Red Hot Deadly Peppers (3 page)

Chapter Three

The restaurant was old, done in red velvet, with a red giant paisley carpet and chandeliers that looked to be made of gold-painted plastic, but it was cool inside and the server left a pitcher of iced tea on the table so that I could refill my glass as much as I wanted.

Nera asked for the corner booth, which was mostly private except for an elderly couple two tables over. Neither of us thought they’d have any interest in whatever we were going to talk about, though Nera did eye them a couple times just to see if their ears were perked. They weren’t.

Along with the iced tea, Nera ordered some stuffed mushrooms and onion rings. One of the things I’d looked forward to when I heard I was going to Arizona was some authentic southwestern cuisine. So far I’d only tried a couple mild peppers and drooled at a table of tamales in the trading post; the other few meals I’d eaten were reminiscent of what I dined on at home in South Carolina.

“I’m so sorry, Becca,” Nera said as she refilled my tea glass for me. “Mostly, I’m sorry about my dramatic behavior, but I’m sorry that you had to find Graham . . . the way you found him. I don’t know what happened, but I’m afraid we’re not measuring up to the hosts I thought we’d be.”

Nera’s fear or concern or panic or whatever it had been that I’d seen at the trading post had mellowed. I could tell she was still bothered, but she was trying hard to hide it. And I could tell that she was having second thoughts about talking to me. The time and distance from the horrible event had caused her to second-guess her decision that I might be a good person to talk to. I tried to paste a trustworthy look on my face.

“It’s okay, Nera. It sounds like things have been kind of crazy around here for some time.” She nodded. “You okay?”

“Sure, sure.” She waved away my concern. “Again, I’m sorry for my dramatic behavior. I’m afraid I’m overreacting to everything. Graham’s death was . . . shocking, of course, but . . .”

I sipped my tea and glanced at her over the rim of the glass. I had no idea how to squint in a trustworthy way, but I did my best.

“But I suppose things like this happen,” she continued.

I set my glass on the table. “Nera, I’m sorry for all you’re going through. Harry mentioned your uncle. Do you think something is going on, maybe something illegal and dangerous?” I said.

Nera’s eyes opened wide a moment but then relaxed. “See, there’s something about you, Becca from South Carolina, that makes you seem like a friend. Even Harry saw it.”

“I’m honored, really. I’m an outsider, so maybe I can offer another pair of eyes, another opinion. And I really am trustworthy, that is, unless a family member might be accused of some horrible act or crime. Then I think I’m pretty willing to lie and hide the evidence.” I smiled. I had a feeling Nera was the same way.

“Exactly.” Nera smiled, too.

“What’s going on? Or, what do you think is going on?” I said.

Nera sighed. “I don’t know exactly, but things seem . . . fishy.”

“Like what?”

“Well, Harry was right; it started with my uncle.”

“He was killed?”

Nera sighed again. “
I
think so, but there’s no way to prove it. Not now. If Graham’s death turns out to be suspicious, I’ll feel pretty certain about Jimmy. I was checking Graham’s car when you saw me in the parking lot, but I didn’t find anything that would help me understand why he suddenly died. I was being sneaky because of course the police wouldn’t want me snooping.” She paused in a way that told me she was about to say something really important. I sat up straighter. “Graham was my cousin, my uncle Jimmy’s son. They were the last of my family.”

I blinked. That was very big news, and probably what Harry had been keeping from me. “I’m so, so sorry,” I said. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Graham and Nera were related. I thought back to when she’d introduced us again, and I was positive she hadn’t mentioned that they were family.

“Thank you,” she said. “I feel terrible about what I said about him this morning. He wasn’t a horrible person, just . . . well, sometimes he took advantage of customers and charged more than he should have for his jewelry. He was good with jewelry, very good, but when an unsuspecting customer came in looking specifically for him, he knew that someone had told them about him. He knew he could get away with . . . well, I called it ripping people off. I doubt you had the time to even notice, but he didn’t have prices on anything. Everything was ‘quoted.’”

“I didn’t notice.” In fact, I hadn’t noticed much of anything at all. I’d been overwhelmed by so many things when Nera had first walked me around the trading post. I hadn’t been in Arizona nearly long enough to form much of an impression about anything except the heat. “Do you think your uncle was killed and maybe Graham, too, because of Graham’s dishonest business dealings?”

“I have no idea, but I have to wonder.”

I did, too. “Anyone in particular express anger at Graham?” I asked.

“No one that I know of. Harry’s trying to look more closely, though.”

I thought about the way the boys had acted regarding Graham, but decided if I told anyone about it, it wouldn’t be Nera. She might read more into it than was really there.

Nera continued. “He thinks it’s possible that someone else at the trading post was angry at Graham, jealous of his ability.”

“Another jewelry artist?”

Nera shrugged again. “Maybe.”

But the way she said the word suggested there was more to her “maybe” than doubt.

“Nera?”

She looked away. Her hair, skin, and eyes were so perfectly dark that I was startled by the abrupt transformation in her features. She suddenly looked older, and somehow pale.

“Nera?” I said again.

She turned to her side and rummaged in the bag that was on the seat next to her.

She pulled out what looked like a folded postcard and held it in her hand. “I haven’t shown this to the police, but I did show it to Harry a couple weeks ago.” She handed it to me.

It
was
a postcard, one with a picture of the trading post on the front and “Welcome to Chief Buffalo’s” written across the top. I turned the card over.

The handwriting was obvious and blocky, as if someone had purposefully put squared corners on the letters to hide their own handwriting. The card was addressed to Nera, listing what I assumed was her home address under her name. Next to that was the message. It said:
The sins of the son will be executed upon the father first.

“It’s a twist on a biblical reference, I suppose,” I said.

“Yes, but do you see how it might apply?”

I thought about it. “So, Graham’s sins will be ‘executed’ upon his father. First?”

Nera nodded but still looked distraught.

I looked at the postcard again. “I see what you’re saying, but I’m not sure.”

“How could it not mean . . . well, not mean that whoever sent this was planning to kill Jimmy and Graham?”

“It’s possible. Why haven’t you shown it to the police?” I asked.

“I got it before Uncle Jimmy was killed . . . died. Honestly, I didn’t put it all together. I thought it was an odd thing to get in the mail, but I put it in my stack of bills and forgot all about it. It wasn’t until a couple weeks after Jimmy died that I even remembered it. When I found it again and started connecting the dots, I thought maybe I was connecting dots that weren’t actually there. I showed it to Harry, and he said he’d look into Jimmy’s death more, but neither of us was worried about Graham. We should have been.” Nera’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. “I didn’t forget about it again, but I had pushed it to the back of my mind and the bottom of my bag. And then today, with Graham, the postcard was the first thing that I thought about. I should have done something with it other than keep it to myself and show Harry. I know that now.”

“You need to give it to the police right away,” I said. I forced myself to keep any sort of chastisement out of my voice. I’d been known to delay sharing information with the police a time or two. Those who live in glass houses and all.

“Any evidence on it is probably long gone. Fingerprints, whatever.”

“Sure. Probably. But still, I think they need to have it.”

“Becca, I don’t know if the police are honest. It’s tricky with the reservation law enforcement and the state police. I don’t think the state police care, and though I think the reservation police cared about Jimmy, I’m beginning to wonder about . . . about so many things. I’m having a hard time figuring out who to trust, except Harry. I trust him, but I just don’t know about anyone else.”

I thought about that, and I couldn’t imagine not trusting Sam or any other officer in Monson. I knew Sam was smart and honest, and even if some of the others weren’t as bright, I knew they were as trustworthy. Or at least I hoped.

“I’ll help in any way I can, Nera. What should we do?”

“Will you come with me to Jimmy and Graham’s house? It’s mine now, technically. In fact, it was my family’s. Jimmy and Graham were living there, but I have every right to go inside it. I don’t think it’s dangerous, or I wouldn’t ask you to come along. But I do think . . . I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think it might be dangerous if I go by myself or with Harry. If you’re with me, we’ll be safe, I have no doubt. I’ll ask Harry to meet us there, too. Three of us will be fine for sure.”

I couldn’t imagine asking someone I’d only just met to do what she’d just asked me to do. But as I looked at her desperate eyes, I knew she’d been left with no other choice. I was suddenly a convenient sidekick. I was there in front of her, but I didn’t live in her community. If Jimmy and Graham had been killed, it was over something I had absolutely no involvement in. If they’d been killed, it’d been by someone who probably didn’t even know I existed.

The list of people, of friends and family, who would be angry at me for what I was about to say was long and had become even more complicated as of late, but just as Nera had done with the postcard, I pushed them to the very back of my mind.

“Sure. Of course. Let’s go,” I said.

Nera smiled. “Thank you, Becca. Thank you.”

Chapter Four

Nera drove an almost new—anything less than five years from the assembly line was brand spanking new to me—GMC four-wheel SUV. It had a great air conditioner that she turned up as we headed down the road. She called Harry, who told us he’d meet us at the house.

As we drove deeper into the reservation, the Arizona landscape surprised me even more than it had before. Even with more penetrating glances and even though I’d seen proof that there was color in the desert, there wasn’t as much on this stretch of land. I could see only a few scattered specks amid the bland grays of the rocky, sandy topography.

I know, it’s kind of depressing, isn’t it?” Nera said as she echoed my thoughts.

I made a noncommittal noise.

Nera laughed. “It’s okay. Surprisingly, those who still live on reservation land enjoy it. We’re all still close enough together and close enough to employment opportunities to live good lives. Some reservations aren’t as fortunate. I won’t go into the history of how Native Americans were gifted with less-than-desirable land. As I’m sure you know, the history is long and not pretty, but life does go on and opportunities are available. I don’t forget the history, mind you; I just choose not to dwell on it.”

“I understand.”

Nera swung the truck onto a well-traveled dirt road, and we drove toward a small cluster of modest homes. I counted seven houses, all built close together yet surrounded by so much open space, I wondered why they weren’t spread out a little more.

“Water,” Nera said.

“Excuse me?”

“The houses are close together so they can have access to one well.” Nera answered the question in my mind.

“That makes sense.”

“This is it,” Nera said. “This is the house I was born in. I have good memories. My parents both died a number of years ago, but this was home until after high school. There were a lot of kids around. We had a great time. I’m happy to live where I do now, but this place is still close to my heart.”

It was a cute house even if it looked like it could use a fresh coat of paint. There wasn’t much of a yard, but the desert was well groomed and potted cacti framed the tan front door.

As Nera parked the truck, the door of the neighboring house opened a crack at first and then more widely.

“No one here will know about Graham,” Nera said before she hurried out of the truck. She walked toward the open door.

I sat still for a minute. What if Graham had been murdered? No matter that Nera was the “official” owner of the house, we probably shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t something I’d just realized, but it had become more important when Nera mentioned that the neighbors wouldn’t know about Graham yet. I turned and peered out the back window of the truck, looking for another vehicle coming up the road, one that might carry Harry. I saw a number of cars zip by on the distant highway, but none of them turned. I pulled Harry’s card out of my pocket and quickly punched his number into my cell phone. Nothing happened. I pulled the phone away from my ear and glanced at the screen. No bars, no roaming symbol. There wasn’t a signal to be had.

Nera was talking to an old woman in a flowered housedress. They seemed to be having a friendly conversation, infused with smiles and laughter. I suspected she wasn’t sharing the news about Graham. After they hugged and the old woman closed her door, Nera beckoned me over and then went to Graham’s front door.

I’d gotten to this point based upon my own decisions, and though I wished for Harry’s or a cell phone signal’s presence, I still felt confident in my earlier inclination that Nera wasn’t dangerous and that she just needed my help. I hopped out of the truck.

Nera used a key to unlock the front door. She pushed it open and reached to the side wall for a switch. Even though the sun was bright (and really hot, just in case I haven’t mentioned that before), the inside of the house was like a dark cave until the switch was flipped. I glanced quickly at the outside of the front window, confirming that curtains had been drawn to shut out probably both the light and the heat. Nera’s switch flip didn’t make the space more welcoming, just less dark.

And the light did nothing to mitigate the stench that wafted out from the house a few beats later.

“Whoa,” both Nera and I said as we stepped back and covered our noses with our hands.

“What the hell?” Nera said.

“It’s something . . . rotten, sour maybe,” I offered.

“Almost like sour milk,” Nera said. “But not really.”

The myriad images of stinky things that went through my mind were less disturbing than the thought that something, a person or another creature, was dead and rotting in the house. Something told me that wasn’t what we were facing.

Nera looked toward the busy highway as I had done only a few minutes earlier. “I wish Harry would get here.”

“Me, too.”

As if the smell hadn’t been bothersome enough, a noise suddenly came from inside the house: the sounds of crashing, breaking glass, followed by the rustle of someone or something rushing closer and closer to where we were standing.

In tandem, Nera and I each took another big step backwards.