s what scares me. I better get going.”

“Before I drag you up to my room?”

He tilted his head toward her, attempting to look as stern as possible, but he feared she could see right through him. “Goodnight, sweet Cere.”

“One more thing. How about if I do a story on Naldo?”

“What?” That came out of left field, but he had a feeling she had other things on her mind.

“A feature story.” Her eyes came alive as she hopped up and began pacing back and forth on the porch. “I could talk to people. Find out about his life. Heck, get the truth about that buried treasure. Maybe it would stop those people digging up the yard.”

“You just want to ask about Marco,” he said with a shake of his head.

“I’m good at people features. Naldo was a fixture in town, right? So far all I’ve seen in the paper is mention that he once ran a pawn shop and now he’s a murder victim. There has to be more to him than that.”

Rafe groaned, but she was right. Willie had talked about doing a feature, but none of them had the time to work on it so it had fallen by the wayside.

“I’ll ask Uncle Willie. We tried contacting his son but no one knows where he is. His grandson is an attorney in Albuquerque but he’s back east on a civil case. If Willie agrees, I’ll pass on the information.”

“Great! Thanks.” She kissed his cheek and turned away.

He walked to the gate, almost fearing she might come after him. As he opened it, he glanced back. She was pacing the porch, chewing on a nail. His earlier desire faded. Her mind was elsewhere—on a new story idea.

He wanted to tell her to stop her crazy drive for the truth. Wanted to promise to keep her safe, but maybe she was better off with the damn ghost. That was where her mind was.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The sun felt good on her bare arms as Cere sank onto a rickety wooden chair on the porch outside Robby’s house. The sound of a blaring television came through the open door.

“Tell me about Naldo,” she said after tapping the audio record button on her cell phone.

Robby was a gangly youth, all arms and legs with a lean torso covered by a too large T-shirt and baggy Bermuda shorts. A gold earring pierced one eyebrow.

“He was a nice old guy,” he said, scratching a bony arm. “Why do you wanna know?”

“I’m doing a story for the paper.”

Willie had called her personally to approve the idea, but it meant more than a feature story. She knew what Rafe’s acquiescence meant. He was allowing her to ask questions about Naldo—and perhaps Marco—without arousing suspicion. “What was he like?”

“He liked to gossip, but never bothered anyone. He just liked to talk. He was a hard worker. Always fixing things.”

This she had already heard from Jerry and the guys down at the Matador where she joined them at the counter to launch her initial round of interviews. Thinking of their claims she posed her next question.

“What about rumors he had buried treasure?”

His thin lips drew into a sneer. “He kept his lawn so nice there was no way he would dig it up. He kept his money in a box in the house. As for talk about coins, ppffft, he talked about ’em plenty, but I never saw them. I think they’re gone.”

“Do you think whoever killed him was after his money?”

“Sure. Everyone knew he had cash around. He didn’t believe in banks.”

“No one ever came to visit him? No family?”

“I heard he had a wife and son. She died before I was born. His son went to prison. He’s probably still there.”

Rafe said they couldn’t find the son. Perhaps he was still in prison. She would have to check.

Across the yard a green-and-white police cruiser slowed and stopped in front of the old man’s house. She got to her feet. “Can we talk again? Or would you like to come over to the house with me? Mayor Foster arranged to get me inside.”

BJ Foster hitched up his gray pants and lumbered up the sidewalk. He was shaking his head, cowboy hat bobbing. “I told Daddy this isn’t a good idea, but he says if you write something in the paper it might get people thinking and shake loose some ideas.”

Cere gave an understanding smile. “No new leads?”

He held up his hand, eyes frosty. “Whoa! I’m not giving interviews. You can go through the house, but I’m not saying anything for the record.”

“Is it okay if Robby comes?”

Behind her, Robby shifted. BJ fixed him with a cold stare. “I guess. As long as neither of you touches anything.”

“What about the house and its contents?” she asked as they approached the front steps. “What will happen to it?”

“We reached the grandson but he can’t come right now. Personally I can’t imagine Shark with a family. He’d come out of prison every few years and go right back. He’d been in trouble with the law since Daddy was sheriff.”

With a jerk of a meaty hand, BJ removed the crime scene tape that sealed the front door. He pulled out a key. “I can’t stay long, so don’t expect to take your time.”

The inside of the house had the musty smell of an area that had been closed up. A thin layer of dust covered all the surfaces of a cluttered, claustrophobic living area. Cere could picture Naldo sitting on the sagging chair in front of a large television. A quilt was folded neatly across the arm. Religious curios and trinkets crammed nearby shelves.

“That cabinet is where he kept his box with the money,” Robby volunteered, pointing at a mahogany cabinet with a glass front.

The objects inside were shoved together, remnants of the investigation. A picture frame caught her eye, and she opened the cabinet door.

“What are you doing?” BJ protested.

“I want to see these pictures.” The rose-colored plastic frame held three pictures. In one, a young man and a plump woman posed. The woman held a baby. The hairstyles and clothes were out of the 50’s. Another was a school picture of a frowning youth of about thirteen. The final picture was a snapshot of the same boy standing beside three other boys. One was Marco.

She looked toward BJ. “Shark hung with Marco?”

He walked over to look at the picture. “That was before my time. Look at those guys. Thugs.”

Marco and Shark had long hair that curled over their shoulders and wore tight black T-shirts. The other two boys wore slacks and cotton shirts. Their hair was thick but much shorter.

“Who are those guys?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know.”

“May I take this picture?”

“Why?” He frowned at her, blue eyes troubled.

“I want to show it to Mom. Maybe she’ll know who they are.”

He started to shake his head, then shrugged. “Hell, go ahead.”

She slipped the snapshot out of the frame. On the back was a date written in pencil—1976. Were these guys still around? Could they tell her about anything?

The murder scene in the kitchen had been cleaned, and the bedroom held no clues. It had a twin bed with a neat quilted spread. The walnut dresser held several pictures of Naldo and his wife and a recent graduation portrait. Probably the grandson.

As they left the house, Cere turned toward the garage where Marco lived the last few months of his life. “May I check the garage?”

“Nothing to see.”

“I’d like to see inside.”

He opened the door, and she peered into the interior. If Marco had once lived there, any signs of his presence were long gone. The walls held only racks of garden and automotive tools. Tour concluded, Cere headed home, feeling disillusioned.

Her mother was making lunch when Cere returned. “How did it go?” she asked, as she slathered mustard on slices of bread and placed thin pieces of roast beef on it.