Chapter Twenty-Seven

Unable to sleep, Margo Elliott poked her husband’s forehead with her index finger until he awakened. “I don’t like any of this, things don’t feel right. We have to figure out what to do.”

When Cleg mumbled something that sounded resentful, Margo smacked his shoulder with her doubled fist. “Get up and make me some coffee.” She pulled her tatty old housecoat on over her flannel gown and headed for the stairs. “You’ve got five minutes.”

Margo was pacing the living room floor when Cleg showed up with her steaming cup. “Here it is, just the way you like it.”

Between sips, Margo shot lethal glances at her spouse sitting in his easy chair staring at his hands. “You’re just plain worthless. I’m trying to do something here, and all you can do is complain about being hungry.”

Cleg looked up. “I’m sorry, Sugar Plum.” He wrung his hands, his brow furrowed. “I’ve been trying to figure out where the girl would have gone but can’t seem to make heads nor tails of it. You went out of your way to give her a good home and all, even though she killed our boy…”

Margo spun on the balls of her feet, sloshing coffee onto the already-stained carpet. She stomped over to her husband and bent at the waist to bring her eyes level with his. “You don’t get it, do you? Not only do we have no clue as to the whereabouts of the treasure, but we lied to the kid about her sister. And now, thanks to that meddling bimbo at the hamburger joint, the police know she’s missing. When they find her, everything will come out, and I have a feeling the law won’t be too understanding about our good intentions.”

“Surely it’d just be her word against ours.”

Margo tapped her temple. “Think about it, Marshmallow-Ass, that Social Services girl hated us on sight. Or didn’t you notice the way she wrinkled her nose and sniffed when she walked into the living room, or the way she perched on the edge of the sofa like it was coated with manure. Besides, who knows what that kid told the psychologist during her visits.” She straightened, crossed one arm over her chest, rested the other elbow on the crossed arm, and tapped her closed fist against her chin. “We have to find her before the police do. Once we have the treasure, we can disappear.”

Cleg sat up straighter. “Disappear?”

“Picture us in a place warm year-round with palm trees and a beach. Someplace without extradition.” Margo’s gaze floated up to the ceiling. “A place where someone young and tanned would wait on me…on us hand and foot. We could live like royalty on very little.”

“But what about all our stuff? What would happen to our house?”

Margo jerked her eyes back toward her husband as she moved her hand in an arc. “Is it really all that hard for you to understand why I’d want to leave this place?”

“I know it isn’t much, but it’s what we can afford on my disability check.”

Margo squinted. “If we play our cards right, we won’t need your check.”

“But—”

Margo made a chopping motion with her right hand. “Shut it. I’m not letting that treasure slip through my hands. Our Digger died trying to find it, and I know he’d want us to have it. I’ll think of him while I…while we live the life we deserve.”

“But where can the girl go? Seems she’d be pretty easy to spot.”

“You’re forgetting the box of hair color Mort found in her suitcase. That hamburger-joint woman told him her hair was brown. And eye color’s easy enough to hide behind sun shades.” Margo took a deep breath, a thoughtful look on her face. “She has no intention of getting caught or she’d have gone to the police by now. That means we still have time to find her.”

“She’s having to live rough. Either that or someone’s already grabbed her.” Cleg licked his lips. “A cute little kid like that, she could wind up in some Sultan’s harem.”

Margo whirled on her husband. “And there it is. You’ve probably spent hours slobbering all over yourself at the thought of having a harem.” She stepped toward Cleg, a look on her face he recognized all too well. “You’d better watch it, Flabbo, or you’ll have to start reading your comic books through your fly.”

Cleg cringed and a cold sweat popped out along his upper lip. He held his hands up in a pleading motion. “Now, now, Butter Cake, you know you’re the only one for me.”

As quickly as her temper had flared, Margo’s mood changed, and she grew thoughtful. “Mort said no one at either the Belen or Los Lunas train stations said they’d seen her.”

Like a lamb unexpectedly reprieved from slaughter, Cleg perked up. “Maybe she caught sight of him looking for her and skedaddled. Or maybe she waited for him to leave then went back.”

Ignoring her husband, Margo paced and muttered to herself, “Cross country, that’d be the smart way to go. And she’s plenty smart. But once she finds out her dear sister’s still alive, all hell’s going to break loose.” She tapped her cheek with an index finger. “If I were old man Ross, where would I hide a pile of money? Or maybe it’s gold bars and jewels. Digger said he Googled it, and there are millions of dollars in lost treasure in various places all over New Mexico.”

“How bad can it get…with the police, I mean?”

“You’re like a broken record. Stop blathering on about the police.”

“But we’ve not done anything illegal. Not yet, anyways.”

Margo glared at her spouse. “Keeping her away from her only surviving family member? Maybe not technically illegal, but some people might frown on that kind of behavior. And who knows what some vote-hungry elected official might decide to call it?”

Cleg gulped, the sound loud enough to be heard across the room.

Suddenly, Margo jerked her head up and smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. She hurried to the lamp stand by the sofa, picked up her purse and retrieved the pickup keys. “Hustle, Tubby.” She tossed the keys at her spouse.

Never a quick study, Cleg blankly watched the keys’ flight as they hit his belly then bounced onto the floor. Wheezing, he bent to retrieve the projectiles. “Where’re we going, Peaches?”

“Since the kid still believes her sister’s dead, she’ll want money for a fancy funeral.”

“Aw, that’s nice. Don’t you think that’s nice?”

Margo shot a look of contempt at her spouse. “Focus, Big-Brains. It’s been right in front of us all along, she’ll have to go back to the farm to get some of the treasure for a funeral and headstone.” She strode toward the front door. “Move it or stay here and rot.”

Cleg hoisted himself out of his easy chair. Clutching the keys, he grabbed his oxygen tank and hurried after his wife.