Tattered Legacy (A Nora Abbott Mystery) (15 page)

Twenty-Three

Warren Evans denied the
pain in his bones. The meds his physician prescribed were becoming less effective. He sat upright and plastered an enthusiastic grin on his face. All he needed to do was pull himself together for an hour, then he could return to his house and collapse, alone. He had the strength for that.

He lowered his head to pray, resisting the urge to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. He wanted to sleep, to lie back in his four-poster bed, surrounded by his children and grandchildren who would weep at the thought of his passing.

He would promise to see them again in the afterlife, when he, like his brother Jesus, would command his own planet, populated by his sons and daughters.

But he didn’t have his own sons and daughters. God had withheld that blessing from him.

Christine’s sharp voice cut through the silence in the Cadillac. “I don’t know why you insist on putting yourself through this. You obviously don’t feel up to it.”

Warren pushed himself from the steering wheel to sit oak-tree tall. “We need to help Darrell. It’s our duty.”

Christine flipped the visor down and studied her face in the mirror. She pulled a tube of lipstick from her purse and twisted it. The red color emerged like the disgusting penis of a dog. Before she applied it, she addressed him. “Why? Because he’s Mormon and you have to stick together?”

He wanted to slap the lipstick from her hand. God made her the way He wanted her. And yet, never satisfied with His blessings, she’d pulled and tucked, dyed and plucked until she resembled a cartoon of the beauty he’d married so long ago. Maybe there had been the need for subterfuge while they courted investors and built Bourne Enterprises, but his fortune was made. He needed her to be his wife now, his helpmate—not just a cosigner on some of his bank accounts.

He unbuckled his seat belt. “I want to help him.”

She ran the lipstick over her mouth, smacked her lips, and puckered for the mirror, then fluffed her raven hair. “You’ve earned your rest. Why would you drag us both to this godforsaken dust bin to campaign for Darrell when we could have stayed in Manhattan so you could recover from chemo?”

She didn’t fool him. Christine didn’t care if this trip made Warren uncomfortable. She hated Moab, always had. She preferred expensive restaurants and shopping and her work on her charitable committees. She disdained anything that reminded her of Warren’s roots. He’d watched her cringe every time he’d mentioned his Utah upbringing to prospective business associates. Maybe he should have left her in New York.

But she was his wife, married before God. Not a Temple wedding, because he’d been headstrong and hadn’t chosen in the faith. For that, God had punished him. Maybe she didn’t comfort him and he couldn’t count on her to walk hand in hand with him to the threshold, but she hadn’t shirked her public responsibilities. As far as he knew, she’d been faithful to him. When her time came, he’d call her through the veil. He owed her that much.

“This is important.” He opened the car door and pulled himself to stand. He’d lost weight, as well as his hair, during the chemo. The well-made toupee camouflaged his bald pate and only the most observant would detect anything out of the ordinary. His tailor had made him a few new suits. He hoped he didn’t look anything worse than tired.

Warren crossed in front of the Caddy and opened the passenger door for Christine. She climbed from the car with as much grace as an actress stepping onto the red carpet. She smiled up at him, habit from years of playing generous and supportive spouse to a rich man. She never let her cover slip. He should be grateful.

They walked across the dirt parking lot and up the wooden boardwalk. He held the heavy log door open for her and she entered the restaurant. He followed and let the door close behind him.

He’d always liked this restaurant. The adobe walls, slick and whitewashed, made him feel clean and cool. The umber tones and the rustic log furniture felt far removed from the pretensions of New York and high finance. He missed this country, his roots. He wouldn’t go back to New York. He had no need to acquire more on this side of the veil. Surely God would grant him peace now.

But not just yet. He still needed to decide who would carry the banner when he was called home.

The tables had been moved to the perimeter of the large dining room. Smells of roasting meat and the grease from French fries and onion rings permeated the building. The room buzzed with energy and conversation, knots of people congregating throughout the dining room.

He spotted Darrell at the far end of the room. Rage squeezed into him, but he banished it in a heartbeat. Not even Christine noticed. He kept his face relaxed as he watched Darrell raise a frosty glass of amber liquid to his mouth.

Beer! Darrell knew better than to indulge in sin like this. It showed a weakness that troubled Warren deeply.

Warren and Christine weren’t in the room more than three seconds before Todd Grayson, a local sporting goods store owner, noticed them.

Todd hurried over, all grins and outstretched hand. “Warren! So good to see you. Darrell didn’t say you’d be here.” Warren returned a firm grip, followed by several more hearty handshakes with others. People swarmed around him as they usually did. Some wanted to bask in his celebrity, some hoped to get close enough he’d do them a favor down the road, some genuinely liked him. He didn’t waste energy trying to figure out which category they landed in. He shook hands, accepted hearty pats on the back, chatted and joked. A crush of admirers swept Christine away. Hers or his fans, he didn’t care.

The crowd around Warren parted and Darrell stood in front of him, an ear-to-ear grin playing on his face. The boy was good. Even Warren couldn’t discern the authenticity of his smile. He grabbed Warren’s hand and gave it a warm squeeze. “What a great surprise. When did you get to town?”

“Christine and I got in around two this afternoon.”

“Good flight?”

Inane conversation. He had more on his mind than the endlessly uncomfortable flight in his private jet. “Not bad. Looks like you’ve got a great crowd here.” At two hundred dollars a plate, he’d better. Of course, Moab never brought in many campaign dollars. But a vote was a vote and Darrell needed them all.

Darrell surveyed the room with satisfaction. “We’ve got a lot of good friends here. Thanks to you.”

Warren kept up his warm tone but lowered his voice a bit. “The polls have you slipping a few points.”

Darrell’s expression didn’t falter but the light hardened in his eyes. “Nothing to worry about. We have a slump in cash flow right now so we’re holding off for a media push in a couple of weeks.”

Meaning, if only Warren ponied up cash, all would be well. Darrell so cleverly blamed his declining numbers on Warren.

A waitress wearing jeans and a too-small T-shirt appeared with two beading glasses of lemonade on a tray. The shirt stretched too tight across her breasts and the jeans rode too low on her hips. Sinful, thought Warren. Darrell took the glasses from her and held one out for Warren. “Thought you might be thirsty.”

Warren accepted it and watched as Darrell drank nearly half of his glass. He probably hoped the lemon would mask the smell of the beer. His religion allowed no caffeine and definitely no alcohol. These might seem harsh and arbitrary rules, but the kosher restrictions of the Jews were equally as obtuse. God asked; man must comply.
“We’ll talk later,” he said to Darrell. “You need to circulate.”

Warren turned to an aging dowager, who wanted to discuss environmental issues. He did his best to focus on the woman, but nausea threatened and he felt weak. He caught a passing waitress, handed her the lemonade, and asked for ice water instead.

When he looked up, he caught sight of a black cowboy hat. The hat dangled in Lee’s hands as he stood awkwardly in the back corner of the dining room. His mood brightened. Lee looked so much like Warren’s dear sister Lydia, right down to the perpetually worried expression. It made them appear stern when Warren knew the opposite was true.

He disregarded the pain in his bones and strode over to Lee, hand extended. The corner of Lee’s mouth ticked up. “Uncle Warren. Thought you might be here.”

“It’s good to see you supporting Darrell like this.”

Lee chuckled. “I’m here to see you, not that blowhard.”

Warren refrained from smiling. “The Lord uses everyone according to their talents.”

The worry line appeared again in Lee’s forehead. “I know you’ve been called to do great things. And I know the sacrifices you’ve made. Me and mine, we’re grateful.”

The toupee, the new suits, and the effort to appear energetic hadn’t done the trick. Lee had detected his illness. Darrell probably had, too. He took the opportunity to drop into a chair next to a table that had been shoved against the wall. Lee sat down across from him.

Warren tried to lighten the boy’s mood. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments. And before you start in with your humility and all the proof of God’s plan for you to be a steward of the land, I’m not going to lay any more burdens on you. Today.” Lee looked at him in the same grateful, trusting way he used to when Warren took him fishing or hunting or they worked cattle. “But you said you came here to see me. What about?”

Lee hesitated. “A lot of people are arriving daily.”

Warren glanced up to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “Is there a problem?”

Lee positioned his chair so his back was to the room, trusting Warren to keep watch. “Lisa Taylor was close, Uncle Warren. She figured out what we’re doing. If she hadn’t died, we’d have been exposed.”

Warren nodded. He couldn’t let anyone know how shaken the incident made him feel.

Lee focused on Warren’s face. “Rachel said that Trust woman thinks Lisa was murdered.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Lee exhaled in relief. “I hoped you’d handle it this time. With you here, it won’t be as much a problem as it was with Lisa.”

There. That’s what Warren looked for. “You’re a faithful servant, Lee.”

The lines in Lee’s forehead deepened. “I’m here to defend God’s plan from the people who wouldn’t understand.”

Warren offered a gentle smile. “I’ll let you know if I need you. And until then keep doing what you’re doing—living a righteous life, keeping God’s principles, and protecting the lands he gave us.”

Lee pushed his chair back and stood. He made room for Warren to rise. Despite his effort to appear strong, Warren leaned heavily on the table. He stumbled and Lee grabbed Warren’s elbows. With the strength that told of his days of physical labor, he righted Warren. As soon as Warren felt solid, Lee stepped back, deftly turning them so Warren faced away from the room and Lee looked into the room.

Warren took a moment to regain his balance and wipe the strain from his face. Lee pretended not to notice. “No doubt you and Christine will want to stay here for a while. I’ll send Tessa around with some fresh eggs and produce.” He paused to see if Warren felt up to answering and then continued. “I know Christine has a fond spot for Tessa. And Tessa thinks the world of Christine.” As he spoke, Lee’s eyes traveled the room as though searching for anyone who would dare harm Warren here.

Warren willed his legs to be like thick pine branches. He demanded his queasy stomach to calm. He only needed to stay a few more minutes, then he could make excuses that Christine was tired after traveling and he could retreat home to his bed. He looked up, ready to get the ordeal over with.

Lee’s face reminded Warren of the cow dog he’d had as a youngster. His eyes shone with purpose as he zeroed in on his prey. The rest of his body seemed ready to strike. Warren swiveled around to see what caught Lee’s attention.

A young woman with coppery hair that swung around her face spoke with Darrell. She smiled briefly but seemed to be concerned with the business at hand. Instead of a dress or slacks, she wore khaki shorts and hiking boots. By the dust on her well-worn hiking shirt, it seemed she’d just stepped off the trail.

Lee’s voice sounded like a growl. “That’s her. Nora Abbott. The woman from the Trust.” It did seem like the red-head had a feisty edge to her. “We’ve got to deal with her before she causes us trouble.”

“I don’t like what happened to Lisa and I’d hate for it to happen again. Let’s see if I can’t send Ms. Abbott on her way.”

Lee’s mouth clamped shut. He’d never been one to argue. Not that he gave in. Words never meant a lot to Lee.

Warren approached Darrell and Nora Abbott. She seemed agitated. “Did you know he worked there? Would he tamper with my brakes?”

Lee’s mouth clamped shut. He’d never been one to argue.
Darrell
leaned closer, his face wreathed in concern. “Do you have any proof? The sheriff in this county is—”

“Mormon and won’t help me. I know. Someone messed with Lisa’s brakes, too.”

Darrell’s frown of distress pleased Warren. “We can’t talk here. Meet me tonight.”

She obviously didn’t like the brush-off, but she nodded briskly and turned. She smacked into Warren. “Excuse me.”

He put out a hand as if to steady her, but it was more to keep himself from toppling. Her eyes flew open in recognition. Immediately she snapped her head to the right, then left, then over his shoulder as though looking for someone. People often wanted their friends to witness their brush with celebrity. She frowned briefly and returned her attention to him. “Mr. Evans.”

He gave her his easy grin, the one investors trusted. “And you’re Nora Abbott from Living Earth Trust. Darrell has told me about the accident involving that young woman making a film.”

Before she had a chance to respond, Warren continued. “I’m a great supporter of expanding Canyonlands boundaries.” She looked skeptical. “I’ve looked into Living Earth Trust and am impressed with your organization’s stellar reputation. I’d like to make a sizable contribution.”

Her eyes lit up. “We’re always looking for additional funding.”

“I’ve got some Hollywood connections. We’ll get a top-notch videographer, writers, and a director. Let me see what I can do,” he said.