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  When the steaks were nearly done, Shelly went in the house and came back with baked potatoes. She must have put them in the oven when she first went inside to shower and change. She also came up with a tossed salad and some red wine. Good food, almost as good as my campfire special–well, better, if you don’t like ash flavoring.

  I did full justice to the meal–except for the wine. Shelly seemed to have forgotten my aversion to alcohol. I pretended to sip the wine. To me it smelled like rotten fruit. Shelly more picked at her food than ate it. I thought I understood. Having the cops come dig up your rose garden looking for a dead husband was bound to dampen one’s enthusiasm for a barbeque.

  “How about I give the scraps to Oscar?” I said when I finished–and it seemed obvious Shelly would leave most of hers.

  “Let me get a newspaper so . . . .” She didn’t finish, but paused, and then said, “Oh, to hell with Barry’s brick paving. He’s gone and I’m about to sell this place.”

  When I returned from giving Oscar what was likely the most expensive meal he would ever enjoy, Shelly said, “I’m sorry about tonight. I haven’t been very good company. I love this place. I would have left Barry, except for this. Living here has been a dream.

  ” Her mood darkened as she continued, “It’s bad enough that I have to leave it, but to have those goons dig up my roses . . . . That birdbrain Collins better not ever show his face here again. If I could afford it, I’d get a lawyer and sue the clowns.”

  “Can I help clean up?”

  “If you’ll roll the barbeque grill into the utility room–put it on the left, by the garden stuff–I’ll take care of the rest.”

  When I came back from that I said, “I’m free Friday afternoons and weekends. If you need help moving, or with your yard sale, be sure and call me. I’ll be glad to lend a hand.”

  I think at that point we both knew any possibilities for a romance were fading fast.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I made no progress on the investigation that weekend or the next week. Part of the reason was that I came down with a cold on Sunday. It happens when school begins. In spite of the sniffles, I drove the Model-A coupe to a club meeting and anywhere else I could find an excuse to go. I couldn’t explain it. I simply enjoyed putt-putting around in that cramped, noisy, antique car. I also watched Nat play with the Fort Lewis soccer team and mostly avoided thinking about A.A. McLaughlin and Virginia–except on Tuesday when Arthur’s check arrived. Then, on Friday, I got a letter from Rosa. She invited me to bring my daughter and come for a visit Sunday afternoon.

  I called Nat and told her about the letter. She said she’d make Sunday available, since it was for me. Her only condition was, she wanted to drive her car with the top down–if the weather was good. It seemed a reasonable request. Between work, school, soccer, and research projects for me, Nat hadn’t had a chance to get out of town in her new car. I would have preferred my pickup–something with a little more leg room–but a top-down ride in a convertible can be exhilarating, especially in the fall.

  It was about a two-hour drive to Cuba. We figured an hour talking with Rosa, and we’d be back home by five, which would give Nat time to finish her homework. Things didn’t quite work out that way.

  It was a gorgeous early fall day when Nat came by the house with the top already down on her Miata. The temperature was right at eighty degrees with hazy clouds taking the edge off the sun’s heat. Once we were out of town I said, “What do you think of your car now the new has worn off a little?”

  “If it weren’t for the payments, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven,” she said. “It’s strange to go from having to bum rides, to having Mom’s Honda, to having a new Miata in barely over a year. I’m surprised by the reaction at school too, especially since I’ve moved to the dorm. I’m not wallpaper anymore.”

  “Yeah, it’s surprising how much we judge people by the cars they drive. That’s one of the things I like about the Model-A. I’m a reserved, maybe even introverted, person, but when I drive the A, people assume I’m outgoing and friendly. Perfect strangers come up and talk to me.”

  Nat said, “My car does the opposite. Kids assume I’m a spoiled, rich kid. Their attitude changes when they find out I’m working part-time to make the payments.”

  “Which reminds me, Nat. I finally got your mom’s life insurance settlement. I paid off your car and my truck. Now, you are a spoiled, rich kid.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, Dad.”

  “Seemed fair to me. Your mom had life insurance to equal two years of her teacher's salary. She wanted it in case I needed help with the house and raising you. Consider the car a gift from your mom.”

  “Thanks, Dad. That will make it even more special.”

  Once we were out of town and on the road to Bloomfield I asked, “How are you doing in school?”

  “Oh, not bad. I need to spend more time on homework, though. It’s hard to concentrate living in the dorm. There’s always some commotion going on. Maybe I'll cut back on my work hours now, so I’ll have more time.”

  “Good plan,” I said. “Tell me about your roommates.”

  “They're all freshmen. Two are identical twins from Pueblo. They’re majoring in boys. If you look up ‘airhead’ in the dictionary, you’ll see their pictures. I don’t know them very well, and I’m not sure I care to. I can’t see them staying in school long enough to graduate.”

  “You should have a heart-to-heart with them.”

  Nat shook her head and said, “Someone needs to, but I’m not sure they’d listen to me. They’re older than I am.”

  “Being an old seventeen doesn’t count anymore?”

  “Maybe I’ll give it a shot.”

  When Nat didn't seem inclined to continue, I asked, “Who is your other roommate?”

  “She’s a new girl on the soccer team. She’s quiet and doesn’t have a lot of friends. I was surprised when she came up to me and said there was an empty bed in her room. I got an offer from another teammate, too, but I picked Melanie because she is quiet. I figured she could use a friend, and I knew I could use the quiet. She wants to major in communications. She’ll need to get out of her shell if she expects to do well. That would help her on the team too. She has good skills, but she needs to be more aggressive.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Ignacio, of all places.”

  I remembered it was Ignacio Shelly’s team had been playing in their last game. I was intrigued. I’d never met anyone from Ignacio. Always small, the town was originally settled by Spanish immigrants moving up from Mexico. Now most of the inhabitants were Indians. The little cluster of homes was surrounded by the Ute Indian Reservation. The economy had picked up since the tribe built the Sky Ute Casino there, but the population was still less than eight hundred.

  “Is she Indian?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. Her name’s Martineau, Melanie Martineau. Sounds French, but she looks and talks like a typical Anglo, well, prettier than typical.” She paused for a minute and then said, “She’s a help when I want to go somewhere, too. You didn’t want me going places alone, and she likes hanging out with me.”

  “What’s her dad do?”

  “There’s only her and her mom. Something else we have in common.”

  “Okay, what’s her mom do then?”

  “Melanie won’t talk about herself. She’s always quiet, but she really clams up if anyone asks a personal question. It’s only by accident I found out she’s from Ignacio.”

  I enjoyed the wind in my crew-cut for a few minutes before I asked, “How are you and Brian getting along?”

  “Okay, but I think he’s jealous of all the attention Melanie and I attract in my car. We haven’t had time for a date since school started, but we sometimes get together at the library to study.”

  “He’s going to the college too?”

  “Yeah, he’s almost nineteen, but he’s still a freshman. He only goes to school part time. He works
quite a bit. He’s paying his own way through school and doesn’t want to borrow any money. We have a computer programming class together.”

  “Sounds like a smart kid–in more ways than one.”

  Nat glanced over at me to see if I was serious and then said, “Actually, we’d make a good team. He’s better at logic, and I’m better at math.”

  “How serious are you?”

  Nat didn’t say anything for a minute, and then she grinned, wagged her head sideways, and said, “I think he’s the one. Only I’m not ready to let him know it. He’s gotta figure it out for himself.”

  I decided now was as good a time as any, so I said, “That reminds me of something, Natasha. I sorta left the teaching of values and morals to your mom, but now she's gone I worry about what I don't know. I suppose it's too late to be much of an influence, and I know it runs counter to what you get through television and movies, but I'm against smoking, drinking, drugs, lying, and premarital sex.” There, I'd said it.

  “Dang, Dad. You don't leave much room for fun, do you?”

  Now what was I supposed to say? We rode in silence for a minute or so. I glanced over at Nat and saw she was grinning. “You're enjoying my discomfort, aren't you?” I said.

  “Yes, actually. It's like I've always wondered why it's so tough for parents to talk to their kids about the birds and the bees.”

  “I think the reason is that when you're little we're afraid you won't understand what we're talking about, and then suddenly we're afraid you already know too much.”

  “I should keep you guessing, but I won't. Actually I agree with you–about sex, that is.”

  “Mind telling me how you arrived at that decision?” I asked.

  “You remember how on Sundays once or twice a month Mom and I would go on a mother-daughter date? About half the time, we'd go to a Mormon church. The other half we'd go somewhere and eat and talk about what we heard in church. The things I learned in the Mormon Sunday School seemed right to me.”

  “My mom had a bad experience at a church run school,” I said. “She had no use for the white man's religion. She taught me the Cherokee way of truth.” When Nat didn't say anything, I asked, “How come a Mormon church?”

  “We tried a couple of others, but we both liked the Mormons better. Mom went to a Mormon church some when she was little.”

  I said, “I’m aware of that. We were married by a Mormon Bishop. Not my choice, but I didn't object when I found out he’d do it for free. Did you know Ezzy Miller is a Mormon?”

  “I suspected he was. I always wonder when a person doesn't smoke or swear.”

  I said, “I still like the Cherokee way, but I try to keep an open mind.”

  We were both silent for perhaps five minutes. Then Nat changed the subject and talked about school and friends until we got to Bloomfield. From Bloomfield to near Cuba, we reviewed the Cherish McLaughlin case. We didn’t come up with any new ideas.

  Shortly before we got to Cuba, Nat braked and pulled off the road. She popped the glove box, yanked out a map and opened it over the steering wheel. “Look at the map,” she said, “but notice the cars that go by.”

  “We being followed?”

  “I’m not sure . . . . There! That old Jeep wagon. I think it was parked on the street near our house when I came to pick you up. It was gone when we drove away. Then I thought I saw it again as we left town. I noticed it behind us now when the road started to wind back and forth.”

  “Only the driver inside,” I said. “My impression was a fifty-ish man wearing a ball cap. I didn’t look at the license plate.”

  “It’s a Colorado plate. What should we do?”

  “Might as well go on. We can hardly hide in this car,” I said.

  Nat drove into town, and I kept an eye peeled for any lurking, gray-green Jeep. I sure didn't want to lead Smith to Rosa. I didn’t see anything suspicious, so I directed Nat to the Cisneros home.

  When we got to Rosa’s place, we knew we wouldn’t be talking to Rosa. There were three police cars and a mobile crime lab parked on the street. Strings of yellow police tape fenced off the front yard, and neighbors were huddled together talking. I directed Nat beyond the official cars and asked her to wait while I walked back to the house. I found a lanky sheriff’s deputy doing crowd control, gave him my card, and asked who was in charge. He looked at my card for a few seconds and said, “Do you know anything about this?” He waved a hand toward Rosa’s house.

  “I had an appointment with Rosa. What’s happened to her?”

  “Why did you want to see her?”

  “Maybe I should talk to the person in charge here,” I said.

  The deputy gave me a sour look and told me to wait where I was. He went to the front step and stuck his head in the door. After a minute or so, he came back, followed by a short man wearing a big hat and a western cut suit that couldn’t hide his belly. The short one came puffing across the front yard, trying vainly to keep up with the deputy. He stopped in front of me, pulled off his ten-gallon hat, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and then read my card, which the deputy handed to him. When he finished, he looked up at me and said, “I’m Gerald Tate, Sandoval County Sheriff. What are you doing here?”

  “Rosa Cisneros invited me to come visit her today.”

  “Why?”

  “I presume she’d decided to talk to me. I’m trying to find someone. I thought Rosa could help me.”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “A lady Rosa used to work for. What’s happened to Rosa?”

  “Any reason why your investigation could have caused this?”

  “Maybe I can answer that if you’ll tell me what this is. I barely got here. What’s happened?”

  “Somebody beat the hell out of Rosa last night. Tore up her house, broke her furniture and dishes. Very near killed her. Probably thought he had. A neighbor found her this morning when she came to take her to Mass.”

  Damn! I was too late again. “I hope I didn't do something that led to this,” I said, “but it is possible that someone who wanted the same information I was after wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “Do you know who that someone might be?”

  “I can give you a name.”

  Sheriff Tate sat me down in one of their cars and had me write out a detailed statement of what I was investigating, why it had led me to Rosa Cisneros, and why James W. Smith might also be interested in what Rosa knew.

  We were in Cuba more than two hours before we were allowed to leave.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Monday morning I called the sheriff’s office in Bernalillo and asked about Rosa. After a few minutes on hold, Sheriff Tate himself came on the line. He was brusque and not at all friendly.

  “Who am I speaking to?”

  “This is Daniel Corbin. I’m the private investigator you talked to in Cuba yesterday.”

  “What do you want this time?”

  “I’m concerned about Rosa. How is she doing?”

  “If you’re hoping to talk to her, forget it. She’s in a coma and not allowed visitors.”

  “Where is she?”

  “That’s none of your business.” Tate must have figured I'd never be in a position to vote for or against him.

  I said, “I hope you’ve got a guard on her room.”

  “And that’s my business.”

  After classes that afternoon, I called two hospitals in Albuquerque. I found Rosa at the second one. By assuming a Spanish accent and lying a bit, I learned Rosa had been in surgery for several hours, that she was critical, and still in a coma.

  After I talked to the hospital, I called Ezzy at home and caught him.

  “How Geronimo.”

  “Not very good, if you must know.” I filled him in on what had happened to Rosa Cisneros then asked, “Do you know any lowlife that drives an older, gray-green, Jeep Cherokee?”

  “Doesn't ring any bells. Why do you ask?”

  “Nat thought we might have be
en followed yesterday, Jeep Cherokee with a Colorado plate.”

  “I can't help you with that, but I might have a lead on Jimmy Smith.”

  “Where is he?”

  “A guy in our ward works security at the Ute Mountain Casino. I asked him yesterday if he knew of any new employee, middle-aged guy doing slot machine maintenance. He said they'd picked up a new guy about three months ago, and, get this: He said this guy must have been in an accident. He’s been wearing quite a few bandages. Have you got a photo from Nevada yet?”

  “It should come soon.”

  The next morning, Ezzy called me before I left for my first class.

  He said, “I called that sheriff over in Nevada. He faxed me a description and a picture of Jimmy Smith. The picture's lousy, but he said you'd be getting a better one in the mail. I showed what I had to the security guy. He said it doesn't look like their man. Just thought you'd want to know.”

  “You aren't sticking your neck out on this, are you?”

  “No sweat, Geronimo. I figured I could justify doing it, given the chance there’s some tie between Smith and Candy’s death. Besides, I’m the boss. Who’s gonna be checking up on me?”

  “What's this slot machine repairman call himself?”

  “James Wilson. The ‘James’, along with the bandages, sort of makes my antenna tingle.”

  It made mine tingle too. I said, “I'll have to run over and take a look at him when my photo comes. There’s something else I’ve been thinking about, Ezzy. Candy Appleton drove an old red Cadillac. The guy that broke into my trailer was driving a big white car and there’s some evidence the guy who beat up the Valenzuelas was driving an old white Cadillac. You don’t suppose it could be Candy’s car painted white, do you?”

  Ezzy said, “I’ll find out what this James Wilson drives.”

  It was about then that a gossip columnist for the local newspaper stuck another needle in the G. Daniel Corbin voodoo doll. The column was headlined, What Are Our Math Students Learning? It told of a Fort Lewis College math professor who did private investigative work as a side-line. The article went on to describe how this investigator had staked a witness over an ant hill when he didn’t get answers to his questions. The professor/investigator was said to have justified his actions by having Apache ancestors. The columnist went on to suggest the possibility that students might suffer a similar fate if they didn’t have the right math answers.