Bad Samaritan (16 page)

“I want to hang the poster just to the right of his bed. We got RJ's favorite player, Mitch the Missile, to sign it for him.”

“We?”

“Al Russo helped. I think you've met him. Al figured that RJ needed a little boost right now.” Victoria handed her a big rolled-up poster, then reached onto the top of a large dresser for several push tacks.

“How's this?” Sister Agatha said, unrolling the poster halfway and holding it up against the wall.

“Could you move it about six inches to your left and lower the right side about an inch?”

Sister Agatha made the adjustment, then eyeballed the top edge, trying to get it level.

“Close enough. Just hold it there so I can put two tacks into the top,” Victoria said, coming up from behind her.

“I imagine your son is taking his father's death really hard right now,” Sister Agatha said, stepping to the side enough so Victoria could put the tacks in place.

“My son and I will get through this. It won't be easy, but we'll manage,” she answered.

Together, they unrolled the remaining portion of the poster, and Victoria placed four more tacks in place.

Victoria then stood back to survey their work. “That'll do it for now. If RJ wants it elsewhere, it won't take long to pull it free.” She glanced at Sister Agatha. “Thanks for the help, Sister. Now what can I do for you?”

“I came hoping for a chance to speak to you alone.”

“We're not actually alone, but we won't be overheard,” Victoria said. “My sister-in-law, Alyssa, kept us company last night. She's staying in the guest bedroom. You don't have to worry about our privacy, though. Alyssa took one of her pills, so she'll be out till noon, at least.”

Victoria led the way back to the big, open front room and offered Sister Agatha a seat on a comfortable-looking sofa. “So what brings you here?”

Sister Agatha decided to get right to the point. “I've heard some disturbing stories about the way your husband treated you,” Sister Agatha said gently. “Including physical abuse,” she added.

“I loved Robert, Sister Agatha. Why else would I have stayed
with him? He had a temper, ask anyone, but he was a great provider. I never lacked for anything, and, more importantly, neither did my son. Sure, Robert had his faults, and getting too rough with the people he loved was one of them—but he had a good side, too. He always made sure my son and I had the best of everything.” She stood, her eyes cold and focused. “I think you should leave now,” she said, walking to the front door and holding it open.

“I'm sorry if I offended you,” Sister Agatha said, seeing the woman's hand shaking.

“Just go,” Victoria said, pointing down the walk.

Sister Agatha walked back to the motorcycle with Pax and reached for her helmet. “Seems I touched a nerve, boy,” she commented. “Or did it seem to you that she was just putting on an act? I'm not convinced her indignation was as sincere as she wanted us to believe.”

Pax looked at her and cocked his head, almost as if pondering the question.

Sister Agatha reached out and patted him on the head. “Never mind. Sidecar ride, get in!” He jumped in immediately and sat up so he could see around the cockpit's small windshield.

Easing back onto the saddle, Sister Agatha considered the various impressions she'd gotten during her short visit while they were still fresh in her mind. Though she hadn't been there long, one curious fact had come to the surface. Victoria had repeatedly referred to RJ as “my” son, not “our” son.

Although it might have simply been an act of independence, or defiance, Sister Agatha intended to look into that some more. She'd start by comparing how long Robert and Victoria had been married with RJ's age. If Victoria had been carrying someone else's child, that could certainly explain Robert's resentment—though it still didn't justify his abusive behavior.

She was just about to put on her helmet when Frank Marquez, now driving an unmarked sedan, pulled up beside her. “Interesting that I should run into you here, Sister.”

“I might have said the same thing if you hadn't beaten me to the punch,” Sister Agatha said with a sheepish smile.

“You coming or going?”

“Just leaving,” she said.

“Then we'll talk more about this later,” he said. “Right now
I
need to talk to Mrs. Garcia.”

Sister Agatha then put on her helmet and started the engine, watching as Frank climbed out of his car and walked through the courtyard gate. She would have loved to ask him what had brought him here . . . and maybe she would, later.

Driving slowly down the street, she noticed a woman wearing jeans and a T-shirt working in the yard of the house next door. On impulse, Sister Agatha decided to go talk to her. A snoopy neighbor could be worth his or her weight in gold.

As she drove up the adjacent circular driveway, the woman heard the Harley, waved, and walked over to greet her. “Sister Agatha, I presume?” she asked with a smile. She was tall and very thin, and her silver hair was styled in a simple pageboy. Sister Agatha guessed that she was in her midsixties.

“That's me,” Sister Agatha answered, taking off her helmet so they could see each other face-to-face. “Have we met?”

“No. My nephew works in the mayor's office, and he once described you to me. My name's Kathy Duran.” She shook hands, then, cocking her head, invited Sister Agatha and Pax into the house. “Let's get out of the heat for a bit. It's time for my break. Gardening keeps my blood pressure down, but I have to take it in increments, especially this time of year.”

The conventional pitched-roof, ranch-style home was decorated in warm earth tones. The peeled log furniture appeared to
be handmade, with carved Western images of cattle and rearing horses adding detail to the simple but functional style.

“Those are just for decoration,” she said, pointing to two large, antique-looking enamel coffeepots on the kitchen's center island. “I don't drink coffee or tea, but I have apple and orange juice if you'd care for something to drink.”

“Apple juice would be nice,” Sister Agatha said. She wasn't particularly thirsty but had learned over the years that the simple act of sharing a refreshment with someone often worked wonders. People relaxed, and conversations flowed more freely.

“Now tell me what brought you here. I heard the motorcycle and saw you visiting with Victoria a while ago.” She stood at the kitchen island, a heavy wooden table fitted with drawers and cabinets. “I also noticed that you didn't stay long. I imagine your visit didn't go well, particularly since Alyssa's there.”

“You've got me curious. Why would you say that?” Sister Agatha asked.

“Alyssa wouldn't risk getting her husband angry by talking to you,” Kathy replied matter-of-factly.

“No one would have had to know,” Sister Agatha protested. Kathy smiled. “Ours is a small town. We all know each other's business.”

Knowing the truth when she heard it, Sister Agatha nodded but said nothing.

“In that family, men run things, too,” Kathy said in a slow, thoughtful tone. “The women . . . well, they're more like window dressing, if you ask me. Trophy wives. Although Alyssa and Victoria are different in a lot of ways, they have one thing in common. They live under their husband's thumbs. I don't waste time feeling sorry for them. When your toys are more important to you than your freedom . . .”

“Some women don't mind taking a backseat to their husbands.
It spares them the responsibility of making their own decisions—and relieves them of all accountability,” Sister Agatha said.

“Sister, both of those women are gluttons for punishment—especially Victoria. I've seen a few of her fights with Robert, and heard even more. One time she ran out the back door, crying like a baby. Robert grabbed her by the arm, twisted it behind her back, and practically threw her back inside the house. I called the sheriff's department, of course.”

“What happened?”

“After about a half hour, a deputy finally came out, but nothing was done from what I could tell. The next day I was out watering the tomatoes when I saw Victoria in the backyard wearing shorts and one of those tank tops, sunning herself on a lounger. Even though there's a fence between us, I could see the huge bruises on her arms and shoulders. Of course, when she went to town later, she covered all those up with a long-sleeved blouse.”

Sister Agatha shook her head slowly. “I can't understand why she never tried to get help.”

“And create a scandal?” Kathy shook her head. “That's not the way things work, not for the Garcia women, at least.”

“How did the family get their money, do you know?”

“I understand that JD and Robert's grandfather made a bundle selling black market gasoline and ration coupons across the West during World War II. He then used that money to buy legitimate businesses. Since then, each generation has done better than the last.

“Prospering is a matter of pride to the Garcias. Their men don't bother with the rules, and they compete against each other almost as hard as they do against outsiders. Take a look at JD and Robert. They both married beautiful women, though neither
man is much to look at. I'm sure that deep down they know their wives married them for their money, and maybe that's why they treat them like . . . crap,” Kathy said at last, then shrugged. “But that's just my opinion.”

“Do you think it's possible Victoria really loved Robert, despite the way he treated her?” Sister Agatha asked.

“Stranger things have happened, I suppose. I can tell you one thing for sure, though. She's not acting like a grieving widow now.” Kathy paused and took a deep, shaky breath. “Believe me, I'd know those signs better than almost anyone else. When my husband of forty-five years died last year, I was devastated. I sat in his favorite chair in our living room and stared at the wall for hours. I prayed I'd die, too. It wasn't until my daughter and her husband moved in with me for a while that I was able to climb out of that dark place and find a reason to go on.

“After the death of someone you truly care about, you're never the same.” Kathy swallowed hard, then continued. “I don't see any of that happening to Victoria. Instead, when I look at her, I see a young mother who finally has the backbone to stand up for herself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yesterday afternoon I was out on my balcony, reading. The Garcias were out on Victoria's back patio when Robert Jr. hurt himself on something and started crying. Victoria immediately tried to comfort the boy, but JD pulled her away from him, kind of rough, saying that she was going to turn the kid into a cry-baby. JD shook the boy and told him to go to his room and not come out until he could act like a man instead of a sissy girl. It took her a second or two to get herself together, but as soon as the boy went inside, Victoria turned on JD. She told him
never
to disrespect her in front of her son. JD laughed and told her to remember her place. She'd married a Garcia, but her son was the
genuine article. He had standards to meet, and no man in his family was going to grow up whining like a woman.”

“How did she take that?” Sister Agatha asked.

“Victoria got in his face and, in a voice loud enough to be heard all the way down the street, told him no blanking Garcia would ever tell her what to do again. She said she had Robert's life insurance and that was all she and her son needed now. They'd be taken care of without any more of the blanking Garcia money, so if he didn't like the way she was raising RJ, he could get out and not bother coming back.”

Since the Garcias didn't seem to do anything halfway, Sister Agatha was sure that the life insurance Victoria had mentioned was substantial. “Living next to them, did you get the impression that Robert Jr. and his dad were close?” Sister Agatha asked Kathy.

“That's a tough one to answer,” Kathy said after a pause. “I think RJ was a little intimidated by his father, but he was proud of him, too. At least that's the impression I got at the games.”

“What games?”

“You know, the church league. Robert plays—played—on the church's softball team. I'd go to watch my son-in-law, who's one heck of a second baseman, and I can tell you that RJ and Victoria would cheer louder than anyone else there whenever Robert got a hit.”

Sister Agatha smiled. “That part of their lives sounds normal, at least.”

Kathy glanced at her watch. “You'll have to excuse me, Sister, I have to get ready to leave. I need to be at the community center in a half hour. I teach knitting classes two days a week.”

Noting the time and aware that she was supposed to meet Frank at the Java Shack soon, Sister Agatha thanked Kathy and headed to town. Forced to choose a parking spot three buildings
away in order to provide tree shade for Pax, she left him by the bike and ordered him to wait. With that command, Pax was free to move about as long as he remained in close proximity to the Harley.

As she went through the doors, the scent of coffee and fresh rolls, and other wonderful smells, like cinnamon, filled the air. Spotting movement out of the corner of her eye, she turned and saw Frank wave from one of the round parquet-topped wooden tables. He stood as she joined him.

“I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late,” she said.

“Not a problem. It gave me a chance to enjoy my coffee and think.”

“I'm surprised to see you here. You were always a no-frills type of guy.”

“Guess I've been spoiled by twenty-first-century innovations. I grew up drinking wimpy coffee boiled over a campfire. Now the beans are roasted and pressurized by thousand-dollar stainless-steel monster machines, and I feel cheated unless I get coffee that'll keep me awake for three full days,” he said, pointing to the steaming cup.

“Boiled coffee eats up the walls of your stomach,” she said, then, with a smile, added, “I guess we all have our vices.”