“Interesting.”
“I thought so. I’m working on the hows and whys. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to get ahold of our missing wife’s sister to no avail, but I did get ahold of her brother in Santa Fe.”
“Ah, hence the near negligent homicide to get me back to town.”
“Exactly. I take it you survived?”
“As always.”
“Her brother’s name is Luther Dean.”
“I remember. Big, strong name.” It made me conjure a white supremacist. Or a sausage.
“Yeah, he sounded big and strong over the phone.”
“Wonderful.” This could be interesting. “Did he give you any info on the case?”
“Nope. Won’t talk to me.”
Uh-oh. “Will he talk to me?”
“Nope.”
“So, I’m going to see him because?”
“You’re a charmer. If anyone can get him to talk, it’s you.”
“Aw, thanks. And I repeat, if I die, I’m coming back to haunt you.”
She thought about that a moment. “You do have a tendency to almost get murdered in the most unlikely places.”
She was right. I did. I’d considered therapy, but the never-ending search for mental stability would cut into my couch potato time. That couch was not going to sprout roots itself.
“Wait,” she said, excited. “You don’t have to worry. He’s a contractor. You’re going to a construction site. Getting killed at a construction site with all those tools and equipment about is very likely, so surely nothing will happen.”
“Oh, good thinking.” She was so smart. “What’s the address?” I wrote down the address amidst honking horns and a couple of flying birds, then said, “And get me the name of the woman who pressed charges against the good doctor in college. I’d love to hear that one.”
“You got it, boss. So, everything’s okay, right?”
“Absolutely. The minute my knees stop shaking from being in the presence of God Reyes, I’ll be fine.”
“Man,” she said, her tone more nasally than usual, “I want a god. Just one. I’m not selfish.”
“Well, if mine kills me, he’s all yours.”
“You’re so sweet.” I could hear her nails clicking on the keyboard in the background.
“What are bestest friends for?”
“Oh, and that Mistress Marigold keeps emailing. She’s practically begging you to email her back.”
I pulled up to a stop sign and watched as a group of Deaf kids shuffled past, all of them laughing at a story one of the boys was telling. Something about a hearing counselor jumping on his desk to get away from a Chihuahua.
“It’s a good thing you set up that fake email address,” I said, chuckling at the boy’s story. “She’s a nut.”
Mistress Marigold hosted a website on angels and demons. I’d been doing research on it one night when Reyes was being tortured by the latter and I was trying to learn more about them. On a page buried deep within the site, I’d come across a peculiar line that read, If you’re the grim reaper, please contact me immediately.
It was so strange and we were so curious, Cookie emailed her the next day, asking what she wanted with the grim reaper. She’d written back with That’s between me and the grim reaper. Which, naturally, sent Cookie on a mission. She had Garrett email her saying he was the grim reaper, and Mistress Marigold had written back; this time she said, If you’re the grim reaper, I’m the son of Satan. It was enough to stun me a good thirty seconds. How did she know about Reyes? It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Next, Cookie had set up an alternate email address for me to use. So, in the interest of all things scientific and creepy, I emailed her, again asking what she wanted with the grim reaper. I’d fully expected another brush off. Instead, she wrote back with, I’ve been waiting a long time to hear from you.
I figured she was either clairvoyant or just a really good guesser. Either way, I decided to leave well enough alone.
“I think you should email her back,” Cookie said. “I feel sorry for her now. She seems a little desperate.”
“Really? What’d she say?”
“‘I’m a little desperate.’”
“Oh. Well, I don’t have time to play games at the moment. Speaking of which, we should play Scrabble tonight.”
“I’m not going to play games with you all night so you won’t fall asleep.”
“Chicken.”
“I’m not chicken.”
“Bock, bock.”
“Charley—”
“Bk, bk, bk—”
“Charley, really—”
“Bk-kaw!”
“I’m not scared you’ll beat me at Scrabble. I just want you to get some shut-eye.”
“Keep telling yourself that, chiquita.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the construction site of a sparkling new shopping center on the eastern outskirts of the city. Santa Fe was growing and had the traffic congestion to prove it. But it was still a pretty town, the only one in the country with a city ordinance requiring that all construction adhere to a Spanish Territorial or Pueblo style of architecture. As a result, the City Different was simply that, different, stunning, and one of my favorite places on earth.
I stepped out of Misery to examine the half-finished shopping center. It had adobe walls with terra-cotta tile and thick wooden archways.
“Can I help you?”
I looked over as a kid carrying a two-by-four walked past, unadulterated interest glistening in his eyes. Damn Danger and Will’s perky disposition. “Absolutely, I’m looking for Luther Dean.”
“Oh, sure.” He scanned the area, then pointed through the openings that would one day have glass panes. A man stood inside. “The duke’s in there.”
“The duke?” Impressive title. And the owner of it was impressive as well. He looked part professional football player and part brick wall with crisp sable hair peeking out from underneath his hard hat. “Can I go in?”
“Not without one of these.” He knocked on his hard hat while dropping his load, then jogged over to the portable office that sported a DEAN CONSTRUCTION sign. After rummaging through a plastic bin, he hurried back with a bright yellow hard hat. “Now you can,” he said, handing it over, a boyish grin flashing across his face.