Dead Man's Rules (9 page)

It wasn’t as though Cere would be interested in him. She probably dated lawyers, doctors, or rich business types.

He glanced at Freeda who had grown still. The two women seemed very different. While Cere appeared calm and confident, Freeda’s movements were animated and restless. Her voice was loud, as though she didn’t care who heard her. Men probably found her interesting with her nicely rounded body, wide, olive shaped eyes, and tousled piles of onyx curls.

Cere, on the other hand, resembled an exotic doll.
Damn, she had beautiful eyes. TV didn’t do them justice.
They were brown with gold flecks that grew bold when she was excited. Her gaze fastened on his shirt.
What was she thinking?

“Have you ever tried to solve the mystery of that hand?” she asked suddenly.

He shifted, and his smile tightened. “Mystery? Is there something you know that I don’t?”

“Do you think Marco Gonzales was murdered?”

“Suicide,” he corrected, using his official law enforcement tone. “That was the finding by the sheriff and coroner.”

“Pffft.” Freeda waved her hand and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “Back then people could be bought off with a little green.”

Cere pointed a red fingernail at her cousin. “Exactly. What about the money? Did he leave buried treasure? That’s what you told us when we were kids. Riggins wrote that it has never been found.”

Rafe took a sip of coffee and contemplated his answer carefully. “No one knows for certain about lost money. It was another claim exaggerated over the years. I’m sorry I passed it along.”

“Why do the stories continue?” A slight furrow appeared on Cere’s smooth forehead as she frowned. “Why do people still go out there?”

“Are you thinking of visiting the Palladium? I should warn you. The building is boarded up. It’s been condemned and the floorboards are rotting. One of these days someone is going to fall through the upper floor.” Enough preaching. He shoved away his coffee cup. “I better get to work. It was nice meeting you both and breakfast is on me.”

Freeda rose as he picked up their check and moved out of the booth. He reached for his hat that hung on a curving metal rack at the end of the booth.

“Thanks, Sheriff. I hope we see you again.” She gave Cere a wink and waved across the room. “I’m going to the can. Meet you in the parking lot.”

As Cere stood, her hand caught his sleeve. “Maybe you should take us out there, Sheriff. We’d like to see the hand in the daylight.”

Damn, she was perseverant, but he shook his head, again hoping to discourage her. “I chase people out. I don’t give tours. Enjoy your vacation with your mother.”

“I didn’t come for vacation.” Her eyes flashed with irritation but she waved a hand as though realizing how curt she sounded. “I mean, I came to see Mom, but I want to do a story on the handprint. I
need
to.”

His insides knotted, as his breakfast churned in his stomach. Poor Lottie. She would be hurt if she realized her daughter’s real reason for coming. He didn’t ask why she needed to do the story. He knew. Ego.

Reaching down, she pulled a reporter’s notebook from her bag. “Riggins story didn’t quote anyone who knew Marco. If you won’t do an interview, do you know anyone who might talk to me?”

Why had he wondered what she might think about him? She was only after her damn story. Acid boiled in his stomach. This woman was no Gary Riggins, content to do a half-assed job. She would dig, pry, and eventually she might uncover some ugly truths. And she would spill it all out on national television. She could hurt a good many people, just as she destroyed the homecoming for that little actor in her last story. But he hadn’t known the kid. He would know anyone she hurt in Rio Rojo. And it was his sworn duty to protect the citizens of his county.

He gritted his teeth as he forced an answer, hoping for one final chance at dissuading her. “No one will talk to you. My advice is to let it go. Relax. Take that vacation with Lottie.”

He might as well have struck her. Her chin snapped up and her body grew rigid. He drew back at the determination he saw grow in her bright eyes along with her rising voice.

“Don’t try to tell me what I should do. It’s time someone found out who murdered Marco Gonzales. Yes, I said, murdered, Sheriff. If you don’t want to help me investigate, I’ll do it on my own.”

Cere’s sharp, insistent voice rang out in the silence that came at the end of a song. Rafe sensed heads turning toward them.

“The Palladium is private property.” He knew his own voice was being heard too, but hopefully it discouraged any listeners. “The doors are padlocked. If I catch you out there, I’ll arrest you for trespassing.”

She didn’t flinch. In fact she grew still and stony as a statue. “Where were you yesterday? There was a weird guy out there with a crowbar like he was about to break the damn padlock.”

His gut wrenched and he lowered his voice, hoping she took the hint and lowered hers too. “Was he driving a black SUV?”

“We never saw a car. He was an older guy, talked like he was whispering.”

He couldn’t stifle the curse that burst from his lips before he turned and marched to the counter cash register. He shoved money and the check at Josie. “Can you keep an eye on Ginny until Mom comes to get her?”

“Sure,” she said, glancing toward the back where Ginny sat on the floor in the play area, pulling a wooden train.

Starting for the door, he remembered he hadn’t said goodbye to Cere. Courtesy made him turn. She sat in the booth again, tapping into her phone. He walked over and put his hand on the table. “Sorry for the outburst, but you better stay away from there. That guy is dangerous.”

Wariness entered her eyes as she glanced up. “I figured that.” She took out a card from her pocket and handed it to him, giving him a wide smile as though they had not argued. “This is my cell number, Sheriff. Call me. I’ll buy coffee and we can talk.”

Shocked at the offer, he could only stare, uncertain what he read in her direct gaze. He had no time to think about it. He took the card and stomped out the door, eager to forget her expressive eyes. He had a bigger problem.

Diego Diaz!

If he was inside the Palladium or lurking outside with a crowbar, he was going to jail.

Chapter Nine

With growing interest Cere observed Rafe as he strode across the parking lot. At least six feet tall with long legs and an ass that looked good in tight black jeans, he was a fine physical male specimen. Her adolescent crush had grown into an attractive man.

But she couldn’t let his looks distract her. She knew she shocked him. He thought he’d won their argument, but evasive interview subjects were nothing new to her. She honed her skills disarming them. Pulling out all the stops by claiming Marco was murdered surprised him.
Good!
Let him think about it.

So now what? She was tempted to grab Freeda and drive to the dance hall to see if that was where the sheriff headed in such a rush. It would serve that strange man right if she could tell him she’d turned him in. Was he dangerous? She didn’t care to find out.

Freeda darted back to the table, nervous energy spilling over. “Hey, guess what? I met a woman in the restroom who used to live in Rio de los Muertos. She has pictures of the old commune, so I’m going over to her house.”

“Freeda, we just got here.”

“I know. But you want to work on that story…and…hey, what happened to the sexy sheriff? He was really eyeballing you.”

“He had business.”

“Oh, well, see you at
Tia’s
later. Daphne knows her and can give me a lift.”

Before Cere could protest, her cousin scooped up the brochures, stuffed them into her bag and hurried to the door. Trust Freeda to make an instant friend and set off in some new direction. What should she do for the rest of the morning? Sitting at her mother’s tiny house alone wasn’t appealing and she didn’t feel like wandering around alone. That left one option—work on her story.

Cere glanced around the café. The breakfast crowd had thinned, but a few men in jeans and work shirts remained at the counter. An old man wielded a mop outside the restroom entrance. Why not conduct research here? What better place to get information than the local diner? She pulled a fistful of cards from her bag along with a pen and small notebook and approached the counter. She took a seat at one end and put down her bag. Turning over a fresh mug on the counter, she gestured for Josie’s attention.

With a smile, Cere turned to the men working on half eaten plates of tamales and breakfast burritos. She put down the notebook and rested the pen beside it.

“Hi, I’m Cere Medina from
Scope,
a national TV show. I’m doing a story on Marco Gonzales and the hand on the wall. Did any of you know him?”

“I’ve seen your reports,” the man next to her said with a wide smile. He wore a faded black T-shirt and jeans. Shaggy black hair curled at his neck. She guessed his age at around thirty. “I’m Jerry Orozco. You ever met Angelina Jolie?”

“I’ve talked to her a number of times,” she replied in a light voice that made it sound as though they were best buddies. So what if her interviews consisted of chasing the star through halls with a microphone? She launched into her normal response when asked about her connection to Hollywood celebrities. “It’s funny how much those stars are like us. Without fancy clothes and make up, you barely recognize them. I hear Marco was a celebrity around here?”

“Nah,” Jerry said, and turned back to his plate.

A round-faced, dark man beyond him shook his head. “Trouble maker. That’s what my dad says.”

She picked up her pen, heart beginning to thud. Had she hit pay dirt immediately? “What is your name? Did he know Marco?”

“My name’s Sam, but my old man never knew him. That was a long time ago.”

“You ever talked to Tom Cruise?” The question came from a heavy man seated farther down the counter in a grubby work shirt.

“Whatever happened to Sylvester Stallone?” another man in a green baseball cap asked. His scraggly hair was longer than the others and shot with gray strands. His dark face was leathery beneath gray stubble and he had a long red tattoo down one thin arm. “You never hear about him no more.”

Despite the useless questions, Cere retained her bright smile. “Who might be willing to talk to me about Marco? Do you guys know anyone who talked to the reporter who wrote the story in the Santa Fe paper?”

“No one talked to him!” The harsh voice came from the barrel-chested cook who had brought out tamales earlier. He stood at the door to the kitchen and flicked angry eyes along the counter. “No one cares about him no more and no one is gonna say nothin’ to you.”

Any interest from the men at the counter closed like a door slamming shut. Their smiles disintegrated and they turned away. The man in the green cap rose and nodded, face averted.

“Did you know him?” Cere persisted. He looked older than the others.

“Way before my time. Besides, that newspaper story was crap.”

She tried another tack. “What about the Palladium itself? I might do a story on it. They say it’s haunted.”

All four laughed, and she sensed unease as they looked beyond her. She twisted slightly on her stool and saw that the burly cook had taken up a position at the end of the counter, thick arms folded over his greasy apron.

Cere decided to confront him head on. “What about you? What do you think?”

“Hmph!” The cook cocked his head to the side as pointing out a direction. “You wanna do a story on a haunted house, go on up the canyon to the old Hollister place.”

“Frank’s right.” Jerry jerked a thumb toward the window. “You oughta check that. Like it’s not called Hollister Ranch no more. It’s Tres Padres.” His voice carried a sarcastic note that drew a ripple of laughter.

“Why would I be interested?” Cere asked.

“Could have Hollywood connections,” Jerry said. “No one knows who bought the place, but there’s lots of heavy equipment going up there. I hear they’re rebuilding the old house.”

“You can’t go camping up at the lake,” the cook added. “It’s fenced off. Did the same guy buy that land?”

“Someone did,” green cap said. “Hell, we used to picnic there when I was a kid.”

Cere drained her coffee cup. This was going nowhere. She had no interest in some local land issue. She could sense the conversation shifting.

“You ought to talk to Bradley Foster.” The comment came from the old man who had been pushing a mop bucket near the restroom entrance. “Or maybe you did already?”

“Who?” She jerked toward him. The man wore an orange Denver Broncos T-shirt below denim overalls. He was older with gray stubble on his head.

“Knock it off, Naldo,” the cook growled, “and get back to work.”

The old man turned, shouldered the door and pushed his bucket inside.

“Who is Bradley Foster?’ she asked, turning back to the cook.

“Ask your momma.” His smug smile made her shiver.

The man in the green cap leaned forward on the counter. “He’s the mayor. Knows everyone and everything.”

“At least he thinks he does,” round-faced Sam added. “For sure he likes the ladies.”

They laughed in unison, exchanging glances and the undercurrent that had been running through the room hit her like a slap. Could Bradley Foster be her mother’s boyfriend?

She’d had enough. Time to try another course of action—like the local newspaper office. At least it might have old clippings. She slid off the stool and put her notebook into her bag.

“Can anyone tell me where the newspaper office is?”

“Not open yet,” the cook said. “Stella’s in the back and she don’t open until ten. Hey, Stella? Someone’s looking for you.”

A short, rotund woman emerged from around the corner, holding the hand of a small dark haired girl. The woman had short curly black hair and wore too much eye make-up. Her dark eyes were ringed by very black liner and mascara clumped on impossibly long black lashes.