A Palette for Murder by Vanessa A. Ryan

Author:Vanessa A. Ryan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gale, Cengage Learning
Published: 2015-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

People liked their guns in New Mexico, and they used them when they saw fit. Were drugs mixed up in this? Or was that my L.A. mentality showing? In New Mexico, pointing a gun could mean a guy was just protecting his property.

I reached Carone on her cell and told her what happened. “I think I should at least call the police and report that I saw a guy come out of his house with a shotgun.”

“No. They might wonder what you were doing there in the first place. And if they have the Picasso, you’ll ruin it for me. They’ll find it and the press will have a field day. I don’t have enough influence or money to keep that quiet.”

“But if they do have the Picasso, what should I do?”

“Go back there during the day. Maybe you can look in the windows.”

And risk getting shot? No thanks. “Even if I see it, how will I get it out of there?”

“You’ll think of something.”

Right. I’ll think of something. The last time we talked, Carone assured me she would think of something. Well, she did. She got me to think of it.

So I did. I called the police and gave an anonymous tip about a man carrying a shotgun outside his house. Then I went to my room and slept until the maid knocked on my door. I forgot to put the do-not-disturb sign out.

My head didn’t ache as much as yesterday. While the maid tidied my room, I called the hotel café and ordered breakfast. I’d never ordered room service before, and since I was probably going to be fired from both jobs soon, I might as well live it up. French toast and hash browns, ordered like a condemned prisoner for her last meal, never tasted so good.

I had just finished my first cup of the coffee when Charley called. “I’m on it,” I said. “I may have a new lead. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

And when tomorrow came, I’d tell him the lead didn’t pan out, but I was working on a new one. I could probably milk that for a while. Maybe by then, I’d have something. Or not.

Carone’s way of smoothing things over with a dose of unreality had rubbed off on me. I sat reading the hotel’s complimentary copy of The New Mexican as if I hadn’t a care in the world. How nice to be just a well-off tourist.

On the obituary page, I glanced at Angelica Ortiz’s obituary. Of her survivors, the article listed her parents and a brother Jesse. That had to be the bellhop. I hadn’t seen him around since Angelica’s death.

I felt bad about Angelica, wishing I had made the last hour of her life more pleasant. Instead, I’d annoyed her with my map request. That must have been all there was to it. She didn’t know anything about Antonio Chavez, or about the weird man at the house on Calle Fernando.

Then I saw what had eluded me. The second to the last paragraph of the obituary stated Angelica belonged to the Suique tribe.

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