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WE HUDDLED AROUND the sleek, but cold-looking industrial kitchen counter where I’m sure many of Brenda’s recipes had come to life and her dreams of Gourmet Meal Delivery for seniors met their fate. Poor Aunt Brenda. Her own utensils and books must have been packed in her Honda because I didn’t recognize anything in sight. She had however managed to make me a wonderful peanut butter and sliced apples sandwich. Not that I felt very hungry at this point. I couldn’t wash away Tristan’s look of defeat in the brief flash that our eyes met. Poor, poor Tristan.
Brenda had left to show Detective Reid the rooms Lois and Angelique had occupied at the ranch. She had no idea where Rogelio/Leo’s room was. His clothing littered the floor of Angelique’s room.
Luckily this was Saturday night, and I didn’t have any real estate business planned for the next day. Greg Coste’s inspection was scheduled for Monday, and my phone had been quiet.
All that took second place to my concerns regarding Tristan. Where would he sleep if most of the house had burned? Bob mentioned that the fire had been set on the side of the home where Tristan’s rooms were located. I remembered when I visited him after the car accident, resting on a lounge chair he told me belonged to his mother. He had recreated his mom’s sitting room where she would sit and read to him when he was a child.
Oh, my God... it wasn’t Tristan’s stuff the arsonist was after—it was his mother’s irreplaceable personal belongings. Angelique. It had to be her. It just had to. The odd conversation I had with Brenda regarding Angelique’s feelings toward Tristan’s mom popped into my mind. Angelique had called her a home-wrecker and claimed Philippe Dumont was supposed to marry her, Angelique, not the home-wrecker.
That had to be the reason behind the fire. To erase memories of Mrs. Dumont from the face of the earth? Revenge? After all Tristan did for ungrateful Angelique?
I wanted to know. No, I needed to know how he was handling the loss. I had already told Detective Reid everything and anything I knew about the brief, unfortunate encounter with Rogelio/Leo. Even adding the small detail about not seeing any car around the Dumonts’ residence on either day when Silvia De Aguilar visited.
Detective Reid said that the poor woman indeed had a car, which was now missing. A 2012 white Kia Soul. Oh, I called those cars the cube because of the square-looking shape, and I definitely didn’t see any Kia around as I’d driven by on that Wednesday and noticed the silver Escalade parked in the motor court of the Dumont residence.
By 2:00 a.m. both Phoenix PD and the Tucson group met in the same kitchen where I could hardly keep from falling asleep and told us we were free to leave. Someone would contact us if needed.
Since neither Brenda nor I had any means of transportation, Bob Clarke drove us home. I sat in the back with Dior who eventually ran out of enthusiasm and fell asleep on my lap. Brenda sat up front with Bob and two coffee mugs. They did have a good, friendly relationship. I could tell. I must have dozed off because at some point I realized we had just left the 51 and were on Shea Boulevard, nearing home. Imagine my surprise when Bob’s headlights shone on Brenda’s Honda Pilot parked in front of her closed garage door.
“How, how...” Did I sleep with my mouth open? My lips felt so dry I could hardly talk.
“Tristan texted me,” Brenda said. “He left the keys under the back doormat. What a kind soul. In the midst of all this tragedy he made sure my car would be waiting when I got home. A nice, nice boy.”
I kept quiet, aware she was looking at me from the rearview mirror.
That was my cue to jump out of Bob’s squad car and run to unlock my door so I could cry my eyes out in the privacy of my own home. First, I kicked off my shoes, noticing the heels covered with caked mud from running on that grassy field. Then off came the bra. I already felt much better, but I couldn’t help checking my phone for texts every five minutes.
Sunshine already filtered in from between the closed bedroom louvers by the time I fell asleep. Tristan never called.
It was minutes before noon when I dragged myself over to Brenda’s back door. Just like old times.
“There you are, sleepyhead,” was her welcoming greeting.
I walked up to the kitchen sink where she was rinsing something and hugged her from the back. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
She laughed and tried to free herself from my hug, but she didn’t try too hard. Dior was jumping around like a crazy mutt. I bet he also had missed his old place.
“You hungry? I’m making cheese omelet, baked apples instead of potatoes, and crescent rolls I had in the fridge. That’s the best I could do until I run to get some groceries.”
“Sounds heavenly,” I said, my head still resting on her shoulder. “Did you watch the news?”
She shook her head. “No. But Bob called. The stolen truck has been located, minus the thief of course.”
I went to pour myself some coffee. “Oh, where was the truck?”
“Somewhere around Sun Lakes.”
“Sun Lakes? That’s not the way to Mexico from the ranch; it’s the opposite. Isn’t Sun Lakes a retirement community?”
“It is, but it wasn’t in Sun Lakes. The detectives speculate the truck ran out of gas and maybe Angelique Dumont picked him up. Both Angelique and the Escalade are also missing. And Lois... that concerns me, I wish I had paid more attention when she came around and complained about Angelique’s behavior.” The oven timer chimed. “Let’s eat,” Brenda said.
Neither of us mentioned Tristan, and yet I knew he was as much in Brenda’s thoughts as he was in mine. Dior acted rambunctious. He wanted to go for a walk I supposed. I cleaned up the dishes after we ate, walking around the kitchen with Dior’s nose inches from my fanny. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Brenda, I’m going to get some real clothes on and take sad eyes here for a walk.”
“Yes, but you need to promise me you won’t go anywhere near the Dumonts’ place. Promise?”
What?
“Why would I do that?”
“Monica, look at me. I can see it in your eyes, and I understand. But this is not the time. I’m sure Tristan would call you and ask you over if he thought that was a good idea. The house fire made front-page news last night and this morning. Along with Angelique Dumont’s disappearance. The cockroaches of humanity are all over the Internet expressing their opinions. You cannot let yourself get mixed up with this. Tristan understands that; he’s keeping his distance to protect you.”
Deep down I prayed she was right and that was the only reason for Tristan’s silence. Funny how I got religious in time of need.
“Ok, you’re right,” I conceded. “Just a quick run around the block.” I swear Dior speaks English. He was wagging his tail faster than windshield wipers in a hurricane even before I reached for his leash. We made a brief stop by my place so I could trade my bathrobe and slippers for dog walking clothing. Then I pocketed a few treats and a few poop baggies, and out we went.
It had been weeks since Dior and I had walked the neighborhood. And on a Sunday too. The familiar streets seemed unusually quiet—a few older folks working in their front yards and waving at us, a kid rushing over to pet Dior. The usual. But this wasn’t enough to keep my mind from drifting toward Tristan and his quandary.
Where had he slept if his room was charred? Had the firefighters been able to save some of his mom’s personal belongings? Luckily, he left his car parked by the police headquarters. Stop it, Monica. Might as well head back.
“Well, he did poop. So that’s good,” I said to Brenda as I removed the leash from Dior. He made a beeline for his water bowl and drank and splashed water around as noisily as he usually did after a walk. I didn’t know if Brenda heard us. She was busy measuring liquid soap next to the washing machine, and the dryer was on. And so was the television. Our local ABC channel was announcing breaking news.
A young reporter who looked familiar, but whose name escaped me, said something about reporting events, “...as they happened, where they happened.” I don’t know what he was reporting. Visible on the screen were the desert, dirt, rocks, and some dried-up bushes. Oh, wait, uniformed cops and other people also in uniform gathered around a wreck of some sort, and then the young man said, “It appears they located the missing car of Silvia De Aguilar, the woman found...”
“Brenda, Brenda, they found it. Hurry. Come see. Where is this place? That doesn’t look like a car... Brenda.” I shook like the last autumn leaf in the wind.
“Calm down; don’t scream. I’m right here.” Brenda patted my arm.
Dior seemed confused and came over to check me out. I couldn’t breathe.
“Someone set that car on fire,” Brenda said.
“Who? How do you know?”
“Monica, calm down and listen to the reporter, he just said some kids out riding their ATVs early this morning found the charred vehicle. They called 911 and reported it. That’s the trail they ride every Sunday morning, and the pile of charred metal was not there last Sunday.” Her voice sounded a bit shaky. I still couldn’t control my quivers. “Let’s sit down. Do you want a glass of water?”
I shook my head but sat on the edge of the couch.
We couldn’t see what was happening with the car. The reporter had moved away and was interviewing the kids who found the burned vehicle. They had tried but couldn’t find the license plate. It had been nearly three hours since the police, firefighters, and tow trucks got there according to the kids. They seemed quite excited.
Then something else must have happened because boys and reporter stopped talking for a minute or so. I grabbed Brenda’s arm. “What’s happening? They look stunned.”
“We have been asked to move back,” the reporter announced. “There are new developments.”
Just then a vehicle, possibly a van, drove by their camera, creating a lot of dust. And that was it. The screen changed and returned to the regular program.
“What happened? Where did they go?”
“Monica, you’re hurting me. What’s gotten into you? So they found the missing car. Whoever stole it probably burned it after finding out it belonged to a possible murder victim. Why are you so upset? Poor Mrs. De Aguilar has no use for the car where she is now. She’s at peace.” Embarrassed, I let go of her arm, “Let’s turn the television off,” Brenda said.
Just then the breaking news reporter reappeared, minus the kids. He stood near a make- shift parking lot. I noticed other media vehicles in the background, and you could tell the mood had changed. “We are asked to leave,” he announced. “Apparently in the wrecked, charred interior of the vehicle they found human remains, burned beyond recognition.”
Brenda dropped the remote.
