The 27-Ingredient Chili Con Carne Murders: A Eugenia Potter Mystery Read online

  They were following her grandfather.

  “He’ll kill us if he finds out,” Linda whispered.

  The horse’s ears flicked back in response.

  It wasn’t true, of course. She couldn’t imagine her grandfather hurting anyone, much less killing them. And certainly not his most adored grandchild. A grin flashed on Linda’s face, and then was gone. She knew perfectly well that Ricardo Ortega treated every one of his nine grandkids as if each was the most special to his big, generous heart. In Wind Valley she was known as Linda Ortega, after her grandparents, although that had never been her name. Her mother, Francesca Ortega, had married Les Scarritt, who was a fellow graduate student in anthropology at the University of Arizona, and she was their only child. To the rest of the world she was Linda Scarritt, but she was Linda Ortega to the valley. “Juanita’s Linda.” “Ricardo’s Linda.”

  In this, her eighteenth spring, Linda was living with her grandparents and working for Mrs. Potter during the year she had convinced her parents to let her take off before the college she didn’t particularly want to attend. It had helped a lot when her parents won a fellowship to travel to the jungles of Brazil for an anthropological field trip for the bulk of this same year. That made them much happier to leave her in her grandparents’ charge rather than turn her loose in some dormitory on campus. She hadn’t talked to her mother or father in nearly six months, but she enjoyed their letters—especially since they hinted that Francesca and Les were so fascinated by their work they might want to stay in Brazil another few months, which would give Linda a longer reprieve.

  “Grandpa needs us,” she whispered to Taco.

  Half a mile ahead of them, her grandfather was also on horseback. Patches, his big paint gelding, kept a steady pace across the canyon floor. Her grandfather was the finest horseperson she’d ever known. But thank God he was a little hard of hearing at the age of sixty-seven. That was probably the only thing standing between her and discovery at this moment; when he was younger, her grandfather had seemed to possess the ears and eyes of an Indian scout. Or, maybe more appropriately, an Aztec scout. Now he wore glasses, even to work cattle—with a band to hold the bifocals on his head—and a hearing aid, which he hated. She was counting on the probability that he hadn’t put it on for this strange, mysterious, early-morning ride of his.

  He rode without ever pausing, like a man with a destination.

  “A dónde vas, Abuelo?” she whispered.

  Where are you going, Grandpa?

  “Y porqué?” she added.

  And why, for heaven’s sake? Why did he leave the house at three o’clock in the morning, two hours before his normal rising time, while even the horses were still asleep in their corrals? Why did he saddle up Patches and ride out before the morning shadows began to fill the mountains? And why did he set off all alone—he thought—into the high plains that led into these canyons east of Mrs. Potter’s house?

  Linda was alert to her grandfather’s odd behavior lately because her grandmother had put her on the track of it. And so she had jolted awake when she heard him moving almost soundlessly in the corridor outside his and Juanita’s bedroom. While he had slipped on his cowboy boots in the kitchen, Linda had hurried out of her bed and into her own thermal underwear, jeans, boots, turtleneck, and sweatshirt. Grabbing her fleece-lined jacket off the coat tree by the back door, she’d quietly followed him into the backyard and then to the horse barn that lay between the Ortegas’ house and Mrs. Potter’s. She didn’t want Bandy, who lived in the apartment over the garage, to hear her either, or he might limp over to the window and stick out his head—or possibly a rifle—and shout, “Quién va?” (Who goes there?) If he didn’t hear her, as old and hard of hearing as he was, then one of his “nephews”—the illegal aliens he often sheltered—might. So she had to be careful. Her grandfather was still moving quietly too.

  She’d hidden herself behind a shoulder-high manzanita bush and spied in puzzlement as he threw a saddle on Patches and then led the horse at a walk out of hearing distance of the house. She had then scurried into the barn to saddle her own horse and follow the horse and rider that her grandmother had dubbed the “Old Centaur.”

  “Keep an eye on the Old Centaur,” Juanita had instructed her.

  And that’s what she was doing, watching with growing concern as the Old Centaur moved off the canyon trail and started up a frighteningly steep, narrow, hairpin path that led to the top of a sandstone formation known locally as El Bizcocho. The Biscuit. Not that the climb would frighten him. As far as she knew, nothing scared Grandpa. She reined Taco to a halt, unsure of how to proceed. Darn! How were she and Taco supposed to follow him up there without being noticed?

  “Grandpa!” she protested, under her breath. “What are you doing?”

  From the top of El Bizcocho, you could see the whole valley in every direction. Linda knew that because she’d climbed it many times on foot and once, holding her breath most of the way, by horse. It was a spectacular 360-degree panoramic view all the way into Mexico, and clear up into Tucson. It took your breath—the little you had left—away. That was your reward for getting to the top.

  But who’d want to at this hour?

  It was just one more unlikely thing for him to do.

  This man, who she loved possibly even more than her own father, this man who other people idolized and the whole of Wind Valley respected, seemed tired and distracted lately. And that was in itself so unusual that it had prompted her grandmother to say, “You keep an eye on that man, hijita. If he’s sick and he has a heart attack and falls off that horse out there someplace in the wilderness, I want you to be the first to know it.” She’d frowned sternly at her granddaughter. “So I’ll be the second to hear of it.”

  And so she’d been following him, feeling furtive and guilty about it, and afraid that he’d find out.

  She wasn’t scared of her grandfather—far from it—but she couldn’t have borne the disappointment that might appear in his eyes if he knew she and Juanita were conspiring against him, as if he were a feeble old man who couldn’t take care of himself. What a thought!

  “It’s for his own good,” her grandmother had insisted.

  Linda had tracked her grandfather’s movements for the past couple of weeks, and reported back daily to Juanita. So far, there’d been nothing of any consequence to say, as far as she could tell, except for the worrisome fact that he’d developed a habit of getting into his pickup and driving aimlessly around the valley. At least, it had seemed aimless to Linda, as she had observed him staring over other people’s fences, or following a slow-moving tractor down the road as if he had all the time in the world.

  And then there was his odd behavior last night, after supper.

  After dessert, and without telling Juanita where he was going, he left the house and walked up the hill to la patrona’s compound. There, he’d let himself in with the key that Mrs. Potter kept under a potted cactus, then turned on the light in the front hall. From outside, hidden in the shadows by the patio gate, Linda had watched a second light come on, this one in la patrona’s study. Linda had crept nearer and watched through a window as her grandfather sat down in Mrs. Potter’s chair, behind Mrs. Potter’s desk, and used the telephone there. One, two, three, four, five, six times, he dialed numbers. Each time he talked into the phone, although Linda suspected that a couple of times he spoke to an answering machine.

  “What does he want to say to people that he doesn’t want me to hear?” was what Juanita demanded when Linda reported back to her.

  “Maybe it’s a surprise party for you, Grandma.”

  “My birthday’s in July. We were married in December.”

  Linda flushed even before the punch line hit.

  “This, as you may not have noticed, is May.”

  Each report that Linda made to her grandmother only seemed to set Juanita more stubbornly on her husband’s track, and that made Linda feel as if she were caught like a calf in a squeeze chute. The di
lemma was that she trusted her grandmother’s judgment, too, especially when it came to the subject that Juanita Ortega knew best … which was, as everybody knew, Ricardo Ortega. “That man,” as Juanita habitually referred to him, was her mission. Taking care of him was the job at the center of her life.

  Linda, a modern girl in spite of her very traditional heritage, both envied and pitied her grandmother for that attitude. As much as Linda adored her grandfather, she didn’t think she’d like to sacrifice her life to a husband, not even one as grand and elegant as he. Neither did Linda want to turn as bossy and fretful and sour as Juanita could be sometimes. Linda just wanted to finish growing up and get a job on a ranch here in the valley—maybe even eventually become the first woman foreman in the valley—and get happily married to a special, handsome man, and have their own ranch someday, and raise a wonderful family as her grandparents had done. Or she wouldn’t mind being like Che Thomas over at the C Lazy U dude ranch. Now there was a woman, strong as Grandma but happier because she was focused on her own life instead of on a man. Maybe it could all come true. Someday. Maybe even sooner than someday, if her parents didn’t absolutely insist on college for her.

  And then there’d been the change in her grandfather that both she and her grandmother had noticed in the last twenty-four hours: he’d lost that weary, worried expression, he’d straightened his shoulders and seemed full of confidence again. Something had happened to cheer him, Linda felt, but she didn’t know what it was, any more than she knew what it was that had seemed to weigh him down to begin with!

  The mystery was driving her grandmother crazy.

  “Now what’s going on?” she’d demanded. “You find out!”

  I’m trying, Grandma!

  On El Bizcocho, her grandfather disappeared from her sight behind a stand of sweet cedar trees.

  Linda rolled her shoulders, trying to unbunch the vise of muscles that locked her upper body. Her thighs gripped Taco’s sides as if she and the horse were molded from the same quivering muscular flesh. Linda forced her legs to relax. But then Taco moved forward, so she had to rein him up short again.

  Linda wished la patrona wouldn’t go away so often or for so long, and she suspected that Juanita held the same opinion, although she would never speak ill of her old friend and employer. Juanita might have a tongue sharpened on everybody else’s hide, but she never honed it on Mrs. Potter. Except in the most indirect ways. Like the other day, when she’d muttered within hearing range of both Ricardo and Linda, “Too much responsibility for one old man.” To which Ricardo had responded, in his usual calm and good-humored way, “Such a young woman to be married to such an old man.” Linda had been happy to see the spark of laughter in her grandmother’s eyes at that perfect, most gallant riposte. It was just like him. And just like Juanita. It had tempted Linda to think: everything’s okay. But everything wasn’t, it couldn’t be, or why would he be out here like this, doing whatever weird thing he was doing? Why was he climbing to the top of El Bizcocho?

  Actually, she wouldn’t have put it past the smart old man to be doing this to her on purpose, to have detected her presence behind him and to be taking this gentle and rather humorous—if dangerous—way of shaking her off his trail. And afterward, there’d be a small lesson for her, something about how he’d intuited her presence from a telltale toss of his horse’s mane, or some such impossible thing that only he could sense.

  She thought of what her grandmother would say to that: “The man doesn’t know everything.” It was Juanita’s stock answer to anybody who praised her husband excessively.

  But Linda wasn’t at all sure that was true. Ever since she was a little girl, starting with the first time she ever looked up into those kind and knowing brown eyes of his, she’d suspected that her grandpa was as close to omniscient as a mortal man could be.

  The wind through the canyon blew the fragrance of juniper to her.

  She tugged the sleeves of her jacket down over her wrists and turned the sheepskin side of her collar up against her neck. She nudged Taco forward a few paces, then paused again beside a couple of great sycamores that grew from the dry, sandy creek bed. Linda glanced up, checking the sky. It was clear, with no sign of one of those murderous spring squalls that could transform a dry wash like this into a roaring river that could sweep unwary people or animals to their deaths by drowning, or by bashing them against the boulders. In the cloudless sky she could see the moon clearly, but there wasn’t much of it, only a sliver to light their course.

  Ricardo Ortega, on Patches, climbed slowly higher.

  El Bizcocho, The Biscuit. Its twisting upper trail belied its cozy, domestic-sounding name. Linda knew it to be a difficult ride in daylight, more suited to mountain goats than horses; she fervently wished her grandfather wouldn’t attempt it at all, ever, much less at night, and especially on one as moonless as this.

  Linda wanted to yell: Grandpa! Come down!

  She whispered, instead, “What are you up to?”

  Taco’s ears flicked back again. He lifted his right foreleg and set it down noisily. Her beloved horse was all too attuned to his mistress and all too ready to “converse” with her by whinnying or shaking his bridle or stamping his feet in response to the language of her body and her words. It was her grandfather, of course, who had taught her how to establish such a bond between herself and an animal. He, himself, was uncanny in the way he handled animals; whether it was dogs, cows, or horses, they responded to him as to nobody else in the valley.

  No more whispering! she commanded herself, feeling a flutter of panic at the thought that her grandfather might hear them. Grandpa! she pleaded silently. Come down from there! Let’s go home and go back to bed and then get up at a normal time and have breakfast with Grandma!

  A sudden soft clatter of pebbles made her shift nervously in her saddle. Squirrels. Desert rats. Linda felt as if one of them had crawled up her spine. She didn’t like being out in the mountains at night like this, with only a dark new moon to light their paths. She thought of coyotes. Wild dogs in packs. Raccoons. Rattlesnakes. She shivered again.

  Grandpa, por favor!

  Suddenly there was a sound in the distance she couldn’t mistake—the noise of an engine, probably a truck.

  Damn hunters! They must be over on state land to the east.

  If they crossed onto Las Palomas, Grandpa would fix their wagon for sure. Maybe that was why he was out tonight, looking for trespassing hunters. Oh, but Grandpa, that is dangerous, trying to patrol alone, at night, on horseback. You’d never let Ken or Bandy or any of us do it. What can you be thinking of?

  The noise of the truck grew louder, coming closer.

  It drew her attention to the ridge opposite the one on El Bizcocho where her grandfather had come into view again and pulled Patches to a halt at the top. She could just barely see him now, horse and rider outlined against the night sky with its first hint of dawn rising. She looked back toward the opposite ridge. She could just barely see the truck, too, although she could tell that it looked about the size of a quarter-ton pickup, a common type of vehicle in these parts, but she couldn’t distinguish the make or color.

  Linda felt a growing sense of unease, verging on panic.

  On the ridge, there was a glint of windshield under the moon.

  The sound of a truck door opening echoed down the mountain to her.

  There was no sound from the top of El Bizcocho.

  Her grandfather probably couldn’t see or hear the truck.

  Then there was another glint up on the ridge, and a second sound that was unmistakable to the ears of a girl for whom a ranch was a second home: it was the decisive clack of a bolt on a rifle.

  “Grandpa!” Linda screamed. Taco’s front legs rose in a half-buck. She fought him to keep control. “Grandpa! Hunters!” And then she turned her face to the ridge. “No! Don’t shoot! That’s a man up there!”

  There were three shots in succession.

  Even as the second and third rou
nds rang out, a terrified whinny echoed down from the top of El Bizcocho and bounced off the canyon walls. Linda heard her grandfather’s voice raised in fruitless command to Patches. Taco tried to bolt. Linda exerted all her strength to keep him restrained to moving in small, tight circles. She listened in horror to the terrible sound of Patches slipping on the rocks above, and actually saw part of their fall as they tumbled down the steep, murderously rocky sides of the mountain. She heard her grandfather cry out once. And then there was only the noise of horse and rider plunging to their certain deaths down the rocky slope of El Bizcocho to the bottom of the canyon, where Linda still fought to control her own panicked horse.

  “Grandpa!”

  She started to gallop in his direction. She was heedless of the danger-strewn path through which she wanted Taco to race. She had to reach her grandfather and Patches and help them, had to hope they were still alive, had to get there, get there …

  Over the sound of her own ragged breathing, and Taco’s, she heard the truck once more, and glanced up.

  She was blinded by headlights that were focused on her.

  Stunned, she brought her confused and stumbling horse to a halt.

  She heard the rifle go off again, heard the slug strike a boulder not five feet from her, felt a shard of rock strike her pant leg, and realized she was the new target.

  Por Dios, por Dios!

  My God, my God!

  If she turned and ran, her grandfather might die. No, he was already dead, she’d seen him fall and she knew there was no chance he could have survived it; she had to face that terrible fact, she had to. And Patches was dead too. There wasn’t hope. They hadn’t had a chance. If she continued toward them, the rifle would catch her, and the shooter couldn’t allow her to tell what she had just witnessed.…