Flash Flood (7 page)

“Are you saying he would not have been a good candidate for A.I.?” Dan followed up for the recorder, “A.I. stands for artificial insemination or the transport of semen to the cow to be bred without the bull being present.”

“Might have had some problems,” Hank said.

“Now, I'd like you to relate what happened yesterday when you were away from the bull, and who if anyone was left in charge, plus your actions when it was determined that the bull was critically ill or injured. List all medications used, their purpose, generic name, and the lab that produces them.”

Dan dropped in a new tape and Hank started to recount the day.

“Dan, could you an' me step out of the room for just a minute. Something I want to show you.” Billy Roland picked up an envelope from the table and motioned toward the hallway.

“I want you to look at this.”

Dan opened the envelope and saw a transfer of title and a bill of sale for Cisco Kid dated one month ago. The sale price was one million U.S. dollars and the new owner was an Enrico Salazar Garcia, address Venezuela.

“I hope you can see how some son-of-a-bitch cost me four hundred grand.”

“Why was the bull even in the show if he was sold?”

“New owner wanted the stamp of approval, a critique, if you will, by the judge yesterday. It was the only time we've shown Cisco Kid. If he got high marks, he would have been air-shipped tomorrow.”

“Should we be talking about enemies? Who might want to do this to you?”

“Any man who's got more than his neighbors sparks some jealousy.”

Dan thought Billy Roland seemed old there in the half-light of the hallway. Worn out. And it was easy to believe him. Believe that he wouldn't throw four hundred thousand away just to get six and make a point. No, Billy Roland didn't get where he was on bad business deals.

“I'll get back to you with the results of the tests on Cisco Kid. I'm going to be in Roswell for a couple days setting up shop. I'll keep in touch.” Dan went back in the study leaving Billy Roland leaning against the wall.

Chapter Three

We are gathered here this morning…

Elaine slipped a stockinged foot out of a black high-heel and absently pressed it into the thick dewy grass. The coolness felt good on her arch. The bright New Mexico sunlight washed the surrounding marble markers a startling white. She adjusted her sunglasses and stole a glance at the crowd. She was surprised at the number of people who had shown up. The curious, mostly.

…
to pay our final tribute to this man, your servant, who…

Had she been wrong to choose a religious ceremony? It was bad enough she was burying an empty box, missing the sense of closure that comes from viewing a body. Should she have made it secular, too? What was the worst that could happen? Eric would come back to haunt her?

…strayed from your flock…

Understatement. Fucking understatement. Oops. She was trying not to even think in curse words anymore. It was tough.

Was her shrink right? That she still had to work on forgiving him—even after he was dead? Forgive him for throwing away his family? Maybe she was just upset that she needed a shrink. If this had happened a thousand years ago, she'd pay someone to toss a couple doves in the air and read their flight pattern. Easier, much easier. Just more proof that she was an anachronism.

…but deserves our compassion and understanding…

From the grave? Wasn't she ready to just walk away? Start over? Send Matthew off to college, take that sabbatical. Finish the anthology of poetry she'd worked on for five years.

…as we overlook his trespasses…

She wanted to scream. Even in death he was forcing her to play a part. But to be fair, he hadn't twisted her arm, made her buy the black cap of a hat with a chin length veil and three-digit price tag, the perfect accessory to the black linen suit and tailored pumps. Grieving widow might be her best wifely role. The Emmy for best widow, singly or in a series. God, not a series; once was enough.

High fluffy, gray-white clouds floated over the sun, blocking its glare. She kicked off the other shoe and tried to concentrate on the minister, who droned on extolling the virtues of the air-space contained in the box in front of him, pausing for effect to touch the coffin every fifth sentence. My God, she was so cynical and maybe even on the verge of hysterics. She just wanted this over. A burial of Eric, however symbolic, so that she could get on with life.

But would she have gone through with the divorce had he lived? Or would he have talked her out of it? More promises of repentance, how he needed her.

The first glittering slice of rainbow appeared just above the minister's head, a second to the left and a third just peeked through the clouds between them. Solar halos. It was a sign. It had to be. Her life couldn't be such shit without promised help. Maybe it just attested to her state of mind, but the parhelia were as good a sign as any. Sundogs wouldn't lie.

***

“No.”

“Dan, please.”

“God damn it, Carolyn—”

“I hate that language.”

“I'm trying to stop.”

“Well, it doesn't sound like it.”

“Truce?”

“Okay. But I don't know why you won't do this one thing for me. For yourself.”

“Have I been wandering around here bemoaning the lack of a love life?”

“You're her dinner partner, for God's sake, you're not taking her to bed.”

“That's it, Carolyn, I'm going to get a bar of soap. I will not tolerate that language.” The last was said in a pretty good imitation of his sister's voice. And it got the result he wanted. Carolyn burst out laughing.

“Now tell me why this is so important.”

“She's my friend. Her son is the same age as Jason. She's a widow.”

“I think I hear violins.”

“Dan be serious. She's perfect for you.”

“Remember the last time you played matchmaker?”

“That was in high school.”

“Disasters are long remembered.”

“I know you're not gay.”

“Thanks. Is that Philip's opinion, too?”

“Don't be snotty. I wish you two would get along.”

“We do. Sort of.” Carolyn's husband was a little too officious for him, but there wasn't any out-and-out animosity.

“So, we can count on you? You'll sit across from her at dinner and make some kind of small talk, then walk her to her car.”

“Hey, who said anything about walking anyone to a car?”

“Okay.” Carolyn threw up her hands. “Just the small talk. You don't have to see her again.”

And probably won't, Dan concluded to himself.

***

Dan had been in Roswell two days and he was already restless. His sister had set him up as “dinner companion” to some friend of hers, probably a hopelessly small-town socialite with small-town interests. Bet she'd never heard of the Cubs.

He'd hoped to hear from the informant but there had been nothing. The results were in on the Cisco Kid. Again nothing, not one thing showed up in any test that smelled of foul play. Death was attributed to a bronchial virus. Simple act of nature. He'd drive out tomorrow and tell Billy Roland.

He'd called Midland Savings and Loan. Another dead end. There was no account for an Eric Linden, never had been. Or it had been closed out. He had talked with Junior. Made it seem pertinent to his investigation because he had witnessed the drowning—or almost. But unless he was being lied to, though that didn't make sense, the two million didn't exist, which made him suspect that the two million had not been gathering interest for seven years, had never been deposited. Might be just as well the poor bloke never found out. Talk about being ticked.

So Roswell, instead of soothing his soul or whatever with its high dry sparkling sunshine, was making him feel caged. Antsy to do something and he wasn't even sure what that was supposed to be. He was anxious to get the investigation over with. He still needed to meet with Hank, tour the barns, start the inventory. Carolyn was probably right. Maybe, he did need a diversion.

He pulled a loose-fitting sweater over his head. A splash of Polo and he'd be ready to meet the guests—correction, guest. The fifth grade teacher had called last night. She missed him. He probably should have told that massage therapist that his current love interest was thirty-two. And that he was old enough to be her father. Actually, who cared?

He didn't think he had too many hang-ups with age. He'd read that graying around the temples instilled confidence. But somehow now the temple grayness met behind his head. Could be time for that Grecian stuff. But then again, maybe not. A head of thick gray hair was better than a shiny scalp.

There was a hint of thickening around the waist. Now that was something he did need to work on. The Nordic-Track was probably still folded up under his bed. He tugged the Levis in place, still a thirty-two, snug or not. Carolyn had assured him that the dinner wasn't a dress affair. He'd take her at her word. He reached down to tie his Nikes.

Carolyn had gone to pick up Phillip. Something about his car stalling. But Dan smelled a rat. More like let's let Dan meet date by himself. Give them some time alone. Get the amenities over, start to feel comfortable, establish a rapport—

The doorbell interrupted. He better get going. Dona Mari was on one of her yearly pilgrimages, wouldn't be back for awhile, so door-answering duties were all his. He decided against the splash of Polo and reached for the Lime, then let the doorbell ring a second time before walking to the front of the house.

Later he would ask himself why he couldn't stop staring, but maybe he knew the minute he opened the door. Opened the door, held out his hand, and made contact. Real skin to skin and for a split second, he didn't want to let go, drop her hand, break that buzz of feeling.

Dan led the way to the kitchen. He'd been asked to open the wine, let it breathe before dinner. And she followed him, then perched on a stool at the breakfast bar and kept him company. As easily as if she had been doing it all of her life. At one point he wanted to ask if she felt the same uncanny comfort in being with him. But that would come later. And there would be a later; he was sure of that.

“Your work sounds dangerous, exciting even.”

From anyone else Dan would have dismissed the comment as patronizing. But it only made him open up more. He was halfway through the 1987 case of a jewel theft on Long Island when Carolyn and Phillip walked in.

Even the watchful eye of his sister didn't slow him down. He was witty, dug back into the recesses of some forgotten poetry class to comment accurately on iambic pentameter, then segued that neatly into why Faulkner and the Southern angst was a milestone in American lit. He caught a “What the hell?” glance between Phillip and Carolyn, but he didn't miss a beat. And what was even more remarkable, neither did Dr. Elaine Linden.

Everyone else might as well have been invisible. The eggplant hors d'oeuvres disappeared and the beef Wellington, but somewhere between the Guatemalan coffee and bananas Foster Dan was admitting to himself, he was smitten. Rocked right back on his heels by this vivacious, long-legged woman whose dark hair escaped a side part and curled toward her face and whose throaty laugh made him think of reaching for a cigarette after sex.

They talked. Phillip and Carolyn finally excused themselves and went to bed and Dan and Elaine moved out to the patio by the pool. The conversation was children and jobs and city versus country living. She pulled her hair back with some kind of gold sliver of a barrette and let the slit in the front of her long skirt divide to cool her legs. He loved her mind, but he stared at those legs.

It was two a.m. before she “really” had to go. He walked her back through the house wondering whether a kiss would be too much, too soon. Wondering how he would stop with something chaste. Decided against it, too risky, but continued out the door to her car, reiterated the time and place where he was picking her up on Wednesday evening, opened the car door, leaned in the window to say how much he'd enjoyed the evening, then watched her pull out of the driveway and turn left at the first corner. Suddenly, New Mexico was looking pretty good.

***

“There are a dozen roses on your desk.”

The line was delivered in about the same tone that could have announced: “a tarantula has been found squashed underneath your blotter.” So, who was this work-study to pass judgment? To say she couldn't get flowers, roses, two weeks after her former—for God's sake she had served him with papers—husband had been buried?

Elaine just smiled in wide-eyed sweetness and said, “Oh?” Why even give a hint that it might not be an everyday thing. Hundreds of suitors lined up on her lawn tossing long-stemmed beauties at the balcony outside her bedroom. She felt giddy. Silly, if she was into admitting things. And, yes, the roses were perfect. Not red, but a glowing golden peach. And the card read simply, “Looking forward to Wednesday.”

She pushed a few papers around on her desk. She wasn't in the mood to stay cooped up all day in her airless, sometimes cool, sometimes not, office. She'd gotten the final okay for the sabbatical. September 1 and she was free. Exactly fourteen more days. Until then, a little paperwork, some editing on the anthology and…a cruise? A carefree tramp across Europe? A mystical “Stonehenge to the Nile” month-long tour by a psychic? She had seen that tour advertised in the
Albuquerque Journal.

Or, would her love life take off and…and what? Somewhere along the line reality had to set in. Just because she was drawn to some man she'd just met…but there were the roses. And he didn't seem to be the type to send roses to just everyone…. And she knew his sister. Had counted her a good friend at one time.

This was making her crazy. If she closed her eyes, she saw a tall man with a head full of graying brown hair, handsome in a casual khaki sweater and jeans, with eyes that creased almost shut when he smiled and, yes, twinkled. There Jude Deveraux, his eyes twinkled. God, she was being stupid. Maybe, if she dwelt on his ears being a little too large, the faint smattering of pock marks on one cheek, some badge earned in puberty, or the cologne that made her sneeze and think of margaritas….

She gathered the roses, placed them back in their box and locked the door behind her. She needed to wire Matthew some money before three, do laundry, pick up some wine, return a shirt…and keep her mind off of what might not be.

***

He'd traded in the rental Tercel for a red Jeep Cherokee and instantly felt better. He simply noted “need all-terrain vehicle” on his expense report. He doubted that it would be questioned. His boss thought he was at the end of the earth anyway.

When he'd called Billy Roland that morning, he'd gotten an invite to a polo game in San Patricio. One-thirty, picnic lunch provided. He needed to hand over the report on Cisco Kid anyway, might as well enjoy the afternoon to boot.

The drive took a little over an hour. It was some of his favorite New Mexico scenery, rolling hills, old farm houses, stone fences, apple orchards so ancient that the exact names of their fruit were lost—Smokehouse reds, Rallin's greens. He used to like to visit Carolyn in the fall and take a box or two of those oldtimers back to Chicago.

The village of San Patricio was timeless, beyond old with its hand-plastered gray-white adobe walls, and well-swept dirt courtyards, set below the highway, its tin roofs clustered together. He angled the Jeep down the steep incline and drove between the Catholic mission church and school then followed a winding dirt road back toward the Rio Hondo. The river was more like a stream this time of year, but he knew the water was cold and clear.

The polo field was in front of the Hurd Gallery. Pricey oils and water colors by Peter and William hung side by side with those of Henrietta Wyeth. Oils a little pricey for him but he did have a nice collection of prints, many signed. The two-story adobe building backed up against a wooded area separated by a garden of perennials, mostly roses, some free standing, some espaliered against the gallery, others tumbling over each other along the fences. But all in brilliant bloom in shades of pink.