Chapter 6

 

Drake and I sat on the cabin’s wooden porch while the photographer snapped away. He’d brought three cameras, we discovered, so he kept plenty busy while we talked.

“You know,” Drake said, “a wraparound porch would make this even better. We would set a couple of chairs facing that bluff.”

“We don’t know who owns it or if it’s even for sale,” I countered, not wanting to get attached.

“I think my carpentry skills are up to it.”

“Getting confident after building the gazebo, huh?”

“Think how great it would be to come out here anytime we want. With the aircraft, we’d just hop in and go back to town if a job comes up …”

“And the bathroom is an outhouse …”

“You could get new curtains and all that girly stuff …”

Michael was coming up the arroyo, one camera on a strap around his neck, the others stashed in the bag again.

“Lots to talk about later,” Drake said to me, extending a hand to pull me to my feet.

“Wow—this view will make a perfect backdrop for the story,” Michael said, breathing a little hard in the high, thin air. “Now, what were you saying about a mining town up the way? I’d like to get some shots there, as well.”

An hour later, we’d covered a lot of ground and the man had taken a lot of pictures, ending with shots of the mine shafts near Madrid (which the locals pronounce Mad-rid).

Way, way back in history there were coal mining operations up here. The town was abandoned for a long time until modern-day artists discovered it and revamped the old houses and buildings to create a funky little touristy place to visit on weekends. Dressed up, Madrid had even starred in a movie or two.

Drake set the helicopter down near the ballpark, which in the town’s heyday in the 1920s was the first field west of the Mississippi with electric lights and a scoreboard. Babe Ruth even played here—or so the legend goes. The other thing the little burg was known for back in the day was its annual display of Christmas lights with scenes covering the nearby hills and attracting families from Albuquerque who made the two-hour drive to get here by road.

These days, there are dozens of artsy shops and—we hoped—someplace good for lunch. A stroll into the heart of town told us immediately there was some kind of event going on. A food and wine festival, it seemed. I discovered I was up for both.

Michael took off on foot to see what picturesque delights he could capture. He said he’d be back within an hour, but since Drake was on the clock we didn’t care if he took all day. The arrangement of booths seemed to run along the lines of: a wine, a food, an art or craft, a wine, a craft, another wine. New Mexico is known for some excellent wineries and this little event was here to showcase them.

First, I wanted food. The smell of barbeque wafted toward me; I took Drake’s hand and pulled him along as I followed the scent like a hopeful puppy. Not that he needed much persuading.

“Hey,” he said, stopping under a shady elm tree, “isn’t that your guy?”

Utter confusion on my part.

“Bobby Lorrento, the one Ron’s tracking. Over by that wine booth with the chile ristras hanging on it.”

I followed his gaze in time to see a large white guy pull a petite, dark-haired woman into an embrace. They had stepped out of the traffic path and were indulging in a kiss. A long kiss.

I had to admit I didn’t watch enough football to recognize the players in their uniforms, on the field, much less out in the civilian world, but Drake seemed fairly certain.

“It’s him. He hired me once to fly him around a ranch property up near Pecos.”

Why hadn’t he told me this a week ago? “Did the woman go along too?”

“Not that one. The lady I met was taller and blonde and was introduced as his wife, Marcie.”

I glanced back over at the lovebirds. Where was our photographer when we needed him? I reached for my phone in my jeans pocket, but even zooming it to its max, I knew the photo I shot would be an unrecognizable blur. The subjects were too far away.

“I’m going to see if I can catch up with them,” I said.

“Charlie—”

The crowd had multiplied and I lost sight of the pair as I dashed across the road—bringing a pickup truck to a sudden stop—and sprinted toward the booth with the bright red strings of chiles. You’d think a guy who’s six-three and well over two hundred pounds couldn’t simply vanish. The pair had been slightly to the side of the wine booth when I spotted them, maybe they’d ducked behind to get away from the expanding crowd.

I followed the route I guessed they most likely had taken, but all I found was the parking area for the vendors. The row of booths was backed up by vehicles parked at crazy angles, an assortment of empty cartons and more than a few guywires waiting to trip me and toss me on my face if I wasn’t careful.

No sign of a big man and petite woman. I turned back to the hubbub. Drake had crossed the road and apparently had just asked the slender woman in the wine booth if she’d seen me. She gave a winning smile and pointed toward me. He looked relieved. What a sweetheart he is, but really, I don’t need this much worrying-over.

I turned to the woman, whose business seemed momentarily at a lull. She had enviable long blonde hair drawn up into a ponytail with just the perfect number of wisps escaping the band, and she wore a burgundy apron over her jeans and white T-shirt. A name tag pinned to the apron strap identified her as Susie Scott. She picked up a small plastic cup and poured a half inch of wine into it.

“Here, try this one. It’s our red-chile cabernet.” She offered Drake a taste as well, but he declined on the grounds that he had to fly later.

Momentarily distracted from my football-player mission, I took the cup. A lot of New Mexico winemakers are getting creative with flavors, but I’d never tried one of these with chile. I took a tentative sip. It was actually very good, with just a hint of chile nip as it settled into my mouth.

I noticed Susie was watching the crowd as we chatted, so I decided to see if she had noticed Lorrento. I described him.

“You mean Bobby Lorrento,” she said. “I recognized him right away. He was one of my fantasy football picks last year.” She lowered her voice. “The girl with him—that wasn’t his wife. I’ve seen Marcie Lorrento in the stands. You know, they do those crowd shots sometimes on TV. Uh-uh. This was somebody else. I didn’t know he and his wife had split.”

As readily as she shared information I figured I’d better not tell her about our case. “Did he buy anything from you?”

A credit card receipt could give Ron some additional ammo, I supposed.

Susie shook her head. “No, but I noticed they stopped at the booth over there where the guy sells the Polish sandwiches. Bobby wolfed down two of them. Oh—and the girl? She was carrying a little bag from The Spice Rack. It’s the booth about three down from me that sells all kinds of spices and teas.”

“You’d make a great detective,” I told her.

She beamed. “You think? My mother always told me I was too nosy. My sister just says I’m very observant.”

I thanked her for the information and we bought a bottle of the wine. I spent the next forty minutes visiting the two booths Susie had pointed out—no luck finding Lorrento at either one. I turned my attention toward ferreting out the best of the barbeque sandwiches on offer. When we decided, we settled at a picnic table under an awning to eat and watch the crowd.

At one point I thought I saw the dark-haired woman Bobby Lorrento had been kissing, but she was alone and I couldn’t be sure. I was becoming impatient with the search—this was Ron’s case, after all. I wanted to return to my earlier euphoria, but even Drake’s mention of the little cabin we’d found didn’t quite bring it back.

Drake’s client came ambling up to our table, a happy grin proof he’d gotten everything he wanted out of the day’s excursion. We balled up our sandwich papers and tossed them in the trash, and the three of us strolled back to our aircraft. Bobby Lorrento might be rich and famous, but we were the ones in this crowd who knew how to come and go in style.

By the time I got home, leaving Drake and Michael at the airport to finalize their business, it was late afternoon. I was still full from the late barbeque lunch, so I planned nothing more complicated than to take Freckles for a quick walk followed by an evening devoted to nothing much at all.

I’d barely clipped the leash to the dog’s collar and stepped out the front door when Elsa woo-hoo’d at me from her front yard. We walked over to say hi. I immediately noticed she seemed concerned about something.

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t be such a worry-wart,” she said, “but I still think something’s wrong over at the Delaney’s. Ever since we talked before, I’ve been watching those girls. I haven’t seen the two of them together in ages.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that. Is it unusual? Maybe one girl has been away.”

“Hm, maybe. But it’s been a long time, and both their cars are there.”

I looked up the street and saw that, yes, two Corvettes sat in their driveway—a red one and a blue one.

I did a quick age calculation. The Delaney twins must be eighteen or nineteen now, certainly old enough to be on their own. I remembered my own late-teen years and how girls that age almost always hung out in pairs or groups. Even shopping, I always went with Stacy or Brad.

“You told me the parents travel a lot. Maybe she went with them.”

“But that’s the thing. I see both girls. Zayne comes out and gets into her red car, and other times Clover comes out and goes in the blue one.”

“And the problem is …?”

“I never see them together. Those girls have always done everything together.”

Freckles was tugging at her leash but I took a moment to give my attention to Elsa.

“So, what are you saying?”

“I don’t know, but I have a bad feeling.”