Unlock the Truth (12 page)

Zeke opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind, took a sip of wine instead, then sat back in his chair and returned to brooding for a couple of minutes.

“Rocky was like a son to my mother,” he finally said, when it was evident that Dena would wait him out. “He was the person I could never be.”

“In what way?” Dena asked.

He liked the gentle coaxing tone of her voice. He’d missed having a woman around to share things with. Hadn’t realized until now how much he’d missed that female point of view. “I don’t like farming.”

He stretched his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair, knowing he left it sticking up at weird angles. He almost laughed at his comment. He’d sounded like a petulant schoolboy, and figured he might as well have hair to suit.

“Okay.” Dena said. “And that’s a problem because—”

“Because I feel trapped,” he said, and shifted his position. It was the truth. One part of him wanted to sell and get away from here forever; the other had found long-hidden things about the place that he loved.

“I never wanted to run this place. I wanted the city life.”

“And to be a lawyer?” she asked.

He nodded. Damn it. She was interrogating him again; those blue eyes of hers were wide, and cool, and all-knowing. She’d make a good lawyer. He shifted his position again and cleared his throat. What was it about her that made him want to spill his guts? He shrugged.

“You were right with what you said yesterday. I’ve acted like an ostrich. Even before the bodies were found. It was easier to go along with plans, not upset the status quo.”

“I figured as much. Your plan was to bide your time, until you could escape—”

“Or find a suspect.” He picked up his wine glass, and eyed her over the rim. “It seems you asked more than a few questions of Manny.” He took a quick swallow of wine, and gave her another long quizzical stare.

She held his gaze. “Not too many. And, for the record I don’t consider him a suspect. We chatted while I ate a sandwich. So, back to Rocky. It seems you need to stay on his good side. You’ll leave Three C’s eventually, and then let him manage the place, right?”

“Yes,” Zeke muttered.

Irma arrived and cleared the table. “You like dessert?”

Dena declined with a shake of her head, so did Zeke.

“Cake.” Irma said. “Is choc-oh-late.”

Dena smiled, and shook her head again. Zeke excused himself to Dena, and then spoke rapidly in Spanish to Irma.

“I be back, Monday.” Irma smiled at Dena, and then looked back to Zeke. “You be okay?”

“Yes. Have a nice Sunday,” he said, covering his surprise. Irma had spoken English to include Dena. Impressive!

Dena waited to speak, until Irma left the room. “So, back to what Rocky wants. Are you asking me to leave?”

“It’s for the best,” Zeke said, and pressed his lips tight.

“Do you want me to go now,
tonight
?”

“Whenever—”

“Fine!” Dena shot a dark glare of frustration his way.

He couldn’t blame her. He felt disgust at himself.

She put her napkin on the table. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning. I hate to drive at night.”

Zeke gave a curt nod. “I’ll ask Manny to sleep

over.” He didn’t dare make eye contact.

“Would you excuse me?” Dena asked. “I think I’ll go back to my room.”

“Ah, sure, good night.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure,” he said, and hoped it wasn’t going to be too deep of a question.

Dena balanced on the edge of the chair, but leaned her arms forward on the table. “Why did everyone focus on you as a murder suspect? You have a ton of men who come and go from Three C’s. It could have been anyone.”

“Hey.” He raised both hands again, his fighting spirit back. “They didn’t really focus on me. First off, it was only questions along the lines of who does come and go, who lives here, who I’d hired recently. Any strangers I’d noted—”

“I understand all of that, but what is it with Stanton? And were Manny and Rocky, and the farmhands, all investigated?”

“I believe so. And Stanton is…he’s just Stanton.”

“Did they take DNA samples from them?”

“No, I don’t think so. I offered. They found my telephone number in the first victim’s purse, remember?” He blew out a gust of air, shoved at the hair falling over his brow. He was in desperate need of a good haircut. Dena seemed to wait for him to regroup. Her face was still, her large blue eyes unwavering.

“I don’t know why the woman would have had it, and it’s an unlisted number. Of course Susie had had that number for years. She’d moved back to Rancho Almagro just before Mom died. Tried to get back together with me—”

“And?” Dena asked, and raised her brows.

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

He noticed the inquisitive stare and knew she wasn’t about to back down. Okay, he supposed he owed her more of an explanation.

“The place needed work, because things had started a slow decline. Not sure why. Money wasn’t coming in like it had before. Maybe Mom’s illness affected everyone, and they let the business slide.”

Dena narrowed her eyes. “Wait a minute. Go back to the money thing.”

“We weren’t generating the same sales as in the prior five years. That’s why I sold that portion of land to the developer.” He ruminated on that for a few moments. “Rocky was angry about it. But there were a lot of medical expenses toward the end—”

“So you never discussed it with him?”

Zeke shook his head. “Nope. I’d investigated. Put out some feelers and then lucked into the hotel deal. It was almost a done deal when I told him.”

“He resented that, I’m sure,” Dena said.

“Yes. I was embarrassed to have to sell. Land for Cabrera’s has always been a big deal. We started out in this country with nothing.” He gave a quick shrug. “My guess is my decision drove home the fact to Rocky that I was now the owner, and he was the employee.”

“Back to the money. Were funds missing?”

“Ah, I’m not sure. Some of the records are incomplete.”

“Who would normally handle those accounts?”

“Mom—”

“Even when she was ill?”

“Look, Mom never told anyone she was ill, until it was too late.” He blew out a long breath, glanced away. “I got the feeling the business was failing and she just…you know—”

“Died?” Dena asked, in an almost whisper.

Zeke nodded. There was a slight sound in the hallway. Manny came into view, stuck his head around the door.

“Goodnight Zeke, Dena. I’ll be out late.” He shot Zeke a quick grin, and an even quicker shrug.

“Be safe, okay?” Zeke said.

Seeing Manny all spiffed up, he was aware the young boy was growing into a young man. Unspoken words passed between them. He liked his role of big brother, but the last thing he’d do was nag him.

“Will we see you tomorrow, Manny?” Dena asked.

“Sure, I’ll be around. Have to take Mama to church.”

Dena smiled. “That’s sweet.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Manny grinned, and walked away.

Dena reached across the table, put her hand on Zeke’s, and rubbed her thumb back and forth. He didn’t draw away, enjoying and needing the comfort.

“Back to the conversation about your mother, if that was the case, sad as it is, it wasn’t your fault. How long did she have left after you came home?”

Did he want to re-open the topic? He ran a hand over his jaw, drew in a long breath
. Ah, hell.
“About a month,” he said. “But it had gone to the lung, she was on oxygen and—” He shook his head.

“Who told you of her illness?”

“The family doctor.”

“Why did he wait so long?”

“He didn’t know. One weekend, Irma got angry with Mom. It was about her weight loss and lack of appetite. She threatened to pick her up, put her in the car, and take her to the doctor.”

Dena leaned forward. “What happened? How come if Rocky worked so closely with her, he didn’t notice her decline?”

“I don’t know. The doctor came out to see Mom, at Irma’s request. They got her to the hospital, did all kinds of tests. She had terminal breast cancer.”

“I’m sorry, Zeke,” Dena said softly.

He swallowed hard at the tenderness in her voice. “She was going through the final stages of…you know, the change—”

“Menopause?”

“Yeah. She was only fifty-six when she died. From what I understand, everyone thought she was depressed.”

Dena tilted her head to one side. “A lot of women have emotional changes in menopause. But, did your mother have a depressive personality?”

Zeke thought back to his youth. “No, at least not when I was growing up. She was always a beautiful looking woman, young for her years, energetic. She’d become reclusive in the last few years of her life. Maybe she hated getting older.”

“Mothers are difficult to understand sometimes,” Dena said, and patted his hand.

He could see the wheels turning in Dena’s mind. Even in this short time of knowing her he understood how her inquisitive mind worked. He’d questioned himself, thinking his mother might have been running away from something, or someone. Was she guilt ridden and chose death over life? Was she being blackmailed? That could explain financial losses.

“Did your Mom have relationships after your father died?”

“Huh?” Zeke’s eyes shot wide open. “No, she wasn’t interested—”

“But she was so young. Not even a casual date?”

Zeke shook his head again.

“What about when she went to social events? I read she used to be very active in the community.”

“She’d go alone, or with Rocky, or women friends.”

“I’m so sorry, Zeke,” Dena said, and leaned forward. “I know this is painful for you to talk about, but sometimes it helps.”

She watched his face, but he couldn’t meet her gaze. He should have been more of a presence in his mother’s life.

“You can’t feel guilty, and blame yourself, for not knowing something your mother chose not to tell anyone,” she said softly.

He looked across the table, surprised at her words. Her face was set in a serious contemplative gaze.
Damn. She’s a mind reader.

He turned away and stared out the window into the darkness. Could he have known? He’d asked himself a million times why he hadn’t commented on his mother’s weight loss at her last birthday dinner. That was a comment a good son would have made, surely? He looked back at Dena.

“I really don’t want to talk about it anymore—”

“I know,” Dena said. “I do understand, and thanks for sharing this much. I’m going to go to my room—”

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, thank you. Good night.”

She stood, gave him a smile, then fled. Not that he could blame her.

Chapter Eight

Back in the guest room, Dena changed out of her long skirt and silk blouse, and slipped on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers. She grimaced at the pains she’d taken to look nice for Zeke. How much she’d looked forward to dining alone with him.

It was barely eight in the evening when she hurried across the back verandah, and she figured it would still be warm out. A walk would be fabulous. Her body needed the exercise, and her mind the peace and quiet. Almost at the pool, she stopped, looked around, and figured she’d explore the lake and focus on the dinner conversation while it was still fresh. Maybe she’d discover that clue she was convinced was buried in Zeke’s words.

She shivered in the cool night air, gripped both arms tight to her chest, ducked her head, and ran back to the hacienda and up the verandah steps. She almost collided with Zeke as he strode out the back door.

“Oh,” he said, and grabbed her arm to steady her. He released his grip, and stared in the direction of the stables, his mouth set in a stern line. “I’m taking José for a run…think over what Quimby said.”

“That’s nice.” She hesitated a moment, and then frowned. “Do horses like to go out when it’s dark?”

He looked down at her. “They see well at night.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that.” She shivered, and gripped her upper arms. “I’m going for a walk, but had to come back for a jacket. It’s freezing.”

“It’s the desert.”

She tried not to laugh, although she had to bite the inside of her cheek. He was no talker. It was obvious tonight’s emotional conversation had left him spent. He probably needed the physical release of a good hard ride as much as she needed to go for a run.

“See you later,” he said, and hurried down the steps. “Don’t go too far from the house—”

“Okay. Have a nice ride.”

She watched him stride away. He’d changed into jeans and boots. They suited him. All he needed was a cowboy hat. Why he hated the land, she had no idea. He fit the role of farmer, or cowboy, to perfection.

Dena hurried to her room, grabbed a hooded sweatshirt and slipped it on. About to leave, her cell phone rang. She could let it go to voice mail. She sighed, picked up the phone on the fourth ring, and checked the incoming number.

Ugh. Please, don’t let it be one of Mom’s arguments with Aunt Ruthie.

She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Hi Mom, what’s up?”

“Hi,” her mother said, and giggled. “Ruthie wants to talk to you.”

Ruth’s hoarse smoker’s voice came across the phone loud and clear. “Guess where we are?”

“I’ve no idea,” Dena said, still confused about her mother’s giggle. “How are you, Aunt Ruth?”

“Good. And so is your mother. I’m getting her better—”

“That’s nice. What are you ladies doing?” She kept her fingers crossed that Ruth wasn’t giving her mother alcohol. Her mother never giggled.

“We’re at the House of Blues. I’ll put your Mom back on.”

“What?” Dena frowned. “The House of—?”

“We wanted to go clubbing.”

Dena thought she sounded like a sulky teenager. “Well, that’s…um…good I suppose—”

“We’re having fun,” her mother said, and started to laugh. She hiccupped and laughed again.

“The crowd is a bit young, isn’t it?” Dena asked.

It was Saturday night. She used to be the rep for half of the black-leather crowd that frequented those places. But her mother was sixty-two. Aunt Ruth was sixty-five. They both chose platinum blond hair, and almost always dressed in beige or winter-white, their skinny legs and scrawny necks making them look like a couple of cranes.