No Witness Page 4

  “You seemed to know your way around that Ruger,” I commented.

  She shrugged. “Well, I live alone, so I got it for protection. Took a course to learn how to shoot the damn thing.” She made a face. “Actually, I hate guns, but my apartment was broken into once while I was there.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I locked my bedroom door and called 911. He tried the door as I was calling. I think he heard me and took off. I felt so helpless, you know? He could have easily broken the lock.”

  “Sure, I can understand that.”

  She smiled and rolled her eyes. “You know what they say—a conservative’s a liberal who just got mugged.”

  I had to laugh, although I was sorry I’d broached the subject of guns, because the events of the previous night came crashing back. Stupid me! I managed to talk and act normally after that. At least, I think I did. We finished our wine, and before I left, I explained the routine for feeding Cedric the cat, where the spare key to the front door was, and how to work Gertie’s ancient thermostat.

  As Archie and I walked back across the field, a silvery half-moon had just cleared the jagged tree line to the east, and a great horned owl made his presence known, calling hoot, hoot, hoot-a-hoot, hoot. I stopped in the middle of the field just in time to see a band of clouds turn luminous as it passed in front of the moon. I took a deep breath of cool night air and felt a semblance of peace.

  The horror of the night before receded again, but even then I sensed it wouldn’t remain at bay for long.

  Chapter Seven

  The following Wednesday morning—five days after Olivia Fuentes’s murder—I called Detective Darci Tate to get an update. “We’re a bit stymied,” she said, after we exchanged greetings and I asked her how it was going. “The migrant community abhors what happened, but we’re not getting much cooperation.” She exhaled in frustration. “Back in the day, we had a fairly good relationship with those folks, but the well’s been poisoned by what’s going on now. They’re afraid to stick their heads up.” Another exhale. “And for good reason, I suppose.”

  “Does it still look like a hit?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah. We’re just not sure who the intended victim was.” I waited, but she didn’t elaborate. “The autopsy didn’t show anything unexpected. The ME released the body last night. One positive—the bullet was in one piece. We’ll should get decent ballistics. It’s a thirty-eight.”

  “I heard you released the body. I’m going to the wake out at the vineyard this afternoon.” I asked a few more questions, which she chose not to answer. Finally, I said, “You sound tired, Darci. I hope you can get some rest.”

  “This case has gotten in my head. Sleep isn’t exactly my friend these days.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  ***

  I stayed busy—a good thing—and when Arch and I got back to the Aerie that afternoon, I changed into my court-appearance garb—chinos, oxford shirt, and a blazer. I’d gotten rid of all my suits long ago. They reminded me of the past and felt like uniforms. I told Archie to chill and drove farther up into the Red Hills to Angel Vineyard.

  “Come in, Cal,” Timoteo said after I rang the bell at the Fuentes’s house, “Thanks for coming.” Packed with people talking in hushed tones, the small front room of the house smelled of fresh flowers and spicy food. Olivia’s body lay in a casket in the center of the room, surrounded by bouquets of white roses and lilies. The casket was closed. Candles in ornate, waist-high candelabras burned next to each corner of the simple, white box. A small table held a large picture of the young woman, probably her senior high school picture. She looked out at the room, smiling and confident. Next to the picture stood a statuette of the Virgin of Guadalupe—a brown-skinned Madonna encircled by rays of sunlight with the moon and an adoring angel at her feet.

  I moved through the room with Timoteo, and when we stopped in front of the table, I began blinking rapidly as a lump the size of an egg formed in my throat and visions of that night rushed back. “She was beautiful, Timoteo,” I managed to say in a husky voice. “I’m so sorry for you and your family.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder to steady me. “She didn’t suffer. That is some comfort.” He met my eyes. “You knew she was gone, Cal, even as you continued your efforts to save her. You were trying to shield us, weren’t you?”

  I managed to stay dry-eyed. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I’m sorry for that.”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “No, no, it’s okay. I get it.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “Olivia was the light of this family, the one with the most promise. We’re crushed, but that doesn’t begin to describe it.” He looked across the room, where the young priest and three women sat with Mrs. Fuentes. “It’s Mamá. She is taking it the worst. Cooking is how she usually deals with bad news, but she can’t even do that. It worries me.”

  He led me over to her, and I offered my condolences once again. She was shrouded in black, and a delicate lace mantilla covered her braided, ebony hair and framed her handsome face. She looked at me with vacant eyes and spoke in a monotone. “God bless you, Mr. Claxton. Thank you for trying to save my Olivia. There is food in the kitchen.”

  A knot of people stood near the entryway to the kitchen. Timoteo stopped and after introducing me as his boss said, “These people are from Prosperar, where Olivia worked.” A slender woman with dark, silver-streaked hair stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Sofia Leon, director of Prosperar.” She turned to Timoteo, her eyes heavy with grief. “Olivia wasn’t just a mainstay of our organization, she was a beautiful person, passionate about her work, a fighter for social justice.” Leon made an inclusive gesture and shook her head. “We all loved her and are saddened beyond words.” A woman standing next to Leon sobbed and shielded her wet eyes with a hand. A young man standing next to her laid a hand on her shoulder.

  Timoteo thanked them for coming, and we moved past the group into the kitchen, where his father and several men his age were huddled around a wooden table talking in low tones. A squat liquor bottle sat in the center of the table, and they each had a glass of whitish-colored liquid in front of them. He stood when he saw me and offered his hand. “Carlos. Thank you for coming, Mr. Claxton. Do you want a glass of pulque?”

  I declined his offer, suppressing an urge to blurt out, Stop thanking me, for Christ’s sake. I did nothing for your daughter. Instead, after shaking his hand and expressing my sympathy, I surprised myself by saying, “If there’s anything I can do for you and your family, Carlos, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  He swung his gaze to his son, then back to me, and his eyes narrowed down some. “You could find out who killed our Olivia. Timoteo says you are good at such things.”

  I winced inwardly, realizing I’d walked right into that one. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Timoteo lean in slightly. “I know the detectives working on the crime,” I responded. “They are very good. I’m a lawyer. It’s unlikely I could add anything.”

  Carlos was shorter than me with a powerful-looking upper torso and dark eyes that could drill a hole in you. He held my eyes and showed a faintly sarcastic smile. “Maybe they are good, but they tell us nothing so far.” He opened his hands. “We migrants have no quarrel with the local police, but our relationship with them is, ah”—he turned to his son—“delicado?”

  “Delicate,” Timoteo prompted.

  “Sí, delicate. Some people may not wish to come forward and cooperate. It is a problem in our community, especially after what La Migra did in Woodburn.”

  I nodded to signal I knew about the recent raids by ICE agents that resulted in the deportation of over a dozen farm and vineyard workers, some of whom had arrived three and four decades earlier and had families and deep roots in the community.

  Carlos dragged a calloused hand across his face
and showed the faint smile again. “It is no secret that many of us are without papers, but we work hard and pay our taxes.”

  I paused for a few moments. “I would have to know much more about the situation before I could make a judgment.” I glanced from Timoteo to Carlos. “Maybe we could talk later this week. Your son can arrange it.” I raised a cautionary finger to them both. “Please, know that I cannot promise anything.”

  Exiting the kitchen, we ran into the owners of the winery, the Angels. I’d met them a few times over the years, so there was no need for Timoteo to introduce us. Chad Angel was tall, with wire-rim glasses and an affable demeanor. His wife, Hillary, was petite and normally effervescent. They both looked numb and shattered. “Olivia was like a granddaughter to us,” Hillary told me, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “This is all so…so unbelievable.”

  With one hand on his wife’s back, Chad studied me for a moment. “Are you involved in the investigation in any way, Cal?” he asked. After all, I did have a bit of a reputation in the Red Hills.

  I shook my head. “No. I happened to be with Timoteo when he found Olivia. He’s assisting me at my office.”

  “I see. I understand the police have no leads.”

  “That’s what Carlos told me. It’s early in the investigation.”

  I left it at that, and when we moved on, I asked Timoteo where Luis was. He scanned the crowded room. “I don’t see him. He’s probably outside smoking with his friends.”

  I wanted to ask Timoteo if he still blamed his brother for Olivia’s death. And I was curious about whether the ugly exchange between the brothers had been called to Detective Tate’s attention. But it was neither the time nor place for that. I said, “I’d like to pay my respects to him.”

  Timoteo nodded, and I followed him back through the kitchen into the backyard. Luis was standing with three other young men. He was shorter than Timoteo, more the height of his father, and he had the ebony hair and fine, sculpted cheeks of his mother. His companions eyed me with curiosity, a gringo. Luis flicked a cigarette away and shook my extended hand. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “I wish I could have done more.”

  He raised his eyes, his expression hard to read. “You did what you could. Olivia was the best of us. Our family will never be the same.”

  An awkward silence followed. I finally turned to Timoteo. “I’ve got to go now.” And I wasn’t kidding. My stomach was clenched, my psyche battered by Olivia’s ghost, which seemed to hover in the next room. Timoteo insisted on showing me out, and when we got to the front door I said, “Don’t come back to work until you’re ready. There’s nothing pressing.”

  “The funeral’s Friday. I can come in on Saturday to finish up the filing if that’s okay with you.” He eyed me anxiously. “If you’re going to be around, I could bring my father so we can have that talk.”

  I agreed.

  I left Olivia Fuentes’s velorio with the intention of walking directly to my car, which was parked along the entrance road that bisected the vineyard. But when I came to the point in the driveway where the shooting had taken place, I paused just long enough for curiosity to get the better of me. How had the shooter managed to get close to the Fuentes’s cottage without being noticed? Of course, Tate and her partner had undoubtedly asked themselves the same question, but it persisted in my mind, and I hated unanswered questions.

  I glanced back at the Fuentes’s house to make sure no one was watching, then ducked into the thick row of rhododendrons lining the south side of the driveway where the shooter must have lain in wait. The first thing I noticed was that the assassin could not have gotten a very good look at his victim from that spot. The vegetation was dense, and it was nearly dark and raining that evening. I was surprised to see a clearing on the other side of the rhodies leading up to a barn. A long row of used, sixty-gallon oak barrels stacked three high lined the east side of the clearing, which was littered with out-of-service equipment, including an old front-loader tractor. I stopped at the barn and looked back toward the Fuentes’s cottage. The window at the kitchen sink gave the only view of this approach to the driveway, but the barrels would have provided good cover for anyone sneaking in. The barn was connected to Valleyview Road by a service road that cut through the vineyard for thirty yards or so. Moving low between rows of grapevines parallel to the road, someone could have easily made it from Valleyview Road to the barn without being seen.

  I followed the service road up to the gate. It was shut and padlocked. The gate and the fencing on either side were high to keep the deer out. Not likely the shooter climbed over. I examined the lock. It looked brand new. Had the shooter used a bolt cutter to gain entry?

  I backtracked from there and, once at my car, another question nagged at me—where did the killer park his vehicle and begin his approach? Valleyview Road was narrow, with ditches for shoulders, making it impossible to park anywhere near the service road gate. As I headed out of the winery, I turned right on Valleyview, left on Sylvan Drive, and then another left on Buena Vista, a country block later. This put me above the vineyard, with a thick stand of conifers separating me from Valleyview. And Buena Vista had shoulders wide enough to park on. I pulled over and got out.

  Yes, the killer probably parked near here and used the cover of the trees to approach the service gate.

  I followed a faint trail through the trees, realizing Darci Tate and her partner had almost certainly done the same thing. Halfway in, I saw a spattering of grayish-white material in the path. I smiled. Sure enough, she’d already been in there lifting a shoe print from the soft earth, using what looked like dental stone casting. I came out of the trees on Valleyview, not far from the service gate, then retraced my steps without finding anything else. When I got back to my car, I looked farther up the hillside. An old Victorian house looked down on the scene.

  I made a mental note to check it out…if I decided to get involved.

  Chapter Eight

  “For having had my breastbone sawed in half, I’m not feeling that bad,” Gertie quipped to me the next morning on the phone at my office. “Zoe’s picking me up this afternoon. It’ll be great to get the hell out of here. Hospitals give me the creeps.” I offered my help, but she assured me that her niece had everything covered. She chuckled. “I understand you two met the other night. Isn’t she something?”

  “It was memorable.”

  “My sister and I are very different,” Gertie went on. “She’s well, you know, I won’t say a kept woman, but she never found it necessary to work. Married a great guy, but rich as Midas. Zoe’s a lot like me. Independent, probably to a fault.”

  I had to laugh. “I did notice some similarities.”

  ***

  That day at the office was agonizingly slow. Okay, I could have done some of the filing Timoteo hadn’t gotten to, but instead I closed up early. The afternoon was cool and crisp, perfect for wall-building, I figured, and wall-building was perfect for banishing the cloud of Olivia Fuentes’s death that still hung over me like a foul smell.

  Back at the Aerie, I changed into a sweatshirt, jeans, and boots, and with Archie looking on like a foreman, continued the work of breaking rock into rubble and fitting the small chunks between the large stones at the base of my dry stack. I focused hard on the task, and soon my mind was calmer than it had been in some time. A breeze sifted through the Doug firs overhead, and I could hear the pileated woodpecker foraging somewhere in the distance—rat tat tat, rat tat tat. When I finally finished, the sun was setting, and the firs on the property west of us formed black silhouettes against a flaming gold sky.

  I looked over at Arch. “I’m hungry. You?” Never one to be asked twice to dinner, he popped up and started heading for the house.

  After feeding my dog and making myself a quick spinach frittata, I poured myself another glass of Sancerre and began making soup. I’d picked up a precooked chicken on the way home, wh
ich I shredded and added to a pot with chicken broth, carrots, celery, shallots, mushrooms, and noodles, the whole mix seasoned with tarragon.

  Forty-five minutes later, I had a pot of homemade chicken soup for Gertie.

  “Well, hello, Archie and Cal,” Zoe said when she opened the back door and eyed us standing there. I was holding the pot with a couple of potholders. “Come on in.”

  I told Archie to stay, followed her into the kitchen, and set the soup down. “I, uh, just put this together. Chicken noodle. Thought Gertie might like it.”

  Wearing yoga pants, a loose-fitting cotton sweater, and big hoop earrings, Zoe uncovered the pot and sniffed it. “Oh, it smells delicious. You made this from scratch?”

  I shrugged. “Not exactly. I bought the chicken precooked to save time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s from scratch as far as I’m concerned. How sweet of you, and your timing’s perfect. I was just facing up to the fact that I have to make dinner.” She made a face. “Cooking’s not exactly my forte.”

  She prepared a tray for Gertie, and I followed her to a small guest room on the first floor. Gertie was dozing when we entered. The lines around her eyes and mouth seemed more pronounced, but she’d regained some of the color in her face. Her eyes opened at the sound of us, then she smiled when she saw me, saying, “Hello, neighbor.” Looking at Zoe, she added, “Something smells good, and it’s not hospital food, thank God.”

  Zoe and I pulled up chairs, and we chatted while my neighbor ate. When the topic of my cooking came up, Gertie looked at Zoe. “He cooks pretty well for a bachelor.”

  Zoe turned to me. “What’s your secret?”

  “I stick to the basics. Nothing fancy.”

  Gertie laughed. “He makes a mean double-reduction cherry sauce for pork loin and a mango salsa for halibut that’s amazing. I’d call that pretty fancy.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t make a fresh fruit pie from scratch, like you,” I countered. “That’s fancy.”