Alibi Creek Page 9

  Danielle was seated at a table for two next to the wall, leaning forward, gazing like a woman in a trance into Keith Lampert’s dark eyes with adoring, mascara-caked ones of her own. Keith rested back, the Handsome Man profile semi-smiling.

  Walker’s feet stuck to the sticky floor. The onrush of heat could be jealousy, but he wasn’t the jealous type—to each his own, and all that. If things didn’t work out with one gal, on to the next. His rising temperature was due to the bitch operating on her own.

  He managed a step, then another.

  “I see you two have met,” he said.

  Danielle kept her eyes on Keith, who kept his on her.

  Walker said, “I’ll get a drink and join you.”

  He asked Art how long they’d been there. Over an hour, long before Jo came in.

  Walker swallowed a shot and asked for another.

  Jo said, “She’s your wife. Go claim her.”

  Shit, it didn’t work that way. Under the current circumstances, marriage meant nothing, had meant little even in their youth, when they’d imagined themselves in love. He carried his drink across the room. If Keith looked at Danielle close up, say at mid-day, he couldn’t ignore the signs of wear that had been visible in the trailer that morning—lines around and between her eyes, gray circles under them, sagging skin on her upper arms, some problem in her right knee that caused her to get up like an old lady. Then again, Keith might not care that she couldn’t stick with a job for more than six months. He might remain blind to the fact that her only aim in life was to dazzle any man who crossed her path and follow the poor sucker with no clear idea of where her latest conquest might lead her.

  He rested a hand on the back of Danielle’s chair.

  “Honey, I guess Keith told you I showed him Plank’s place today.”

  “He did,” she purred, smiling at Keith.

  The pain in his gut prevented dragging over a chair and lowering himself into it.

  “You’re all set, Keith,” he said. “I’ve set up a trailer for you. You drive on out there and make yourself at home. I’ll bring the ATV in the morning. Darlin’, I need a word with you.” He took her arm. “Step out back with me a moment.”

  Outside, Danielle shook off his hand.

  “You said we had to get that trailer off Plank’s property,” she said.

  “He wants to stay out there for a couple of days. You’re going to make his visit extra special, so he falls in love with the place. I see the two of you, Miss Centerfold and Mister Tall, Dark and Sorta’ Handsome, having a fling. You’ll have him crooning love songs to the moon. Coyotes will answer. Mice will scatter. Your wide eyes and parted lips will suggest you want to be his slave. Shit, you hardly have to act. Watch out, though. The guy hasn’t told us one thing about himself. He’s locked tight as a garage door in suburbia and I ain’t trusting what’s inside.” Her lower lip stuck out. Just hours ago that little pout had been cute. Amazing how the most exquisite woman looks kinda’ ugly if there’s no beauty inside, the façade as temporary as a coat of paint peeling with age. “You’ll be fine. I been watching you. You already got it figured out.” He pushed her inside. “Remember, we’re married. You’re doing this romancin’ on the sly. You come home every night, like a good girl.”

  At the bar, he pulled the stool next to Jo under his butt.

  “That was quick,” she said.

  He squeezed Jo’s knee, making her squeal.

  “You’re the only gal for me,” he said, but his eyes drifted to the two-top by the wall and his foot jiggled up and down. Tonight, his bruised body would curl up alone in his single bed while those two snuggled up in number 16.

  18

  LEE ANN CAME IN FROM the chicken house with three eggs and put them in the fridge. The hens slowed production as the days shortened. She selected Marie Callender’s Home Style Meatloaf Dinner from the freezer in the mudroom and balanced it on top of a Saran-wrapped bowl of cherry Jell-O. Mother frowned on frozen dinners. A woman’s duties included serving homemade meals, preferably meat and at least one vegetable for supper, with dessert made from scratch. Planning ahead, making do with what was left in the pantry, using what was plentiful in the garden, and canning the rest were on Lee Ann’s list of “should-do’s.” Sunday the men would gather for roundup. There simply wasn’t time this week to be the perfect countrywoman.

  Announcing her arrival with a sparrow’s song, she left the food on the cook stove. Get her to the bathroom, dole out her evening pills, offer an explanation for the poor excuse for a meal, or not. Wonder if she hears or comprehends. Wonder if “roundup” tickles memories of Dad and Edgar on horseback working cattle. Wonder if she cares that Saul Duran ordered official documents shredded, along with memos re-apportioning funds for Head Start. Wonder if she understands the term “closed session,” if she senses the pressure of covering up secret deals, or sympathizes with the guilt of cheating county residents.

  Possibly, the commissioners’ actions and Lee Ann’s coercion fooled no one. While collecting files to be altered, the courthouse seemed hushed. Office doors closed. Clerks rushed down the hall, whispering, their eyes searching for double meaning in her requests.

  When last consulted, the Bible had said, Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the spirits. Romans 8:1. She’d shoved the passage aside and held up the portrait of Jesus with both hands, his face level with hers.

  “Lord, in public the commissioners proclaim to ‘walk with God, according to the spirits,’ but pronouncements don’t make it so.” She shook the picture. “If they steal, they should be punished. Instead, You let them get away with it.”

  Her elbow knocked the Bible to the floor. She dropped the picture and snatched the Book up and wiped the front and the back with her apron and brought it to her lips. Sorry. So sorry. She propped His picture in place. A crack had split the glass across His forehead.

  Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, clothed in women’s dresses, wigs, and high heels, were chasing Marilyn Monroe down a busy street in Some Like it Hot. Boxes surrounded Mother’s wheelchair, some stacked, one fallen on its side, spilling a hair dryer, alarm clock, and hand towels. Jackets and dresses draped the sofa and rocking chair. Two very upset cats cried from pet carriers on the front porch.

  Mother’s eyelids fluttered at a remarkable speed.

  “Oh, Mother. Did we explain Walker remarried Danielle? These must be her things.” She knelt beside the wheelchair. “You see, he’s bringing her here to live. I know it will take some getting used to, but the company might do you good. Remember how lively she is. And she won’t be here all the time—she works the day shift at the motel.”

  “Pebbles,” Mother said.

  “Don’t worry, dear. I haven’t forgotten you’re allergic to cats.”

  Mother’s eyelids settled down.

  “Let’s get you taken care of,” Lee Ann said, shoving the hair dryer and clock aside with her foot. “Manuel and Rudy are taking time off to help with roundup Sunday. There will be leftovers after the men have eaten, but tonight I brought a frozen dinner. We’ll make do. Claire Marsh was at the Extension Office today and asked about you, said to remind you of the time Alma Persons gave you both basket-weaving lessons and you made a tiny, misshapen pine needle basket with a narrow neck and acted silly, stuffing it with pine needles with their sharp ends sticking out the top. You tacked it to the living room wall, joking about your talent as an artiste. That must have been before I was born. I don’t think I ever saw it.”

  The wheelchair nicked boxes on its way through the maze.

  “Claire was reserving a space for the Democrats inside the exhibits building at the fair. She was huffy about it, complaining that last year they designated only one table, for Republicans. Claire warned that this year had better be different, with space allotted to all political parties. I pretended to sympathize.” She steered Mother to the bathroom. “Mother, if God sees all and
is just, I can’t understand why some are favored and some are forgiven, some are lucky and others are cursed. Dishonest men are spared. Yes, I’m talking about the commissioners. I suppose they’ll receive a fair verdict on judgment day, but in the meantime they’re depriving low-income women and children of essential services. It’s despicable.”

  Halfway down the dim hallway, she stopped short outside her old bedroom. Clothes covered the bed—sequined tee shirts and blue jeans, short skirts, and colorful blouses. Shoes and purses blocked the entrance. The room smelled like a hothouse overgrown with gardenias. Lee Ann had never dabbed scent behind an ear, sprayed her hair, or dusted with bath powder. As a teenager she’d tried lipstick, but at some point had read, Do not let your adornment be merely outward—arranging the hair, wearing gold, or putting on fine apparel—rather, let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the incorruptible beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very precious in the sight of God. 1 Peter 3:4. On the ranch she wore jeans, but always dressed in a skirt or pantsuit for work. A range of grays, tans, and dark blues filled her closet, no rainbows there. Bright colors conjured images of Indian powwows and native dances from south of the border. Swirling skirts and clicking heels accompanied by lively music aroused passion and excitement, emotions better kept under control. Donning a white blouse and gray suit brought things down to a calm level where the miracle of a mockingbird’s song, a woodpecker’s tap, and the hatching of a baby chick affirmed the glory of creation. In spring, pink apple blossoms burst open in the small orchard south of the house. All too soon their pastel beauty faded, their memory blotted out by the boisterous red and yellow red hot pokers Grace had given Mother thirty years ago. At the time, they’d formed a small clump by the porch steps. Now, they lined the entire front of the house, having multiplied to three feet deep. Although the garish, phallic flowers lived short lives and left a lush, green hedge that softened the chalk white stucco, as soon as Mother died, she’d have Scott dig them up.

  She carried the two cat carriers to the workshop and set out a bowl of dry food and water, emptied a box of work gloves, filled it with dirt and set it in the corner. For years they had kept only barn cats, their feral population controlled by coyotes and bobcats. She unhooked the cat carrier doors and Danielle’s two critters leapt to the floor, seeking shelter under the worktable. Eugene wouldn’t be happy with these tenants. She fumbled through his toolbox for a pencil, tore a sheet from the legal pad on the table saw, scrawled a warning and tacked it to the door: Cats inside. Enter quickly and shut the door.

  19

  THE WIND DIED AND AS daylight faded the dogs began their anxious barking at real or imagined threats lurking on the mesa. Walker sat in the willow chair on Mother’s porch, feet propped on the railing, smoking, and sipping whiskey on the rocks. Full darkness set in and the dogs shut up, scampering off to greet someone approaching from the workshop. Walker kept quiet as Lee Ann walked quickly to her house.

  He’d give Keith some time to enjoy Plank’s Plot, zero in and make the sale and haul ass out of here, cash in hand. Within a week every last one of them would be on his ass, teeth gnashing, CBs on, pistols loaded—Lyle, with deputies Jeremy and Lewis, Ralph Archuleta and a couple of officers from the state police, Owen, Danielle, and Eugene. You bet, Eugene. They’d call Ted Bowles at his law office in Socorro and check the legitimacy of the quitclaim deed, agree it was legal, and grumble about the stupidity (or senility) of the old man falling for the scam of a convicted criminal, a man Ross knew to be a con artist from the day he was born. They’d call Border Patrol, expecting him to head to Mexico, but he’d travel in the opposite direction, to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where he and Pat Merker had plans to meet in a town called Paradise.

  He lit another smoke and drank from the plastic cup that rolled around the floor of his pickup. Coming home after Mother went to bed and taking off in the morning before Grace arrived prevented getting trapped in matters of consideration—consideration of Mother’s routine, feelings, and needs. Truth was, she was just a shell of her former self and probably didn’t understand or give a damn about all the fuss over her wellbeing.

  The full, white moon inched over the mesa and traveled its path over the northeast end of the house, shining in Mother’s window. If she woke up, she’d be helpless, unable to call someone to close the curtain. Hell, in her shoes, he’d as soon give up food and water and be done with life in three short weeks. Poor Mother couldn’t even tell her Christ-loving daughter to quit saving the dying, quit being a martyr, leave a worthless old woman’s life alone, get on with her own.

  Black walnuts hit the roof. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. When Dad plucked that young tree from the forest and planted it out back, Mother had warned the nuts would become a problem—not a problem really, but something that might take getting used to. Dad had laughed, saying that’d be years away. When the nuts began to fall, they’d all grown used to the tree, welcomed its summer shade and by unanimous decision agreed to let it grow, although they half laughed, half grumbled about the concert every fall.

  He poured another drink, and another. An owl hooted from the cluster of cottonwoods by the creek. Small rodents scratched under the porch. Past midnight, light hit the trees and Danielle’s jeep slowed to a stop. He sat there until the last minute, and hop-skipped down the steps.

  “Lady deserves an escort to her new home,” he said, opening the car door. He sniffed for hints of sex on her, but liquor and cigarettes overpowered anything else. She wobbled against him and straightened.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sure you are,” he said, clutching her upper arm. “Now we’re going to tiptoe down the hall and tuck you into Lee Ann’s bed.”

  Her tee shirt was inside out, lipstick gone, liner smeared into dark smudges under her eyes. Her feet dragged across the floor, and she held onto the wall as they made their way down the dark hallway.

  He flipped on the light, shoved the pile of clothes to one side and turned down the covers. She dropped on the mattress like falling timber. He pulled off her boots and drew the quilt over her.

  “I hope you got somewhere with the old boy,” he said.

  “Oh, we got somewhere,” she said, as if in a trance.

  “I’m talking about the land, the good deal we’re going to offer him.”

  “He was interested in only one thing.” She smiled. “You men are all alike.”

  “Christ, Danielle. You got to remember our purpose here.”

  Her tongue moved in and out like a turtle’s, suggesting obscene, intimate acts and her eyelids closed over eyeballs rolling this way and that, dreaming about sex with a capital S. Her skin was pale, sort of the color of those piglets, and a spot of saliva collected in the corner of her mouth. Sober, she might hang onto their objective, steer every conversation with the vet toward the purchase of Plank’s Plot, but drunk she’d throw a fortune away for Keith’s prick inside her. She used to call Walker’s cock Little Man. His ears turned red. The schemes he concocted and his own internal dialogue were way more interesting than sweaty encounters with women. Flirting served to sharpen his skills. He could do without the heavy breathing and wet stuff.

  He checked the amount of cash in the cookie jar and carefully replaced the lid. The ceramic pig had sat beside the Folgers coffee can containing spatulas and wooden spoons as long as he could remember, hell, probably as long as Mother could remember, the glaze on its green bandana worn thin, only faint touches of pink still coloring the inner folds of his ears. Walker touched the pig’s snout. Stay right there, Tubby. Hold onto what’s inside you for a couple more days.

  20

  FRIDAY OCTOBER 5, 2007

  LEE ANN HEARD THE BATHTUB filling as she fed Mother breakfast, could not remember indulging in such luxury, did remember Harley’s fat hand squeezing her shoulder while asking her to change the second figure of the lowest bid on an electrical contract from a three to an eight. A slight swish of water sounded from the bathroom, a body lolling, not rising. What m
ust it be like, working at the motel—checking them in, checking them out, telling Carlinda which rooms to clean, showing up at nine, leaving at four, reading magazines on the job, suggesting points of interest to eager travelers, organizing the brochure rack and driving home without budget details, altered documents, and bothersome people to contend with, personnel who, like herself, would never quit.

  A copy of the Sunday Albuquerque Journal had been placed on her desk with an article circled in red. Her purse fell from her shoulder and still in her jacket, she sat down to read.

  Several rural New Mexico counties have hit a jackpot—at least temporarily—under a beefed-up federal program for those with large tracts of federal forest.

  The revenue stream known as County Payments swelled in 2007 as part of the $700 billion federal bailout program, with New Mexico’s share jumping from 2.3 million to 18.8 million.

  Forest payments in six counties increased as much as 1,000 percent, with about half going to county road projects and half to the school systems.

  Dax County, according to the Associated Press, received the highest per-capita payment in the nation. Its federal payment grew from $733,422 in the 2006 fiscal year to $6.4 million a year later. Critics say the changes, originally intended to help logging communities hurt by the Endangered Species Act and battles over the Spotted Owl, have transformed the program into an entitlement.

  Because four-fifths of Dax County acreage is federal or state trust land, economic development is greatly restricted.

  The funds will likely rekindle a century-old debate about what rural counties should expect from the federal government in exchange for hosting public lands.

  Her body bent toward the paper, fingers gripping her forearms. State reporters would likely show up at the courthouse within the next few days to ask just how Dax County planned to spend the windfall. The commissioners hadn’t shared the news. She pictured Harley, Ed, and Saul standing side by side, collars choking thick necks, arms limp, shirts stretched tight, buttons threatening to pop their holes. Three little pigs. A padded wall of resistance. To her face, pleasantries. Behind her back, disrespect.