in arm. She swallowed hard. She missed companionship.
Dena walked over and tossed her empty coffee cup in the trash bin. She’d just come from Old Town, but needed an icebreaker. “How far away is Old Town? And did that blonde woman say she owns a spa? I might get a massage.”
“I’ll write down the directions. Debbie Williams owns The Healing Spa. Rachel Copeland owns Cliffs. It’s a good place for dinner or a drink.”
“Thanks.” Dena indicated the stack of newspapers. “It’s a terrible thing about those murders, isn’t it?”
“Shocking. Things like that don’t usually happen in these parts. Least as how, they never used to.”
“Did the first victim come in here? Did you know her?”
The woman shook her head. “She wasn’t a local.”
“Do you think there’s a connection to that farm? I forget the farmer’s name, but I know he’d only just moved back here—”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Me? No, no way.” Dena laughed and looked around the café. A guy seated near the door gave her the “what’s up?” tilt of his chin. “I’m a visitor.”
“Zeke is getting a bum rap. I knew him in high school—”
“Oh, sorry for my comments, please…tell me about him.”
“He’s a successful lawyer and managed to escape this hell hole. Everyone lashes out, or looks at his return with suspicion.” She scribbled on a piece of paper. “Damn narrow-minded locals.”
“Small towns are all the same. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, sorry for my outburst, some of these people chafe my butt,” the woman said, and handed over the directions. “Have fun.”
“Thanks. Um, what about that property on the other side of the hotel? Who does that belong to?”
“West Coast Citrus,” the woman said. She walked over to a coffee urn 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