⁹

Suddenly all eyes were on us. Tony had surprised me as much as the others, and I looked at him with a little gasp.

“Ha! Best news I heard all day!”

It was Flag Hat. I shot him a resentful glance, but he wasn’t looking. He was swigging his beer.

“What happened?” asked the tanned guy.

Tony was looking at his phone, apparently deaf. He stood and turned to me, holding out a hand. “Gotta go.”

Embarrassed, I glanced around the room, then let him lead me away. We retrieved our coats and donned them on the way out the door.

“Why did you say that?” I hissed.

Tony grinned, but didn’t answer.

“They’re going to think we’re weird, leaving right after we got there,” I said as we trudged away.

“You didn’t really want to watch football, did you?” Tony said.

“No.”

The sky was thickening overhead. It was still daylight, but the storm was heavy enough that it was hard to tell the time of day. The sun was completely obscured. The snowfall was getting heavier, and cast a blanket of quiet over the land.

“Why did you tell them Wesley was dead?” I asked as we passed the dining hall.

“Flushing the wolf out of the sheep pen, I hope.”

“But now they’re going to spread the word, and go looking for information!”

“Right. And the ones who don’t go looking, might be worth looking at.”

I digested that for a few paces. “What are the ‘locals’ going to think of your strategy?”

“If it’s successful, they’ll be grateful, I hope. Think I’ll walk down to HQ and hang out for a while, see if anyone takes the bait.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Better than sitting around doing nothing.”

We had maybe an hour before we should get ready for our dinner at the Abiquiu Inn. If Tony was going to spend it hobnobbing with “the locals,” I sure wasn’t going to spend it sitting around in our room.

In the welcome center, situation normal. The trading post was open, the snack bar closed with a sign referring the hungry to the trading post. Tony took a quick look around, then headed for the office the sheriffs had used for interviews. I wandered into the trading post, where I recognized one of the middle-aged ladies who’d been on our trail ride, buying a Ghost Ranch sweatshirt and a scarf.

The center of the shop was filled with racks of souvenir clothing and shelves of knick-knacks and snacks. One long wall displayed books, and at the end was a section of art supplies. This was where Lisette had bought her pastels. I looked them over. Bound pads and spiral-bound books of drawing paper in several sizes, sets of pastels and watercolors, brushes, even “how to paint” books. Everything for the beginner inspired by O’Keeffe’s landscapes.

I tried to recall any work of hers that featured snow. Couldn’t come up with one. Glancing up, I looked over a collection of O’Keeffe posters hung just under a high set of clerestory windows. Most were of the local landscapes. Only one jumped out at me, Black Cross New Mexico.

I swallowed, not wanting to contemplate that particular image at the moment. I went back to the books, looking for a big fat book filled with reproductions of O’Keeffe’s art, something I’d been wishing I had as I read the biography, which was filled with references to specific paintings. Several such books were offered, all prohibitively expensive. I picked one of them and checked the index for “snow.” No luck. Leafing through the book, which was roughly in chronological order, I saw the progression of her work from the early years in New York—the city views and the wildly successful flower paintings—to Lake George where she’d spent summers with Alfred Stieglitz’s family, to Texas where she’d taught art for a while, and ultimately to New Mexico. Once she’d discovered Taos, and then the Chama River valley, it was all over. This was where she wanted to be, and not even her marriage to Stieglitz—which by then was on the rocks—could keep her away.

In fact, finding Ghost Ranch had rescued her from a bout of chronic depression that had followed an unpleasant discovery: Stieglitz had been having an affair with his assistant. Though O’Keeffe remained in the marriage until Stieglitz died, her work took precedence ever after.

I wondered if Tony’s work would take precedence. Not that I would ever cheat on him—but I sometimes felt he was jealous of the energy and attention I spent on the tearoom. Having made a serious commitment to my career, I had to consider that Tony’s devotion to his work was every bit as serious. I’d have to be prepared for the possibility that his job would, at least sometimes, take precedence. Would our marriage succeed anyway? Would it be worth the effort to make it succeed?

Turning a page, I saw a familiar painting: From the Faraway Nearby. Not snow, exactly, but it had a wintry look. The giant, antlered skull—I suspected elk, rather than deer—points reaching skyward against a background that went from pale pink to vibrant blue, reminded me of the barren trees in the river valley. The hills on the horizon were tiny, almost an afterthought, compared to the antlers that dominated the picture. O’Keeffe had even added an extra antler branch to the left side of the arrangement, which I’d never noticed before, despite staring at Mom’s poster since my childhood.

Strange, the things we fail to notice, even though they’re right before us.

I closed the book and put it back on the shelf. Maybe the Ranch’s library would have a copy I could borrow. I continued browsing the books, and heard a woman’s voice behind me complaining that her sunset tour had been canceled.

“Well, honey,” said another woman, “ain’t going to see no sunset today, and you wouldn’t like riding a horse through this snow.”

Not to mention that it would hardly be safe, going up and down the narrow paths in and out of the arroyos. And there would be no breathtaking views.

I glanced behind me to see who was speaking. A party of four women I didn’t recognize—new arrivals, maybe—nursing cups of hot coffee from the snack bar as they groused. They looked like tourists, wearing heavy flannel shirts and down vests, and cowboy boots that looked brand new. They didn’t know how lucky they were that their excursion had been canceled—an hour and a half in the saddle in unbroken boots—yikes!

I turned to the nick-knacks, thinking I should choose some little gifts for my friends and staff. Kris would be easy—something with the cow-skull Ghost Ranch logo on it, preferably black. Of course, I already had O’Keeffe’s favorite tea for her, but I felt kind of obligated to get something with the cow skull as well. For Nat, I had the O’Keeffe datebook. For Julio, Manny, and Gina, it was a harder choice. I browsed my way around the end of a shelf, started going up the other side, and stopped.

There, talking rather earnestly to the cashier, was the older, tanned guy who’d been in the cantina. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Casually browsing, pretending interest in the T-shirts and souvenir shot glasses, I gradually sidled closer to the cash register, keeping my back toward it as much as possible in case the tanned guy remembered me.

“—said the guy was dead, but didn’t say how.”

“Yeah, he’s dead,” said the cashier. “The cops are here.”

“Any idea what happened?”

“No, but they’re talking to people. Must have been a fight.”

I paused next to the shot glasses and took out my phone to send Tony a text:

Guy from cantina in trading post. Asking clerk about Wesley.

Turning away, I pocketed my phone and ambled out toward the office where the sheriffs had been. The door was closed. I didn’t see Tony; maybe he was inside, conferring.

It was cold in the entryway, so I went into the reception room, where a solitary clerk was sitting behind the counter waiting to assist anyone who braved the snow to get here. It was the same woman who’d checked us in and told me about the Ghost House: Debbie. We exchanged nods. She seemed a little tense, but given the events of the past few hours, that was understandable.

“I hope everyone’s here who needs to be,” I said, glancing toward the window.

“There’s one party coming in, but they might cancel. All the tours are canceled anyway.”

I nodded and sipped. “Do you live in Abiquiu?”

“Tesuque.”

“How’s the highway?”

“I came it at seven, so I don’t know. Shouldn’t be too bad yet.”

I heard a door close, and glanced toward the hall. Tony had come out of the office and was heading for the trading post. I turned back to Debbie.

“I really enjoyed the concert last night. Does Bernardo Milagro play here very often?”

“Usually once a year. It almost always sells out. Last night didn’t, but January’s pretty slow.”

“Well, I’ll probably come again. He was amazing.”

“He does workshops, too. Here, they’re in the catalog.”

She offered me a brochure listing the (expensive) classes, workshops, and retreats available throughout the year. I already had a copy, but I accepted it with a smile and listened to her describe Milagro’s “Sacred Drumming” workshop. Tony came in just as she was wrapping up.

“There you are.”

“Hi,” I said as Tony slid his arm around my waist and pulled me toward the hall. “The deputy wants to talk to you,” he said quietly when we were out.

“Again?”

My heart gave a little flutter of cop aversion. I told it to settle down. I had nothing to fear, and nothing to hide.

Same office, but this time it was the younger sheriff behind the desk. He stood as I came in, and offered a hand.

“Ms. Rosings? I’m Victor Trujillo.”

“Hello.”

His handshake was feather-light. He invited me politely to sit, and as I looked closer at his face I began to wonder if he might be Pueblo, or part Pueblo. The rounded cheeks, the narrow eyes—and his gentle demeanor was strikingly different from that of his colleague. And there was definitely something familiar about him, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. His black hair was cut fairly short, but not buzzed.

Tony had come in with me, and took the other visitor chair, pushing it back so he could see both me and the sheriff. I wondered where the older guy was. 

“I was expecting Sheriff Romero,” I said into the silence.

Trujillo and Tony exchanged a wry glance. “He’s gone home for the day. But this case is still a priority, so I’ll be here for a while.”

Trujillo was probably a bachelor, then, and Romero went home to his family, leaving the mess in his subordinate’s hands. I glanced at Tony. Clearly he was comfortable with this guy, which told me a lot.

“How can I help you?” I said as the silence stretched again. I knew it was a classic cop technique, but Trujillo didn’t seem to want to intimidate me. More like he was waiting for me to think of something new.

“Would you mind just going over what happened yesterday again?” he said, leaning his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together. “Sorry, but I wasn’t here for your interview. All I have is my boss’s notes.” He gestured toward the open file before him, and I remembered how laboriously the sheriff had written. Highly likely that he hadn’t recorded everything I said.

“OK,” I said, and proceeded to tell him the whole story. His expression was of mild interest, and I found myself offering more detail, incidental as it might be. Occasionally he nodded, but he didn’t say anything until I had finished.

“Do you think any of the others saw the body?” he asked.

“If they did, they didn’t say anything. Tony and I were at the end of the string.”

He nodded, and made a couple of notes on a steno pad, then put down the pen and looked at me. “I understand you’re acquainted with the Roan family?”

“Just with Lisette, really. I haven’t talked much with Jeremy, and not at all with Wesley.”

Slow nod. “How did you meet Mrs. Roan?”

“At the drinks counter in the dining hall.”

“The drinks counter?”

“Yes. We struck up a conversation and discovered we both like tea.”

“Ah.”

He gazed at the desktop, as if contemplating tea. I sat back in my chair, perfectly willing to wait.

“Did Mrs. Roan seem happy to you?” he asked after a pause.

“Happy?”

“When you met.”

I thought about it, then sighed. “I wouldn’t describe her as happy, no. Resigned, perhaps.”

“Resigned? To her marriage?”

“Best to be hoped for, really.”

“With a husband like Mr. Roan, you mean.”

I nodded. 

“Do you think she wanted out of her marriage?”

I paused. Lisette had told me as much, but not until today. Had I thought she wanted out yesterday?

“Probably,” I said. “It wasn’t a good match.”

“Then why did they get married?”

“He wanted a pretty wife, she wanted security.”

“But then—somewhere along the way—she changed her mind?”

I returned his placid gaze, wondering if he was gently laying a trap for me. “I don’t know that,” I said slowly, “but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear it.”

“But she didn’t get a divorce.”

“They have a son. Maybe she stayed for his sake.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No,” I said, “but she did tell me she was going to make sure Jeremy had opportunities his father never had.”

Trujillo lifted his chin slightly. “Wasn’t Mr. Roan well off?”

“Apparently. His wife is certainly well-dressed. They have a luxurious car.”

“You’ve seen their car?”

“Lisette gave me a ride back in it, after the trail ride.”

When Tony was with you, I added in thought. Going over the crime scene.

I looked at Tony, who was kicked back in his chair, listening. He gave me a tiny shrug.

“She gave you a ride back,” Trujillo said. “Did you mention what you had seen?”

I straightened in my chair. “I know better than that,” I said, matching his gentle tone.

“You didn’t say anything at all?”

“I told her that I’d seen what might be a crime scene, and that I couldn’t talk about it.”

“OK.” He nodded. “What about later? After she knew?”

“After she knew, she chewed me out for not telling her before.”

“Oh.” He looked at his pen, but didn’t pick it up. Instead, he met my gaze again. “Do you think she’s innocent?”

“I do.”

“She has no alibi.”

“That’s understandable.”

He looked surprised. “Understandable?”

“She stayed in the room alone after they argued and he stormed away.”

A slight frown creased his forehead. “Why is that understandable?”

I took a steadying breath. I’d said as much as I dared, as much as I felt I was obligated to. “Have you talked to her, Sheriff Trujillo?”

“Deputy. No, I haven’t.”

“When you do, be as considerate as you’ve been toward me, and you should learn some things.”

His eyes widened slightly, then he gave a slow nod. “Thank you.”

I nodded back.

As if this signaled the end of the interview, Tony sat up and stretched. “Think I’ll go see what people are gossiping about.”

Trujillo stood as well, and they exchanged a light fist bump. He then turned to me.

“Thank you, Ms. Rosings. I might want to talk with you again.”

“Sure,” I said, shaking hands. Again, he barely touched my fingers. “I’m happy to help any way I can.”

He smiled, then sat and picked up his pen. Tony held the door for me. Glancing toward the front doors as we entered the hall, I saw that the sky was darker. Snow coming down harder.

Tony headed for the snack bar, where the four newcomers had settled in with their coffee and were passing around a package of cookies from the trading post. They had progressed from grousing about their canceled tour to grousing about the snow. Tony made a slow circuit of the room, apparently admiring the movie posters, though I was sure he was eavesdropping shamelessly. Unwilling to join this masquerade, I took out my phone. It was after five.

In a couple of minutes, Tony joined me and led the way toward the front doors. Before stepping out, I wound my scarf around my neck and zipped up my coat. Hat on head, gloves on hands because the snow was about an inch deep and we had to go down the uneven path.

The storm had brought darkness early. The parking area below was lit by a couple of tall lights. Snowflakes danced through the orangish light and back into the dark. Tony stayed beside me as we walked slowly back to the Ghost House. There were a few footprints in the snow, already getting covered up.

At our door, we de-snowed ourselves as much as possible before going in. Tony unlocked it and I stepped in. 

“Babe, I think we’re gonna have to postpone that fancy dinner,” he said, nudging the thermostat on the wall up a tick.

“Yeah,” I said, shaking snow from my hat. “I don’t want to drive in this.”

“And I want to see what goes on in the dining hall tonight.”

I looked up at him. “I get the impression you’re actually working the case.”

“Unofficially. I offered to back Trujillo up. He was grateful.”

“You like him.”

Tony shrugged out of his jacket. “He’s a good investigator. Better than his boss. He’s wasted up here.”

I my coat on the back of one of the many chairs, then called the Abiquiu Inn and canceled our dinner reservation, with regrets. The woman on the phone sounded unsurprised.

We had about twenty minutes until the dining hall opened. Tony stretched out on the bed, scrolling through his phone. I wandered over to the dresser and picked up the bottle of wine I’d bought.

“I don’t suppose they’d approve of my bringing this to dinner.”

“Let’s save it for later.”

Nodding, I put the bottle down. If we saw Lisette in the dining hall, I might invite her to share it. She’d probably decline if her earlier reaction was any indication, but I wanted to keep in touch with her, keep assuring her that I was a friend.

I looked at Tony. “Do you have any idea where Wesley’s money came from?”

“His dad owned a sports bar. He inherited it, then bought two more.”

“Oh. Did he argue with his customers like he argued here?”

“His customers were probably all Texans fans. The bars are in Houston.”

“So now they’re Lisette’s.”

“Maybe. Depends on his will.”

Slightly shocked, I stared. “He wouldn’t leave them to someone else!”

“Might leave them to the kid.”

“Well, an eleven-year-old can’t operate bars. She’s Jeremy’s legal guardian, so she’d effectively be the owner.”

“Maybe.”

All these maybes were unsettling. Tony’s speculations weren’t very likely, I told myself. It would take serious spite to do something like that—leave the bars to his son, leaving Lisette with nothing. Wesley’s spite had seemed more ... offhanded? Just a habit?

I thought back to the unpleasant exchanges at the O’Keeffe house. Memory had elevated the importance of Wesley’s bullying his son, but there had been other moments ... how spitefully had I seen him behave toward Lisette? How angry had she been? I tried to remember, back past all the drama and emotion of today.

I joined Tony on the bed. He set his phone down and rolled me into his arms.

“Don’t strain your brain. Trujillo’s gonna sort that stuff out.”

I sighed. “You’re right. I’m just worried about Lisette.”

“Why don’t you text her and offer to walk her to the dining hall?”

I raised myself onto my elbow to look at him. “You think she’s in danger, don’t you?”

“It’s a possibility. If Roan was killed by someone who was after his money—”

“Someone from Texas? But the Roans would have noticed if such a person was here.”

“Not if the person was careful. They could be staying at the Inn, or in Española.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Tony looked up at me with a grin. “I didn’t say it was probable. I said it was possible.”

I sighed. “I still think Flag Hat Guy is your best bet. Him, or a posse.”

Tony shrugged. “Or a hit man.”

I stared at him. That hadn’t even occurred to me. Of course, it would have to be considered. Probably a standard question in the homicide detective handbook. And, sadly, it removed my objection that Lisette wasn’t physically capable of subduing her husband.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling. Was Lisette’s life with Wesley bad enough that she’d pay to have him killed? It hurt me to ponder that question, because, after all my protests, I suspected the answer was maybe.

“You gonna text her?” Tony said. “It’s almost quarter to six.”

“Yes.” I sat up, found my phone, and composed a quick text:

Tony and I would be happy to escort you to dinner.

I should have said “walk,” I thought as I slid off the bed and fetched my coat. Tony got up also. By the time we’d bundled up, Lisette still hadn’t answered.

“Let’s just walk up there,” I said. “Maybe we’ll meet her on the way.”

I braced myself for wind and cold. Instead, when we stepped out, it was into a soft, silent wonderland. Big, fluffy flakes fell past the golden glow of our porch light. The snow-laden sky had a faint glow of its own, slightly pink, though the sun had set by now. Tony turned his phone on flashlight mode and lit the way as we walked up to the parking lot. I couldn’t help remembering Christmas Eve, when we’d walked up Canyon Road in the snow, and Tony had blurted out his proposal.

Smiling, I slid my hand into his elbow. Snow was piling up on the Roans’ SUV and two other cars in the little parking lot. As we neared Lisette’s casita, a figure stepped out of the central door, silhouetted against the glow of the porch light.

A man’s figure. Tall, wearing a cowboy hat.