 
## Raked Over

by

### Linda Seals

Copyright © 2013 Linda Seals

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any form than that in which it was purchased and without the written permission of the author.

Cover art by Barb Schmidt

For the Toots,

life traveler and fellow storyteller, who is a true joy in my life

## CHAPTER ONE

You could call me a gregarious loner.

You could call me that weird woman who lives by herself in a freight depot on the edge of town. Guess it depends on your perspective. I need space around me—room for solitude—and the old brick train building and yards were like my castle and moat, although not all that grand. That afternoon I was welcoming friend Betty Huckleston to my humble realm; she was the best exception to my need to be alone. Even though our personalities couldn't be more different—I dubbed us the Tortoise and the Hare—we made each other laugh. Solitude was good, but laughter was better, and I looked forward to her visits like a kid does a new Xbox.

In honor of her visit, I was tending a quickie version of our craving for barbeque with a pork loin on an ancient backyard smoker. The sweet smell of the smoke rose up through the trees and late afternoon shafts of sunlight into a blue Colorado sky. Patsy Cline, my black and tan healer mix, trotted around the corner of the converted depot, her nose in the fragrant air, just as I closed the lid on the smoke-blackened fire box. I knew she wanted to rip our dinner right off the grates the minute my back was turned. Not gonna happen this time, I thought, as I bungeed the top to the sides. Patsy grinned at me.

I heard a car turning into the gravel drive in front of the house, so I trotted up the back steps, through the house, and down the front steps to greet Betty Huckleston. She unfolded her long legs out of the small car, reached out to give me a hug, and we both said at the same time, "Hiya, Toots!" I grabbed a few of her bags out of the back seat, and started inside.

"Guess what I'm making—oh, god, the pork!" I dropped the bags, and charged around the corner of the house to the back, already yelling at the dog, who was inches from knocking the smoker over with our long-awaited dinner inside. She scampered off, tail between her legs as if in submission, but I knew the act was a sham.

"Hey, Lily," called Betty from the old freight platform that was now my back porch. "Should I put my stuff in the usual room?"

"Yeah, but I'm coming in. Patsy didn't get into anything, but I've had to watch her all day!" I started to complain more about the antics of the dog, but I realized that Betty's voice had sounded different. When I looked up at my friend, she seemed troubled. "What's up?" I asked.

Tears welled up in Betty's eyes. "I'm sorry—it's... "

"Is Hannah okay?" I asked. Betty had stopped in Greeley to see her daughter on her way up to see me.

"Yes, Hannah's fine. But... a friend of hers died two nights ago. They think it was suicide. And— " Betty said, and then stopped again.

"What?"

"Lily, I'm sorry; you know the poor girl who died. It was Shannon Parkhurst."

"Shannon? Oh, gosh—wow—" I said, not knowing what to say.

Shannon Parkhurst had worked for me one summer on my landscaping crew, and she had been one of my most eager students of horticulture. I remembered how hard she had worked. "How did she die? Did you already tell me that?" I asked.

"Hannah told me the police are saying it was suicide," Betty replied.

As my mouth gaped open at the news, the phone rang inside. We both went in; it was Richard, Betty's husband. Betty motioned that she wanted to talk with him and then grabbed a can of peanuts off the counter, stuffed a handful in her mouth, and wandered onto the back porch, talking in low tones.

I was trying to get what Betty had just told me to sink in. My working relationship with Shannon Parkhurst at first had been as boss and crew member, but as I got to know her I felt we had a special affinity for each other since we had walked similar paths as recovering alcoholics. She told me her story one rare rainy afternoon as we sat in the shop cleaning tools, and I saw by her behavior on my crew that she had worked hard to get her life back together.

That slight but tough, hard-working girl had killed herself? I wondered, and sadness grabbed at me. Shannon and I had spent a lot of time together that summer, and she had been engaging and quick to learn, funny in a quiet way, and honest with herself and others. She had talent in horticulture, but it was apparent that her true gift was with people, and seemed naturally good at it—even with her natural shyness—volunteering at the community garden's youth program when she worked for me that summer.

Shannon Parkhurst always had a special place in my heart, but I lost track of her after that summer just the same. I heard later that Shannon and Betty's daughter Hannah were, by chance, roommates at school in New Mexico, and I had smiled at the coincidence. I'd had a few bits and pieces of news about her over the years from Betty's chats with Hannah, but that was all.

I turned to the sink and looked out the large window into the backyard, my mind racing with distractions. Outside, I could see Patsy Cline sniffing around the smoker under the apricot tree. As I washed up the barbeque utensils, the kitchen was full of light from the bank of small-paned windows high up on the west wall, letting in the golden late-afternoon sun that had brightened the depot for the decades it had been in service in our small university town. The light gave a sense of peace to the room that I needed just then.

Betty returned from her phone call and my natural curiosity started in.

"How long had Hannah known Shannon?" I asked. "I'd lost track of her. What else did Hannah say? What else did she know about what happened?"

"Not much," Betty replied as she walked over to the refrigerator. "Can I get you anything? Ice tea?"

I nodded, and she continued, "Hannah was in shock about her friend; talked to me all morning about her. She knew Shannon from the time they were roommates at New Mexico State in Las Cruces, and both worked at an immigrant project there a couple of years ago. It was somewhere down west of Hatch; it was a small community of just poor houses, really. I can't remember the name in Spanish. Anyway, Hannah hadn't seen her in a couple of years, until they both turned up at the same party in Frederick two weeks ago. Hannah said Shannon looked surprised and then relieved to see her."

"Relieved? Did Hannah know what that was about?"

"Not really." Betty frowned. "Hannah said it was really loud; you know how those parties are—the kind mothers would really rather not know their children are attending until after they're home safe. Anyway, it was hard to hear much or clearly, but Hannah said Shannon wanted to meet up later, and that she would call her."

"Did she?" I wondered.

"Nope. Although she did expect her to call, Hannah wrote it off to Shannon spacing it out, or losing her phone, something like that. She said she was pretty out of it at the party, stumbling around. Hannah said Shannon seemed confused, kept saying she didn't know what was going on."

"What? Shannon was drinking?" I asked, taken aback by the information.

"Hannah said she was really surprised at her condition, too. Seems that when she knew Shannon in New Mexico, Shannon didn't drink at all. Hannah was going to ask her about what was going on when they got together again. She was concerned about her." Betty started unloading the usual bounty of vegetables she'd brought from the farmers' markets in southern Colorado. And, as usual, she pulled out cakes and chocolate, sausages, cheese, pretzels, pastries, and more.

I smiled and said, "Toots, you said you weren't going to bring anything!"

"Yeah, tell me you don't want any of this chocolate cake."

"Yep, you got me there... So, anyway, what happened after Shannon got Hannah's number?"

"Shannon's boyfriend came up. Hannah said he seemed very nice and solicitous towards Shannon, apologizing for her condition, saying she'd partied too much. He helped Shannon inside to lie down. That was the last time Hannah saw Shannon."

"Did Hannah tell all this to the police?"

"No, Hannah didn't talk to the police. It was a friend who called her about Shannon's death, not the police. I guess the police talked to the boyfriend, mostly."

We both sat in thought for a moment. I didn't want to believe that Shannon Parkhurst had fallen so hard out of sobriety; she'd seemed like such a fighter. I didn't care what others did with alcohol—it just didn't work for me. My drinking life had been small and sad, and now, sober, my life was large and abundant. I'd had years of that abundance and joy of life, and I'd sensed that same freedom in Shannon's story of her own sobriety. Now it sounded like she had given it all away.

Betty Huckleston refilled our glasses and set them down on the island top amid all the food sprawl. She shook out another handful of peanuts, and said, "Whew, now I've got to change into shorts. I'm hot!" She went off to her room as the other phone rang in my office at the far end of the building.

I trotted down the hall to the light and open quarter of the building that was for my business, Vines, a garden design and maintenance service. This southern part included an attached tin-roofed open shed that I used for all manner of things and the dogs used for shade on hot afternoons. Patsy was probably over there now, keeping her eye on the smoker.

On the far side of the graveled work yard was my shop, which was big enough to house my small SUV, a trailer, and all my tools. I tried reached the phone in the office before it went to voice mail, but the machine was too quick. It was Liz, my crew chief, checking in. I didn't feel like talking at the moment, and although I knew that Liz, who had worked with Shannon, too, would want to know the news I decided to wait to call her back.

I hurried back to the kitchen only to find Betty Huckleston out in the yard with Patsy Cline, the two of them sitting together under the apple tree like ladies at a church social, Betty puffing away on a Pall Mall. All she needed was a parasol; she had always moved at her own pace and could not be rushed. Betty Huckleston could appear like the Church Lady sort now, but when we had met in college over a keg of beer, our friendship had sparked at our inebriated crooning with Steve Miller: "I'm a grinner/I'm a lover/And I'm a sinner... I'm a joker/I'm a smoker..." Since then, we had outgrown some of that, but had remained best of friends.

The heat outside was making it necessary to consume large quantities of drink, so I refilled my ice tea, grabbed a beer for her, and headed outside, ready to slow down to her tempo. She looked up when I came down the steps, a smile on her face. She looked much less stressed than when she had first arrived. I knew it had helped her to talk with her husband Richard about their daughter.

"I love it out here," she said grinning behind her large-framed glasses. The breeze from the river cooled its way through the streamside willows and cottonwoods to us in the backyard. I could just hear the pigeons cooing from the crenellated roofs of the Northern Feed and Grain across the street.

"What did you hear from Richard?" I asked.

"Oh, he called to see if I'd made it without trouble. He was worried about the radiator, but I told him everything with the car was fine." She paused. "I let him know about Hannah and her friend Shannon. He's gonna call Hannah, you know, make sure she's okay. Well, you know we'd been waiting to hear from Hannah and Joe—they're going to pull a trailer full of their furniture to New Mexico. That was part of the reason I stopped there this morning."

She looked down and sighed. "Las Cruces is so far! I was hoping they could be in _northern_ New Mexico." Her daughter and husband were relocating 800 miles south for a job opening in a small school district.

I thought about Shannon Parkhurst's time at school in New Mexico. Had she changed so much there? Had life beaten her down so that only alcohol seemed like it had the answer out of the pain? Whatever answers alcohol promises, in the end, it delivers death. Early death from disease, death from accidents, death in jail, death any way you didn't want it. Or death gift wrapped as suicide. Was that the path Shannon chose?

Betty Huckleston was in her own thoughts. She shook her head and then got up to wander over to the steps, where she plopped down next to Patsy, giving the dog's head a scratch, causing Patsy to thump her tail on the heavy wooden planks in appreciation. Maybe it was time to put the sad issues aside for a while and eat some barbeque, I suggested.

The pork was ready and I maneuvered it onto a tray, Patsy Cline watching every move. Betty opened the screen door so I could get in easily and not drop the whole thing, to the dog's delight. I plopped it down on the mottled concrete counter, got out the foil, made a tent from a piece, and set the tray aside.

"I know you love that dog," Betty said, eyeing Patsy who was eyeing the pork. "But she sure is a handful."

"I know; she's way too smart for me." I had rescued her and her brother, Pecos Bill, in New Mexico, and they had lived with me on a five-acre place in the desert south of Santa Fe. When I returned to Colorado and city life, I knew they'd be better off in the country since they were used to a bigger area to roam than my train yard in town could provide.

So they had gone to live with my ex-partner Carol Griffin, and her partner Marjo Catanya, out at their ranch north of town. Carol and I were on good terms still; it had, in the end, been an amicable split. She'd been with Marjo for years now, and the three of us all got along. I loved and missed the dogs, so I readily agreed to keep them when Carol and Marjo needed help, and this weekend they had taken Pecos up into the mountains with Carol's grandkids and left Patsy with me in town. Other times I'd just go get them for some company.

I fed Patsy an organic marrow bone, which she grabbed from the side of her mouth like a gangster cigar, trotted out the back door, and plopped down in the yard under the big cottonwoods to chew on her prize. That left the pork barbeque for Betty and me to dig into. I lifted up the foil on the loin, and the exterior was bronzed with spice rub and smoke.

"My god, that smells good!" Betty said as she pulled a long slicing knife from the knife block on the old butcher-block center island, and handed it to me. She plopped down at her usual place on a well-worn wooden stool, and said, "Pinto beans are on the back burner, and the coleslaw's in the refrigerator... I brought some soft rolls for the pork. How'd you make it this time?"

"It's smoked in hickory and apple, after marinating over night. The spice mix kind of starts out as a rub and ends up a marinade. You know how it is—you start adding in one thing after another. It's never the same each time, but I think this one will be one of the best I've made. Just for you, Toots!" I started to slice the meat to pile on our plates, which we carried outside on the porch. Soon our sampling frenzy began.

After trying every combo of pork, coleslaw, bean, and bun we could think of, Betty Huckleston and I sat back in our chairs, dazed by the food we'd just consumed. "Mighty good, Toots," Betty purred. "Couldn't eat another bite. The leftovers are gonna be dy-no-mite for sandwiches tomorrow! But how I can even think of that, I don't know. I'm way more than stuffed!"

"Well, I'm going to take the plates and stuff inside before Patsy gets a whiff of what's on this table. Then we can relax," I said as I gathered up dishes. Betty got up and pushed the door open wider for me, and then looked inside.

"Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh, what?" I asked as I put the dishes down inside. "Where's... oh, crap!" I'd left a hunk of barbeque covered to cool on the center island. It had vanished.

I turned around, and Patsy lay snoring on the wide plank floor, a sheen of grease on her lips, which were slightly parted in a wolfish grin. She had somehow slipped inside, stood up, and picked the meat off the tray without a sound—without us, sitting outside only ten feet away, suspecting anything. I couldn't believe it. She'd beaten me again.

"Dammit, I slaved over that roast! I kept my eye on her all day—how many times do I have to watch her?" I complained.

"Apparently... one more than you did," Betty Huckleston said.

I glared at her for a long second, and then we both exploded in laughter, loud enough to wake Patsy Cline out of her pork-filled dreams with a start.

## CHAPTER TWO

The next morning I woke up at dawn, but Patsy still snored on her dog bed in my bedroom. Then she opened one eye, gave me a brief look, and went back to sleep. You're a bum, I thought only half affectionately. I was still a bit peeved from her tricks the night before.

Betty and I had stayed up quite late, enjoying the cool evening, poking at the fire in the fire pit, and laughing at stories until our cheeks hurt. I'd woken up feeling a bit groggy with lack of sleep and too much food. So I was moving slowly, trying to be quiet and not awaken Betty, as I headed toward the sunny kitchen and coffee.

As the coffee was dripping into a big blue cup, I went out onto the front porch to look for the newspaper, and I could hear an early morning train clattering across town, interrupting the quiet in my gritty neighborhood on a weekend morning.

Back inside I put Patsy's food down in her bowl, grabbed my strong coffee, and moved out onto the broad back steps to savor the brew, the view through the cottonwoods, and to browse the newspaper. I hadn't been looking for it, but on a back section of the paper, I saw a short funeral announcement for Shannon.

SHANNON MARIE PARKHURST

February 9, 1982 – August 4, 2010

Gilcrest Church of the Lord, Saturday Service of Remembrance, 1 p.m.

Gilcrest, Colorado

We hadn't planned on it for that day, but I thought I should go to the service. I imagined that Hannah might want to postpone her move for a day to attend and that Betty would want to go with us. Just then I heard the sounds of Betty in the kitchen, rummaging in the refrigerator for her morning diet Pepsi. She stumbled out onto the porch and squinted in the morning light. I knew she hadn't had time to wake up, so I just handed her the paper and said, "I'm going to go. You and Hannah want to go, too?"

Betty took the paper, peered at it myopically, and eloquently replied, "Mmph? ... hemf ... phewmmng ... cawk?" Then she cleared her throat, coughed a couple of times, and rasped out, "I'll call Hannah," or something that sounded similar to that, and disappeared back inside, probably to look for her glasses, a Pall Mall, and then the phone.

As if summoned, out came Patsy, still chewing her breakfast and dropping several nuggets of food on the porch floor. If she'd been a human, she'd have been shuffling out in her boxer shorts, scratching her butt, and releasing a gaseous _pssssh_ as she shambled down the steps. As it was, she moved past me and out to her spot in the back of the yard.

I headed to the garden to do some much needed weeding. The air was fresh and cool, not yet hot from the day. Sunlight streamed through the cottonwood and ash trees between the yard and the train siding beyond. In the summer I couldn't see the tracks, since they were obscured by all the vegetation, but sometimes they were still used for boxcar switching and storage, and I had come home to some huge hulking cars sitting silently just on the other side of the tall fence and trees. Then they'd be gone, needed somewhere else.

As I worked in the garden in the dappled morning sunlight, my musings from the night before returned—a vague feeling that the Shannon Parkhurst I knew wouldn't have committed suicide. If she'd started drinking again, I could see how the alcohol could convince her that death was the only way out; it had a way of making that message convincing. But something felt amiss in the information Hannah Huckleston had shared with her mother, something didn't seem right, something didn't make sense. For now, though, the niggling doubts were still bothering me. My distracted mind flipped around my thoughts like a cat playing with a mouse—luckily, my hands still worked at weeding without the benefit of a cognizant brain.

The soil in the garden was deep and rich after years of sheet composting and rototilling, and grew abundant vegetables and perennials. There were grapevines growing over a low fence beside the big shed, and apple, apricot, and peach trees. A large composting area was not only fenced off from the dogs, but the black gold was contained in large, rotating drums to keep out the marauding raccoons wandering up from the river. The present dog was on her morning inspection of the perimeter where she had worn a path in the line of duty. She came up to the garden fence for me to give her a scratch around the neck, and then went off again, her black fur glinting in the sun.

Betty came out, munching on a pastry she'd brought. She looked around for me and then came down the steps to the garden fence. "Hannah's gonna meet us there. She said to tell you hi. When do we have to leave?" She finished the pastry in one final bite, licking her fingers to catch the last sweet crumbs of a crueller.

"Oh, in a couple of hours, I guess." I wasn't looking forward to going to a funeral, but who did? I stood up and stretched my back. "Hey, Toots—I've been thinking—"

"Always a dangerous thing!" Betty laughed. She tapped the unfiltered end of a Pall Mall on her cigarette case, stuck it in the corner of her mouth, and fired up.

"Tell me about it. No, really... I've been thinking about Shannon. The whole suicide thing seems, well, off—not right. It doesn't seem like her. You really didn't know her, did you? Maybe I should talk to Hannah about it this afternoon, see if she could find out more—"

"Oh, Lily, I wish you wouldn't, not right now!" Betty broke in. "Hannah has so much on her plate with all the packing, moving, her new job. Could you just let it go for awhile? You could talk to her later. Just don't bring it up now—she'd start worrying about that, too, on top of everything else! I think it's hard enough to think about suicide without adding that it may be something else."

"Sure, yeah, I understand. I realize Hannah has her hands full. Just some ideas on my part, that's all. It'll wait," I said. But I knew my own mind wouldn't wait.

"Thanks, Toots. I just worry about her, you know? So much is going on," Betty answered as she gathered up the herbs and tomatoes I'd picked for lunch. I then made sure that I carefully secured the garden gate before heading inside.

A dog of mischief, Patsy Cline could not be trusted in dirt, particularly nice and soft garden dirt. Her history included digging up eight raised garden beds—destroying eight almost-ready-to-harvest raised garden beds—one night in Santa Fe when I was late coming home from the Opera. She seemed to have an internal clock that determined when I should be home, and if I wasn't, she'd make me wish I had been. If she really wanted to, I was sure she could get in the present garden and destroy it, but she had decided that she would not, for now.

Betty set up lawn chairs under the trees while I cleaned the produce inside, and then I put on some Hoyt Axton and Doc Watson bluegrass, and turned up the outdoor speakers. I returned to the yard through an open garage door—one of four—that led from the house onto the back porch, a convenience left over from the old freight depot days. When they were all open, it was as if the outside was inside, and perfect for someone who preferred to be outside rather than inside.

We sat back and watched as the morning sun flooded the red brick walls of the depot with rosy light. An aggressive iridescent-green hummingbird buzzed us a couple of times on his way to nectar, and Betty whooped in surprise. A breeze blew from the river, and I could smell the damp soil of the banks, the verdant riparian vegetation. And we sat there and enjoyed it all morning, doing a bunch of nothing.

* * *

We were late in pulling up to the rural industrial building used as the Gilcrest Church of the Lord because, being distracted by chatting with Betty, I'd missed my turn and had to backtrack on an ill-advised detour along back roads. Before that we'd been stuck in town by a long train holding up traffic, something that happened at least ten times a day because the Burlington Northern Santa Fe tracks ran right through the middle of town, often delaying me and the rest of the world. Caught by one, you might as well just turn off your engine and be prepared to sit and wait—which is what Betty and I had had to do. Then I felt pressured to make up time, and that led to the distraction and the detour. Perhaps we had left home a little late, as well, preoccupied as we were in our rushed schedule of the morning.

Slipping in the back of the church so as not to disturb anyone, Betty and I took our seats on metal folding chairs. Hannah had been waiting for us and looked relieved when we sat down next to her. Standing on the podium at the head of the room, a sweating man in a shiny tan suit was already into a sermon. There was a scattering of people in the audience, mostly older, grey-haired women, and I was surprised not to see any of Shannon's contemporaries. The man started going on about GOD-dah and Our LORD-dah and how everyone's a sinner, but he didn't mention Shannon at all. After a while I couldn't stand it. I needed air.

I whispered to Betty that I'd be outside and quietly slipped through the rear doors. As I tried to exit through the vestibule, a woman standing there frantically motioned me over to sign the guest book.

"Be sure to give us your address and phone number so we can contact you!" she requested in a perky whisper.

That stopped my signing hand right there. "Isn't this the guest book for Shannon Parkhurst's funeral?"

"Oh no, lovey. Her funeral was yesterday. This is our usual 'Saturday Service of Remembrance of Our Lord. ' The Reverend Jackson preaches a powerful Word, doesn't he now? Mrs. Thorton requested that he pray for her poor grandniece's soul at the beginning of the service today." She looked down the long waxed linoleum hallway, gave a dry sniff, and pushed her glasses farther up her thin nose. She gave me a look like she'd just explained the Second Coming.

Perhaps that clarified the lack of young people at this service; it wasn't Shannon's funeral. It had seemed like a funeral notice in the newspaper, but I'd been wrong. I didn't really need a sermon either, so after I lied to the woman that I'd be back to sign her book, I went outside to sit under a tree by the car and wait for Betty and Hannah. I waited a long time in the scorching afternoon—long enough to feel guilty about ditching the service but not guilty enough to go back inside.

Finally they both trudged up to the car, and Hannah threw herself into the backseat with a groan. Tall and blonde, Hannah was a younger version of her mother and sometimes even sounded like her.

Betty got in the front and started looking for her water bottle. "Honey, you need any water or anything?" she asked Hannah. "Do you have any food to eat when you drive back? Do you want some snacks?"

Hannah laughed her mother's laugh, "No, Mom, I'm okay! Really! I think I can make it back to Greeley! Really! And hello, Lily! Good to see you!"

"Hey, Hannah!" I said to her in the mirror as I started the car so I could turn on the air- conditioning, cranked up full blast.

"I wish I'd known this was going to be like church! Ugh! It was so long! This wasn't even her funeral!" Hannah folded her suit jacket, laid it on the seat beside her, and flopped her arms up and down to air out her blouse.

"I know, I made a big mistake, Hannah. I thought it was but—"

"It's okay, Lily. At least I made the effort, and I could give my sympathies to Shannon's aunt. I didn't even see the boyfriend. It actually makes me feel better knowing that it _wasn't_ Shannon's funeral—I was feeling pretty sad that more of Shannon's friends weren't here. I mean, we weren't that close after college, but she was a great girl, and I know she must have had lots of friends."

I twisted around in the seat to talk to her. "Yeah, I had the idea that she had quite a few friends here when she worked with me years ago, but—"

"Well, I bet they were all at the funeral. Shannon just had that touch, you know, around people? She seemed to make friends wherever she went..." Hannah's voice trailed off. Through the windows I could hear the loud cawing of a pair of large crows perched on a snag in a nearby tree. Hannah looked out her window at the sound, the back of her hand wiping her cheek.

"You know, I feel like, maybe, I could have done something," her voice wavered, "helped her, talked to her. Something..."

"Oh, sweetie, you didn't even know she was here! You couldn't have done anything—really, honey," her mother answered as she reached out for her daughter's hand. "I know you feel sad. I do, too."

"I might know how you feel, Hannah. The same thoughts have been going through my mind, that maybe I could have talked to her or something. But your mom is right. Shannon didn't let either one of us know she was here," I said.

"Yeah, but—I dunno—I wish I could have talked to her. She just didn't seem to be the type to commit suicide; that's all!" Hannah said firmly. Betty turned and glared at me as if I had been the one to bring the subject up. So much for shielding her daughter from disturbing thoughts.

"What about you, Lily? Do you think she seemed like she'd ever kill herself? Did she seem the type?" Hannah queried curiously.

"No, she didn't," I answered.

Hannah sighed and fanned herself with a church bulletin she had pulled from her purse. The air-conditioning had finally cooled the car down to an agreeable level in the front seat, but the backseat was still uncomfortably warm. Young Hannah was still sweating profusely, despite the holy fanning material, as she looked out the window across the sun-baked prairie.

"Oh, I don't know—I'm not thinking straight. I guess they'll investigate and everything. I'm probably wrong. What do I know? Maybe she changed? I guess I'll never know. I guess that's the hard part," Hannah said, "not knowing." She shook her head in sorrow and then started to gather up her jacket, purse, and the bottle of water Betty had thrust upon her. I felt this was probably a time to keep further suicide suspicions to myself, since I knew no more than Hannah did.

"I know, honey, I know," Betty said soothingly, "I really don't think you could have done anything. Are you going to be okay to drive home? You gonna to be okay?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm okay. I'm sad—Shannon was a sweetie; I'll miss her! But I'm okay," Hannah said as she started to climb out of the car.

"Oh, Mom, I almost forgot—do you need my help with what Mrs. Thorton needs moved, or will you and Lily just do it by yourselves?" she asked.

"Move what by ourselves?" I inquired a bit suspiciously. "What did you volunteer us for?"

"Now wait, Toots. When we went over to talk to Mrs. Thorton she just asked me if I could do her a favor. I couldn't get out of it, really. And it's no big deal anyway. You and I can do it—easy."

I groaned.

"Well, time for me to be off!" Hannah broke in. She gave her mother and then me a hug from the backseat and pushed open the door. "We're leaving really, really early in the morning, but I promise we'll call you as soon as we get to Las Cruces! Love you, Mom!"

Betty got out of the car to wave good-bye and to tell her daughter to be careful for the hundredth time, and I thought no matter how many times we want to say to our beloved, "Be careful, be safe, come back to me," the words never seem to be enough protection.

When Betty got back in, I said, "Give me the story about what the aunt needs."

"Okay, I told you that we went up to give our regrets after the service, and Mrs. Thorton—Bernice is her name, and she's actually Shannon's great-aunt—latched onto me and started in on her woes. What was I supposed to do?

"I'd only met her once, years ago, at something the girls were doing together—I forget what. That was the only time I met Shannon, too. Anyway, today Bernice was upset, of course. She seemed overwhelmed with trying to pack and move Shannon's stuff out of the rental and back to her own place in Timnath, since I guess she can't drive and has no way to transport all of it. When Hannah mentioned I was visiting someone in town, Bernice asked—no, pleaded—for me to take a trunk back for her nephew to pick up."

I remembered that Betty had said that the one time she had met Bernice, the poor woman spent the entire time bending Betty's ear about how she had tried her best with her "hellion" niece Shannon—abandoned by her drug-addicted mother and dumped at age ten on Bernice's doorstep—but I didn't remember mention of a nephew.

I started to question some of Betty's information. "But—"

Betty glanced at me and said, "Oh, come on, Lily! Don't roll your eyes at me! You know you would have done the same damn thing if she'd asked you. So don't give me any crap." I shut my mouth and looked innocently out the window.

She smiled and continued, "Anyway, I guess he really wanted the trunk, but he's having car trouble or something. She thought she'd save him the bother of coming all the way out here.

"Guess she thought it would be easier for him to get it in town. I thought it would be all right, so I told her we'd pick it up and take it to your place. Hope that's okay?"

I groaned again, this time to myself. Betty Huckleston, kind soul that she is, was always volunteering to do some favor for someone. That woman would go without shoes to give them to someone else, I thought. I wasn't quite that altruistic, although I could learn from her largesse.

As I remembered Bernice Thorton from Betty's impression of her in the past, I hoped that her I-can't-do-a-thing hand-wringing wouldn't, in the long run, lead to me having to lug a probably heavy trunk out to her place in Timnath—because, I generalized, Bernice's young nephew would be unreliable, would miss appointments, wouldn't show up on time; I'd have to wait for hours to no avail and then, in the end, would take the trunk out to her anyway!

Wait, there you go again; you're making that up, I chastised myself. Making up stories. Everything will be just fine. Jeez, the woman's suffered a horrible loss. Be generous; be charitable. Just do what it takes.

So I kept my mouth shut, smiled weakly, and said, "Yeah, sure. Where do we pick it up?"

* * *

Betty Huckleston followed Bernice's instructions to a small house in a new subdivision, and we did indeed find a large trunk sitting on the front porch of the nondescript house. We loaded it up and headed home. It was just as easy as Betty said it would be.

In town, I backed the car up the gravel drive to the shop, and we unloaded the trunk. It looked like an ordinary trunk—covered with little girl pink and sparkly cartoon stickers and labels on the outside, but ordinary just the same—and we put it on the floor of the shop underneath one of the work counters to keep it out of the way of the work crew until it could be retrieved. I decided I'd be optimistic about the nephew picking it up in an expeditious manner.

As we closed up the shop, I could hear Patsy Cline in the backyard jumping in excitement at the gate. That reminded me of her thievery of the night before, and that thought led to the realization of no leftover barbeque, and that thought led to how hungry I'd suddenly become. I suggested that we change clothes and walk down to my favorite eatery for an early dinner, and Betty agreed.

The young evening was a bit cooler than the hot day, and it was pleasant to walk through the red-brick industrial neighborhood. A few store fronts along the street had been renovated— their tall, wood-framed windows revealed under years of siding and awnings—allowing trendy new shops to show off their wares. Others remained as they were: a car repair garage, a lumber yard, and a boot and shoe shop that still had a cobbler, who saved worn out boots with new soles. We brought Patsy along; mainly to keep her out of trouble, and me from worrying about her deciding to get out of the yard. But I could see that Betty had a distracted frown on her face and wasn't enjoying the walk as much as I was.

She looked at her watch and said, "Hannah's probably back in Greeley by now." She sighed and spoke out loud her anxieties. "I know, I worry too much. But I _do_ worry about her! Young people have so much to deal with these days. So much pressure. That poor Shannon, too. Suicide—so young. They don't know things will get better."

"Do you worry that Hannah—"

"No, not really. I guess I don't, not about that, and that's a relief! Hannah's pretty level about things, goes with the flow. I know Joe's good for her, too, but—

"Hey, look at this. Let's stop a minute," Betty interrupted herself distractedly.

We were walking past the community-supported farm across the street, staffed mainly by volunteers like Shannon, who had started a youth harvest crew the summer she was in town. I waved to the owner Jake Biccam, working in the cool evening on the long neat rows of vegetables. He and his wife Deanna lived next door to the garden plot in a converted machine shop and had made their space an oasis in a dilapidated area. I was glad for their green and lively presence on the street, but when Betty wanted to stop and buy yet more vegetables for us, I reminded her how hungry I was and promised we'd come back for a visit before she left.

There was a ringing from Betty's purse and she frantically grabbed for it, rooting around inside the voluminous interior. She stopped and pulled the bag up close to her body so she could plunge her whole arm into it to recover the trilling instrument.

"Oh, hi, honey! I'm so glad you called!" she almost shouted into the phone. I knew it was Hannah, checking in from Greeley. We kept walking as Betty gaily chatted with her daughter, until she nudged me in the ribs, pantomimed a hysterically laughing face, and pointed to the façade of the building we were passing. It was the Brew Bucket, one of the last unreconstructed dive bars in town. As we passed the open door, the moist smell of stale beer and re-circulated air poured out of the dim room. Betty and I had played many a pool game in the Bucket, and she had always beaten me, usually on heavy bets. That's what she's ribbing me about, and she will never let me forget it, I thought. I should have known not to play against someone who had her own cue and personalized case.

We turned in at Hammett's, a third-generation diner of the Georgopoulos family. The original catchy name, Town Cafe, was changed when the present owner Jean's young father Stannos returned from a stint in the back lots of 1930s Hollywood. While working as a gaffer on a movie set, he met the novelist Dashiell Hammett slumming then as a screenwriter. Legend goes that Stannos was one of the writer's many drinking cronies, and ended up with a _The Thin Man_ signed first edition, as Hammett's payment for a round at a bar. I doubted if Stannos had read it, but he thought enough of his buddy to name the family diner in the hinterlands of Colorado after him. These days, his daughter Jean had the book under lock and key, displayed in a dusty glass case by the cash register.

Although I was a big fan of Dashiell Hammett, I had another connection to him: I was named after his paramour of thirty years, the writer and playwright Lillian Hellman, a hard-drinking, hard-smoking, complex woman, who was no angel, either. Yes, I was named for the writer and not, how cute!, the flower, of which I was constantly being accused. How cute that you're a gardener and your name is Lily! It was just too much to try to correct people's misconception on this, so I usually let it ride. There was just too much 'splaining to do, as Ricky Ricardo might have put it.

I pulled open Hammett's heavy wood and beveled-glass door, and Betty and I headed for a booth near the front plate-glass windows. Vicki Sinclair soon sauntered over to detail what Randy, the night cook, was experimenting with that evening and to twirl down onto the table a beer for Betty and a tall ice tea for me. She was a pro and was as much a part of the place as the long, beat-up mahogany bar that took up half the dining room. She'd worked at, and lived above the diner in an eclectic apartment since as long as I had known her, and Betty had been in the diner so many times with me that she and Vicki Sinclair were old pals, too.

After the menu explanations, Vicki's face took on a look of sorrow. "I saw the funeral announcement in the paper this morning... about Shannon Parkhurst." Guess I wasn't the only one fooled by that! I thought. "I'm sorry, Lily, I know she worked for you and..."

"Yeah, the news was a surprise. I was sorry, too."

"My sister's girl told me about it first, though." She nodded her head at a late teen girl picking up an order at the window. I'd seen her around the diner helping Vicki, but didn't know her very well. "She saw it on Facebook, and—"

"What?"

"Kelsy, hon? Come over here and talk to Lily a minute, would you?" Vicki called. The teenager hung her head, not wanting to talk to adults; but after delivering her order, she reluctantly shuffled over to our booth. Kelsy had known Shannon from when they both hoed corn that summer at Jake's farm, and she told us a mutual friend had texted her about Shannon's suicide. The friend said it was posted on both Shannon's and her boyfriend's Facebook pages the day after her death. That seemed pretty fast, considering the shock of her suicide, I wondered out loud. Kelsy just shrugged.

"On Shannon's page, there are photos..." Kelsy looked embarrassed. She had her aunt's auburn hair, and as she tucked a stray strand behind her ear, she looked down at the floor and scuffed her feet.

Vicki ran a hand through her own ginger locks, now with a few strands of grey at the temple, and put an arm around Kelsy. "Go on, baby. You can tell her. It's all over the universe by now anyway." Kelsy told us there were Facebook photos of a drunken Shannon at a party Kelsy had also attended in Frederick a few weeks before; it sounded like the same party Hannah Huckleston had last talked to Shannon.

"I didn't know her that well. You know, like, she was older than me. But I saw her there. It was way crowded, and so hot that everybody was outside, and uh, you know, a party, not much more than that..." Kelsy paused, and looked out the window into the street. Relief crossed her face when Vicki was called to the order window. It dawned on me that Kelsy was underage at a party where it sounded like the booze was free flowing. She wouldn't want to admit that in front of her aunt.

"Just between us, Kelsy, was it a pretty wild party?" I asked before Vicki could return.

"Totally awesome! Biggest party of the summer for sure!"

"Tell me about it. You saw Shannon? Did you talk with her?" I asked.

"Didn't get to talk to her. I'd just gotten there when I saw her go off with some dude, guess it was her boyfriend. She couldn't walk very well. Later I heard him tell a bunch of guys that she was passed out somewhere. They all laughed about it." Kelsy frowned, and shoved her order book into an apron pocket. "Pretty sick. Guys'll make fun of anything. _He_ seemed like a nice guy, though. Helping Shannon and everything."

Vicki arrived with our dinner and bustled around the table, moving glasses and silverware out of the way. Kelsy clammed up and drifted back to the long, dark bar where, in a corner, Marilyn Monroe's signature was scratched into the wood. I knew this to be an old fake—to add to the idea that the place had a Hollywood connection—but over the years we all pretended that Marilyn had actually leaned against that bar, and carved her voluptuous autograph on it. Kelsy ran her finger over the indentations of the name, slowly tracing the loops to the final _e_ , as she stared absently out the door of the dining room, through the kitchen, and into the alley. She went back into her world that did not include adults.

Betty Huckleston dug into her plate, heaped with locally-made sausages and mashed potatoes, pooled in butter. My dinner was perfectly-made souvlakis—a specialty of the house—but I could only poke at it. I hadn't wanted to hear that Shannon Parkhurst spent her last days drunk. I guess I was wrong in thinking Shannon would hold on to her sobriety. Even though I didn't want to dredge up the past, my thoughts took me back down the narrow lonely road I had experienced in my final drinking days.

Betty put down her fork and wiped her mouth on a wadded-up paper napkin. As I turned from gazing out the window, she was staring at me, and eyeing my still-full plate. I shrugged and suggested that I take it home since I'd lost my appetite. It was time to go.

Outside, Vicki had placed a bowl of water for Patsy that the energetic dog had sloshed all over herself and the sidewalk. And even though we had been inside for not-too-long of a time, she acted as if it had been days since she'd seen us, and started tugging on the leash like a stable bound horse. The sky was deepening into apricot hues as we walked home, and we could hear the willows down by the river rustling in the slight breeze. Patsy joined us in the backyard as we settled in, and Betty and I took off our shoes to feel the cool grass on our feet. We wiled away the rest of the evening, listening to Memphis Slim's boogie woogie, and doing what we did best for each other: telling stories and making each other laugh, and thereby, feel better. Patsy, of course, didn't tell many stories, but I'm sure I saw her laughing at ours.

## CHAPTER THREE

Betty left the next afternoon, amid hugs and thank you's, after she and I took Patsy Cline on a walk down by the river one more time before Patsy went back to the ranch. We spotted a great blue heron standing bank side in the shallow water as Patsy waded in. I tried to keep her out of the mud, since I knew Carol Griffin was coming in to take her back and I didn't want to mess up Carol's truck upholstery with a wet, slimy dog. By the time we walked back home in the August heat, she was dry anyway.

Soon after Betty left, Carol showed up and Patsy jumped up on the front seat of her truck as if it were her rightful place in dogdom. As they drove off, Patsy Cline stuck her head out of the truck window, looking excited for adventure, her black-spotted tongue lolling out. I was reminded of an observation Shannon had shared one afternoon after work, when the crew and I sat out on the back steps and rested with iced drinks after a hot day. The dogs were thrilled to have company, so they were squirming around the group looking for attention. Shannon was fond of the dogs, and had remarked to us that Patsy always seemed primed for action, ready to take on the world. Thinking of the crew, I remembered I needed to call my crew chief Liz.

Liz "I'm Italian!" Burzachiello had worked with me for a few years, and we made a good team. Although she was small of stature, she was incredibly fit. Liz was also steady, funny, and easygoing; and very much a twin.

Her twin sister, Louie Burzachiello, was as opposite in nature as could be imagined. Although the two of them looked disconcertingly identical to the eye, their mental and social attributes were unalike. I'd had Louie on the crew a couple of times, and found her to be delightful, a hard worker, and opinionated. The sisters were converse personalities, but always connected at their cores.

Liz first wanted to tell me about the hikes she and her partner, Emma Johanssen, had enjoyed, and it sounded as if they had walked most of the foothills west of town that weekend. I was only in my late fifties, but endurance hikes were never my thing, even in my thirties, so it didn't sound appealing.

"I hope you're not too tired from all your fun. We have the Cramers' project next week and—" I said.

"I know, I know! It's all you've been obsessing about for days," she said.

The news about Shannon made obsessing about work seem trivial, I realized. So I told Liz the sad story of Shannon's death, and we spent some time in silence as Liz digested the news. We shared some stories about working with Shannon, and then Liz rung off so she could call Emma, at work resolving a software issue, as usual.

* * *

The house seemed too quiet for a while with Betty not there, and then things got back to routine. The hot days continued, so I scheduled our garden maintenance visits as early in the day as I could, and still the days were long and tiring, even though Liz Burzachiello and I worked so efficiently as a team. Larger installation projects were starting, too, so I had a more than full schedule. Still, I thrived on the work and was glad for it even though many nights I only had energy for a salad and about thirty minutes watching the Colorado Rockies on TV before being ready to climb into bed.

I'd been waiting for Bernice Thorton's nephew to show up, which he never did, so I was contemplating calling Bernice and volunteering to do the very thing I was grousing about a few days earlier—take the trunk out to her in Timnath. I went back and forth about it for several days, and then I finally just called Betty, got Bernice's number, and gave the woman a call.

Yes, she would be thrilled if I could bring it out, she said. She didn't know what to do about her nephew; she'd tried her best with him. Oh, yes, would you please bring it out? she asked. Her nephew was mad she didn't have it. Gotten really mad. Could I bring it out soon?

She gave directions and we set up a time for early afternoon the next day. I was going to be out that way on a job anyway, and I could get Liz to help me load the trunk into my car in the morning when we prepared for the day.

* * *

Turned out Bernice Thorton lived way on the other side of Timnath, a farming community out on the eastern plains, but I found the place after wandering down two roads that were dead ends and then finally finding the right one. As I pulled up, an older woman came out of the door and onto the porch. She shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun and called, "Who is it? Lily?" Her voice sounded unsure.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered as I got out of the car. "It's Lily; we talked yesterday?" I started up the steps and saw she had a scrap of paper in her hand with my name and company name written on it, the information I'd given her on the phone. I gave her my best smile and pointed to the paper she was holding. "That's me." I didn't want to confuse her by mentioning I'd been at Shannon's service. Besides, I'd slipped out early like a cooped up cat.

"Yes, yes, come in." She held the door open for me. "Sorry for the mess. But, law, the paintin' and all, it's a miracle! I'm so old I didn't even re-call my dead brother had this great-grandson, but the boy come to my door, and I put him to work.

"Yes," she nodded, "the Lord provides; the Lord does provide. Been needin' this paintin' done for a long time now."

That explained the general disarray of the yard: half-painted trim; ladders fallen over into the bushes; and paint buckets stacked on the porch, paint spilling out into thick bands on the floor. There were careless footprints all over the porch, tracking paint everywhere. By the size of the prints, the kid had big feet.

"Come on in, now; watch your step. I'm so sorry he couldna come fetch that box of Shannon's. He was sure hopin' to, but his truck jist broke. Said he'd be needin' some of Shannon's books from that school trunk to start up at the college. Anyhoo, he had to go get some smokes, he said, and would be back shortly to be gettin' that trunk from you."

Careful to avoid the paint, I walked past Bernice into the house, which was dim in the afternoon light, with closed blinds and pulled curtains. The stuffy room was full to overflowing with furniture upholstered in every shade of dark purple and figurines on every surface. She urged me to sit down, offered me something to drink, and vanished into the kitchen to return with two glasses of chartreuse liquid on the rocks.

"It's a special mix," she said. "So banana-y! Do you like it? I learned it from a lady friend at church."

"Oh, yummy!" I said as I took a drink. It was hideous, somehow crossing the heavy-handed imitation banana flavor with a saccharine strawberry smell reminiscent of public bathroom cleaner. I was hoping she wouldn't notice if I didn't take another sip but, rather, used the glass and its frightening banana-y contents as a prop to gesture with.

Bernice Thorton wanted to talk about her niece. Shannon may have mentioned to her aunt that she had worked for me, but Bernice didn't seem to remember. "I just can't believe she would do that, kill herself, it's against Jesus' will. And the po-leece, they won't listen ... one even said it had nothin' to do with Jesus! Can you imagine? Nothin' to do with Jesus?! They say she drowned herself 'cause she'd done somethin' wrong, and I know that if she'd confessed her sins to Jesus..." She was becoming upset, and Jesus was pronounced JEEZ-zus.

"Bernice, I know this is hard for you, and I'm really sorry about Shannon. When was the last time you saw her?"

"A month ago, maybe? Maybe more? She came by on her way back down from Cheyenne, where she'd been workin' on a project for a few days. She wanted to ask me to a special dinner; wanted me to be her number one special guest. She was real excited and lookin' forward to me meetin' her honey, right after they got back from a trip."

That didn't sound like someone who wanted to commit suicide, but I kept my thoughts to myself, even though they agreed with Bernice's. "Besides being excited, did she seem any different to you?"

"Well, I've been thinkin' about that right there. She seemed tired to me, pale as a ghost ... she was always workin', it seems, on those real estate wheelin' and dealin' jobs, workin' for her boss, who was her fee-ann-say, and I don't know what all, so I says ... I says, 'So what about gettin' married?' ... " Bernice started to go off track. Her thin, grey hair was beginning to come out of its bun as she ran her hands from her forehead to her crown in anxiety.

"She seemed ... tired?" I coaxed her back onto the subject.

"Yes, she even said so her own self. That she'd been feelin' tired; out of sorts, she called it, not herself."

"Not herself," I repeated.

"That's what she said. Said she'd been feelin' better since she'd been in Cheyenne; guessed it was because she was gettin' more sleep, she said. But still not feelin' all that well." Bernice stopped and looked out the window through the dotted Swiss curtains.

Then she continued, "At least she wasn't a-drinkin' again. That was an answer to my prayers. I'da known ifin' she was, and I'da given her a piece of my mind if she had been!" Bernice Thorton shook her finger at me for emphasis. Was this true, or did Shannon just hide her drinking from her aunt? I wanted to believe the former, but two people had said they saw Shannon drunk at that party, shortly before her death.

"I loved that child ... but I'da given her a piece of my mind!" she repeated. Her voice softened, and she said, "Then she says she has to go, even though she just got here; she had to go so that Barry wouldna know she'd stopped along the way. She said he always wanted her to come straight back to the office, so she said it'd be our little secret, her and me, about her visits. Then I asks her if she and that Barry was gonna be gettin' married in the eyes of Jesus..."

Yikes; Bernice was going off again. I thought I'd try one more tactic to stop the Jesus tirade. "Oh, Bernice, sorry to interrupt but this drink is so-o-o-o good; how did you say you made it?"

Bernice put her hand up to her mouth and smiled behind it. "That's my special mix. Well, I got the idea from Frieda at the church's Wednesday night supper, but I added some things of my own," she said proudly. "Let me—" She started to reach for my glass.

"I bet Shannon loved this drink, too," I fibbed, trying to discreetly avoid her grasp. "You said you'd seen Shannon a month ago. Did she call you or anything after that?"

"No, and that wasn't like her, not one bit. She was the sweetest thing; you know, she'd always call or somethin' a couple of times a week, always askin' how I was doin', all interested and wantin' to know all about church goin's-on." Bernice sighed. "Then after she started workin' with that fella, she didna have time any more, or didna feel well." Bernice reached over and took my glass. "No ... no time for old Auntie."

I wasn't sure if I was going to find out more about Shannon, so I thought about making signs that I had to go. But to my horror Bernice Thorton rose and insisted on giving me a tour of her knickknacks in every room. "And this here is the Howard Johnson Freebee Giveaway Collection Room! Over here are the darlin' yella plastic cups ... I have the whole set!" Then we went to the next room, and the tour seemed like it went on for hours.

So when my phone pinged with a SOS text from Liz Burzachiello on a job site, I excused myself and called her back, praying for an excuse to flee from having to see more darlin' plastic cups. Liz explained the situation, and it turned out that there was a relatively major problem concerning the hardscaping on the project we had started that morning. I was, indeed, needed on site, so I could truthfully tell Bernice that I had to run—immediately. I was so relieved!

When I told her I needed to go, she looked disappointed and started to walk out to the living room. But when I moved for the door, she tried to get me to stop one more time and look at a display in the dining room.

"I am so sorry, but there's an emergency that I have to attend to for my business," I said. "I am so sorry I have to leave now. Thank you so much for the refreshments and tour of your lovely home." I wanted to get out of there; to do it nicely, but out of there.

"Oh, alrighty, then. Thank you for coming by," Bernice said as I hurried out the door, off the porch, and into my car. I waved, making apologetic motions through the windshield, and tried to get out of the driveway as quickly as I could.

As I pulled out, my phone rang. It was a client who rarely called, so I took the call, even though I don't like to talk and drive. She was shopping at the nursery and wanted some advice on plant choices. A block or so away I pulled over, turned off the engine, and finished the conversation at the curb. We discussed several options for container planting, and we chatted about the weather. I tried to end the conversation as soon as was appropriate so I could get back to town and the project.

When we were finished, I looked at my watch and felt anxious about getting back to the job site. I gunned my car back onto the road and zipped back to town, my mind on the problems Liz had discussed and the solutions I needed to come up with to solve them. I pulled into the landscape materials supply company's yard, which was on a small dirt road off the main highway, and reselected the stone needed for the project, since the original order couldn't be filled.

This yard specialized in local stone, with acres of stacked pallets of flagstone, river rock, and boulders. The flat-planed kind quarried nearby had rich but subtle patinas of copper, iridescence, and orange on the buff-colored stone, with over washes of black iron oxide, and was a favorite of mine to use. After I mentally redesigned the grouping of the boulders, I picked out the big rocks to replace the ones that had been accidentally sold to someone else.

One of the truck drivers I regularly worked with said they were running slow that day, so he agreed to load up the pallets and deliver them to the job site within the hour. That done, I once again pulled onto the road and hurried off to the project. We put in a long afternoon, but we got in a sweet flagstone path of more beautiful local stone, so once again we were a tired but happy crew.

Back at the shop, as Liz and I were unloading the tools from Wanda the trailer, she asked, "So, tell me how Bernice was doing—was her name Bernice? Did her nephew at least help unload the trunk for you?"

The trunk. "Oh, crap! Crap, crap, crap." I hated myself for being scatterbrained and so damn easily distracted. "No-o-o-o-o—no unloading was done," I said ruefully. I rolled the empty trailer into her place at the side of the yard, feeling stupid with tinges of dementia.

Liz looked confused. "But, you—"

"I know, I know! I went out there to deliver the trunk, and I-forgot-to-take-it-out-of-my-car-before-I-left-in-a-hurry-and-now-it's-still-in-my-car!" I said, all in rush, feeling totally brainless.

"Oh, I hate it when I do that," Liz said. "The other day I went out to take Emma her lunch at work, and we got to talking about something, and I left without giving her the lunch! I had to turn around and go back. So I know what you mean."

"You do? That makes me feel better, like I'm not losing my mind."

Liz turned around at the open bay door of the shop and smiled. "I didn't say anything about you not losing your mind."

"Now, don't get uppity," I laughed. "Help me out with this."

I backed the CR-V up to the shop door, and we unloaded the trunk, once again. This time we set it just inside the door by the window, so we could easily load it when it was time to go again to Bernice's. I sighed. This has got to be my penance for not being charitable in the first place, I thought. I decided to put off calling Bernice Thorton until the next day, because I couldn't face another knickknack tour in the same day.

We finished unloading and generally straightening things up, talking about the day's work as we did. On days like this afternoon, with the sun filtering through the linden tree at the corner of the shop, casting dappled shade on the gravel yard, I thought of how the mystic Rumi put it: "Let the beauty we love be what we do."

Our job done, Liz headed home. Admiring the bucolic scene once more, I shut up the shop and headed into the house for a hot, relaxing shower; a good book—with the prickly Sicilian Salvo Montalbano—out on the porch; and then bed.

* * *

I was startled awake in the dark. The security alarm was blaring. Scared, I turned on the bedside light, grabbed my little bedside can of Mace, got up, turned on the overhead light, and looked out into the hall. The phone rang—I hoped it was the alarm company. My hands were shaking. It _was_ the alarm company. Yes, they'd had a report of an alarm going off; was I okay? The police were coming. By this time I was turning on every light I could as I walked into the main room. I was still shaking. With the alarm company still on the phone, I turned off the blaring horn, not able to think in the noise. It's okay, I told myself. You're okay; you're okay.

Just then I saw a cop car drive up in front. Fast, I thought gratefully, and I opened the front door as the officers walked up the steps. One talked to me as the other searched the property, pretty much indicating to me that they didn't expect to find anything. Encouraging, I thought. They said that whoever it was probably was just checking doors along the street, looking for mischief, and left the same way he came in—through the open gate.

I hadn't closed the gate after I pulled in for the day. So, sure, anybody could sashay up the drive and set off the alarm anywhere. That narrowed it down, didn't it? That made this the second time that day I had spaced something out. Stew-pid, I could hear actress Emma Thompson's voice saying. What? Now that mentally superior voice has a British accent?

Was I losing it? Was the time going to come when I couldn't remember more and more things, and I couldn't take care of myself, and I was going wacko? _Oy!_ My mind could go off into self-recrimination faster than Superman's speeding bullet.

"Or it could be that a raccoon, or something, set it off," said one of the helpful officers.

Paperwork completed, they assured me that they'd make a few extra runs by the property for the next couple of nights to keep an eye out. I thanked them, and they backed the squad car out of the drive and headed off down pot-holed Stone Street. I followed them down, rolled the creaky, rusted, metal gate closed, locked it, and went back into the house. I was wishing the dogs were with me as I left every light on, inside and out. I put water on for coffee because it was 4 a.m. and there was no way I was going back to sleep. It was going to be light in a couple of hours, and I was ready for it. Boy howdy, as my mother would say, was I ready for it.

## CHAPTER FOUR

As soon as it was light the next morning, I went for a walkabout around the property, wandering around the backyard, looking at the windows and large overhead doors, closed now, of course, in the kitchen, study, bedroom, and studio. They looked secure.

It felt good to be outside where I could see everything. When I had called Carol Griffin early that morning, she had insisted that she bring the dogs back into town that evening and that I have both of them for a while. I knew I would feel better if they were with me, so I agreed. They were the ones who could see everything. I couldn't see much of anything that looked suspicious.

It wasn't as if I had a super-secure property, or even needed one, but the alarm the night before had been the first time it had ever gone off, and it shook me up. Even though I took the usual precautions to lock things up, have good outdoor lighting, and be aware of my surroundings, I'd always felt safe, even on the edge of town. Some of my discomfort was that I hadn't had to think about security before and now I did, and I resented it. I was beginning to understand the feeling of intrusion.

I continued my inspection around the corner of the house and stepped under the tin shed roof looking at the doors and steps to the studio and Vines office—nothing. I crossed the gravel yard, checked the door under the shed roof—nothing there—and then the shop door closest to the big overhead door and the window beside it. In a thin, dusty shaft of light, I saw a faint footprint on the door about halfway up, right next to the deadbolt. Did someone try to kick the door down? Did this set the alarm off? I started to get shaky all over again. I stared at it for a minute and then went to sit down on the steps.

After a couple of minutes I went inside to the studio phone and punched in the number the officer had left with me the night before. I left a message about my find on his answering machine and went outside again to look at the footprint—the officers must have missed its faint outline last night in the dark. I sat down on the steps to think about some of the ideas that had been stewing in my head.

Okay, I know it's Nephew's footprint. Same size—big—and same sole pattern I'd noticed on Bernice's front porch the day before. Coincidence? Sure, maybe. Why would Nephew try to break into the shop? Well, the only connection I had with Nephew was through Bernice Thorton, and through Bernice, Shannon Parkhurst's trunk. But why break in for it? I was going to redeliver it. Ah, but did he know that? I walked over to the shop door and looked again.

Really, I thought, it's his print, but I have no proof. I doubted if the police would waste their time on tracing a ubiquitous sneaker print on a maybe-false alarm report. Especially if nothing had been broken or taken.

As I passed the window by the overhead door, I looked inside the shop and saw that we had placed the trunk in full view when we unloaded it the day before. At that time I wasn't thinking about it as something we had to hide, so I didn't really pay attention to where we put it.

So, of course. Nephew showed up last night because he needed the trunk immediately for whatever reason, saw it right there for the taking, and decided to kick in the door, grab, and run. He didn't count on the alarm, though, and had to split before he could get in. He could have just rung the bell and asked me for it. Maybe it had been really late, or maybe he was just really stupid.

I'm going to see what's in that trunk, I thought.

You can't look in someone else's stuff, said the insistently superior mental voice.

It's affecting my life, I'm looking _._

You can't, said that superior voice.

Okay. If it's unlocked—only if it's unlocked—will I open it, I bargained with myself.

I entered the shop, dropped down beside the trunk, and tried the lid. It was locked, but with a small bump of a hammer, it was unlocked. So I opened it—end of discussion.

Not really much to look at inside—some out-of-date magazines, papers, notebooks with Shannon's name on them. I briefly looked through a few of the papers and notebooks, but it all looked like class notes or some such. There were a couple paperbacks, and a pair of women's scuffed three-quarter slough boots, also out of date and worn down at the heel; half-used packets of tissues and old, caked make-up; hair barrettes, one with a stray blonde hair caught in it; old utilities bills, also with Shannon's name. I looked through the whole trunk without finding anything that seemed unusual.

I thought I'd ask Hannah Huckleston about the contents and see if they meant anything to her. She had been Shannon's roommate and maybe she had seen this truck. But how was I going to remember everything in here? Then, smiling because I even thought of it, I ducked inside the office for my camera and returned to take pictures to document the trunk's contents. I put everything back in and shut it, learning nothing, really, from my breach of conduct.

I guessed Shannon had been using that trunk since she was a girl, judging from the garish cartoon-figure stickers all over it. They showed an idealized female figure in a tight Wonder Woman-like suit holding a bolt of lightning or something. The image looked familiar, as if I'd seen it hundreds of times in the background of my awareness, but hadn't really paid attention.

Feeling frustrated, I returned to the house, needing to get on with my day. We had more work to do on the hardscaping project before I could start planting the perennial garden, so I knew it was going to be a dusty, hot day. I found the new work bag Betty had brought me, made a lunch, and then double checked the bag before I put it in the car. In my distraction, I'd left out some of the essentials that belonged in there—schedule book, camera, water bottle, the auto injector pen needed as the antidote for my fatal allergy to yellow jackets. I put my cell phone in my purse, and hoped I hadn't forgotten something else.

I saw some brownies I'd made a couple of nights before, and wrapped a couple as for an afternoon treat for Liz and myself. I'd turned Liz Burzachiello on to the regenerative effects of good strong ice tea, so we'd have an ice tea break right in the middle of the afternoon when it was so hot and the project seemed like it would never end. Caffeine and chocolate and presto! The will to live returns! I locked up, hitched up Wanda the trailer, and headed out.

When I met Liz at the job site, I filled her in on the night's adventures. As we worked, we discussed all that had happened, and Liz was as distressed as I was about someone being at my house and setting off the alarm. She, of course, wanted to send her brothers Dominick and Crispino— "Nico" and "Crisp," to everyone except the nuns years ago at Catholic school—over to keep watch on my place, maybe be there herself, she said... and then they'd... she gestured several vivid, over-the-top things they could accomplish.

I laughed and said no, but thanked her for the offer. We talked about the contents of the trunk, too, after I sheepishly admitted that I had opened it. I grabbed my camera from the car and showed her the photos I'd taken. Nothing rang a bell for Liz either, but she was intrigued by the cartoon figure stickers.

"Why would a grown woman have gaudy teenage stickers on her stuff?" Liz asked. "Seems odd, doesn't it? Or maybe I just don't know what's popular right now?"

"Maybe she had had the trunk since she was a girl and decorated it then?" I wondered.

"Well, maybe so. Still, the stickers look new, don't they? And their gaudiness makes it hard not to notice the trunk. And look," she said, pointing to the photo, "the stickers are a mess, stuck on every which way. Shannon was so neat and organized—that doesn't look like the Shannon I knew."

"So-o-o-o?" I asked.

"So—I dunno!" she laughed. "I'm just sayin', I dunno, it strikes me as weird."

I hadn't looked at it that way before, but I agreed. That just gave me more to think about.

We sweated out the work of installing the flagstone path next to the stacked-stone wall. As hard as that was, at times I couldn't help but stop and admire the beautiful view—Longs Peak, Mt. Meeker, and the Indian Peaks in blues, grays, and purples, contrasting with emerald fields of corn, or, in this case, a preternaturally green golf course.

We labored in the hot sun until we finally took a break to sit in the shade of a large silver maple, with an ice tea and a brownie. As we watched a fox hunt along the edges of the fairway in the distance, Liz and I went over the schedule for the next day's work and another early start. Refreshed and caffeinated, we continued to set stones into the late afternoon. We were packing the tools and cleaning up when she said she had to hurry home to make dinner for Emma and sister Louie, who'd driven up from Denver where she lived.

"Making Nonna's recipes?" I asked.

"Nah," she said, "Louie'd eat meatballs and gravy every night if I didn't watch her. I'm making _munglai_ chicken curry and _saag paneer_. She doesn't know it yet, but she's gonna like it. Wanna come over?"

As much as I enjoyed Indian food, I declined, knowing I had research work to do on some new projects, and that I wouldn't have the discipline to start on it after filling up on comfort food and chatting for hours.

Still, driving home, I was pleased with a good day's work, and I cranked up the stereo with a Jon and Vangelis CD, _The Friends of Mr. Cairo_ to sing along with the 30-year-old tunes and seat dance, looking and sounding like an idiot, I'm sure.

Still singing, I drove in the gate, parked, and unhitched Wanda. I started to put away the day's tools in the shop when I saw that the glass in the window of the door was broken and the door was ajar.

Now I was ticked off. No, the alarm wasn't on. I usually didn't turn it on during the day when I thought we might be back and forth out of the yard and shop. It was too cumbersome. No, the locks weren't all that good, but they worked, at least until now. Yeah, and look what that got you, that highly superior, insistent mental voice said. _Shut up!_ I said.

First I called the cops again, and then I went back to the shop door and looked in. I knew not to touch anything, even though I doubted they would dust for prints. The contents of the trunk were strewn all over the floor, the trunk itself knocked over on its side. Then, in alarm, I looked into the rest of the shop, expecting the worst.

From where I stood, at least, everything looked okay, untouched. So, I thought, he was only after the trunk. Or, rather, something inside of it? Did he take anything? What was he looking for? Remembering, I dashed into the office and grabbed the copies I'd made of the trunk photos. Then I compared the photos and the contents on the floor as best I could. Nothing seemed to be missing. I kept looking.

The police arrived, two different guys from the night before. I told them all I knew about the two incidents as they looked around and took notes. I shared my suspicion that the now-even-fainter footprint from the night before was from the Nephew, but of course I didn't have a name or any proof. They didn't seem very interested; they didn't even really acknowledge that they saw the footprint. They did get Bernice Thorton's phone number and address, and thoroughly did their duty without giving me hope that they had much of a chance of catching anyone.

They also got copies of the photos I'd printed out, with the youngest officer looking surprised that I had them. They left saying they would have extra patrols keep an eye on the house for the next couple of days. I thanked them, even though that assurance didn't do me any good.

Carol Griffin arrived with Patsy and Pecos soon after the police left. Both dogs jumped out of the truck to greet me and then went off to sniff the surroundings, with Patsy doing her usual perimeter investigation. Pecos Bill, my blonde Chow mix, quickly came back to my side, and I knew just having them with me made me feel better. Carol was as bewildered as I about the break-ins, but she was on her way to a county Water Board meeting and couldn't stay to talk.

After she deposited two loaves of Marjo's fresh zucchini bread on the kitchen counter, she was on her way out the front door, saying she would call the next day and we could get caught up. She reminded me that Marjo and I were scheduled for canning at their place in a week or so, and that Marjo would call to confirm later.

Pecos Bill was my buddy and followed me around everywhere I went; among other things, I called him Mr. Two-Foot, as in, he was always two feet away. Sometimes he got in my way, but that night I welcomed his presence. I reached down often to pat his fuzzy, soft head.

I flipped on the Rockies game and kept the volume low while I decided what to make for dinner. As Patsy and Pecos gulped down their own supper, I rummaged around the refrigerator and found some eggs and parmesan cheese. With the fresh tomatoes and herbs I'd picked from the garden, all that could be dinner in a flash.

As the shirred eggs baked, I went to check my Vines e-mail, Pecos following me down the hall and into the office. All was well on that front—nothing needing immediate attention. Restless, I wandered around the house and yard until it was time to return to the kitchen and check on the eggs and the Rockies. I sat down and indulged in both, Pecos at my side.

After dinner, I knew I needed to think about something other than intrusions and the questions running through my mind about Shannon Parkhurst's trunk. I'd stalled long enough on starting the new projects so I went back down the hallway to the office, pulled out reference books, turned on the computer, and got started. With Bob Dylan on the internet radio, I opened up the outer door so the air could circulate through the screen, and I settled down for a couple hours of work. Pecos soon joined me and lay down by the screen door.

Suddenly I heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel drive just outside the office. I jumped; Pecos barked and tore out the unlatched screen door. Patsy came bulleting down the hallway and shot through the door, barking and howling loudly. Mayhem! My hand grabbed for the phone to call 911.

"Hey!" a voice called from outside, "It's just us, Lily!"

It was Liz Burzachiello. The dogs quieted down almost immediately, and by the time I looked out the door, Patsy and Pecos were the center of attention for Liz, Emma, and Louie, who were crouched down in the gravel drive by the steps giving the dogs hugs and kisses. Their bikes leaned against the side of the depot, and even in the dying evening light I could see that all three of them still had the pink sheen of exertion on their faces.

"Hope we didn't scare you," Liz said as she took off her bike gloves. "We thought the dogs would hear us way down by the gate," she added.

"Sleepin' on the job!" I laughed as Pecos sheepishly wagged his way back over to me. "And then they try to make up for it by creatin' a big ruckus!"

"We're just coming home from a bike ride after dinner. I saw the office light on, knew you were working, and I was wondering if I could show these guys the trunk? We won't mess up anything—I've just talked so much about it..."

As we walked to the shop, I gave them more to talk about as I filled them in on what I had found that afternoon when I got home. We chattered about the curiousness and stupidity of the two break-ins when the trunk could have simply been asked for all along. Then Liz and Louie crouched down on the floor by the trunk to examine it, and Emma Johanssen and I sat on stools watching them. It was easy to imagine the twins as four-year-olds playing jacks together decades ago.

"It's too bad about Shannon," Emma said to me. "I remember her from that crew party you had that summer. She seemed pretty together, seemed involved in so many activities. I guess I just don't understand suicide. Things just got her down, huh?"

"It's hard to say. I guess the real answer is 'I don't know'"

"I don't know how it feels to want to kill yourself, but I do know how it feels to want for something to end. I know it doesn't compare, but... well, like my job, for instance," she said. Liz had told me a little bit about Emma's work problems—she had a high-paying, but high-stress, high-tech position at TDI, a Silicon Valley outpost in a nearby town—but the normally reticent Emma Johanssen didn't often speak to me about them, as she approached most things with an upper Midwestern stoicism.

"Still pretty bad, huh?" I asked her.

"'Bad' isn't even close to it! There's this new protocol that—ugh! Don't want to talk about it. But I'm always worrying about it, and yesterday I got chewed out by my boss, too."

"I know you've been thinking about some alternatives—"

"I want what you guys have!" Emma interrupted with a squeak. "Liz comes home from work singing, and I come home needing a drink!" I nodded, knowing that feeling from my distant past.

Louie sneezed as she leaned back against a bench, checking one of Shannon's dusty boots that she had pulled from the trunk. She probed one of the heels with a screwdriver as if it could be something out of _I Spy_ or _Get Smart_ —like a place for a miniature phone, secret compartment, or change of clothing. I hadn't thought of that. Liz held up one of the notebook pages to the light and carefully scanned it. The Burzachiello sisters were on it.

"I really miss the work I used to do in TDI's philanthropy department," Emma continued. "That went away when the economy tanked. No money to give anymore. So when I had the chance to take this other position in the company, I went for it. Thought I wanted it, and now I hate it. I want to work at something that has meaning again."

Liz looked up and gave her partner an encouraging nod. "And a job that doesn't suck up every minute of your time. Didn't we have fun that weekend at the Frederick speedway? Louie and I've been going for a month, and you got to go just that once."

Under her sister's influence, Liz had become a stock car fan, and she was trying to convert Emma to the sport. The all-informed, über fan Louie chimed in, "Actually, Lizzy, the speedway's a few miles south of Frederick, in Dacono. But yeah, who could ask for a better time than we've had? We've gone every Friday night, always had perfect dry weather, not a cloud in the sky, it was great. Red hots with cold beer delivered right to your seat. You should come with us, too, Lily!"

I only smiled to rebuff the idea. I had declined their invitations to join them since I couldn't stand the noise of screaming engines, or screaming fans. Besides, I felt I was already half-deaf from listening to amped-up music all my life; I couldn't afford to lose the other half to screeching machines stinking of jet fuel.

It was getting late, and I didn't want to get Louie started talking about the stock car races. "Well, did you all see anything strange in the trunk?" I asked Liz and Louie as they were putting the items back inside it.

"We didn't find anything that looked _suspicious,_ but what _jerk_ would come over here..." Louie sputtered.

"Come on, Emma needs to get home," Liz said to her twin. She nodded at me and said, "Thanks, see you later. Oh, hey? Need help loading the trunk in the car again, in case you can get it out to the aunt? Louie and I can do it."

"That'd be great. It's cumbersome to maneuver alone."

The street-smart Liz Burzachiello mugged, "But then yoose park da car in da shop, lock da shop, turn on da 'larm, and set da dogs loose!"

With only five minutes of colorful, expressive argument about the right way to load it, the sisters got the trunk into the back of the CR-V. I saw the trio off through the gate, rolled it shut, and locked it. Both dogs had followed us down the drive and were sniffing around the bottom of the gate, but they soon followed me back to the house, where I closed up the office and got ready for bed, hoping for an uninterrupted night's rest. But I kept thinking, which never helps my sleep. Two more sets of eyes had looked at the trunk and its contents, and had found nothing. What was there about Shannon Parkhurst's trunk that made it worth stealing?

* * *

Next morning I headed down to Hammett's as soon as I got up, knowing I needed to fuel up for a long, physical day. As I walked in, a few of the early regulars gave me friendly, desultory waves, and I instinctively checked my hair in the big wall mirror to see if I had remembered to brush it. I had, but sometimes I forget, to my embarrassment. I sat down by the window in a lumpy brown booth that felt and looked like it had been there for the seventy-five years the place had been open. It was the same booth where Betty Huckleston and I had sat when she visited because I tended to sit in the same place. I could just relax, and let Vicki take care of things.

Vicki Sinclair, a fixture at Hammett's, had known me for years—for the good, the bad, and the ugly. I knew there had been plenty of mornings in the past when I had arrived in pretty bad shape, reeking of the night before, or maybe of that morning. Steeped in self-pity, full of morose stories of betrayal and lost love—I was going down the tubes one drink at a time. Vicki Sinclair always listened, always brought coffee. She'd also witnessed my renewal and listened to my much better stories of gratitude and abundance. She and I had never really talked about my sobriety, but early on, during one conversation or another, she had given me a look that said she knew I was going to make it.

Vicki strolled up, a sardonic smile on her face. "Been working? Or at least busy?" she said, one eyebrow up in ribald suggestion as she put down coffee and water on the table. "The usual?"

"Yep, the Dash, green, no sour cream."

"You got it," she said and went off to place the order with Jean Georgopoulos, daughter of Stannos, and now the irascible owner and day cook. Jean had been known to change an order to whatever she felt the person should have that particular morning, or, more likely, what she needed to get rid of while it was still edible. All within the limits of quality food, of course, but still, her substitutions were sometimes odd.

The Dash—a breakfast special named for Dashiell Hammett—was a mound of fried potatoes and bacon, smothered with green or red chile, and topped with jack cheese. No eggs. This behemoth ranked in my top three breakfasts, the green chile being the key, and I sometimes wondered if Jean put something in it to make it so addictive; there was a spice I couldn't quite identify. Whatever it was, it had me.

I sat with my coffee and newspaper and tried to work things out in my mind. What was the deal with this trunk? Did it have anything to do with Shannon besides it being her trunk? Why was getting it immediately—at the risk of being caught at _two_ break-ins—so important? Was Nephew the one that was trying to get it? Who the hell was Nephew, anyway?

Vicki brought more coffee. "Say, what's this I hear about your place being broken into? Were you there? You okay?"

"Yeah, a little shaken up, I guess. The alarm going off in the middle of the night is enough to take five years off your life, though."

"Middle of the night?" asked Vicki Sinclair. "I heard it was yesterday afternoon. Police came to your place. Willard told me about it." She pointed with her chin at one of the regulars sitting at the communal table. Willard Franklin, night watchman and stocker at Northern Feed and Grain down the street, nodded at us when he heard his name. "How ya dogs doin'?" he called with a grin. I was a regular customer of the feed store across the road from my house for the 50-pound bags of dog food, and Willard couldn't resist giving the dogs big, rough hugs every time they came in with me.

I told Vicki about Shannon's trunk and about the _two_ instances, and this time both of her eyebrows went up in concern.

"What is going on?" she wondered.

"Hell if I know."

She went off to get my order with a perplexed look on her face. Vicki Sinclair prided herself on knowing just about everything that went on, and I could see that she took it almost as a personal affront if trouble surfaced in her neighborhood. She brought my breakfast, exactly the way I had ordered it—thank you, Jean Georgopoulos. As I tucked into the piping hot green chile, Vicki leaned against the booth, wanting to discuss her questions about the intrusions. Her clothes smelled faintly of the cigarettes that made her voice low, husky, and familiar.

"The nephew's involved, or an associate of Nephew, right? I can't figure out who else it could be. Bernice? Nah, I can't see that scenario," Vicki said as she tried to imagine the poor old woman breaking and entering. "She didn't seem to be much interested in the trunk, did she?"

"Oh, she mentioned it, at the beginning, but I got distracted, and forgot all about it. When I called Bernice the day before about dropping the trunk off, she said Nephew had been upset that she didn't have the trunk with her after she'd returned from Shannon's place in Gilcrest. Maybe he freaked out even more that afternoon when he returned to Bernice's and found I had left without delivering the trunk.

"He didn't know I planned to return with it," I continued. "I guess he found me from the information I'd given Bernice on the phone, either overhearing the conversation or seeing the slip of paper she'd kept with my name and business on it. Easy enough.

"After blowing his chance at the trunk the first night, he must have watched my place the next day and saw that I went out early with all my tools and trailer. So maybe he thought he may have a chance in broad daylight. Maybe he thought he could get away with a smash-and-grab quickly enough after the alarm went off, since he'd be prepared for it. But the alarm didn't go off 'cause I didn't set it. Well, I helped him there, didn't I?" I said ruefully.

"But nothing seems to be missing. Why risk breaking in and not take anything? Or did he not find what he was looking for?" Vicki asked. "And why break in in the first place? He could have just rung the bell and asked you for it."

"I know! It seems pretty stupid," I said. "Breaking in to steal the trunk puts the whole thing in a more significant light, doesn't it?"

But Vicki agreed with me that the police probably had few resources to commit to an alarm report and a call about a broken window with nothing stolen. The paperwork for just that probably took more time than they had available, and they had no extra money in their budget. With lower tax revenues due to the recession, the town had had to make all sorts of cuts. Soon Vicki and I were off-subject, discussing the economy, before she went off to refill coffee cups at Willard Franklin's table.

Vicki Sinclair went back to the counter to retrieve some other orders—Jean had now banged twice on the ringer to get her attention. "Order up, by god! What does it take? You gonna take these orders out, or am I gonna have to? By god!" yelled sweet Jean, peering out the order window at Vicki.

That was the usual way Jean Georgopoulos communicated with just about anybody, and Vicki didn't seem to pay attention to it. I'd finished scraping up the last of the green chile on my plate, so I paid the check at the table, knowing the tab by heart, and waved good-bye to Vicki, and to Jean, who scowled back. They were an incongruous pair—the squat and swarthy Jean and the lithe, red-haired Vicki—but they seemed to have found comfortable working grooves with each other. Most people couldn't handle Jean shouting something inappropriate at them every other minute, but Vicki easily ignored her while doing whatever she pleased.

No wonder this place had such a homey feel to it.

## CHAPTER FIVE

After spending the day at nurseries buying plants for the Cramers' project, I got home at a decent hour with enough time to relax in the yard with the dogs, take my shoes off, and enjoy some ice tea. I stuck my bare, hot feet in the dogs' blue plastic wading pool that I set up for them each summer. Patsy Cline was first in the water and would immerse herself as if she were swimming, but Pecos would only stand in it to cool off. Even after he started getting summer shaves to free him of his thick, Chow coat, he wouldn't do more than wade now and then. Patsy, however, was a frequent user. They enjoyed it, and so did I, and we shared it with friends, too. I named it the Patsy Cline Memorial Swimming Pool, and we'd had pool parties celebrating the season.

I had called Bernice Thorton's number several times during the day, without any luck. An answering machine didn't even pick up. I was hoping I could reach her before the police contacted her so she'd know the situation and not be freaked out by the authorities showing up at her door unannounced. I also wanted to let her know that I would bring the trunk out to her again; I wanted to be rid of the troublesome thing.

I still had some energy, so I decided to head out to Bernice's and see if I could catch her at home since I figured maybe she wasn't answering her phone. The whole trunk thing was burning a hole in my brain, and I needed some answers. With that as an excuse, I herded Patsy Cline and Pecos Bill into the car, and we slowly headed out on back roads east onto the plains, their dog heads out the windows enjoying the breeze.

The northern Colorado plains are dry, gently rolling hills, unlike the humid flatland plains of Texas and Oklahoma where I grew up. The view is as big, though, and on this late afternoon, giant cumulus clouds were drifting like sky schooners over green sugar beet fields, leaving racing blue ground shadows in their wake, soon to gather farther east into rain fleets that were too far away to help us in town. Thunderheads toward the north were looming dark gray, their tops shining white in the sun, and though I could see flashes of lightning far to the northeast, I could hear no thunder.

A wind had picked up, northwest to southeast, scattering tumbleweeds across the road. I knew it was probably not going to rain as hoped, but the breeze was refreshing, and the contrasts in light and shadow made me glad I'd brought my camera. I pulled over toward the barrow ditch and parked to watch the sky and take a few images of the storm clouds. I hurried because I didn't want to get to Bernice Thorton's at an inconvenient hour, such as dinnertime.

I needn't have hurried because no one was home. The house looked shut up. Ladders and paint buckets of the previous visit had been shoved together on the side of the house in an untidy heap. The front porch floor had been painted, although not very well, but it was dry enough to walk on. I rang the bell several times, waited, rang some more. No one home, I mouthed to the dogs, who had their heads sticking out of opposite car windows, looking attentive. As I walked down the front steps, I noticed again an older man out watering his yard a couple of houses down the road. He'd seen me drive up and had scowled at the dogs. Now he scowled at me and bent down to move the sprinkler, now wasting every drop to the wind, to another part of the yard.

By the immaculate look of his yard, the very Teutonic precision of the clipped shrubs, I figured he spent a lot of time outside, maybe knew what went on in the neighborhood, and surely had some opinions about it. I walked down, smiled, and asked him about a shrub in his front yard. I knew what the shrub was, but I've found that if you ask people questions about something they are familiar with or responsible for, they loosen up and probably start talking about other stuff as well.

At first he was the crotchety old guy I thought he'd be, eyeing me and saying he'd seen my car before at Bernice's. He didn't seem interested in knowing why I was there but wanted instead to complain about the general state of the world, as he twice hitched up baggy khaki pants that his narrow hips could not hold up. A ribbed white undershirt showed under his open brown plaid shirt whipping in the wind, and the brim on his stained fedora snapped back towards the crown as a dusty gust blew through the yard. After talking about his own yard for a bit, he forgot I was a stranger, and forgot his defensive feelings and his thoughts about everyone being out to get him. I commented on how nice his yard looked—the best one in the neighborhood, I said—and how quiet the neighborhood seemed.

He grumped, "Yeah, used to be," and glared at Bernice Thorton's house. He told me that the police had been there that afternoon at her house; he'd seen an officer knock on the door and then drive away.

Had he talked to the officer? I asked. "Nope," he said, "he didna ask."

We talked some more about his yard, about which he was evidently very proud. I learned that Bernice was gone on a vacation. He'd been out working in his yard when he'd seen her come out of her house.

"I was trying to kill those dang grasshoppers; can't keep up with 'em," he said, "and I come 'round the corner and saw Miz Thorton come out of her house with a valise. At the curb was one of them big dark limos and its own driver. Miz Thorton seemed jist thrilled. She was a-wavin' at me! She was callin' out 'good-bye! good-bye!' and something about a cruise." He stopped and glared at me, "Now why would a woman of her age wanta go on a cruise? She's too old!" This from a guy at least ten years her senior.

"A cruise?" I asked. "Did she say where she was going?"

"Uh, somethin' about Hawahya or Chinee, or some sort of nonsense. I couldna hear her; she mumbles!" He pulled down his hat farther onto his head to keep the wind from catching it, and gave me a look as if he enjoyed being a crotchety old man. "Anyhoo, what she need a limo for?"

So I laughed and said, "Wow, a limo. Uptown, huh?"

"Well, whoever it belongs to, he's one smart man."

"Why's that?" I asked.

"'Cause he supports Erik Nambertin for Congress, that's why!" He looked at me as if everyone knew this but me.

"How—"

"He had a 'Support Your Rights!' sticker right there on the back bumper. Standing up for his rights! I got me one of them, too, at the Nambertin rally here last month. His campaign makes 'em, and it shows that I'm proud to be an American!"

Well, I was, too, but Erik Nambertin was a little too right wing for my beliefs. One way he sought political power was by demonizing immigrants and stirring up xenophobic fear. His idea of supporting his rights usually meant stepping on others' rights. But I kept my mouth shut and just smiled as Mr. Crotchety proudly showed me his bumper sticker on his fading but spotless 1988 Buick tank.

I asked him about Nephew. He scowled. "Good for nothin'. He shows up here wantin' a handout—good for nothin'. Poor woman ain't got anything! She'd been needin' paintin' done and had to beg him to do it. Now look at it," he said, scowling over at Bernice's unfinished house. "I'll have to look at that mess! Me! Nobody else! Me!"

It was getting to be time to go. Did he know Nephew's name? Did Bernice mention it?

"Aw, something like, uh, Darren, Daryl, Daniel or... or something. I don't know! She mumbles!"

Then he showed me some potentillas he was having problems with in his front yard, and after suggesting a few pruning techniques as a solution, I left him to his yard work, mumbling to himself in the breeze.

Back in the car, my head was buzzing with unanswered questions, and the dogs were of no help. I put Mark Sloniker's _Paths of Heart_ in the CD player to enjoy the peaceful piano jazz, and the gray-blue haze of the Front Range view as I pulled back onto the county dirt road. There were no indications of possible rain now; in fact, it rained so seldom each event was celebrated as manna from heaven. From out there, the clear blue sky showed an unobstructed view north to Wyoming, all the way south to Pike's Peak.

It seemed unlikely that Bernice Thorton could afford or would decide to go on a cruise, so someone must have set it up for her. And it seemed sudden, since Bernice hadn't mentioned it to me when I had talked with her two days before. An upcoming cruise was something any of us would want to talk about to anybody who would listen, I thought, and she hadn't said a word about it. Yet more questions I'd just as soon let go.

When we got home, and the dogs were chowing down their dinner, I knew it was time to get out of my head, and take a walk by myself along the river in the early evening light.

The wind that had been so hot all day became a cool breeze by the water that looked like liquid marble, mottled in greens and browns. Two mallards, their iridescent emerald necks flashing in the sun, bobbed with a dark merganser on the edge of an eddy under a low hanging, ragged limbed willow. Engelmann ivy tangled in the undergrowth of hawthorn, skunkbrush, and washed-up tree limbs from the last flood, obscuring the small sand islands in the middle of the stream. The line of cottonwoods by the river thinned out into open fields, and the view expanded to include the brown line of foothills, backlit by the setting sun. Soon I wasn't thinking of anything at all, just following my feet down the path, following the sound of the river.

* * *

Later that evening I decided that I was going to try to talk to Shannon Parkhurst's boyfriend. Things were getting too complicated, and I felt compelled to get Shannon's trunk to its rightful place. Hannah Huckleston had told her mother that he was a nice man, and even though I was sure he was grieving Shannon, I hoped that he might talk to me. I didn't have any specific questions to ask him, but it just seemed as if this simple thing had turned into a complex thing. Maybe I should give _him_ the trunk?

I texted Hannah and asked if she knew the boyfriend's number, or where he worked. A minute or so later there was a _dong!_ from the phone, letting me know I had a message. It was from Hannah, with a phone number and the message "whats going on?" I had too much to say to text back, so I gave her a call.

We first chatted about the last time we had seen each other at Shannon's service, or what Hannah called "The hellish funeral that wasn't," saying, "Seriously, Lily, that preacher guy had me convinced I was sitting in hell that very moment!"

We visited about her teaching job with fifth graders in a small school district in southern New Mexico, her husband Joe's job with the Forest Service, and life in general. She knew I volunteered in a small school myself, teaching reading to first graders during the school year, so we shared proud stories of our first graders and fifth graders—quite different breeds.

Then we turned to the reason for the call. I gave her an edited version of events of the past week and asked her if any of it made sense to her. It didn't, but she asked to see photos of the trunk, so I went down the hall to the office and e-mailed her the photos I had taken. Did the trunk look familiar? I asked her.

"No, I can't remember anything like that when we were roommates. I think I would have remembered the stickers, though."

"Why?"

"Because they're ThaunderX! Don't you remember ThaunderX?"

No, I didn't remember ThaunderX. "Who was she?"

"Oh my god! ThaunderX was the best!" She went on to explain, in increasing detail, a Wonder-Woman-like heroine who could best any villain and save the world. Hannah said she had a ThaunderX doll when she was twelve.

"Was Shannon a big fan of ThaunderX?" I asked.

"Don't know who she was into when she was younger. We were in college when we were roommates."

Yeah, right, I thought sardonically, a couple years' difference and you were different people? Well, sure, I thought. At that time in my life, a year was a big deal, and in several years' time I had changed quite a bit. Like Shannon could have changed a lot since Hannah and I knew her? Maybe.

"When had you seen Shannon last, before you saw her at the party?" I asked.

"A couple of years ago?" she said. She explained pretty much what Betty had already told me about them being roommates. Hannah described a rather quiet girl who'd grown up in a small town in her aunt's care. Shannon Parkhurst had gone through the typical teenage angst and fallen in with a bad crowd. She'd had a young, drunk punk for a boyfriend, and she'd become a young, drunk punk under his influence.

Then something changed in Shannon's life. Hannah wasn't clear what it was, but Shannon had gotten sober. I figured it was at that point that I had met and worked with Shannon; she had shared some of her past with me, too. I kept that information to myself.

Hannah went on to say that while they were at New Mexico State, they both had volunteered at an immigrant project and had tirelessly advocated for the workers and their children. She said Shannon had had a special affinity for those who didn't have much, for those who were struggling. I remembered Shannon had volunteered that summer she had worked for me, with a group in town that helped at-risk youth become involved in outdoor projects. And she had worked at the community garden, too. A life full of energy. That thought made me sad, for a life cut short, a life that already had contributed so much.

"I was surprised to see her at the party because I didn't even know she was in Colorado. I was going to ask her why she didn't let me know she was in town, but I didn't get a chance," Hannah said.

"Why not?"

"Well, it was a typical Friday night party in Frederick, you know? We met some friends of Joe's there, but it was, like, really loud and crowded. You almost had to shout to talk to someone. Shannon said she wanted to tell me something, and we went outside where it was quieter; but out there she just started going on about a big storm coming up; crazy something about lightning and thunder and stuff. Then her boyfriend came up, and she started arguing with him about something, couldn't tell what. He said Shannon should stop partyin' and take a break."

"Was she drunk? Could you smell alcohol on her breath?"

" _Mmm_ , no, she didn't stink of it at all. Guess that's why I thought she was just confused, or something, at the beginning. But her boyfriend said she was drunk, so I guess he'd know. Surprised me, though. It just seemed, like, out of character. She was so against booze when I knew her. She was real proud of her sobriety, and I know it took a lot for her to get sober. I was surprised she'd even..." Hannah sighed. "Yeah, she was out of it."

This is what Betty had reported Hannah had told her before, and what Kelsy said she saw. "And the boyfriend took care of her?"

"Yeah; he seemed nice. I hadn't met him before. He took Shannon inside to sit down, I guess, and then he came back outside to talk to us. He said Shannon was drinking heavily, and it was really a problem to keep her from hurting herself."

"Like suicide?"

"No, more like falling-down-drunk hurting herself. He said she'd been on a long downward slide, drinking secretly. He said childhood problems were causing her to drink, as well as problems in her career. I told him I'd talk to Shannon later, but he looked at the number she'd given me and said she'd already lost that cell phone. He said to call him if I wanted to get in touch with her; she'd lost her cell too many times to keep one."

"Did you mention to him that Shannon's behavior seemed out of character to you?"

"No, didn't really have a chance. Some guy came out and motioned at him—Barry—to come in, so he gave me his number, said he'd talk to us later, and left."

"Do you know how Shannon and Barry met?"

"I don't know—because they worked together, maybe?"

"Where?"

"I don't know. I don't think he mentioned a name. Shannon didn't, either. He did say she'd broken down under the stress at work a couple of times, which led to binges, and that they'd found some discrepancies in her accounts. I guess it was, like, a big deal. He said it was. Maybe Shannon killed herself because of all that?" Hannah Huckleston sounded sad.

"I don't know," I said honestly. Based on my experience, alcohol could take away so many decent things in life, and self-respect was the first to go. The information we had pointed to Shannon Parkhurst killing herself. I was just reluctant to believe it.

"One more thing—did Shannon have a brother, or other family?" I asked, thinking of Nephew.

"Not that I know of. I think her aunt was the only one. Why? Oh, yeah, the nephew. So who was _he,_ then?"

"I don't know," I said again. Something was in the back of my mind, but I couldn't bring it forward. But I then remembered what Vicki Sinclair's niece, Kelsy, had said about the photos of Shannon on Facebook.

"Hannah, someone said that she saw photos of Shannon drunk at that party you were at, too. Was someone there taking pictures?"

"Well, everybody has a cell phone, Lily," Hannah said, reminding me of the method it seemed that the world, except for some hold-outs, was using for photography.

"She said she saw the photos on Shannon's Facebook page. Isn't that rather crass to post embarrassing pictures of someone who'd just died?"

"I wouldn't have done that, but some people don't really think about it, like, you know, don't think it through. They'd probably been on there since the party; that's what people usually do, post party pictures," Hannah said.

"I didn't have the heart to check it out when I heard about it. Did you see them?"

"When Ian, our friend from school, called to let me know Shannon had died, he mentioned the photos—someone else had told him about it—but I didn't check her page until later. I guess I didn't want to see them, either. By then they'd been taken down. So, no, I didn't see 'em."

At least they had been taken down. "Well, thanks, Hannah. We've been talking for over an hour, and we both have to work tomorrow! Thanks so much for the info. Tell Joe hello for me." We said our good-byes and rang off, and I started getting ready for bed. It had been a long day. Even the dogs looked tired as they trudged in.

Some things that Hannah had said bothered me, though. The boyfriend, Barry, seemed to be giving out a lot of Shannon's personal information to relative strangers. Maybe it was my own issue with privacy, but it didn't seem appropriate. But then, there were the photos, posted for all to see, so what did it matter what he told people?

The wind picked up outside. The weather report had said there was a possibility of a shower, but not a probability. We could use a good soaking, and I went over to the window hoping I'd been wrong about the thunderstorms being too far to the east. Air rushing through the cottonwoods in the yard smelled damp like rain. A flash of lightning startled me, and made the dogs flinch in anticipation of the thunder to follow. We waited, but there was no thunder. Thunder. Now I remembered what had been in the back of my mind since talking with Hannah. It was late, but I had to call her back and find out.

Turns out she was still up—do the young ever sleep?—so I made it quick.

"You said the party was in Frederick on a Friday night, right?"

"Yeah—"

"And Shannon talked about a big storm coming, with thunder and lightning and all."

"Yeah—"

"Some friends of mine were just south of Frederick at the speedway that Friday night and they said it was dry weather, no storms. What was Shannon talking about?"

"Hadn't really thought about it." There was a short silence. "Oh my god! Now I remember Joe and I talking about how many stars we could see on the way home. It didn't storm that night! But Shannon _was_ going on about thunder and lightning—"

"Both? Or was she talking more about the thunder?"

"Well, I think it was... it was the thunder. Oh my god! Do you think she was talking about ThaunderX? Do you think she was trying to tell me something about the trunk stickers?"

"Yeah, maybe; it sounds like she was trying to. I think she was trying to direct you to the stickers. Like she was saying 'Pay attention to this trunk!'"

"I _didn't_ pay attention to her because it didn't make any sense! She was rambling. I didn't know about the trunk."

"Did she say anything else? That, well, now would seem odd?"

"Don't think so. But why would she start talking to me about stickers on a trunk I didn't know about anyway? Why not just tell me about the trunk?"

"I don't know. Doesn't sound like she was thinking straight. Maybe she would've gotten to it... " It sounded like Shannon had been less than rational.

"Maybe so. We didn't have much time together before her boyfriend hurried out and took her inside. Now I wish I'd talked to her longer." I heard Hannah sigh. "You said you looked in the trunk. What's the big deal?"

"I don't know," I said for what seemed like the hundredth time about all this. "That's my question, too."

We talked a short while longer but it was really late, so we rang off.

Pecos had already jumped up on the end of the bed, ready for a snooze, breaking rule number zero about no dogs on the bed, which I always allowed him to break. As I tried to settle down myself, I thought about Shannon Parkhurst. Now I didn't just have it on my own speculation that it seemed she intentionally attached the stickers to her trunk to get someone to notice it. Shannon had tried to talk about it with Hannah, it seemed. Well, the trunk was noticed, but for what end? What was she trying to tell us?

## CHAPTER SIX

I didn't get around to calling the boyfriend Barry for several days. By then, I'd heard through Betty Huckleston that Shannon's death had officially been ruled a suicide by the Gilcrest police. Her associates and in particular, Barry, had been interviewed; he'd reported her missing the day before she her body was found and had fully cooperated with the police in trying to find her. He'd been at a business function with a hundred other people the night of Shannon's death. Everyone else checked out, too. It seemed that Shannon had driven to a lake where she and Barry had spent some time and drowned herself, leaving a suicide note on the car seat.

It seemed wrapped up but something was compelling me to talk to Barry, if only to find out about Shannon's life with him in Gilcrest. I didn't know what I was looking for, but maybe I hoped maybe he could throw some light on her emotional state. At any rate, I had decided to deliver the trunk to him since I couldn't give it to Bernice. It was still in the car, and I could drive it out to him, and be done with it.

When I finally called the number, a receptionist answered, "Binder Enterprises, how may I help you?" I was surprised because I had expected it to be Barry's home number for some reason, but this worked just as well. Then, I realized I didn't know Barry's last name, so to respond to the "how may I help you?" I stuttered, unprepared, "Uh, _mmm_ , I'm looking for Barry, uh—sorry, I don't have a last name. Uh, I don't know if he works there?" The up inflection in my voice made me sound like a Valley Girl.

"Mr. Barry Correda? I'm sorry, he's in a meeting. May I take a message? Who may I say is calling?"

"This is Lillian Raffenport—I am a—uh—I knew—uh, I have something of Shannon Parkhurst's, and I thought I'd ask him if—"

At the mention of Shannon's name, the receptionist drew in her breath and said, "Yes, yes, of course. May I put you on hold? I may be able to reach Mr. Correda."

As I waited, I thought about what I knew about Binder Enterprises, a well known land development company around for decades. It had been founded on agricultural land sales, cattle feedlots, and agricultural chemicals, and I now frequently read about the company in the paper as having a hand in commercial and residential developments around the area, such as they were in a down economy. Its founder, Billy "Cowboy" Binder, was often cited concerning various charitable events he attended or supported. From the photos, he looked like a good ol' country boy in a bolo tie that the articles reported as retired from the day-to-day workings of the company.

The articles mentioned his son, Phillip Binder, the heir apparent. In his photo, Phillip did not look like a country boy, but rather a sophisticated wheeler-dealer in an Italian suit. Phillip Binder's name and money were associated with a large mega church and several conservative politicians.

The receptionist interrupted my thoughts. "Mr. Correda has time this afternoon, two o'clock? Shall I schedule you?"

I thanked her, took the appointment, and then rescheduled myself for the day so I could make the meeting. It dawned on me that I couldn't wear my usual summer shorts-and-t-shirt ensemble, so I rounded up some presentable slacks, a blouse, and comfortable shoes.

That afternoon, after a brief wait, I was shown into Barry Correda's office. The warmly wood-paneled room gave off an air of luxury and entitlement. It was bigger than I had expected, and seemed to be the office of an important man in the company. Again I was a bit surprised, as I had made up the story in my mind that Barry, as a young guy, would be working his way up the ranks. It seemed as if he'd already arrived.

Barry Correda extended his hand in welcome; I felt the perfectly manicured hand in contrast to my own work-roughened mitt. He seemed about thirty years old, had stylishly cut dark brown hair, muscular physique; shorter than I had envisioned, but still wonderfully dressed; everything just right, except for his shoes. The scuffed, cheap, off-brand loafers seemed wrong for a sophisticated man in an expensive suit. But I was getting distracted. The rest of the package was just right, and Barry Correda was a very handsome guy: I could see why Shannon had fallen for him.

He glanced down at a piece of paper on his desk, and then said, "Ahhh, Mrs. Lillian Raffenport. Please, please sit down. How good to meet you, how good! May I get you something to drink? Anything at all? How very good of you to come."

First of all, I was not Mrs. Raffenport, except to my first-graders, with whom it was easier to have them call me Mrs. instead of trying to introduce the concept of Ms. to them. Secondly, I had never been anybody's Mrs. And thirdly, even though his words and gestures seemed "nice," as Hannah had described him, the formal, unctuous tone and overly welcoming behavior seemed off, rehearsed. It had something of a Sidney Greenstreet quality to it—a suave insincerity.

Barry Correda took my elbow as if I were an invalid and slowly guided me to a plush-looking seat by his glass-block, ultramodern desk. Okay, I thought, he thinks I'm an old lady—the outdated name Lillian fools them every time. Or did I look that old? I didn't know where this was going, but I could play along with it. So I murmured, demurely, "Oh, thank you, young man" and carefully took out my reading glasses to perch them on my nose so I could peer over the rims at him like an old-fashioned schoolteacher.

He first asked if I had had trouble finding the place, as if it were a major feat for a woman my age to navigate state highways. I assured him that I had made it just fine, even though I had had to pull over several times, I said, because "all those speedsters were jammin' up behind me." I couldn't resist a little ham.

Even though he had just asked me the question, he seemed bored with my short answer, and fiddled with papers on his desk. Without trying to disguise it, he looked at his watch, I guess to show that he was a rude, busy man.

"Er, how did you know Shannon?" he asked.

"Well, you see—I heard about her death... Oh dear, well, Miz Thorton..." I said hesitantly. I looked down at the floor in faux despair, although I _was_ feeling panic coming on since I was extemporizing here and didn't have a clear-cut idea of what I wanted to say, but an alarm was going off in my head that said to act dumb. Not too hard to do.

"You know her aunt, then?" he asked.

"Oh, dearie—not all that well. You see," I paused as I took a tissue out of my purse and dabbed at my eye under my glasses. "You see, after Mr. Raffenport passed on—bless his soul—I started at the same church as Miz Thorton, and we was on the Giddy Up Gals committee that the Reverend Jackson—" I could see Barry Correda trying not to roll his eyes.

"Yes, yes, she mentioned you to Shannon," he said. _She did?_ "Shannon used to go to that church, too," he said. _I doubt that._ This conversation was definitely going a different way than I had anticipated. Something was sliding in another direction here.

"Well," he said, "Shannon used to go there, until..." He lowered his eyes and paused, "Until she didn't go many places anymore. I tried to get her help—I tried to help her!" I swear the guy was going to squeeze out a tear. "Are you familiar with 12-step programs, Mrs. Rah... Mrs. Raffenpot?" he asked, rather out of the blue. He had to consult the paper again to sort of remember my name

"Oh, no, young man," I lied. I kept my eyes downcast and the tissue wringing in my hands.

"Well," he said with a proud, white smile that he then tempered with regret," I'm pretty high up in the AA organization, Recruitment Director, and even I couldn't make my Shannon stay sober, and I know all the tricks. I'm sorry to have to tell you all this, but I think it's important to know why Shannon was so, so depressed, enough to kill herself."

The truth sliding continued because there were several things wrong with that statement: AA has no "organization" to be high up into, much less a recruitment director. And nobody _makes_ anybody get sober—it's personal responsibility that is taught in 12-step programs, not co-dependence. And there are no tricks, just hard work. The guy is lying, but why? I wondered.

"Oh, dear, yes, so sorry, but it sounds like you did everything you could. What a kind, smart man you are," I said, as I allowed my hands to flutter around my face.

Barry preened in the compliments. "Yes... yes, I am. So, the reason for your visit?"

Going with my instinct, I changed my original reason on the fly. "Oh, yes, dearie... Poor Miz Thorton needed a ride to her poor niece's service, so I took her out to Gilcrest and dropped her off while I did some visitin' with my own kin out there. It was the Christian thing to do for poor Miz Thorton." I wrung my hands, but continued quickly on so I wouldn't have to watch Barry Correda's eye rolling again; he must think I was a blind fencepost not to notice it.

"I couldn't wait for her after the service—had to git back for the four o'clock dinner special at Luby's, you know—but Miz Thorton needed that trunk taken to town, so I took it for her. Now I can't get a holt of Miz Thorton, and she'd said you... I was wondering... oh, dear..." Good god, how I could lie on the spot.

"Yes, you have the trunk," he said softly in acknowledgement. Then he caught himself and quickly looked at me to see if I had noticed the slip. I dabbed my eyes and looked at him innocently.

"The trunk," he said louder. "Yes, you have the trunk? I know it was important to Shannon, so perhaps I should have it? Or her aunt? I could get it to her aunt, if that's what she wishes. Do you have it with you? Or I can send a car for it, if you wish."

"Oh, thank you, young man. It's too heavy for this old body to lift." Maybe I was overdoing it; even still, as I stood up I thought of stooping over a bit to add to the effect. He came around the desk and put his hand on my elbow again.

"Thank you so much for coming, Mrs., er, uh, yes, thank you so much. You can just give your address to my secretary, and she will arrange for the trunk to be picked up. Thank you for your kind thoughts about my Shannon." I thought he was going to tear up again. "She often talked about the good times that trunk held for her, and showed it to me many times..."

You two often talked about a trunk. _Really?_ "Oh, how sad, dearie. It has stickers all over it, were they her favorite? My poor old eyes couldn't see what they were—cute little creatures or..."

"Oh, yes," he sighed, and looked away for a moment and then glanced back at me, bending down in a solicitous gesture. "Her favorite. They were—cute little bears."

* * *

Liar, liar, pants on fire! I thought, as Barry Correda guided me out of his office. A well-dressed man was just walking into the waiting room as I walked out. He gave me a courteous nod and walked directly into Barry's office, saying as he went, "Correda, what about the Ramson files? We have a meeting in twenty minutes." Barry Correda followed the very important person immediately into his office, turning to give the receptionist, and me because I was in the vicinity, an intimate smile before shutting the heavy oak door.

As I waited, I thought I'd use the opportunity to talk to the secretary. She was a woman in her late forties, early fifties, and judging by her dress and make-up, trying to look a lot younger. That she didn't pull it off successfully was only my opinion, I thought ruefully, glancing down at my own generic—apparently old-lady-looking—clothes. I gave her my name and address, and she took the information and entered it into her computer. She buzzed Barry on the house phone, spoke a few words, and then, smiling at me as she hung up, said that Mr. Correda was checking on something, and would get back to her shortly. I thought we had time for me to ask some innocent questions, but I didn't want her to think I was a friend of Shannon's, so then she'd be more inclined to tell me the gossip about Barry Correda and Shannon Parkhurst.

"I'm just here to arrange for a trunk pick up for Shannon's aunt," I started out. "But what a beautiful office! You must really like working here."

"Oh, yes," she gushed and started on a half-monotone, half-sing-song rendition of the brochure version of the wonderful things Binder Enterprises had accomplished, obviously memorized.

When she paused, I interrupted to ask, "How long have you worked in this unbelievable place?"

"About a year or so. I started out in the front office like everybody else. I was glad for the job, you know what I'm sayin'?"

I nodded. "Did Shannon start there, too?"

"Yeah, I knew her there. She was there about four months before she got herself promoted, you know what I'm sayin'?" she said with more than a hint of jealousy in her voice.

"Promoted?"

"Yeah, to account rep—working with Mr. Correda. Me and Tina used to have lunch with her," she said. "But she, well, she was too prim and proper, least it seemed to me. Guess she thought she had to be, trying for account rep and all. Couldn't be late, wouldn't talk about the office, wouldn't even have _a glass of wine_ at lunch. Not even a glass of wine!" she sniffed.

"So's we felt like we couldn't have a couple either, like Tina and I usually did. _Hmmm._ Who was she trying to fool? Wouldn't ever join us after work, neither. Said she had something else she wanted to go do. Guess she thought she was better than us, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Yes, I do know what you're sayin'!" I said, wanting to egg on her on. "Then, with Mr. Correda?"

"Well, Mr. Correda got her promoted, and then... well, we didn't see much of her. After a while, I started hearing she'd started drinking with a vengeance—I mean, I guess she was? And that maybe the company was going to have to fire her if she didn't get help?"

"Personnel department suggested she go to rehab?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Correda himself stepped in, no need for Personnel, he said. He was such a wonderful man to do that, you know what I'm sayin'? I heard him tell Corrine that it was inevitable, the drinking. He'd tried to make her stop, but 'all drunks drink again', he said."

I wanted to disagree, but I kept my mouth shut. "So Mr.Correda—"

"Mr. Correda is so nice!" she broke in. "He's always so sweet to me, and last month he gave me a raise! Of all the officers, I'm so glad I work for him!"

"Do all of the officers have offices here in this wing?"

"No, most of them are in the main building with Mr. Cowboy Binder's old office."

"Was Shannon's office there?"

"Yes, Shannon's, er, Ms. Parkhurst's office was there, when she wasn't here in a meeting with Mr. Correda."

"Important meetings, I bet? Mr. Correda's an important man?"

"Oh, Mr. Correda is very important! That was Mr. Philip Binder himself just now, coming to talk to Mr. Correda about something, well, _crucial_ , I'm sure, about their meeting with a big client."

"So Shannon joined Mr. Correda in these other meetings?"

"Oh, yes, and she used that door down there most of the time. Just went on through to Mr. Correda's office. Guess it was closer than coming through here, you know what I'm sayin'?" She looked skeptical and didn't really try to hide it. I raised my eyebrows and nodded to show interest in her next opinion.

She shifted her eyes to the boss's door for a moment and then back to me. She lowered her voice to a heavy whisper. "Probably used that door down the hall there so I couldn't tell she was soused, or something. I didn't want to say anything before, but she looked horrible, if you ask me. I saw Mr. Correda half carry her down that hall once, just about a month ago. She was okay before that, or maybe she was just hiding it. Didn't see her after that, though."

Now she looked righteous. "Mr.Correda did all he could do for her. He's important in AA, you know. Pretty high up in the organization, recruitment director, and even _he_ couldn't make her stay sober, you know what I'm sayin'? He was sorry to have to tell me all that, but he thought it was important to know why she was so, so depressed—enough to kill herself. Everybody knew she was a _drunk_ ," she hissed.

"Everybody?" I asked.

Her house phone buzzed. She picked it up, smiled, and breathlessly said, "Yes, Mr. Correda?" She nodded as she typed something in her computer calendar. She thanked him profusely and buzzed off. "Will this Wednesday at nine a.m. work for pickup of the item?" she asked me.

"Yes, that would be fine. So, everybody thought..." I repeated.

"Well, everybody thought she was except Mr. Cowboy Binder, I guess. I heard him tell Mr. Phillip one time that he didn't believe him, that he didn't believe Ms. Parkhurst had a 'drinking problem,' you know what I'm sayin'?" She used her fingers to put quotes around the words.

"What did Mr. Phillip say?"

"I don't know!" she said indignantly, "I don't eavesdrop on conversations!"

I thanked her and walked back outside to my car. There was too much to think about, and I needed fresh air, so I took a stroll and soon was engrossed in the horticulture at Binder Enterprises. Eyeing a row of barberry bushes, I rounded the corner of the building and spied, next to the rear entrance, a black limo with a red, white, and blue bumper sticker that read "Support Your Rights!" —the limo Mr. Crotchety described that he saw drive off with Bernice Thorton.

Right then a man I identified from the newspaper photos as Billy "Cowboy" Binder stepped out of the main building, into the car, and off they drove. I stood there a minute trying to process this information, and I'm sure my mouth had dropped open a little bit in wonder.

On the drive home, all I could think was "Why?" Every thought started with why this? Or why that? And I couldn't get past it. After getting a strange feeling about Barry Correda's behavior, I had abandoned my original intention of giving him Shannon's trunk, since he'd failed on so many fronts to tell the truth. But why had he lied about _everything_?

His stumble on the stickers had made me want a chance to take a look at the trunk again, with new eyes and new suspicions. So, pretending I didn't have the trunk with me at all, I gave my address to the receptionist, and after checking with Barry, she scheduled the trunk to be picked up two days hence. So there wasn't a rush anymore to get the trunk? It seemed Barry Correda knew I had it, which meant he was a part of the shenanigans to get it from my place? I thought the break-ins were based on someone needing the trunk and its contents immediately. What changed? Did they find what they were looking for in the last intrusion? Did it matter anymore? And now, how did the Binder Enterprises limo fit into the picture?

Everything the receptionist—Nancee Kepler, her nameplate read—said about Shannon was almost verbatim what Barry Correda had spouted to me. It seemed that he was giving Shannon's storyline out to everyone, and pretty thick, too. Maybe Shannon did lose her sobriety and screw up, but he was giving out dubious information, obviously to discredit her. Right about then I was wishing that the whole mess would just disappear, that I didn't have to deal with it anymore. But I was beginning to take the whole thing personally, which I knew would suck me in. I also knew it wasn't my job to take it on, but it didn't seem that Shannon Parkhurst had anyone to stand up for her.

* * *

That evening, I did research on ThaunderX so maybe I could put some of my thoughts in order before heading out to Carol and Marjo's for an early breakfast the next morning. Since I had caught up with all pressing tasks at Vines, I could take the morning off, and lay in some stores, canning with Marjo, too. They were concerned after the two episodes of intrusion, and interested in Bernice and Nephew's tales. But they didn't know what had happened that afternoon yet, so I knew we were going to talk for hours about it the next day. Maybe some ThaunderX research would turn up something that would put some of the pieces together.

There was a lot on ThaunderX—site after site, page after page. Seemed she was really popular in the 1980s, and marketed to the typical preteen demographic. I guess there were mini-books, more like comic books, with stories where ThaunderX would escape from the villain and outfox/outrun/outshoot the evil minions via secret caches of weapons or a super computer or something she needed just at that time, and the cache would have it. I guessed she had to stash things off body since there wasn't much room in that tight body suit. It was amazing how much interest some people maintained in a fictional character. None of it made sense in the context of the Shannon's trunk, though. By now my brain was too tired to think about much of anything, so I stopped and went to bed.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a thought. I don't know where it came from because when I woke up, it was there—secret caches, secret hiding places! The trunk had a secret hiding place! I'd solved it! I put on some shoes and started turning on lights on my way down the hall, through the studio, and to the shop. Pecos came with me, and by this time Patsy was awake, too, so she wanted to come along on the adventure, whatever it was. She yawned and stretched, and then pushed between me and the gentle Chow, wanting to be in the alpha dog spot no matter what time it was.

All the outdoor security lights flipped on as we crossed the gravel yard to the shop, where Liz and I had unloaded the trunk once again. For the next hour, I checked out everything inside—every item, every inch of the inside of the trunk. My elation soon turned to disappointment, and I was glad there was no one around to whom I had boasted my midnight epiphany. No secret hiding places. The outside didn't show any secret drawers or slides or false bottoms, either. As a last, rueful effort, I tried bumping it with the hammer to see if I would get lucky, as I had with the lock. No luck.

By this time, Pecos had given up and was asleep on the shop floor, stretched out on the cool concrete. But he jumped awake when I started to gather things up and go out the door. Come on, Shorty Dog, I thought, it's way past time to go to bed.

I locked up, and the two of us went into the house to find that the bored Patsy had wandered back inside, knocked over the kitchen garbage can, and strewn the contents all over the floor—the coffee grounds mixed in with slimy, unidentifiable slippery objects were particularly enjoyable to clean up. She looked so innocent when we walked in, too. So I had to get that squared away before I finally made it off to bed once again. I had only a couple of hours before I had to get up. The joys of dog ownership.

## CHAPTER SEVEN

"Hey, you can't be bringing me canned goods when we're gonna be canning all morning! You're supposed to be taking it away, not bringing it!" Marjo Catanya laughed as she welcomed me to Casa de la Mujer Fuerte, their old ranch house north of town. "But good mornin', anyway!"

"Mornin'! No, no, they're not canned, so I have special dispensation!" I joked back, walking in with jars of apricot preserves for her and Carol, and the kids, and grandkids. "Just apricots cooked down; they'll keep in the fridge."

Carol Griffin banged open the screen door behind me, letting in Patsy and Pecos, who had come along for the ride. She roughed up the fur on Patsy's head and gave Pecos a pat on his side. They wiggled in her touch, loving it.

"Good mornin'! I'm glad you brought these guys with you, I've missed them! They're keeping you safe?" she asked me with a smile. Carol looked younger than her sixty-five years as she pulled off her muddy Wellies, and hung a crumpled and stained DeKalb Seeds cap on a peg behind the door, but very much looked the ranch woman that she was with the Carhartt vest, faded plaid shirt, and pressed Wrangler jeans.

Marjo Catanya, on the other hand, looked like she'd stepped from a vibrant Rufino Tamayo painting, favoring bright magentas, oranges, and blues in her scoop neck blouses over light, long, and flowing skirts. I'd never seen Marjo in pants, but that did not deter her as she worked as hard as Carol with chores, animal emergencies, and weather surprises on the ranch.

"We worry about you, _mija_ ," she said, handing me a mug of coffee. She still used the Latina endearments that she had been showered with while growing up, and that was one of the many qualities that endeared her to me.

Carol grabbed Marjo around the waist and gave her a hug and a kiss. "I'm cooking this morning, so place your egg orders!" She took up her spot at their ancient gas stove with five burners, a griddle, two ovens, and who knew what else.

"Two eggs, poached soft," I piped up first.

"God, you're high maintenance, woman!" she teased. But I knew Carol Griffin liked to show off the culinary skills she picked up as a 1960s commune cook on a houseboat in Sausalito, across the Bay from San Francisco. She still tried to put wheat germ and tofu into everything she made, too. Except eggs, thank god. She pushed the dogs away from her feet, for the umpteenth time, and started poaching.

"Can I help with anything?" I asked.

"Not really. We're just having eggs and Carol's good wheat bread for toast. Want some cantaloupe, too? Start telling us about what's been happening, _mija_!" Marjo exclaimed.

I sat down with my coffee at the big kitchen table that filled the side of the room. The sturdy table, a purchase from a New Mexico woodworker friend of mine, had a hand-polished, thick fir top and turquoise stain-washed legs. I had a similar piece in my house, and sitting at that table in their long-familiar kitchen felt like home.

Pecos joined me at my feet, and I tried to start at the beginning. Soon the eggs were ready, and as we ate Carol's good breakfast, we talked about what had happened at my place.

They knew about the two intrusions, and they speculated about whether they were even related, a premise I hadn't considered. I had assumed they were. Maybe the first attempt was just to go after my tools in the shop, and maybe the second one was, too, except that time someone got in, saw the trunk right there in plain sight, and decided to check it out for valuables before stealing other things that could be pawned. Maybe it was all coincidence. Maybe thinking Bernice Thorton and Nephew were involved was all coincidence, too. It fit—I had never seen the intruder, and I had never seen Nephew, so I didn't even really know if he was involved. I never had the chance to talk to Bernice Thorton about the incidents with the trunk, so I didn't really know who was involved.

Nor did I know if her cruise was a sudden nefarious idea to get her out of the way, or something that had been planned by her for ages with her church group, and they were all enjoying virgin coladas on the deck of a _Virgin Princess_ as we spoke. I could see why the police were not in a hurry to start an investigation into coincidences. I had been running along, making up these scenarios in my head; they needed facts.

"But then, where does Barry Correda's odd behavior fit in?" I asked. "He projects the good-guy routine, quite successfully it seems. But his tone of voice, well, it didn't fit, as if he were playing a role. He could barely remember my name. And the stuff about AA was just wrong." They had been as surprised as I originally had been at my conversation with Barry at Binder Enterprises, since we all believed what we'd been told—that Barry Correda was a nice guy, not someone who would spread innuendos about his dead girlfriend.

"Well, you probably played right into it, you know, you egged him on. I bet you even threw in some of that fake Southern accent of yours to flavor the performance, didn't you?" teased Carol.

"Wah, yes, ah did, a little, just a smidge, yes," I drawled. "But ah assure you that mah accent is indeed ree-al, madam! Ah am from Dall-luss!" I joked and got the laugh I was after. I was, indeed, born in Dallas to a large family of women on my mother's side. Just as completely as my mother had been a Southern belle, I had inhabited the anything-but-a-belle role as a child.

Carol Griffin stood up, ready to get on with the day. "All the goings-on at your place seem a little strange, but you don't really know very much at this point, Lil. Let the police handle it. Seems like coincidences to me. You know how you like to jump in the middle of things, get a story going—"

"Yeah, I know, Carol," I interrupted, not wanting to hear that lecture again. I hated the nickname Lil, too. But not willing to lay down the argument, I continued. "But what about what Barry said about the trunk, and then he lied about the whole ThaunderX thing and—"

"Look, first of all, you don't _know_ that Barry knew you had the trunk. It just sounded to you like he did, in an aside or something. And second—the ThaunderX thing—the stickers? The guy was probably just making up something to sound like he knew details about his girlfriend. He probably couldn't name her eye color, either. I'm just saying don't let your imagination run away with you," said sensible Carol Griffin.

What she said was rational, as usual, and I had no rebuttal at the moment. My imagination could lope out in front of me like a filly off halter; but in fact, I called on it daily, and needed it all the time. Clients loved it. But an imagination firing creativity was different than an imagination making stuff up, so maybe Carol had a point. Maybe I needed to rein it in. We finished clearing off the table and she went off to do chores outside at the barn, the dogs trotting after her.

Marjo and I prepped the kitchen for canning; she was the master canner, so I was just a willing helper. The kitchen was steamy, with pots boiling on the big range and the long table was filled with ripe tomatoes waiting processing. We put a favorite opera on the stereo—Marjo and I both loved the art, and Carol detested it, so we usually took advantage of these times together to indulge in some of our favorites—and worked away the morning. We got a lot done as we chatted and got caught up on each others' lives. I just finished telling her about a garden that Liz and I had recently completed.

"Ah, Lily, you work so hard! When do you have fun, _mija_?" Marjo asked.

"I have fun every day, Marjo, you know that. I love what I do!"

"You avoid the question, _mija_. When do you have fun _with_ _somebody_? You're all by yourself, and now all of this scary stuff is happening, and—"

"Oh, don't start with that again!" I laughed in mock annoyance. Family-oriented Marjo Catanya couldn't conceive of one choosing to _not_ be in a relationship, and about every six months she'd check in with me on my own status, even though it hadn't changed in a long time.

"But, yeah, the break-ins," I quickly continued. "I admit I've been pretending to be a little bit braver than I'm feeling; it all has kind of freaked me out. Having the dogs with me now helps me feel better, though. At least I don't feel like someone's after me—it's the trunk. You know, I think something is going on, I mean, _two_ intrusions? But the cops are treating it like miscellaneous mischief. Am I crazy, or does it seem like more than some random acts?

"I don't know. Nothing's been stolen. It doesn't make sense to me, _mija_. Carol's the one who has the brain for this sort of thing." She reached down to give me an enveloping hug. "I know you're trying to change the subject about relationships! Ah, _mi cielo_ , I just want you to be happy. We care so much about you, we want you to be happy and safe," she said as I hugged her back, and then stood up to refill our glasses with more ice and mint tea. The sultry kitchen was like a steam bath, and I was hoping refreshments would sidetrack Marjo Catanya from her loving but misplaced worries. My solitary life suited me, so it wasn't something I thought much about. Just Marjo Catanya did, for me.

She turned back to her job, and I lidded and set out to cool the final batch of filled jars. Soon she was ready for me to handwrite the labels and then attach them to the jars. As I worked, an idea formed in my mind about Shannon's trunk, but I couldn't quite put it in a mental container so I could see the whole thing. As I had asked Marjo, didn't it seem like something was going on, and not just coincidences?

Bits and pieces of half-formed ideas, visuals, and snatches of _The Marriage of Figaro_ in the background all ran around with each other in my mind but, despite their party, I couldn't think of any hypothesis that would hold together long enough to think about. Come on, Lily, figure it out! I sighed. It was going to have to wait until later. All I could do was continue my work and hum along with Frederica Von Stade, if it can be said that one can hum opera.

Our job done, Marjo loaded me up with jars of raspberry jam and canned tomatoes—and more zucchini bread and zucchini. It was that time of year. Marjo gave me a good hug and a kiss goodbye, and I whistled for the dogs, shouted a good-bye to Carol in the barn, and headed out.

It wasn't far to my house, just down a country road or two, but I had enough time to think about Carol Griffin's opinion that all that had happened was just coincidence. Maybe she was right?

* * *

That afternoon, as we worked on maintenance projects at the Finnegans' in the eastern part of the county, Liz and I talked about my visit with Barry Correda. The more we discussed it, the more I felt that because I knew that he lied about a lot of what he said, what made the rest of it any more true? Like any of the parts about Shannon? Carol may be right about coincidences, but Barry Correda's behavior just did not ring true. Before I talked to him I was about ready to believe Shannon had started drinking again and committed suicide—just as his story laid out. But now, I didn't believe him. I put thinking about the Facebook photos of a drunken Shannon aside for awhile, because I was convinced that something was not right about them, either. For one thing, why would Shannon want to advertise that she was drunk?

Always fighting injustice herself, Liz Burzachiello was indignant, too, about Barry Correda spreading false reports about Shannon to get everyone to believe that Shannon was capable of spiraling downward into suicide. Liz had worked long hours alongside Shannon that summer and had a high regard for her.

"He seems slimy to me," she said. "Seems like, well, seems like he should be shown up as a liar! I mean, he's really trashin' Shannon!" She stabbed her shovel blade into the ground in emphasis. Things were becoming personal for her, too.

"How, though? It seems he has everyone convinced he's the good guy, and that Shannon was a drunk." I was frustrated that Barry Correda had made himself look so good at Shannon's expense.

But then I thought of another viewpoint. "Not everyone's fooled, though. Those people didn't really know Shannon. The ones of us who knew her are having a harder time accepting her supposed behavior." I thought about that for a moment as I pulled the tarp, piled high with weeds, closer to where we were working.

"I doubt if he knows that Bernice doesn't consider her niece a drunk—Bernice saw her, talked to her—because he doesn't know that Shannon was visiting her on the way back from business trips. And he didn't know how well Hannah knew Shannon before he was in the picture, so he just gave her the standard line," I said.

"And he didn't convince me, because it was hard for me to believe just about anything he said. He was such a bad liar! I think he thought he didn't have to put much effort into fooling an 'old lady'." We both laughed.

"Yeah, an 'old lady' who can do this kind of hard work all day!" she said in answer to Barry's immature thinking.

I smiled at her compliment, and started deadheading the rose bushes along the walkway on the north side of the house. Liz Burzachiello was hot to take some action. "We ought to do something!" This went on all afternoon, interspersed with my pruning instructions for the roses, and more pulling of bindweed. Always more pulling of bindweed.

Finally worn down I asked, "Just what do you have in mind?" not intending to do anything.

"I don't know—something." _That was helpful._ "Maybe talk to him again? Emma always says to double-check your perceptions," she said, as if quoting her partner would add weight to her argument.

As far as I was concerned, there was no argument, and continued loading up Wanda, ready to go back to town.

"I know!" she said, "Let's go over there, it's not that far. Let's go over there and, uh—"

"And what? Ask him out in the parking lot and accuse him of being a sleazebag?" It was true that it wasn't that far over to the small town of Pursgers, where Binder Enterprises was located, but what good would it do to go over there?

"Come on, I'd like to see the place," she said. "It'll be an adventure!" feeding my own words back to me about embracing adventure, taking the scenic route, and other blather that she patiently listened to over the years. Perhaps now it was time to walk the walk.

"Well, maybe." Despite my denials, my curiosity was getting the better of me. "If we go over there, and _if_ we have thought of something on the way over that makes sense, and _if_ it is doable, and _if_ we won't get caught—no! We're not going to do anything that would matter if we do get caught!" I said adamantly, trying to control the situation before it happened. "But we're not going to get caught because we're not going to do anything!"

"Yeh, boss," Liz Burzachiello smiled as she unhitched the trailer, and put it and her car on a side street.

We took off for Binder Enterprises.

As we pulled into the huge Binder parking lot, we still had no plan. I pulled into a spot close to the main building, and parked; Liz suggested that we walk back and see if the limo might be there, and that maybe we could talk to the limo guy.

"About what?" I asked as we made our way along the side of the building.

"I don't know. You can think of something—you're the chatty one."

"Yeah, right," I sputtered, "We'll take a _quick_ look in the back." I wasn't sure I could come up with any reason to question the limo driver. Did he chauffeur Bernice Thorton? Where? Hopefully it was to DIA and onto a plane for a sunny around-the-world cruise.

Liz hissed "Stop!" and interrupted my thinking. She motioned to look around the corner.

I peered around and saw Barry Correda and another man lighting up cigarettes by the back entrance. Looking the part of a clean-cut young man on his way up in the world, Barry had taken off his suit jacket, and his long-sleeved, crisply ironed white shirt glared in the sun. The other guy looked scruffier, wearing a mashed trucker hat, dirty low-hanging jeans, a days' old beard, and aviator sunglasses. The pair of them didn't seem to fit, but they were in animated conversation, with Barry Correda strutting around in front of the other guy like a bantam rooster. We stepped back next to the wall around the corner so they couldn't see us.

"Who is it? Is it Cowboy Binder?" she asked in a loud whisper. Liz loved that name. "Is it Barry Correda?"

"Barry's the short guy. I don't know who the other one is."

"What do you want to do?" Liz asked, peering back around the corner. "Wish we could hear what they're talking about." She was impatient for action.

"Yeah, be a fly on the wall," I said. "Invisible." Then it dawned on me: What is more invisible than something you see everywhere? Like maintenance workers. Like a crew with leaf blowers working flower beds. What if we became those invisible workers and worked our way down to the two smokers? Maybe we could hear something.

Liz Burzachiello liked the idea. But she looked at me and said, "He's gonna recognize you, you know. Even if you don't look the part of an 'old lady' today."

She was right, Barry Correda would recognize me. I didn't want to send Liz down there by herself, but she was raring to go. I calculated that any risk for her was slight, and that it would be worth a try.

We quickly went back to the car and loaded Liz up with the leaf blower, pulled her Cincinnati Reds hat down low on her head, and added a windbreaker, the only thing I had that looked uniform-ish. As we hurried back from the car, I instructed her to keep the leaf blower off—just use it as a prop—so she could hear. Then she came up with an even better idea.

"You know that phone Louie gave me?" she asked. I nodded, remembering that sister Louie was a technology first adapter and she recycled her old models through Liz. "It's got a great microphone. Why don't I call you, and try to keep real close; then you can hear what they're saying, too!"

We took another look. The guys were still smoking. "No, they'll get suspicious of you, I think, trying to stay in one place." Then I smiled. "Let's use the phone, but see if you can get close enough to slide it under the bench they're on." I pointed to a juniper behind where they sat, and said she could pretend to prune it, and then stoop down and put the phone on the bare ground beneath them or just behind them as she walked by. "Think you can do that? It'll take some acting."

"Sure!" Liz Burzachiello always had confidence in herself.

"Put the mike on high, dial me, and punch on the speaker phone; then slide it under the bench, and come on back. We can listen on my phone."

"You got your phone on you, Lily?" Liz asked as I usually left it in the car so I wouldn't lose it on a job site.

"Yeah, for once!" I grinned as I groped for it in my pocket. "Okay, go!" I sent her around the corner, nervously watching as she worked her way down the back side of the building.

She clipped her way up to the area where the two men sat, keeping her back to them; as I had anticipated, they paid no attention. She started working away on the juniper, slowly clipping around to where the Barry Correda and the other guy were in deep conversation. It seemed to be taking too long, and I hoped she wouldn't overdo it with the clipping, and have them notice her.

But then she stepped right behind them, and I saw her stoop down as if to pick up a twig, and stand back up, not losing a stride. She kept walking and turned at the far side of the juniper and then turned back, the tall juniper between her and the men. Liz Burzachiello had a huge grin on her face and gave me a half-masted thumbs up. She did a little walk-run back towards the corner I was crouching behind, pretending to clip here, clip there. Not a bad acting job. Barry Correda had looked up once to take a pull on his cigarette and glanced at her, and then looked back down at his cell phone where he was flipping through a queue, still in conversation with the other guy.

It worked. I could hear them talking as soon as Liz placed the phone underneath them. Not all of the words could be heard clearly and sometimes static blurred the sound, but I could hear something about a hockey team party they had attended, and they seemed to be boasting about their female conquests there. So much for Barry Correda being devoted to Shannon, I thought.

Then Mystery Man's voice whined, "Dammit, we should be partyin' in Vegas right now, man! Not with some skank ass 'hoes in Greeley!"

Barry Correda sneered, "Mother of god! Be patient and shut the fuck up! If we just sit tight, things should be clear."

"That fuckin' Daryl, god damn son of a bitch, if he hadn't—"

"Daryl?" snarled Barry, "Let's put the blame where it needs to go here, asshole. You should have found it yourself! Her stuff was in that trunk, and you should of kept an eye on it. I never saw the fuckin' thing. That was your job, shithead." Barry Correda loudly hacked out a wad of phlegm. Liz and I both cringed at the sound, and stared wide-eyed at each other at what we were overhearing.

"Yeah, but I sent him over there to git it as soon as he got his bike fixed!"

"It was your brilliant idea to send that asscracker over there on his pussy cycle? No wonder he couldn't bring the fuckin' thing back."

"His truck was real broke, man—his Yamaha was all he had! Anyway, how was I supposed to know he'd fuck it up? That cocksucker! He didn't find nothin', though. No fuckin' book of numbers! Fuck, it's not my fault! How was I supposed to know? That cunt didn't say nothin' about no fuckin' trunk to me!"

Liz Burzachiello put her hand on my arm to stop me from starting around the corner at the cretin. That "C" word was so gratingly insulting that I instinctively wanted to take the guy out. But I nodded at Liz to let her know I would contain myself, and not be stupid. I wasn't that brave, anyway.

We listened as Barry Correda continued his malicious tirade. "Look, asswipe, maybe she didn't put a fuckin' book in that trunk. Or if there was a fuckin' book in the first place! Maybe she was just dickin' with you. You know she couldn't stand you, you son of a bitch. It was just her telling a shithead like you she kept a book of numbers somewhere? That hasn't been found, and we're getting the fuckin' trunk back in a couple of days anyway."

"But—"

"Would you shut the fuck up? We're lucky Daryl's fuckin' ass stupidity didn't bring nobody looking for _us_. I say we stay low, don't bring no attention to ourselves. When I get it back, _I'll_ check for the fuckin' book because you dickheads are fuckin' idiots! If I find nothin', then no one else knows a god damn thing, either, and we're money. Nobody else pays any more attention to it, or us. I have everything under control."

"Maybe Daryl—"

"Forget fuckin' Daryl! He fucked up, and he's your boy, so I consider it that you fucked up! You better fix it. You better be worried if she was fuckin' with _you_ or not, because if she was, well, you don't know shit, and then nobody's going to be happy. Anyway, that old biddy who has the trunk now believed everything I said, don't worry."

"Don't worry about me—"

"You _better_ worry about _yourself_ , fuck face! I have this thing under control now, no thanks to you. Old-what's-her-name was all googly eyes at me, anyway—you know how those stupid _old hags_ are. All she cared about was getting it off her hands. She was dumber than—"

I didn't get to find out how dumb I was because Liz quietly hissed at me from her post at the corner. "They're standing up!" I peeked around the corner. Barry Correda had thrown down his cigarette and started putting on his suit jacket.

He gestured at the other guy and said in a menacing tone that I could just hear, "You keep your fuckin' mouth shut! Don't talk to nobody else about _nothing._ Now get the hell out of here before the car gets here," he said, looking at a black limo pulling into the far corner of the lot. "I don't want him seein' you." The guy in the hat walked across the lane to a dull beige pickup, got in, and drove off.

The limo pulled up and disgorged at curbside two men, Cowboy and Phillip Binder. Phillip I recognized from seeing him pass me going into Barry's office during my visit. Barry Correda was standing there waiting for them, and I could see him fawning over the old man's handshake, bowing, and scraping. Cowboy Binder didn't seem to pay much attention and instead seemed in a discussion with his son. The two Binders walked up the steps together and went through the door held open by the chauffer. Barry Correda trailed behind.

## CHAPTER EIGHT

"I can't wait to tell Louie what we did with her phone!" Liz Burzachiello crowed in a hard whisper. She looked around the corner to make sure the men were not coming out of the building again and then ran-walked her way over to the bench, retrieved the phone, and returned triumphantly. She was high on adventure.

"We have to get out here!" I said hoarsely, and stepped out of the dogwood bushes we'd hidden ourselves behind. My heart was racing, even though we were safe and undetected at the moment. I grabbed the tools and headed for the car, whispering over my shoulder, "Come on!"

Liz poked her head around the corner one more time and then followed. We found the car in the sea of Binder Enterprises employee vehicles, and then, although I wanted to burn rubber and get the hell out of there, I slowly pulled out of the lot, put on my turn signal at the stop sign, and slowly turned onto the major street adjacent to Binder Enterprises, trying to go slowly, slowly, when all the time my mind was racing.

Liz Burzachiello was almost jumping up and down in her seat. "Those dirtbags! _Faccia di merda_! _Faccia di_ _merda_!"

Although I wasn't quite sure what that meant, I could feel the sentiment, and agreed. We tried to discuss what had just happened, but we kept talking over one another and interrupting, jacked up on adrenalin.

"God, I wish we could do something! We could, we could—" she sputtered, starting to go off into a string of profanities.

"Liz, Liz—take it easy! Let's just figure some things out. Calm down!" I said.

"Hey, I can't help it, I'm Italian!" she grinned, gesturing with her hands. I did like her passion for life, so I couldn't disagree with her expressing it. We were both in a state of highly charged emotions.

"Well, doesn't it sound like 'the fuckin' Daryl' is Nephew?" I asked.

"Yeah! Bernice's neighbor said he heard a name like 'Daryl', right?" Liz crowed.

"And Nephew's actions do seem to be as stupid as those two attribute to Daryl," I said. "So now we have a name for an idiot and a boyfriend acting like a jerk. Great. Now what?"

Liz Burzachiello didn't have an answer either.

We went back to the client's property to pick up the trailer and Liz's car, and I headed home alone, with my thoughts racing. In the rearview mirror, I could see Liz driving behind me, already on her phone to her sister. I could see her free hand waving expressively, getting tangled in her earbud cord. At least she's got one hand on the wheel, I thought.

* * *

The next afternoon, I had a chance to go out to the shop and drag out the trunk again, one more time before they came to fetch it. I looked at everything, checked everywhere—nothing. Nothing in the books, that I could tell, nothing in the notebooks but class notes for beginning psych and business math. As far as I could tell, everything was as it seemed. I sat down on a high stool in the door of the shop, tired of looking, and discouraged.

I watched Patsy Cline chase Pecos Bill around the front yard, across the gravel drive, around and through the shrubbery, across the gravel again, Pecos stopping at times to crouch down on his front legs and feint a move left or right. He ran past me into the shop with her in close pursuit, and they both knocked into the trunk as they skidded past.

As I stooped down to right it I looked at the stickers again—shiny, bold images of ThaunderX, the images Shannon seemed to be talking about to Hannah Huckleston. Why would she talk about the stickers instead of the trunk, though? Did she just not have time to tell Hannah something about the trunk? I wondered if Shannon meant the stickers as a way to identify the trunk, or were the stickers important in themselves?

Around each sticker was a clear plastic border that was used to help attach it to the surface. I'd noticed these before; all stickers or labels sport some way of adhering to surfaces, seen it a million times. As I thought about the plastic border, the idea that had been brewing in my mind since the day before at Marjo and Carol's began to form together into something I could understand.

What if one of these were like an encapsulated label? Those little envelope-like packages with the contents folded inside and sealed? What if one of these labels had something encapsulated underneath it?

I found a razor blade on the shop bench and set to work. I concentrated on the larger ones, since the smaller ones didn't have enough surface area to hide anything behind them. I slowly slit around the side of the label, seeing if there was a gap beneath it, seeing if I could gently pry up the surface paper.

I went through five of them with no luck, and then on the sixth one on the side of trunk, I found I could pry up a space underneath it. I peered into the small space I'd made by carefully pulling the label away from the surface, although I could get only one side peeled up enough to reveal a gap; all the rest of the label was stuck tight to the trunk. I rummaged around on the bench for a flashlight, found one, and got down on the floor to be able to maneuver the light into the gap.

Pecos Bill joined me and happily stuck his nose in my face; I pushed him aside to peer under the sticker. I saw something. My fingers couldn't retrieve it through the small slit, so I searched the workbench once again and found a pair of rusted tweezers and used those to retrieve the scrap—a folded book of extremely thin paper.

Carefully unfolding it, I saw two small sheets of almost-translucent paper filled with numbers. I had no idea what they were or what they could mean, and stood there a moment staring at the paper sheets in my hands.

I crossed the gravel yard and went up the steps into the office. Pecos followed me in and came to stand by me at the copier to sniff the corner leg of the machine. Hey, Bubba Man, I thought, I wish you could help me figure this out.

He looked up as if he could read my thoughts, his brown eyes staring into mine. Silence.

Guess you're not going to start talking today, either _,_ I thought _._ I flipped on the copier, and as it warmed up, I looked at the tissue-thin sheets. The penciled scrawl was long wavering lines of numbers, with breaks in the lines here and there, none at even intervals. At the end of the second sheet, there was a small stick-figure drawing of what looked like ThaunderX with her stance showing defiance and the thunderbolts in her hand looming large over her head. The vulnerability of it brought tears to my eyes.

I made two copies of the sheets and returned to the shop. I carefully refolded them, put them back under the label, and resealed it. The trunk was going to be picked up the next day, and I had no clue about what to do next.

A Binder Enterprises truck did pick it up the next day, and I still had no clue about what to do.

* * *

For the next week, I was busy with work, finishing two projects and starting research on another. Of course I thought about The Trunk _et. al,_ and Liz and I discussed everything over and over, trying to piece things together. But I only had so much brain space, and I had to shuttle The Trunk problems off to the side to deal with my business and life in general. I didn't really know what the next steps should be, or if there should be a next step. I needed to sort things out.

So I looked forward to my hair appointment with Roxanne Campbell. Besides doing miracles with my hair for thirty years, we'd had so many insightful conversations that I considered her one of my go-to gals for discussion of the human conundrum, with our revelations all jammed into an hour's appointment. There must be something about sitting in a barber's chair, the elevated confessional of the vain, that made that possible. Roxanne Campbell was also funny, quick, and wise, and didn't mind that I colored my own hair out of a box.

She snipped away, Keith Jarrett's jazz piano riffs on her iPod in the background, as I relaxed in the chair and continued my review.

"As far as I know, nobody else is tying any of this together, and my hypothesis is based on just a bunch of coincidences, I guess; and overheard conversations, someone's fascination with secret places, and superheroes. And then there's the list. Now, I think that it was hidden shows that something is going on and—" I stopped myself, remembering Carol dredging up the old argument about my imagination taking me off into my own story. Fine. I would focus on the facts.

"What I know is Betty learned from Hannah that the police investigation into Shannon's death in Gilcrest was a matter of routine, and that nothing suspicious was found. Everything seemed to make sense, if that's what you even can say after a suicide."

Roxanne shook her head; she knew the litany. "Barry told others of a depressed, alcoholic Shannon, who was isolated from society, worried that she may be fired or go to jail for irregularities in her accounts. He said she drank all by herself at home so nobody would know. Had blackouts, not responsible for her actions. Right?" she asked in a tired voice.

"Right. But then, she's seen at that huge party in Frederick, supposedly drunk. If she was the type to stay at home and drink alone, as a lot of women are, why would she change her pattern and be so comfortable wasted in public? Shannon was shy, and the shame of relapse makes you want to hide. So that doesn't make sense. But the photos on Facebook showed her drunk, which matched the story Barry Correda told everyone. Their colleagues at Binder Enterprises collaborated his story, too. The two sides of it is driving me crazy."

"What did the photos look like?" Roxanne asked. She turned the chair around and handed me a mirror to look at the finished cut in the back.

"I didn't see them, just heard about them from Kelsy and Hannah. Well, Hannah didn't see them either, but rather heard about them from someone else. And Kelsy looked on the page because yet someone else had told her about it. Jeez Louise, how quickly the damage spreads," I said.

Roxanne gathered the cape from my shoulders before I stood up. "All Barry Correda's receptionist wanted to talk about was what a wonderful guy he was," I said. "And then he talked in that horrible way about Shannon with the other guy! What a jerk! Don't you find that confusing? You know, when 'everybody' says someone is 'wonderful' and you think they're a fraud. I try to make the two sides fit together and they don't. Maybe all of this is none of my business—"

"You can only control what _you_ do, Lily. You can't control others. But you know that! I don't have to remind you," Roxanne said as she handed me my purse. We hugged good-bye, and I stepped outside into the mid-day heat.

My hair looked great, and I did need to be reminded. When I got home, there was time for a walk along the river, and I strolled deep into the dark green tunnel of cottonwoods that was as cool as a long ago remembered frosted mint julep, but without the guilt or destruction. Other people shared the wide path with me, walking their dogs, running, or zipping by on bikes. Fishermen were fly casting in the river, and above the sound of the water I could hear the clanks of freight cars being coupled in the yards behind me. At the footbridge, I cut over to the other side of the river, and left the town behind.

* * *

What I really needed was to get out by myself and drive; I did some of my best thinking on the road. So I decided it was a good time to take up an offer from some friends to join them at their cabin outside of Breckenridge the next weekend. Liz could handle the maintenance jobs for a half-day Monday morning until I returned in the afternoon; she said she'd ask Louie to help her if Louie needed a break from her desk job. I arranged with Carol to take the dogs back out to the Casa, and I headed off to the hills.

I steered west up I-70 to the country tunes of The Mavericks, through the Eisenhower Tunnel at the Continental Divide, and down the long, steep hill toward Silverthorne, coasting with the sweet Hawaiian harmonies of Hapa. Next in the queue were the guitars and mandolins of 10,000 Maniacs, and then 1980s English pop of Genesis, blasting at high volume. I sang loudly along, and that was one reason I usually traveled by myself; even Betty Huckleston couldn't stand it.

Turning south at Frisco, I passed through the ski town of Breckenridge, topped Hoosier Pass, and descended the south side to Perry and Denise in their early retirement at their cabin in the woods. As we sat on the deck after dinner to watch the alpenglow behind Mt. Lincoln and Mt. Cameron, we laughed together as they regaled me with stories about their travels.

Perry Davis and Denise Robicheaux were good friends that I had known for a long time, so I felt comfortable bringing up what I'd been thinking about, or more to the truth, what had been bothering me. At first, Shannon Parkhurst's story came out in a jumble, just as the events were in my mind. Then I re-started the narrative, and soon backtracked to another detail and lost them completely in the confusing telling. I stopped in frustration.

"I'm going to write this down, get it organized—out of my head. You all talk amongst yourselves," I deadpanned, "and I'll be back."

I went off to find a notebook and pencil in my room, and then sat outside for a while writing. Perry and Denise relaxed on the deck, drinking rum toddies as they watched the ridges grow deep purple, charcoal, and then merge into the black sky. The dense Milky Way was just coming out overhead, and backlit the dark shapes of the mountains in celestial finery. A very young sounding Frank Sinatra, a Perry Davis favorite, was crooning on the stereo inside the cabin, and his smooth voice seemed to fit the velvet and voluptuous night. After I was satisfied that I had made a good start, I returned to the deck, and started to lay out the bare bones of it when Denise stopped me.

"Darlin', yall's been listenin' to yall's own self too long. Why don't ah read the list to all yall, out loud? Maybe it'd make more sense?" Denise Robicheaux's honeyed voice always sounded sweet to me, so I handed the list to her, ready for any idea that would help things make more sense.

Denise snapped on a small lamp on the table next to her, illuminating her short white, spiked hair and everyday Mardi Gras ensemble of tight tangerine tank top, gold lamé capris, and leopard-print flats. She pulled a paisley shawl around her shoulders against the mountain evening chill, and curled up in her chair. "Okay, yall, here we go:

"1. Shannon Parkhurst died—she worked on my crew, and Betty Huckleston's daughter Hannah was her roommate in college.

"2. The cops say it was suicide, but that doesn't sound right, doesn't make sense."

"Does suicide make sense? Doesn't the person feel like they have no choice when really they do?" Perry broke in while handing me a fleece throw for my chilly, shorts-clad legs. "What was it about Shannon that was different?"

"For one thing, Shannon was so resilient. I mean, when I met her, she'd come through really tough times. She was pulling her life together. She'd gotten sober, stayed sober—that's even harder to do when you're young 'cause everybody around you is partying it up, and partying hard. But she was doing it, and loving life. She bounced back. I can't see her giving up."

"Sounds familiar," Perry said and poked my arm.

"Yeah, I guess I saw a lot of myself in that kid. I was pulling for her." I sighed. "Go on, Little D., keep reading."

Denise continued:

"3. After a funeral that was _not_ a funeral, Betty and I picked up a trunk.

"4. Stickers on the trunk showed a fascination with an out-of-date superheroine."

"Yall thought those stickers were a clue to get somebody's attention?" Denise asked me.

"Well, not right then, but later. From what Hannah Huckleston said, it seemed like Shannon was calling attention to the stickers, for a reason I didn't know then. Then I got suspicious, especially after Barry Correda lied about them, and the trunk, when I talked to him. He told that guy he hadn't even seen the trunk. I wrote about that farther down the list. But wait, let's take this order! Otherwise I'm going around in circles again. Read on."

Denise turned to me and tapped the sheet with my list. "Yall's handwritin' is pretty, honey lamb. Yall could make money on it; yall oughta hire yall's self out!"

Perry and I started laughing.

"Oh, stop it. Yall know what ah meant," Denise said, and popped my leg with her spotted flat. She continued with the list.

"5. 'Nephew' was suppose to pick up the trunk, but didn't, and I forgot to deliver it.

"6. Had an _attempted_ break-in.

"7. Someone broke in _again_ and rifled through the trunk, taking nothing.

"8. Found out Shannon's aunt—Bernice Thorton—suddenly went on a cruise, so can't ask her about the trunk.

"9. The boyfriend Barry Correda was _full of himself_ and a _liar_ at my meeting with him.

"10. Shannon's colleagues thought she was an alcoholic (and didn't seemed surprised that she was suicidal) via info from Barry. Facebook photos said to show her drunk.

"11. Liz and I eavesdropped on two profane jerks who blamed 'Daryl' for everything, They said they were looking for a book.

"12. Found sheets of paper filled with numbers, written by Shannon it seems, in a hiding place—under a sticker—on the trunk. "

"Some kind of code?" Ca-OH-dah on Denise Robicheaux's tongue. "Like the numbers correspond to letters?" she asked as she finished the list and handed it to Perry.

"Or the numbers are related to something in that book they were looking for?" wondered Perry Davis in her nasal Midwestern tone. She scanned the list and then switched off the light, and in the darkness the thick blanket of stars overhead felt just a reach away again.

"There wasn't anything in the books in the trunk—nothing marked up or crossed out—to indicate that they were part of a code. I don't know exactly what they were talking about," I answered. "I think the sheets of numbers are what's important. Folded up they looked like a tiny book, I guess. And now this list you just read—everything laid out like that—makes it seem clearer. To me, at least. There are too many odd things going on. Now I'm thinking I should tell the police about these pieces of Shannon's life—that have just dropped in my lap—even if I don't know what to do about it all. Even if they are coincidences."

Denise Robicheaux gave a wag to her white, spiked head. " _Mmm_ , _hmm_. Girl, sounds like it's time to eat some bait to cut your fish."

Perry and I started laughing, again. Little Denise always entertained.

"Aw, come on, now! Ah can never get that folksy crap right. Yall know my momma didn't raise me up to be a fool. What ah mean is, in plain ol' English, _ah_ think it's time to quit goin' back and forth about it all, and go on to the police, just like yall said. Don't yall, sweetie?" Denise asked her partner.

Perry grinned at her and turned to me. "Yes, I do, but what's most important is what _you_ think, Lily. It's your life all of this affecting. You have to decide what you want to do."

We sat in the dark for a while in silence, the sweet smell of their hot toddies drifting over to me as I sipped my decaf. Denise asked some more questions, as did Perry, and we discussed one possibility and another far too deep into the night.

After the next day of biking up the Boreas Pass road with them, I left early the following morning, Denise and Perry barely awake enough to tell me good-bye. Later in the day, Big Denise Robicheaux herself was being shuttled up from Denver, where she'd relocated after Hurricane Katrina, and I knew they needed time to prepare, both the cabin and themselves. Big Denise _wasn't difficult_ , Perry had winked at me the night before, but did require her particular comforts and attentions. Perry Davis had navigated the demanding seas of the Robicheaux matriarch's world for a long time, but I wasn't up for crewing on a family dynamics barge, so I enthusiastically left them to it.

Shunning the interstate for as long as possible, I turned south on Hwy. 9, to take the long and scenic way home via Alma, pop. 200. I like to laugh at their fully-outfitted mannequin policeman propped up behind the wheel of a patrol car sitting beside the highway at the edge of town, and smile at the amusing moniker of Hoosier Daddy Liquors. The mountain humor was worth the detour. At Fairplay, I changed out my music mix to Irish alternative rock of The Cranberries, the driving beat of Texas, rumba flamenco of Gipsy Kings, and then the dub and reggae of Thievery Corporation. Then I turned northeast, and headed home. In the midst of the music, I made up my mind: It was time to talk to the police.

## CHAPTER NINE

After talking with Perry and Denise I realized that I felt a responsibility to Shannon to tell somebody these things that I knew. Maybe it was all coincidence. Maybe Barry Correda was telling the truth when he told of Shannon's drinking problems. Maybe she had messed up her accounts. Maybe she did, all alone in her house, decide to kill herself, and drove to a lonely spot to do it. Maybe, but I didn't think so. Now I thought that I had some pieces to Shannon's story that may provide the cohesion to bring the truth to light.

I needn't have thought myself so important.

There was no case. I called the Gilcrest police station and talked to the part-time administrative employee. Yes, the Shannon Parkhurst case had been investigated by Officer Highsell. No, Officer Highsell was no longer on the case. Because of budget cuts, Gilcrest had had to contract out its investigations and emergency calls, and all cases had been transferred to the county sheriff's office. No, Officer Highsell no longer worked for the Gilcrest police either, as apparently no one really did any more because of the budget cuts. Officer Highsell had moved to Tennessee for a job in security with the Titans football team.

So I called the name I'd been given at the Weld County Sheriff's Department and talked to a polite but terse-sounding detective, John Boyer. He said he did remember Shannon's case because it was the only one out of Gilcrest but no, he'd seen no reason to reopen it. He sensed my frustration and asked me if I had additional information, and said that he'd be glad to talk to me.

I went down the list with him, starting with the trunk and Nephew/Daryl and Bernice Thorton; the attempted break-ins; ThaunderX and the handwritten list; and Barry Correda's overheard conversation—without repeating all the f-words, it sounded insubstantial and petty, just like punks bragging how tough they were. But I think I lost John Boyer at the ThaunderX stuff; I heard him sigh. I realized how empty it sounded, and how tired I was of repeating the story. Something kept jabbing me to keep going, but, was it time to let it go? I wondered to myself.

Weld County Detective John Boyer took my information, thanked me, and that was that.

* * *

With the heat expected in the mid-90s the next day, Liz Burzachiello and I started very early in the morning weeding and planting perennials at a riverside property a mile or two up the Poudre Canyon. The property had some old magnificent cottonwoods that gave off a rustling, welcome shade, but there were still large, open, hot areas that were exhausting to work. But my real problem with keeping my mind on my work was all of the conflicting thoughts in my head. The heat just made it seem as if they melded into gooey lump.

I felt that Barry Correda was not the person he pretended to be and that he was hiding the real truth about Shannon. He had two very different personas, and in my experience that meant something was awry, something was not as it seemed, something was a lie. He seemed so popular at Binder Enterprises—women swooning over him, his charm evident. Promoted in the company, obviously making money, lots of it. Everyone saw him as Successful Charm Boy.

And then Liz and I listened to him being Mr. Sleazebag bragging skank talk to some low life jack wagon. How could I get at the real side of him to learn what happened to Shannon? Didn't it seem to others that he was trying to make her look bad while claiming to care about her? Why were they so ready to believe him? Didn't it seem to others that he had kept her isolated in the final months of her life? That only _he_ had access to her? That it was _his_ story that she was drinking and depressed? Did anyone take the time to check on Shannon to see if they could help? Or did they all just believe Mr. Golden Boy? Shaking my head, I disgustedly threw more handfuls of bindweed onto the tarp, and then pulled it toward the next batch of weeds under a row of tall cotoneaster.

Nancee Kepler, Barry Correda's receptionist, said she saw Shannon stumble down the hallway on Barry's arm—did that necessarily mean she was drunk or that she was incapacitated in some other way? It seemed that Shannon's public drunken downfall happened very quickly; could she have messed up her accounts so much, so quickly that she would give away her hard-fought sobriety, and then kill herself?

Did anyone say they saw Shannon drinking, or just that Barry Correda had said she was? And if he was making that up, what else was made up? But what about the photos? My thought process always stopped at the photos; they seemed to be indisputable proof. But did Shannon Parkhurst really kill herself? Was it just an accident? That took me around in the circle again. I knew how insidious alcohol could be and how quickly it could take away one's judgment, self-respect, and joy of living. Did she just commit suicide, and I couldn't accept it?

"Lily! Watch out!" Liz Burzachiello's strident voice penetrated my circuitous musings and not-perfect hearing. "Watch out! There's a yellow jacket just behind your head!"

I quickly spun to face the danger, my eyes searching the air for the distinctive color and flight pattern of a yellow jacket. I ducked and dodged as a wasp buzzed at my face, and swooped around my head several times before flitting off.

"It's okay, Liz. Just a wasp, not a yellow jacket. Don't want it to sting me, but it won't kill me."

Liz pulled down her sunglasses and glared at me. "But your injector is probably in the car, isn't it? A lot of good—"

"I know, I know. It's stupid. I just forgot." We encountered so many flying insects outside that it was hard to maintain a steady vigilance, and keep the injector on hand at all times, that I almost always became lassiez-faire about it, trusting my own observations to keep me out of trouble. "You know I'm afraid I'll lose stuff in my pockets," was my lame excuse to Liz.

"But, hey? I'm going around and around in my head about Barry Correda," I said to change the subject. "We know he's a jerk, and it seems like he's trying to discredit her. But did he have anything to do with her death? He went through all the steps of a concerned fiancé, too—reporting her missing, helping the police, searching, bereft when she was found, blah, blah, blah."

Liz nodded as she deadheaded a batch of yellow coreopsis and kept an eye out for more flying death. "But he was at an office function—not out looking for missing Shannon—the night she died. That seems odd to me. Was it for the alibi?"she asked.

"I wondered the same thing. It didn't feel right. And this feeling of things not adding up is driving me crazy. Barry Correda bugs me."

"Emma thinks the guy is a lying sleazebag!" Liz said.

"Ha! Me too! How's she doing? How's the project in Germany going?" Liz's more-than-usual cheerful demeanor was a good indication that her partner was just home again from one of her frequent overseas trips.

"Oh, the project's okay, but being gone for three weeks at a time is rough! We've even missed some big races at the speedway—just when she was getting interested. It's getting old, her not at home. She's pulling the whole weight of the project, and it's really taking its toll on her," Liz said in an indignant tone, grumbling out a litany of grievances I'd been hearing for a couple of seasons. Emma herself rarely talked about it, but I knew her work situation was still difficult.

"Anyway," she sighed, continuing with her normal get-on-with-it manner, "Emma and I have discussed this from day one, and she always thought Barry was a sleazebag, and not to be trusted."

"Maybe I should have her talk to the police with me!" I said only half-jokingly. "I didn't seem to have much luck. If there's two of us, then maybe I wouldn't sound crazy. Maybe I should talk to Barry again, see if I could learn something more. Even if he's a liar."

Liz enthusiastically wanted to go with me to such a meeting, but since I had no plan as yet how to do it, I put her off. I needed to think some more about it.

We finished the yard and loaded up Wanda the trailer. It had been a long day's work, but it felt good to have accomplished what we set out to do, and that the planted beds looked impressive. The healthy, lush plants already looked at home and the native grasses—fescue, bluestem, prairie switchgrass—stood tall and glistening, back lit by the sun. Shadows were beginning to draw long lines over the landscape, and the saffron threads of the late afternoon light glowed in deep contrast. Our grimy faces matched our grimy arms and legs as each tarp load into Wanda drifted fine dust all over us as we bungeed down the tarp on the final load. I made the daily stop at the recycling yard, always happy to dump a load of yard debris for the mulch pile, and being able to go home with an empty trailer. It would be perfect if I could just dump all my anxieties at the recycling yard, too.

* * *

It was usually about after the first mile that my mind would start to let go of whatever things it was worrying about, and allow me to walk along the river and enjoy the open sky and exuberant green riparian growth. Wild plum and shrub willows grew so densely that many times I could only hear the water from the path beside it, rather than see it. The brownish green river was low now from summer irrigation water being pulled out of it, the flow just covering rounded grey rocks on the bottom, and I stopped to watch a belted kingfisher make a blue swoop over the channel by the far bank before it plunged after a fish. The sound of the river would pull me for miles, just around another corner, if I let it, but I was going to lose the light soon, so it was time to head home.

The phone rang as I walked in the door, with Hannah Huckleston on the other end. "I just remembered something, Lily, that we hadn't talked about. Maybe it'll be helpful?

"Shannon's and my time in Las Cruces was pretty busy with, like, school, and the immigrant projects we volunteered for. But I was, like, blown away that Shannon had the time to travel up to Abiquiu so many times that year. I didn't have any extra energy to spare, but she did. She'd connected with the peace and justice movement down here, and went up there with a couple of other volunteers to conferences, or seminars, or something like that."

"Did she ever talk about what they did at the seminars or other people she met?"

"Maybe she did, but I just don't remember. I didn't see her a lot that last year. She seemed pretty happy with what she was doing, though."

"Hannah, I've been thinking about Shannon committing suicide, and the whole story of her going down the tubes, cheating her clients, and stealing from their accounts. It doesn't seem to fit. Does it to you?"

" _Umm_ , no, not really, I didn't think it seemed right at the time, but... but that's what everybody _said_ happened, like, I thought maybe she'd changed a lot. But, you know? I lived with her those years at school, and just about every day I saw her she would, like, express gratitude that her sobriety allowed her to help others and make a difference."

"That's how I remember her," I said.

"She wasn't preachy about it or anything, I just saw her as always trying to do the right thing. That's not the kind of person who would, like, steal from others, or whatever it was they said she did."

"I don't think she was that kind of person, either. After you all graduated, did you keep in touch?"

"Well, Joe and I were getting together then..." Hannah paused, and I could hear the grin in her voice. "And I was concentrating on getting into UNC's graduate teaching program up in Greeley, and Joe was starting with the Forest Service, and then we took that backpacking trip all summer in Canada..." Her voice trailed off. "I guess we weren't good about staying in touch; I thought we would, but, well, you know how it is. She said she was working in Abiquiu that summer and fall with a foundation or something. A non-profit? I don't remember. Connected with the peace and justice groups, I think."

"So when you say Abiquiu do you mean Ghost Ranch?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's right, Ghost Ranch. She went up there for those meetings."

Ghost Ranch Conference Center was the Presbyterian Church's education retreat center north of Abiquiu and it was open to all sorts of groups wanting retreat space in a beautiful and affordable setting. I'd been there myself many times. It was not Georgia O'Keeffe's Ghost Ranch, which was private, and located up the road.

"Do you remember the name of the sponsoring foundation, or someone's name? Was she dating anyone or had met anyone she talked about?"

"Sorry, I don't remember any names. She wasn't dating anyone then. I remember her, like, laughing about how she'd rather spend time with the kids she volunteered with at the elementary school than with a boyfriend right then. She hadn't had very good luck with boyfriends; didn't seem to pick 'em very well, you know? I always thought she deserved better." Hannah sighed on the other end of the phone, and then I heard a faucet turned on, and dishes clinking in the sink.

"It seems like a long time ago, even though it wasn't. Like, things are just so different now! I'm married, I'm teaching school. Although, now we're back in 'Cruces, it doesn't seem to have changed much!" she laughed. But her voice became serious again. "I lost track of her. I don't keep up on the Facebook thing; too busy. Like, I didn't even know she was back in Colorado until I ran into her at that party."

We were both silent for a moment. "Well, thanks for the call, Hannah. That information helps to give me a fuller picture. Call any time, really," I said.

"Lily," Hannah asked, "is anything going to happen? I mean, like, about questioning Shannon's suicide? Like, the police looking into it?"

"At this point it seems unlikely," I said, telling her about my phone call to the county detective John Boyer.

She sighed and I did, too. "It just seems so sad," she said. I agreed and bid her goodbye. And then went out and sat on the steps in the back yard, looking up at the Big Dipper. I could hear crickets creaking a rhythm in the dark. Sad, indeed.

* * *

After a meeting with a client the next morning about designing an additional garden for their property, I decided that I would drive over to Pursgers to try to talk to Barry Correda. The night's sadness had spurred me to action, and I had settled on a plan.

I sat in the Binder Enterprises parking lot waiting a few rows away from the "Mr. Barry Correda" reserved parking space near the front of the building. A new black Lincoln Navigator with darkened windows sat in the spot, and if that wasn't enough to convince me that I had found the man's car, his license plate shouted CORREDA. A pretty fancy ride.

I sat reading in my car for about a half hour, hoping I wasn't wasting my time, hoping that I would have the nerve to find out more from Barry, hoping that I wasn't being watched on some high-def security camera, and thus be accosted by a suspicious security guard. But Barry Correda showed up before that could happen, and I scurried out of my car and approached him as he was opening his door.

"Hi, uh, Barry? I'm Lily Raffenport, you know, you talked with me a while back about Shannon?" I started out. At the last minute I remembered my "old lady" act and hunched over a bit, and added a slight lurching hitch to my gait, looking more like a wounded armadillo than a sweet old lady. My acting skills were rusty.

Startled, Barry Correda whipped around and glared at me. _Uh-oh_. After a second he seemed to recognize me; his face softened, and he smiled a faint smile. "Yes, yes, Mrs., uh, Gaggenfort. How can I help you?" he said.

Before I could open my mouth he added, "Although, I only have a minute since I must leave very shortly for a very important meeting." Barry Correda emphasized the urgency by glancing at a expensive watch shot out from crisp white cuffs showing under his immaculate grey suit. This time, black Italian wingtips with a luxurious matte sheen completed the picture. He tried not to look impatient, but the watch business was still insulting. _Was I invisible?_ Did he not even have to pretend he had good manners? Good lord, that made me sound like I was as old as he perceived me to be.

"Uh, yeah, uh—" I was floundering from the very beginning.

"Yes? I really must be off," he said as he turned to get in his car.

"Yeah, uh—" My mind was frantically trying to remember my rehearsed story line. "Yeah, I've been helping the family create a, uh, a remembrance project for Shannon, and I was wondering how you two met. I'd like to include—"

The faint smile fell from his face as Barry cut me off. "Family? What family? Shannon didn't really have any family besides her old aunt."

"Oh, you know... her aunt and all," I said vaguely. "So, you all met in Abiquiu?" I was guessing, but I had to start somewhere.

His eyes narrowed. "Abiquiu? Who said that?" He glared around the parking lot and then back at me. I could see the bad temper in his face but then, again, I saw him visibly tone down the hard edge of anger into a somewhat pleasant expression. He ran his hand over the side of his head and through his hair, being careful not to muss it.

He smiled slightly. "I'm sorry. Look, I could use a cigarette." His shoulders went up in a boyish wince. "I know, they're bad for me! But if you would step over there to the smoking area with me, I'll tell you how Shannon and I met. It's just around here." He motioned to the area I had seen and heard him smoking and talking with the other guy. He seemed sincere, and the area was in the open and easily seen from the VIP entrance, so I agreed to hear him out.

As he lit up a Marlboro and inhaled deeply, he looked around and across the lot to the dusky blue mountains in the west. He smiled and looked back at me. "It's pretty out here, isn't it?" He was stalling.

I nodded. I could stall too.

"Yes, uh, I'm sorry. I was just a little surprised. Uh, our 'how we met story' was a little secret between Shannon and I—you know, just for fun. Something we'd share together, just the two us," he said and smiled, showing very white teeth set off by his gorgeous tan. He turned his full attention on me, and I could see the charm roll out of him. "Have you ever been to New Mexico, Mrs. Gaggenpork? It's beautiful..." Perhaps he would alight on my right name at some point, but I wasn't going to help him out. Besides, he was still stalling.

"So, did you work at Ghost Ranch? Were you part of the peace and justice group, too, like Shannon?" I asked.

His eyebrows shot up. "I don't know anything about no peace and justice group!" he said, annoyance in his voice, and then seemed to reconsider. "No, wait—she did say a little something about all that. Yes... yes, some little thing she'd done before she met me, you know, volunteered or something. Just a volunteer, no big deal. But then, she needed a way to support herself. You know, those groups don't have money. No, I smarter than that; I was in real estate." He smiled a smile to let me know how very successful he had been and was still.

"Shannon and I were introduced by a friend in Albuquerque, where she went to school. She was just starting out and I helped her," he said in a self-satisfied way. "She didn't know people down there, so she decided to move up here to be with me." Another satisfied smile directed my way. "And, poor thing, she really didn't have friends up here, either, because..."

He let the last sentence hang while his face showed sorrow. Then he cast his eyes down, sighed, and looked up at me. Still an over-the-top actor, I thought. But as he looked over my shoulder Barry Correda's face changed again—this time to real surprise tinged with wariness. I turned around to see Philip Binder coming down the steps of the VIP entrance.

Barry Correda abruptly said, "Can we talk later? I'm late for a meeting," and hurried toward Phil Binder, who had stopped on the sidewalk when he had seen us talking.

As I turned to walk away, I glanced back and saw them in animated conversation. Phil Binder grabbed Barry's arm as if to make a point before both of them climbed into the back seat of the waiting limo. Neither one of them looked particularly happy.

I walked back to my car thinking once again Barry Correda was playing roles, but which one was the real one? Once again he misrepresented Shannon's life, this time suggesting that she would just drop her life's passion without a thought, that that abandonment would be of no consequence to her. Once again he portrayed himself as friendless-Shannon's rescuer.

Was Philip Binder involved? Was Barry responsible for the errors in Shannon's accounts and he was afraid Binder would find out? Did Barry Correda screw up his own accounts? Why did he squirrel around and not directly answer how he and Shannon had met? Was there a reason to keep that secret? I wasn't buying his lovey-dovey version. He didn't know where she went to school, and then lied about it. Why was that? And why had the mention of Shannon's family upset him?

Thinking so much made me ravenously hungry, so I made a beeline to Hammett's for a late lunch. Liz had left a text on my phone with an update on the office park cleanup she was supervising that day and, as all was well on that project, I could relax and enjoy lunch. More or less.

It was Vicki Sinclair's day off so Jean, friendly Jean, was cooking _and_ serving meals. She wasn't happy about it, and hadn't been happy about it for the fifteen years the arrangement had been in place. Vicki had to have a day off, and Jean was too cheap to hire someone to fill in for her—not even minimum-wage Kelsy, Vicki's niece—so Jean did both. I tried to avoid the place on those days. But I was starving, so it was worth the abuse for a meal.

Just as I started to sit down Jean Georgopoulos bawled out from the kitchen, "By god, you come over here to the window! Do you think I can come out of this blasted kitchen every time someone walks in? By the lovin' god, I swear—"

"Oops, sorry. Yeah, I forgot," I said, approaching the kitchen window. Thinking of New Mexico, I continued, "I'll have the green chile chicken with jack cheese, melon salad, ice tea. Please."

"Only 'Merican cheese today, no fruit salad, some lime Jell-O for you instead, okay? Yes. I'm makin' tea, it'll be ready when it is, I'll let you know, just sit down," she said and whirled back to the flat top grill to berate Randy, her long-suffering night cook dragged in for the day. I sat down before she could turn on me.

At my table, I gazed out the window, staring absently at a colorful bike rack at the curb, one of many installed as gifts to the town by our local and famous craft brewer, until my lunch was ready. My brain was working in the background, though. As I was eating I knew I was starting to think about taking a little trip to New Mexico; actually just considering moving up an already scheduled one for a-later-in-the-month pottery buying trip for clients.

The time Shannon Parkhurst had spent in northern New Mexico after college until she arrived in Colorado with Barry Correda was a piece of time that was blank, at least for me. It seemed that Shannon met Barry at that time and that, at least I thought, there would be some history there for both of them. Barry sure seemed ready to gloss it over—something to hide? Perhaps there was something I could learn that would give me the missing pieces about the whys of Shannon's death. Pieces that would be logical to me, and then I could let the whole thing go. I knew that Liz had the office park project under control, and that I could leave for a few days, and decided right then to make the trip.

It wasn't easy to decide to re-visit the place I'd lived years ago. Any trip to New Mexico, even fun buying trips for clients like this one, dredged up painful memories. My life there had been a mess—I was still drinking—and just about everything I touched turned to disappointment, if not downright disaster: jobs, relationships, life. But that experience had me wondering if the same thing had happened to Shannon Parkhurst. Had a hard life in New Mexico allowed alcohol to seize her as it had me? That's what I wanted to find out.

I flipped out my phone and called Betty Huckleston at work. When she picked up I asked, "Hey, Toots, ready for a road trip? Wanna go visit Hannah?" knowing the temptation to visit her daughter in New Mexico would be difficult for her to resist, and a road trip to boot.

She thought a moment and said, "Let me check on who can finish the back section. When I find somebody who owes me a favor, I'll call you back. I bet I can get an extra day or two if I tried," and rang off. So much for resisting temptation, I thought.

I next called Liz Burzachiello and went over the work schedule with her for the next few days. She was interested in what I could find out in New Mexico, and said she could handle things for a couple of days. Just as I was saying goodbye to Liz, I saw Jean start to come out of the kitchen. There's no good place to be when Jean Georgopoulos comes out of the kitchen for any reason—and I knew she wouldn't be pleased I had left the lurid lime and cottage cheese Jell-o on my plate—so I paid the tab at the table, and pushed out the heavy wooden door.

"By god, by my lovin' god, Randy! Did I, or did I not, tell you to—" The rest was lost as I scurried down the sidewalk towards home. I had to get back to work. With the crew busy at the office park, at another location I had a whole afternoon's perennials planting to do by myself.

## CHAPTER TEN

As Betty Huckleston and I drove south on I-25 down Raton Pass, just across the New Mexico line the broad grasslands opened out in front of us. Betty had indeed gotten time off to join me on this journey, and had arranged for me to drop her at her sister-in-law's in Galisteo who would then drive her down the rest of the way to Hannah's in Las Cruces. They would visit with Hannah and Joe for a day or two, and drive back in time for Betty to join me in Santa Fe for the trip home. As we enjoyed the trip, we were reminisced about trips taken in the past both together and with others, keeping each other highly entertained. We were easily amused.

As we traveled south through Las Vegas the landscape began to change to high desert with juniper trees making rounded shadows across rounded hills. It was beautiful, yet I felt the familiar melancholy. The New Mexico landscape did that to me—the harsh beauty would mix in my mind with my experiences with how hard it had been to live there. Ambivalence was probably the best word to describe how I felt about New Mexico, and I was confronted with it every time I returned. But right then, it was easier to focus on the beauty of the landscape rather than a psychological puzzle, and I decided to think about it later. I wanted to have a good time with Betty, so I pushed the old feelings aside.

Betty Huckleston was a good sounding board, and as we continued our rambling talk about Shannon and Barry, she, too, became convinced that things didn't add up. She was intent on finding out what we could, and volunteered to contact one of her newspaper colleagues in Santa Fe just to see what she could find out about the real estate scene in northern New Mexico. Maybe she could get a lead on where Barry Correda used to work, or if Shannon had worked at an agency, where we could track down someone to talk to.

At the Hwy 285 exit to Clines Corners, we finally turned off the interstate. After unloading Betty in Galisteo I headed back up Hwy 285, and turned left onto Avenida Vista Grande into Eldorado, a community southeast of Santa Fe, where I was staying with friends Tom and Amy Murphy. The road turned west and I followed it to their house, a passive solar adobe that I had long admired for its simplicity and comfort. Its mud walls glowed golden red in the sunset as I arrived.

In their garden—coyote-fenced to keep the rabbits out—Amy and I picked chiles and squash for _calabacitas_ while Tom grilled ribs over an open fire pit next to the flagstone patio. Their adobe sat by itself on a slight rise, and in the blue evening gloom we could still see for miles across the desert towards the southwest to the steel grey Ortíz Mountains and the paler Sandías outside of Albuquerque humped up behind them. After dinner, we sat in the open door of Tom's woodworking shop, sipping hot tea; smelling the cedar, fir, and rosewood stacked neatly in bins ready for Tom's craft; and listening to the desert night. The Murphys were the kind of friends you could sit with for a long time in comfortable silence; and the enveloping darkness was like a meditation. That night, New Mexico was again for me an ancient, familiar, welcoming place.

* * *

The next morning's bright and unrelenting light cast blue grama grass, snakeweed, and cholla into sharp relief. A small covey of quail bobbed their way around a chamisa and streamed over a desiccated branch at the base of a weather-dwarfed juniper. Tom, Amy, and I stood outside their adobe, squinting in the sun, with steaming coffee mugs in hand. The brisk wind smelled of _piñon_ smoke, and rattled a line of deep red _ristras_ hung to dry against the dirt brown wall of the Murphy adobe.

After fond farewells, I drove back onto I-25 into Santa Fe and turned north through town, past the Opera and Tesuque, down the hill into Pojoaque, and on through to Española, stopping for a Blake's Lotaburger—a greasy flat-top fried green chile cheeseburger, devoured while sitting in my car in the windy parking lot—and a Coke with ice. Yes, it was 10:00 a.m., but some things cannot be passed by. This was not my addiction alone; even at that hour, there were five or six cars in the lot in addition to my own. I was soon satisfied, and in a fog of onion breath, I headed north out of town past the Saints and Sinners Liquor Store doing a brisk business.

The highway followed the Rio Chama north until the river cut away west around Abiquiu. There the landscape spread out into a broad valley half filled by the man-made Abiquiu Lake, and flat-topped Cerro Pedernal sat in domination of the view to the southwest. A bit further north, at the iconic cow skull in a triangle sign, I turned east onto to the dirt road to Ghost Ranch, stopping along the way to gaze at the red sandstone bluffs and mesas that were awash with stone bands of orange, peach, buff, and cream.

A long circle drive led to the office, and I went inside to check in, and see if I could talk to someone who might have known Shannon Parkhurst. The woman at the front desk could help me with check-in, but not with much information about Shannon's time there, no matter how many questions I asked.

When I persisted, and asked again about peace and justice groups using the facility, she looked irritated and said, "Oh, so many groups use Ghost Ranch, I mean, gosh, I couldn't even begin to list them all, plus all the family groups and classes, I mean..."

"Surely you have records of who was here when?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"And those would be in your computer?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, they would. But you have no right to see it!" She glared at me.

I had messed that one up, pushed too fast, was too impatient. I put an apologetic smile on my face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was just interested in Shannon's work, and I knew these groups were important to her."

"All I know is that there are fewer big groups coming here, because of the economy and all. Now I have to work. Excuse me." she said and turned away.

As I walked out onto the _portal_ I thought ruefully, some lousy detective skills there, Lily. I knew I wouldn't get any information out of her if she even had any. I'd have to find it on my own.

I walked up the dirt road toward the Agape Center, a dark brown adobe structure with large floor to ceiling glass doors opening out onto a pergola-shaded _portal_ with a front and center view of Pedernal. An ancient looking metal folding chair was propped up against a wall, and I drug it out to sit in the sun on the _portal_ , and enjoy the peace and the view. I didn't really have any plan about how to go about this, so maybe sitting there with the leafy old cottonwood framing the view west would inspire me. Farther up the road I heard pots and pans clanging from the dining hall; maybe somebody there remembered Shannon?

Thinking it was worth a try, I continued up the road to the low brown building fronted with large windows and a covered _portal_ on the west. Wooden Adirondack chairs were scattered among picnic tables under tall cottonwoods that rustled in the slight breeze. Walking around to the back, I saw two skinny teen boys smoking by a screen door that was propped open into the dirt parking lot. Kitchen sounds mingled with ranchera music, and the smell of hot grease came from inside. When the boys saw me, they tossed their smokes into a butt can by the back door, and started inside.

"Wait! Uh, wait, I was just wondering—" I called out. "Uh, do you know, uh, did you know—"

" _Yo no hablo Inglés_ ," the taller one mumbled as he stopped just outside the door. " _No hablo Inglés_." He jerked his pimpled chin toward the corner of the building. " _Conchita_ — _Conchita habla Inglés_."

A young woman in her twenties stood at the corner with her back to us, smoking; and when she heard her name, she turned and glared at us. She tossed her cigarette into the hard dirt, ground it down with her shoe, and then picked up the butt, put it in her pocket. She disappeared around the corner, her thick black hair shining in the sun.

I went after her and saw to my relief that she wasn't actually running, otherwise I'd never have caught up with her. I called out, "Conchita? Uh, Conchita, could I talk with you?"

She stopped and looked over her shoulder, and allowed me to catch up. Her eyes were darkly ringed with mascara and eye liner.

"Look, what do you want? I'm just on my break. I don't have a lot of time, and I really like to just walk around by myself! What do you want?" she demanded.

"Thank you! I won't take up much of your time. I don't even know if you can help me... I'm looking for a friend of mine's friend." _Where did this story line come from?_ "Yeah, uh, this friend's friend, _mmm_ , would, uh —" I had nowhere to go with this. I started again. "I'm a friend of Shannon Parkhurst and I heard that she'd worked here, and I thought I'd see if I could find somebody who knew her." Starting with the truth always made things simpler.

"Yeah, I know Shannon. We both worked up at the stables with the _niños_. She was way chill; not snooty like other Anglos," Conchita said as a way to challenge me. I didn't take the bait.

"That was a while ago. Why do you want to know?" She still looked irritated, and started walking toward the large grassy area in front of the dining hall at a brisk pace, but then indicated that I could follow.

"Did she hang around with anybody, you know, other staff or participants in the seminars?" I asked, avoiding her question and trying to keep up.

"Well, she worked at the stables a couple of months with me, and then started working at the seminars, with those groups she volunteered with. I think she even taught some classes. I still saw her around. She was only here through the fall that year, and _I'm_ still stuck here!" She stopped half way across the field and looked at me. "And why do you want to know, _señora_?" Her nose flared and I could see that she was just about to get mad.

"I, uh, look, Conchita, I'm just trying to see if I can find someone who knew Shannon here."

"And again! Why?" She started to come up in my face.

"No, no—wait. Conchita, Shannon is... did you know that... that Shannon is dead and—"

" _¡Dios mio! ¡Dios mio!_ What? Shannon?" She looked horrified. She crossed herself, and tears came to her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I didn't give you that news very well. I'm sorry. Shannon... died, about a month and a half ago."

"What? A car accident? Was she sick?"

"No—the police ruled that she committed suicide."

" _¡Dios mio!_ No way!"

"Yeah, that's what they say. But you... you don't think so?"

"That _chica_ had the joy of life in her! No way was she gonna waste it!" Then her face became more troubled. "Tomás," she whispered, "ah, _bebé_ , you, too..."

She looked around to look at the cliffs for a moment, and then turned back to me and said in a tired voice, "I was thinking about Tomás... Tomás was her friend. He was younger than us, but a good kid, you know? Always hanging around, trying to get her attention. She was sweet to him, though. He said he went out with her, but I don't know—"

"Can I talk to Tomás? Is he still here?" I interrupted.

"He's dead, too." Her face was hard now, and she looked older. I could see the lines around her mouth deepen as she turned away. "Those _pendejos_ got him."

"Wait, he's dead? Who 'got' him? What do you mean?"

She muttered something in Spanish that I didn't understand, and when I looked questioningly at her she said, "Mexicans... Mexicans! Cut him up! The bastards!" She started crying, wiping the back of her hands under her eyes to stop the running mascara.

"I'm so sorry! Tomás was a friend of yours, too—"

"He was my cousin! He was 17! A kid! And they cut him up, they killed him, those fuckin' bastards!" She looked up at the cottonwoods gleaming in the sun above her head and sighed, "I have to go back, my break is over." She tried to dry her eyes and fix the mascara as she walked off.

"Wait, Conchita! Please—"

She turned around. "What? Look, I'm sorry about Shannon. I liked her, and I know she was your friend. But I don't wanna talk about Shannon or Tomás no more." She looked nervously at a white SUV with Arizona plates as it pulled into the office lot. "I don't wanna talk about it. He lived with his _tía_ then, _Tía_ Regina. Go talk to her," she said, and crossed the road.

"Regina who?" I called.

"Baca."

* * *

I wondered if that could be the Regina Baca I used to work with, the Regina Baca who seemed to be related, in some way, to almost every family in northern New Mexico. Well, I'd call her and find out. I had to drive back up on the mesa to get cell phone reception, and even then it was spotty. I had Regina Baca's number from the last time she called me when she was in Denver, visiting yet another nephew. I hoped the number still worked, because it would save me from having to go down the scores of Bacas listed in the phone book.

" _Ola_ , Lily! You scumbag! ¿ _Que pasa_?" she answered with a grin in her voice. Yes, it was Regina Baca with caller ID.

"Hey, Regina! Hey, yeah, I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd call you."

"In the _neighborhood_? Are you kidding, _mija_? Where are you, Santa Fe?"

"No, actually, farther north. Where are you? Want to have lunch? I'd love to see you."

"I'm still in Cuyamungue, you dumbshit. But hey, you know me, never turn down a chance to eat, right? _Ee_ , douchebag! How long has it been?" she asked. Only Regina Baca could sound so affectionate with her insults.

"Too long. Why don't I come pick you up, or meet you somewhere?"

"Not much in Cuyamungue!" she laughed. "Why don't we have _lonche_ at Leona's by the Santuario? One of my aunts cooks there, right? No, tell you what, let's go to the Rancho; they'll give us _muy grande_ plates. They know me—I used work there, remember, Lily?"

"Yeah, I remember. When do you want to meet?"

"I have to go pick up my cousin, right? I'm babysitting, but I can bring her with me. I'll see you around one, one thirty."

Rancho de Chimayó was a family-owned restaurant in Chimayó, up the road from the Santuario, and if I was going to make it on time I needed to start south again. On the drive there I thought about how I'd met Regina Baca.

We'd both worked at Stedmans, a PR firm in Santa Fe, "in the back" as the snooty, much higher-paid, all-Anglo ad reps called our design and production area. Chloë Austin was our terrible boss who embarrassed subordinates with sarcastic remarks, and I felt that she singled me out for her daily one-up-man-ship-gotcha sneers. She'd also set me up for blame for a large order she messed up, so the company busted me down to a difficult split-shift in the warehouse. Because my financial existence was precarious, and I wasn't in good mental shape, either, debilitating fear of losing my job rendered me mute in frustration, and my silence left me wide open to her abuse. Chloë Austin was all the bullies in my life rolled up into one, and I had had a lot of self-hatred for not standing up for myself.

Regina Baca, on the other hand, seemed to have no trouble holding her ground when I couldn't, but got fed up first and quit. I made a final mistake of filing an H.R. complaint about Chloë Austin as a last resort, and she made my life resemble the 6th Ring of Dante's _Divine_ _Inferno_ before I was forced to quit. It had just been a bad job for Regina; it had been a disillusioning and humiliating one for me, and another straw in a burgeoning New Mexican haystack of what I saw as complete failures. By then alcohol had grabbed me like a best friend, and the two of us skipped merrily over the cliff together. Well, not so merrily, but that is another story. While I treasured my relationship with Regina Baca, I'd just as soon forget about our jobs at Stedmans, and the rummy coward I had been.

Turning east on NM 309, I drove through the tunnel of cottonwoods and willows along the river before Nambé, so lush and green in contrast to the desolate landscape of muted browns, grays, tans, and chalky white that surrounded it. Regina Baca had grown up close by in La Puebla. She'd dropped out of high school and had kids at eighteen; left an abusive husband, and then faced a life of struggle to support herself and kids. When I worked with her, she was just finishing an associate degree that she earned at night school. Her ex had firebombed her trailer; luckily he'd been too coked up to know no one was in it. A lot of her family was familiar with the inside of the state pen. A tough life, but not one unheard of in New Mexico—it was not an easy place to live. I admired her just-get-on-with-it attitude, lack of self-pity, and sense of humor. From what Regina Baca had told me about her family, she had relatives in every corner of the northern counties, and I was about to find out if Tomás Baca was one of them.

## CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Ah, Lily, you look as bad as ever! ¿ _Que pasa_?" was my fond greeting when I found Regina Baca, sitting in the back courtyard dining room of Rancho de Chimayó.

"And you're the smart-ass little sister I never had, you know," I fired back, giving her a big grin.

"It's my gift to you! _Ee_ , we started already," she said, gesturing at a girl at her side. "Michele had to eat, right? She's going to go play with her cousins, right, _mija_?" She affectionately pushed the teenager's dark bangs away from her face, and Michele smiled shyly at me, got up, and took her plate with her.

Regina turned to me and exclaimed, "Hey, girl!" and gave me a hearty hug despite her small stature. Her dark hair hung down her back in a single braid, contrasting with a hot pink blouse belted into a slender waist.

We started to look at the menu, but Regina Baca took over, as usual, and I just let her order as I enjoyed the fall afternoon in the courtyard. Large cottonwoods overhead gave off welcoming shade and comfort, and I could smell roasting green chiles and _carne_ _adovada_.

Our meals came quickly and we ate in satisfied silence, interspersed with bits of small talk that could be blurted out between bites. Shredded beef enchiladas, Christmas—red and green chile—satisfied my hunger, and Regina inhaled a large smothered beef burrito, two chile rellenos, two tacos, refried beans, and Spanish rice. The petite woman could eat.

Over the sopapillas and honey, Regina asked, "So whatcha been up to, Lily? Getting into trouble? Down here visiting _amigas_?"

"Well, yes and no. Regina, I don't know how to ask you this... but I heard about Tomás Baca, and, well, is he a relative of yours?"

The light in her face went out. " _Mi sobrino_." Her eyes turned wary and aggressive. "How did you know? Why are you asking? What do you know?" We were friends, and yet she became instantly suspicious.

"I'm so sorry, Regina. Your nephew! I'm really sorry. I just learned about Tomás this morning, up at Ghost Ranch. From Conchita."

"Conchita? Conchita was talking to you, a _gringa_? Someone she doesn't know?" _Pthith_. Regina Baca turned her head and sent a mock spit sound into the air. "She knows better than that."

"No, really, I'd asked her about a friend of mine, and she just mentioned that Tomás had known her. That's all."

"And that he'd been murdered!" she said, her angry voice trembling.

"Yes, and that he'd been murdered. I'm sorry. Can you tell me about Tomás?"

"Ah, _Dios mio_ , Lily!" she sighed. As she searched my face, her expression softened a bit, and she looked more like Regina than the hard-eyed stranger I'd seen moments before, as if she recognized who I was, and could start to loosen her reflexive distrust of a _gringa._ "Why do you want to know?" she still demanded.

"Please, Regina, I'm looking for some information about a friend who might have known him. Can you tell me a little about Tomás? Maybe I can learn a little more about my friend, too. Come on, you know me. We've known each other for a long time."

Regina Baca held my gaze with her dark brown eyes, and then sighed again and looked around the courtyard, now emptying out after the lunch rush. She reached for a tall red plastic water glass on the table, took a long sip before putting it down, and starting Tomás's sad tale.

He'd always been a sweet, gangly boy who wanted to please. He lived with Regina for a few years, as Conchita had said, after his mother was sent to federal prison for drug dealing and attempted murder. His father was unknown. Regina Baca and her other sisters worked hard to keep him from the gangs that roamed the valley, but he was easily influenced, and gang violence was hard to avoid as a poverty-level Hispanic youth in Española. But Regina was adamant that Tomás was not involved with drug dealing. He supported himself working at an estate for an Anglo family, and Regina said they were shocked by his death, too.

"Lily, he didn't do no drugs! I would have known, right? He had no money, no flashy anything. No bling. His friends didn't deal. He didn't have the smarts for it. He was just him. He was a little kid, Lily! He didn't change. I raised him, and I would know." Her sisters had agreed, so they were horrified when his body was discovered at Santa Cruz Lake, mutilated in a way that marked it as a warning by the area's ruthless drug gang, _Los Reyes_. But Regina Baca and her sisters didn't believe the police story.

"¡ _Estupidos_! The cops know nothing! His car was up there like he supposedly drove it there for a deal? Ha! _Los Reyes_ are Mexicans." _Pthith._ "We are Spanish, right? We don't mix. He wasn't that stupid! He never would have gone up to Santa Cruz to meet Mexicans, not by himself. Everybody knows what happens there. Drugs! ¡ _Muerte_! If you're stupid enough to be there when it goes down, right? If those lazy cops had thought about it, they would have seen that all of it was a set up, but no! They had their theory, and it was an easy out to blame it on a drug deal gone bad in the Valley." _Pthith_. This time she did spit.

No suspects had been identified. It was so common I imagined it didn't even warrant much copy space in the news. The case went cold. It was familiar and heart breaking, and I reached over for her hand. We sat together in silence for a while and let the breeze flow over us. There wasn't much for either one of us to say.

After a while Regina turned to me and asked, "So, my friend, you were looking for something? You said you were talking to Conchita about?" She watched the waitress finish clearing our plates, and then asked her how her kids were doing. By the short conversation, it seemed that Regina Baca was related to her, too.

When they finished and the waitress had left, I answered, "Yes, Shannon Parkhurst. Did you know her? Conchita said Tomás knew her."

" _Ee,_ Tomás always liked the girls," Regina smiled sadly. " _Eh_... Shannon? Shannon... oh, hey, was she that blonde _chica_ who taught him how to ride horses up there at Ghost Ranch?"

"Yeah, maybe so—"

"He said she was nice to him. _Ee_ , teaching him on her own time, after all the _gringos_ went home for the day. He worked in the kitchen, but he'd sneak out to go see his cousin Conchita, and of course, to see his blonde _princessa_. That's what he called her, right? He'd hang out there all day if they'd let him. He loved the horses, too."

"Did you ever meet her, talk to her?"

"Tomás was always trying to drag me up there for staff family days. _Ee_ , I was working two jobs then, didn't have much time, right? But one time, couple of years ago, I did go up for a cookout, because Tomás wanted to introduce me to a new friend." She smiled, but then looked down at her lap and fiddled with her napkin. When she looked up, her eyes were shiny with tears, but she shook her head and continued.

"I remember she said she was from Colorado, and now I remember her name _was_ Shannon. We talked for a little while out in front of the dining hall. I 'specially remember that she was going to work for Andrea Brubaker," Regina snorted. " _Ee,_ that _bruja_ —I remember because it was that _bruja_."

Andrea Brubaker. I knew the name yet I couldn't bring to mind why Regina Baca would harbor such resentment. I raised my eyebrows at Regina.

"You remember, _mija_. I told you about my _tío._ You know, it was after we both had quit at Stedmans, remember? About how he tried to bid on part of the _tourista_ contract, and that bitch Andrea Brubaker fixed it for those Stedmans whores, right? You know, by refusing to advertise her business if they switched from her pals at Stedmans, and my _tío_ got the contract instead. She threatened to pull millions in her ad money, that greedy mutant of a bitch. And those assholes were too afraid to stand up to her and her threats. _Ee_ , one look from that _puta_ and men go sterile." _Pthith._

Ah yes, Andrea Brubaker of Brubaker Distinctive Properties, the most exclusive real estate firm in northern New Mexico. I remembered seeing her waltz past Regina and I through the back of Stedmans with her best friend, senior account director and our hated boss, Chloë Austin. They acted as if they were holding their breaths just to get through the room. Boss Chloë always sent a glare my way that implied I was doing something wrong; Andrea looked as if we smelled of carrion. I could see how Regina Baca's uncle wouldn't stand much of a chance to break up that duo.

"You know that mother of a whore's bitch got kickbacks from Chloë at Stedmans!" Regina said. "They all scratch each other's asses."

I nodded, knowing that was how it seemed to work, but I didn't want to talk about Chloë Austin. "So, then, how did Shannon start at Brubaker's? I mean, how did she start in real estate after working at Ghost Ranch all summer? She was so young and inexperienced, and an exclusive firm like that—"

"I sort of remember her saying she met that bitch of a whore at one of the seminars. Yeah, Tomás said Shannon quit working at the stables, and that he saw her with Andrea down at the classrooms. I guess Her Royal Bitchiness was at Ghost Ranch a lot that summer with her do-goody work."

"Do you remember what that was?"

"Nope, Tomás was only interested in _la chica_."

We'd been talking so much about Tomás that I'd almost forgotten I hadn't told Regina about Shannon. She was shocked, saddened by yet another young person needlessly dying too young. I told her the police had thought it was suicide, but that I felt differently. I asked her if she thought the two deaths may be connected, since the two knew each other and each had died a suspicious death.

"I don't know," she said, "Maybe, but it doesn't make much sense."

"But, do you?" I persisted, respecting Regina Baca's sharp sense of people and how they behaved.

"Well, I don't know... when they died, they weren't in the same place, or knew the same people, or did the same thing, or—" She was thinking hard. " _Ee_ , I don't know."

"Conchita said Tomás told her he and Shannon dated. Did they? Did she and Tomás have any mutual friends?"

"No, you dumbshit! I just told you that. They didn't hang with nobody the same. And Tomás sure didn't date her; he always talked bigger than he did. Like _niños_ do!" Regina said with a smile on her face, her humor returning.

"I gotta go find Michele," she said, standing up. I stood up with her, stiff after sitting too long in the chair.

"Hey? Meet me out on the _portal_ and I'll walk you to your car," she continued. "I've got the check."

I looked surprised. She laughed. "Yeah, me pickin' up a check? Surprised me, too! Well, the owners will give me a deal, right? They're my cousins, remember?" she admitted with a sly grin.

As I sat on the _portal_ admiring the golden flecks of straw in the rough adobe work, I sent a text to Hannah Huckleston to ask her mother to specifically check on Andrea Brubaker Distinctive Properties in her mission with her newspaper colleague. Also to check on any philanthropic work Brubaker may have been involved in. I sent it to Hannah knowing that Betty wouldn't even realize that a text came to her phone, and I knew Hannah would get the message to her mother.

Regina returned with her cousin Michele in tow, and we walked out into the dirt parking lot. We were saying our good byes when I spotted a file folder on the front seat of my car, and that helped me remember something. "Did Shannon date anyone here?" I asked.

" _Mija_ , how many times do I have to tell you? She didn't run with Tomás's crowd. I don't know who she hung with. I only talked to her that once."

From the folder, I pulled out a printout of Barry Correda's info page from the Binder Enterprises website. On it was a professionally photographed picture of Barry, looking very successful and self-satisfied. I showed it to Regina. "Do you know him?"

She looked and said, "Nope." She could tell I was disappointed so she looked again. Her cousin Michele looked over her shoulder, and said something in Spanish. Regina shook her head and they both laughed. Michele leaned over and pointed a blue-painted fingernail at something on the picture, and as Regina squinted at it, she responded, " _Ee_ , he looks too good, _mija_!"

To me she said, "It looks like someone we know, but he... he don't look like this!" Regina said something to Michele in Spanish, and they both laughed again. "I don't know—it could be—but shit! Did they clean him up!"

"You know Barry Correda? He used to live around here?"

"Correda? I don't know no Barry Correda. This looks like a really good Momo on a really good day. Shit, he never looked this good!" She saw my confusion. "Momo Morgan, _ee._ Used to run with Paco Duran? That stupid asshole. Momo, he's not too smart, right? Full of himself, though! Haven't seen him for quite a while, right, _mija_?" She looked at her cousin who nodded. Then, as if it was of no importance she said, "There's some people lookin' for him, know what I mean? Still see his cousin around, though. Momo's the spitting image of his cousin Theo, but Theo ain't so stupid. "

"You think this is Momo?"

"I don't know. Kinda looks like him."

"Could it be somebody else, another cousin or something?"

" _Ee_ , the other one's dead, and Theo's brother's still in the pen. That's all of them, right? What good that do you anyway? You lookin' for him or somethin'?"

Before I could answer she said, "From the looks of that picture, if that's Momo, he went straight or somethin'! But, I don't know. Sorry, Lily."

She sent Michele off to the car before she added, "Why are you lookin' for him? It's about your friend, right? _Ee_ , I can't see her running with Momo! And Tomás knew better."

We stood in silence in the dirt parking lot, listening to the bells of the distant Santuario. Regina Baca crossed her arms and hugged herself as if she felt the cold of her sorrow about Tomás. Her clear dark eyes stared up at me in a look that was full of pain.

"I will tell you this: If that guy, that guy you're lookin' for, knows anything about Tomás's murder, he'll be sorry he was ever born. _Whoever's_ responsible for it will be sorry." She pulled her lips tight across her teeth in a grimace. "You've got to promise me, Lily, promise me on our friendship, that if you find out _anything_ about who killed Tomás, you'll tell me. _Ee_ , he was my _hito_ , so innocent. They tortured him, Lily! The cops won't do nothing—it's old news to them now. But _mi familia?_ We don't forget. Ever. So promise me." And I did.

* * *

Before I started back to Ghost Ranch I texted Hannah to have Betty add Momo Morgan to her inquiries. I felt foolish as I thumbed in the name, thinking how far-fetched it seemed that any of this was doing any good. An immediate return text from Hannah Huckleston just added to my feelings of foolishness: "LOL momo morgan now whats going on ;)"

That made me laugh. Before I pulled out of the parking lot, I turned off the phone since I was going back into no-reception land, gathered my CD stash, and cranked up the music to head north on the photogenic drive back to Ghost Ranch. I just wanted to drive. In truth, I wanted to drive very fast, but enough speeding tickets in earlier days had taught me I'd regret it. So I switched past Kathy Mattea's "455 Rocket," a country rockin' number that always seemed to give me a lead foot, to more mellow tunes, and meandered my mature way past Mendanales as the shadows were beginning to lengthen across the highway. The haunting sounds of the concertina in Dave Grusin's tracks from _Milagro Beanfield War_ , filmed around nearby Truchas, filled the car.

Was Barry Correda a cleaned-up Momo Morgan? From what Regina said, Momo Morgan could be already dead, since he hadn't been seen in a while, and especially since people were looking him. And even more far-fetched, how could a punk like Morgan not only be hired by an established firm like Binder Enterprises, but be wildly successful at it, too? Barry said that he had real estate roots in New Mexico, but surely Momo Morgan could not have had.

A cheap thug like Momo selling multimillion dollar houses to rich, out-of-state Anglos? I didn't think so. With that crowd, it was a closed society that only wealth would open—the wealthy would only deal with the wealthy.

All I had was that Regina Baca thought Barry Correda's photo looked like a Momo Morgan, and that Shannon Parkhurst had made a connection with Andrea Brubaker. But it was more than I knew before.

I stuck in an Enigma CD as I was coming up the valley just before the long climb up the side of creamy pink sandstone cliffs to the Abiquiu Dam turnoff. The lyrics were mostly in French so I didn't understand the meaning, but I enjoyed it anyway, as the odd combination of Gregorian chants, heavy breathing, and a thrumming beat seemed to power me along the highway. The Rio Chama, gleaming dark green brown in the sun with flashes of silver winking in the light, was winding bucolically through deep green cottonwoods that were just beginning to tinge yellow.

After grabbing my daypack from my room at Ghost Ranch, I headed up the Chimney Rock Trail with my camera to enjoy the early evening light. Concentrating on my footing on the trail, and paying attention to the rabbitbrush, sage, and cactus along the way, cleared my mind. I sat for a long time a warm sandstone perch, looking out over the valley to the west, trying to reconcile how I did so love this landscape, _and_ that it had been a daily struggle for me to live here. Had it been a struggle for Shannon, too? Did life overcome her here? According to Conchita, Shannon "had the joy of life in her," and that's not what you would say about someone who is depressed and suicidal. Plus Regina said she'd been handpicked for a prestigious job at an established firm. Shannon's future seemed bright. Had something changed in her life?

A stratum of clouds was building up in the west, piling over the layered pink sandstone cliffs by the Rio Chama, their white edges shining in contrast to the dark grey nimbocumulus mass behind them. Only a sliver of sunlight poured between a break in the clouds, like a blinding shaft of diamonds spotlighting the yellow-flowering snakeweed and skeletal cholla on the desert floor. It was time to head back before I got caught on a dark trail. I took a couple more photos, and started back down.

My thoughts shifted around with each step. Shannon's life here did not seem like mine had been—that it had only changed by getting worse. It was true that bad bosses like Chloë Austin had made my life hell, but by then I was already beaten down. My time in New Mexico had been like a bad, boozy marriage that slid into a long, messy divorce. I had been the profligate daughter, spending my alcoholic life like a novice playing five-card stud with mortality. But Shannon's life sounded like it still had the resilience that I thought I had lost here. I'd heard the dull grey voice of booze telling me my own suicide was the only way out. But I didn't take that drunk exit, and it was hard for me to believe she would have, either. All these years I had hated myself because I thought I had given up, that I had let myself down, that I had let life beat me here. But something made me get out, move home to Colorado, sober up, rediscover life. Something bigger than myself hadn't let me give up. Shannon Parkhurst had discovered life and something bigger than herself, too; and in the end, she wouldn't have given it up.

Just as surely as I knew that, I realized that I was tired of carrying around my elegiac lament for the lost years here. I used all these past failures to doubt my own judgment, to doubt myself, and it was time to let the failures go. _Everybody fails, Lily_. _You're not a failure now._

The trail at the bottom of the hill was getting hard to see, and it was easy to stumble on even small rocks kicked up in the dirt. As the restless New Mexico wind tugged at my hair, I could hear know-it-all Regina Baca, always needing to have the last word:

"Duh, _chica_. Get on with it, right?"

Right.

## CHAPTER TWELVE

Enduring a restless night in my bare room in Staff House at Ghost Ranch, I was glad for daybreak. I wasn't too interested in the communal breakfast offering of boiled eggs, oatmeal, and bran cereal served in the dining hall, so I stuck with the weak coffee. After chatting with a group of Belgians touring the Southwest, I packed my gear in the car and headed out for more photographic opportunities.

The day was bright and promising, and I planned to spend as long as I could before I met Betty Huckleston in Santa Fe. At the same time, I couldn't wait to tell her what I found out about Shannon, and to see what she might have learned from her newspaper friend.

I cranked up Bruce Hornsby—his piano syncopation had a jazzy Southern feel—and seat danced my way back down the road, stopping to take pictures as the vistas suggested. Just north of Santa Fe, as I was coming down Opera Hill, the vista to the south opened out in muted magnificence of the dusky blue Ortiz Mountains, backed by the Sandías; then the low, rounded Cerrillos a bit to the west, with the Jemez running north and south on my right; on the left the dark green forested flanks of the Sangre de Cristos. Way out in the distance, I could see the faint bump of the Lone Butte, an outcropping near where the dogs and I used to live in the desert. Making the wide sweeping turn onto St. Francis Drive, I knew it was time to meet Betty Huckleston at Jackalope, and get on with things.

I found her in the outdoor yard of the large import extravaganza on Cerrillos Road and it was crammed with pottery of all sizes and styles, big earthenware jars, 4-foot ollas, garden Ganeshes, and tinkling fountains in every corner. As Betty shopped, I searched for the right pots for my clients, and then I had the yard guys help me pack them in the back of the CR-V, where the large burnt orange ones for Susan Cramer's front porch just barely fit.

Betty returned from her extensive research inside the _mercado_ carrying numerous packages for her kids, and yet another new work satchel for me—a blue, green, red, and yellow woven one from Oaxaca. I had enough work bags to last me if I continued to work into my eighties, but Betty Huckleston couldn't resist bags of any kind, and continued to add to the collection. Our business end of the visit thus accomplished, we gazed at even more colorful vessels as we talked more about our little mystery, as she called it. There were rows of pots, huge blocks of cerulean blue, sunflower yellow, and moss green pots stacked together, squat square ribbed ones standing beside tall and slender ones; and elaborately decorated Mexican terra cotta pots of all sizes. Betty pointed out a pot she liked—a wide blue bowl to put on her patio—and I just wanted them all.

As we continued walking in the dappled shade of the yard, she said Gary Rogers, her source at the newspaper, had confirmed the parts of Andrea Brubaker I remembered: Anglo, very rich, highly connected, used to getting her own way, very successful in high-end real estate; Regina Baca and I had had to pack many boxes of her glossy promo materials at Stedmans. I remembered other things about her, too, but I let those ride for the moment.

"But here's where it gets good, Toots." Betty handed me an apple slice as we walked along the rows and rows of pottery. " _Mmm_ , aren't these good? They're giving away samples—guess they're from Dixon. Anyway, Gary said just as the economy was beginning to tank, there had been rumors that Brubaker Properties was in trouble. Andrea denied it, of course, but the gossip was that she had extended the company too far in the fat times, and that irregularities appeared once the times went lean. Money was missing, properties had been misrepresented, clients cheated, that sort of thing." She offered me more apple which I declined.

"Anyway, it went so far as her being investigated, her books looked at, and what not. Turns out everything checked out, the books were clean. All of a sudden, money was where it should be, accounts in order, all on the up and up. She's exonerated, and one of her competitors goes down as having set her up. He adamantly denied it, of course, but he went down. I guess Andrea went after him, sued him. It ruined him."

"But she got off, nothing bad happened to her?" I guessed.

"Not only did nothing bad happen, but Gary suspects that she started her foundation right around then to show how just wonderful she really was, all philanthropic and all. Guess it won her a lot of good press, good relations. All was forgiven, as they say."

"Well, nobody on her side lost any money, right? So, it's easy to forgive as long as you don't have to pay for it, or take the consequences!" I said, feeling bitter at the perceived injustice.

"Yeah, stinks, doesn't it?" She made a rude sound that made our adolescent selves laugh long and loud.

"Thanks, you always put things into perspective," I said, catching my breath. "What else did Gary have to say? Did he know the name of the foundation?"

"I wrote it down, it's something like helping the oppressed or something... here," she said, showing me a note from her pocket. "It's _Ayudar a los Oprimidos._ I guess it's pretty successful, according to Gary. They help formerly illegal immigrants get jobs and homes, learn English. It does a lot of good things."

I must have made a face because she said, "Look, Toots, I know you want to paint Andrea Brubaker with one broad, evil brush, but the foundation raises lots of money for these causes, and she helps lots of people with _Ayudar a los Oprimidos."_

"Okay, you're right," I said, but didn't really feel it. "Any trace of Shannon in that info?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I guess Gary met Shannon at an AO—that's what he called _Ayudar a los Oprimidos_ —media event. He said he liked the AO ones best because they had the best open bar." She smiled. "He was introduced by Andrea herself. He said it seemed that Shannon was being groomed as Andrea's personal aide or something. Anyway, she introduced her warmly, and indicated that Gary would see more of her at later events, that Shannon would be a media resource person."

"Did he see her at later events?"

"Well, he doesn't go to that many of them because he can't stand the BS, he said. But he did see her a couple of times, though he couldn't remember anything of consequence."

"What about Barry Correda? Any info on him? Or Momo Morgan?' I asked.

"Gary didn't remember Barry at Brubaker's, if that's where he worked. Of course, real estate isn't his regular beat, but he hadn't heard of him, or Momo Morgan either."

We sat down in the shade of one of the courtyards, listening to a Buddha fountain splash water into a dark red bowl. Betty searched her jacket pockets, and extracted her cigarette case and lighter. She tapped one end of a Pall Mall on the dull gold surface of the case, stuck it in the corner of her mouth, and lit up. She got up and waved the smoke away from me, but I had to admit that even though I hadn't smoked in twenty years, sometimes a whiff of a cigarette still appealed.

"Let's see... _hmm_ , where are the rest of my notes? Oh, here they are." She pulled a crumple of large yellow post-its out of a mailbag posing as her purse. "Gary said that he started seeing less of Shannon at AO because Ernesto came on the scene and Andrea seemed to rely on him more. Shannon seemed to have spent more time then at the Brubaker office on the Plaza; Gary said he sometimes saw her on the street by his office at the paper's downtown hub."

"Who is Ernesto?"

"Ernesto Mondragón. Gary seemed to think that he helped Andrea with her foundation, that he had connections in philanthropy. And the gossip is he became more helpful in other areas as well, and then, well, you know— _ultimately_ helpful to Andrea," she said with an arched brow. We laughed. "I don't know if he has an official title." We made some ribald suggestions about what that might be, but soon got serious again.

"Gary says Mondragón is very smooth, very professional, seems to have an impressive resume. Very good with people, contributed lots of money in the community, that sort of thing. Has made a name for himself in town as a philanthropist, and a good name for Andrea Brubaker as well," she said

"Andrea seems to be my connection to Shannon at this point, I think. Maybe she could tell me how or if Shannon met Barry down here, or if she knew Barry through real estate, or something. I have to talk with her, I guess," I said.

"How, Toots? Gary says she is notoriously difficult to get an appointment with. And _you_ don't have a very good history with her, either!" We discussed various ideas on how to get an appointment with Andrea Brubaker, but came up short of anything that sounded plausible.

Then Betty Huckleston got an idea. "Ask a local! Give me your phone, and I'll call Gary," she said, referring to her friend at the newspaper.

"My phone's in the car, Toots, with my purse. Don't like to carry stuff."

"And Hannah accuses me of being the only one on the planet without a phone 24/7! Ha! I'll see if mine's in my purse; otherwise you'll have to go get yours." She dug around the bag and pulled out several things I wouldn't have thought to find in a purse, such as an ten-inch wrench, an empty egg carton, and something that looked like a fish net; but her cell phone appeared in a side pocket, and she turned it on to call Gary Rogers. As she waited, she tapped another Pall Mall's unfiltered end on her cigarette case, stuck it in her mouth, and lit it.

When her friend answered, she briefly explained the situation, said _mm,hmm_ and nodded a couple of times, smiled, and covered the mouthpiece. "He has an idea. Wanna hear it?" She handed the phone to me.

"Uh, hi, Lily," Gary said. "I'm on deadline here, don't have much time, but here goes. I hadn't planned on going, but there's an AO fundraiser/media event tonight at Andrea Brubaker's. I think I could get you in as a potential donor. You'd be on your own then, you know." He laughed quietly. "If Andrea Brubaker finds out I brought an imposter in... well, she'd probably try to get me fired, or I'd be banned from all her media events until hell freezes over. Not that that wouldn't be such a bad thing," he concluded.

"Well, she kind of knows me, and would think I was a very small-time donor. I probably couldn't get two words with her," I said.

"We could say that you just came into money, lots of money. Yeah, pose you as a large donor who wants to do good in her old home town!" he said with a sardonic note in his voice. "And in my experience? When Andrea Brubaker hears 'large donor' she'd talk to _La Llorona_ herself."

I laughed.

"Who is _La Llorona_?" hissed Betty, overhearing.

"A witch who lives under a bridge and catches children to eat!" I hissed back. "A New Mexican fable. I'll explain later!"

I immediately agreed to his idea, and arranged to meet him in the Cities of Gold Casino parking lot in Pojoaque at seven o'clock. I could follow him from there to Andrea Brubaker's estate in Jacona, an area northwest of Santa Fe.

As I hung up I realized with these plans I had just agreed to extend our trip by a day. "Sorry, Toots! Is it okay with you if we stay a night here? I'll try not to be too late at this fundraiser thing, and we can get an early start tomorrow. I can call Gary back and cancel if it doesn't work for you. I just feel like I need to follow this up, see what I can find out."

"It's fine, really, Toots. As you were talking I was already figurin' out where we'd stay tonight in town. I'll call Richard and let him know. No big deal. I don't have to be back until late tomorrow anyway. Let's do it."

* * *

Betty and I soon checked into a bed and breakfast in the heart of Santa Fe, a treat for both of us. As we settled in our room off the courtyard, Betty Huckleston went in search of the famed happy hour margaritas the B&B served, and returned with a full glass for her and freshly made limeade for me. She sat down in an upholstered chair by the kiva fireplace, took a sip, and nodded her approval for the drink. However, for me she noted, "I think you'll have to borrow some of my clothes, Toots. Don't you have any accessories?"

Looking at the plain jane shirts and pants I was pulling out of my duffel bag, she added, "Not that my clothes are fancy or anything, but you gotta look the part, at least. Those are, er, are..." She paused in her politeness.

"Are looking like they've been wadded up in the bottom of a bag for days?" I asked. "Well, they were, and I agree with you! And no, I don't have any accessories. What do you have? And I have to do something about my shoes!"

Betty went in search of shoe polish, and another margarita, as I tried on a couple of pieces from her wardrobe. Betty Huckleston and I were both tall, but she is thin, and I am, well, thick, so that narrowed down the pants selection quite a bit. But I still could assemble a simple but appropriate outfit—everything in black, always worked for me—as I went over my insubstantial story. Yes, I was going as a donor, but I felt I had to go as Lily Raffenport, donor, in case Andrea Brubaker recognized me. Maybe I could gloss over the donor part. I'd just try to talk to her about Shannon; surely she'd want to talk about Shannon Parkhurst? Her protégé?

Although Betty found the shoe polish for my sensible shoes, she decided that heels would be better for the ensemble, and drug out a strappy pair of hers for me to try on. She then pulled eyeliner, mascara, blush, and lip gloss from her make-up bag, and I set to work. It took a while, but we got the whole thing miraculously pulled together.

At 6:30 I turned out of the B&B onto Paseo de Peralta, headed north on St. Francis, and out of town to Pojoaque to meet Gary Rogers, leaving Betty Huckleston to relax in the hot tub.

After meeting up with and then following Gary around, up, and down nameless dirt roads, we arrived at Andrea Brubaker's large and immaculate estate. Gary said a few words into the gate intercom, and we were allowed in. A long manicured pea gravel driveway, flanked by a man-made stream flowing over rounded rocks and planted with lush foliage, curved around to the imposing hacienda.

We walked up the flagstone steps to a front courtyard filled with blooming plants, gushing fountains, and a large Gorman bronze sculpture. To quell my nervousness I suggested that we take a look around the gardens before going inside; Gary quickly agreed, and stepped away to light up an American Spirit cigarette. In contrast to my outfit, he was wearing a white short-sleeve shirt untidily tucked into rumpled brown corduroy pants, and cowboy boots; and looked more way comfortable than I felt. Gary glanced at his cell, and motioned that he wanted to return a call and would be back; and then in a puff of smoke, sauntered down two broad steps to a buff flagstone walkway.

As I strolled around the courtyard and adjoining gardens, I admired the massive adobe walls and angles on the Pueblo Revival-style house. It was the traditional, and costly, mud work of skilled craftsmen with the corners and wall tops sinuously curved toward the house center, seemingly in tune with a natural energy. The final mud coat was dark sienna and appeared to arrive up from the earth and be of the earth. Thick Mexican Colonial double doors set into one side of the courtyard wall were open to the view beyond—the sky just beginning to deepen into a vibrant, almost violent, purple and red sunset fronted by the dark line of the Jemez Mountains.

Flower beds snuggled next to a low adobe wall held orange California poppies, grey-green santolina dotted with vibrant deep yellow button flowers, and mounds of native grasses that sent up seed heads in airy abandon. I was envious of the abundant landscaping and the plantings—fringed sage, Mexican Hat, penstemon, asters, Russian sage, Apache Plume—interspersed with low winding adobe walls and outdoor rooms with pools and fountains, and special hidden lighting.

One-hundred-year-old _piñons_ were carefully incorporated into the design with brightly-colored Mexican hand cut out banners, _papel picados_ , strung along their lower branches. It was idyllic, and I was mesmerized, as always, by the sense of being in another country. I daydreamed about having a landscaping project like this, and then I ruefully acknowledged how much water all of it needed to flourish where it did not naturally grow. It was so beautiful, yet oases like these took a heavy toll on the environment. A New Mexican trade-off. Beautiful New Mexican landscapes didn't have to be water-thirsty, but this one ostentatiously was.

Gary Rogers returned, and it was time to eat bait to cut the fish, as _mon cher_ Denise Robicheaux would say. My nervous mouth tasted like I had done just that, but I gamely followed him under the deep _portal_ to the massive front doors. Although we were immediately met by a doorman checking credentials, Gary did indeed get us in the door, and we stepped into the large _sala_. The adobe work throughout the spare room was beautifully crafted here, too, with smooth, diamond finishes on the walls. Flowing _bancos_ tucked under windows were heaped with red, blue, black, and yellow Navajo blanket pillows, and a poured adobe floor was traditionally finished in natural browns, deep copper, and sienna. On the ceiling the heavy pine _vigas_ were diagonally interconnected with cedar _latillas_ , and supported by corbels carved in volute shapes. _Nichos_ set into the thick walls held more colorful folk art, and a large Cochiti drum sat in one corner.

I hungered after the original art on the walls—Dan Namingha, T. C. Cannon, Fritz Scholder, and more I couldn't identify. Gary indicated that Andrea Brubaker was standing next to a large shepherd's fireplace at the end of the room, talking to a tall man in a dark suit. "Ready or not... let's go," he said, barely containing a grin as if he was enjoying an adventure, and started across the room.

Andrea Brubaker was a slim, tanned woman in her late sixties. Her shoulder length white hair was stylishly blunt cut, and she wore a finely-woven brown tunic over a mid-length black skirt topped by soft calf skin boots. Multiple silver rings were on each hand, and nests of silver bracelets glinted on her wrists. A single large turquoise on a silver chain hung around her neck. Everything was simple, and cost more than the Española trailers her employees could barely afford the monthly payments on. She oozed Anglo privilege and entitlement, Southwestern style. She was as I remembered her from Stedmans, only more so. I started to sweat.

At the thought of our ploy, I grew even more nervous, but I was determined to see if I could find out anything about Shannon. As I walked across the room I wiped my moist hand on Betty's very stylish black pants before I extended it to Andrea Brubaker. Gary started to introduce us.

"Hello, I'm Lillian. Thank you so much for having me." I interrupted. I didn't think she'd remember me as Lillian, and I wanted to avoid using my last name. I stood tall in Betty Huckleston's smart heels, looked her in the eye, and smiled.

"Welcome to _Ayudar a los Oprimidos_." Andrea Brubaker over enunciated the Spanish, turned to Gary with a bright, fake smile, and said, "Ah, and you know Lillian from..."

"Uh, the Opera. Yes, this summer?" he said not too convincingly, but then nodded at me as if I should chime in. "Right, uh, Lillian? Was it _La Bohème_?" he pulled out of his hat since I was pretty sure that Gary Rogers didn't seem to be the opera-going type.

"Oh, yes! We had seats next to each other! It's my favorite opera!" I lamely lied. I had never seen it so I couldn't say much more. But something was working because Andrea Brubaker didn't seem to recognize me. At least, _not yet_ , the ye-of-little-faith voice said in my head _._

"We, uh, then got to know each other through that, uh, _marvelous_ charity work Gary's been doing, and uh..." I got distracted by a tray of appetizers that appeared at Andrea's elbow, held by a small, dark woman in black pants and a white blouse uniform, who didn't seem to speak English when queried about what was on the tray. Andrea ignored her, and picked a glass of white wine—it smelled like an oaky Chardonnay—from another tray held by a tall young man in the same uniform, standing on her other side.

Gary reached for a glass of wine, took over the conversation, and went on to tell the story we'd prepared beforehand: he was vague about _when_ I'd moved, or moved back, to Santa Fe, but that I loved it, wanted to do good, and then he included large hints of newly inherited money. He did a good job; the guy was a born storyteller. Andrea bought it, though, since she invited me into her private study for a chat. As we walked away, Gary Rogers indicated to me that he was leaving, by way of the _pozole_ buffet table. Most people serve one proud offering of _pozole,_ the humble family stew to be shared with friends; Andrea Brubaker had laid out five varieties in shining silver service buckets, with enough accompanying condiments to choke a mule.

Andrea ushered me into a large room with coved ceilings and over to a contemporary seating group by a wall of windows. More art, _santos_ and _retablos_ , Maria Martínez black pottery, Laura Gilpin photographs, Nicholai Fechin prints, and on prominent display over a large antique grain chest, a stunning Diego Rivera oil painting. Surely it could not be the real thing.

As I gaped at the painting, Andrea Brubaker ignored it in a studied but off-handed way, to indicate that it was, of course, the real thing. "Please, have a seat." She handed me several large, colorful folders. "Let me explain our mission."

As I settled into the soft leather chair, she gave me the donor talk, filled with facts and figures of those the foundation helped, going on for quite a while. I nodded at the appropriate places and smiled, trying to pay attention, and not be distracted by the art, and the view south to Black Mesa, silhouetted in the long last light of evening.

She indicated, as she talked, various things in the brochures, pointing out pictures of the foundation's recipients and staff, and when she got to the board of directors page she said, "This is Ernesto Mondragón, our director for international relations." She pointed to a photo at the top of the page of a handsome man in his forties or fifties, tanned and muscular, black hair slicked back into the ubiquitous ponytail, dark eyes hooded by dark, expressive brows, full rosy lips over white teeth. It was hard to tell his nationality—from Argentina, Bolivia, Spain, Italy?

"I'm sorry he's out of the country this week; he'd like to meet you. You'll meet him soon, I'm sure, at our next event," she said, smiling.

"He's been a very important addition to our work," she added. As I looked down the page of directors, I spotted the photo of Chloë Austin, my nemesis, her sallow complexion looking better in the photo than in person. Of course she'd be on the prestigious board, I thought, as Andrea Brubaker's best friend and fellow important person, and one I desperately hoped wasn't in attendance that night. Although in the photo she smiled the Cheshire Cat smile I knew so well, I only saw cruelty in her eyes.

"So, tell me about yourself." Andrea Brubaker interrupted my painful memories. "How did you hear of our work, our vision?"

Well, here goes, I thought. "Uh, I heard about you all from Shannon Parkhurst." Nothing like going right at it.

"Shannon?" Andrea's brows went up. "Oh, yes, uh, Shannon. How nice." She looked at me for more explanation.

"Uh, yeah. Shannon said you all did a lot of good things, and, uh, I thought I'd check it out and see, _um_ , you know, about all the good things you all did." How lame.

Andrea's face was unreadable. "And," I clunkered on, "and, uh, since I was here, I thought I'd see where Shannon worked because I know, uh, that it meant so much to her, and in her memory I thought I'd donate to your organization."

Andrea Brubaker's lip curled just a bit, and she said with disapproval, "Yes, I heard of her unfortunate death. Suicide, wasn't it?" Then she caught herself, and as she tucked one leg under in her chair, she said with some emotion, "Most unfortunate. Shannon was a very bright young woman. She had a bright future."

"Shannon worked for you here at the foundation and..." I let the sentence trail, hoping Andrea would fill it in for me.

"Yes, at Brubaker's. Shannon and I met at Ghost Ranch, where I was doing foundation work. She impressed me as a capable young woman, eager, good people skills, attractive. She was a quick learner and I offered her a job. She had experience in the immigrant relief work I was funding, so she worked here at _Ayudar a los Oprimidos_ ; she was very dedicated. Then the real estate market picked up again, and I needed an assistant to help me handle the volume of properties. She worked for me about a year before she moved to Colorado, to be with her boyfriend."

"Was that Barry?" I asked, hoping finally to get a lead.

"Yes—Barry. Nice young guy, came to us highly recommended, impressive resume. Shannon met him here first, or, no—not here, at Ghost Ranch, I think? I don't know. They were a cute pair. I know she fell in love with him," she said, "I could see it in her eyes." Andrea looked sadly out the window into the twilight. She seemed almost human.

"When was the last time you talked to Shannon?" I asked.

Andrea turned back from the window with an unsettled look. " _Mmm_ , last time? Probably here, when they dropped by, just before they left for Colorado. She hasn't been back for a visit. And now..."

"You and Shannon were close?"

"Well! I was her employer, first of all! She was just an employee!" she said haughtily, the class-conscious Andrea Brubaker I knew coming back in full force.

"But yes, I admit, I did have a soft spot for Shannon. I wanted her to succeed. She had the chops for it, you know. So, yes, I helped them a bit," she smiled and went on to explain. "Shannon said Barry was all hot to move to Colorado, the skiing or something. Hell, he could ski right here at the Ski Basin. But he wanted to move, and I wanted to help Shannon get started up there in real estate. One can struggle a long time at the bottom if one doesn't get started right on the fast track. So I wanted to help her make the right moves and position herself correctly.

"Through my contacts, I got her a job up there and then, as a special gift to Shannon, I arranged a substantial donation to a non-profit there in her name so she could be invited to be on the board of directors," she said, her tongue rolling around the word _substantial_ like it was fine chocolate.

"That kind of exposure in real estate? Well, it can't be bought," she continued, unaware of her own contradiction. "It's a largely honorary post, you know. But it was a group close to Shannon's heart, so she appreciated the opportunity, and took more interest in it than most would."

"Oh, yes," I lied, "that was—"

" _Nueva Oportunidad."_ More over enunciation. "Much like we have here at AO. Helping those less fortunate, helping immigrants get established and contribute to their communities. It was Ernesto's idea, actually. He suggested it. And I think he researched and found this group that Shannon could work with. He's so good like that," she smiled into the distance. "He's always thinking of others. He liked Shannon, too, you know. We all did."

A tall young woman came in and politely whispered to Andrea that another guest wished to speak to Mrs. Brubaker. Andrea whirled around at the interruption, and hissed a rebuke at the poor girl just doing her job. The assistant turned bright red and looked mortified, wanting to escape the room. A feeling from the past I knew too well.

Taking this break to make my exit, I stood up as Andrea Brubaker was preoccupied with tongue lashing her subordinate, and as I left the room I remembered to make a vague motion of writing a donation check, and waved my thanks to her.

Once outside, I took a few deep breaths to help my nerves, smelling dust, desert sage, and _piñon_ smoke. My feet were pinched from the chic heels, and my hands were still a bit shaky. I needed to calm down to find my car in the deep, dark night since I hadn't paid much attention where we parked; I had been just following Gary Rogers. In the darkness I could make out about forty or so dim shapes looming in rows beside the guest casitas—Range Rover, Lexus, Mercedes, BMW, Porsche were all there glinting in the moonlight—and I could only distinguish my own dusty and used car because it was by far the smallest of the bunch. The open shoes I was wearing were not meant for the desert, and every rock and sharp twig I stepped on in the dirt lot gouged my feet. As soon as I found the car, the shoes came off first, and I let out a sigh of relief. But finding my way back to Santa Fe in the dark was no easy matter. Again and again I got lost in the inky New Mexico night, and the snake-like, nameless dirt roads bested my GPS, too, so it took a long time to finally get back to the highway, and back to town.

## CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"It's not adding up, Betty," I said as I drove into her driveway in Colorado Springs. Betty Huckleston always liked to give a double blast of the horn when we pulled in to let the family know she was home, and in response her husband Richard stepped out the front door to wave at us from the porch.

"Look—what we know, based on what Andrea said, is that Barry lied about how and where he met Shannon, and discounted her immigrant integration work; lied about how Shannon had gotten her job at Binder Enterprises; lied about their time in Santa Fe," Betty said. "The guy's a liar! Well, we knew that. But why? What is he hiding about Shannon? Or is Andrea Brubaker lying? She's lying, maybe! Somebody's lying! Who? That's what I want to know!"

"Yeah, me, too." I said. Gad, we've been rehashing this for hours on the drive back from Santa Fe. Although I was more than happy to have Betty's feedback, we just weren't getting anywhere.

"And speaking of Andrea," she said, "You know what I can't believe? That she didn't recognize you! Hey, don't get me wrong, I'm glad she didn't! Would have been a bit sticky, eh? But still! How many times did she see you at Stedmans? Didn't you get stuck filling all of her orders because your boss, the malevolent Chloë, was her rep?"

"I told you we were invisible 'in the back'. Now you see. We were the rabble to use, but avoid. I think they really felt themselves superior to us. This time, I guess—" I stopped in thought. "Well, this time maybe _I_ believed and presented myself as an equal and, I guess she accepted it. So I didn't seem like the same person to her."

"You're just more of the person you are now, you know what I mean?" Betty smiled.

Yeah, I did, sometimes. "Hey, I gotta get on the road. If you come up with anything, call me! At any rate, great to be with you, glad you could come, thanks again for your help!" Richard finished unloading Betty's numerous bags and parcels as we gave each other hugs. I was anxious to get on the road home, so I started north on I-25, hoping to miss the Denver rush hour traffic.

Once I was north of the E-470 exchange, and out of the worst of the urban congestion, I decided to finally return a days-old call from Liz Burzachiello, but got her answering machine instead, "Yo! You talkin' to me? Leave it in a message! _Ciao_!" I left the message that I'd be home soon and to call there, so I wouldn't have to fumble for the phone while I was driving. I wanted to think about the information I'd gathered in New Mexico, and what I was going to do with it.

But very soon my life in Colorado took precedence in my brain, and I began doing my business Vines work scheduling, email composing, and order calculations all in my head, reminding me of Hafiz, the Sufi poet: "The mind is ever a tourist/Wanting to touch and buy new things/Then toss them into an/Already filled closet."

Nothing else would fit in my quickly filled closet of a brain.

* * *

As I pulled into the gravel yard at my depot house I saw that I had rail car visitors that afternoon; several of the boxcars had been parked just beyond the stand of cottonwoods on the rail siding. Huge orange, green, brown blocks of color peaked through the emerald sheen of the trees and gleamed in the slanting light. The balloony graffiti looked like cartoon characters resting on their sides, relaxing in the afternoon sun. The familiar sight of the cars felt like a welcome home.

Also awaiting me was a business card stuck in the front door:

Colorado Bureau of Investigation

Agent Henry T. Wade

Investigative Services

A Denver phone number and message were written on the back: "Please call me at your earliest convenience."

As soon as I unloaded the car, I checked my home phone messages—a reminder from Roxanne Campbell about my upcoming haircut; my volunteer's update from my first-grade teacher about this school year's start date; an invitation to a potluck at a friend's house that weekend; and a message from my niece Haley. But I gave Agent Wade a call first; I was very curious as to what this was about. We made an appointment for him to visit me the next morning; he said he "just wanted to chat" with me.

While still wondering about the visit, I decided to run out and pick up the dogs since I'd missed them on the trip. I left Carol a heads-up message and drove out to get them, trying to organize my thoughts about Shannon and Barry, wondering if I should bring it all up with Agent Wade. I'd hoped that Carol or Marjo would be home to discuss the issues with me, but they weren't, so I left a note and took the two joyous dogs home with me instead.

As I walked in the phone rang—it was Liz Burzachiello.

"Did you hear? Did you see it on the news? I left messages for you! Did you hear?" The words exploded out of Liz on the other end of the line.

"What?" I hadn't listened to her days-old messages, planning on talking to her instead.

"Barry! It's Barry Correda! He's—he died in a car crash!" she blurted out all in a rush.

She'd seen it on the news: a fiery single-car crash, everything totally burned, no next of kin so Phillip Binder had to identify the body. Binder had been one of a few people listed in Barry's cell phone that had been thrown from the car in the impact. Barry had been returning from a Binder Enterprises sales meeting late at night, as Liz said Phillip Binder was quoted in the news clip.

"You know, I only paid attention to the story because the picture of the crash was so gory," Liz said. "It happened shortly after you left—in the next couple of days, I think. The story said he swerved off the road, rolled, hit a propane tank in a field—then blooey! It caught fire; burned some sheds, too. Nothing left."

I didn't know what to think.

Liz and I talked for a while longer, but she wasn't able to add much to the story. I'd been on the road and hadn't seen the news, of course, and when she heard the story she'd called and left a message I had forgotten to listen to. Andrea Brubaker hadn't mentioned it; it didn't seem as if she'd heard the news, either. The delay in me hearing about it didn't really matter: the guy was dead and that pretty much ended any scenarios I had in mind about clearing things up with Barry Correda about Shannon. I told Liz about the CBI appointment I had the next morning, though, and she was interested in hearing all about it the next day. We made arrangements for her to start the maintenance work at the client's, and I would join her after Agent Wade's visit.

As soon as I got off the phone with Liz I called Betty and told her the news. After her shock she expressed disappointment, as Liz had, at not having a chance to perhaps get closure about Shannon by getting more information from Barry.

I felt the same way. I was sorry that Barry Correda was dead, but I had to admit my interest in him revolved around Shannon and his relationship with her. And, frankly, he hadn't impressed me as being a positive presence in Shannon's life. After talking with him, and especially after the overheard conversation with his buddy, Barry Correda hadn't come across as authentic, caring, or kind. Rather, he'd seemed a sleazy liar without any real concern for Shannon. I was finding it hard to dredge up much compassion for him.

The impatient Patsy and Pecos were demanding that I feed them. Life goes on, I mused, as I opened a new sack of dog food, and not the way you expect it. I heard a gaggle of a huge flock of Canadian geese fly overhead, knowing that soon scores of V formations of fowl would be flying over the house twice a day as they headed out and back to glean the fallow fields east of town.

I put on Tom Waits's _Closing Time_ CD as his lonesome, scratchy voice seemed to fit my mood. I had a pot of New Mexico green chile on the stove for dinner, but I wasn't hungry.

* * *

The next morning I finished my routine, including reading the much-missed newspaper, and was making a new pot of coffee when Agent Wade arrived about ten minutes late. A train had delayed him, a usual occurrence in these parts, but I could see he wasn't used to waiting in traffic. After inspection from the dogs, he followed me to the study, its wide door open to the morning air. In his fifties, almost militarily fit, he wore a dark suit, white shirt, and conservative tie, and was of average height with receding brown hair and blue eyes. His fair-complexioned face was slightly sunburned and had an easy grin, looking much like the older version of Michael Keaton, or John Elway without the big teeth.

He took his coffee black, as I did. We sat down in the worn, soft chairs for our chat, the dogs huddled around us, Pecos close to me. He reached down to give Patsy a scratch on the neck under her red bandana, and she leaned into him. I liked him immediately.

"I'm here, Ms. Raffenport—" he began.

"Really, just Lily is fine, Agent Wade," I said.

"And you can call me Henry, ma'm" he smiled and went on, "I'm just following up on some information we received in the investigation into Barry Correda's accident. Your name came up several times in our reports and I'm here to check on some details." He put on a pair of reading glasses and reviewed his notes.

"How did _my_ name come up? I didn't really know him," I said.

"According to the report, Nancee Kepler from Mr. Correda's office was interviewed, and her records show that you, along with others, had an appointment with Mr. Correda in the last several months. We check out all information of this type, just routine," he said, and flipped a few report pages over. "And then Sgt. John Boyer of the Weld County Sheriff's Department forwarded a report of a phone call he had with you about Shannon Parkhurst that included information about this Barry Correda. As he reviewed the recent Correda accident file he remembered that he had this information gathered from the other investigation, and sent it along."

_Hmm_ , so Sgt. Boyer _was_ listening, I thought. "Yes, I see..."

"Why don't you start at the beginning of your information about Mr. Correda and then we'll proceed from there?" Henry asked.

"I just heard about Barry's accident. Are you investigating for a reason?" I asked.

"We investigate all accidents, yes, ma'm. There's just some loose ends that I'm trying to tie up before the case is closed. That's all," he answered. "I'm interested in whatever you can tell me."

"But first, can you tell me anything about Shannon Parkhurst's case? Are you re-opening it?" I asked.

Henry Wade said he couldn't share any information about Shannon, one way or another, or if there even was a case on Shannon. No information was coming from him, that was clear.

Disappointed, I started on the story, from my point of view, and Henry nodded at times and kept his eyes on his notes. I figured he was comparing this version with the report of Sgt. Boyer so I tried to be a precise as I could, and not get too elaborate with my theories. My search had been for information about Shannon Parkhurst and coincidentally involved information about Barry Correda, I explained. Henry Wade made a few notes of his own on the side of the reports as I went along. I admitted that I had no real reason to talk to Sgt. Boyer except that the story about Shannon's death didn't _feel_ right, that Barry's statements didn't add up, and that the whole trunk thing seemed odd.

"Yes, ma'm, I have copies of the reports about the incidents that took place at your residence here," he said, and then smiled. "And, well, sometimes intuition can give us some good leads. Please continue." Just then Patsy and Pecos jumped up and rushed out the open door, loudly barking at some unseen foe in the yard.

"Sorry about that! But they have their duty to perform, too," I laughed.

"Oh, it's okay. The little one, Patsy's her name? Reminds me of my dog in Montana. She was a feisty black and tan healer mix like her." He looked out at the dogs, now sniffing around a tree. Then, looking back at me, his steady blue-eyed gaze holding my own, he repeated, "Please continue."

I started on the information I had since my talk with Sgt. Boyer. Again, I admitted, a lot of it was based on things not seeming to fit, not on any proof of wrongdoing. Looking for information about Shannon only coincidentally turned up information about Barry Correda, I repeated.

I told him about Shannon at Ghost Ranch; how I managed to get my chat with Andrea Brubaker, and her narrative on Barry and Shannon in New Mexico; Brubaker Properties; _Ayudar a los Oprimidos;_ and Andrea's ostentatious PR gift to _Nueva Oportunidad_ to pave Shannon's career in northern Colorado _._ I discussed _how_ Andrea's story didn't jibe with Barry's version, but I didn't have any _whys._ And now, with Barry Correda's death, it all seemed like a dead end _._

Henry Wade nodded and took a few notes, but I couldn't tell if any of this was new information to him or not. I asked him if he wanted more coffee.

"No, thanks," he said, "but I would suggest to you at this time that if you have any suspicions, or ideas, or _feelings_ that there is something wrong, that you contact me or my office immediately, and leave the investigating to us. That's our job and not the job of the public such as yourself." I was wondering when the lecture would come, but it appeared that that was all there was to it.

"Is that about all you know? Anything else? As I said, in Correda's accident report there are some loose ends and I don't like loose ends. I'll take your intuition and all," he continued, smiling again.

As almost an afterthought, I told him about Regina Baca thinking Barry Correda may be Momo Morgan, maybe not. And then I had to explain who Regina Baca was, and then how I knew her, and then about Tomás Baca. Probably too much information, I thought.

Henry Wade continued to take notes with no indication of a reaction to any of it. Then he thanked me, closed up his folder, and stood to leave. The dogs came running back inside at the sound of movement in their house, their tails wagging. Henry gave each one an affectionate pat on the head, and turned to shake my hand.

"Thanks again. That about ties things up. If you think of anything else, please give me a call," he said.

"Please, can you tell me anything about Shannon's case? I really think they're linked. Don't you think there are too many coincidences? I think Barry had something to do with her death."

"I'm sorry, I'm not able to divulge that information," he said politely, of course. He walked down the steps to his white Crown Victoria in the hot driveway, took off his dark jacket, and loosened his tie before he opened the door and got in.

Well, I thought, as I turned back into the cool interior of the depot, I didn't get much information from that interview, but maybe he did. But for what? If there was anything suspicious about Shannon's death, my "leads" seem to lead to Barry Correda, and Barry Correda was dead. The CBI was closing the file. I felt pretty empty with that realization.

* * *

There was a lot of work to do now, and I needed a clear head. Besides the daily maintenance work, I had the month's accounting to do, invoices to send, and a new garden design project to research and prepare with Jorge Martinez, the heavy equipment guy I worked with, and the crew.

But the more I thought about it, the more Barry Correda's accident just seemed—fishy, maybe? Was it really an accident? Was it murder? The timing seemed too coincidental, and coincidences were patterns, and patterns suggested a guiding hand at something. But what? My head spent a lot of time in that loop, clouding my thinking with detours.

One late afternoon after work, listening to a Rockies game as they continued their disappointing slide, I was at the office blackboard sketching out plant vignettes and the phone rang, my friend Isabelle McWilliams at the other end.

"Hey, Lily! I know it's spur of the moment, but wanna meet at Bangkok Thai for an early dinner? I'm in town tonight to help Aunt Gladdy tomorrow, and I'd love some Thai food!" she enthused. Isabelle and I had met through mutual friends at the monthly Lambda Center dances, and discovered we both loved dancing _and_ Thai food. Even though she lived in Niwot, a community outside of Boulder, she regularly visited our town to help her aging aunt around the house. I'd expected to see her at a friend's potluck the weekend before, but she'd been busy and not able to attend. I was happy she called, and I jumped at the idea.

Thai food sounded like exactly what I needed, and I arranged to meet her after I got cleaned up a bit and could walk to the nearby restaurant. As I cut through the museum park on my way there, I mused that Isabelle McWilliams was a mystery fan; we'd even shared some of our favorite mystery books with each other. She'd love to talk about these strings of dead-end leads of a story that started with a mysterious trunk. How Nancy Drew sounding, I smiled as I walked on through town. The light was beginning to change for the season, slanting lower in the sky, dusty shafts of it silhouetting the heavy limbed elms lining the streets. It felt to be the perfect temperature, and one of those moments when all seemed right with the world.

I'd been acquainted with Isabelle McWilliams for about a year, and although I didn't know her very well, we seemed to connect at gatherings, and had plenty to yak about. I'd been instantly attracted to her personality, but I stopped myself from going down that road before I even started. Instead of acting on initial sparks of attraction, I was learning to be friends first—and for a very long time. Not an all together easy thing to do sometimes; but a practice needing doing, nonetheless.

Soon we had greeted each other at Bangkok Thai, and were sharing spicy dishes that filled the table with chicken _satay,_ cucumber salad, _larb gai_ , _phad thai,_ and _Panang_ curry. We talked mostly about the food, although once Isabelle heard a whisper of a mystery, she was interested from the beginning of my tale.

As we stopped to take a break in stuffing ourselves, Isabelle leaned back into the red booth and tucked a strand of dark hair away from her face. "So tell me more about all this, Lily. I know it sounds like a dead end now that Barry Correda's dead but, you know? I don't think it is."

"I'm feeling that way, too, Isa," I admitted. "I guess that's _one_ of the things bugging me."

"I agree that there are too many things that don't add up," she said. "Barry meets Shannon in New Mexico, although there're two different stories about that—his and Andrea Brubaker's. They move here, both work for Binder Enterprises, again with two different stories—his and Andrea's. They're both reported as being successful there, and then suddenly, bright, engaging, and energetic Shannon mysteriously loses her will to live. Why?" We both thought about that question in silence until a large dump truck rumbling past on the street rattled the front window next to our booth. I mentioned the Facebook photos, but once again, that just seemed to cloud the issues. I was determined to figure it out, but we agreed to put it aside for the time being.

"So maybe it's only Barry's sketchy story to back up Shannon's decline," Isabelle pointed out. "To others he appears to be the Golden Boy. To you he appears to be a liar with something to hide. And then, you think maybe Barry has some kind of a sordid past in New Mexico because Barry is Momo Morgan?" I could hear in her voice that she was trying to make this piece of information work in her head.

I shrugged. "I don't know how all this goes together, or have an idea what Momo Morgan looks, or looked, like. It was only Regina Baca suggesting that they possibly looked similar. She said she could tell because he looked so much like his cousin. I don't know where it fits, or if it even does fit at all."

"And the CBI guy was not forthcoming," Isabelle stated, leaning both arms on the table. She looked fit and tan in her sleeveless green blouse, and I admired her fashion sense to add a violet scarf round her neck, the detail that made the outfit.

"Nah, I guess I didn't really expect him to be," I said, bringing my thinking back to the discussion.

"Well, one thing I think that is significant is that it seems Barry kept Shannon isolated, and controlled her story, and I think that's a red flag. We don't need the CBI to tell us that." She speared a piece of shrimp from the curry and popped it in her mouth, and then passed the _larb gai_ to me. I piled a second helping onto my plate and dug into the minced chicken. The mix—mint, lime, cilantro, onion, hot chiles, _nam pla_ —was addictive. Isabelle noted that the Thai royal couple, whose large wall portraits hung in an honored position in this distant and dim dining room, and probably Sonchai Jitpleecheep as well, would have been pleased with the authentic selections.

"So what do you think about Barry's accident, then?" I mumbled, chewing through a mouthful, as I started on another piece of the mental puzzle.

"Well, that just throws everything into a heap, doesn't it?" Despite the dead ends, she was enjoying the pursuit of the mystery, I could see.

"That's just how my brain feels—all in a heap! The information just goes round and round," I groaned.

Isa looked at me and smiled again, "You know? I liked what you told me before about using your blackboard to allow yourself the space to muse and create. What do you say? Do you have time? Let's go back to your house and chart this out."

I had thought of this idea for the board in the studio, but had gotten sidetracked by other projects, as usual. "Let's do it!"

"My treat this time," Isabelle replied and signaled the server for leftover boxes. She paid the bill as I gathered the dinner remains, and thus deliciously ladened, we headed out.

She drove us back to my house, and Patsy Cline sat waiting for us outside the front gate.

"What is she doing out?" Isabelle asked. She knew I didn't let the dogs to run loose.

I sighed. "She decides she's been waiting too long, and digs out."

"Waiting for what? Where's Pecos?"

"Oh, he never comes with her, thank god. He's a homebody. But I think he worries about her; he's always hyper-vigilant until she returns. She used to dig out way more often from my place outside Santa Fe, when I worked the night shift. I'm home more now, and she _usually_ stays in." All I could do was shrug. No matter how many different ways I'd tried to keep her contained, the Houdini Patsy could escape as she pleased. More than a couple of times Jake Biccam down the street had brought her home, and I always felt like a terrible parent when she misbehaved. She hadn't been doing it recently, but now it seemed that her bad act was starting again. She got bored, and that was one of the reasons that she and Pecos mostly stayed out at the ranch.

I opened the gate, and Patsy Cline trotted up the drive in front of us, a grin on her face and her black curled tail doing a high wag. Pecos Bill was jumping at the gate in the backyard, delighted to see us all.

Isabelle and I climbed the steps to the studio next to the office, where I turned on a row of track lights to illuminate the board, and Isabelle opened the door to enjoy the late September evening air. Pecos ran in to see me and Patsy, and check out Isabelle, before he settled down in his usual spot by the screen door. I could hear a train whistle in the distance, and the train rumbling across town as I returned with mugs and a pot of decaf from the kitchen. I put on some upbeat Salsa Celtica for our background soundtrack.

"Okay, how do we start?" Isabelle asked, strolling around the room.

I stood at the board, chalk in hand. "Well, you know, I just kinda let things flow, I guess. I don't try to edit ideas; I just put it all up there. And end up making arrows linking one thing to another, or boxes, or stars for 'special' ideas, or circles to indicate inclusion of things with each other. And then, frankly? I usually end up daydreaming and doodling on the board," I confessed, laughing.

Isabelle laughed, too. "Sounds like a great process!"

"Works for me!" I guffawed. "Okay, let's start with a time line, with the stuff we know, grouping like with like, if we can. We can start with Shannon, and her aunt Bernice Thorton and Nephew/Daryl, and of course, the trunk." I drew a long line on the board, and then returned to the beginning to draw three boxes.

"I'll put the trunk in its own little circle up here. I don't know how it connects except for things alluded to in Barry's eavesdropped conversation." I also made a "Barry Correda" box and added "Barry talking with guy in hat" box, circling it a couple of times, remembering their vicious attitudes.

"And we don't know if what you found in the trunk—the list of numbers—was what Barry was talking about wanting to find. But I think it was. It was too odd of a thing hidden in too odd of a way for it not to be significant, don't you think?" asked Isa as she bent her tall frame to look at one of my collages on the wall. She had a distracted smile on her face, her hand toying with a leather choker at her neck, when she turned back to me.

"Yeah, the list goes up here, too, whatever it is. I have some ideas about it. But wait; let's go back to what do we know about how Shannon and Barry were connected. You already started talking about that at the restaurant," I said.

"Okay, Barry meets Shannon in New Mexico; they move here, and both work for Binder Enterprises. They're both reported as being happy and successful there, and then suddenly, on-track Shannon mysteriously loses her will to live. Why?" Isabelle walked over and stopped next to me as I wrote on the board. "Why?" she repeated as she looked at the chalk marks. "What happened?"

"Did she lose her will to live? Or, did someone want it to look like that?" I asked. "But why would anyone want her to die?"

"Put that up there," Isabelle said, indicating the blackboard. "Why did she die?"

"I feel pretty strongly that she didn't commit suicide but I don't know who/why/what killed her. The stories are conflicting and nonsensical," I said, dutifully chalking up a box with a big question mark in it.

"I agree. From all you've told me, I don't think Shannon committed suicide, either. That was Barry Correda's story. You feel he was hiding something about Shannon, and trying to make her look bad in the process."

"Yeah, and then there's the whole part of Shannon and Andrea Brubaker working together in Santa Fe even before Barry came on the scene. Somehow Barry and Shannon met because of Andrea, I think. And I feel that Andrea somehow has a bigger role in this than just Shannon's former employer. Why would she invest so much money in Shannon's career in Colorado?" I went over to let Pecos out the screen door where he had been patiently waiting, his tail thumping on the wood floor.

"Put Andrea up here, too, and her non-profit in Santa Fe," Isabelle said, indicating a space at the beginning of the time line "And Ghost Ranch with it. How does that place fit into any of this? Or Brubaker's, or Binder?"

"How does Binder Enterprises fit into any of it?" I wondered as I went back to the board and wrote "Binder Enterprises" in its own box. "You know, I have nothing to base this on, but I wonder about Phillip Binder. He's running the company now that Cowboy's retired, and he's made a great success in a very difficult market. He's gobbled up smaller firms like candy, and the company seems flush with cash, if the papers can be believed to get it straight." I'd circled the box about five times in frustration, so I put down the chalk and went over to the door to let Pecos back in, and stayed for a breath of fresh air. Pecos turned around and started out the door again. At this rate, I'd be letting him in and out every five minutes; he was not interested in our talk and was bored.

"It was at _his_ company that Shannon supposedly got into enough trouble to 'commit suicide' and he would have had to have known something of the accusations of her wrongdoings, don't you think? Anyway, he's the one who hired Barry, and he seemed to have a more personal relationship with him, too." I told Isa about the scene with Barry and Phillip Binder, the last time I had talked to Barry Correda.

Isabelle's dark eyes were wide in thought. "Do you think Barry had done something wrong and was afraid of Phil Binder?"

"I don't know. It just seemed that Phillip was not pleased with something as he stepped out of the building."

"Maybe he wasn't pleased seeing Barry talking to you." Isabelle walked over to join me at the open door to savor the breeze, and leaned against the door frame.

"Why would that be? He doesn't know who I am. And who am I anyway but just a friend of Shannon's talking to her boyfriend?" I pondered, looking out into the dark back yard.

"Don't know. Just a thought. Just thinking about the Barry-Phillip connection. Didn't you say that it was Phil Binder who ID'd Barry's body?"

"Yeah, but I guess there wasn't really a body, just charred pieces. Phil Binder confirmed the ID based on them finding Barry's cell phone, which had Phil Binder's number in it, at the scene. That's what Liz told me. We need to add 'Phil ID' to Barry's circle, though," I said.

The studio phone rang and as I saw that it was Betty Huckleston calling, I excused myself and answered it in the kitchen. At first I couldn't take in the information Betty told me and asked her to repeat it. Shaking my head in anticipation, I told her Isabelle and I were reconstructing our information in the studio as we spoke, and laughingly suggested that she come up and help us tie it all together. Actually, I knew if she possibly could have come up she would have; Betty Huckleston loved a good story that she could speculate on for hours. Disappointed at being left out of the brainstorming, she wished us luck and rang off.

## CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Isabelle was sitting outside on the steps with Pecos Bill when I returned to the studio with a hot pot of decaf and bursting with news. The air had cooled down considerably from the warm late September afternoon. She turned when I stuck my head out of the screen door. "Lily, you know, I've been thinking—"

"Wait, wait! You're not going to believe this! Betty just told me she'd heard from her pal Gary Rogers in Santa Fe—you know, the guy I told you about who got me into Andrea Brubaker's."

Isabelle nodded, but looked confused. I rushed on, "She said he'd been curious about our little adventure and had dug around a little more in Andrea's history after we left, and came up with... ready? Remember the part about Andrea's financial troubles a couple of years ago, that almost put her under? Guess who caused the whole thing to start to snowball by pulling in his loans to Andrea?"

Isabelle just looked at me.

"Cowboy! Cowboy Binder!" I sputtered out before she could respond. "Now _there's_ a connection! Those two? But what does it mean?"

"Now, wait. What are you talking about?"

"Gary Rogers told Betty that at the beginning of the recession and real estate downturn—well, really, it went into a freefall in Santa Fe—that Brubaker's was heavily invested in land development in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado. I guess Cowboy Binder was the major financier of some huge projects and he pulled in his loans when the projects tanked!" I sat down on the steps next to Isabelle and looked up at the show of Jupiter hanging large over the trees in the southeastern sky, showing order in the infinite galaxy. And then there was us down here—small humans—specks—the epitome of insignificance and disorder in the Universe. Yet it seemed that we were always messing with each other.

"The rumor was Andrea tried to get him to extend the terms but he refused, and her company started to go down. The gossips gleefully reported that he publicly humiliated her with his loud enjoyment of her predicament at a regional real estate meeting!" I continued.

"Whoa, Cowboy Binder? He caused her fall? But then she got the money from somewhere, didn't she? Money that saved her company? You said that she pulled it around and everything worked out, especially for her, right?" Isabelle asked, twirling around in her hand an orange marigold she'd picked from the yard, the crushed flower exuding a pleasant, pungent sharpness.

"Right," I said, "but where did that money come from?"

"Do you think Binder might have lent her the money anyway later?"

"Doubt it. Sounded like he enjoyed besting Andrea, really lording it over her. Betty said it was clear at that banquet that Andrea Brubaker despised Cowboy Binder with a hatred reserved for those who have betrayed one in either sex or money—or both." We got up to go inside to escape the bombarding bugs attracted by the studio lights shining through the windows.

"I wonder what _that_ history is all about," Isabelle said, holding the door for Pecos and me. The scent of marigold still lingered on the porch.

"Who knows? Sheesh, where does this leave us?" I wandered over to find the coffee thermos pot by the blackboard, and pour myself and Isa a fresh cup.

Isabelle jumped to the next point. "If she hated Cowboy Binder that much, why did she get a job for Shannon at Binder Enterprises? If it had to be real estate, why not at one of his competitors, at least?"

"That does seem odd, doesn't it? I could see Cowboy Binder agreeing to it as another way to make Andrea Brubaker beholden to him, though." I ran an arrow from Andrea's box to Binder's box.

"But why would the proud Andrea want another scenario where she owed the despised Cowboy a favor?" Isabelle asked as she paced back and forth in front of the blackboard. By this time it was filled with boxes connected to other circles connected to other boxes, and arrows and stars and question marks and triangles, and just too much stuff.

We both stared at the board as we sat together in silence for a while and listened to the crickets outside. "So now we can add more questions," Isabelle said ruefully, "and not many answers."

We sat for a while longer, but it was late, and she had to get back to her aunt's house.

Before she left, Isa asked me to take a picture of the blackboard and email it to her. "Get close enough so I can read everything on the board," she reminded me. "I want to study it, you know!"

* * *

As Liz and I staked out new flower beds the next day, I filled her in on the new developments, and she wanted to speculate on different theories about Shannon, Barry, Andrea, and Cowboy Binder. "What did Isabelle think about the Momo as Barry idea?" she asked. She was intrigued with Momo Morgan.

"We didn't talk about Momo very much," I said, "There was too much other stuff to talk about."

"You didn't even get to Momo?" she asked. "Is Momo on the board yet? I want to come over and look at that board! I was telling Emma about it."

"Yeah, I put him in his own little circle by the New Mexico group. Not much info there right now to talk about, though. We got sidetracked by the Andrea-Cowboy intrigue. Isabelle has all sorts of ideas. " I suggested to Liz that she and Emma come over and take a look at the stuff on the board; maybe they could see any connections we had not. I told her about Isabelle's asking for a photo of the board doodlings to continue her theorizing at home, and that made me think of the photos of Shannon posted on Facebook.

It all kind of bubbled up to the surface on its own because it had been stewing for quite a while. Just as I had concluded that Shannon Parkhurst wouldn't have given up on life, I knew Shannon wouldn't have given up her sobriety. In the end, it was the same thing. Old timers in AA acknowledged that few alcoholics stayed sober—that one had about a five percent chance to make it. But they also told me that one way to beat the odds was to be authentic and true, and achingly honest. That had been the timbre of Shannon's story, told to me on a rare rainy day when we sat in the shop the summer we had worked together. She told it without grandiosity, without hubris, and accepted responsibility for her actions; and she looked me in the eye when she did. Her behavior matched her words, and I hadn't discovered anything that would make me change my mind about Shannon Parkhurst.

"The photos of Shannon were wrong, Liz. I wish I'd seen them; maybe I could tell something was off. But that doesn't matter now. Think about the origin of those photos: the biggest party of the summer around here, Kelsy said. And there was quiet Shannon, who hadn't even been seen at work for weeks, supposedly partying it up? I think Barry trotted her out for that party. So lots of people would see her; plus pictures were made. He wanted people to see her incapacitated, and made sure of it by posting photos of the party on Facebook."

"The photos never did fit the picture for you, did they? But Kelsy said they showed Shannon drunk, and that she _saw_ her drunk at the party where they were taken," Liz responded.

"'Out of it' is what people have been saying," I said. "No smell of alcohol, that's the big clue; and no one saw her drinking. I know that's a fine distinction, but was she really drunk? Look, if I wasn't suspicious of Barry Correda's behavior I'd drop it, but my instincts are just telling me something is not right. I don't know, but it seems like she wasn't participating in the party, like brought out by Barry for people to see her 'drunk', so it would match the story of her being drunk, and then committing suicide."

"Well, it's too late on the photos now anyway. Didn't you say they were taken down? Not much you can do."

"Yeah, I know. But I can talk to Henry Wade about it. God, I hope doesn't think I'm some busybody who—"

"Hey, Lily," a voice called. It was Jorge Martinez. "Can you come over here and check the first course of stone?" he called, pointing to the beginnings of a stacked stone wall around the side yard of the property. It was time to get back to work.

Jorge and I made a few adjustments to the base, and then we went through pallets of buff-colored sandstone picking out key pieces with the right coloring and thickness to later cap the wall. We had a lot more stone to put down, and I was anxious to continue making progress to keep ahead of the ever changing fall weather, so we all worked until late in the afternoon.

At the end of the day, Jorge's dusty and tired crew put away their tools in his dually truck, and started on the daily job site cleanup. Jorge loaded his trailer with empty wooden pallets to be recycled, and called out instructions to the crew. I waved to Liz on her way out, and then took the long way home over Bingham Hill, for a sunset vista of the green valley spilling out under rusty red sandstone hogbacks above the river winding its way east. An idyllic old farm with a red brick silo spread out under the ancient cottonwoods lined up along irrigation ditches, glinting silver now in the slanting rays of the last of the sun. The expansive view released my inner tensions, and my gratitude reservoir was refilled.

When I checked my messages that evening, there was one from Isabelle, explaining that she remembered a _really interesting_ idea she had had the night before at my house, and that she couldn't wait to tell me. She asked me to call her back in Niwot the next day after work, and she said she was sure I'd be interested, as if I needed that hook. I was very curious already.

* * *

"Hey, Lily!" answered Isabelle McWilliams the next day. "Glad you called. Wanna hear what I thought about?" She didn't wait for my answer.

"I was looking at the board the other night, when you were in the kitchen talking to Betty. Before you came back with the hot info on Andrea, and we got sidetracked, and I forgot. Then yesterday I was looking at the photo you sent of the board, and I remembered what I was looking at. Anyway, I saw the arrow linking Barry to Phil Binder and I started thinking about that, and Barry's reaction to Phil that last time you saw him, and, well? I thought, what if we were looking at the wrong guy here? What if Binder was the bad guy and Barry just a pawn? What if Binder was responsible for what's happened?" She paused dramatically. "What if Phillip Binder killed Barry Correda?"

"You mean, caused the car crash?" I said, a bit confused.

"Yeah, to get Barry out of the way. Maybe he knew too much. About some deal gone wrong. Yeah, some bad deal that Binder pinned on Shannon to save his own hide, and Barry found out and—"

"Okay. I can see that, sort of, even though it's coming in out of left field."

She laughed. "I know, more theory and not enough solutions! But still, doesn't it kind of make sense?"

"Lay it out for me," I said as walked down the hall to the studio. "I've got the board here in front of me for reference." I settled down and made myself comfortable in an easy chair facing the blackboard, an ice tea frosting on the table next to me. I saw the "Barry's accident" and "Phil ID" boxes on the big board, and stood up to go over to it, phone in hand. The lively and impish notes of Gershwin's _Rhapsody in Blue_ drifted in from the kitchen stereo, and somehow the blaring and tooting horns seemed to match the disarray on the board.

"Now, bear with me, here," said Isabelle. "I don't have it all worked out, of course. Just some ideas."

"Go for it," I said, already doodling on the board.

"Well, here's what I think. Phillip Binder gets into some sort of big trouble, or Phillip and Barry together get into trouble, whatever. Phillip decides to frame Shannon for it, and has to get her out of the way."

"But why did they pick her?" I asked. I had my theories but was interested in Isabelle's.

"I don't know. Maybe she was vulnerable. She trusted Barry Correda and she was isolated from others, didn't seem to have many friends or family around. Maybe she was a good target, prey for the predators—"

"How did they keep her quiet, how did they fake her suicide?"

"I don't know! That's one of the details I haven't figured out! Anyway, Phillip has to keep his hands clean so he gets Barry to do it—"

"But Barry had a tight alibi!" I protested as I circled Barry's name on the board again. Pecos had trotted in to join me, and had taken up his usual spot by the screen door. His ears flicked back and forth at something he saw out in the yard, but he kept quiet.

"Okay, okay! That's another detail I haven't figured out! _Somebody_ killed Shannon, made it look like suicide, faked the note. Phillip and Barry were accomplices, but Phillip realized Barry was a liability. Hey, maybe it was when he saw Barry talking to you!" Isabelle said.

"But why would a short conversation with me be of concern? Barry didn't seem alarmed with our chat. In fact, his self-satisfaction and adoration was glowing."

"Don't know. Maybe it was just Phillip realizing that Barry was a dumb ass who was going to spill the beans, or do something stupid, so he had to be gotten out of the way, too."

"So Phillip Binder somehow concocts a car crash..." I went to sit down again, tired from the day, but not wanting to get off the phone just yet.

"Yeah, maybe ran him off the road, or something. Or messed with his car, you know, the brakes or the steering... Hold on, Lily," she interrupted herself. "My other phone's ringing." I could hear her walking into another room, mumbling something to herself. I heard her Corgi, Queenie, bark once, and Isabelle shush her. In a minute she was back. "It's okay, just somebody from work, wanting my lasagna recipe. I'll call her later."

"I remember you're a good cook, but I've forgotten where you work, Isa. I know it's in Denver—"

"Yeah, Flatirons Land Trust Institute in south Denver. We used to be in Boulder, but a year ago moved to the Tech Center. It's a horrible commute now! But, to still live here in Niwot, I'm doing it. I love my place, and I don't want to move. I also really love my job; so it's a dilemma. But the traffic, the accidents... Barry Correda's accident, that's what we were talking about. Barry's accident wasn't an accident."

"Wouldn't the police have discovered if someone damaged the car prior to the crash?" I asked.

"Well _, maybe,_ maybe not, I don't know. Wasn't the car completely burned? Maybe there wasn't much left to investigate?"

We discussed several pseudo technical aspects of cars and police investigation techniques that we knew nothing about. We were just speculating, making up scenarios based on what we'd seen on TV cop shows.

"Just go with the idea for a minute, Lily. It makes as much sense as anything else we talked about. Just think about it," said Isabelle.

I thought about it. "Okay, let's go with the premise that Phillip killed Barry. Now what?"

" _Hmm_ , I don't know. That's as far as I got."

"What? You drag me to this idea, and then leave me high and dry?" I mockingly protested.

"W-e-e-e-ll? It's just an idea," she laughed. "But I'd be interested what the CBI thought."

"Think I should talk to Henry Wade, tell him about it?" I asked. Pecos's ears perked up at Henry's name. Surely he doesn't remember him? I wondered.

"Yeah, who knows? Maybe it's information he can use, or maybe he could tell you if it fits in the investigation."

"I don't know; it's just speculation on our part." I was at the board again, doodling.

"Did you tell him about the little scene with Barry and Phillip? That last time you saw them?" Isabelle inquired.

"Yeah, but I was intent on giving facts, as I knew them. I don't think I gave him my _interpretation_ of Phillip's or Barry's facial reactions, but I did tell him I had talked to Barry that second time, and saw him go off with Phillip Binder."

"So there you go, this is a motive to go along with what you saw. Binder needed Barry out of the way; Barry was the weak link to Shannon. Maybe the police were asking too many questions about Shannon, who knows? Shoot, _you_ were asking questions! Don't you think Shannon knew something, and hid it in that list of numbers? Incriminating Phillip and/or Barry? Barry sure seemed intent on getting it, keeping things quiet. Come on! You've been thinking about this all along, admit it," Isa said.

"Yeah, okay, you're right." I wandered into the kitchen to change the music, and rummage around in the refrigerator. Pecos followed me. I was starving, and I should have known better than to call Isabelle McWilliams before I had eaten.

"I think she found something out at Binder Enterprises and went to Barry, somebody, with the information. Barry was somehow involved, or got involved, and knew she had to be silenced," Isabelle went on. "So instead of protecting her, he killed her. She trusted the wrong guy."

"Seems like it," I said sadly, poking around in the back of the fridge at containers holding unknown leftovers. I heard Martina McBride singing on the stereo: "Love's the only house big enough for all the pain in the world." I paused on that line. Barry Correda had fooled Shannon into thinking he loved her; but she had truly loved him, thinking their relationship was the real thing. If he had loved her, he would have protected her. If he had loved her, that would have trumped anything else—money, power, whatever turned him. I despised him again for his betrayal of Shannon. Why would he do that? I knew I wanted answers I'd probably never get.

I sighed. "But Isa, I might agree with you about all of this, but, where does it get us? It's just another tangent, really, don't you think?" I found some cut-up pineapple in the back of the refrigerator that didn't smell too fermented, and stuffed in a couple of bites.

"Well, maybe to us it's a tangent, but _maybe_ the CBI could make something of it," Isabelle continued

"Like they haven't already figured this out? If the facts are there to support it?" Even standing in the kitchen I could remember the blackboard filled with loop-de-loops of chalk lines from one idea to another. I couldn't see how anything supported anything else.

"Well, if they have, your report on the Barry-Phillip interaction could just maybe give them the link they needed—or something—to, ah, make the connection," she said unconvincingly.

I laughed. "I think you're just wantin' to get into the crime story here, be the detective. Say, why don't you come with me the next time I talk with Agent Wade? You two could solve the crime!"

"Yeah, and he could give me a bony fide Dee-tective badge of mah own-ah," her flat Colorado voice turning into a badly faked drawl.

"Hon," I shot back, "yall jist don' have the ack-cent yall needs to pull that off-ah."

We both laughed. It was time to ring off, and get something else to eat. As leftovers heated up, I put on The Dixie Chicks and then emailed a short version of Isabelle's hypothesis to Henry Wade, based on the connection she had made from Phillip Binder's interaction with Barry Correda, very shortly before Barry's death. I tried to pare it down to a couple of sentences, and left out the side speculations Isabelle and I had indulged in, and sent it off.

I'd already let him know about the tip on Andrea Brubaker and Cowboy Binder, and my questions on the Facebook photos, which he had politely acknowledged. I hoped that these dribbles and dabs of "information" weren't undermining my credibility with Henry Wade, but then I realized that I didn't have control over that anyway, so why worry about it? But I did.

* * *

The next day as we continued the bed preparations and planted in the warm fall afternoon sun, Liz Burzachiello and I freely discussed our own speculations.

"What I want to know is, what was the catalyst for this? I mean, what caused Shannon to make that list, take it to Barry, or whoever?" I wondered, my knees in the dirt for traction, holding one end of a large nursery container so Liz could remove the plant.

"Yeah, did she find out something about Phillip Binder? Or did she think it was about Phillip and it was really about Barry? Or, maybe something about Cowboy?" Liz asked in a circle of connection, slipping the ninebark out and into place. She carefully loosened the roots, filled dirt around the root ball, and pushed it down with her hands.

"Speaking of Cowboy Binder, where does Andrea Brubaker fit into all this? Her doings with Cowboy took place a year or so before Shannon and Barry even moved here," I wondered.

"Even so, did she just forgive Cowboy for her humiliation in her desire to help Shannon get a job here? You said it was her influence that got them jobs at Binder Enterprises." Liz stood up to stretch, and bent back her head to look at the wispy cirrus clouds. The deep blue bowl of the sky seemed infinite.

"Andrea Brubaker forgive? Can't see it. She's the type to take a grudge unforgiven to her grave. I see her more as a voracious avenger than a gracious forgiver. She's the type who always has to be on top—the winner—in any deal," I remembered, pulling three rudbeckias out of their containers, and planting them in a triangular grouping next to the lavender. I thought about how much better it was to work with plants rather than people like Andrea Brubaker.

"If she's looking for revenge in her dealings with Cowboy Binder, then her gracious good deed for Shannon doesn't make sense, does it?" Liz asked.

"Not to me. And she made that large donation in Shannon's name to the local non-profit, _Nuevo_ something, to advance Shannon's reputation in real estate at Binder Enterprises. Andrea Brubaker doesn't strike me as the type to spend money, or do favors, and not want a return."

"Maybe she used it as a conditional gift to Shannon. You know, 'if I give you this money then you have to do what I say' kind of deal," Liz said as she started shoveling organics into the flower bed for the next group of asters to be planted.

"That sounds more like her. _Not_ a gift. _Not_ generous, but controlling, manipulating others with her money. But she said she hadn't talked to Shannon since they'd moved, so what were her ulterior motives? I mean, what was she getting?" I stiffly stood up and shook the dirt from my gloves.

"Hey, why don't you go over there and talk to Phillip, like you did with Barry? Maybe you could get some information out of him, like, uh, something about Barry, or his dad and Andrea, or—" Liz queried.

"Oh, right!" I snorted. "Phillip Binder is not Barry Correda. Meaning, I think he's too savvy to inadvertently blab about something important. Barry was so full of himself that he thought he was fooling everybody with his tales. And besides, Phillip's seen me talking to Barry and his guard would be up. I doubt I could 'fool' him like I did Barry. You know, the dimwitted, doddering 'old lady' routine."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. But isn't there something we can do?" Liz asked, always looking for action. She'd finished unloading the compost in the wheelbarrow, and stopped to drink some water from the large cool water jug set up under a tree.

"What's this _we_ business? _We're_ not doing anything!" I laughed, stopping for water myself. "I know you got the snoop bug after our last little adventure, but we're not doing that again!"

We gathered five serviceberries for planting, and were prepping the holes when Liz reminded me that she'd be off the next day to attend the Rockies final home game for the season. Sister Louie had scored group seats up above home plate.

"Yeah, I've got it scheduled. Sounds like fun, but too bad it won't make any difference for the Rox," I said. "No Rocktober this year. What did I read someone called it this year? Slumptember?" The team, once within a half a game out of the National League West lead, had blown twelve of the last thirteen games, and was now out of the running. I'd been too busy to watch the last couple of games, but Liz jokingly pleaded with me to watch the last one, to see if I could spot them on TV. She said they'd wave.

I spent the next day working with Jorge Martinez and crew, placing large landscaping boulders in the gardens and finishing a gambion wall I had designed to curve around the side of the property to embrace a sitting area installed beneath two Austrian pines. We'd started early, and it was a long day moving sandstone and river rock. Even though I had a crew, I couldn't just stand there and do nothing, so those days I schlepped far more stone than I should. I was tired and stiff.

With Jorge supervising the clean-up at the end of the day, I left the job site to dash home to clean up for dinner with Perry Davis and Denise Robicheaux, who'd called the week before to get caught up after their weeks of travel. They were back in town at their condo—the mountain cabin was rented out for several months—and, because their kitchen renovation wasn't complete, and knowing my own overloaded work schedule, I'd suggested dinner out at a small Mexican place several blocks from my house.

Feeling rejuvenated from a hot shower and plenty of ice tea, I strolled into town. Golden sunlight just tipped the tops of the elm and ash trees that overhung Stone Street, and down the block I heard Jake Biccam pounding metal-on-metal outside his shop next to the community garden. Above the trees, slanted strips of grey white altostratus clouds banded into a brilliant lapis blue sky. As I approached downtown, it became crowded with families out on a school night, strolling along enjoying the perfect fall weather, and college students skidding up on fat tire bikes, ready for fun. Restaurants and bars claimed space on the sidewalks, and the chairs and tables became outdoor living rooms filled with people; half of which, it seemed, I knew. Nico Burzachiello smoked cigars with some pals in a corner, and called out a hello as I passed. A friend from book club stopped me to talk, but I had to hurry on so I wouldn't be late for dinner.

At Ruby Cantina, Perry, Denise, and I found a table on the back patio strung with clear round lights like a Zihuatanejo beach bar. In between bites of _carnitas_ and creamy pinto beans, I brought them up to date on the Shannon-Barry-Andrea-Cowboy-maybe-Phil connections, speculations, and scenarios. Denise was excited that I'd gotten to talk to a "real" policeman, as she called Henry Wade, and wanted to go with me the next time I talked to him. Perry's face revealed she thought that encounter would be just as humorous as I silently did.

The three of us could have made our own scenarios deep into the night again, but since I'd promised Liz I'd at least look for them at the televised Rockies game that night, I prepared to go. Perry and I made plans to bike together in the foothills later in the month; we said our goodbyes, and I hurried home. I was already worrying that Patsy had gotten impatient, and dug out again.

But she hadn't; both dogs were both asleep in the house when I came in. The Rockies game was more than half over when I got there, but knowing I'd probably be late from dinner, I'd recorded it. I could start at the beginning, and skip the commercials. I settled in with a gardening magazine, and looked up from time to time to watch and enjoy the still slugging Carlos Gonzalez and Troy Tulowitzki. I was tired and sleepy, and knew it would be time for bed soon. There was no sign of Liz _et. al_ , of course, even though the crowd shots at the game were amazingly clear and detailed.

Then I saw him. I couldn't believe it, and hit the rewind. Just a pan shot across the crowd behind the Rockies dugout and there he was.

It was Barry Correda.

_Idiot_. _You're an idiot_. He looked like a little rougher model of Barry, with a two-day black stubble, unsaloned hair, and a torn, sleeveless muscle shirt. On his tattooed arm, and in his lap, was a very buxom brunette. His muscled arm was heavily draped over her shoulder, and they held spilling beers, shouting and rudely gesturing towards the field.

I couldn't believe it. First of all that it was Barry Correda—that he was alive—but then I couldn't believe the stupidity, the arrogance of a man supposedly dead to go to a Rockies game and sit in such a prominent place. I replayed it again and again. _Idiot_.

Coming to my senses, I called Henry Wade and left a message on his machine. Then I composed an email for Isabelle McWilliams, first a sarcastic one about her conclusions about Barry's accident that I had hastily passed onto to Henry Wade, and now just as quickly had to call in a "never mind!" of confused apology. That out of my system, I deleted that snarky copy, and composed a more kindly one to her instead, with just the information that Barry Correda was alive, and that I'd seen him at a Rockies game on TV. There may have still been a hint of jest in my tone.

Then I smiled when I thought of a line sung by The Dixie Chicks, _things should get interesting, right about now._

## CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Henry Wade had not called by the time I left for school the next morning. My elementary school, a small one in a village north of town, had been in session for two months, but it was the first week for volunteers like me. That day I worked with Travis and Angelina, both eager readers, and I was glad that I had the time to do it, since I could schedule my work calendar around my school commitments. It was a good break from whatever I had on my mind.

When I returned home, an email from Henry was there, acknowledging my call and requesting a return phone call, or a visit in the next week to talk about the case. Preferring a visit, I emailed a suggested day and time when I had planned to be in Denver anyway researching a new pottery outlet, and then viewing a friend's photography exhibit at a gallery. I usually tried to gang up Denver errands as a reason to endure the increasingly difficult, accident-strewn drive down there, so adding a visit to Henry Wade's office would be doable.

On the job site that afternoon, as Liz Burzachiello, the crew, and I finished the project we'd been working on for weeks, I had a feeling of satisfaction, not only from the completion of the job, but also from the fact that Barry Correda's accident had been a sham, that the persona presented to others was not the real Barry; that my instincts had been correct. Sounded a bit cold, I knew, but it was the truth.

Liz was stunned when I told her what I'd seen. "He's alive? He was at the game? What? Why didn't you text me? We could have tried to see him, you know—ID him?" she sputtered.

"No use, Liz," I said, "I was watching a recording, remember? The game was probably almost over by the time I spotted him. You all were probably already gone by then."

She admitted they had left after the eighth inning to avoid the traffic because the Rockies were losing the final game anyway. She and I discussed the change in events as we spread the final layer of mulch, the fine red-brown dust and fiber from it covering our arms.

Liz was still shaking her head in disbelief. "I gotta text Louie and Emma! They're gonna bust a gut when they hear." She pulled out her phone and accomplished that in a very few keystrokes.

As Liz and the crew did the final clean-up, I cleaned myself up for the big reveal with the client. I kept a clean shirt in the car, and could at least wash my face and hands. I liked to do the presentation of the project while Liz, Jorge, and the crew were still there as they were a large part of the process, and I liked for the client to know that, and for the crew to know I acknowledged and appreciated their efforts. The client loved the details of the finished work, and we all left pleased with our accomplishments, and well paid to boot. At that moment, Barry Correda was very far from my mind.

That quickly changed with a call from Isabelle McWilliams after I got home. She had been mulling the case over in her head all day, I could tell, and wanted to talk about it _ad infinitum._ Despite my elation over finally finishing the project, I was tired, needed to eat dinner, and get some rest. When I let Isabelle know that, I could tell she was disappointed, and she then broadly hinted that she go with me to visit Henry Wade. Why not? I thought. I trusted Isabelle's listening skills; she could help me remember everything that was said. Besides it would be fun to have her on my little art trip swirled into a CBI interview.

Suggesting that plan to Isabelle, I said, "Probably one of the few times 'fun,' 'art,' and 'CBI' are used in the same sentence." We laughed, and set up a time for her to meet me.

* * *

The day before the Denver trip I was in Hammett's visiting with Vicki Sinclair as I cleaned up my plate full of a Dash green special. Willard Franklin and the boys were at their usual table nursing coffee cups, and they lazily gave me friendly nods as I came in. I hadn't been in for awhile, and I missed the place. Vicki stood leaning against the back of the cracked naugahide booth, always keeping an eye out for Jean.

"He turned out to be just the phony we thought," she said in her husky voice, referring to the news about Barry Correda. "Asshole."

Vicki Sinclair had had her own experiences with plenty of asshole boyfriends, so she knew what she was talking about. Her last one had used her good nature to sponge off her for years before she dumped him. Yet she kept an open heart, I acknowledged to myself, and was farther down that compassionate road than I had gone.

"I wonder what's really going on," she asked, "like, why did he have to disappear, too, and why did Shannon have to be silenced in the first place?"

"What did Shannon find? Lots of money missing in a real estate deal? I mean, that happened to Andrea," I said. "Could have happened at Binder Enterprises."

"Yeah, that or money from a drug deal," she said. I knew boyfriend problems had acquainted her with that kind of trouble, too. "Every time there's lots of money involved I think about drugs. Some people's greed convinces them that they need yet more money, and the quickest way is drugs, they think." She scowled as I guessed she remembered some related incident in her past.

Isabelle and I had briefly discussed money and drugs in one phone call or another, but we hadn't made any connecting dots to make the idea work. Now Barry Correda's faked death made it seem like a bigger group was involved. If Shannon discovered something at Binder Enterprises, then were Phillip and Cowboy Binder involved? Was it drugs?

"Git in here, by god! Do you think I kin do this all by myself?" Jean shouted out from the kitchen. Re-tying her apron and sticking a pencil behind her ear, Vicki Sinclair nodded at me and sauntered back to the counter. I realized that I'd been chatting too long, as usual, and I had work to do, since I would be gone all the next day. First, I had to get the dogs out to Carol's—they were in need of some running room, and I didn't want to worry about Patsy digging out in her impatience for me to come home—and then Liz and I had a client's gutters to clean. I pushed out of the familiar door and on to the street.

* * *

Denver traffic did not faze the intrepid Isabelle McWilliams. She had volunteered to drive from our meeting place near the interstate outside of Longmont, and I was happily a passenger. She navigated our way to the warehouse gallery in the RiNo area, where we spent a long time enjoying our friend Cass's photographs, and then to lunch at a restaurant housed in a converted taxi dispatch building with large open doors linking the outside garden patios to the urban energy inside. I could have sat outside all day in the October sun, surrounded by the restaurant's boxed but overflowing beds of tomatoes, herbs, and flowers, but we had to head over to the CBI office in the suburb of Lakewood to meet Henry Wade at two o'clock. Isabelle negotiated getting back on I-25 to 6th Ave. and from there it was easy to find the building off of Kipling.

Henry Wade's office was on the third floor and it had a clear view west to the mountains, if one craned one's neck to peer out of a narrow slit of glass in the corner of the room.

"Sorry, I can't show you more of the view," he said as he ushered us into his small beige box of an office.

"It's too bad you can't see much of it," I agreed as I grabbed the one chair next to the missed opportunity of a window. Isabelle pulled another one up in the small space beside me; Henry Wade's desk was crammed against the opposite wall, just a few feet away.

"Yeah," Henry said, turning to squint at the window, "but I'm not here very much. Just to get reports done, do paperwork." I noticed the toppling stacks of paper, binders, and printed materials covering every flat surface with some piles spilling onto the floor. His suit jacket, however, was neatly pressed and hung carefully on the back of the closed door.

"I need to get some stuff filed, I guess," he said ruefully, looking around. "Never seems to be time for it, probably because I'd rather be out in the field."

Isabelle looked at a small, framed photo behind his desk and asked, "Your kids?"

"Yeah," he smiled as he glanced at the photo. "Shirley and I are really proud of 'em, all four of the girls. The oldest just got married, and we got two in college, doing real well. The youngest is starting track this year." He nodded at Isabelle, turned back to his desk, and got down to work. I hadn't thought of Henry Wade as anything but a cop; or having a family, or a life. But Isabelle McWilliams thought about that stuff, while I was focusing on only my own story.

Despite the disorder, Henry Wade seemed very organized as he pulled folders from a table and printed out a file from his computer to assemble on his desk before he got down to business.

"First of all, Lily, thanks for all the information you've passed along to me. It's been very useful. It gave us some new directions for our investigations."

I nodded, and he continued, "While there are areas in our investigations that I cannot discuss with you, I believe you are entitled to some of the information we have, since you have been so helpful and forthcoming." He put on black reading glasses, opened a manila folder, and began skimming the reports.

"Here's where we are," he said as he looked up at us. "Particularly with the reappearance of Barry Correda, the cases have taken on an expanded scope. First of all, I can tell you that Shannon Parkhurst's case has been reopened, and I believe that she died under suspicious circumstances. Her death is no longer considered a suicide."

Isabelle McWilliams's foot knocked into mine as if to silently telegraph her excitement.

Henry Wade coolly peered at us over his glasses. "At this point in time, I'd like to remind you that what I am telling you is confidential information about an open case, and I am sure I don't have to remind you that you must keep this information confidential, and not discuss it with anyone."

Isabelle and I glanced at each other, thinking of all the friends we'd had endless discussions with about Shannon Parkhurst and Barry Correda, and the countless hypotheses we'd bandied about. But we only solemnly nodded at Agent Wade.

"Upon the Bureau's reevaluation of the autopsy data, it is no longer clear that Shannon was severely inebriated at the time of death, but it is clear that alcohol poisoning leading to drowning was the cause of death. Just not in the way it was originally analyzed." He grimaced. "Our investigation found that the blood samples had been tainted, so the original ruling could not be verified.

"Sloppy work makes our job that much harder," he said in a hard tone, "but it happens. At any rate, there was a large amount of alcohol in her stomach, but it appeared that it hadn't been digested into the blood stream, suggesting that it had all been consumed in a very short time. Almost an impossibly short time for a person to actually drink that amount of fluid. There was also a small amount of a sedative still in the stomach. Again, we could not verify any results because of the tainted samples."

"Suggesting?" I asked.

"Suggesting that the alcohol was force fed into her stomach to cover up the effects of the sedative, something that may have been overlooked, particularly in an botched autopsy with tainted blood samples. Sedated, Shannon was put in the water, where, her body compromised with alcohol—poison—she drowned."

"How could she be force fed alcohol?" I wondered.

"If she was sedated, with a tube. It's not pretty. A person would choke on it if they were conscious," Henry Wade said. I felt my chest expand in grief as I imagined Shannon's last hours. I hoped she was unconscious, not realizing what was happening to her. I hoped her final minutes were not spent in terror. I hoped the last thing she saw was not her killer.

"The alcohol was used as a prop, wasn't it?" I asked, a bitter taste in my mouth. "First, to cover up drugging her, and then to complete the picture of an alcoholic Shannon killing herself." I looked out the slit of a window as if the blue-purple mountains in the distance could give me answers about the world's inhumanity.

"That's how it appears. If someone had read the data correctly," he said, frowning again, "it would have been obvious that other organs were not _recently_ damaged with frequent alcohol abuse. There was evidence of years' old damage, but nothing within the last six - seven years. Shannon wasn't drunk; she was drugged by oxycodone."

_So Shannon hadn't started drinking again; she really was sober_. That made sense to me, finally. "So the Facebook photos had to be a sham?"

"My curiosity was piqued by your email, so I lit a fire under the guys on the Facebook accounts, and got them going. First of all, they were posted on Shannon's page _after_ Shannon was reported missing—strike one. Only someone with access to her account and password could post the photos—strike two. And they're fakes: images of an unconscious, probably drugged, Shannon superimposed on party scenes—strike three. If we hadn't been looking at Correda before, we would have about then," Henry Wade said. "He left them up long enough to cause the damage to Shannon's reputation, and then took them down. Probably thought he's covered his tracks, but he hadn't."

My suspicions about it all being a cover-up of Barry Correda's to discredit her were true. He had something to hide, and I knew now that he'd killed her to keep her from revealing it.

"And what about the accounts she supposedly messed up, you know, 'the reason' for her 'suicide'," I asked.

Henry Wade flipped through several pages in the file, and then ran his finger down the side of the report he'd selected. "When Correda was originally interviewed in August, he stated that when he and Shannon returned from a business trip in early July, he discovered the irregularities in Shannon's accounts, and tried to help her get them right before it was discovered. He stated that Shannon's drinking just made things get worse, and that he had to 'throw in the towel and do the right thing'." I rolled my eyes thinking of Barry Correda acting the caring, straight up guy.

"He stated that he went to his boss, Phillip Binder, and told him about the situation. He said that at that time Shannon started to drink nonstop and became more depressed, and 'incapable of making decisions', as his statement reads. He and Binder assessed the damage and made the needed money exchanges to correct Shannon's mistakes. All of this panned out. We checked the books of Shannon's accounts, and saw the entries just as Correda stated. He and Phil Binder didn't do anything wrong by using Binder Enterprises funds to refund the missing money into the accounts." Henry Wade pulled off his glasses to give them a wipe with his shirt. The Lilliputian office was stuffy with the door closed, and just our talking seemed to make the space more hot and humid.

"It's just that companies are not usually that generous with negating employee illegalities; but they did, and eventually everything was square. Shannon was dead, but there was no case to prosecute. Nothing could be pinned on Correda: no motive, and he had a tight alibi," he concluded.

" _When_ was everything square?" Isabelle McWilliams wondered. Her foot had been nudging my foot every five seconds as Henry spoke.

"According to the report, he went to Binder with his concerns about a month before Shannon's death, right after a business trip, when it became clear the accounts were in danger. He said that Shannon was too depressed to understand that he was 'helping her', and that she killed herself before the process was complete. The accounts were cleared up about a week after she died." He looked at the report. "She died on August 4, and the accounts cleared August 13.

"When we re-opened Shannon's case after Correda's reappearance, there were a couple of things that bothered me about Shannon's computer files in general, but they weren't clear ideas I could link to anything. Until the information about _Nueva Oportunidad_ came in, and _that_ I can thank you for, Lily," he said. "We didn't have the link between Shannon and _Nueva Oportunidad_ until I talked with you. No one else had mentioned it, and there was no trace of it in Shannon's hard drive."

"What? No one mentioned that she volunteered there?" I asked.

"She was more involved than just a volunteer," he said, tapping a finger on the file. "She was involved in a lot of day-to-day activities up to a month and a half before her death. But the thing that interested me was the condition of _Nueva Oportunidad's_ files. They were just as clean as Shannon's had been—clean in the same way."

"You mean scrubbed by somebody?" Isabelle asked.

"Looks like it. Our IT guys noticed it in Shannon's files—just the stuff Correda seemed to have an answer for was in there. But after they looked at a few of _Nueva Oportunidad's_ files they saw minute evidence of the same hand, if you will. A type of signature of the hacker. The tech guys say some of the big time criminal cleaners leave a clue, a type of signature in their work. Their egos are so big that they can't resist bragging and throwing it in our faces. They've been pretty successful so far," he said grimly, sorting into the next section of reports in the file. He pulled down his tie a bit more from his open collar. "We think he's out of the country, probably China."

"Could Barry have been the one to scrub the files? Or Phillip Binder?" I asked, knowing how Henry felt about getting some air. Isabelle, even in her long-sleeve red blouse and jeans, looked cool and serene. She draped a long leg over the other, and bounced her foot on the carpet.

"Doubt it," he said. "Guess it takes a rare genius to be that good at recreating reality in files. They don't qualify."

"What about the list of numbers Shannon made?" I asked. "Any evidence linking anything to that?"

"As I said, the computer was scrubbed clean. No lists," he said. I remembered now that it was written by hand, and that Shannon had probably not wanted a digital trail to it. "We only have the copies you gave me. Our cryptographers have the numbers now. That's all I can tell you."

That was not the answer I was looking for, but I had to let it go.

"When we returned later with a full warrant, _Nueva Oportunidad_ had vanished before we could subpoena more files," he added. "The two individuals that had been previously interviewed left the country before their visas expired. Now that's out of our jurisdiction; we had to pass it to the feds."

"So that link has disappeared, too," I mused. "Speaking of disappeared links, did you find out anything on Bernice Thorton, Shannon's aunt?" I'd thought about her on and off all summer, and Isabelle had expressed that, especially because of her own Aunt Gladdy, she had been concerned about Bernice, too.

"Yes, it turns out she _did_ go for a world cruise," he said, consulting a page in the reports. "It was booked at the last minute, someone paid cash. Reportedly having the time of her life on the _Empress of the Seas._ Last time we checked she was with a church group sailing into Istanbul."

I was glad my intuition had been only partially right about Bernice's departure. Still, it smacked of getting her out of the way. It didn't seem that Bernice had the thousands it took to go on a cruise; someone else had paid for it. Henry agreed it added another layer of suspicious activity to the case, but said as long as she was safe on the boat there wasn't much he could do, or wanted to do, at that point.

"Back to the case at hand," he said. "We are investigating Shannon's case as a homicide, and now we have a warrant out for Barry Correda. We're intensifying our focus on Binder Enterprises, but at the moment, don't have any evidence we can take to Justice for a search warrant."

"But isn't Phillip implicated in Barry's 'accident'? Didn't I hear that he ID'd the body?" I asked.

"He only confirmed the ID from circumstantial evidence gathered at the crash site. That's about all I can tell you. What I _can_ tell you is that our investigation has traced Correda to New Mexico where he worked, briefly, at Brubaker Distinctive Properties, just as you discovered. His path seemed to coincide with that of Ernesto Mondragón during his brief time in Santa Fe. Before that, things get hazy. Mondragón's trail leads back to Miami, but there's nothing for Correda."

"Coincide? What do you mean?" I asked, as Isabelle's foot whacked mine again.

"They both seemed to appear on the New Mexico scene at the same place at the same time. Correda started working at Brubaker within weeks of Mondragón's connection with Andrea Brubaker, both at her immigrant relief foundation and at Brubaker Real Estate. Correda didn't really have any background for it, yet Mondragón hired him for a top-rung position at Brubaker."

"Andrea said he had an impressive resume," I remembered.

"Well, she didn't read it too closely because he had no experience, no contacts. Yet he immediately made huge sales involving millions of dollars. Doesn't compute, but that's what she probably paid attention to rather than lack of past experience."

"Yeah, between the truth and money, my guess would be that Andrea Brubaker would choose money every time," I said, turning to look out the window again. Some clouds were gathering over the mountains as they often did in the afternoons, and in their shadows the far slopes now looked midnight blue. I was ready to be outside, but I wanted to get as much information as I could from Henry Wade. I didn't know how long he'd be as forthcoming.

"All of this coincided with the saving of Brubaker Distinctive Properties from going under. Mondragón appeared and reorganized the company and, along with the Correda sales, pulled it from disaster into wealth almost overnight," Henry continued.

"Real estate sales brought in enough money to pay off the called in loans?" Isabelle asked.

"Apparently there were a dozen sales of multi-million dollar properties that netted Brubaker millions in commissions," Henry said.

"If Barry Correda was so successful in Santa Fe, why did he move to Colorado? Why start over here?" I asked.

"Don't know why he decided to move, but it seems that he was on track to repeat his success here. Once at Binder Enterprises, he sold several multi-million dollar properties that had been on the market for years. It's an almost dead market for expensive properties here, too, but maybe he had the touch," Henry Wade said with a twist to his lips.

"Were those sales part of Binder Enterprises' huge success in real estate of late?"

"Absolutely," Henry said.

"So almost anything Barry Correda is connected to here, the Binders could be connected to as well?" I asked.

"Possibly."

"I thought Andrea Brubaker bragged about getting Barry and Shannon jobs at Binder Enterprises," Isabelle said. "So, is she connected to any of this? And you said Mondragón had a 'trail' from Santa Fe. Does that mean he has a record?"

"I can't reveal our information on that," Henry said.

"Why did Barry fake his death? Were you all on his tail?" I asked on another tack.

"I can't reveal our information on that, either," Henry said with a slight smile. "I can tell you this: we found out who the woman was, sitting with Correda at the Rockies game—PaTay LaRouche, a hooker working off East Colfax in Aurora. The guy's so lame he has to pay for sex. Loser. PaTay only remembered him as Small Dick." Isabelle and I leaned into each other, laughing. That was the appropriate name for Barry Correda.

Henry stood up, and started gathering files on his desk. "Is Barry Momo Morgan?" I asked as a final try for information.

Henry Wade gave me another hint of a smile, and said, "I can tell you that Maurice "Momo" Morgan disappeared about the time Correda appeared in New Mexico. The details of it seem suspicious to me, in light of what we know now. We're still working on that angle with our friends in New Mexico. Now, I'm sorry, I have to excuse myself for a meeting. Thank you for coming." He picked up more files on his desk, and ushered us out the door. He shut and locked it, and escorted us down to the exit.

As we emerged from the building, we saw that the weather was turning, with grey-bottomed clouds scudding from the northwest to the southeast. The wind had picked up, and blew grit at us as we scurried to the car. "Hope it doesn't storm yet!" Isa exclaimed as we plopped into the front seats. It didn't smell like rain, but it would be welcomed in the dry landscape. Usually just the wind blew, and we got nothing; it hadn't rained in weeks.

"What did you think of Henry? I like the guy. He seems pretty straightforward," I said.

"I was impressed with him, too. He's a 'just the facts, ma'm' kind of guy. And I appreciated the fact that he didn't try to blame anything on the bad economy causing a short staff. He just does his job with no excuses." Isabelle told me her own department had lost a third of its staff to the economic downturn, and that, as a manager, she knew how difficult it was to maintain the same performance levels. Henry Wade and four other agents were responsible for a huge district that ran from the Wyoming border south to include Colorado Springs and El Paso County, and from the mountains in the west to Kansas.

"Yeah, I'm sure he has a huge caseload. But the screw-ups at Shannon's original autopsy, the tainted blood samples; that really bothers me. I know Henry's group didn't have anything to do with that mess, but still, it bothers me," I said. In reflection, I acknowledged , "At least her case was re-opened and the truth came out, finally. That's what important."

"Yeah, it is. Though her case re-opening seemed to freak out the _Nueva Oportunidad_ guys. What's the connection—between Shannon and those guys—all about? What do you think about the 'computer cleaner' information? Wow. Think of the implications of that! That's going to warrant its own box on your blackboard!" Isabelle joked.

As she steered us back east on 6th Ave. to our last stop at the wholesale pottery yard, we jabbered and picked out details of Henry's information like two magpies on a fence with a piece of foil. The soothing flute of the R. Carlos Nakai CD in the background helped keep the pitch of our voices down from a high C. I was mindful of Henry Wade's warning of keeping the information confidential, but it was difficult not to want to talk about it with someone, so I was glad Isabelle McWilliams had gone with me.

"I know it was important to you to finally have verified what your instincts told you about Shannon's death. It doesn't bring her back, of course," Isabelle said as she made the turn onto the Lowell exit. "But it can move one down the path of grieving, allowing a chance for acceptance and for letting go."

"Yeah, I'll let go when they get Barry Correda!" I grimly snapped, staring out the window at the grimy industrial buildings, many with banners advertising vacancies whipping in the wind.

But then, hearing the wisdom of her words I said, "To me, it _is_ important to have the record straight, to have her life remembered for her joy and integrity, not for some lies designed to make her look bad, and blame her for something she didn't do.

"It really bugged me that Barry Correda used lies about her recovery to make other people believe that she was the liar, not him, that she had lost her honesty, not him. If she had died a drunk, it would have been sad, but I would have dropped it. Don't have much time for the real drunks, the ones continually choosing to drink, blaming external circumstances and other people for their problems. End of story.

"But from what I knew of her and how she lived her life, I really felt that she had such a loving embrace of her recovery, and her life, that she wouldn't have let it all go. The people who so readily believed Barry Correda's lies betrayed Shannon, too, you know. Nobody stood up for her. Now I know she _didn't_ give it away, and I can set the record straight. As you said, it doesn't bring her back, but bringing the truth to light honors her life, and clears it of the stain Barry Correda tried to leave on it. At least there's that."

We pulled into the pottery yard and parked. Isabelle reached over and gave my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. I smiled in return, although the smile felt automatic and superficial, since I didn't feel very cheerful. Pushing open our doors, we put our heads down into the wind, and made a dash to the pottery sheds. On the way, I wanted to cast my vengeful thoughts about Barry Correda out onto the rut-filled gravel lot, and let the coarse, pervasive wind suck them off to Kansas, and out of my head.

## CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I needed some time alone. I needed to recharge, think, muse, reflect. The days were getting shorter, and the change in seasons usually had a melancholy effect on me. I was tired, and had allowed Barry Correda's misdeeds to give me a huge dose of resentment against people as a whole. I missed the dogs.

The house seemed empty without them, even though they'd only been gone for a few days. I puttered around the house aimlessly, stared at the studio blackboard filled with old hypotheses, wandered out and in from the back yard, picked at a plate of the last of the tomatoes I had harvested. I changed from shorts to long pants for the first time that season, since I could feel that it could easily frost that night. I'd already covered my garden to protect it, and had seen to my clients' susceptible plants, as well. The gardens were prepared for cold weather, but I wasn't. Hardly ever was.

Organic vegetable seeds were a good thing to research when one needed hope for the next season, and the online images tempted me to order every variety right from the convenience of my own computer. I had already drifted into the xeric perennials section when I had an idea. Henry Wade said that Barry had reported that Shannon's account discrepancies were discovered a month before her death, right after they had returned from a business trip. It must have been on that trip that Shannon revealed that she knew something to set the tragic process in motion. A business trip had to be real estate related, right? A quick trip to the Binder Enterprises website didn't show any out of state listings. Some kind of conference, then?

I entered some key words into the Web search window on the screen. After a few dead end sites I came up with the Intermountain Executive Real Estate Association, an organization for "exclusive property experts in the Intermountain Region" of Wyoming, Utah, New Mexico, and Colorado. There was copy extolling the business acumen of the IEREA members, and a list of quarterly executive meetings that rotated among the states. The first meeting of the year had been in Jackson Hole; the second one in Park City, and the last one in Santa Fe, June 30 – July 2. A month before Shannon was murdered. Bingo. Binder Enterprises and Brubaker Distinctive Properties were listed under the Gold members. Double bingo.

Something had happened in Santa Fe, and therefore I knew Andrea Brubaker was involved, despite her claim that she hadn't seen Shannon since she had moved. Why had she lied? I couldn't see much happening in the Santa Fe real estate scene that Andrea Brubaker didn't participate in, so I was sure that she, and now Shannon and Barry, and probably the Binders, had all been at the last IEREA meeting, and that something had happened.

I thought I should talk to Andrea Brubaker again, and find out, if I could, what happened. She didn't kill Shannon, so maybe she wouldn't be on her guard, and would casually talk? At least it seemed unlikely that she had somehow come up from New Mexico to stage Shannon Parkhurst's suicide. She was a realtor, not an assassin. I thought she may know something about _why_ Shannon died. I'd have to figure out how to handle it, since I knew that I couldn't just call her and expect to have a chat. There had to be another way.

I went outside the office to sit on the wide back steps just as a slip of a crescent moon appeared in the eastern sky, showing a sliver of white against the pink alpenglow of early evening. The night air was chilling down quickly. Huge flocks of geese sailed over and past the house, honking their way in the dusk to lakes in the center of town. They crowded the sky and their backlit formations looked like the monkey bats filling the screen in _The Wizard of Oz._ There seemed to be thousands of them. It was soon quiet again, and the night had a damper smell to it _._ Surrounded by stillness, I looked for guidance about what I should do. An answer was not immediately forthcoming, of course.

* * *

We were very busy the next week with yard clean-up, leaf removal, and multiple daily trips to the recycling yard. Hard freezes brought the leaves down, and it seemed that everyone wanted their yards done at the same time, so I added extra crew and we worked longer days. It was this way every year and, as we were prepared for it, I actually looked forward to the fall cleanup push, and I was pleased if it lasted for weeks. Work this time of year was very welcome; I felt like a squirrel putting away nuts for the winter.

Liz Burzachiello wanted to talk about the case, but when I explained what Henry Wade had said about confidential information, she understood we couldn't discuss what he told me. She didn't like it, but she understood. I felt I could tell her that some of the things that we had thought were going on were true, plus or minus a few particulars. I could fill her in on the all details when Henry Wade caught Barry Correda.

I felt that I _could_ tell her that I'd made the decision that I was going to talk to Andrea Brubaker. From that first look at the IEREA website I knew that the next executive meeting was coming up in a week or two in Denver, the next city in the rotation. A subsequent look showed that Andrea Brubaker was on the program for the final Saturday night banquet. Now I was sure Andrea would be there, and I would somehow devise a way to talk with her.

"D you think she'll tell the truth, for once?" Liz asked.

"I guess I'll find out if she'll talk at all," I said as we finished loading the trailer. Wanda needed dumping at the recycle yard again before I could hurry home to finish making dinner for friends coming over that evening.

"So, you're cooking tonight?" Liz asked.

"Grilling chicken thighs. Marinated them overnight in Thai ingredients. With papaya with a little squeeze of lime." It felt good to be cooking again. I'd eaten up the frozen Texas chili and soups I'd prepared in advance for the long work days, and was ready for something new. "What are you all having?"

"Louie's coming up from Denver, and Emma's cooking tonight. She's _really_ good at making burgers!" said loyal Liz Burzachiello about the inexperienced cook. "Nico and Crisp are coming over, too, 'cause they love Emma's burgers! She's got the time; she's taking a couple of days off. I wish she'd just quit. Her job is driving her into the ground!"

"Sounds like it's getting worse."

"Yeah, I wish I could get her to come work with us for a couple of days. She'd see how it could be. Louie loved it the last time she worked with us. Do you still need her for the cleanup next week? Where are we going?"

"It's a new client way out in the boonies, out in the mountains west of Bellvue. They got our name from the Finnigans, who nicely gave us a high recommendation. I talked to the guy last week, and he wants a cleanup of the whole property before they return from their trip. Guess they've been away for a long time, and there's a lot to be done. We'll need Louie."

"She'll be here. I'll have to remind her about bringing a lunch. What day is it again?"

"A week from Monday, if the weather holds. The day after I plan to be in Denver talking to Andrea Brubaker at her conference. I'm sure after that little chat I'll be more than ready to be outside working in reality!" I said. "Oh, and get this: when I was checking out the IEREA website to verify the meeting info, I saw that Andrea Brubaker is being presented with an award. An awards banquet is something they do every year at the fall meeting."

"Oh, come on! For what? Ms. Most Money of the Universe? Jeez, she gives all the good realtors a bad name!" Liz protested, her hands rocking together in front of her before exploding apart on the last word. Even the way she hunched her shoulders showed disbelief.

"No, the Humanitarian Award of the Year. For her funding of _Ayudar a los Oprimidos."_

Liz Burzachiello looked at me, speechless. I had planned to say something funny about the irony of Andrea Brubaker getting a humanitarian award, but it didn't seem humorous anymore, or even fit for sarcasm.

All Liz Burzachiello could manage to get out was "Ack." I agreed completely.

* * *

The next week flew by. The work was getting efficiently done, there was plenty of laughter, and the days took on a soothing rhythm. Missing the dogs during my busily scheduled weeks, I'd gone out to pick them up earlier in the week and our evenings at home were just as comfortably serene.

As I prepped to go to Denver, I thought about the logistics. The awards banquet was Saturday night, with a closing breakfast Sunday morning, so I figured I'd try to catch Andrea Brubaker before or after the breakfast. The executive group was staying downtown at The Four Seasons on 14th, and I thought it should be easy to find and the traffic should be light on a Sunday morning. I'd lent my GPS to Roxanne Campbell and her husband for an antiquing trip, so I printed out a map of the area to be able to navigate with some reminder of the streets around me. It wasn't far from Coors Field, home of the Rockies, and I'd been there many times. With my map and a stack of CDs, I felt prepared and ready to go.

Early Sunday morning, the dogs loved on and fed, and Pecos following my every move, I stood at the counter with good coffee in hand and the newspaper strewn in front of me. But it couldn't hold my interest as I thought about what was to come. This time I wasn't posing as a donor that Andrea Brubaker wanted something from, and had to be pleasant to. I didn't know what I could learn from her, and I knew Andrea Brubaker could turn nasty and humiliating on a dime. I dreaded confrontations, but I also knew that it didn't have to go that way. She could behave any way she wanted. I couldn't control her behavior, but I could stay focused on my points and not allow her to turn things around and attack. At least, that was the plan.

* * *

Getting to The Four Seasons was easy, and the walk up 14th St. to the corner of Arapahoe revealed the scenic view west to the stepped, blue-grey ridges of the mountains. I took a deep breath of the crisp November air. I was nervous. But all was well—that was my mantra.

The Four Seasons is luxurious. Of course. It is what _luxe_ is all about. Walls of windows in the lobby divulged spectacular views to the mountains, and panels of blonde wood rose above small groups of modern, low furniture in tones of taupe and café au lait. There was a huge open glass-railed staircase with mammoth lemon-yellow square cylinder glass chandeliers hanging in the hallway beyond. I felt urbanely chic myself just being there.

I was early enough to catch the breakfast crowd, so I picked a spot in the lobby to settle behind my newspaper in one of the posh chairs that had a good view of the elevators, and waited for Andrea Brubaker. On my tour through the lobby and foyers I'd seen a "No Cell Phone Zone" sign posted by the room listed for the IEREA breakfast, and it had given me an idea of how to be able to get her alone, without her usual entourage, so she'd perhaps talk to me.

Andrea Brubaker and her followers disgorged from the sleek elevator right on time, with Andrea leading the pack, a frown on her face. One of the group was trying to get her to look at a sheet of paper in his hand, and she ignored him with a disdainful turn of her head. They headed toward the breakfast banquet room, and I waited about five minutes before I placed the call from my cell to the front desk.

I identified myself as an employee of Brubaker Distinctive Properties, and requested that Andrea Brubaker be paged, and asked to call her office immediately. I spoke of the urgency of the matter and reminded him how Very Important she was; I could tell from the poor assistant concierge's voice that he had probably gotten a dose of Andrea's condescension himself. Then I hustled over to a side corridor outside of the banquet room, and waited for Andrea Brubaker to come out to use her cell phone.

She brusquely pushed through the double doors, punching at her phone. "Andrea?" I asked as I approached her. "Could I talk with you?"

She looked at me, looked confused, looked at her phone again, and then glared at me. "You? What are you doing here? I have to call my office. I can't talk to you right now," she growled, striding past me down the hallway.

Might as well tell the truth, I thought. "No, that was me, I placed the call. I wanted you to come out so I could talk with you."

"Why you little sneak!" Andrea spat out as she whirled to face me. "I know who you are now, you know! You fooled me in Santa Fe, but you're not fooling me now!"

"I wanted to talk to you about Shannon's murder," I said. _How did that word slip out?_

Andrea Brubaker stepped in close and narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking about? You're crazy. I'm calling security to get you thrown out of here!" she said in a low menacing voice. Her moist breath spewed the sour smell of milked coffee in my face.

"Shannon didn't commit suicide. Please, Andrea, could we talk? I just want to clear Shannon's name—" I interjected.

Andrea grabbed my arm and hissed, "I don't know anything, and you're getting thrown out of here, _now_!"

"Please, please, _Mrs. Brubaker_ , if you could just—" I made my voice a lot louder and whinier. Two guys walking down the hallway turned around to stare at us, just as I hoped.

Andrea saw them looking at us, and jerked me in the opposite direction, looking for privacy; her hand in a painful grip on my arm. She breathed into my ear, "If I talk with you, you will go away and never approach me again. Or should I just call security right now? I give you five minutes, then I never want to see you again. Got it?"

I pulled away from her and straightened my jacket. "Yes," I lied. But no matter what, she wasn't going to be grabbing me again, that much I knew. We walked in silence along several hallways filled with chatting groups of people that all knew Andrea Brubaker, before she turned to me and said, "I can't talk down here. We're going up to my suite, but you still only have five minutes, and then you're out. You got it?"

We walked toward the elevator and rode to the 14th floor in silence. We entered an elegant room with a huge entry way accented by floor to ceiling stacked shabui stone with the rest of the suite outfitted in the same warm earth tones as the lobby. Through a large wall of windows, I could see north to Coors Field glinting in the sun. Andrea Brubaker vaguely gestured towards a chair, I guessed for me, and walked to the bar, clinked some ice in a glass, and poured a drink for herself.

Andrea swirled it around in the glass, staring out the windows for a minute before downing it in a gulp. She pursed her lips in thought, and nodded to herself, before turning back to me. "I'm not involved in any of this! What do you want?"

She returned to stand in front of me, her hands on her hips. "Why do you think you can just waltz in here and start asking me questions? Why are you talking to _me_? What business is it of yours? Why are you trying to make this my problem?"

I stood up, walked over to the windows, and looked out at the empty baseball field below. I was not going to be pulled into defending myself on a side issue, as I would have been in the past. But I decided that honey might work better than vinegar. "Andrea, I know you're not involved in anything. You were Shannon's mentor, you helped her in New Mexico, you got her a job here." She nodded, and I continued, "I know you'll want to help. I just have a few questions."

She walked over to the bar again, and as she picked up the bottle she asked me if I wanted a shot of something. I declined, and she poured another generous drink for herself. She brought the glass and the bottle back into the living room and set them down on the end table with a clink. She kicked off her soft boots, curled up in a leather chair, and took a sip of Scotch, by the smell of it.

"I have five minutes. Then you'll leave, either on your own accord, or—" She glared at me meaningfully over the rim of her glass.

Not wanting to prolong the visit any longer than I had to, I plunged right in. "I think Shannon was murdered—"

"Don't be so dramatic! I don't know what you're talking about, a murder. Shannon killed herself; get over it."

_Why was I giving away my hand?_ I needed to make this less threatening, and I knew just the thing to say to make her focus on herself again. "Yes, of course you're right. You know more than I do. But Shannon was bothered by something. Did it make her kill herself? I think it started about the time of the last IEREA meeting in Santa Fe in July. Shannon, Barry, the Binders, and yourself, were all there, weren't you?" I lied about being sure about everyone's whereabouts. But Andrea nodded, forgetting that she had previously told me that she hadn't seen Shannon since her move to Colorado.

I continued, "Did something happen at that meeting? What did you and Shannon talk about?" I thought I'd act like I knew more than I did.

"Oh, nothing much," Andrea said, taking a drink. "We really didn't see that much of each other at the meeting; _so_ many people needing my time, you know," she preened. "But Ernesto was giving a key presentation, and I wanted Shannon to hear it. Afterwards, Shannon insisted that she talk to me about _Nueva Oportunidad,_ for god's sake, and I wanted to hear about Binder! Shit, _Nueva Oportunidad_ is small fry compared to what I could do with Binder!" Her tone was getting heated.

Playing along I said, "Did you ever get the information on Binder? What did Shannon say about _Nueva Oportunidad_?"

"Nothing on Binder, dammit! Shannon said she'd found something weird—in the books— at _Nueva Oportunidad,_ and you know, what should she do about it. She gave me an envelope with the information, and I told her I'd give it to my accountant, and have him sort it out. He knows all about that kind of accounting, and it was probably something she was misunderstanding. He could explain it. No big deal."

"What could she tell you about Binder Enterprises?"

Andrea Brubaker narrowed her eyes at me as she took a long sip at her drink. "What the hell? Who are you going to tell? Who are _you_ anyway?" she asked, looking disdainfully at my plain outfit. It obviously did not pass the test. "Oh yeah, I know about you—Chloë reminded me of who you _really_ are! I don't know what kind of stunt you were trying to pull in Santa Fe, but don't waste my time now!" she sneered. "Anyway, I don't care what you think. Heard you were just a drunk."

"Yeah, also called a souse, rummy, sot, lush, and dipsomaniac."

Andrea looked at me blankly. "Bah! Need a drink? Let me fix you one." She rose and returned to the bar.

"No, thanks."

"How about just one? Nobody'll know." She dropped ice into a glass, poured in four fingers of Jack Daniels, walked over, and sat it on a table next to me. "There you go. You could probably use it."

She picked up her own glass and raised it at me. "Cheers! Come on, cheers!"

I stood silently by the windows.

She sat down, and knocked her glass on the side table with a loud thwack. "What's the big deal? I asked Shannon to help me out with information about Binder. So what? I'd helped her with a lot of money, and all I wanted in return was something on that asshole Cowboy Binder!

"It was my due! He tried to _ruin_ me!" she spit out as she jumped up. "I'll see him burn in hell before I let him get away with that! I knew I could get something on the bastard! I could be patient, I could wait. Shannon... was... was..." She looked out the wall of windows to the northwest and the dark grey line of the foothills, lost in Scotchy thought.

"Shannon was your spy at Binder?" I asked. Andrea Brubaker looked startled at my voice.

"The little ingrate said she wouldn't do it! She said she'd pay me back any money if that was why I'd given it to her. Oh, her innocence was pathetic!" she sneered as she sat down again. "I could have made her a lot of money, and she wasn't going to get caught, for god's sake! But no! She had those naïve ideas. No wonder she was poor."

Andrea continued with a slight hint of a smile. "But Barry said he could change her mind, and I expected that he could, so I told her to not worry about it. I knew I could wait," she said. _What was Barry changing Shannon's mind about?_ "Barry had a lot of power over Shannon, but I never thought he'd murder her," she said as if it was an afterthought.

"You know for sure that Barry killed Shannon?" I asked incredulously.

"Well, I don't _know_ that he killed her, but he could have." She nodded a couple of times as if a storyline was becoming clear in her mind. "Yes, he was very jealous, and he'd just found out that Shannon was playing around with someone at work, and that Shannon and this other guy were going to implicate him in some bad accounts, and get him out of the way. I could see Barry killing her in a rage."

_Where was_ this _coming from?_ Henry Wade hadn't mentioned anything about it. "Who told you this?"

"Ernesto!" she told me freely, the drink helping us become good, chatty friends. She curled up in her cozy chair again. "Ernesto knows everything! Barry told Ernesto all about it when he and Shannon were in Santa Fe for IEREA." She smiled and hoisted a toast in the air, but her voice, now slurred a bit, made the acronym like _urea_.

"That night after the conference, we had dinner with them at Geronimo. Shannon had been acting weird all night, and I found it tiresome. So when we walked up to El Farol after dinner, I pulled her aside and told her to talk to Ernesto about _Nueva Oportunidad_ , but she refused, and said she had information for only the accountant. I don't know why she wouldn't talk to Ernesto." Andrea stretched her legs in the chair and crossed them on the coffee table in front of her, and looked very satisfied to be so comfortable in the luxurious room.

"He and Barry were in front of us on the street, and I guess that's when Barry told Ernesto of this affair of Shannon's. She didn't say anything about it to _me_ , of course! When I told Ernesto later that night about her _Nueva Oportunidad_ concerns, he told me about Shannon's affair. He thought that information about Shannon's behavior was pretty good evidence that she was having real problems; and had probably imagined the irregularities with _Nueva Oportunidad,_ as well _._ Even so, Ernesto told me he'd look into it, and that he'd give the envelope to the accountant himself. He's so helpful!" she said, with some insincerity in her voice. Three minutes before she was toasting him.

"You told Ernesto about Shannon's suspicions even though she asked you not to?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"What _suspicions_? She was a ninny. What did she know about anything? _I_ knew better than she did. It was probably over her head anyway; or imagined, like Ernesto said. Besides, Ernesto was very much involved with _Nueva Oportunidad._ He was very interested in Shannon's information. He said he'd deal with it."

"Did you know that Shannon disappeared soon after she was down here and talked with you?" I asked. _Shut up!_ My mind was screaming at me.

Andrea Brubaker looked startled, and then peeved. "Well, uh, no! How was I supposed to know that? Ernesto told me later that she fell apart when Barry confronted her, you know, about the affair. Ernesto said it was between them, that Barry would look after her. How was I to know that she'd kill herself? Look, none of this involves me. Brubaker Distinctive Properties is not involved! But I don't know what kind of mess Cowboy has gotten _Binder_ into, but..." She looked pleased with herself. "Yes, I think that's it, I think there're real problems at Binder Enterprises—caused all of this in the first place. Shannon's problems started _after_ she left me, and started working at Binder!" Andrea Brubaker was all over the territory with her blame.

"Were Barry and Ernesto good friends? How did they meet?" I asked to get back on the subject.

Andrea gave a bored sigh. "Ernesto recruited Barry to work at Brubaker Distinctive Properties; he was our top salesman, and as you _might_ know, we've been the Agency of the Year, oh, I've forgotten how many times," she said with false modesty. I guessed that she knew exactly how many times.

"They spent a lot of time together dealing with our large estate properties. Ernesto was fond of Barry, and was shocked when he heard of his death in the car accident. They always kidded each other a lot. Called him Mojito all the time. Speaking of which..." Andrea said as she rose a bit unsteadily to get more ice at the bar.

I needed to think, so I asked if I could use the bathroom; anything for a break. She directed me down a hallway with three doors, and I tried the last one, next to a wide door at the end of the hall. Success. Smaller than a master bathroom, it looked like a guest bath, and from the looks of a toiletries bag on the marble counter, there was a guest present.

I ran a little water in the underlit basin and cupped some on my face. As I reached for a thick white towel, I noticed a large jumble of pill bottles peaking out of the half-zipped toiletries bag. Curious, and knowing full well I shouldn't be snooping, I stuck a fingertip into the bag and moved some the plastic containers around to read the labels. They all had brand names for oxycodone, the narcotic of Rush Limbaugh fame. The distributing pharmacies were different, and the patient names were different, too. Lots of prescriptions from Florida. Looked like someone was obtaining illegal prescription drugs. Then I stopped when I saw a name I recognized: Chloë Austin.

I quickly dried my face. Behind me I heard the grating voice I never wanted to hear again. "What the hell are you doing?" It was her.

I turned around, and her mouth dropped open.

"Andrea?" Chloë screeched into the other room, "What the fuck is going on?"

She motioned for me to leave the bathroom, and then tried to push me down the hall and out into the living room. I sidestepped her attempt, and swiftly walked into the room where Andrea was standing by the sofa. I didn't know if Chloë had seen me snooping, but I wanted to get out of there as quickly as I could.

Chloë Austin looked much like the last time I'd seen her at Stedmans in Santa Fe, complete with hennaed hair and thick foundation that still did not hide her bumpy complexion. Much like last time except for the addition of the gun she was pointing at me.

"Oh, hi, Chloë. Didn't know you were awake," Andrea Brubaker said nonchalantly, as if we were all good friends. "She was just leaving. I was just telling her... Is that a gun?"

"Keep your friggin' mouth shut, Andrea! Didn't the lawyer tell us that we had nothing to tell, nothing to talk about?" She pointed the gun at me and said in disdain, "Why would you be talking to _her_ anyway?" as if I was too stupid to exist. Sensing she had a captive audience, she wound up and let it fly.

She raised the gun, and pointed it at my face. "I know all about you, you pathetic fat hag. I recognized you scurrying out of that AO function in Santa Fe! And now you show up here. Whadya doin', being a troublemaker, _as always_? I told Andrea then that you were a fake. Where would someone like you get the money to be a donor? You are such a loser. Sticking your big nose where it doesn't belong."

She took the glass offered by Andrea and took a careless drink. I watched the gun wobble in her other hand. "God! At Stedmans I was so glad to get rid of you! You were such a friggin' loser, but you always thought you were so smart, so creative. You wanted everybody to like you, and you were the laughing stock, you know that?" It was good to hear that Chloë Austin was her old familiar self.

"And what are you now? A gardener? Made it big, huh?" she sniggered so hard I thought Scotch would come out her nose. "Yeah, I know all about you! We had you investigated after you _illegally_ gained entrance onto Andrea's property—you're not even worth pursuing charges against." She moved around the sofa, and motioned with the gun for me to sit down.

"You really wanted to be a big fish, didn't you? Poor Lily! You don't have what it takes. I was glad to get rid of you, you drunk!" I could see spit spewing out of her mouth at each consonant.

"I know you filed a complaint against me at Stedmans," she sneered. "You always had to be the victim, didn't you? Luckily for me, everyone knew you were a drunk and Jim in HR was ready to throw you under the bus, but there was still enough trouble to make my life hell, you bitch. And now I get payback." She punched the gun towards me, and joggled it up and down.

"Who cared about _you_ anyway? _I_ make Stedmans millions of dollars!" she whinnied, holding her head up in self-admiration.

"Oh, shut up, Chloë. You're getting tiresome," Andrea Brubaker interrupted wearily.

"Oh, yeah? Well, you're not so perfect and innocent yourself, bitch!" Chloë Austin shot back and vaguely waved the gun toward Andrea, and then back at me. "What is she _doing here_ anyway?" she demanded with another glare at me.

"Put that gun down, you idiot! Where did you get that thing? You don't know what you're doing, and you don't know what you're talking about!" Andrea exclaimed as she stood up and walked over to the bar. " _She_ is the problem, not me!" she said as she glowered at me, too.

Chloë followed, and awkwardly tried to keep the gun pointing at me as she sidestepped across the room. They talked in low tones that I couldn't clearly hear, and Chloë Austin slowly paced around, holding the gun with both hands in front of her like a precious object. I remembered her parading that way through Stedmans, as if she was the queen leading a procession with her sacred scepter, except there it was with a stained coffee cup that stated "World's Best Boss." I imagined that she had bought it for herself, or, more likely, just stolen it off someone's desk.

"I say we call security, say she broke in here," I heard Chloë chortle, as she looked from me to Andrea. "Yeah, maybe we could plant something on her, and they could get her for possession, too," she smirked. "Who are they going to believe? Us or a... gardener?"

Chloë Austin and Andrea Brubaker put their heads together, and tittered at each other as if that was an original joke only meant for them. In their drab, out-of-context Southwestern garb, they looked like faded, wooden dolls, their wind-up heads bobbing at each nod and strut.

"I'm calling Ernesto," Chloë said loudly enough for me to hear. "He told me to call if, you know—" She looked at Andrea, and jerked her head towards me, the gun still wobbling in her hand.

I suspected—I didn't know for sure—but I suspected that Chloë Austin would not fire a gun in the hotel room. Chloë Austin was a coward. Too many people would hear it, and she wouldn't get away with it; and Chloë felt entitled to _always_ get away with whatever she wanted to do. She was a coward, but she wasn't stupid. I got up and walked toward the door.

Chloë yelled, "Stop! I'll use this gun! I'm calling security, you bitch!"

I stopped right at the door, turned, and said, "Betcha they'll be real interested that you have a gun, don't you think?" I gave them a big smile. "Thanks, Andrea, for all the information you gave me on Chloë. And I thought you were such good friends—"

"Bitch!" I heard Chloë Austin scream off key as I escaped down the corridor.

## CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I felt strangely exhilarated. As I pulled out of downtown onto to I-25 the adrenalin rush of the previous couple of hours had subsided, but I still felt elated, and calm, at the same time.

Andrea _had_ blabbed more than she realized, though not about Chloë as I had implied. And meeting Chloë Austin again wasn't the dreaded event I always thought it would be. Her spew of venom hadn't cut this time, hadn't reached home. The bully power of her snarky humiliations was gone because I didn't believe any of it was true anymore. I wasn't laid low by it, as I would have been in the past. Rather, I felt energized.

First I called Henry Wade, and gave him a synopsis of my morning with Andrea Brubaker and Chloë Austin, leaving out Chloë's personal spew about me; he didn't need to hear it. He asked a few questions, and I thought I could tell that the information Andrea had given me confirmed some of his suspicions. He didn't reveal much, but there was concern in his voice when we briefly discussed Ernesto Mondragón.

"Look, Lily, the guy is real trouble. I can't tell you more than that because he is part of our investigation. I know he's in New Mexico and not up here, and I don't want to sound dramatic, but you should be careful. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious around your place, and then call _us_ immediately if needed. We need to take care of this guy, and you don't need to be involved. Just watch your back."

"Henry, believe me when I say I don't want to be involved," I assured him. "I just want all these people caught and convicted. I can stay out of it!" I started to laugh, and said, "As they say, I'm just a gardener."

Once off the phone with Henry Wade, I slipped in the top CD and queued up The Doors' "20th Century Fox," turned it up, and seat danced to the hypnotic keyboards. After that, I let it shuffle between synth-driven Berlin, buoyant Indian bliss of Ratnabali, tenor Placido Domingo, and the hard country beat of Kathy Mattea; and enjoyed the drive home, and my own personal epiphanies.

Traffic was light for once, and there was a clear view to the Flatirons west of Boulder, and the Indian Peaks Wilderness beyond. There was snow on Longs and Meeker, and winter wasn't far from descending down to the plains, already in a palette of brown, with the cottonwoods in the arroyos barren of leaves and the upright branches of shrub willows bunched in yellow-orange blocks. I needed some time outside, and in my mind I was already on a walk along the river.

* * *

Instead, I spent the afternoon with a client—Susan Cramer—who wanted to discuss yard decorations for the upcoming seasons. She'd left a message the day before requesting my help, but I'd forgotten about it in my preoccupation with the trip to Denver. She was fine about me coming over on a Sunday, so over I went, happy with the prospect for work. Susan Cramer has excellent taste and a generous budget, so the short afternoon was a delight in creativity and anticipation, designing displays for her large collection of pottery containers. She wanted the tall ruddy orange pots I'd found for her in Santa Fe as the foundation centerpieces, and we agreed on using natural materials I could harvest or find: fresh evergreen boughs, ornamental squashes, and pumpkins to finish the fall; then big pine cones, and red twig dogwood and bittersweet branches into the winter. Susan and I tramped around in her yard in the slanting light of late afternoon, and then stood in cold, dim sheds taking stock of what she had and what she needed, so I was chilled to the bone when I got home—disgusted with myself that I hadn't dressed more warmly, but energized with ideas all the same. The afternoon reminded me how glad I was that people like Andrea Brubaker and Chloë Austin were no longer in my life.

A message from Betty Huckleston was waiting for me when I got there. She knew my plans to talk to Andrea Brubaker that day, and I knew she'd want to hear about it at length, but I'd been jonesing for an espresso ever since I'd left Denver, and I needed a hot, potent cup of joe. The dogs were exuberant and oblivious to my morning's events, and they wiggled around me as I stood in the toasty kitchen grinding coffee. One cup was never enough, so after two wonderful, bitter, tiny cups, I loaded up St. Andre cheese and apples on a plate, went to relax in the study, and gave Betty a call.

We were well into our conversation when she said, "So Chloë Austin uses oxycodone, hmm? 'Splains some things, huh, Toots?" in her own Ricky Ricardo imitation. We both laughed and she continued, "That's pretty cool that you could expunge the demon Chloë from your psyche!" as we both laughed again at her mock hyperbole. "And you didn't even have to say anything!"

"Yeah, all that time in the past I spent berating myself for not having the guts to stand up to her! Ha! This time I didn't believe the snarky insults were true—the harpoons were missing their mark—so I didn't feel defensive and closed down. I could just be there, and observe her being a jackass! You know, those people never see their part in anything. They just shift the blame to the person in front of them."

"What was Andrea Brubaker doing that whole time Chloë was spouting off?" Betty asked.

"She seemed like she wanted to just check out. I know that feeling. I guess the Dewar's helped that over time; helped her be talky, too. And self-centered. I think if she wasn't the center of the conversation, she wasn't much interested in it." I cut a piece of crisp apple, its clear juice beading on the knife, for myself and one for the patient Pecos at my feet. He softly plucked it from my fingers and carefully held his lips around it like he was checking it for contraband before gulping it down in one bite. Patsy Cline was already asleep on the kitchen floor.

Betty queried, "So Andrea Brubaker passed along to Ernesto Mondragón the very thing that Shannon had asked her not to? Shannon trusted Andrea to help her and Andrea betrayed her?"

"Yep," I said sadly. "Andrea betrayed her just like Barry betrayed her. Andrea doesn't see it that way, of course. She's blinded by her desire for revenge on Cowboy Binder. She was only interested in the goods to get him. That's all she wanted from Shannon. She didn't care what Shannon wanted, or needed. She even had the cowardice to blame Shannon for her problems!"

"So something Shannon found out about _Nueva_... that started the whole sad process?" Betty said. "You think it was that list you found? Had to be, don't you think?"

"Yeah, my guess is that was probably in the envelope Shannon gave to Andrea, but I don't know the whole significance of it. But why would Ernesto Mondragón be involved in something up here?" I continued. "I know the _Nueva_ guys disappearing looks pretty fishy, but what were they doing, and how was Ernesto connected?" Pecos looked at me wistfully as I bit into the last piece of apple, so I shared it with him.

"I'm still thinking about Andrea," Betty said. "What was that nonsense she was talking about Shannon's 'affair'? And Barry 'taking care of her'? Good god! What have you been eating, Toots? It sounds like you've got a herd of cows with you."

"Healthy, crunchy apples, my dear. Okay, and maybe a little triple-cream cheese over a double espresso. A perfectly good dinner, so don't start with me." I stood up to take my plate back into the kitchen, the phone tucked on my shoulder. "I think Ernesto has told Andrea a bunch of pretty transparent lies as red herrings, and Andrea doesn't want to know, or to acknowledge, the truth. The truth would taint her game plan, her goal of revenge. She'd have to give it up, and she's not going to do that for anybody." I thought a moment. "All that money, all that privilege, all that stuff she has, and it's not enough. She's still consumed by a revenge she can't have."

"And Ernesto's using her desire for revenge to cover up something he's doing to get her to go along!"

"Yeah, Andrea Brubaker can feign innocence, and still get something out of it—revenge, money, power—who knows what would be enough. You'd have to wonder how far Ernesto Mondragón's touch goes in the rest of her affairs. She seemed very willing to take his word for things."

"So, back on point," Betty said, her nose to the trail. "We can connect Shannon, _Nueva_ , Andrea, Ernesto, and then to Barry? And then to Binder Enterprises? I know I'm talking about the 'hows' right now when we're more interested in the 'whys' but I need to get it straight. I guess Andrea gave us confirmation about our suspicions. I remember now that Andrea said that she and Ernesto helped Shannon get on the board at _Nueva,_ but I hadn't put that into the mix."

"It stuck in my mind only because in Santa Fe, Andrea so unctuously bragged about her donation to _Nueva_. She wanted it to make _her_ look good. Then, too, Henry Wade mentioned that the Shannon and _Nueva_ files had similar characteristics," I said, standing at the kitchen sink windows, looking out into the dark. The sweet autumnal smell of the apple cores drifted up from the compost bowl on the counter.

"It seems Andrea had an idea all along that something wasn't right," Betty said.

"But she lied to herself, and said it didn't concern her. That way she could look the other way. In doing that, she gave Shannon up to those bastards!" I said angrily, and began to pace around the kitchen.

"They're scumbags!" Betty agreed. "So what are they all doing that one of them would commit murder to keep Shannon quiet? Some real estate scam? You mentioned drugs?"

"I don't know."

"Something makes Barry start the charade that convinces people that Shannon's death a month later was a suicide. That covers up for her murder. Everybody believed it, but you, Toots. I think they may have gotten away with it if you hadn't _stuck your big nose where it_ _didn't belong_!" we said in unison, mimicking Chloë Austin's taunt. I stopped pacing to laugh.

"But seriously, I guess if lies were told about me, I'd want someone to stand up for me, that's all. I just wanted to do the same for Shannon," I said.

"I'd stand up for ya, Toots," Betty Huckleston said.

"I know you would. And I would for you! That's just what you do, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," Betty said. "But Andrea Brubaker didn't. But it sounded like Barry and Ernesto were friends, and she said that Ernesto had recommended Barry, like he'd known him before. But Henry Wade told you Barry didn't really exist before, so did Ernesto know him as Momo Morgan, too? How did Momo Morgan become Barry Correda?"

"I don't know, but I knew something was wrong with his image that first time! It was his shoes! They weren't right at all for the suit. But he didn't know that. He was playing a part—Barry Correda. Okay, okay, I know that one thing wouldn't have proven anything, but I remember thinking about his shoes; it was like he was wearing a costume and forgot a piece."

"Jeez, the things you think about!" Betty Huckleston laughed.

I laughed, too. It had been a long day; hard to believe that I had started the morning talking to Andrea Brubaker—that seemed so long ago. But now I needed to look forward. It was time to hang up, and start getting ready for the next day—scheduled for a large property clean up in the mountains with Liz and Louie Burzachiello. There were lemon bar lunch treats to be baked, and I started the shortbread crust as I said good-bye to Betty. That was its usual lengthy affair, and it took another half hour to get off the phone.

After a quick mix of the sweet and tart lemon curd, I poured it onto the cooled, buttery crust and got it into a hot oven. As it baked, I prepped the rest of my next day needs—essentials bag, lunch, tools, Wanda the trailer—until the pan was out of the oven, and cooled. Not trusting the pork thief dog, I made sure everything was off the counter, and out of her eager lips. Then I was off to bed, the good Pecos already at his usual spot at the foot of it. Patsy joined us as soon as I turned off the light, snuffing and circling around in her bed a few times until it was just right for the Doyenne of the Depot.

The next morning Liz, Louie, and I were raising dust going up Rist Canyon west of town, with Wanda bumping along behind us, as the tawny foothills gave way to ponderosa pine forests and aspen stands. We'd been jabbering about my visit to Denver the day before, and both twins were sharing my anger at Andrea Brubaker's offhand revelations about the betrayals of Shannon. As they speculated about Barry Correda alias Momo Morgan, I followed the directions the new client had given me on the phone, and I hoped I'd gotten it right in the twisting roads of the backcountry. It was a beautiful late fall morning, and a great day to be working.

We turned south at Stove Prairie Road and continued a couple of miles before turning onto a well-maintained dirt road. After several turnoffs and turns, we arrived at the locked gate described by the client. I had the code, which I entered, and we drove through, locking the gate behind us. A twisting dirt road led through stands of ponderosa pine.

Off to the right, in the fenced property next door, Liz pointed out a grubby sign laying half hidden in the grass. "Hey, look! It's a Binder 'Land For Sale' sign! Looks like it's been there a long time, though," she said.

I slowed down so we could see it better. "I guess they're still sitting on these big properties out here," I said, and noticing the road in front of us, added, "but it looks like they got a showing or something. Look, you can see several tire tracks in the dirt. Our client has been out of town for months so it can't be them, and that land's vacant, so it can't be somebody living up there. See, the tracks turn off at the gate for the property next door." Liz and Louie Burzachiello didn't pay too much attention to my musings. Jeez, the things you think about! I could hear Betty's voice in my head laughing with me. Well, I didn't want to think about anything concerning Binder Enterprises anyway, and who cared if they had showing or not?

After several miles of dirt road we turned in at a more elaborate gate. The gravel drive split grass pastures leading to an impressive log house nestled on a slight rise. The Mummy Range, dusted with the early snow of the season, provided a deep blue grey and white backdrop. Admiring the views, we unloaded our tools and quickly set to work. Starting with the multi-level decks, we cleaned around the house perimeter and the flower beds before we moved on to the yard, surrounding shrubs, and trees, where I pruned dead branches while they raked and hauled tarps full of debris to the trailer.

At the far end of the property we stopped for a brief lunch, and two scrub jays immediately appeared in the pine branches overhead, looking for a hand out. A yellow jacket buzzed down and landed on a lemon bar in Liz's hand, and she did a frantic hopping dance to dislodge it, but ended up flinging it my way, causing me to lumber uncoordinatedly in the opposite direction, twisting and dodging the unseen foe. The insect soon flew away on its own, and we were both safe, but her sister was very much amused at our Stan and Ollie antics, and took pictures of us with her phone. I knew I looked ridiculous, but Liz was not amused at her twin's derision, and started on what I imagined to be the same endless Burzachiello argument they'd had for all of their fifty years.

Even with the sisterly bickering, we made good progress, and I was confident that we'd finish before dark and I'd have time to research some future work for the client. He had asked me to give him an estimate on pruning a stand of trees at the far northwest part of his property where he planned to make a meditation space, and I wanted to get a look at it to be able to give a good estimate.

When we finished, Liz and I unhitched the trailer, so I didn't have to worry about getting into awkward maneuvering situations with it, put the tools in the dusty CR-V, and ourselves in as well. "He said to follow this little track down past that outcropping," I told them as I looked at a faint two-rut path that dropped out of sight behind elephant-size grey granite boulders.

We followed it slowly as it wound through the forest with glimpses of sharp rocky ridges ranging blue and hazy through gaps in the trees. After a mile or so the track stopped in a small grassy meadow; I pulled alongside the trees and we all piled out of the car. I walked down a small hill and started looking over the area to be pruned as Liz and Louie explored the trees beyond. I knew the naturalistic feel the client wanted for their Zen space, and I was designing the pruning cuts I'd suggest to him when Liz came back through the trees. She motioned to me and said, "Come 'ere, you gotta see this!"

As we walked through the underbrush she was shaking her head and muttering something about discrimination and bigotry when we caught up with Louie, peering around a large lodge pole pine. She pointed at a couple of grey metal low buildings about a hundred feet away on the other side of the property fence. They were half obscured by the forest, and at first I thought they were deserted until I saw a couple of junky cars pulled up to one building. A new black Mercedes, closer to us, was parked head-in at the corner of the smallest building. It was the Mercedes she was pointing at.

Liz started in, "Look at that! Even out here! Even out here you can't get away from those racists! Look at that, Lily! It's that stupid Erik Lambertin crap, 'Support Your Rights!' You can see that red, white and blue bumper sticker a mile away!" It was the same bumper sticker I'd seen on Bernice Thorton's neighbor's, Old Man Crotchety, '88 Buick, and on the dark limo at Binder Enterprises. Erik Lambertin spouted vehement anti-immigrant ignorance that pandered to people's fears, and unfortunately had more than a few followers.

Louie chimed in, "Yeah, whoever owns that car puts his racist view on his bumper, but look who's doing the work here!" As I looked at the activity outside the farthest building on the other side of the trees, the workers did indeed look Hispanic. There were about eight of them, and they stamped around in the November cold, loading a small van with boxes.

Liz and Louie Burzachiello were hissing insults toward the Mercedes's owner and I ruefully acknowledged the stupidity of some people. But it was time we headed back to the car before it got too late.

Liz said she had to take a leak before we started back and went off into the trees. As I turned back to Louie I saw she had pulled a pen and a pad of paper from Liz's back pack, and was scribbling on the pad.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm writing that jackass a note, and I'm gonna stick it on his windshield! He deserves to hear about what a hypocrite he is!" she said hotly as she jabbed the pen on the paper to emphasize her points.

"What? No, Louie, wait!" I said in alarm.

She folded the paper, peered around the tree, and started toward the car seventy-five feet away.

"Louie, wait!" I hissed as I tried to stop her.

"Nobody's gonna see me! Besides, someone needs to call him out on dis, ya know?" Louie huffed back at me, her Jersey accent surfacing. She was at the chamisa bushes on the edge of the client's property and started to climb the fence.

I had to stop her. I knew both Louie and Liz Burzachiello were passionate about their beliefs, as was I, but this wasn't the time or place to make a show of it. Besides, the car was on someone else's property. Liz was nowhere in sight so I ran after Louie. She'd reached the side of the first building when, out of breath, I caught up with her.

"Louie, come on! Really, this isn't the place to do this!" I said in a loud whisper.

"If he—gah! What's that smell?" she asked as she grabbed my arm, her other hand going up to her mouth.

The strong smell of ammonia overwhelmed me, and I instinctively looked down to see if we were standing in a big litter box.

Close behind me I heard a loud and gruff voice growl something in Spanish. I jumped, and wheeled around to see a small and wiry Hispanic man right behind us, pointing a black assault weapon at the two of us.

He cocked it sideways like I'd seen in gangsta videos. Louie and I froze. He said something else in Spanish, but seeing that we didn't understand, pushed us down on the ground next to the side of the building. Keeping the gun pointing at us, he talked into a walkie-talkie, gesturing at us, and looking toward the other buildings. He seemed young and nervous. Right then I saw Liz in the trees on the far side of the lot where she'd last seen us, and I knew she had seen what had just happened. More importantly, the guy with the gun hadn't seen her; he was still looking at the building's main door.

I could see that Liz was frantic. Frankly, so was I. But, keeping my eye on the guy with the walkie-talkie, I discretely gestured to her to run, to go for help. Still looking at the guy, I tried to slowly put my hand up to my ear in the "phone" position without being noticed. I didn't succeed. Louie saw my gesture, and looked over to where Liz was hiding in the trees. Louie struggled to stand up, but I put a restraining hand on her and said in a whisper, "Don't look at her, Louie! We don't want him to see her. Just sit here. Liz has gotta go for help."

In the trees Liz made a sign that Louie discretely affirmed, and then Louie settled on the ground again just as the guy glanced over at us. He jerked his gun at us to make sure we knew he meant business, but he kept watch on the main door, as if he was waiting for someone. He hadn't seen Liz, and she had now vanished in the trees.

"What are we going to do?" asked Louie, her whisper trembling.

"It's going to be okay, Louie," I whispered back as I tried to convince myself of the same thing. "Liz is going for help. We'll think of something. Maybe it's all a mistake, I mean, we haven't done anything. Maybe we can play innocent."

"Innocent? He doesn't look like he cares about innocence or not!" Louie hissed as she glanced at our guard who was now looking across the lot. I was glad that Liz had gone before she was seen.

"God, that smell! A meth lab? Gotta be something. The guy's reacting like something illegal's happening here. But he doesn't know we know. Maybe he'll just try to scare us to make us get out of here," I said, drawing in part on wishful thinking. Louie just shook her head, and we sat in silence. I could feel the cold ground we were sitting on permeate a stiff chill up my spine.

" _Issst_!" I heard close by behind us, around the corner of the building. It was Liz, out of sight from our guard. She was supposed to be going for help, not getting herself caught with the two of us! I whispered to Louie to watch the guard who was now standing about twenty-five feet away, watching the front entrance with occasional nervous glances at us. I slowly inched backward toward Liz.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed at her when I got closer.

"I want to change myself out for Louie! Come on, Lily, nobody can tell us apart. Send Louie for help, I'll stay here with you," she whispered.

I thought about it for a moment but remembered some of the tales Liz told about Louie's utter lack of a sense of direction. She'd never find her way out to find cell reception or even be able to tell others where we were. I reminded Liz of her stories.

"I know, I know! But maybe she could just follow the road back? At least she'd be safe!"

"Liz, I'll keep her safe, I'll figure something out. But you've gotta get out of here _now_! Get to where there's reception, or a land line, and call 911. Do you know where we are?"

"Yeah, more or less. I could meet them at the road and bring them in."

"Then go _now_! Take my keys, and use my car to get out of here," I whispered as I slowly reached into my inner jacket pocket. I stopped as the guard glanced at us, still not seeing Liz now hidden around the corner. I looked blankly ahead, trying not to show anything on my face. He looked back the other way.

"No!" Liz whispered, poking her head from around the corner. "You guys might need it, you know, if you can get away." She was tearing up, and I feared I might also.

"Liz, go! We'll be okay," I whispered back. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Liz Burzachiello reached around the corner to give her sister an affectionate jab in the back and then slid back into the trees. Louie glanced over her shoulder, tears in her eyes, and whispered, "Bye, Lizzy."

My mind racing, I sat with Louie on the ground and we both watched our guard pace in front of the building. I couldn't really get a grasp on any plan of action, and Louie was nervously playing with her jacket zipper, looking scared. I saw the guard say something in his walkie-talkie and then he motioned for us to stand up. He looked cold and nervous as he raised his gun at us. " _Vamos_! That way!"

We stood up and moved along side of the building the guard gestured toward with his gun. My mind was now blank with fear and I struggled to keep myself calm. Louie didn't look any better.

The main door banged open, and out stepped Barry Correda.

But now he'd dropped his pretty boy façade completely. He was Momo Morgan, looking like a rough hood in need of some personal hygiene—dirty t-shirt, pants hanging absurdly low on his hips, days old beard, and gummy-looking hair. He stopped when he saw me and sneered, "What da fuck?" He gripped my jacket and shoved me toward the door, his gun at my head.

He turned to Louie and snarled, "I recognize you, too, you bitch! You spied on us!" He banged the side of the building with his gun, and then obscenely grabbed his crotch, turning to yell something angrily in Spanish at our guard. Barry cuffed him on the side of his head and shoved him away.

"Inside!" Barry Correda shouted, and pushed us into the building and slammed the door. We stumbled into a large cold room with boxes stacked along the walls, and Barry shoved us back against one of the crates with his gun. The smell was overwhelming, and there was an unrelenting assault of loud rap music beating down on us. Barry called on his walkie-talkie and then paced along the far wall. I muttered an aside to Louie, "Just remember he thinks you're Liz."

"Shut the fuck up!" Barry Correda screamed at us.

From a side door in came the guy who was unfortunately familiar as the cretin Barry was talking to at Binder Enterprises when Liz Burzachiello and I pulled the speaker phone trick.

"Ya think, Eddie?" Barry pointed to Louie Burzachiello. "Recognize her, too?"

"Yeah, she's this one's fuckin' little sidekick," Eddie said, poking his gun into my shoulder as he turned to Barry. "I guess this one's too old to do things herself, or somethin', so's the little short one is always with her. The two of 'em here saves me having to go look for one of 'em. Don't know what they're doing here. Don't matter, though, 'cause they're dead meat." He pulled his trucker hat down lower on his forehead, and gave me a nasty grin full of bad teeth and foul breath.

How did this guy know who we were, what we did? I wondered. He walked over to Barry and they stood talking together when the door banged open again.

"Hey, Correda, when is—what is _she_ doing here?" Phil Binder entered the room, and stopped when he saw Louie and me.

Glaring at me he said, "What are you doing here?"

He shouted at Barry, "You said she was a nobody! What is she even doing here?" His face was sweating, and he rubbed his hands through his hair.

He turned back to me, his crisply ironed pin-striped shirt, pressed chino pants, and tasseled loafers looking very out of place in a cold, dirty warehouse that smelled like cat pee. "You've screwed everything up! Now—now we're going to have to take care of you!"

I didn't think he meant that in a good way. He went to stand with Barry and Eddie, and started whispering and gesturing wildly. Eddie came back over to us and said, "We're moving! Get the fuck outside." He stopped us and asked Barry, "Did you check 'em for cell phones? We don't want 'em trying anything funny with phones." He jerked his gun at us.

Louie hesitated, but then pulled hers out of her pants pocket and tossed it on the floor. I told him I didn't have a phone, and he roughly checked to see if I was telling the truth. Mine was still in the car, but that felt like a hollow victory at this point. He shoved us out of the building and toward the Mercedes. Barry Correda and Phil Binder followed, arguing.

Barry came up from behind me and sneered, "Where's yer car? I know ya didn't walk here, ya fat bitch." Then he tripped me, slapping me to the ground. I hit it hard.

All of a sudden I was calm. Things right for that moment seemed to be in slow motion.

* * *

In my early twenties, I'd ignorantly gone tubing in the Poudre River at high flood, trying to impress some guys I was hanging out with. They soon got out, terrified by the height and power of the flood, but by that time I'd lost my tube and washed past them. I panicked as the crush of the river pounded me into rocks that cracked bones, and I was seconds from drowning in the angry, icy rush of water. Suddenly, my head was quiet, things slowed down. I had a clear resolve that I wasn't ready to die, and I was fighting to the end. I knew what to do, knew how to survive, and was determined to do it.

That was what I was feeling at that moment, there on the cold ground, on my hands and knees in front of Barry Correda. I was determined to survive. I didn't know what to do, but I was determined that Louie and I would survive. Barry Correda was there to make sure we didn't.

I got up stiffly, and looked the bastard in the eye; and then motioned through the trees to where I'd parked the car. Eddie shoved Louie in the back seat of the Mercedes, and Phil Binder got in the driver's seat. "Meet us at the road," he said.

Barry bumped his gun in my back and pushed me off through the trees. I was glad now that Liz hadn't taken the car or he would have known that another person was with us. That was probably the least of my worries, I thought, as we reached the clearing.

I worried that Liz wouldn't know that we'd been moved or how to find us once, or if, she got through to 911. I didn't know how long it would take her to find a neighboring house, or if they'd be home, or how much farther she'd have to go for cell reception, or anything else.

I took a deep breath. Liz Burzachiello was a marathoner, fit and determined. She was the best one to go for help, and I believed in her. The idea of leaving a clue had popped in my head, but I didn't know where we were going, so how to leave a clue? What clue did I have anyway? It would have been a miracle if I had been able to do that, but no miracles were happening right then, so I tried to keep my attention on what was going on before me. I was worrying about a lot of things, and that didn't help me stay calm.

"You drive," Barry Correda demanded, and walked around to the passenger side.

I got in, and as I reached for the jacket piled on the passenger seat, I saw my phone underneath. I grabbed both of them with the jacket on top, the phone out of sight, and shoved them on the floor at my feet. Barry got in, pointed the gun at me and grunted, "Drive."

I turned on the engine and the stereo came on, blasting the ABBA album I'd been listening to in town. Barry screamed angrily, "Whaddup wid dat shit?" and started pounding on the dashboard for the reject button. Cursing loudly, he yanked the CD out of the player, kicked open the door, and threw the disc out into the woods. "That is the worst fuckin'crap in the fuckin' universe!" he howled out the open door into the empty forest.

I used his distracted moments to reach down on the floor next to the seat, turn on my phone under my jacket, and flip off the volume. I didn't want any calls to ring in when we reached cell coverage again. At least the phone would be ready when I could use it. Besides, I'd just remembered something, and needed the phone on.

Barry Correda pounded the CD player one more time. "Drive, bitch!" he shouted and kicked the dashboard. "I shoulda popped you when I had da chance!"

We drove out on the track we came in on, past the client's house, and Wanda still sitting there, through the gates and onto the road. Phil and Eddie were waiting for us, and I was relieved that I could see the top of Louie Burzachiello's head from the floor of the back seat.

I turned to Barry and said, "Look, why don't you let her go? She doesn't know where she is, she doesn't know who you are. She doesn't know anything. Just let her go. I'll go with you, wherever you want."

Barry slapped me with the back of his hand. "Whadya think, I'm fuckin' stupid?" he sneered. He looked over at the Mercedes and motioned for them to follow.

Barry scrunched down in the seat. "I know there's security cameras on this fuckin' road. It's amazing the things those fuckin' neighbors tell real estate agents. So I'm staying down here with this gun on yer face, bitch. I won't be seen, and there'll be nothin' linkin' me to you here."

Apparently he hadn't passed that information along to Phil and Eddie who were tailgating me on the dusty road. "Metal it!" he said. I didn't know what he meant and looked at him, I hoped, stupidly.

"Metal it! Like, pedal to the metal? Bitch! Get some speed on! I don't got all day!" So I stepped on it with Eddie and Phil close behind.

"Barry, uh, this—"

"How many times do I hafta tell you to shut the fuck up? Jesus! I never shoulda talked to you in the first place! You're a fuckin' liar, and I never shoulda believed yer little stories!" he spewed out.

I didn't think it was the right time to confront him about the hypocrisy of that statement. "Maybe if—" I tried again.

"If ya say another fuckin' word, I'll have 'em hurt yer little friend back there. Got it? Shuddup!"

So we drove in silence. Once we were onto a marked forest road Barry sat up in the passenger seat, and kept his gun pointed at me. We turned south on Stove Prairie Road and headed toward Masonville. The sun was just setting, but I could still see the layered red sandstone cliffs that indicated to me as we passed that we were on the back side of Horsetooth Reservoir. Somehow, focusing on the landscape helped me stay calm.

We continued south and east around Horsetooth, and then through the edge of town. Soon we were out in the eastern plains and it was full dark. Once on dirt roads Barry Correda snarled directions at me now and then, and seemed content to play games on his phone and honk loogies on my floor mat.

But his gun lay like a cold black snake in his lap, ready for me anytime.

## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After many miles of driving we passed over a set of railroad tracks and Barry Correda had me pull off the dirt road into a graveled yard next to a white metal building. I couldn't see much in the dark, just shapes looming out of the deep shadows cast by the security light.

Phil Binder's Mercedes pulled in shortly after us, and Eddie got out and grabbed Louie in the back seat. Barry hopped out of my car and crossed in front of the hood, his gun on me the whole time through the windshield. But he couldn't see me reaching for the phone on the floor and cramming it in my jacket pocket before he reached the side of the car.

Barry reached in for the keys, and then pulled me out. I struggled into my jacket as he shouted profanities at me and then pushed me toward a door on the side of the building that Phil Binder was unlocking. Phil turned on a set of arc lights inside and Barry roughly shoved Louie and me in the door and across a stained concrete floor. I was getting tired of being shoved.

The building looked liked it hadn't been used in a while, with dirty junk piled up in corners and boxes stacked in haphazard groups, some knocked over with their contents spilling out onto the floor. Workbenches were piled with rusty tools, heaps of rags, discarded parts. The windows, high up on the walls, had been boarded up. In the dim, unlit part of the open space I could make out more cobwebby junk strewn about with 50-gallon drums lining the far walls. The air still had the sharp scent of oily dust. Louie Burzachiello and I stood close together by some wooden crates while Barry Correda, Eddie Scumbag, and Phil Binder stood by the back wall, talking and smoking.

"What are we gonna do?" asked Louie in a whisper.

"I don't know," I answered truthfully. "Are you okay? They didn't hurt you?"

"Those jackasses! No, I'm okay. But I was getting a little car sick from having to sit on the floor of the car, and from having to _smell_ that Eddie jerk! Gag! And the Metallica crap they were playing at _ear_ _splitting_ levels was enough to make me—"

"Louie!" I interrupted. "We gotta focus. The plan I have right now is to stall. We need time. Time to figure out how to get us out of here." I desperately needed to believe that I could do that. But Louie nodded, so I continued, "Let them do the talking. The less they think we know, the better chance we have. Don't respond to anything, okay?" She nodded again and we leaned back on one of the rough crates behind us, watching Barry and Eddie strut over to us. Phil Binder stayed next to the benches, trying to light a cigarette with nervous hands.

Eddie slid up to Louie and flipped her ball cap off her head. "I shoulda fuckin' messed you up the last time I saw you in town, bitch!" he sneered to impress the others as he thrust his face into hers.

Knowing he meant the threat for her twin, Louie, in the protector role, lunged at him, arms flailing. "Ya fawkin' aszhole!" she screamed, her Jersey accent rising with her fury.

Eddie backhanded her and knocked her down. "Shut up!" He reached for a roll of duct tape on a bench and tore off a piece. "Now you're gonna shut the fuck up! I had to listen to you all the fuckin' way down here, bitch!" He roughly pushed some of the tape over her mouth, and then haphazardly wrapped a piece around her wrists.

He held up the roll to Barry and asked, "Wanna tie up the old hag, too?"

"That fat old lady ain't goin' nowhere! Her ass is too big!" Barry said, and he and Eddie sniggered through their noses like school boys at Barry's clever observation. I was getting tired of the fat jokes. I was no longer a Skinny Jenny, but I wasn't a Ima Lardeaux either.

"But throw me the fuckin' tape. I might hafta—"

The lock on the side door clunked, and the door flew open. Cowboy Binder stumbled in, wearing a rumpled suit, no tie, and cowboy boots with low slung riding heels. He looked first at Phil, then at our group, and back to Phil. "What the hell is goin' on, Philly boy?" he yelled. Phil Binder looked stunned to see his father.

I was even more stunned to see Ernesto Mondragón appear in the doorway behind Cowboy Binder. Ernesto shoved him farther in the space. "Get over there, old man!

"I brought him as insurance, Phillip. To make sure you and I have a deal. You wouldn't want anything to happen to your poor old dada, now would you?" Ernesto Mondragón said with an imperious smile. He was in all black, even to his smooth ponytail, which contrasted with his colorless face. He looked just like the photo I'd seen at Andrea Brubaker's minus the spray-on tan.

Turning around he said, "Now where is Lily Raffenport?" but he stopped when he saw Barry Correda. He turned back to Phil Binder and said in a dead calm voice, "Ah. Phillip. Didn't you tell me. Correda. Was. Dead?"

Phil Binder looked like he was about to come unstrung. Even from across the room, I could see that he was heavily sweating and red in the face. "Well, yeah, Ernesto—uh—I wanted to talk to you about that. You know, he has those numbers and—well—uh—I know what I said but—you know—"

"No, I don't know, Phillip," Ernesto said, and pulled an automatic from his coat pocket.

Barry raised his gun, but Ernesto Mondragón was quicker, and pointed his gun at Barry Correda's head. Barry's assault weapon clattered to the floor, and Eddie took a step away from him.

Ernesto kicked the gun toward Phil and said, "Do it now. Kill him."

"'Nesto, wait, man! I'm yer home boy, not him! He's gonna fuckin' scam you, man, not me! I got me proof, I got the fuckin' texts on my phone! I'll prove it!" Barry Correda screamed.

"First of all, you're an idiot, Correda. You messed up," Ernesto said, smiling. Only the corners of his mouth turned up; the rest of his face didn't chime in. "Secondly, you tried to rip me off, and I really don't like that, bro. Didn't think I'd find out about the mountain lab, did you? Your friend Phil here told me the whole thing. Now he's going to see what happens when someone tries to screw me."

Ernesto Mondragón turned and gestured to the gun Phil Binder had awkwardly picked up in his hands. "Kill him. Or I shoot your daddy. You choose."

Phil fumbled with the gun, and I saw that he had wet himself.

Ernesto saw it, too, and sighed, "Christ!" He calmly turned and shot Barry Correda in the nuts. Barry screamed, grabbing his crotch and crumpling into a heap on the floor.

Ernesto turned his gun on the cretin Eddie and asked, "You got a problem with that?"

"No, man, no, I don't, no problem, you're the boss, always have been, I'm with you, Ernesto," Eddie sputtered out, giving Barry Correda, lying in a pool of blood, a kick just to show his allegiance.

Cowboy Binder howled at his son Phil, "You let these vermin into my company? What have you done? What is going on?"

Phil Binder didn't know who to be more afraid of, Ernesto or his father. Gathering up false courage he spat out, "Deal with it, old man! Yes, Ernesto and I have some business deals!" He glanced at Ernesto Mondragón who now looked bored.

Phil Binder rushed on. "You had it easy! The economy tanked! It wasn't my fault!" He sounded almost petulant. "You pushed me for profit, and there is no profit out there, damn it! Did you hear me? No! You just wanted to hear how much money we were making! You always gotta be the big deal! The big friggin' deal!"

Cowboy Binder looked furious. "What are you talking about? You said _you_ had big plans about how to sell properties! What about _your_ big ideas?"

"Yeah, I do have big ideas! _You_ haven't had a good idea since the Nixon administration! I'm bringing money in! I'm keeping Binder going!"

"Oh, but Phillip. You are remiss in telling your father your full role," Ernesto Mondragón smiled that fake smile. His flat black pupils looked dilated and empty, like a shark's. "You see, old man, your son has an affinity for, say, certain vices, and now he owes me quite a lot of money. I'm here to collect."

He smiled cruelly at Cowboy Binder. "Get used to it, old man. Your boy will give me controlling interest in Binder Enterprises. I'll use it as long as I need it, and then it'll be gone! Poof!"

Screaming, Cowboy Binder lunged at Ernesto, and Ernesto shot him. Cowboy staggered back into a pile of boxes holding his upper thigh. He turned pale and jerkily slid down to the floor in front of the boxes, slowly bleeding from his leg.

I turned to help him and Ernesto Mondragón said, "Stay where you are! I'm dealing with you next."

He walked over to where Barry Correda was lying curled up in a ball. Ernesto tapped him with his foot a couple of times, like a coyote playing with prey. Barry groaned and muttered something I couldn't hear. Ernesto Mondragón kicked him in reply, and turned back to me.

"I'm getting really tired of hearing about your interference in my affairs, bitch. Tired of hearing about you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. Tired of the extra work your nosiness is causing me. Tired of it, Lily. Tired of you."

He slowly paced in front of me, tapping his gun on his leg. "I had just arrived in Colorado when I got Phillip's call, letting me know that you had magically appeared at his doorstep. I was delighted! This makes it so easy." He smiled cordially, and he looked like he was truly delighted. I forgot for one-half second that he was there to kill me.

"Of course I'm getting you out of my way. But I want you to suffer first. That would please me, to have you suffer, and to watch it. What's the point otherwise, eh?" He smiled again. "Usually I destroy the things a person loves most right in front of his eyes," he said and jutted his chin toward Cowboy Binder and Barry Correda. "But you—you I have to be more creative with. Because you don't have anything. You don't have any money. Just some podunk business going nowhere in a nowhere town, or that hulk of a building you live in. So let's start with, say, your loved ones."

I started to open my mouth, and he slapped me. "You get to say nothing. Just listen to what's going to happen, and think about it in that wondrously imaginative, creative brain of yours. Don't you brag about it—your imagination—on your website? That was such valuable information. The very thing you're proud of will make you suffer. You'll be able to imagine every detail of pain. You'll be able to imagine the suffering, the deaths you'll cause." Ernesto Mondragón smiled with self-satisfaction. "Everyone in your life will revile your very memory. I want you to know that before you die."

"Look, whatever it is you want—" I said.

"Shut up. The show has begun. Shall I start with her?" he said as he turned his gun on Louie.

"No!"

He turned the gun back on me and said in an agreeable voice, "You're right. I'll use her later, as a bonus for Eddie over there."

Eddie leered at Louie, grabbed his crotch, and called out to Ernesto, " _El Jefe_!"

I started angrily toward Ernesto Mondragón, and he shoved me back with his gun. "Oh, don't try to be a hero. Don't make me hurt her now. That would spoil things, and it would be all your fault.

"No, I think I'll start with your dogs." He turned to Eddie. "You know where she lives. Go kill her dogs. Take that jug of antifreeze over there on the floor and poison them. It'll cause a lot of suffering before they die. If they're not there, go out to that Griffin bitch's ranch, and get them all."

I lunged at Ernesto, but he was ready and waiting for it. He shoved me hard back into wooden crates by the wall, and I heard boards crack as I hit. I almost blacked out from the pain. As I lay on the floor in a haze, Ernesto leaned down into my face and hissed, "I want you to hear this part, too. Eddie! Be sure to take a video of it on your phone, all the good parts, all the pain. I want her to watch it. Get going. It'll take you a while to get back into town, and I want this started _now_." Eddie headed out the door.

From the floor, I tried to kick the bastard Ernesto Mondragón, but he slapped me hard and kicked me away onto my injured side. A wave of pain reddened my vision. Louie tried to scream something behind her tape and Ernesto kicked her, too. Louie's eyes flashed hatred at him.

"Ernesto! Hey, man, I'm just gonna go now! I don't need to be here," Phil Binder called out as he slid toward the side door.

"Stay where you are. You're going to be using that gun, whether you like it or not, you coward," Ernesto growled.

"You're no son of mine!" Cowboy Binder screamed at Phil. "You're going to leave me here? You asshole! I knew you weren't good enough! I knew you were weak!" He pointed at Ernesto Mondragón and sneered, "What is he, a Frenchy? A foreigner? Or an A-rab? You dealing with an A-rab, Philly boy?"

"Shut up, you pitiful old man, or I'll shoot you again," Ernesto snarled, his voice full of hate. And then he crooned in a little boy's voice, "Besides, before you die, I want you to hear how you lost your company, and I got it. So let's start with you. Won't that be fun?" The change in tone sent chills down my back.

Cowboy Binder sat on the bloody floor breathing loudly, and glared at Phil who nervously watched Ernesto. Ernesto hitched up his black jeans slightly and sucked in his stomach, as if preparing to go on stage, before he started slowly pacing in front of us.

"You see, _Mister_ Binder, I realize now that your boy is an idiot, too. But I trusted _that_ Judas idiot over there who said he was gold." Ernesto strolled over to Barry Correda lying on the floor, and shot him in the leg this time. Barry screamed, and Phil flinched and ducked behind a crate.

"No one fucks with me, get it?" Ernesto said. I could only see Phillip Binder's sweating face, contorted with panic, peering around his box.

"But let me start at the beginning." He turned to smile at me. "This will interest you, too, bitch. What a fool you are, trying to _rescue_ poor Shannon's integrity." He spit out that last word. "Shannon helped us all along."

He couldn't make me believe that. I imagined that he could lie in all sorts of ways to make innocent people look bad, and deflect the attention away from his own misdeeds. Instead, I needed to concentrate on how to get us out of there. But how?

Ernesto Mondragón continued to slowly pace across the floor in front of us. My injured arm ached, so I put my hand into my jacket pocket as a kind of support for it, and felt my phone. Waiting until he was at the far end of the area, poking at boxes with his gun, I slipped the phone out of my pocket and peeped at it. No reception. I switched screens, turned on the video to record, put the phone on the floor beside me, tucked close to my leg out of sight. Ernesto turned back to us and continued in a proud and pompous voice.

"Real estate can be risky, can't it, Cowboy? Hadn't really tried it until I moved my business to New Mexico. Moved there for a variety of reasons, but the most lucrative one was the situation of your friend, Andrea Brubaker. Oh, what a ripe peach to pick. Poor Andrea desperately needed a lot of money; you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Cowboy? I just happened to have a lot of money and I needed a way to, shall we say, clean it up before I could use it to make even more. A match, wouldn't you say?" he said pleasantly, sounding like a courtly gentleman explaining an afternoon at the polo grounds.

"Andrea Brubaker is very gullible once you bed her, right, Cowboy?" Ernesto's nostrils flared in disgust. "Well, she was grateful, too, the old cow, and ultimately gave me complete access to Brubaker. Real estate was what I needed to expand my operations."

This was what I wanted to record on my phone. Hoping he would step nearer and tell all, I asked in what I hoped was a meek and pitiful voice, "What operations?"

"Do you need me to _explain_ it to you?" he sneered in unobscured contempt. I hoped he would, and he did.

Ernesto Mondragón arrived in New Mexico looking for a central place to store and distribute the Central American drugs he was bringing up from Mexico. He soon hooked up with Andrea Brubaker, who was looking for a savior, and was willing to look the other way, to save herself. Brubaker Properties had multiple large estates on the market with owners desperate to sell, and Andrea didn't ask questions about where Ernesto found "buyers" out of nowhere; she was making thousands in commissions. Ernesto learned that if the sellers had trouble with the "buyer's" very low-ball price, there were ways to get them to come around. Anglo owners were easily intimidated by senseless violence perpetrated on something they loved, especially if Mexican gang overtones were mixed in for effect. Ernesto Mondragón boasted that animals, children, and old people were easy targets, and found that with one little display of atrocity, the hold-outs sold quickly. He got the properties.

With several rural properties at his disposal, he got into the production of meth—where the money was—and needed a disposable labor force. Unwittingly, Shannon gave Barry the connections for it; she talked about the immigrant groups she'd worked with in southern New Mexico, and from there, Barry made contacts of his own across the border. Ernesto Mondragón was ready to expand.

He stopped his pacing in front of a grimy mirror over a rusty sink, and bent forward to check his reflection and dab at an eyebrow and sideburn. Satisfied, he turned back to us.

"Enter Phillip. Phillip loves our New Mexico casinos, old man! That's where he met Correda. He was in a jam, and needed a boatload of money to get him out of a situation with the cartel, who owned his markers. Poor boy. I loaned him the money to pay them back, but then, he couldn't pay me back a boatload of money either, so he became _my_ boy. Didn't you, Phillip? And Binder Enterprises comes with you. Because you're in this up to your cowardly neck." He smiled at Phillip. Cowboy Binder howled in anger beside me.

"Why did you involve Shannon?" I asked, hoping he was on a self-satisfied roll and would continue. I wanted to record as much as I could.

"As a cover for Correda, idiot. Correda had to work at Binder, but our boy Phillip had disappointed his daddy with previous hires of his cronies, so I had Andrea approach the old man to hire Shannon _and_ Correda as a favor to her, leaving Phillip out of it. Andrea she thought she'd get a spy in Binder with Shannon. And I knew that you, Cowboy, couldn't resist a chance to have Andrea Brubaker owe you a favor. You two deserve each other." He pointed his gun at Cowboy Binder, and I thought he was going to shoot him again, but he didn't. He spit on him instead.

Ernesto Mondragón turned back to me. "But Shannon got too involved in _Nueva_. She was only supposed to be a figurehead. She got too nosy, found things she shouldn't have found. And she _had_ to talk about it—you cows always have to _talk_ about it! She couldn't keep her mouth shut, so she had to be silenced. Easy enough to do—she was a nothing."

Ernesto leaned closer and whispered, "A nothing like you, bitch. And you'll be gotten rid of just as easily. You should have just let her die in obscurity. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into." He stood erect and walked along the workbenches on the wall, gingerly picking up a few pieces of junk before wiping his hand on his jeans. His foot slipped on something on the floor, and he jerked backwards. One hand flew to the top of his head, and he grabbed the table with the other. But he righted himself and concentrated his search among the castoffs on the bench.

On the floor next to me, Cowboy Binder bumped my foot and hissed in a low whisper, "Girlie! See that box on the wall behind you? Get over there." He slanted his eyes toward a book-sized square grey metal box affixed about four feet up on the wall. "It's a—"

"Ernesto! They're talking!" cried Phil from his safe surround of crates.

Ernesto looked at Phil Binder along the far wall, and shook his head. "God, you are such a wimp. What are you doing now, _tattling_?" Phil, hoping for a gold star from Ernesto Mondragón, looked humiliated instead. Phil had tied a jacket around his waist like an apron to hide his incontinence, and he looked ridiculous. Ernesto said, "Get over there and keep an eye on those two while I deal with the stupid dyke. If she tries anything, shoot her friend in the face."

Ernesto unearthed a dirty cup from the bench, grabbed a small sack he'd dropped by the side door, and strolled back over to me. I struggled to stand up and lean on the crates behind me because I wanted to face him eye to eye; I was tired of looking up at him. Behind me was the box on the wall, but I didn't know what to do about it.

He put the cup and sack on the box beside me, and from the sack pulled out a plastic baggie half-filled with what looked like dirty ice chunks, a bottle of water, and a syringe. "You've talked to too many people about what you know, so you have to be discredited before you die, just like Shannon. So discredited that no one will believe anything you might have told them." He dumped some water into the cup, swirled it around, and dumped it out. He dribbled some more water in the cup, and looked over at me.

"Those close to you will suffer too, just because they knew you. This stupid helper of yours. Betty Huckleston and her kids. Friends. Your niece," he said, smiling in enthusiasm. _How did he know all these people in my life?_ "You're going to sell them all out. You saw the scenario we created for Shannon. The mess we've created for you will be even better!" He almost clapped his hands together, but instead reached in the bag for a small chunk of the ice-like stuff, and dropped it in the cup.

"All the relationships you love the most are going to be shattered. They'll find out that you've lied to them all these years—you're still a drunk and an addict." _What was he talking about?_ "And after your hideous behavior, everyone will believe what will be found on your home computer, and what they see you doing." Ernesto Mondragón looked at me with eyes that were beginning to show emotion: the glint of enjoyment of cruelty. "That you're a cheat. A liar. A fraud. A thief. A deviate. A drunk. A traitor—"

"Go to hell, asshole! Anybody who knows me—"

"That's just it, idiot. They'll think they _don't_ know you, because now you're not just a drunk, you're a meth addict." He stuck the syringe into the dirty cup, pulled up some solution, and squirted a little out of the tip. _No, he's not going to do this!_ I looked around for anything I could use as a weapon. On a crate behind me was a metal can that looked heavy enough to do some damage.

Ernesto Mondragón watched me, reached for the can, and threw it across the room. "Don't try it. Unless you want me to carve her up first," he said, motioning at Louie. "Her time will come soon enough." She tried to kick out at him but hit the half-conscious Cowboy Binder on the floor beside her instead. Ernesto Mondragón laughed. "And that old man? I think I'll just drop him off at a crack house in Denver, and let him bleed to death there. That'll make a nice headline for him."

Ernesto Mondragón grabbed my left arm, and I struggled to free myself. He seized my throat in a death hold with his other hand. I couldn't breathe. My free hand clawed at the killing vise grip in vain. "Don't fight it, Lily. Hey, soon you'll be begging for it! _Begging_!" He laughed, but released my throat. As I gasped for breath, I saw a slip of white behind his ear, just under his hair.

Ernesto picked up the syringe and prepped the needle. "We kept Shannon out of sight for a month, but we can't do that with you. You know too many people. So you're going to stay here a few days. How many times do you think we'll need to shoot you up before your brain cooks? Your organs boil from the inside, and I get to watch! _You'll_ get to watch videos of your loved ones dying in all sorts of other ways. Yes, we'll have time for that. Who do you want to go first, Betty Huckleston? Or your niece?" He laughed, and seized my left arm again; it went numb in his painful grip.

"Then Eddie'll dump you in town, and you can live out your final depraved hours in front of everybody. We'll put you on YouTube. Your Facebook page will be quite explicit. Will you OD, or will you just be a schizophrenic who kills herself and others? That would be fun." He leaned in with the needle ready for a vein.

I yanked him closer with my arm in his grip, and with my other hand, grabbed his hair, and pulled off the wig of Ernesto Mondragón.

He screamed and both hands flew to his head. His bald pate was covered with a wig cap, and thus exposed, I could see he had on makeup and theatrical face strips behind his temples.

"You're nothing but an old woman!" Phil Binder crowed. "A faggy old woman!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Ernesto Mondragón grabbed the wig on the floor, and came up firing at Phil Binder.

Phil fell behind a table and shot at Ernesto. Ernesto clutched at me as he ducked and returned fire, but I yanked away and crashed into the wall behind me, and into the square box.

All hell broke loose.

Ear-splitting noise blasted from outside speakers that were loud enough to stun us inside, and I instinctively ducked down behind a crate, while Ernesto Mondragón and Phil Binder took pot shots at each other. A round of bullets started a sooty fire on the side wall that instantly filled the space with opaque, greasy smoke. The noise abruptly stopped.

Ernesto Mondragón and Phil Binder screamed at each other from opposite corners, ordering the other to put down his gun, give up, get out, go to hell. Under cover from the smoke, I grabbed Louie by the collar and spun her around so I could get her hands untied and the tape off her mouth. The blast of noise from the speakers started again.

We scootched between boxes along the wall toward the side door. Watching in case Ernesto or Phil appeared out of the smoke, I had Louie go first. Just as I got in the doorway I sensed something behind me. It was Cowboy Binder, who had tried to crawl on the floor toward us, but his injured leg was too much of a hindrance. I could see that he couldn't go any farther by himself. "Please! Help me," I could barely hear him plead over the noise.

Even though he was a bigot, I couldn't leave him. So, with the help of Louie, I dragged him on the floor toward the steel door, and then we propped him up and pulled him into the bright arc of the security lights outside. I knew we had to get into the darkness so we wouldn't be seen, and I looked around to get my bearings.

There wasn't much in the yard except a series of huge wooden containers lined up at the edge of the gravel area, just out of the arc of light, with the railroad tracks just beyond. My car was on the other side of the building, and Barry had taken the keys. Phil's car was over there, too; but he had used his keys to get in the building. I saw a battered pickup truck pulled up on the side of one of the containers, haphazardly parked, and pointed to it. Cowboy Binder said, "Yeah, it's mine. No keys in it. That bastard took 'em." That was about all he could get out as he gasped for breath. I could see that his leg wound had started bleeding again.

"Come on, Louie, help me with him. Cowboy, can you walk a little? Let's get over and hide behind one of those crates." Louie and I helped Cowboy Binder down the side of the building in the deep cold shadows toward the row of shipping containers.

The screeching overhead sirens suddenly stopped, and very loud polka music started gushing out of the speakers, washing over the whole area. I didn't really know what to think.

The door behind us banged open and Phil Binder bolted out, randomly firing an assault weapon into the building behind him. He screamed something incomprehensible over his shoulder and raced around the far side of the building. He hadn't seen us, or if he had, he wasn't stopping to lend a hand. I heard gunshots from the other side of the building, and then a car started up with a howling engine, spun out on the gravel, and screeched onto the road. Then silence. The polka music blared out again.

Louie and I helped Cowboy Binder through the shadows to the first container. I hoped we could hide until I could send Louie to find a farmhouse to call for help. My original plan was that we both could make a run for it, but I knew I needed to get Cowboy, who couldn't walk more than a few yards at a time, to a safe hiding place first. As we moved stealthily from container to container, there were two rounds of gunfire from within the building, and the polka music abruptly halted. The side door swung open, but no one came out. In the silence, time seemed to stop.

We crouched down on the side of a container. "Thank god that noise stopped!" Louie hissed as she shivered in the cold. "What the hell was that?"

"My last good idea from the Nixon administration!" Cowboy softly coughed with a touch of humor. "Vietnam... damn hippies thought we had napalm stored in that building. They were gonna blockade the road, stop trucks. Only legal way I had to get rid of them, keep 'em off my property, was with this here music deterrent. Experts especially advised the polka music. Turn it on and nobody wants to stick around."

Cowboy Binder continued in a low voice, "When you bumped that box on the wall, girlie, that was the switch to turn it on. All you had to do was hit it to make a lot of noise. Never had to use it before, but those damn hippies—"

Louie Burzachiello opened her mouth to argue the liberal point of view, I was sure, with Cowboy Binder, but I grabbed her arm to keep her quiet. Besides, I had a feeling that I could have been one of those Vietnam-era hippie protesters myself, but I kept my mouth shut, too. This was not the time to debate politics.

A round of random automatic fire spewed out of the open door of the building, and as I peeked around the rough wooden side of the crate, I saw Ernesto slide out of the opening and clumsily jump behind an old engine on blocks set up next to the building. Damn, I would have preferred the inept Phil Binder still here, with Ernesto Mondragón fleeing in the car we heard, but it was the other way around.

Ernesto Mondragón fired into the huge shipping containers at the far end, saturating each with multiple rounds that shattered the wood into small sharp bits. I realized that he knew these were the only hiding places close by, at least close enough for Cowboy to get to with his wounds. And I realized that he was going to go down the row, ripping bullets into each one until he found us.

He stopped firing, and I heard him call out in the incongruous, eerily cheerful little boy voice, "Come on, you campers! Are we ready for a fun time? I'm coming to find you!"

## CHAPTER NINETEEN

We had to get out of there, but I didn't know where to go. Behind the building and beyond looked like flat, featureless farm land, at least in the cloudy dark. The moon was partly obscured behind a bank of clouds running west to east over us. At the west end of the lot was the steep railroad embankment for the tracks we'd crossed over in the car, and I didn't know if the bleeding Cowboy could make it up it with enough alacrity that Ernesto Mondragón wouldn't pick us off like slow moving ducks in a shooting gallery. That left hoofing it across bare, frozen fields, and I didn't think Cowboy could do that, either. Ernesto made the decision for me as he moved, still in shadow, to the bare-fields end of the lot. He'd probably made the same conclusions that I had made, and he was going to herd us into the embankment where we'd be trapped in a shooting gallery for sure.

As Ernesto Mondragón continued ripping apart the crates with his bursts of gunfire, we had no choice but to move toward the embankment as we hid behind the shipping containers. As we scurried past Cowboy's pickup parked beside a container that looked like it had partially burned, a woozy Cowboy muttered, "Wait. Gun. I have... a gun."

"What? You've had a gun all this time, and are just now saying something?" I hissed.

"No. In the truck... under the seat. I couldn't get to it... when that bastard hijacked me," Cowboy panted.

I looked over the bed of the truck and saw Ernesto Mondragón with his back toward us, checking out the dark, windswept fields to the east. I crept down the truck's side, quietly opened the cab door, and felt under the driver's seat. I did indeed pull out cold steel, in the form of a Smith and Wesson six shooter. That fits, I thought.

"It's loaded. Do you know how to shoot, girlie?" asked Cowboy.

I nodded, though I wasn't too comforted by the fact there were only six rounds in the chamber, and Ernesto had an insane amount of rounds for his people-killer assault weapon. "Any more ammo?" I whispered.

Cowboy Binder shook his head. "Well, I'll have to make this work," I said. I'd never used an automatic anyway, so I was more comfortable with the revolver when it came right down to it. It felt heavy and powerful in my hand, and I knew that a .45 bullet could do a lot of damage.

"Louie, you've gotta help Cowboy while I try to hold Ernesto off. Get him over to that pile of junk over there by the embankment. I'll cover you," I said, though, even in that situation, I felt a little foolish saying those words.

Unfortunately, they applied. "I'll follow you, and we'll get Cowboy up that embankment and over the tracks to the other side. We've gotta do it so Ernesto doesn't see us! Maybe there's something on the other side. At least it'll buy us time." I helped her put Cowboy's arm over her shoulders for support. "Wait until I give you the signal to go." As if to punctuate my decision, I could hear a train in the distance.

Ernesto Mondragón finished blasting another crate. He was four containers from us when he called out irritably, "Come, on, bitch! Face it, you're done. You have no place to go. Besides, it going to be light soon, and then you'll have no place to hide. If you come out now, I promise that I'll kill the other two quickly instead of torturing them in front of you. I'm cold! I'm tired of playing this game!"

After silence on my part, he pouted, "Time's up! You die!"

"Stay back! I have a gun!" I yelled from behind the crate.

"What? You think I'm stupid? If you had a gun you would have used it!" he yelled. I could hear the gravel crunch under his feet as he started toward us.

I took the chance to peer around the crate, cocked, and fired one shot that hit the ground in front of him, just missing his foot. I gave the signal to Louie to move. Ernesto jumped back in surprised rage, and hid behind a crate. He spewed off another burst of fire, but I didn't hear it hitting any place close to us. I waited until I saw him peep his head around the corner and I fired again, splintering the crate next to where his now-vanished face had been. My aim was getting better, and Ernesto screamed his fury. I ran to join Louie and Cowboy behind the junk pile in the dark, and in the near distance I could hear the train pounding toward us.

Ernesto shot up the next container, and I knew he was going to be able to spot us if he got any closer. I quickly fired another shot towards him, scaring him back behind a hiding place. But with that shot I knew he was going to be able to pinpoint where we were in the dark, so it was time to move.

"Let's go! Louie, no matter what, just keep going up that slope. We gotta get up and over!" I panted as I grabbed Cowboy's arm.

"But there's a train coming!" Louie said in a terrified voice, but she put Cowboy's other arm over her shoulder, and we started up the hill.

The train was getting closer, and I was almost blinded by the three-beam headlights harshly spotlighting the tracks above us. I still thought we could make it. Cowboy Binder helped us as much as he could, but he was heavy and seemed to stumble on every stub of grass. I kept turning around to watch for Ernesto because now that we were on the slope, we were exposed, and I couldn't give him a chance to pick us off. I was panting so hard I couldn't keep my hands steady, but I turned and fired another round toward the direction of his hiding place, and kept going.

When I turned, I saw, in the far distance, tiny blips of lights, strung out on the county road, coming our way. The cavalry, I powerfully hoped. But they were a long way away, and I feared that they wouldn't get to us in time for a rescue; Ernesto Mondragón could kill us all and be gone in a few minutes. The train whistle now blasted a shrill warning that deafened me.

I turned again, and saw Ernesto standing in the gravel yard beside the last crate, swinging his gun upwards toward us. I fired another wild shot at him, but could do no more as we had but seconds to get across the tracks in front of the train, now pounding at eighty miles an hour towards us. Louie and I pushed and pulled Cowboy Binder to the other side just as the train thundered past us and its rush of air and power knocked the three of us down the other side. The piercing whistle doppelgangered past us.

With the train roaring above us we gingerly checked for injuries, and then Louie and I helped Cowboy over to the side of a tall metal signal box. I thought we could hide there until I spotted something better. I looked around for neighboring farmsteads, but only saw security lights miles away. I sat back against the cold metal. I had one bullet left, and that one was for Ernesto Mondragón. When the train went past and he saw we were no longer near the embankment, he'd follow us over it. When he found us, I was determined to have a final stand. I'd let him get close, and then I'd shoot the bastard and I would kill him. I seethed with so much hatred for him that I could barely catch my breath. I knew I needed to concentrate on the present moment and bring my attention to that instead, so I tried to calm down my racing heart.

We sat in the cold dark listening to the train. Louie Burzachiello leaned into me and half shouted, "That was some shootin', Lily! Where'd you learn how to do that?"

"At camp!" I yelled back. "Girls' camp in Minnesota... in high school." I half smiled. "I even qualified for the NRA's Marksman First Class."

"You're a member of the NRA?" Louie Burzachiello cried incredulously, ready to argue.

"Save it, Louie, please! No, I'm not a member of the NRA. Had to join way back then to get a rating, that's all. Sometimes I used to target shoot with my brother and his handguns, too." Cowboy Binder had perked up at the mention of the NRA and guns, but soon went back to his own disturbed reverie.

It was a very long coal train out of Wyoming. Hopper car after car went past us, and I could just see the rounded loads of the filled cars. Sitting there, I could faintly smell horse manure, even in the cold. Thinking maybe there was a corral nearby, I crawled around the signal box, and peered in the dark, barely picking out the darker shapes of a few horses about fifty feet away on the other side of a barbed wire fence. Could we use the horses to transport the injured Cowboy, and ourselves, out of there?

Louie had crawled around the box with me, and I turned to her in the cold dark. "Do you think we could get Cowboy up on a horse? We'd have to push him up; he's pretty weak."

"Yeah, but horses? How are we gonna catch 'em? Or ride 'em? Do they even have those things around their necks, those things you need to guide them?"

"Bridles."

"Yeah, bridles. Or saddles. How we gonna do that?" she asked.

Louie did have points, but they seemed moot, since even with a huge struggle we couldn't get the dead weight of the semiconscious Cowboy Binder off the ground, much less up on a horse. As Louie and I leaned back against the cold metal of the signal box, trying to catch our breath, I told her that she should go, and get help. We'd catch a horse, I'd make a bridle kind of thing out of my jacket, and she could take off towards one of the farmstead lights we saw in the far distance. I'd stay with Cowboy, and wait for Ernesto. At first, Louie had all sorts of reasons that I should go, but then she stopped herself, and shook her head.

"I'll do it," she said, even as I could hear her voice tremble in fear. "You gotta catch it for me, but I'll do it. I'll go for help. How do I—" The loud clatter of the train suddenly diminished, and then was gone.

We'd run out of time.

There wasn't time for more talk, so Louie and I tucked ourselves behind the signal box with Cowboy Binder, and I double checked the revolver. One more round. I strained my eyes in the dark, so I could spot the scumbag Ernesto Mondragón the second he came over the hill to kill us.

As my ears adjusted to the absence of the train, I began to hear sounds on the other side of the embankment. I heard a range of noises that sounded like it was from a number of people and vehicles, so I climbed up and peeked over the top of the embankment.

Yessiree, thank you all that is good in the world, it _was_ the cavalry. In fact, it was Henry Wade, who I could see with a bullhorn, standing beside a vehicle with flashing lights, and directing men from a dozen cars. Henry spotted me waving from the embankment, and soon cars and rescue vehicles were on our side of the tracks, tending to our physical wounds. As Cowboy Binder and Louie were being helped, I quickly found Henry in the mass of rescue workers and told him about Ernesto's threats to my niece Haley and Betty Huckleston's family, and that Ernesto sent Eddie to kill my dogs, and maybe Carol Griffin and Marjo Catanya.

"Eddie knows where I live, Henry, and I'm afraid he's had time to get into town! Please, send somebody to stop him!" The heavy burden of guilt that I was responsible for all of it, all the misery Ernesto promised, bore down on me. Henry Wade miked something official sounding into his walkie-talkie, and then assured me that an officer in town was on the way. All I could do was wait.

Liz Burzachiello had been picked up in the mountains hours before, and would soon be there in a squad car. Though I was still worried about everything else, that news made me feel truly grateful and happy.

As we sat in the back of the ambulance and the EMT worked on Cowboy Binder's leg wound, Cowboy reached out to shake hands with Henry Wade. "Good job gettin' here when you did, Agent Wade. That bastard was goin' to kill us." I could tell Cowboy Binder wanted to focus on Ernesto Mondragón rather than the deeds of, and betrayal by, his own son.

Henry smiled and said, "Well, Lily had a lot to do with that." Cowboy looked confused and Henry continued, "After we got the 911 call from Liz about Lily and Louie being kidnapped, we tracked them here by the GPS on Lily's phone. We lost positioning once you got in one of these no-reception areas here, but from our research on Binder facilities, we knew there were a couple of old warehouses out here, not used for decades. Since you were in the vicinity, seemed probable that you were headed toward one of 'em. I sent units to the other ones, too, just in case I guessed wrong." Henry Wade looked like he didn't guess wrong on many occasions.

Henry turned to me. "We found Correda inside. Dead. Who else was there besides Phil Binder, and I'll bet, Mondragón? There's nobody on the premises now." I briefly told him what had happened, knowing that he'd get a much more detailed version from all of us later. I remembered that my cell phone was still in the building, and that I hoped that it had recorded at least some of Ernesto's hideous and boastful admissions to murder and mayhem before the battery had worn down. Henry nodded and turned to tell one of his guys to double check the floors of the building for the phone. Louie Burzachiello looked at me with her mouth open, speechless for once.

Cowboy's pickup was gone, so it was clear how Ernesto Mondragón took off before the cops could get there. Henry said there was an APB out for him, now with a description the truck. It seemed that Ernesto Mondragón's feral instinct had allowed him to slip away into the darkness—even as the cops were bearing down on him—moments away from being caught.

Cowboy Binder, Louie Burzachiello, and I sat bundled in blankets in the back of the ambulance when a state patrol car skidded up with Liz in the back seat. Louie jumped out of the ambulance and ran toward her sister, her blanket dropping to the ground as she joyously hugged her twin. Liz picked up the blanket and tenderly pulled it around Louie's shoulders as she hustled her back to the shelter of the patrol car. Liz turned to wave at me and gave a thumbs-up, which I returned with a big smile.

As Cowboy and I sat quietly talking in the ambulance, Henry returned with a smile on his face and said, "The dogs are okay!" I started crying in my sense of relief.

He continued, with a grin on his face, "Turns out they didn't need us."

I looked at him, not having a clue to what he meant.

"I just got the report back. The perp, Eddie Johnson, has already spilled the whole thing to Officer Ryan in town. Johnson did get to your house, but he was stupid. Of course he was stupid; he's a con! He thought he'd be smart, though, and sneak over the fence. He started climbing it, but the Little One, I guess she was _outside_ the fence, snuck up behind him and bit him." _Because Patsy was impatient, she'd dug out, and was waiting for me._ "Your Chow showed up on the other side of the fence, and the perp was stuck between them, high and dry. He'd dropped his weapon when Little One took a bite outta his butt."

Henry Wade was enjoying himself telling the tale. "The dogs were barking like they were defending Fort Knox, and your neighbor, the night watchman at the feed store, heard them. After calling for reinforcements, he went over to your place with another neighbor, who showed up with a shotgun. That's about when Officer Ryan arrived on the scene—because of the neighbor's 911 call—and got the situation under control. I guess the perp was beggin' Ryan to keep the dogs away from him, 'cause Little One was still trying to get at him. Wish I could of seen it!"

He smiled at me and said, "Guess the officer had a time trying to keep your neighbor Vicki Sinclair from shooting Eddie Johnson. She claimed she'd just nick him in his privates. Guess she's a feisty little firebrand!" Henry Wade smiled again, as did I, knowing how lucky I was to have all my friends.

I felt like I could relax, finally—it was over. Ernesto Mondragón had vanished, but I was sure Henry Wade was not far behind on his trail. I was just really bone tired, and my injured arm hurt; I'd also wrenched my knee sliding down the train embankment. I felt my age, and beat up, raked over. The EMT had given me a pain killer that was just beginning to take effect.

It was a long time before things were wrapped up enough at the scene that we could go. Henry offered to drive me home, and I dozed most of the way; we arrived around dawn, a fiery winter sunrise brightening the eastern sky. To my surprise, my whole house was lit up. When we drove up into the drive, Isabelle McWilliams and other friends were on the front porch to meet me. I felt a wave of love for all of them.

Vicki Sinclair was sitting on the steps with Marjo Catanya, smoking a cigarette, and she stood to give me a hug when I got out of the car. I thanked her for her rescue of the dogs, and she nodded, her eyes filled with tears. "I wanted to be here when you got home. Just wanted to make sure that you were all right, hon."

Perry Davis and Denise Robicheaux helped me in and onto the couch as Isabelle fussed around me, offering every kind of food and drink imaginable. She said Liz had called her on her way down from the mountains, and told her everything that had happened. Isabelle had called Carol and Marjo, and Marjo had called Perry, and Perry had called others. They were all there to help, and in the hours they had spent waiting for me, they'd baked and cooked, done laundry, put fresh sheets on the bed, played with Patsy and Pecos.

Denise opened the back door and in rushed the joyous dogs, looking happy at being the center of attention, and having me home again. I buried my face in their scruffs and murmured my thankfulness that they were okay. Patsy allowed herself to be fussed over by the group regaling each other with tales of her cunning and bravery. Pecos stayed close by my side, content with just my affection.

Jacked up on coffee, the whole group eagerly wanted to discuss the night's happenings, but even as numerous theories and guesses were being bandied about, it was soon time for the detectives to go home. I promised the gang that after a few days, and perhaps a chance to talk to Henry Wade, that I'd have them all back over for the wrap-up, the big reveal. I didn't know if there was going to be a wrap-up or not from Henry, but I needed some rest, and had to suggest that the group reconvene later.

"I thought maybe I'd stay, and help you out, Lily," Isabelle said as an aside to me. "What do you think?" Some of the others had already started milling around picking up glasses and cups, putting on coats, and wishing each other good-bye.

My mouth ran before my mind, and I said quietly, "Sure! I could—"

Marjo, still at the kitchen sink rinsing dishes, called over her shoulder, "Oh, _mija_ , you _do_ need someone to stay here with you!" The woman must have the hearing of a bat. "With all that's happened? I think I should stay, too. You're pretty bunged up; you can barely walk. Isabelle will need help, don't you think, Isa?" she asked, turning to Isabelle.

Carol chimed in, "Let us help you out, Lily. I'd feel better if we stayed. Somebody's going to need to go to the store for you, and—"

"Darlin', should we stay, too? We could if yall need us." Denise stopped putting on her faux fur coat, and Perry paused at the front door.

" _Who's_ stayin'?" asked Vicki, popping her head back inside. "I could run over to the Ham and bring you guys back some breakfast, if you'd like."

This was going to be circus. _What was I thinking?_ "Thanks so much—everybody—but you _all_ don't need to stay. I really appreciate your offers to help, but only—"

"Oh, don't get all tough and brave on us, Lily! I think Isabelle and I should stay and help you, and that's all there is to it. Carol, honey, you have to go home to check on the trough heaters in the barn. The rest of you can go home, too. Isa and I can handle it," Marjo Catanya said as she stood drying her hands on a kitchen towel.

Isabelle McWilliams gave me a whisper of a glance, and then said to Marjo, "You're right. Lily can't walk with her knee messed up, at least not tonight. I'll need help."

I felt a pang of disappointment, but the moment had passed. I smiled gamely at Marjo Catanya. "Yes, my sweet. Isa will need your help. Stay."

Marjo helped Carol on with her coat. "You don't have to worry about anything, _mija_ ," she said to me. "You're home now."

* * *

After a long and rejuvenating rest, I felt much better. My arm, though bruised, felt less stiff; the knee was still sore, but workable. I was thankful that I was from very sturdy stock, and that sleep was my healer. The next day I sent Marjo home to Carol, and Isabelle home to Niwot, their help greatly appreciated. Isabelle told me to call her on her cell if I needed anything, since she'd be out of town, travelling to training seminars. Marjo promised they'd check on me the next day.

Alone at last, I gave my niece Haley in Texas a call, just to hear her voice. Henry Wade had alerted the Texas authorities about Ernesto Mondragón's threats, and he had relayed back to me that she was safe. I didn't think I needed to tell her the whole story on the phone; some day, not right then. We chatted awhile, and I felt better just listening to her. She suggested a visit in the spring, and I readily agreed. Then I called Betty Huckleston, knowing she'd be pretty frantic to talk to me after Liz had called her the night before, and we talked a long time together. Liz and Emma came over to help out, and just to talk, a few times in the ensuing days, and then I unplugged the phones, wanting to spend some time in peaceful silence at home with the dogs. I needed the solitude.

* * *

Henry Wade and I talked several times in the next month, and we made arrangements for him to call back when I could assemble the interested-party group at my house for the denouement. Betty drove up for it, and that afternoon she and Vicki stood on the back porch smoking and talking. Carol and Marjo bustled around the kitchen, making coffee and slicing zucchini bread, defrosted from Marjo's summer stash. Willard Franklin brought a buddy along, and they both sat stiffly on the couch, their long-sleeve plaid shirts buttoned tightly at the collar, chatting with Perry and Denise, while Liz, Emma, and Louie rifled through my music collection. Isabelle gave a dog bone to Patsy, and Pecos abandoned my side to beg one for himself. The only people we were missing were Nick and Nora Charles, and their dog Asta. I'd spent a while filling the group in with what I knew, so we were ready when the phone rang. We gathered around the speaker phone on the dining room table, and Henry Wade's voice began.

"I know Lily's given you most of the story, but I'll try to tell you some more details. Phil Binder and Eddie Johnson are squealin' in hopes of a plea deal, so we have it on good sources.

"Momo Morgan—Correda—owed Mondragón big on a busted drug deal in New Mexico, and to get his money's worth, Mondragón decided to use him rather than kill him. He made Morgan disappear, and then the cleaned-up and coached Correda appeared, to help with the property sales and meth lab labor 'procurement'. Couldn't coach the stupid out of him, though, 'cause Correda never could make the right decisions. Once Correda was up here working on his own, Mondragón found that out.

"Correda's ineptitude allowed Shannon to stumble on the overseas accounts—the way Mondragón laundered the money from the drug operations—at _Nueva_ ; and through her research, she realized that something was wrong. She went to Andrea Brubaker, Andrea told Mondragón, and Mondragón ordered Correda to get rid of Shannon; and to make sure he found any copies she may have made of the account codes.

"After Phil Binder saw Lily talking with Correda for the second time, he questioned him about it. Correda had brushed off Lily's first visit as from a dotty old church friend of Shannon's aunt. But he acted squirrely about the second conversation, and that made Binder suspicious that Correda had slipped, and compromised the situation even more. He and Mondragón arranged the car accident; and planned for Correda to actually die in it. Mondragón thought he had. But Correda had found out about the plan beforehand, and protected his rear by telling Phil Binder that he had copies of the account codes, and that if anything happened to him, Binder would be exposed. So Correda and Binder faked it. I think Daryl Duncan, the one you called Nephew, was the body in the wreck. He was a low life even farther down the food chain than Eddie Johnson, and he was the one who had blown the chance to get the trunk, with the account codes, back without attention. I imagine they thought he was expendable. Couldn't get an ID on the remains, and Duncan isn't around anymore, so . . .

"Phillip Binder double crossed Mondragón by letting him think Correda was dead in the accident to give himself time to figure out how to deal with Correda on his own. He couldn't look like _he'd_ lost control of the situation. Stalling for time, he had Correda go into hiding at his dad's hunting cabin in Wyoming.

"Correda snuck back to Denver—for a hooker—but Binder found out, and made him get out of sight again, this time at the mountain lab." Isabelle and I started laughing, remembering the hooker's name for Barry Correda. We'd have to share that with the group later. "Binder's new plan was to bribe Eddie Johnson to do his dirty work for him, and take out Correda up there."

"That Sunday, Mondragón got a call from Chloë Austin, squealing about Lily's visit, and what she thought took place. Mondragón decided Lily knew too much, but he didn't trust Binder to not bungle it, so he came up here to take care of things himself. I have to admit we had some lucky breaks in finding you before he could get that done."

Louie Burzachiello broke in, and nudged her sister. "Yeah, Liz! Tell these guys how you figured _everything_ out, how you—"

"No, really, I didn't figure _everything_ out," said the modest Liz. "But, that day, when I heard Lily's car come roaring down the road behind me, I knew something was up, something wasn't right. 'Cause Lily doesn't drive like that—like a bat outta hell! So, you know? I knew. Plus I saw she wasn't pulling Wanda, and she wouldn't have left Wanda!" Liz Burzachiello gave me a smile. "Something was up. I got off the road so I wouldn't be seen, and watched you guys drive by. Then I saw those _guidos_ had Louie, too! Now I was pissed. I kept running down the road as fast as I could, and found a house, and a land line, thank our sweet Mother. Called 911."

"That information saved us hours," Henry Wade said on the speaker phone. "Liz remembered that Lily usually kept her cell phone in her car; we hoped she still had it, and she'd have a chance to turn it on, and activate the GPS."

"Back to Chloë Austin," Betty broke in. "What's her role in all of this?"

"She's tied up financially in several ventures with Andrea Brubaker, besides their connection at Stedmans. She placed the phone call to Mondragón on that Sunday so she's accessory to attempted murder, for starters. Maybe a weapons violation, too. She was arrested at her office that week. Actually had to be taken out in handcuffs 'cause she resisted arrest, so she'll have that charge, too."

I tried to be good, maybe tried to dredge up some compassion, but I couldn't help but smile, and be delighted at that image of Chloë in chains. Betty nudged my arm, a slight grin on her face. "What about Andrea Brubaker?"

"Andrea Brubaker's in world of trouble, no matter how loudly she proclaims her innocence," Henry replied. "Mondragón so intertwined her business and foundation with everything—including murder—that she's got a lot to answer for. Whatever her future problems are, she's not going to get much sympathy in Santa Fe. She's finding that if you can only buy loyalty, it vanishes as soon as the money is gone.

"And Cowboy Binder? He knew something was up, especially after Shannon died, but didn't say anything. It shook him up, but he kept quiet. He'd seen Daryl Duncan hanging around Shannon and Barry before her death; and then he saw Duncan again hanging around the aunt, and it worried him. He's the one who paid for the aunt's trip—to keep her out of harm's way, he said.

"Now he's taken charge of Binder Enterprises again, trying to pick up the pieces. Guess he's cut his son off, and the poor boy will be forced to use a public defender, because he has no funds for his defense. For anything, actually, since everything he had was tied up in Binder.

"But, you know, Lily, that talk you and Cowboy Binder had in the ambulance that night? Seems like he heard what you were talking about; something must have gotten through to him. He's establishing a business scholarship at UNC in Shannon's name to fund deserving young women's education. It's a little late, but I think he's trying to make things right."

We were all silent for a moment absorbing that positive information. I winked at Emma Johanssen, knowing she had news for us later.

"That leaves Mondragón. I'm emailing you a photo of him in a former life. It might surprise you."

We all huddled around my laptop on the dining room table as I pulled up Henry's email. " _Ew_! He looks like he just crawled out from under rock!" Denise exclaimed, voicing some of our silent thoughts as we looked at the mug shot. The suave, muscular Ernesto Mondragón formerly looked like a pale and flabby older man, with a thin stubble of grey hair, and protruding ears. He had a rodent's face with small, stained teeth and an overbite, and a weak chin receding into a turkey-waddle neck. But the same flat black eyes and soulless smile were plastered on the unfamiliar face.

"The man has had plastic surgery to change his appearance," Henry said in the understatement of the year. He gave a short bark of a laugh. "His real name is Stanley Grazmenski, born of immigrant Jewish parents, grew up in the streets of Newark. Always wanted to be a tough guy, but never was. Small time all his life. Turned snitch on a convenience store robbery, and had to go into hiding, disappear. Reappeared in Miami, in this Mondragón incarnation, with a big dose of bad ass attitude; popped a guy just for laughing at him. He met up with the computer hacker—specializing in data and system interference—about three, four years ago, and his crimes started taking on a much more sinister nature. The feds have been just one step behind him. But we'll find him," he repeated.

But that afternoon, since it seemed no one had any more questions, Henry Wade rang off. The group broke up around the table, and milled around the kitchen, talking, eating zucchini bread, and refreshing their drinks. Betty and Vicki were finishing their cigarettes outside when Emma poked her head out the door, motioned for the smokers to come in, and then turned to the rest of us.

She cleared her throat, and Liz clinked a glass of water on the table in front of her. One by one we stopped jabbering and turned silent, and shy Emma Johanssen turned pink in embarrassment at the attention being paid to her. "Well, uh, you guys know, uh, that I've been pretty unhappy at work." There were some hoots from her friends in affirmative answer to that. "And, uh, well... Lily, do you want to tell it? I mean, if it wasn't for you—" Emma almost pleaded.

"No, Emma, it's your story. You've done all the work to make it happen. You go, girl!" I gave her an encouraging smile.

Emma Johanssen took a deep breath, and twisted the knitted scarf at her neck. "Okay!" She nodded at us, real happiness beginning to show on her face. "I've quit my job at TDI!" There were more raucous hoots from her friends, and clapping, too. "And, I've been hired as interim director— " More hoots and hollers. "For the Shannon Parkhurst Business Foundation at UNC." Surprised silence, then cheering. Emma was surrounded by friends, wanting to give her hugs and congratulations, and to hear her story.

Cowboy Binder had mentioned to me in the ambulance his intention to create a scholarship in Shannon's name, and I had referred to it shortly thereafter talking with Emma and Liz one day at my house. Something clicked for Emma. What inspired her was empowering others; helping people, not designing software tools. Helping others is what inspired Shannon, too, and Emma thought Cowboy's idea could be bigger than one scholarship, maybe as a non-profit mentoring young women.

Drawing on her experience as a grant manager at TDI, she took her idea to a friend of mine who worked with foundations at Cowboy Binder's alma mater, and together they presented the project to Cowboy. Emma was modest about her efforts to convince the man to be generous, but I knew she had worked extremely hard, and had done her homework. In the end, Cowboy Binder was so enthusiastic that he asked her to work for him, as interim director of the foundation she was helping him create. As soon as a board could vote, he wanted her as the full time executive director.

Emma gave me a hug. "You know, Lily, it was that one day we were in your studio, talking about stuff. On your desk was that Mary Oliver poem someone gave you. It just took my heart... it inspired me. It's the poem that ends, 'Tell me, what is it you plan to do/with your one wild and precious life?' It made me think about Shannon, and it inspired me to do something."

Everyone started chattering about how much they loved Mary Oliver poems, and poor Willard Franklin and his buddy couldn't get out the door fast enough. Betty stayed the rest of the evening after the others had left, and the two of us sat up half the night talking, and eating pot roast and horseradish mayo sandwiches.

The next morning, after the requisite coffee for me, and diet Pepsi and a Pall Mall for Betty Huckleston, I leashed up the dogs, and the four of us headed out the door and through the back gate. Access to the river was open this time of year, with the tall buff grasses on the banks matted down from the first early snow a month before, and the bushes stripped of leaves and vines, showing the deep red branches of the dogwoods. On a narrow curve of water, Patsy and Pecos barked at a foursome of mallards until the ducks rose as a group and flew off, quacking their displeasure. Thin rims of ice at the shore line cracked as the dogs tried to give chase, and I whistled them back out of the shallows. Through the bare trees, lenticular clouds of winter slowly drifted like bulbous spaceships in the sapphire blue sky. Betty wanted to stay for a few days, and as we started planning the next feast we'd prepare together, I turned us home to a warm house.

* * *

About two months later, I got a call from Henry Wade. "Mondragón is back in New Mexico, Lily. He's surfaced again, showing his hand by pulling another intimidation scheme on some investors. It's his style. New Mexico's gotta be where his money is. He's trying to make the last dime before he pulls out. He must think we're stupid. He knows we're on his trail."

"Arrogance is more like it," I said.

"What tied him to this last one was what you told us about your friend's nephew's death. Mondragón makes it look like a Mexican drug killing to keep everybody confused and afraid. Now we know he had that young man Tomás killed to scare his Anglo employers into selling to him last year, and he's using the same techniques again. We'll run him to the ground. But be careful. He's disappeared on us more than once."

After Henry and I hung up, I went outside and sat on the back steps in the warm sun of a late January thaw. It was a weekend, so things were pretty quiet on my end of town, and I could hear geese on the other side of the river. Patsy Cline and Pecos Bill were with me, and they sniffed around the perimeter of the yard and under the trees. A mottled gray cat, a green-eyed, friendly one who'd come up on the porch when the dogs weren't there, was sitting in the sun in a far corner of the bare garden. Patsy and Pecos hadn't seen her, so she had the time to calmly stretch her back, and then slip undisturbed under the fence. I wished her a safe journey, as I sung off key with Lennon and McCartney on the outdoor speakers: "Get back, get back/Get back to where you once belonged/Get back Jojo, go home." Patsy and Pecos, intent on another adventure, continued their way past the garden as if she hadn't been there.

As I sat in my own patch of sun, I thought about the meaning of home and belonging somewhere; and then about the promise I'd made months before, and what I wanted to do. After a long time, I got up and went inside; the sun was about to set, and it was getting cold. As I stood at the kitchen sink windows, and looked out at the bare branches of the cottonwoods glowing in the last of the day's light, the dogs squirmed around me, and their wagging tails beat against my legs. I picked up the phone, scrolled to a number in it, and dialed.

A cheerful, lilting voice answered, " _Ee_ , Lily, you no good bum! ¿ _Que pasa_?"

## About the Author

Linda Seals is a writer and garden designer living in northern Colorado. She's been writing much of her life but didn't turn her attention to fiction until, early one winter morning, an amusing character danced out of a dream with stories to tell. Inevitably, Linda was compelled to give voice to fellow gardener and reluctant sleuth Lily Raffenport. She discovered that they both feel much of life is humorous.

A baby boomer from Dallas "raised up" in Oklahoma, Linda is a born storyteller, eager collector of the details of life, and grounded in a love of the land, giving her stories a true sense of place, and bringing her experiences in the Southwest evocatively to the page.

Linda has also worked in the publishing and newspaper industries as an art director; owned a graphic design firm; and been a warehouse worker packaging seeds until she found her calling in the plants and dirt of gardening that led to the words and world of writing.

Linda continues her work as a professional gardener as she happily writes the next Lily Raffenport mystery, _Paid in Spades_.

Contact Linda:

Facebook: <http://www.facebook.com/linda.seals.391>

Twitter: <http://www.twitter.com/LindaSealsBooks>

Blog: http://www.wordsofweedsdom.blogspot.com

Gardening website: http://www.weedsgardening.com

## Acknowledgements

I am grateful for the first readers of the manuscript: Lynn Kendall, Sandy Salvhus, Laurie Delmerico, Connie Strayer, Dawn W. Petersen, Alice "Ori" Auer Connor, Cindy Savino, and Phyllis Dunn. Their encouragement helped me be a writer. Thank you, thank you.
