Unlock the Truth

Chapter Two

Zeke listened to the receding click of Dena’s heels. He’d been a real ass. He’d seen it in her eyes. And he should have walked her to the front door. In this forced seclusion he’d lost his social skills. At least he’d offered to pay for her accommodation.

He turned to Rocky. “Think we did the right thing?”

Rocky looked skeptical but nodded his head. He’d never been one for excess words. However, his recent moods turned their conversations into a series of monosyllables and grunts. They’d become a couple of, not even middle-aged, Neanderthals.

“There was something about her,” Zeke said, filling the awkward silence. He poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the credenza. “Want some?”

Rocky shook his head. Zeke picked up a cookie and bit into it. Damn. He hadn’t offered the woman coffee. Why had he let her get under his skin? He’d known millions of women like her. Well, maybe dozens. He brushed the cookie crumbs from his shirt and returned to his chair with the plate of cookies in hand.

“Did you sense nervousness under that professional demeanor? Not lying, but maybe covering something…”

“She lied,” Rocky said. He stretched out his legs until his boots hit the bottom of the desk. “You asked for a male agent—”

“I meant to.” Zeke rubbed at his jaw. “Not certain I did.”

“No problem. She’s gone.”

“Why didn’t you like her?” Zeke asked, swallowing the last of the cookie. “You sided with her at first.”

“Wanted to keep you calm.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. She knew her business. I probably should have heard her whole presentation.”

Rocky shrugged. “Strange theories, though.”

“Theories?” Zeke’s head shot up. “Oh yeah…about the murders. Hmmm, wonder if she had an ulterior motive? Wanted to investigate, sniff around, and sell a story to the papers—”

“Could be.” Rocky leaned forward with sudden enthusiasm. “She jumped on the idea that you needed representation and hot-footed it down from L.A. the minute they found that second woman’s body. Like she’d been waiting for an opportunity—”

“Interesting,” Zeke said.

Those were the most words Rocky had spoken in days. Zeke observed him for a moment. He’d left the daily affairs of the farm to him, and at first they’d seemed to get along. Three months ago, when the woman’s body was found, things had changed, but that could also be because money had become an issue and he’d had to have a firmer hand in the running of the business. He could only imagine the problems they’d have now that a second body had been discovered. Yet, today, he’d relied on his foreman. One raise of his eyebrows and a shake of his head, and Zeke had agreed not to hire Dena.

“Look, I’ve been wondering.” Zeke frowned again. He still valued his old friend’s opinion. The personal topics were always difficult for him though; he never knew when he’d crossed that line between employee and friend. Zeke cleared his throat. “Ah…I know these are strange times, with the murders, and the problems with the business.” He rubbed at his jaw, and stalled.

Rocky gave a brief nod.

“Is anything wrong? Personally, I mean.”

“Like what?” Rocky scowled and slapped at his hat.

“Forget it. I just thought you seemed…ah, preoccupied, or—”

“You’re unhappy with my work performance?”

“No. No, nothing like that.” He cussed under his breath. He was bad at this. He didn’t want Rocky to storm off in a huff. “It’s just that we used to talk, but lately things seem strained.”

Rocky rubbed a finger over his upper lip. “Everything’s fine.” He stood. “Those grapefruit trees aren’t gonna fertilize themselves.” He shoved on his hat and strode out the door.

Zeke grimaced. That sure went well. He grabbed another cookie, thought about the guy he’d gone to school with and how he’d turned into a stranger. Rocky had been good to his mother though, a much better son than he’d ever been. Rocky’s loyalty to the Cabrera family—who had all but adopted him—and to Three C’s Estates went without question.

He stared at the stack of large blue binders. Why on earth had Mom kept her own records? The damn things were a mess. He shoved the hair off his forehead, took another sip of coffee and pulled a ledger forward. Rocky had never married. Strange, that. Not that he had anything against a man choosing not to commit. Hell, he hadn’t married either.

He tapped the pen on the blotter for a few moments. He had his own reasons for avoiding marital bliss. A long list of reasons, but he didn’t have time to contemplate a single one. And like the grapefruit that couldn’t self-fertilize, the books weren’t about to self-balance.

****

Dena took off in a rush of embarrassment. For someone quiet and controlled, she’d almost cried in there.

At the top of a rise in the road, she stopped the car and fished around in her purse for a tissue. She’d taken an alternate route to Three C’s—not wanting to pass the hotel gates and arrive for the appointment an emotional wreck—but now her heart pumped like crazy. She gripped the steering wheel and tried not to look. Like a passerby at a freeway accident, her head swiveled back again and she stared down at the hotel site. Beyond the yellow and black caution tape and the cop cars, the huge, yellow, earth-moving machines stood idle in the sun.

“I’ll find a way to investigate this, Carli,” she said, and swiped at the tears that trickled down her cheeks. “I swear.”

Dena pulled several photos from the inner compartment of her purse. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and stared at her favorite picture. It always calmed her down. Carli’s fifth birthday party. They’d worn hula skirts, even her father. She blinked hard, smiled at the memories of happier days, back when they’d been a family—a real family.

She held the photo to her heart and stared at the hundreds of miles of desert stretched out before her. Why had Carli’s body been buried here and not near Palm Springs where she’d lived? It didn’t make sense. A body could be dumped, and the sand, swept by high winds, would soon cover it. There were remote rocky canyons and isolated roads everywhere. Why choose farmland?

She tapped the photo against her chin. A cop on the main street below directed traffic, another logged in the vehicles allowed entry. Tall wire fencing covered in green mesh cloth enclosed the hotel site. Maybe she could appeal to the local cop for answers. They’d spoken several times after Carli’s murder. He seemed nice.

Her cell phone rang and jarred her out of her daydream. “Hello, Mom.”

“I left you a message.”

“Sorry, I meant to call back. It’s been a busy day.”

“They all are.”

Dena ignored the sarcasm. “I know, I know.”

“These new pills make me dizzy.”

Dena stifled a sigh. “You have to give them a chance. At least ten days is what the doctor said. Lie down and get some rest.”

She provided the necessary treatment, even hired live-in help when her mother started to talk about her life not being worth living without Carli. But she wasn’t good at this. She’d never been close to her mother.

“Where is your caregiver?”

“In the kitchen,” her mother said sharply. “Reading.”

“Mom, listen, the girl is hired to help you and that means she keeps you company—”

“I don’t like her.”

Dena battled the momentary panic that rose in her chest. Not now, Mom, not now. “Don’t do anything rash,” she said, in a soothing tone. “Don’t fire her.”

The agency had complained a week ago about how many women her mother had fired. Dena smoothed a hand over her hair, massaged the back of her neck. “I’ll swing by on Monday, after work. I’m sure the agency will recommend someone else.”

“Okay. Are you in the car?”

“Yes. I’m working.” Hah. Good one. She wouldn’t have a job after she told Steve what she’d attempted.

“Did you hear they found another girl, like my poor Carli?”

Dena froze. Mom seldom watched the news. She should have called but figured they’d have had another endless talk about Carli, and that would have left them both sad and weary.

“I didn’t want to say anything. I thought you’d get upset.”

“Well, of course I’m upset. It’s all over the T.V. and—”

“Don’t watch the news anymore. It’ll make you sad, them rehashing Carli’s case. Put in a movie or read a magazine. Or have the girl take you for a walk. There’s a good idea. You like to walk. We can go to dinner on Monday, okay?”

“Do you have to work all weekend?”

“Yes.” Dena tried to ignore the guilt tickling her insides but it kept nudging. She pulled her eyes away from the steel girders of the hotel. “But like I said, Monday works—”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

The phone clicked off and Dena flinched, despite being used to her mother’s outbursts. Being classified as the bad daughter—the one who chose work over fun—had hardened her, and it had widened the rift between them. She’d loved Carli and never resented that she’d been her Mom’s favorite.

Dena sniffled then blew her nose. They’d both been impulsive kids, but as they’d grown up she’d changed. Carli had pursued acting, without much success, and been married and divorced three times. She’d committed once, divorced once. And she’d become boring.

Puffs of sand blew along the shoulders of the four-lane highway below and stirred the tumbleweeds that lined its edges. She felt close to Carli up here. Her eyes roamed over the fence that separated Zeke’s land from the hotel site. If she followed that fence, she could access the hotel property on the other side of the caution tape.

Years of suppressed impulsiveness filled her. For the sake of her sanity, and her mother’s, she’d continue to follow her instincts. But first she had some questions to ask in town. She had to find anyone who had known her sister. Then maybe she’d find Bobby, Carli’s last love interest.

Bobby who?

“Carli,” she said, and slammed an open hand against the steering wheel. “I’ll search this place for clues before I go home, even if I have to climb the damn fence at midnight.”

Half an hour later, Dena pulled into a parking space at the Rancho Almagro Police Department sub-station next door to the post office annex in Old Town. Only a black and white, and one motorcycle, were parked in the other spaces. With her mouth set in determination, she strode inside.

A gray-haired man sat at a computer behind a countertop. “Good afternoon,” Dena said. “I’m trying to locate Deputy Stanton.”

A uniformed deputy, who sat behind another computer, scraped his chair back, stood and walked over to the counter.

“Deputy Stanton is off duty. Can I help you?”

Bummer, she had no connection with this man. “I’m Dena Roman, the sister of Carli Jarvis.” The deputy frowned, and then squinted. She guessed he searched his mental file. “Murder victim. Three months ago. Body buried at the hotel site next to Three C’s Estates.”

His head jerked upward. “Sorry, Miss—”

“Roman,” Dena reminded him. She’d given him a bullet list on Carli and sounded more like a cop than a sister. She had to do that though—disengage—because then she could discuss Carli’s situation in public without her eyes tearing up.

“How can I help you?”

“I’ve spoken with Deputy Stanton a few times by phone. Now with the second victim, well, I wanted to discuss Carli’s case.”

“It’s an ongoing investigation and—”

“Have they ID’d the second woman? Is there a connection?”

The deputy swallowed hard and his Adam’s apple jumped in his throat. She stared at the start of black whiskers on his neck to avoid his penetrating dark eyes. He hadn’t shaved close enough this morning, if at all.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I do understand your concern, but I’m not in a position to discuss the case with anyone.”

“But, I’m family—” Oh, hell. Her eyes began to well up and she blinked hard several times.

“Come back tomorrow. Deputy Stanton might be able to help.”

“Thanks.” She shoved her sunglasses on and left.

Ten minutes later, Dena inhaled the aroma of robust coffee and tried to quell her anger at all men: first Zeke, then Rocky, then the cop. She looked around the Starbucks, glad she’d noticed it earlier. She stirred the froth into the liquid, took a sip of the cappuccino, and let out a sigh. A blonde woman came in wearing running clothes, and a redhead sprang up and hugged her tight. As they laughed and joked with the barista, Dena caught fragments of their conversation and felt loneliness wash over her. Something about the redhead needing extra bartenders at a place called Cliffs. She didn’t have a lot of gal pals. Her life consisted of being on call twenty-four-seven for her mostly bratty celebrity clients, and she had no social life worth thinking about. She looked up as the women took their drinks and left, arm in arm. She swallowed hard. She missed companionship.

Dena walked over and tossed her empty coffee cup in the trash bin. She’d just come from Old Town, but needed an icebreaker. “How far away is Old Town? And did that blonde woman say she owns a spa? I might get a massage.”

“I’ll write down the directions. Debbie Williams owns The Healing Spa. Rachel Copeland owns Cliffs. It’s a good place for dinner or a drink.”

“Thanks.” Dena indicated the stack of newspapers. “It’s a terrible thing about those murders, isn’t it?”

“Shocking. Things like that don’t usually happen in these parts. Least as how, they never used to.”

“Did the first victim come in here? Did you know her?”

The woman shook her head. “She wasn’t a local.”

“Do you think there’s a connection to that farm? I forget the farmer’s name, but I know he’d only just moved back here—”

“Are you a reporter?”

“Me? No, no way.” Dena laughed and looked around the café. A guy seated near the door gave her the “what’s up?” tilt of his chin. “I’m a visitor.”

“Zeke is getting a bum rap. I knew him in high school—”

“Oh, sorry for my comments, please…tell me about him.”

“He’s a successful lawyer and managed to escape this hell hole. Everyone lashes out, or looks at his return with suspicion.” She scribbled on a piece of paper. “Damn narrow-minded locals.”

“Small towns are all the same. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sorry for my outburst, some of these people chafe my butt,” the woman said, and handed over the directions. “Have fun.”

“Thanks. Um, what about that property on the other side of the hotel? Who does that belong to?”

“West Coast Citrus,” the woman said. She walked over to a coffee urn and pulled out the filter.

“That’s Cyril Johnston’s place, right?”

“He’s a big name in town. City council. Thinks he owns the whole Coachella Valley. Don’t stir up trouble. You’re obviously a reporter, so don’t quote me—”

“I’m not.” She shook her head. “You have no worries there. Thanks.”

Dena hurried outside and got into her car. In the rearview mirror, she saw the young man who’d been sitting inside come out. He lit up a cigarette. As she drove past he spoke on a cell phone. She pushed away the thought that he had read her license plate to someone.

She admired the Spanish architecture and gardens and the open-air shopping mall as she drove through Old Town, trying to figure out her next move. She had to find other people to question. Thinking again of how she might access that land, she noticed a hardware store on the opposite corner. A glimmer of an idea took shape.

Inside the store, she approached the cash register. “Hi, I’d like a wire cutter.”

The salesman—really a sales boy, all shiny-faced and spiked hair—pointed to an aisle. “Let me know if you need help.”

“Well, ah…maybe a length of rope.” She pointed to a coil. “I’ll take twenty feet of that one, and a large flashlight.”

“Aisle five,” he said.

She grabbed a flashlight and batteries, and decided not to quiz him about Carli. The way he watched her made her feel guilty. He wound the length of rope slowly and stood behind the cash register.

“Thanks.” Dena handed him cash.

Warmth rose in her cheeks, and she slipped her sunglasses back on. Would the cash raise suspicion and make her look guilty of foul play, or at least the intention of foul play? The young man watched her closely as she left. Darn. Had she topped off his suspicion with her dark glasses?

She hurried outside, and scoffed as she tossed the package onto the back seat of the car. There’s nothing to worry about, people buy hardware supplies every day of the week. And with that thought, she headed for the hotel, brimming with confidence.

****

Dena battled through the haze of resistance and jabbed at the alarm. Nine p.m. She could sleep until morning. After a hot shower to help her wake up, she ordered room service, pulled on jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers. When the young Latino man arrived with her dinner tray, she moved the Desert Sun newspaper off the table.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” she asked, and pointed to the headlines. “Did you know either of the women?”

The man set the tray on the table and pulled out a chair. “No, ma’am. But they haven’t identified the second woman.”

“It’s so sad.” She put the paper on the spare chair.

“I frequent the nightspots,” he said and set the table. “It’s a small town. Newcomers stick out, never knew the first woman.”

“The article said she lived in Palm Springs. That’s like forty-five minutes away, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but casinos and concerts attract the singles to the East Valley.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Strange that the women were buried on farmland, when there are hundreds of miles of open desert.” Dena reached into her purse and withdrew a few dollars tip.

“Thank you.” He pocketed the cash. “Are you a reporter?”

Darn. “No. Guess I’ve read one too many murder mysteries.” She pointed to the thriller she’d left on the coffee table.

He nodded. “I suppose there must be a connection—”

“Locals seem to think so. They’ve blackballed Cabrera’s farming business.”

He laughed. “A lot of Latinos contract with the farmers in Rancho Almagro. We’re a superstitious breed. Some of the older folks thought Isabella was loco.” He touched twice at the side of his forehead with two fingers.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Cabrera.”

“Oh.” Zeke’s mother? What a piece of luck. She had to quash her excitement. “Why did they think that?”

“She moved into Posada del Gato Negro—”

“The Inn of the Black Cat?” Dena asked, savoring the words. A shiver of something, she wasn’t sure what, licked up her spine. “Where is that?”

“It’s not a real Inn. A casita out at Three C’s. She and a bunch of black cats moved in a couple of years before she died…sad that. Most Latinos think black cats are a bad sign.”

“Only when they cross your path,” Dena said, and smiled. “Tell me about Isabella.”

“Don’t know much. A nice lady, an artist, but she kept to herself. The Inn was her studio. Anything else I can get for you, ma’am?” he asked, and walked across the room and rested a hand on the doorknob.

“No, thanks. Have a good night.”

Everyone knew everyone in this community. Better not to be too inquisitive. But she’d have to find a way to not only enter the restricted area, but to get back on Zeke’s property and visit Posada del Gato Negro.

It was almost midnight when Dena grabbed the bag of supplies and a hooded black sweatshirt and headed for her car. Fifteen minutes later she drove past Zeke’s estate. The gates were closed.

“Lock yourself up. Lock yourself in. Bury your head in the sand,” she said in a sing-song voice. Further along the road, two cop cars blocked the entrance to the hotel site and she slowed the car down to the speed limit.

“Darn it.”

She pushed away the beginning of panic and drove past. It was a remote area, and she really didn’t know her way around. When she ended up back on the road near the archway into Three C’s Estates, she breathed a sigh of relief, reversed the car up an empty side street, and cut the engine.

She grabbed the supplies, prayed that none of the cops would make a coffee run, and hurried across the street. She clambered up the embankment and with shaking hands grabbed the wire cutters. The mesh cloth on the six-foot-high wire fence was easy to cut through, but even with both hands she made little headway on the wire.

A vehicle approached and its headlights flooded the road. She dropped to the ground. When the car passed, she dusted off and gripped the cutters again. The distant yip of coyotes sent a chill through her. Tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stood up. The coyotes yipped again. An animal, small and furry, brushed against her leg then beat a fast trail into the bushes.

She jumped backward and dropped the wire cutter. Her heart pounded and she gripped onto the fence to prevent falling. A city girl, and out of her element, when things stirred again in the bushes, she ran.