Always Time To Die (6 page)

“Other than cuisine and art, the Indians, the hispanos, and the Anglos lead pretty separate lives. Side by side, but not together.”

She frowned. “Is that good or bad?”

“It just is, Carolina May. It just is.”

The sound of her name spoken in his husky, matter-of-fact voice raised gooseflesh on her arms.

Uh-oh. Not good.

She rubbed her skin briskly and told herself she was sitting in a draft.

But she knew she wasn’t.

QUINTRELL RANCH
EARLY MONDAY AFTERNOON

“THANK YOU
,
MISSY
,”
JOSH SAID
,
REACHING FOR THE SANDWICH MELISSA MOORE
had put in front of him. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“Thanks, honey,” Pete said as his wife put another plate in front of him. “I was getting hungry enough to start in on the leather-bound ledgers.”

Melissa smiled at both men. “Beer, tea, coffee, soda, wine, whiskey, water?”

“Coffee,” both men said instantly.

“Coming up.”

Pete watched his trim, jeans-clad wife walk out of Josh’s home office. Light gleamed in her fair hair and glanced off the colorful cowboy boots she wore. The Indian turquoise necklace shifted against her silk blouse and the full breasts beneath. The breasts, the tight butt, and the huge dark eyes were the legacy of her mother.

“Sometimes she’s the image of Betty,” Pete said.

Josh looked up from the ranch report, followed Pete’s glance, and said, “Thank the Lord she didn’t inherit Betty’s taste for booze and pills.”

Pete’s smile flashed against his narrow, almost ascetic face. “Not my Melissa. She’s as smart as they come and twice as gutsy.”

“If it weren’t for her keeping a lid on stuff here, I’d have talked the Senator into selling the ranch and living full-time in Santa Fe long ago.”

“Never happen. Quintrells have lived here for six generations.”

Josh shook his head. “This place is a money sink and a pain in the ass. I love Santa Fe and Washington, D.C.”

“But you look so fine on horseback or walking over the fields with your hunting dogs and shotgun. Not to mention the ranch’s yearly Founders Barbecue with all the cultural mixing and fireworks, costumes and deal-making. The photographers go nuts and the voters can’t get enough of it.”

The governor gave a bark of laughter. “Maybe I should make you my campaign manager instead of Mark Rubin.”

“No thanks,” Pete said quickly. “I’m a small-town guy at heart. So is Melissa.”

“Good thing, or she’d be running for my office. That is one organized female you married.”

Pete grinned. “A real terror.”

Melissa returned with coffee cups and pot on a tray. She fixed each man’s coffee the way he liked it, set the cup in front of him, and asked, “What else do you need?”

“More feed from less land, more rain on all the land, and peace on earth while you’re at it,” Josh said.

“Try church,” she said.

“I do every Sunday.”

“God has a lot to watch over.” She pushed her long hair away from her cheek. “Maybe you should go twice a week.”

Josh snorted. “You and Father Roybal.”

Her eyes narrowed for an instant, then she smiled again. “He’s not my Father Roybal. I’m a Methodist.”

“Methodist, Catholic, New Age, they’re all the same in one way,” Josh said.

“Spiritual?” Pete suggested.

“No.” Josh tapped a computer printout. “They all want my money.”

Pete looked at the list of charities Josh had told him to prepare, along with the Senator’s annual contribution to each. “Everybody wants money. Nothing new about that.”

“Including me,” Josh agreed. “Running for president is damned expensive, and neither one of you heard me say that, understand?”

Pete and Melissa exchanged fast glances.

“Of course,” Pete said.

“Nothing you say ever goes beyond this house,” she added, smiling. “Do you need anything else?”

“No,” Josh said.

Melissa touched her husband’s shoulder and walked quietly out of the room.

Josh was too busy reading the charity list to notice if Melissa left or stayed. When he was younger, her gently swaying breasts would have required that he get in her jeans. No more. He had more important things to worry about than casual sex. After he’d married Anne, he’d stayed monogamous. He hadn’t enjoyed it, but he’d known it was necessary, like eating rubber chicken at a thousand fund-raising dinners. Today a politician couldn’t set one foot toward the White House without having everything about his sex life vetted on the evening news. So, like Caesar’s wife, a candidate was required to be purer than pure.

And eat rubber chicken with a smile.

“About these charities,” Josh said, frowning at the list. “I think several million a year is way out of line. What was he trying to do, buy his way into heaven? Most of the biggest contributions began when he was in his eighties.”

Pete hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Considering the gross receipts of the Quintrell Corporation, the amount is generous but not excessive.”

“Gross receipts be damned right along with generosity.”

Pete started to object, swallowed, and thought better of it. “Whatever you say, sir. It’s your money now.”

Josh looked at Pete with the Senator’s hard blue eyes. For a few moments he wondered if his accountant was the blackmailer, then decided it wasn’t very likely. Pete was an outsider, and the only things worth paying blackmail for had taken place when Pete was in Florida discovering why girls had bouncy breasts. Melissa was an insider, of sorts. She also was the daughter and granddaughter of sluts and drunks who’d never thought further ahead than their next bottle. Hardly the stuff of blackmailers.

Winifred, however, was another matter. That old bitch was too smart and too mean. If anybody knew where the bodies were buried, she did. She also had plenty of reason to make the Senator and his son miserable.

All Josh had to do was prove it.

On the other hand, maybe the Senator was right to just pay. Even if every charity on the list was a blind for blackmail, it was only five million and change per year. A small price to pay for the presidency.

But first he’d make sure he had to pay it.

“I’m talking profit,” Josh said. “The ranch is a charity case all by itself. I don’t need to give millions to other fools who can’t balance a budget.”

“If you didn’t make those contributions, you would lose up to fifty percent of the total difference to taxes of one kind or another.”

“Which would still leave me with millions in cash that I don’t have now.”

“Agreed. It would also leave a long list of charities crying to various media about the Senator’s stingy son, the one who wants to be president.”

“Blackmail.”

Pete blew out a long breath. “What is public opinion but a kind of blackmail? Your choice is whether you pay it or not. Some do. Some don’t. People who want to be president—”

“Pay,” Josh finished bitterly.

The accountant shrugged. His new employer looked really pissed off. Not a good thing.

“Okay,” Pete said after a moment, “which charities do you want to cancel? The one that provides chickens and llamas to poor families in South America, or the one that opened a vaccination and prenatal care clinic in Africa, or the AIDs orphanage that—”

“Shut up, Pete.”

Pete shut up.

Josh sipped his coffee and thought about possibilities. Only one led to the White House.

“Keep paying,” Josh said finally.

Pete nodded and made a note.

“But while you pay,” Josh added, “I want you to investigate every charity the Senator contributed to since 1990.”

The other man hesitated. “Investigate? Do you think something is wrong?”

“Charities have public records. See which ones have passed along the most money to the needy, as opposed to entertaining wealthy officers and contributors at luxury resorts.”

Pete nodded. “Got it. Then if you cut some charities from the list, you’ll have a reason to give to the press.”

Josh smiled like the combat soldier he’d once been. “Something like that.”

TAOS
MONDAY AFTERNOON

CARLY
’
S STOMACH GROWLED
.

Twice.

Dan looked over at her. “Need a lunch break?”

She hoped she didn’t blush, but she doubted it. “Considering that breakfast was a protein bar scrounged from the bottom of my purse six hours ago, yes, I need lunch.”

Surprise came and went so quickly from his face that she couldn’t be certain she’d seen it at all.

“Odd,” Dan said, lifting a sheet out of the scanner. “The Senator is famous for his hospitality.”

“The Senator is dead.” Carly winced. She hadn’t meant that the way it came out. “That is, there’s so much going on with the funeral and, um, everything, that I…” She waved her hand and wished she’d just kept her mouth shut.

“I see.”

And he did. Apparently he wasn’t the only one in town who didn’t want someone kicking around in the past. He wondered if that other person or persons was just being difficult, or if something darker was at work.

All things considered, Dan was betting on the dark side.

“Got any recommendations for a local lunch place?” she asked.

Before he could answer, someone knocked on the door and called down.

“Dan? You in there?”

“I’ll be right up, Dad.” Dan glanced at Carly. “Get your stuff. We can meet back here in an hour, okay?”

Her stomach growled.

“Was that a word?” he asked.

“Yes.”

His mouth curved at one corner. The harder he tried not to like her, the more he knew he was kidding himself. Just by being herself, she seeped through his defenses. He still didn’t know whether that made him glad or mad. It sure as hell made him uneasy.

While he shrugged into his shirt and jacket, she gathered up her coat and notebook, checked that her recorder didn’t need a quick energy fix, and beat him to the bottom of the stairs.

“If you go up first, I can’t catch you,” she pointed out.

“I’ll take my chances. The cellar door looks ragged, but it’s plenty heavy. You’d have a hard time lifting it.”

“After you,” she said, waving him ahead.

A few moments later Carly felt a cold current of wind. She went up the stairs in a rush, only to collide with a solid body. Hands came out to steady her.

“Yikers, Dan,” she said into his jacket. “You startled me. I thought you were holding the door.”

“He is,” said a voice that wasn’t quite as deep as Dan’s.

She jerked her head back and looked up. The man’s hair was brown and silver, the shape of the face was different, he was inches shorter, and had flashes of jungle green in his hazel eyes.

“You must be Dad,” she said. “I’d call you Mr. Duran, but a lot of families don’t have the same last name from generation to generation.”

He smiled. “Duran is correct, but call me John. You must be the stranger whose hair was the only bit of true color at the Senator’s graveside.”

Carly swept back the wild curls that kept wanting to lift on the wind. “I hoped nobody noticed.”

“I doubt that they did,” Dan said. “Carolina May, meet my father.”

“Better known as Dad,” John said, deadpan.

“And I’m better known as Carly. I was just asking Dan about lunch places in town.”

“And he was taking you to Chez Duran,” John said.

Carly opened her mouth.

Dan beat her to it. “Actually, I was about to recommend Joseph’s Table.”

“Diana would have your butt for a football if you sent a pretty lady somewhere else to eat. Especially alone.”

“Dad—”

The note in his voice gave wings to Carly’s tongue. “Thank you but it’s not necessary. Dan’s been trapped in a basement babysitting me while I work with the newspaper archives. I wouldn’t think of imposing on him anymore.” She glanced at her watch and then at Dan. “Back here at two-fifteen, right?”

“Wrong,” John said, holding her firmly in place. He gave Dan a cool look. “
Trapped
with a good-looking woman?
Imposing
on you?”

“Gus didn’t have anyone to spare,” Dan said.

“So you volunteered?”

“Not exactly.”

John shook his head at his son, sad and irritated at the same time. “We can live without you smiling. But bad manners? Your mother and I won’t have it.” He turned and smiled gently at Carly. “Do you like New Mexican food?”

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” Her stomach rumbled.

“Hell,” Dan said, disgusted. “Take her home and feed her. I’ve got some online work to do.” He looked at Carly. “One hour.”

“What work?” John said. “I thought you were on vacation.”

Dan walked off without answering. The less his father knew about why he was here, the better. Nobody who worked for St. Kilda was ever truly on vacation.

Carly was still trying to find reasons why she shouldn’t go to the Duran house with John when he opened the front door of his home and gently nudged her inside.

“Diana? I brought you a treat,” he said.

Carly wanted to groan. No woman considered an unexpected, unknown guest to be a treat.

“Bring it back here,” called a woman’s voice.

John led Carly through a cozy living room. One room was brightened by the framed, smiling faces of children in school photos. Some baby and toddler pictures were clustered on a table. She looked for photos of the previous generations, but saw none.

Odd. Most people keep all their family photos together, young and old and in between.

The thought vanished as soon as Carly walked into the kitchen. It was alive with the kind of food smells that made her stomach want to howl. Several pots simmered on the back of a tiny woodburning stove that also served to heat the room. A vintage gas range stood opposite a refrigerator and big sink. If the tank visible in the backyard was any indication, the range had been converted to use propane. Heavy, well-used pots and pans hung from the ceiling within reach of a big butcher block that was so old its surface was gently dished. Ropes of dried peppers in many colors and sizes hung with the pans, interspersed with braids of onions. Smaller braids of garlic, an ingredient not often associated with traditional Southwest cuisine, peeked from behind a huge frying pan.

Carly took a deep breath and tried not to drool. “What a great kitchen.”

“It’s my favorite room in the house,” John said. “Used to be Dan’s, too, but nothing much pleases him now.”

Before she could ask what had happened to Dan, John gestured her toward a small glassed-in room just off the kitchen. Inside, a nicely rounded woman wearing jeans and a man’s shirt was tending to row after row of small plants. Her short hair was very dark, with a startling streak of silver at her left temple.

“Wash your hands, sweetheart,” John said. “I want you to meet Carly May.”

For an instant, Carly thought she saw tension stiffen the woman’s body.

“Momentito,”
Diana said, the word almost too soft to hear. Deliberately she washed and dried her hands, keeping her back to the guest.

Carly wanted to sink between the cracks in the old wood floor.

Finally Diana turned around. The lines on her face said that she was old enough to be a grandmother. The darkness in her eyes said that life’s journey hadn’t been an easy one. Then, after an uncomfortable moment while Diana assessed the stranger in her kitchen, she smiled. It transformed her from a dark, brooding presence to a beautiful woman.

Well, no doubt where Dan got his looks,
Carly thought as she automatically held out her hand while John introduced them.
But, wow, that smile. You could light up winter with that.
She wondered if Dan had inherited the smile along with the coloring.

Then she wondered what it would take to find out.

“You have a fantastic kitchen,” Carly said. “I’ve always wanted one like this, a place that’s warm and welcoming.”

“You’re very kind,” Diana said. Her voice was subdued, almost hesitant, and vibrant with leashed emotions.

Dan’s voice has Diana’s intensity and their smiles are to die for.
Carly almost sighed.
It must be nice to look at someone and see yourself reflected.

The familiar sense of being somehow incomplete flickered through her. She shrugged it off, reminding herself that a lot of people didn’t know who one or both parents were, and got along just fine anyway.

“I’m sorry to impose,” Carly said. “Your husband, um, didn’t listen to me.”

Diana’s eyes softened as she looked toward John. “He’s a bulldozer, but a gentle one. I don’t mind when he brings interesting people home.”

Carly sighed. “I’m very ordinary.”

Diana shook her head and said distinctly, “No, Ms. May. Nothing intelligent is ordinary.”

Carly’s stomach growled even as she said, “Please call me Carly.”

“She’s starving to death,” John said, “and Dan was sending her to Joseph’s Table.”

“An excellent place,” Diana said, “but my kitchen is less crowded. Sit down, Carly. How do you feel about carnitas and beans?”

“Predatory.”

Diana’s laugh was as incredible as her smile. She kissed her husband’s cheek. “Thank you for bringing her. Now let’s get the poor girl some food.”

Grinning, John warmed a colorful plate, put carnitas and beans and steaming hot tortillas on it, and set it down on the table in front of Carly. Diana put a bowl of mixed salad greens next to their guest and sprinkled homemade herb dressing over it.

Carly looked at the fresh, fragrant food and almost drooled.

“Eat,” Diana said. “There will be time enough for questions later.”

Carly ate and listened to John and Diana talk about the Indian children in Taos Pueblo, which ones were learning well and which weren’t, and how to reach the ones who didn’t want to learn. The conversation was normal for a teacher’s household, the camaraderie of husband and wife was unusually deep, and the food was incredible.

As the slow, sweet heat of New Mexican cuisine spread through Carly, she learned that Diana had been born and raised in Taos and John hadn’t. Diana knew the parents and grandparents of the children she worked with. Sometimes even the great-grandparents. John was at home in the area, but not a lifelong resident. Both husband and wife shared the common concerns of parents for their grown children, and relished the chance to hold and love their grandchildren.

Several times Carly tried to get Diana to talk about the Taos of her childhood and of her parents’ and grandparents’ childhood. Each time, the conversation gently parted around Carly’s words and flowed on, following its own course while she was urged to eat, there would be time for questions later.

She took a third tortilla from the warmer, told herself that she wasn’t hungry, and filled it with carnitas anyway. If the first day had been any example, she’d be fending for herself when it came to mealtimes at the Quintrell ranch house. The only one who seemed pleased to have her around was Winifred, and she wasn’t feeling very frisky at the moment.

So Carly enjoyed her late lunch, mentally compiled questions to ask Diana when there was a break in the conversation, and enjoyed the byplay of a man and a woman who were thoroughly pleased to be with each other.

Not until John gave Carly directions back to the building holding the newspaper archives did she realize that, despite the repeated promise of time for questions later, there hadn’t been a real opportunity to ask Diana about the Taos of her childhood.

As she drove into town, Carly thought about all that had been said and not said during lunch. Most people were happy to talk about themselves. Diana Duran definitely wasn’t, which made Carly curious.

Was she an adoption, like me? Is that why she avoids talking about her parents?

Carly parked in an alley and walked through the old building that housed the newspaper, still thinking about Diana. As she let herself out the back door, she wondered if Dan would talk about his mother’s childhood, or if he would ignore Carly just like his mother. Frowning, she walked over the courtyard’s weedy, frozen earth without noticing the man who stood across the courtyard, waiting for her.

Motionless, Dan watched her approach the old building. There was grace in her walk and worry in her expression. He wondered what had gone wrong during lunch.

Damn it, Dad. Why’d you have to take a professional busybody home to Mom?

Even under the best circumstances, his mother wasn’t exactly outgoing with anyone other than family—unless they were under six. With young kids, she was another person entirely, laughing and giggling and transparent as sunshine.

“Indigestion?” Dan asked mildly.

“What?” Carly jumped, startled. She’d almost walked right into him. “No, the food was fabulous. I was just, um, thinking.”

“And frowning.”

“Talk about the pot and the kettle,” she said, too low for him to hear.

He heard anyway. “You have salsa on your mouth.”

Automatically she licked her lips. A spicy taste rewarded her. “Mmm, your mother sure can cook. Did she learn it from her mother?”

“No.”

To anyone with more sensitivity than a rock, the tone of Dan’s voice closed off that avenue of conversation.

Irritation flared in Carly. She made her living asking questions about the past, and she was real tired of running up against roadblocks in the present. Especially with Daniel Duran.

“Did her father like to cook?” Carly asked.

“No.”

“Grandmother? Grandfather? Aunts, uncles, elves?” she asked sarcastically.

Dan wondered if she’d somehow found out. “Why do you care? She’s not part of Winifred’s project.”

Carly blew out a frustrated breath. “You’re right. But your mother has the kind of kitchen that looks like it was handed down through generations, yet there weren’t any pictures on the wall of parents or grandparents. Kids, yes, the living room was lined with their school photos. Some babies, too.”

“She and Dad put the kitchen together themselves from swap meets and secondhand sales. He built the greenhouse in back and the two bedrooms where the girls and boys slept. It was crowded, but a lot better than where the kids who were placed with us came from. Nobody shouted, nobody raised a fist, and nobody did drugs or sexual brutality.” The line of Dan’s mouth twisted when she flinched. “You see, Ms. Nosy, not everyone has a family they want to remember and record.”