Dog Gone Lies (Pacheco & Chino Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

Son-of-a-bitch—honest advice. Ray was impressed. “That makes sense, Big Jack. But I’m going to need someone to help me get started. What should I do?”

“Just gettin’ to that. There are several fishing guides who work this lake. All but one are not worth shit. The problem with the one who does know shit is that he’s almost always drunk. But my advice is go see this guy and if he can stand up at all, hire him to show you how to fish. And don’t believe the dumb Indian schtick—it’s an act. He’ll charge you some money, but it’ll be a whole lot cheaper than buying the stuff now. Especially from someone like Big Jack, who enjoys screwing with most people.” Jack was amused with himself again and Ray waited for the fit of laughter to pass.

After Ray left with the fishing guide’s name and directions to his camp site, he thought a while about Big Jack. The guy was loud and obnoxious, and claimed to be untrustworthy and out only for his own benefit—but his actions seemed to say the exact opposite. Told Ray not to waste his money until he knew he was actually going to enjoy fishing and maybe knew something about what he needed to buy—all in all, very good, honest advice. The opposite of what Ray was used to dealing with, which more often than he liked was crooks pretending to be good guys. This guy was all bombast, but genuinely good underneath. He smiled. He was glad he’d stopped in—plus the smell was starting to go away.

Finding the campsite took a lot longer than Ray had anticipated. While there were occasional signs, most of Big Jack’s directions were based on landmarks. Eventually he found some people in an RV who showed him where he’d gone wrong. They added some details to Ray’s map and said they knew exactly where he wanted to be. He’d been pretty close, and with the revised information he quickly found the right spot.

Ray parked in an area that had been cleared for that purpose and headed down the trail that was supposed to lead him to the fishing guide’s camp. He’d already had more activity in this one day than any time since he’d moved up to the lake, and it made it clear that he had to get out more. He felt better, and his bones felt better—if he just sat in that cabin all day he’d rot away.

As Ray rounded a large mesquite bush, he found himself at a fairly large campsite. There were two tents, plus two more areas covered by tarps. Under one of the tarps it looked like there was a boat. On one of the tents was a handwritten sign that read, “Tyee Chino Fishing Guide.”
This must be the place.

“Hello? Anyone about?” There was no response. Ray wasn’t sure what campsite etiquette required after yelling. He went over to the tent that bore the sign and yelled again. “Hello, anyone home?”

“Fuck you evil white man—leave me in peace.”

Okay—not the response he’d been expecting. “Sorry to bother you. Big Jack said you could be hired as a fishing guide.”

“Fuck Big Jack.”

Well, this was starting to feel like he was on duty again. A lot of people had told the sheriff to fuck off.

“Look, if you’re not interested in work that’s fine. I’ll just leave. Sorry I bothered you.” Ray had yet to see anyone—the whole exchange had taken place without anyone emerging from the tent.

Ray turned around and headed back to his car. Figured he’d go by and ask Big Jack about the other two guys, the ones who didn’t know shit—maybe they’d at least be a little easier to deal with.

“Wait. I need work—I’m best fishing guide in whole damn country. You should hire me—even if I tell you to fuck off.” Standing outside of the tent was an Apache Indian. He was over six feet four inches and appeared to be very muscular. His long hair hung in a braid. He was frowning—which might’ve been his natural look—but Ray thought he saw a mischievous intelligence in the man’s eyes. He also appeared to be quite drunk.

Ray wasn’t real sure if this was some kind of strange sells pitch, or if Tyee Chino was just the dumbest fishing guide who ever lived. “Tell you the truth, I’m not sure you could guide anyone to anything right now, Mr. Chino.”

“I drank too much. Come back tomorrow morning at seven—I’ll be ready. I’m best damn fishing guide in whole damn country.”

Ray wasn’t sure what to do. What the hell—maybe he
was
the best damn fishing guide in the whole damn country. “You know tomorrow’s Saturday?”

“Fishing guide works weekends—come back tomorrow.”

“Okay, I’ll be here at seven tomorrow.”

Tyee Chino grunted and went back inside his tent. Ray went to his car.

As Ray drove back to his cabin he made notes on the map, which was by that time covered in scribbles. He was a little concerned about finding Chino’s tent again the next day—he sure the hell didn’t want to be late and have this strange, very large man mad at him.

Friday

Monica Jackson pulled off the interstate at T or C to get some gas and make a phone call. Her 1985 Subaru Wagon was her pride and joy and got excellent gas mileage, but it did have a small tank, making frequent gasoline stops necessary. She was still a very active sixty-three, but even so the frequent stops were a convenience for her as well as the car. She needed bathroom breaks and to limber up her joints.

Traveling with Monica was her best show dog, an Icelandic Sheepdog named Bruce. Monica bred the friendly dogs, and she showed them at regional dog shows to increase her visibility. She lived not too far off of I-25 just south of Albuquerque in an area called Bosque Farms, in a small place with plenty of room for her fifteen dogs. Bruce was the smartest dog she’d ever raised. He seemed to know as much about the dog shows as she did—he was a showman, or a show dog, and he loved being in the spotlight.

He was a wonderful dog, but he wasn’t a perfect specimen. The judges at the dog show events were some of the snobbiest people Monica had ever met. Most of the top prizes went to the same owners over and over, and everyone knew it was politics that won, not necessarily the best dogs. If a judge decided who was going to win in advance, then it was easy to find flaws in the others since there was no such thing as a perfect dog.

Most of Monica’s life she’d been an elementary school teacher. She’d become a teacher mainly because that’s what had been expected of her. It hadn’t been exactly what she’d wanted in a career, but she’d gone along with what her mother and her husband advised her to do—always taking the path of least resistance.

Then Monica’s whole world had turned upside down, about ten years ago now, when she divorced her husband, Mike Jackson, who was a dentist. Mike had had a silly affair with his young—maybe better to say very young—dental assistant, Terri. There was no doubt in Monica’s mind that Mike had been pursued and lassoed by the little tart—who had nothing better to do than capture old men as prizes. Like it was some kind of national contest. The consequences of her actions and use of her unbelievable body were beyond anything Terri could comprehend. Actually, she seemed not to comprehend much except screwing. Maybe Monica should have forgiven poor old weak-willed Mike, but she was tired of always being the understanding one so she divorced him instead. Then she quit her job. Everyone says she retired early, but of course that’s bullshit—she just plain quit. Used some of the divorce money frivolously, purchased a home south of Albuquerque, and became a dog breeder.

Now, it would probably have helped if she’d known something about being a dog breeder beforehand—but too late. Suddenly she was one. Since then Monica hadn’t been very successful financially. On the other hand, she’d never enjoyed herself as much as she had these last ten years. The dogs were wonderful to be around and, except for the judges, most of the dog people were generous and thoughtful.

After getting gas, Monica headed down Main Street looking for a place to get a quick bite and to use a payphone. She spotted the Lone Post Café and parked in front. She made sure Bruce had his water bowl and food, then patted him for a minute before going inside.

The aroma of the café was fantastic. Even if Monica wasn’t hungry, she was going to have some of whatever smelled so good. She was shown to one of the booths, served water immediately, and given a menu.

“Hello, how are you today?”

“Just fine. What’s that wonderful smell?”

“Does smell good doesn’t it? Mostly what you’re smelling is green chilies. And those chilies can go on most anything we serve—including pancakes. Although I don’t think I’d recommend that.”

“Maybe I’ll have the small green chili breakfast burrito and a glass of iced tea.”

“Very good. My name’s Sue. I’ll put your order in and it’ll be ready in just a minute.”

Monica thanked her and had her point out the restrooms and payphone.

Monica called her ex-husband and got his voice mail. “Hey Mike, I’m in T or C, at a little diner, and wanted to let you know I think I’ll stay an extra day in El Paso. Made some last minute plans with Betty. If you can, could you go by the house and check on things? Really appreciate it. I’ll call you from El Paso, probably tomorrow, and let you know my exact schedule. Thanks.”

The angry part of Mike and Monica’s divorce had been over for a long time. Mike’s girlfriend had taken off as soon as Monica filed for divorce. Mike had been very remorseful and underwent extensive therapy to deal with the consequences of his actions. About five years after the divorce, he’d sold his dental practice and retired to an assisted living facility in Albuquerque. He had aged significantly, to the point that Monica and their children were worried about his health.

Mike seemed to adapt to the assisted living home and soon was feeling better, but he’d changed in many ways. Monica and Mike had three grown children and two grandchildren. In a complete role reversal, Mike had become more involved with the children and grandchildren as Monica became more and more withdrawn.

Placing another call, Monica waited for an answer.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Betty. It’s Monica.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in T or C and should be in El Paso in about three hours or so. Maybe we could get together this evening for dinner?”

“Well, I don’t know, Monica. These damn dog show people are such gossips. Lately it seems all they want to do is sneer and point at us like we’re harming them in some way.”

“To hell with those creeps. Come on, Betty. This is just dinner—you were going to eat anyway weren’t you?”

“Okay. Sorry. For some reason I seem on edge lately. When you get checked in give me a call. I’m in room 607—see you tonight.”

Monica and Betty had become close friends over the last few years. They went to the same dog shows and liked to talk about the same sorts of stuff, so they enjoyed each other’s company. But recently they’d become aware of some gossip going around amongst some morons within the dog show organization, suggesting that they had more than just a friendship. At first they were shocked. Then, as they both gave the rumor thought, they realized there probably was more to their relationship than just friendship, but neither of them wanted to deal with what that meant so they’d been avoiding each other the last couple of shows. Monica had decided this was stupid and was going to make an extra effort to have a conversation with Betty about their relationship. If it turned out to be sexual, so be it. If it wasn’t, to hell with those narrow-minded bastards.

Returning to her table, she settled in just as her food was being served. Her first thought was:
thank goodness I only ordered the small
. It was enough food for four. But Mexican food was one of Bruce’s favorites, so she could consume about a third of the meal and Bruce could enjoy the rest.

As she was leaving with her doggy bag, she took a moment to thank her waitress, who’d seemed especially nice.

When she reached the car she was surprised to see a note or something stuck under the windshield wiper. She first opened the side door and arranged Bruce’s special Mexican treat—he really appreciated the food and rewarded her with tail wagging and dog smiling. Then, with her hands free, she retrieved the paper.

It was a handwritten note.

You need to know I’ve been watching you. You can’t call people names and accuse them of immoral behavior and get away with it. People like you think you’re better than everybody, but you’re not. I’m going to make sure you don’t hurt anyone else the way you’ve hurt me. You’ll be sorry. Very Sorry!

What the hell was this? Monica looked around, as if the author might be standing by to answer questions, but there was nobody about. Then she noticed that her car was leaning. She went around to the other side and saw that both tires on that side were flat. Shit.

Monica checked on Bruce. She made sure there was plenty of air flowing through the windows, which were rolled down about three inches. She relocked the car, although she wasn’t exactly sure why. Then she went back into the restaurant.

Sue greeted her at the register.

“Well, that was quick. Decide you needed dessert?”

“No. I have a problem with my car. I have two flat tires and I guess I need a tow to someplace that can help me out.”

“Two flats. Now that sounds like bad luck big time.”

“The tires are fairly new so I think maybe someone cut them or something—it looks like there are slash marks on the sidewalls.”