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It was still dark when Riley let herself into her mother’s condo. Inside she paused, weighing what would be more likely to trigger a heart attack—a yoo-hoo that roused her mom from sleep or the aroma of perking coffee. Either would tell the seventy-two-year-old she wasn’t home alone.
Craving caffeine, she gave the edge to Maxwell House and tiptoed to the kitchen. Lucy proved less considerate, meowing a cranky protest at being jailed again.
Before liberating the feline, Riley closed the kitchen door to keep Lucy semi-confined. The last thing her mom needed was a twenty-pound cat pouncing on her fragile chest. As she released Lucy, Riley stroked her broad ebony back in apology. After she set down dishes of water and kibble, she drew back lace curtains covering the jalousied windows above the spotless sink. Dawn sent tender shoots of yellow into the eggplant sky.
She started the coffeemaker and settled at the kitchen table. Riley glanced at the oven clock: 6:05. Unbelievable. Her emotional roller coaster made it seem as if the world had spun on its axis a dozen times since she made love with Wolf.
She braced her elbows on the polished oak table and dropped her weary head into her hands. Her optimistic dad raised her to look for positives. Were there any? A couple. The officers had shooed the media ghouls away, though only after they captured embarrassing footage. Phil also relented about arresting Wolf for illegally discharging a firearm. But his comment—“Riley, if you vouch for him, I’ll let it slide.”—didn’t exactly improve Wolf’s mood.
Once the deputies left, Wolf grew quiet, unresponsive. It was clear he believed racist bias colored the deputies’ actions? She had a different take. While the effigy outraged her, Wolf had shown bad judgment, firing a gun in the suburbs. What if his bullet had ricocheted and injured a neighbor peeking out a second-story window?
She tried to persuade Wolf the deputies would put real effort into running down the vandals. They promised to treat the mock hanging as a hate crime, and Phil put out a BOLO.
Problem was neither Wolf nor Riley could give the officers a worthwhile description. No license plate. No year or make of vehicle. Not even car color. The men wore hoods—orange rather than Klan white. While Riley felt certain they belonged to Onward—orange appeared to be a gang color—she had no proof. She couldn’t even swear the thugs were Caucasian.
She kept asking why. Why target Wolf? Because he spotted Smitty? If so, they’d exacted retribution very quickly. The timetable and organization seemed improbable.
Phil asked Wolf to guess why he’d been targeted. His answer: “You mean like me being both Injun and Spic—two of your redneck’s favorite targets?”
The atmosphere descended further into the crapper when Phil asked if someone might have a problem with Wolf’s and Riley’s relationship—“given how some folks feel about race mixing.” For a moment, Riley wondered if her lover might deck the peace officer.
But, dammit, the question had merit. Could whoever trashed her bedroom have spied her kissing Wolf in the BRU parking lot? John Hunter’s face popped into her mind, but she scoffed at the notion of the millionaire businessman having any truck with Onward.
If her romance with Wolf triggered the incident, it had to be some white supremacist freak. The deputies floated the idea of a stalker. Maybe. It fit with the break-in at her home.
The kitchen door creaked. She jumped.
“Hi, sweetie. I smelled coffee and figured it was you. When I looked out my window and saw your car, I ruled out a considerate burglar.”
Miz Pearl had applied foundation makeup and lipstick and patted her lacquered hair in place before padding downstairs. From the drape of her housecoat, she’d evidently donned a bra, too. Appearances had to be maintained. The nasal cannula that fed oxygen from her mother’s concentrator was absent. Must have had a good night.
“Hi, Mom. Glad I didn’t frighten you. I just wanted to talk first thing.”
Her mother frowned. She ambled to the coffee pot, which had just announced its gurgling finale. She poured two mugs and took the chair beside Riley.
“What’s wrong?”
Riley hated to see the worry clouding her mother’s eyes. Those eyes had once been sky blue. After her brother died, the color began to leach away like pigment in a fading photo.
“Mom, I’m fine. But someone broke into my house yesterday.”
Her mother gasped, and Riley reached out and squeezed her hand. “Just vandalism. Nothing stolen. To play it safe I spent the night with a friend.”
She paused in her fumbling storytelling. Was her mother following? The woman looked weak and confused, and she hadn’t even reached the good part.
“While I was at my friend’s house, there was another . . . um, incident . . .”
It took twenty minutes for Riley to spit out her tale and answer questions—the ones Miz Pearl voiced. She knew her mother held back. If she didn’t inquire, she wouldn’t hear unpalatable answers. Ignoring unpleasantness was one of her mom’s prime coping strategies, though she had no problem making other people uncomfortable.
The Cherokee Nation had hired an attorney to represent Hank Youngblood. Once Hank was acquitted, Miz Pearl blamed a corrupt court system. At every opportunity, she voiced her opinion that minorities got away with murder by crying discrimination. Boo hoo.
Years had passed since Riley and her mother fought about those racist views. Her mother wisely quit voicing her opinions in Riley’s presence. A truce of silence.
“That name Valdes. Is this man a Mexican?”
“No, mother. He’s a professor at the university.”
Come on, Riley. Tell her who he is. Just do it.
“Oh, Riley, why didn’t you come stay with me? I know it may have been totally innocent, but what will John think? Why you’re practically engaged.”
The hand that rested under Riley’s scrabbled in agitation. Her mother’s breathing deteriorated to a wheezy staccato.
“Mom, want me to get your oxygen?”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
She gently squeezed her mother’s fingers to still them. “I am not ‘practically engaged’ to John Hunter.”
Her mom’s lips quivered as if she were about to cry.
Riley didn’t relent. “Yesterday I told John I didn’t want to date him any longer. He’s a nice man. Simply not the one for me.”
“Oh, honey, don’t be rash!” Miz Pearl sucked in a ragged breath, followed by a wet cough. “Give this more thought. You have a real future with John. You’re still young enough for children. Surely you’re not letting him go for this Valdes person. What do you even know about him?”
It has to be done. Do it.
“Mom, listen to me. Wolf Valdes is a quarter Cuban, a quarter Cherokee, and fifty-percent bullheaded Irish. He’s a very nice man. Like me, he was about thirteen when Jack died. He never met my brother. But he does know Hank Youngblood. He’s his cousin.”
All color drained from her mother’s face. “How could you?” She stumbled to her feet. “I can’t look at you right now. I can’t talk to you.”
Tears ran down Riley’s cheeks. “Mom, you have to let go of your hate. I don’t know what may happen. But I have feelings for Wolf.”
Her mother shook her head and shuffled toward the bedroom.
“If you love me, you’ll find a way to understand. He played no part in Jack’s death.” Riley’s last words were spoken to a closing door.
* * * *
Sitting in her car, Riley flipped open her cell phone. Though Wolf had no morning class, she was certain he’d be awake. After seven rings, a mechanical leave-a-message spiel played. Riley hung up. She couldn’t say what she wanted to a freaking answering machine.
Had he screened the call? Seen it was her and decided not to pick up? Or was he already out chasing down leads?
Where are you, Wolf?