Unlock the Truth (11 page)

“Mr. Cabrera he die when Zeke is—” Irma lowered one hand to the approximate height of what Dena figured was a six- or seven-year-old.

“Why was Zeke living in L.A.?” Dena asked.

“Law school, then the big snobby firm where he was a junior partner,” Manny said, and rolled his eyes. “Crazy…all those books…all that study—”

“Yes, it’s a hard profession,” Dena said. He hadn’t mentioned law school, and she’d imagined him at Harvard, not an L.A. school. “How long was Zeke away? I mean, did he ever live here as a young man?”

Manny shook his head. “Not much. Vacations. He went to Cal Poly Pomona for his undergrad.” He laughed. “Isabella made him get a Bachelor of Science in Fruit Industries. I don’t think they even have that program anymore. Then he got an M.A. in—”

“Manny!” Irma said, and then followed with a couple of heated sentences in Spanish.

“Sorry,” Manny said. “Mama thinks I’m a gossip.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Dena flashed an apologetic glace Irma’s way. “All I meant was…if Zeke wasn’t here, who managed the farming business?”

“Isabella.” Manny took another swig of soda. “And Rocky. He’s worked here since he was like my age, or younger, and—”

“He is good worker. He knows more about farming than Zeke,” Irma said. “Good farmer.” She looked behind her down the long hall. “Maybe is not right. To talk about family—”

Dena felt the friction, or was it loyalty? She appraised the kitchen. “Did they build this house? It’s gorgeous.”

Irma smiled, relaxed her stiff shoulders. “Yes. When they come here is nothing—” she waved her arms “—only desert. No haciendas. They build, and they plant together. Is beautiful, no?”

Dena nodded. “I love this kitchen,” she said, and turned to appraise it fully. “It’s so spacious. And I love the black wrought iron treatments.”

Irma went back to the sink with a smile, and Dena turned to Manny. “And they all lived here?” she asked softly.

Manny shook his head. “There’s an old ranch house, much smaller, out near the lake. The grandfather and his older brother lived there. It’s abandoned now, they died years ago. One day Zeke will have it pulled down.”

“Oh. I’d love to see it.”

“Well, you’d have to ask Rocky. He has the key. He keeps it locked, otherwise vagrants could get in there, next thing they’d be homesteading, is what he says. Rocky likes—”

“You finish, no?” Irma asked, and bustled across the room.

“Yes, thank you,” Dena made a quick mental note to include the ranch house on her trip to check out the horse trail to old Cyril’s place. “It was delicious.”

Irma shot a dark warning at Manny and then carried the plate to the sink. Manny averted his eyes. He turned his soda can around and around, as if reading the ingredients.

“Manny,” Dena said, and kept her voice soft. “Do the local Latinos not like Zeke? Are they, suspicious, or something?”

“Well, it’s—” he said, and lowered his voice. He shot a quick look in his mother’s direction. “—superstition, the farmhands are simple folk, not well-educated. They get scared easily. They think the land is evil.”

So that’s it. They’re afraid to come on the land.

“Tell me a bit about the competition down here. Are there other big farms? And do they compete for business?”

“Maybe they do.”

“Would anyone try to undermine Zeke’s business?’

“I don’t think so,” Manny said. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone. It would be a huge risk.”

Irma turned around. Her eyes roamed over the table, met Dena’s for a split second, and she returned to whatever she was doing with the vegetables.

“What about West Coast Citrus?” Dena asked, her voice almost a whisper. “Are there any problems there?”

Manny made a face. “The old guy, Cyril, he goes to our church. He says things that are, well, not things you could sue someone for, but—”

“Suggestive, sowing seeds of doubt? Implying guilt?” Dena asked. Manny didn’t look away.

“Yeah, he’s a mean old bastard.”

“Thanks. I want to help Zeke but I have to get a good feel for all of the players in the community.”

“Yeah, small towns—” Manny crushed his empty soda can in one hand.

Dena stood. “I should go and unpack. It was nice to meet you, Manny. I’ll let you know what Zeke thinks about my plan.”

“Thanks,” he said, and his face brightened. “I hope he agrees with it. I’ll stay here for a few days, help Rocky with the grapefruit.”

“Wait,” Irma said. She turned to Manny, and said something in Spanish.

Dena knew it was a discussion about her. She’d picked up on a few words. Irma didn’t sound angry.

“Mama says dinner is at seven, in the dining room.” Manny grinned. “Do you like chicken? Are you allergic to anything?”

“No known allergies,” Dena said. “And I love chicken.”

Manny repeated what she’d said to Irma, in Spanish. He turned, winked. “Mama says it’s just you and Zeke. So dress nice. Not that you don’t already, but you know.”

Dena laughed. “Thanks.”

That pleased her, dinner with Zeke, just the two of them. She had more questions for Manny, but with the plan she’d begun to formulate, she’d get to ask them soon. She’d have answers to many of the questions she had about the Cabrera family, and the staff that worked for them.

Chapter Seven

Later that evening, Dena stood for a moment in the doorway to the living room and masked her disappointment. She wouldn’t have Zeke all to herself. Manny had been mistaken. Rocky and Zeke were seated in mahogany leather chairs, facing each other, each with a cocktail glass in hand and engaged in hushed conversation.

With only an initial glance, she could see everything in the room had a dark hue and a richness of fabric or texture that spoke of old world charm and money. There was a definite Spanish influence in the carved woodwork on the tables and armoire. Wall sconces cast amber shadows on the walls and a fire burned softly in the huge stone fireplace. A crystal vase full of peach-colored roses and long stems of Spanish lavender stood on a side table, their sweet soft perfume contrasting the masculine space.

Zeke saw her and stood.

“Hello,” she said. Both men wore serious expressions, and she sensed she’d been the topic of conversation. She forced a smile.

“Would you care for a drink?” Zeke asked, and moved toward her.

“Evening,” Rocky said, easing out of the chair.

“No, thank you.” Dena nodded hello to Rocky. Both men had cleaned up nicely and wore slacks and dress shirts. Rocky had even put on a tie. Zeke’s crisp white shirt was open at the throat; she noticed the triangle of smooth, lightly suntanned skin and looked away. “Are you feeling better, Zeke?”

“Yes.” He gave her a fleeting smile. “If you’re not having a cocktail, perhaps we should go into the dining room—”

He touched her elbow and a tiny thrill of energy shot up her arm. Warmth flowed from his hand through the sleeve of her silk blouse, but he withdrew it far too quickly. The dining table was elegantly set and Zeke moved her chair in after she sat. He seated himself at the head of the table. Instrumental music played softly, and she glanced toward the sound. Wall speakers were set high, almost invisible.

Rocky sat opposite her, swirling the liquid in his cocktail glass and peering into it as if it held all of the answers to his gloomy disposition.

Irma came in, served everyone and left. There was an awkward silence as they ate. Several times Dena tried for conversation but it fizzled out. She raised her glass of wine, took a sip, determined to ferret out the tension.

She smiled at Rocky. “I met Manny today. He’s a nice young man. He said he sometimes lives here when he’s working on the land. Do you often do the same, Rocky?”

He shook his head and made a production out of chewing.

“Do you live in La Quinta?”

He sliced into his chicken. “Indio.”

“Where does Irma live?”

“Indio.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she said. “Are you neighbors?”

“No.”

Dena cut off a small piece of chicken and chewed it slowly. She’d figured when she’d come to Zeke’s aid this morning, Rocky had warmed to her. She couldn’t figure out his sullen mood tonight. What a changeable personality.

Zeke was off in some unknown land. He’d barely uttered two sentences and didn’t seem to have much of an appetite. Dena did the best she could not to insult Irma’s cooking, because under other circumstances she would have licked the plate clean. She took another bite, and moved food around like a kid being forced to eat liver. She couldn’t wait to escape to her room; there was no television in there, but she didn’t care. Maybe she’d read, or go for a walk.

Annoyed with herself for giving in to a minor irritation, she straightened and squared her shoulders.

“I get the feeling that something is wrong. Something that affects me or perhaps that I caused. Am I right?”

Rocky kept his eyes on his plate and made short work of his food. Dena was convinced he was about to bolt.

“Rocky isn’t happy about your intention to live here at the house,” Zeke said, and took another sip of wine.

“Why?”

“Well, us being strangers, and of different gender,” he said, and a flush of what she thought was embarrassment darkened his cheekbones. “Irma goes home at nine each night, and she has Sunday off.” He stared down at the table. “Today is Saturday.”

This was unbelievable. “Don’t you ever have house guests?”

Zeke shook his head. “Not since Mom was alive.”

“Yeah, but still,” she said, then scoffed. “We’re not kids. We’re both in our thirties, for heaven’s sake, and—”

“It’s wrong.” Rocky put his silverware on his plate and pushed the plate away. He stood, rested a hand on the back of the chair. “It isn’t right. People will talk.” He made eye contact. “Besides, it isn’t safe here. For you.”

Was that a threat, or concern? “But you seemed to go along with everything earlier,” Dena said, and held his dark stare. She almost shivered but refused to back down. “What happened?”

“I thought it might be true, about the girlfriend thing. Zeke told me you explained to Quimby it was a lie. They all know now—”

“Big deal,” Dena said. “I don’t see why staying here would be a problem. I’m going to work with Zeke.”

“You
were
going to work with Zeke,” Rocky said, his voice cool, his face expressionless. “There’s too much at stake. You being a spin doctor, you should understand—”

“I do. But I also know something else is going on in this town. Something unsavory—”

“This is about the welfare of Three C’s, not some—” Rocky raised his voice, while one hand flapped about “—Los Angeles celebrity event.”

Dena frowned. “I still intend to work with Zeke. And if this—me staying here—doesn’t bother him, why should it bother you?”

Rocky worked his lower jaw but remained silent.

“We are going to talk before Dena goes home, Rocky,” Zeke said, apologetically. “It could help.”

Rocky stared at Zeke. Should she have included him in the earlier conversations? Paved the way, perhaps? He couldn’t be upset about her sleeping in the same house as Zeke, could he? She sensed he didn’t like her and didn’t want her anywhere near Three C’s, but this couldn’t be the reason for his sudden display of anger.

“Well, you’re the boss.” Rocky held his arms rigidly at his sides. “You’re the
farmer.
”

Dena eased back a little in her chair. Rocky’s anger was now directed at Zeke, she’d heard the deliberate taunt. Zeke had two bright red spots on his cheeks, but he didn’t respond.

“Goodnight,” Rocky said, pushed the chair in a little further, and strode out of the room.

Dena kept her eyes on her plate for a few seconds, as she listened to the click of his cowboy boots on the tile floor of the long hall. How could she have thought that angry, self-righteous man was handsome? Rocky’s face had been dark with anger, and she’d certainly seen another side to him tonight. His truck started up. She turned toward the window when the headlights flashed a beam of light toward the dining room, then he drove away.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, taking a quick glance at Zeke. “I didn’t mean to upset him, or you.” She gave a little shake of her head. This was the oddest thing. She couldn’t believe it. These two men acted like she was a young innocent. “Why on earth would he—?”

“Religion.” Zeke blew out a huge breath, and then shoved a hand through his hair. “It’s his moral code. He’s very strict about such things.”

“He’s Catholic, right?

Zeke nodded.

“I understand. So is my family. I’m not very religious myself…at least I’m not into organized religion. Not anymore.” She grimaced. Maybe that was too much information to share. “But anyway, this is your home. How can you let him dictate to you like that?”

****

The flicker of a dozen different emotions crossed Zeke’s face. How un-Christian of Rocky to behave as he had done. “Surely you’ve entertained women here, and—”

“Dena, stop.” Zeke raised both hands, palms facing her. “You forget two women died on my land, and in a horrible way. I’m single. I’m the stranger in town.”

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, resting one elbow on the table, gripping his forehead between thumb and fingers. Sympathy rose in Dena’s chest and she wanted to hold him, comfort him.

Moments later, he looked up. “Apart from one year when I lived here after college, I’ve been absent since I was eighteen.”

“I know. Manny told me that,” Dena said.

“Oh?”

She shifted in her chair. “I asked him a few questions. But listen, Rocky can’t tell you how to run your life, he’s your foreman. And just because you’re the stranger in—”

“It’s a matter of loyalty. He’s worked here for twenty years, ever since he dropped out of high school at sixteen.” Zeke took a deep breath, and then blew it out. “He helped my mother. I owe him.”

Dena took a sip of wine. “You owe him friendship, perhaps, and maybe a good salary. But you can’t let him run your personal life. You’re the owner. His boss—”

“There are things you don’t know, can’t understand.”

“So try me.”