“I’ll tell you what, John. You’d better keep a watchful eye on that lady.”
“I intend to.” Deputy Graystone tasted the hot, strong, no-nonsense black coffee that made Wilbur’s Café famous in the San Luis Valley. “She’s still in the hospital, and Ochoa is with her.”
“Do you believe her cockamamie amnesia story?”
“Yes, sir, I do.” The deputy looked across the table at Sheriff Bishop, who had arranged this breakfast meeting with the CBI agents from the Pueblo office and had already ordered his huevos rancheros scrambled with green chili on the side, extra tortillas and extra bacon. “I also believe that Caroline McAllister will be the key to finding out who murdered Virgil.”
“I hope you’re right.”
With his forefinger, the sheriff smoothed his thick silver mustache. In other aspects, Bishop was an average-looking older guy with a little potbelly and thinning gray hair. But he had impressive facial hair. Respectfully, John addressed the ’stache. “I hope to learn more about her relationship to Virgil after I speak to his attorney, Edie Valdez. Her office is here in Durango, and I have an appointment at half past nine.”
“I know Valdez. She’s a tough customer, and she’s been around for a long time.” Bishop craned his neck and looked toward the kitchen, apparently eager for his breakfast. John knew that the old man’s wife would never approve of the extra bacon, but Wilbur’s Café was named for the pig in Charlotte’s Web, and pork products were part of every meal. “Seems to me like there are a lot of females involved in this investigation.”
Mentally, John ticked off a short list: the lawyer, the therapist, Caroline’s mother and Dolly Devereaux. They all had their part to play. “Not a problem.”
“Tread carefully,” the sheriff advised. “You’ve always been a soft touch for the ladies.”
The waitress arrived with a tray full of side dishes, plus the giant platter of over-easy huevos, refried beans and salsa for the sheriff. At the same time, the two CBI agents—Mike Phillips and Larry Wright—entered the café. Both wore jeans with blazers and button-down shirts. The sheriff focused intently on his breakfast while greeting the agents, then handed them off to John. “Deputy Graystone is in charge of this investigation. Communicate directly with him, and he’ll keep me posted. Have you eaten here before?”
Phillips nodded, and Wright said, “No, sir.”
“You’re in for a treat. I recommend the pork-belly sausages.” He looked toward the other man. “Am I right, Agent Phillips?”
“You are correct, sir.”
John had already spoken on the phone to Phillips, who was the senior agent and had made the arrangements for Virgil’s autopsy in Pueblo. “We appreciate help from the CBI. There are a couple of deputies at the cabin right now, collecting evidence. They’re excited to work with your forensic people.”
“Our crime-scene unit is the best in the business. If there’s evidence in that cabin, our guys will find it.”
John liked these two agents. They were direct, efficient and proud of their work. “Are you planning to drive back and forth from Pueblo?”
“We’ll set up an office with the Durango police and stay in a local motel. It’s too far to drive every day.”
“Let me know if I can help,” John said. He was ready to get down to business. “Our victim didn’t have many enemies. I’m hoping you can fill in the blanks about Derek Everett, the guy who died in jail. Did he have friends or family who wanted revenge against Virgil?”
“He wasn’t officially married, but there was a woman who claimed he was the father of her kids. She’s deceased. As for friends, nobody liked this guy. He got knifed in jail. We’ll keep digging into his associates to see if we can find a lead.” Phillips leaned back in his chair. “Tell us what you’ve got, Deputy.”
While John launched into a summary, they ordered eggs, sausage, hash browns and coffee. Interest from the CBI agents picked up when he started talking about Caroline and her memories, or lack thereof. “According to her supposed fiancé,” John said, “she’s related to Virgil Hotchner. She claims that she doesn’t remember him, but there was a photograph of Virgil, Caroline’s mother and Caroline as a child on his desk.”
“We’ll find out more when we access his bank records,” Phillips said, “and his phone records and talk to his lawyer.”
“Ms. Valdez,” John said. “I have an appointment with her in less than an hour.”
The junior agent—Larry Wright—was built like a thick-necked brahma bull and had already devoured the sausages on his plate. He dabbed at his mouth with surprising delicacy. “The autopsy hasn’t started yet, but the body is in the morgue. Here’s a photo of a tattoo on his forearm.”
Wright held up his cell phone and showed them a tat of a bunny rabbit. The fancy script surrounding it said, “Sweet Caroline,” like the classic Neil Diamond song.
“She meant something to him,” Phillips said. “You’ve found out a lot. That’s good, so good, so good.”
AT TWENTY MINUTES past nine, John entered a two-story redbrick office building on Main Street in the historic section of Durango. Across the hardwood floors in the front lobby was a door with Law Offices etched in gold on the frosted glass window. He opened the door and stepped inside a tastefully decorated waiting room with a long counter and a nameplate that read, Becky Cruz, Paralegal and Receptionist.
The young woman in a pinstriped pantsuit stood behind the counter while arranging a bouquet of red roses in a vase. She smiled. “Deputy Graystone, what did you bring me?”
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Max seated in the center of the leather sofa. His skinny arms stretched across the back of the sofa and his legs were crossed in a figure four, taking up as much space as possible. With a simpering grin, he repeated Becky’s question. “What did you bring? I felt certain that roses would ensure an appointment with Ms. Valdez.”
John’s hand went to his belt. “Handcuffs.”
“For me? Very kinky.” Becky fluttered her long eyelashes. “When Edie is done with her spin class, you can go first.”
John was signed up for the nine-thirty slot, and he wasn’t about to let Max snake his appointment away from him. The nearest fitness studio—called the Burn—was around the corner. “Spin class?”
Becky nodded. “Every morning at eight-fifteen. Feel the Burn.”
If he hurried, John figured he could catch her after she left her exercise bike, showered, dressed and walked to her office. Promising to be right back, he slipped out the door. He hadn’t even rounded the corner when Max trotted up and joined him.
“Slow down, Deputy. I’m not letting you get a head start.”
“What are you doing here?”
“After your aggressive handling of Caroline with the handcuffs and the armed guard, I thought we might need legal counsel.”
“Why this particular attorney?”
“Why not?” He stuck out his jaw, emphasizing his patchy goatee. “I have the right to select and hire whomever I choose.”
“I’d have thought an important vet like you would have an attorney on call.”
“Of course, I do. But he’s in Portland. I want somebody local.”
A fiftysomething woman wearing a chic black suit and carrying a leather briefcase stalked toward them at an energetic pace. Max tried to block her route, but she held up a slender hand to direct him out of her way without breaking stride.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You gentlemen are Deputy Graystone and Max Sherman. My nine-thirty and nine-forty-five appointments. Deputy, you’ll go first.”
Max scampered along beside her. “Ms. Valdez, I believe I should go first. My concerns are far more complex and important. Not to mention, I would be a paying client.”
“Good point.” She glanced at John. “Why do you need to see me?”
“Murder investigation,” he said.
She gave a short, sardonic laugh. “You win. Nothing tops murder.”
Stifling an urge to gloat, he followed Ms. Valdez into her building. She paused at the counter and glared at Becky, and then at the vase of long-stemmed roses. “Get rid of the flowers. This is a law office. Not a boudoir.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She smiled at Max and shrugged.
“Deputy,” Edie snapped, “come with me.”
Natural light from an arched, south-facing window and a glass-paned French door spilled into her stylish, modern office. Potted plants, most of which were cacti, lined the windowsill. The fenced-in patio outside the door featured similar high-desert landscaping as well as a circular, glass-topped table and chairs. John suspected that the patio allowed her to make a quick escape from meetings she’d rather not attend. Smart lady.
The only artwork was a Georgia O’Keefe-style cow skull with mountains in the background that hung above a long sofa. Her framed diplomas took up a significant portion of the wall space. Other photographs showed Edie shaking hands with local politicians from both parties. John wondered if she changed them after each election.
She lowered herself into a swivel chair behind her sleek L-shaped desk with a gleaming agate top. He sat opposite her desk in a gray upholstered chair and waited while she combed her fingers through her short salt-and-pepper hair, then placed black-frame glasses on her nose and fixed him with a steady gaze. “Deputy Graystone, I looked you up on the computer when you contacted my answering service after hours last night.”
Apparently, she was a night owl. “I was surprised when your service called me back and offered an early morning appointment.”
“You aren’t the only person who works long hours,” she said. “Your credentials and background are impressive. When I read about your mother’s years of service in the Colorado Springs Police Department and your father’s career as a decorated US Air Force lieutenant colonel, I wanted to get in touch with you. Sheriff Bishop is on the brink of retirement, and you’re qualified to replace him.”
“Thank you.” John knew the sheriff’s job was within his grasp but wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay rooted in Sagebrush.
“How are your parents?”
“Happily retired. Currently, they’re living in Australia.”
“Good for them.” The smile disappeared from her face. She appeared to be disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to arrange a meet with his mom and dad. “Let’s get down to business. You’re here about the murder of Virgil Hotchner. How did you get my name?”
This was not a woman who suffered fools gladly. If he answered wrong, she’d toss him out on his bottom. He responded honestly without embellishment. “Last night at the crime scene, there was a fire in the hearth. I couldn’t tell exactly what had been burned but managed to save several scraps. Letterhead with your name was among them.”
“Was there enough of the document to see what it was about?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You are correct in assuming that I did legal work for Virgil. There isn’t much more I can tell you, Deputy. I’m restrained by confidentiality from talking to you about my work with Virgil. Not without a court order.”
“I understand.” John had expected this roadblock. “I have a few general questions starting with Ms. McAllister’s relationship to Virgil. Was he her great-uncle on her mother’s side?”
“Yes.” She rested her elbows on her desk and leaned forward.
Her dark eyes challenged him, daring him to proceed, while at the same time she seemed to be anticipating the moment when he would fail to meet expectations. He asked, “Did Virgil have a will?”
Her upper lip curled in a sneer. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I’m proficient at my job. There’s no way I’d allow a client who was worth as much as Virgil Hotchner skate by without a will.”
He sensed a crack in her stone wall and pushed for more information. “Exactly how much was he worth?”
“I’m sure your CBI friends will clarify his finances when they subpoena his bank and savings records. I’ll just say that he was quite well off.”
If John had an idea of the old man’s net worth, he could gauge whether monetary gain provided a motive for murder. Would sweet Caroline kill her uncle for his wallet? He didn’t want to suspect her, but the facts pointed in her direction. He tried a different track. “Who is the executor of his will?”
“You’re looking at her, Deputy Graystone.”
“In addition to Caroline, did Virgil have other family?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” she said. “Like me, he was smart enough to never get married. And he didn’t have children.”
He asked, “Is Caroline the primary beneficiary of his estate?”
“I’ll file the documents with probate today and make the will available shortly after that. Be patient, John.”
This was the first time she’d used his given name, and he wondered if this small step toward familiarity meant she approved of him, or if it indicated a lack of respect. He didn’t push his luck by calling her Edie. His next question was open-ended and important. “If I hope to find Virgil’s murderer, I need more information as soon as possible. As his attorney, you’d know his investment advisor, his real-estate agent and partners he might be working with. Are there any names you can give me?”
Instead of answering, she deflected. “I heard that Caroline is suffering from long-term amnesia and can’t recall her own name. Is this true?”
“She’s beginning to remember.” He thought of the expression in her eyes when she looked at the family photograph. She had been surprised and excited, as if she’d found a valuable piece of jewelry—a treasure—that was supposed to be lost forever. “The neurologists expect her to make a significant recovery.”
“And this fellow in my waiting room, Max Sherman. What’s his angle?”
“He claims that he and Caroline are engaged and intend to get married right away. She doesn’t remember and doesn’t seem all that fond of Max.”
Ms. Valdez leaned back in her chair and tapped on her desktop with a sharpened, polished fingernail. “You don’t like Max, do you?”
“A sudden, unexpected engagement is suspicious.” This idea had been rolling around in his head ever since he met Max, but he hadn’t articulated it until now. “If Virgil was wealthy and Caroline was his only heir, Max’s desire to get married makes sense. As Caroline’s husband, he’d inherit.”
She shook her head. “Is that what they call the long arm of the law? Because your logic is quite a reach.”
“Is it?”
“Not my problem. I don’t investigate. I prosecute or defend, and Max is about to become my client.” She paused. “That means I don’t have the luxury of personal opinions.”
John rose from his chair. “I appreciate any help you can give me.”
“I like you, John.” She stood, came around her desk and shook his hand. “Rafael Valdez, my nephew, played in a weekly poker game with Virgil. He’s a broker and might have given him financial advice.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
As he exited her office, he donned his black cowboy hat. If this was how she treated the people she liked, he was glad not to be her enemy.