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BY THE TIME I made it back to my car, lunch time had come and gone. Both Sunny and the front desk woman whose name turned out to be April, reassured me that the detective couldn’t just take my mail without some legal paperwork. It didn’t matter much, Detective Eve had taken both the ripped envelope and the sealed one and left me heartbroken, holding a piece of paper she gave me as a receipt of some sort. In a way it was stupid. I would have never opened the one addressed to Tristan anyhow, but I felt—violated.
I drove like a maniac all the way home. Only after I was in my living room did I remember I hadn’t called Mr. Coste to tell him about the accepted contract. Oh, damn.
Okay, first things first. I phoned my buyer, and his thanks made my day a little better. Just a little. That was the easy part, calling Tristan was a whole different story. And I was no storyteller. More like a sappy, trusting fool. Twice the poor dead woman entrusted me with her messages, and twice I let her down.
My stomach in knots, I paced around like a robot mentally rehearsing what to say to Tristan. I hadn’t seen him since the trip at the airport. My house was so quiet it made me even more jumpy. This wasn’t fair. Why was I getting caught in the middle of stuff I had nothing to do with? If my family back home had been a little more understanding maybe I would have talked to them. Them? My mother who went to early daily mass? Who never accepted I wasn’t married in the Catholic Church and then divorced? Nah. Scrap that. My cell chimed; I grabbed it with both hands as a mini lifebuoy.
“Yes?” God, heavy breathing, Monica? Really?
“Monica, are you okay?”
“Brenda. Yeah, sorry. I’m so glad you called. I need some advice.”
“You? Asking for advice? That’s a good one. Go ahead. I can use a laugh. What’s the problem?”
“Oh, well. Wait.” I lowered my voice. “Are you alone? It’s—confidential.”
“For God’s sake, yes, I’m alone, and that’s my big problem. I may pack up my stuff, grab Dior, and drive back home.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I’m not sure, and that’s also a problem. I can’t get hold of Lois; my calls all go to her voicemail. Angelique is up in Phoenix, and the Lopezes are pretty upset over the missing money.”
“Who are the Lopezes? Do I know them? What money?”
“Yes, you know them, the older couple who used to take care of this place before Tristan bought it. He let them stay, and the old man keeps an eye on the hired help, but this morning he couldn’t pay them. He swears the money was in the account yesterday. It’s all gone this morning.”
“Wow, no wonder you want to pack up. What’s Tristan saying?”
“I doubt he knows what’s going on. The account and transfer of funds was set up way back when Angelique decided to move down here. I’m trying to stay out of this. I may have wasted my time, but I’m not going to waste money I don’t have feeding hungry workers. Anyhow, what did you want to talk to me about?”
“What indeed.” Suddenly my conscience wasn’t screaming guilty as loud as before. Still, I went ahead and told Brenda about the letter and the pushy detective. Just sharing with her made me feel a little better. And I told her about the Sunday plan of driving down to the ranch and picking up Tache.
“I don’t know, Monica. I may drive back tonight, it’s pretty depressing around here. I need supplies, and I’m not sure who is taking care of the horses. You may want to let Tristan know that when you tell him about the letters.
“By the way, the Leo guy has been acting like he owns the horse trailer. I think he’s packing his belongings in there. I hope it’s only his belongings. I don’t trust the guy. I’m going to go get Dior. He’s out back with Tristan’s mare.
“You know what? Let me talk to Bob and see what he thinks about that woman detective taking the mail. He ought to know. He may not work homicide, but the law should be the same either way in my opinion. Okay kiddo. Let’s do that. I’ll have Bob Clarke give you a call. Talk to you soon.”
I couldn’t sit still. So much kept churning about in my mind. Tristan was away what? Five days? And everything went down the rabbit hole. Damn.
Might as well go check the mail. Found a lonely letter addressed to Brenda from her car insurance company. I turned to go up the driveway and saw Bob Clarke crossing the street. What do you know, he was over at the widow’s, and I hadn’t even noticed. I waited for him to catch up to me.
“I talked to Brenda,” he said and patted my arm in a friendly, reassuring manner. Why couldn’t that blonde detective be more like Officer Clarke?
“Oh, so what do you think? Am I wrong at being upset?”
He shrugged, shook his head. What did I expect? The so-called blue wall of silence was alive and well I guess. He followed me into the house, and I felt like I should be offering him a glass of wine or something. Then I remembered it was just past lunchtime, and I’d had nothing but coffee and toast all day. Forget the wine, plus even if he wasn’t in uniform, he might be on call.
His phone went off, and he excused himself and walked outside. Well, so much for that. I had run out of excuses. I had to call Tristan and tell him what happened without sounding like a victim.
Just then Bob came back in, and he somehow looked/acted different. “Monica, just got off the phone with Detective Reid. Tristan Dumont is on his way to meet with her and Detective Ross. They would like to know if you’d care to join them.”
“Join them? Who? I’m confused. What is it some kind of party? Wait, have they found Silvia De Aguilar’s killer?”
Bob kept shaking his head. “No, Monica. Tristan is meeting with the detectives to discuss the letter De Aguilar mailed to you, addressed to him. Out of courtesy the detectives asked if you would like to be present, so you’ll know everyone is acting properly and following the law. To put it simply, they are acknowledging you are a good soul caught in the middle, and they are trying to make you feel better even if they don’t have to.”
It didn’t take a genius to know that Bob’s patience was running thin. I looked at him, transfixed, my mouth open, trying to decide if they were doing me a favor of sorts or using me as a scapegoat. Either way, it was worth the trip.
“I’m in,” I said. “Where should I go?”
“I’ll take you there,” Bob said.
I ran back to my bedroom, grabbed my purse and car keys—wait, Bob was driving. Fast detour through the bathroom, checked my mascara and lipstick and back to the kitchen where I grabbed a banana to eat in the car and a bottle of water.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Bob nodded and headed toward the door.
“Is this a new car?” Bob’s vehicle wasn’t a cop’s car nor the old sedan he drove when off duty. “New to me,” he said. “My squad car is in the shop, so I’m using an unmarked car.”
“Wait, like, it’s a real cop car except people don’t see you coming? That’s cool. I didn’t see any of the lights on top. Do you have a siren?”
“I can assure you, Monica. Everything is there, just like any police car except not in plain sight, and please, please, no touching.” He stopped my hand from reaching a latch under the thing that usually would house the glove compartment. Looked different in this car.
This wasn’t my first visit to the Phoenix Police Department nor my first sit-down interview with the Adam and Eve duo—except this time I was there as a guest. Fingers crossed this wasn’t a lousy trick.
We came in from a back entrance, so I had no idea if Tristan was already there or not. My heart was thumping in overdrive in anticipation of seeing him. Apparently, we had arrived before Tristan, and Bob lead the way to a pleasant, sunny office that wasn’t anything at all like an interrogation room, real or movie-like.
Eve, AKA Detective Reid was waiting. “Tristan Dumont is on his way up,” she said.
I recognized some of the folders on the large desk. They reminded me of the ones she carried that day when she confiscated my ripped business card. Could this be her office? Bob Clarke sat on a chair by the window. I assumed he had a partial view of downtown. Couldn’t tell for sure.
“Make yourself comfortable.” Detective Reid pointed to the two chairs lined up at the opposite side of the desk. And just then, Tristan and Detective Ross entered the room.
Tristan hesitated a second then walked over and pulled back the empty chair next to mine. I looked up. My eyes found his, and his held mine while he sat. I couldn’t find my voice.
“The detectives have shown me the original ripped business card and the envelopes.” Tristan spoke softly as if we were the only two people in the room.
I nodded, like a wind-up toy. “Monica, I’ve waited for you before reading the contents of the letter. Since Silvia De Aguilar trusted you, you must be part of this.” I heard the catch in his voice. This was the first time Tristan had addressed me by my real name.
By now Adam and Eve had undoubtedly decided we must be lovers. Well, the joke was on them. Somehow, I didn’t feel like laughing. My face heated up, and a large lump expanded in my throat. I tried to clear it by swallowing; it didn’t work. The tension in the room was intense. I wondered if there was more than the sharing of the letter on the agenda.
“Just to clear the air,” Detective Ryan Ross said, “we have concluded that Miss Baker was telling the truth in regard to having met Silvia De Aguilar for the first and only time at the Dumonts’ residence. And of course, the letter establishes that Tristan Dumont and the victim didn’t know each other nor had any previous contact until the time when he found her body in his home. Should we proceed?” He looked at his partner, Detective Reid, Eve, and then to me.
“Please do,” Tristan said. He squeezed my hand.
“Uh, excuse me.” I raised my free hand like a schoolgirl. What was wrong with me?
“Yes, Monica?” Detective Ross said. I sensed Bob Clarke stirring in his chair.
“When did she... I mean... the lady, Silvia De Aguilar, when did she, you know... die?”
“We don’t have an exact time of death. The medical examiner noted that she received the blow to the head sometime on Wednesday afternoon. Apparently, she was left there, unable to move. She bled to death where Mr. Dumont found her.”
She bled to death. The image of her head resting in the large pool of blood flashed in my mind. I swallowed harder.
“Monica, are you okay?” Detective Reid asked.
“Hmm, I...” Aware of everyone’s eyes on me. “Wednesday afternoon, I drove by the house.” Was I really the one talking? Tristan let go of my hand, and the room grew still. “I drove by on my way back from the 40th Street parking. You know, the trails...” I had to stop and breathe; the walls were closing in on me.
“Go on,” Detective Reid said in a sweet voice I didn’t know she had.
“The gate was wide open... at the Dumonts’ house, I mean. For a moment I wondered if I’d left it open the previous day when I went to check the mail. But—but then I saw a car parked up the driveway by the front door. And... I’m pretty sure it was a silver Escalade.” Breathe, Monica, breathe. “I’m so sorry, Tristan.” I couldn’t look at him.
“Fiat, why didn’t you tell me?” Then to the detectives— “Angelique drives a silver Escalade.” —his voice disturbingly detached.
“Monica, you’re sure it was Mrs. Dumont?” Detective Ross asked.
“No, no. I only saw the car and thought maybe they were mad at me for letting a stranger come up to the house the day before and they wanted to check nothing was missing. I know it sounds stupid now, but...”
“You say ‘they were mad.’ Who do you mean?” The detective again.
“Oh, you know, both Angelique and her assistant, Lois Thomas. They drive the Escalade, so I don’t know who was at the house. Maybe both?” I waited for someone to stop me. No one did. “I had spoken to Angelique on the phone around eleven or so. She was at the ranch. It was after one o’clock when I drove by the house, she would have had to drive fast to make it to Phoenix in two, two and a half hours.” I conveniently left out my asking Brenda about Angelique’s whereabouts. I had just swallowed enough guilt in one serving to last me a lifetime and was undoubtedly not making Tristan feel better about any of this.
“Thanks, Monica, we can follow up on that,” Detective Ross said, looking at his partner.
She nodded.
“The Escalade. OnStar.” Tristan said. Both detectives nodded.
Then Eve/ Detective Reid slid a one-page letter toward Tristan. I assumed it to be the original because you could clearly see the folds. It looked like a very ordinary piece of printing paper. I recognized Silvia’s handwriting. And she must have used the same pen she had in her purse when I met her at the Dumonts’, the same color ink as the writing on back of the ripped business card. “Mr. Dumont, it’s a copy. You understand.” The detective said.
Oh, I was wrong.
“We can read it together.” Tristan said. He slid the paper closer to me, and we did.
