Short Cut to Santa Fe (22 page)

“Thank goodness it worked,” said Harriet. “Because you do realize that things in books don't always work in real life, don't you?” And then felt very mean-spirited. “But you really saved our lives,” she added. “It was very clever of you.”

“Of course we realize that,” said Caroline haughtily. “But books give you ideas.”

Then laughing out loud for the first time in a long time, they ran, walked, limped, and hobbled their way to the crossroad.

And luck continued to smile on them when they hit the main road. A rancher in a battered-looking truck with a CB appeared almost at once, drove them ten miles closer to Santa Fe, and called the state police before dropping them off by the side of the road to await further rescue.

And so, when two cars filled with state police arrived, they found them sitting in the afternoon sun, waiting. Joe and Samantha Rogers climbed, white-faced, out of the second car, and stumbled in the direction of their waiting children.

“Mummy,” screamed Stuart, and the twins launched themselves at their parents. In an orgy of hugs and tears and endless rapid speech they all moved toward the cruiser.

“Wait,” said Caroline when they reached the cruiser. She ran back, flinging her arms around Harriet's neck. “Thank you,” she said. Tears were pouring down her cheeks.

“Yes,” whispered Stuart. He stood beside his sister in an agony of embarrassment, searching for the right words. “I don't know what . . .”

“Think nothing of it,” said Harriet, and gave him a hug. “You made great camping buddies.”

“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind them. “But are you Harriet Jeffries?” And the questions and explanations began.

Fernando had left Kate half-asleep in the huge bed at four-thirty, promising to return within the hour. When Antonia roared into the house like a small tornado at precisely five o'clock, Kate was sitting in the living room. A Rottweiler stretched out on the couch beside her, its head in her lap, and she was apparently deep in a paperback novel in Spanish she had hastily picked up from the table beside her. She had one foot tucked under her, and the other one was on the floor, being used as a pillow by another sleeping dog. “
Buenos d
ί
as, se
ñ
ora
,” she said, without a care for how miserable her Spanish might sound. After all, it was supposed to be miserable, wasn't it? She gently displaced both dogs' heads and rose to her feet, slipping into a pair of Consuelo's sandals at the same time.

“
Buenas tardes, se
ñ
orita
,” replied Antonia, chidingly. “But let's not force the child to practice tonight. She's just flown in and she's exhausted. Lola, my son, Roberto.” Her eye fell on the two dogs, who were lying very still, trying for invisibility. “Okay, puppy dogs, outside.
Afuera
.” The dogs got up, cast a reproachful glance at her, and stalked majestically out of the room.

A thin, lively looking man, smaller than his brother but equally tense with suppressed energy, grasped her by the hand. “Thank goodness for that,” he said. “There isn't space for all of us in the dining room now that Antonia has filled the house up with dogs. They're well trained, but large. Anyway, I'm glad we have a dispensation to speak English for this evening,” he went on. “It never goes beyond the first day, you know, so don't get all comfortable. I take it you're another victim sent by our grateful government?”

“Commerce,” she said, smiling. “Textiles. The first thing I'm going to have to do is find out how to say textiles in Spanish.”

“And my son Guillermo.”

When Kate looked up her breath caught in her throat and she could feel herself change colour. The resemblance between Guillermo and his brother was as overpowering as it was unexpected. It was not the same face; Guillermo had a fleshy sensual mouth and heavier nose and jaw than his finer-featured brother. He was also much fairer in colouring, and perhaps even bigger in size; and there was something slightly more relaxed about him. He lacked his brother's wary vigilance, perhaps. But his body, outlined against the light, and the way he moved through space, graceful and powerful as a tiger, bore such a familiar stamp that she stared at him in amazement and confusion. She felt stripped and vulnerable under his scrutiny. Fernando could have warned her, she thought crossly. But then he probably hadn't a clue.

“You are much more fascinating than the usual run of officials they send us from the Commerce Department,” said Guillermo, taking her hand and forgetting to let go of it. He spoke in a soft, mannered voice, like someone with ambitions to be an actor, or an announcer on public radio.

“Given that most of them are fat men over forty, I should hope so,” said Roberto.

Guillermo shot a nasty look at his brother and dropped her hand; he stepped back to examine her. “Local textiles,” he said. “Very tactful. That's a beautiful dress,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

“You know, I bought it in New York. Isn't that terrible? But I haven't had a chance to shop since I got here. I just arrived this morning.”

“I love these designs,” he said softly. “Exotic but familiar, if you know what I mean.”

I should damn well hope so, thought Kate. They belong to your sister. But she nodded enthusiastically, like the good trade rep she wasn't. “I think I do. This is an excellent example of the possibilities you find in the top-end segment of the cotton market.”

But she was torn from what was threatening to become a minute discussion of U.S. trade policy in the textiles industry—about which she knew nothing except that it was complex—by Roberto, who seemed just as determined as his more flamboyant brother to capture her attention.

“For God's sake, don't make poor Lola give a speech on American trade policy. It's bad enough that she's going to have to suffer one of Antonia's weeks.” He smiled a shy sweet smile and she was drowned in panic again. Was that the treacherous voice that had called to her in the night, telling her that he was Bob Rodriguez? No. It wasn't possible. He couldn't be. Someone else had borrowed his name, thinking it would reassure her enough to bring her out. Surely, if he had been the person who had turned up at the cabin, who had tried to lure her out of her hiding place, he wouldn't be able to stand there chatting innocently. Because he'd know. He'd have realized she was there, listening, safe in his loft. He would have checked to see if the ladder was fastened in its “up” position. Wasn't he the mad inventor of the hidden ladder?

Just as she had convinced herself that she had nothing to fear from him, he tossed in a bombshell.

“Do you go in for photography?” he asked. “It would seem to go along with your job, I would think.”

“A bit,” said Kate, her heart racing again, and not quite sure of the safest line to take. Claiming not to know a lens cap from an f-stop could turn out to be as dangerous as admitting to expertise.

“I've been out all weekend photographing birds,” he said. “Very difficult, but satisfying. Do you find it so?”

Kate looked confused. “I don't think I've ever photographed a bird,” she said, quite truthfully. “They fly around so fast. I took some nice pictures of my dog once. Except he kept falling asleep while I was trying to get him to sit where I wanted him to.”

“What kind of camera did you use?” he asked, staring at her in fascination.

“My dad's,” she said. She was beginning to relax again. If this was designed to trip her up, Roberto was awfully clumsy at it. “It's one of those where you just point and push the thing. The button. Whatever it's called. In fact, he gave it to me because he's bought a video camera. But he's like that, you know. Gadget crazy. I could always try taking some bird pictures. While I'm traveling around looking at textiles.”

“Do you travel much?” asked Roberto.

“Travel?” she said. Her knees were trembling slightly. “All the time. It's the job—death for your love life. I spend more time on planes than I do at my desk.”

She could almost feel him checking off a long list of points he had been instructed to look for. What was next? An arm-wrestling challenge to check out the injured arm?

“Lola, my dear,” said Antonia from behind her. “Lola, my son, Fernando.”

Her heart raced, her stomach turned over, and she whirled around, her skirt—or actually, Consuelo's skirt—swirling wildly, showing off a considerable length of her elegant legs. She did her best to smile at Fernando as if she hadn't very reluctantly let him leave her bed not long ago. “What a lot of sons you have, señora,” she said huskily, taking his offered hand and trying not to let it go. “Are there any more?”

Antonia grasped her around the shoulders, holding her for an instant in affectionate amusement. “No, Lola my dear, Fernando is the last of them. And as soon as Consuelo comes home, we will have dinner.”

Guillermo looked thoughtfully at the three of them and walked over to the window. “There she is,” he said. “Speak of the devil—”

“Don't say that about your sister,” said Antonia and led the way into the dining room.

At that same moment, Walt Frankel was watching the ringing telephone and considering whether it was worthwhile answering it. Or should he simply pack up now and hitchhike to Oregon? He shook his head and picked it up. And groaned internally. “That's wonderful news, Mr. Deever,” he said. “I'll contact the governor right away. He'll be very pleased.”

“Not yet, you stupid little bastard,” said Deever. “I want someone to go out to the bus with me from the Sheriff's Department—”

“That would be the state police, Mr. Deever—I mean they've been in charge—”

“No, it wouldn't. I'm having trouble with them right now. I want someone trustworthy from the Sheriff's Department to drive out there on a tip. Just a wild tip he's being asked to check out discreetly. But I want it to come from the governor's office. Ginger will show him the way, and I'll be along. And then you can go to the movies or something and stay out of the whole thing. The cops will let the governor know.”

Frankel's mind raced furiously as he checked over his little list of personal favors owing. Little list described it all right. Small, and getting smaller by the minute. Chewing his lip, he pulled the telephone toward him. Tomorrow, he really was going to do it. Off to Oregon. He couldn't stand one more day of this.

As the day wore on, the remaining passengers on the bus had spread themselves as far apart as they could until night and darkness drove them together again. Rick and Suellen were back up on the mountain, where they could talk in privacy but keep an eye on what was going on.

Teresa Suarez had broken out a deck of cards and was sitting in the bus playing solitaire with as much intensity as if the game was at a hundred dollars a card.

Rose Green had exhausted her own life history, and was now pumping Karen Johnson for hers, as they walked gently back and forth on the road close to the bus. “The doctor says I have to exercise every day,” she had said. “And I don't think sitting in a bus counts as exercise.” And so they strolled at a comfortable pace, searching amicably for interesting things to talk about.

And that meant that it was the Kellehers, sitting up on the rocks, who saw the car arrive. And who saw that it contained two men, one in uniform, one not. And that the man not in uniform was Carl Deever.

The deputy sheriff braked with a flourish and got out of his vehicle right in front of Karen and Rose. “Thank God,” said Rose. “We thought no one would ever come. Are the others all right?”

“What others?” asked the deputy.

“Is my wife all right, deputy?” asked Deever, climbing slowly out of the car. “Where is she?” He spoke in a troubled, unhappy voice.

“Is Mrs. Deever on the bus?”

Karen shook her head. “Mrs. Deever? There's no one called Deever on the bus. Or on the trip. I mean there never was a Mrs. Deever among the passengers. I'm sorry.”

“Your wife isn't—”

“The hell she isn't,” whispered Deever vehemently at the deputy. “She may not be calling herself Mrs. Deever, but she sure as hell is on that bus. She was seen. Goddammit, man, go in there and get her. A tall blonde. How many tall blondes can there be?”

“Well—I can't go in there and arrest her just for—”

“That woman has stolen half a million dollars from me, Deputy, and she's carrying it with her. I want her arrested.”

The deputy stood in the doorway to the bus, where Teresa was just turning over her last card. “Mrs. Deever?” said the deputy.

“Certainly not,” she said. “Teresa Suarez. Can I help you?”

“There's a Mr. Carl Deever out here who says you're his wife, ma'am, and claims that you possess stolen property. Of his, that is. Stolen from him, I mean.” His syntax was falling apart under Teresa's cool stare.

“Oh, really, such a fuss,” said Teresa. She stood up and walked over to the window with its lightly darkened glass and looked out. Carl Deever was getting back in the car from the Sheriff's Department. “And I don't see how a wife can be accused of stealing anything from her husband when she's simply gone on a little vacation with some spending money and things like that.” She turned back and glared at him, splendid in her anger. “I think this is completely ridiculous. Anyway, go on out. Tell him I'll be there in a minute. I just have to pack up my things.” And she began slowly, very slowly to put herself together. Suitcase, overnight case, hiking gear, handbag. “Could you help me with these, Deputy,” she called.

“Certainly, Mrs. Deever, ma'am.” He climbed into the bus and picked up her suitcase and overnight bag. “I'm sorry about this,” he muttered. He hated domestic complaints. Even rich ones.

“Don't worry about it, Deputy. It'll all work out in the end.”