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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, thanks. Have a good night.”
    Everyone knew everyone in this community. Better not to be too inquisitive. But she’d have to find a way to not only enter the restricted area, but to get back on Zeke’s property and visit Posada del Gato Negro.
    It was almost midnight when Dena grabbed the bag of supplies and a hooded black sweatshirt and headed for her car. Fifteen minutes later she drove past Zeke’s estate. The gates were closed.
    “Lock yourself up. Lock yourself in. Bury your head in the sand,” she said in a sing-song voice. Further along the road, two cop cars blocked the entrance to the hotel site and she slowed the car down to the speed limit.
    “Darn it.”
    She pushed away the beginning of panic and drove past. It was a remote area, and she really didn’t know her way around. When she ended up back on the road near the archway into Three C’s Estates, she breathed a sigh of relief, reversed the car up an empty side street, and cut the engine.
    She grabbed the supplies, prayed that none of the cops would make a coffee run, and hurried across the street. She clambered up the embankment and with shaking hands grabbed the wire cutters. The mesh cloth on the six-foot-high wire fence was easy to cut through, but even with both hands she made little headway on the wire.
    A vehicle approached and its headlights flooded the road. She dropped to the ground. When the car passed, she dusted off and gripped the cutters again. The distant yip of coyotes sent a chill through her. Tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stood up. The coyotes