Unlock the Truth

Chapter Six

Dena pulled her feet down from the windowsill. She closed the thriller she’d brought with her, and her mind buzzed with ideas on how to catch a murderer.

Yeah, right, Dena Roman, P.I. at your service.

She laughed softly, dragged herself out of the comfortable armchair in the guest room, and realized there was a long way to go before she’d earn that title. Her stomach growled. It was mid-afternoon, and she hadn’t had lunch. She slipped her cell phone into her pocket and headed down the long hallway. Maybe she’d find Irma alone in the kitchen, get a snack, and ask a few subtle questions about Three C’s and its employees.

Angry, passionate conversation, between a male and female—most of it in Spanish, except for the English swear words from the male—floated toward her. Irma’s voice was raised, and Dena hesitated at the door.

“Is okay,” Irma said, looking up. She beckoned with a knife in her hand. “Come in.”

“Sorry, I was…um…I need a snack,” Dena said, and walked into the spacious room.

A Latino male, probably in his late teens, sat at the huge central table with his bare arms splayed across the top and his forehead resting on the surface. He looked up, frowning, but then his white teeth flashed and the corners of his huge black eyes creased in humor.

“Ah, the lady who stole my horse,” he said, and ruffled his short-cropped black hair.

“You must be Manny.” Dena crossed the room and held out her hand. “Thank you. It was much safer for me to ride Nancy than Susie Q. Believe me, I’m no horsewoman.”

“Anytime you want to take her out, just go ahead,” Manny said. “No need to ask.”

“Thanks.” She smiled at him, and realized he didn’t have any accent. He’d obviously done all of his schooling in the States. “Is Manny your only child, Irma?”

Irma scowled at Manny. “Uno…is enough.”

Manny laughed. “Mama,” he drawled. “You love me.”

Irma shook her head and turned back to the countertop. She chopped vegetables, adding handfuls to a huge bowl of lettuce. “So much trouble—”

Dena shifted from one foot to the other. She didn’t want to get into the middle of a family squabble. “Do you mind if I make a sandwich, Irma? Then I’ll get out of your way—”

“Sit, sit,” she said, and wiped her hands on her apron. “I make for you. Turkey, cheese, is okay?”

“Perfect. But honestly, I can do it—”

“Better sit,” Manny said, and laughed again. He pushed back in his chair, hooked a thumb between the armhole and the neckline of his black tank top and tapped his fingers against his chest.

Dena pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. Wife beaters, that’s what Carli used to call those shirts, but only if they were white. The black ones she said were totally cool and “in”. And the more tattoos, the better. Manny didn’t have any tattoos, or none that she could see, but his chest and arms were nicely muscled. She didn’t have anything against tattoos, but for some reason she was happy that Manny was not decorated.

“Mama doesn’t like people who mess with stuff in the kitchen,” Manny said. He took a swallow of soda from the can. “She told me what happened this morning, with Stanton and the other cops.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s a dick.”

On that, she would agree.

“Mama likes that you protected Zeke,” he said. “Anyone who does that gets a sandwich. Right, Mama?”

Irma gave Dena a shy smile. “You like coffee, or soda?”

Dena blinked, stretched her eyes wide. So that was the key to Irma. Good. Now she knew how to get information from the woman, and maybe also from the son. “Soda is great, thanks.”

“I’ll get it.” Manny hitched up his too-large jean shorts. “So, you’re a spin doctor?” he asked, halfway inside the refrigerator.

“A public relations communications specialist,” Dena said, and grinned at her pomposity.

Manny grabbed a glass, put in some ice cubes, popped the top of the can, poured the soda like he was pouring expensive champagne, and slid the glass toward her. “Know any famous people?”

“Some,” Dena said.

He placed the half-empty can beside the glass with a flourish, and flashed another smile. Dena smiled back. He had all of the makings of a ladies’ man.

“Thank you,” she said, and raised the glass for a sip. “So do you work here, Manny?”

Irma scoffed and shot her son another scowl.

Manny laughed. “We were just arguing about that.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry—”

“It’s okay. I dropped out of college last month. I was going to San B’doo and hated it—”

“Where?”

“San Bernadino. Anyway, Mama said I should go to college here in the valley.” He scowled. “I don’t think it’s for me. I’d rather work, make some money.”

Dena’s cell phone rang and she took a peek at the number. “Um, I’m sorry,” she said. “I need to take this.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Manny said, and sat back down.

She walked out into the hallway. “BJ, how are you?” she asked. “Is anything wrong?”

“Nah, just thought I’d give you a ring…needed to chat.”

She smiled at his British accent. She always loved to hear his voice. She tried to work up some enthusiasm for a job she no longer had, and wondered if Steve had said anything to anyone yet. After having checked BJ into anger management, due to his latest incident in a Hollywood nightclub, he considered her his savior. “You were on my list to call, later today—”

“Sorry, need for me to hang up, love?”

“No, it’s not a problem. I’m in a—” She stopped in the doorway, smiled in at Irma and Manny. “In a friend’s kitchen.”

“Are you on holiday?”

“I’ve got an out of town client. Not sure how long I’ll be gone, but—”

“No problem, love. You do what you have to do.”

Dena watched Irma come over to the table and slide a plate, with a turkey sandwich and a handful of chips on the side, toward the place she’d been seated. She smiled her thanks, and her stomach did a low growl of appreciation. She itched to nibble one of those chips but would never do that. Not while she spoke with a client, even BJ, who forgave everything.

“Wendy will handle your appointment with the therapist, if you don’t mind.”

“Cool,” BJ said. “I like her. Nice lady.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“I hate the bloody thought of therapy, but I know you’re right. That brawl was…”

“Don’t beat yourself up, BJ. Things happen for a reason.”

“Rather. I need to get my act together.”

Dena raised her eyebrows. “Promise me, no nightclubs this weekend. Think of the band and your reputation. You guys are on the rise. You’re the Rolling Stones of this decade—”

“I’m Mick Jagger?”

“No, you’re not Mick Jagger.” She laughed. “He doesn’t play drums, and you can’t sing.” She half-listened to BJ ramble on about music and bands. Then just as quickly he stopped.

“Got to go love,” he said. “Call me sometime for a chat.”

The line went dead. Dena shook her head and pocketed the cell phone. She sat and reached hungrily for the sandwich. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Manny said, and leaned forward eagerly. “Your client is BJ? He’s fantastic, English bands are fantastic.” He ruffled his buzzed hair again then stared back at her, grinning.

Dena nodded and chewed. The sandwich tasted heavenly and totally hit the spot.

“Best drummer ever,” Manny said. “Man, oh man, your client is BJ?”

She nodded again, swallowed, took a sip of soda, amused with Manny’s elevation of her status. She could see it mirrored in his eyes.

“What is he like?”

Dena smiled. She wanted to say an irresponsible trouble-maker, heavy-drinker, egotistical big-time-spender, all around ladies’ man. But she didn’t. BJ did have a softer side. He changed his women as often as his underwear, but he loved them all. And he was always protective of them. Once you were one of BJ’s women, you were a friend for life. That’s how he’d gotten into trouble, defending the reputation of his latest woman.

“He’s a good guy and a huge talent,” she said, and took another bite of her sandwich.

Manny still watched her with a look of awe on his young face. She took a long drink of soda, and then put the glass down. “Um, will you do me a favor? Anything you overheard from that call, will you keep it to yourself?”

“Sure.” He nodded a couple of times. “You’ve got my word on that.”

“Now, what were we talking about before?”

“Me, and work versus college,” Manny said, and sat up straighter.

“You tell to him, Dena,” Irma said. She walked over and stood at the other side of the table. “You smart lady. Tell him how is for the rest of the life.”

Dena gulped. Somehow her status, thanks to BJ, had been elevated even in Irma’s mind. But that also came with problems, because if she disagreed with Irma she’d lose the possibility of getting information. The same would go for Manny. She needed them both. Manny pursed his lips and watched her. Irma scrunched her hands into her apron, and stood her ground.

“Sometimes kids need a break from college. It isn’t right for everyone, but they also need direction.” Dena took a bite of the sandwich and chewed slowly. “Do you live at home, Manny?”

“Yeah, but I stay here if Rocky wants me to work early.” He sat back in the chair and stretched his shoulders, and his biceps bulged. “There’s a room behind the kitchen.”

“Would you like your own place?”

He straightened, rolled his shoulders. “It’s not important. I’m never home much.”

“He runs with the boys…the gang—”

“I don’t!” Manny’s eyes snapped in anger. “They’re just guys, not a gang.”

He went to get up. Dena put her sandwich down and reached over, touched his arm. “Sit,” she said softly, and smiled. “We can talk for a bit. I might be able to help.”

“She doesn’t get it,” Manny said grumpily. “Just because the cops have tried to blame a rape on one of the guys in my group, she thinks they’re all bad.”

A flush crept up the golden skin of his neck and into his cheeks. “Sorry, um, Zeke told me about your friend.”

Dena waved his comment away. “Tell me about your friend.”

“He’s innocent. I know he is. But the cops can’t find who did it, and he was at the same club as we were.” He glanced away.

She sensed the frustration at the justice system that raged across his young face.

“He doesn’t have an alibi, and they need a scapegoat.” He thrust both hands angrily into the air. “Latinos, we get blamed for everything that gets fu…that goes wrong in the desert.”

Hurt and frustration filled his voice, and Dena wanted to help in any way she could. “Does your father understand? Does he talk to you about these things?”

“He go back to Mexico,” Irma said.

“They’re divorced,” Manny explained, and toyed with his soda can. “I have Zeke to talk with. He helps me.”

She turned back to her lunch. Manny waited. She could see the expectant expression on his young face.

“To just earn money isn’t the answer,” Dena said. “But, if you can find what makes you happy, what makes you want to get up in the morning and go to work, then perhaps, college isn’t important.”

Manny straightened his appearance less glum.

“You have to be able to support yourself, though. That’s the key.” Dena took another drink.

“I like art,” Manny said, in earnest. “Isabella told me I’m talented. For money I deliver pizza, or work in the fields—”

“Twelve dollars an hour seems fine when you’re young and still living at home,” Dena said. Her heart raced with excitement, she couldn’t believe her luck. He’d known Zeke’s mother.

“Twelve dollars! I can’t find work for ten dollars an hour.”

Dena grimaced. He was right on that, the farmhands made very little money. “So, did Isabella coach you in art?”

“Yeah. She’d let me set up an easel at the casita. I’d been doing that since I was a kid. She said it was good for me, it kept me off the streets and out of trouble.” His smile broadened into a grin. “I sure miss her.”

Dena poured a little more soda into the glass and watched it fizz. “Five years down the road, when you want independence, your art won’t cut it as your primary source of income.”

Manny frowned, and then he lowered his eyes.

“I don’t want to discourage you. I hate being a pessimist. Art is wonderful, but it’s good to have a back-up.”

“A day job,” Manny said, and nodded a couple of times.

He’d heard this before, and most likely from Zeke. “One day you’ll meet a nice girl and think about marriage and babies.”

Irma smiled. “See, I tell you—”

“Yeah, when I’m thirty.” Manny rolled his eyes.

“You know, I have some ideas to help Zeke,” Dena said. “I haven’t discussed them with him yet. If he agrees, I’d pay you to help me, and I’d train you.”

“What kind of work?” Manny moved forward.

“Work where you can use your artistic abilities, and get air conditioning too.” She grinned and picked up the second half of her sandwich.

His black eyes shone. “How much would you pay?”

“Twelve dollars an hour to start, then we’d negotiate.”

Manny whistled, and then grinned up at his mother. Irma grabbed the chip package and shook another pile onto Dena’s plate.

“So, tell me a little of the history of this place.” Dena eased back in the chair and crunched a chip.

“Zeke’s grandfather and his brother, and Zeke’s father, they started the farm,” Manny said. “That’s why it’s called Three C’s…three Cabrera men.”

“What about Zeke’s mother?” Dena asked. “He doesn’t like to talk about her.”

Irma shook her head. “Mucho problemas—”

“She had cancer, but she never told anyone,” Manny said. “She didn’t see the doctor until it was too late. When Zeke found out, he was in L.A. and he came home right away.”

Dena pulled in a sharp breath. “Oh, I didn’t know.” That must have been awful. Why would a woman choose to ignore her illness? Had she wanted to die?

“How old was Mrs. Cabrera?”

“Fifty-six, I think,” Manny said.

“Oh.” Dena’s chest tightened. That was such a loss. She must have married very young. “Zeke was an only child?”

“Mr. Cabrera he die when Zeke is—” Irma lowered one hand to the approximate height of what Dena figured was a six- or seven-year-old.

“Why was Zeke living in L.A.?” Dena asked.

“Law school, then the big snobby firm where he was a junior partner,” Manny said, and rolled his eyes. “Crazy…all those books…all that study—”

“Yes, it’s a hard profession,” Dena said. He hadn’t mentioned law school, and she’d imagined him at Harvard, not an L.A. school. “How long was Zeke away? I mean, did he ever live here as a young man?”

Manny shook his head. “Not much. Vacations. He went to Cal Poly Pomona for his undergrad.” He laughed. “Isabella made him get a Bachelor of Science in Fruit Industries. I don’t think they even have that program anymore. Then he got an M.A. in—”

“Manny!” Irma said, and then followed with a couple of heated sentences in Spanish.

“Sorry,” Manny said. “Mama thinks I’m a gossip.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Dena flashed an apologetic glace Irma’s way. “All I meant was…if Zeke wasn’t here, who managed the farming business?”

“Isabella.” Manny took another swig of soda. “And Rocky. He’s worked here since he was like my age, or younger, and—”

“He is good worker. He knows more about farming than Zeke,” Irma said. “Good farmer.” She looked behind her down the long hall. “Maybe is not right. To talk about family—”

Dena felt the friction, or was it loyalty? She appraised the kitchen. “Did they build this house? It’s gorgeous.”

Irma smiled, relaxed her stiff shoulders. “Yes. When they come here is nothing—” she waved her arms “—only desert. No haciendas. They build, and they plant together. Is beautiful, no?”

Dena nodded. “I love this kitchen,” she said, and turned to appraise it fully. “It’s so spacious. And I love the black wrought iron treatments.”

Irma went back to the sink with a smile, and Dena turned to Manny. “And they all lived here?” she asked softly.

Manny shook his head. “There’s an old ranch house, much smaller, out near the lake. The grandfather and his older brother lived there. It’s abandoned now, they died years ago. One day Zeke will have it pulled down.”

“Oh. I’d love to see it.”

“Well, you’d have to ask Rocky. He has the key. He keeps it locked, otherwise vagrants could get in there, next thing they’d be homesteading, is what he says. Rocky likes—”

“You finish, no?” Irma asked, and bustled across the room.

“Yes, thank you,” Dena made a quick mental note to include the ranch house on her trip to check out the horse trail to old Cyril’s place. “It was delicious.”

Irma shot a dark warning at Manny and then carried the plate to the sink. Manny averted his eyes. He turned his soda can around and around, as if reading the ingredients.

“Manny,” Dena said, and kept her voice soft. “Do the local Latinos not like Zeke? Are they, suspicious, or something?”

“Well, it’s—” he said, and lowered his voice. He shot a quick look in his mother’s direction. “—superstition, the farmhands are simple folk, not well-educated. They get scared easily. They think the land is evil.”

So that’s it. They’re afraid to come on the land.

“Tell me a bit about the competition down here. Are there other big farms? And do they compete for business?”

“Maybe they do.”

“Would anyone try to undermine Zeke’s business?’

“I don’t think so,” Manny said. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone. It would be a huge risk.”

Irma turned around. Her eyes roamed over the table, met Dena’s for a split second, and she returned to whatever she was doing with the vegetables.

“What about West Coast Citrus?” Dena asked, her voice almost a whisper. “Are there any problems there?”

Manny made a face. “The old guy, Cyril, he goes to our church. He says things that are, well, not things you could sue someone for, but—”

“Suggestive, sowing seeds of doubt? Implying guilt?” Dena asked. Manny didn’t look away.

“Yeah, he’s a mean old bastard.”

“Thanks. I want to help Zeke but I have to get a good feel for all of the players in the community.”

“Yeah, small towns—” Manny crushed his empty soda can in one hand.

Dena stood. “I should go and unpack. It was nice to meet you, Manny. I’ll let you know what Zeke thinks about my plan.”

“Thanks,” he said, and his face brightened. “I hope he agrees with it. I’ll stay here for a few days, help Rocky with the grapefruit.”

“Wait,” Irma said. She turned to Manny, and said something in Spanish.

Dena knew it was a discussion about her. She’d picked up on a few words. Irma didn’t sound angry.

“Mama says dinner is at seven, in the dining room.” Manny grinned. “Do you like chicken? Are you allergic to anything?”

“No known allergies,” Dena said. “And I love chicken.”

Manny repeated what she’d said to Irma, in Spanish. He turned, winked. “Mama says it’s just you and Zeke. So dress nice. Not that you don’t already, but you know.”

Dena laughed. “Thanks.”

That pleased her, dinner with Zeke, just the two of them. She had more questions for Manny, but with the plan she’d begun to formulate, she’d get to ask them soon. She’d have answers to many of the questions she had about the Cabrera family, and the staff that worked for them.