and pulled out the filter.
“That’s Cyril Johnston’s place, right?”
“He’s a big name in town. City council. Thinks he owns the whole Coachella Valley. Don’t stir up trouble. You’re obviously a reporter, so don’t quote me—”
“I’m not.” She shook her head. “You have no worries there. Thanks.”
Dena hurried outside and got into her car. In the rearview mirror, she saw the young man who’d been sitting inside come out. He lit up a cigarette. As she drove past he spoke on a cell phone. She pushed away the thought that he had read her license plate to someone.
She admired the Spanish architecture and gardens and the open-air shopping mall as she drove through Old Town, trying to figure out her next move. She had to find other people to question. Thinking again of how she might access that land, she noticed a hardware store on the opposite corner. A glimmer of an idea took shape.
Inside the store, she approached the cash register. “Hi, I’d like a wire cutter.”
The salesman—really a sales boy, all shiny-faced and spiked hair—pointed to an aisle. “Let me know if you need help.”
“Well, ah…maybe a length of rope.” She pointed to a coil. “I’ll take twenty feet of that one, and a large flashlight.”
“Aisle five,” he said.
She grabbed a flashlight and batteries, and decided not to quiz him about Carli. The way he watched her made her feel guilty. He wound the length of rope slowly and stood behind the cash register.
“Thanks.” Dena handed him cash.
Warmth rose in her cheeks, and she slipped her sunglasses back on. Would the cash raise suspicion and make her look guilty of foul play, or at least the intention of foul play? The young man watched her closely as she left. Darn. Had she topped off his suspicion with her dark glasses?
She hurried outside, and scoffed as she tossed the package onto the back seat of the car. There’s nothing to worry about, people buy hardware supplies every day of the week. And with that thought, she headed for the hotel, brimming with confidence.
****
Dena battled through the haze of resistance and jabbed at the alarm. Nine p.m. She could sleep until morning. After a hot shower to help her wake up, she ordered room service, pulled on jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers. When the young Latino man arrived with her dinner tray, she moved the Desert Sun newspaper off the table.
“Terrible, isn’t it?” she asked, and pointed to the headlines. “Did you know either of the women?”
The man set the tray on the table and pulled out a chair. “No, ma’am. But they haven’t identified the second woman.”
“It’s so sad.” She put the paper on the spare chair.
“I frequent the nightspots,” he said and set the table. “It’s a small town. Newcomers stick out, never knew the first woman.”
“The article said she lived in Palm Springs. That’s like forty-five minutes away, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but casinos and concerts attract the singles to the East Valley.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Strange that the women were buried on farmland, when there are hundreds of miles of open desert.” Dena reached into her purse and withdrew a few dollars tip.
“Thank you.” He pocketed the cash. “Are you a reporter?”
Darn. “No. Guess I’ve read one too many murder mysteries.” She pointed to the thriller she’d left on the coffee table.
He nodded. “I suppose there must be a connection—”
“Locals seem to think so. They’ve blackballed Cabrera’s farming business.”
He laughed. “A lot of Latinos contract with the farmers in Rancho Almagro. We’re a superstitious breed. Some of the older folks thought Isabella was loco.” He touched twice at the side of his forehead with two fingers.
“Who?”
“Mrs. Cabrera.”
“Oh.” Zeke’s mother? What a piece of luck. She had to quash her excitement. “Why did they think that?”
“She moved into Posada del Gato Negro—”
“The Inn of the Black Cat?” Dena asked, savoring the words. A shiver of something, she wasn’t sure what, licked up her spine. “Where is that?”
“It’s not a real Inn. A casita out at Three C’s. She and a bunch of black cats moved in a couple of years before she died…sad that. Most Latinos think black cats are a bad sign.”
“Only when they cross your path,” Dena said, and smiled. “Tell me about Isabella.”
“Don’t know much. A nice lady, an artist, but she kept to herself. The Inn was her studio. Anything else I can get for you, ma’am?” he asked, and walked across the room and rested a hand on the doorknob.
“No,