An Arm and a Leg Read online

  But none of her rationalized explanations explained either Tim’s letter, or Mina’s reaction to the spreadsheet. Suddenly, Frankie wished dinner would be over so she could get home and call the nurse.

  ****

  By the time Frankie and Rich Boy returned, Larry had worked himself up into an emotional lather. His facial muscles felt tight, and his belly seethed. He strained to hear the conversation between the two as they stood on the porch. What would he do if Beauty invited the guy into her house for a long goodbye?

  “Thanks for dinner and the consultation,” Frankie was saying.

  “I did intend to pay for your dinner as well,” Rich Boy said. “But I respect independence in a woman.” Butt-nugget leaned toward Frankie, his intention to kiss her obvious.

  Larry’s pulse rate picked up speed. His vision blurred and blood rushed to his extremities. The primal urge to kill anyone perceived to be a rival for the favors of his woman beat rhythmically in the veins at his temples. Poised to spring on the guy, Larry held himself in check to see how Frankie would respond to his advances. He smiled to himself when she stepped back to put distance between the two of them and unlocked her door.

  “I’ll contact your office in the next few days to finish up.”

  “How about a cup of coffee?” Rich Boy took a step forward.

  “Sorry, but I have several things to do yet, and I have an early morning.” Frankie stepped through her door. She turned and said, “Please let me know as soon as you’ve contacted the gold company.” She closed the door.

  Evidently the guy rarely got turned down, because he stood on the porch, seemingly unsure of what to do next. Finally, he returned to his car, started the engine, and did something to make the roof glide back up into place.

  Larry swung down from the tree and hot-footed it to his own vehicle. For the first time, he saw it as it must look to other people. To him, it had been an acceptable means of getting around, even with its dented fenders, cracked windshield, broken tail light, and nearly bald tires. But to people like Rich Boy it would be a joke. And he would be a joke for driving it.

  His throat tight and blood pounding, Larry turned on the ignition and pulled onto the street behind Rich Boy.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  As soon as Flatte drove away, Frankie checked her answering machine. The single flash sent her sprinting to the phone.

  “Hey, Frankie. This is Mina. I’m sorry I haven’t called earlier, but I wanted to double check a couple of things before getting back to you. You remember I said something about Tim’s spreadsheet seemed off? Well I found a couple of—”

  A doorbell rang in the background, and the nurse’s voice grew distant as she turned her head away from the phone. “Just a minute,” she yelled. The phone made jostling sounds as it was repositioned, and Mina’s voice became clear again. “I’ll try your cell. Call me as soon as you get this, no matter how late it is.”

  Frankie pulled her cell from its holster and checked voice mail and the incoming call log: nothing from Mina.

  It seemed like hours before Frankie could quiet her racing mind and fall asleep. She couldn’t stop speculating about what Mina had learned. And she couldn’t stop mulling over what connection it might have to Tim’s death.

  When she woke up the next morning, she grabbed her paper and pen and scribbled: Someone is hungry. Hungry and in a dark place. Feelings: Dread, fear, sadness.

  She went through her morning chores by rote, the feelings dredged up by her dreams hanging around her neck like Scrooge’s dead partner Marley’s chains.

  Before driving to the Cordero home, Frankie stopped at a florist and picked up a bouquet of daisies and mums. She arrived at six on the dot and rang the bell. A lovely Latina opened the door, allowing the complex aromas of New Mexican food to pour out the opening. Frankie’s mouth watered.

  “Hello, Miss O’Neil, I’m Imelda. Please, come in.”

  Frankie handed the flowers to Hector’s wife, who escorted her to the living room of the small, spotless home. A handsome, black-haired, dark-eyed man of about thirty rose from an overstuffed chair in the adjacent living room and strode toward Frankie, his hand extended.

  “Good evening, Miss O’Neil. It’s good to see you again. Seeing you is like seeing your brother.”

  “Thank you.” Frankie shook Hector’s extended hand. “And thank you for the invitation. Something smells wonderful.”

  A tiny, brown-eyed girl dressed in purple leggings and a purple and white-flowered tunic peered out from behind Imelda’s legs.

  “Hello,” Frankie said to the pixie-faced child.

  Imelda bent down and picked up her little girl. “Anna, this is Miss O’Neil.”

  “Hello, Anna,” Frankie said. “I really like your dress.”

  Imelda put Anna down and held a hand toward an arched doorway. “Dinner is ready. Please come in.”

  Hector took his place at one end of the small dining table and motioned for Frankie to sit at the other. Imelda brought out steaming bowls and platters of food, which she placed on hot pads strategically set out around a centerpiece of dried multi-colored corn and candles. The family offered grace and began to eat.

  The meal was an amazing compilation of homemade tortillas, chiles rellenos, pinto beans, Spanish rice and pulled roast pork simmered in a thick red chile sauce. Dessert was a rich vanilla pudding called natillas topped with real whipped cream and fresh strawberries. Dinner conversation focused on little Anna’s school work, on Frankie’s concert schedule, and on an authentic New Mexican cookbook Imelda was preparing for publication. After dessert, Imelda shooed Anna to her room to do her homework, and Hector invited Frankie to the living room for coffee.

  Hector sat down in the chair from which he’d stood earlier. The smile he’d worn since she arrived was replaced by a look of what appeared to be concern. Frankie took a seat on the sofa across from him.

  “I’ve been thinking about my responsibility to your brother,” Hector said. “I owe him a great debt. Whatever is in my power to do for you, I will do.”

  “Thank you. Did you know Tim was fired from his job at the hospital?”

  Hector nodded his head. “Yes. We were all angry about it, but no one was surprised.”

  “Do you know why he was let go?”

  Hector dropped his gaze to look at his feet. He slowly shook his head. “Doctor Bellamy and Doctor O’Neil often fought. It was just a matter of time before one of them had to leave.”

  “Would you be willing to tell me what your appointment with Tim was about?”

  Hector’s forehead creased as he considered his answer. “When Anna became sick we were beside ourselves with worry. We didn’t know where to turn. Doctor Tim helped us, so it was only natural for me to think of him when I started having headaches. He said he’d look me over during my breakfast break.”

  “Did he say anything about what was bothering him?”

  “Not that I can remember.” Hector’s gaze moved to the floor in front of him. He took a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips. “I gave him a small gift. Just something I thought he could use.” He lifted his shoulders in a tight shrug. “Then he checked me and left.” Hector moved his eyes to look directly into Frankie’s. “Do you believe in God, Miss O’Neil?”

  “Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you believe vengeance is best left to Him?”

  “That’s what the scripture says. But I also believe in justice.”

  Hector nodded. “Your brother was a good man and I’ll miss him. But nothing will bring him back to us. Our responsibility is to protect those we love who are still with us.” He opened his mouth, closed it, clenched his jaw and remained silent.

  “Hector, if you know anything about my brother’s murder, please tell me.”

  “I don’t know anything for certain, and it would be wrong to speculate. I can only tell you that our God is just. He will punish whoever killed Doctor Tim.”

  Hector stood and held his hand t
oward Frankie. “It’s been good to meet you. We continue to pray for the peace of Doctor Tim’s soul.” As he shook Frankie’s hand, he placed his other hand on top of it, the look on his face one of deep concern. “You must be careful. Whoever is responsible for your brother’s death will not hesitate to hurt you.”

  Frankie thanked Imelda for the dinner, hugged Anna, told them all good night, and headed for her car.

  It had been comforting to meet people who loved Tim, even if the evening had brought nothing new to light about his death. It had, however, offered a couple of intriguing tidbits. It left no doubt in Frankie’s mind that whatever Hector’s meeting with Tim had been about, it involved a lot more than headaches. And with all his talk of vengeance, it supported her theory that Hector was a domino.

  But where did he fit in the lineup? Was he the first tile, or the last?

  As anyone knew who’d ever set up a domino chain, one misstep, one fumble, could topple the whole thing prematurely. And when the falling process began, it would move with lightning speed until the whole thing lay in a heap.

  Then, once all the dominoes were lined up, the most important thing was to thump the right one.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Frances, Frances wake up. Uncle Mike’s voice made its way into Frankie’s dreams just as the phone re-charging on her nightstand rang. As phone calls in the middle of the night tend to do, it shot her heart rate into the stratosphere and sent her bleary eyes darting toward her lighted bedside clock. Two-thirty. Her first thought was that it must be Tim calling. But then her sleep benumbed brain told herself, no, Tim was dead.

  Frankie reached to turn on the bedside lamp, but instead knocked over a half-filled water glass on the nightstand beside it. Murmuring a string of imprecations that would have shocked the more conservative of her choir members, she sat up on the bed’s edge, grabbed the phone, and unplugged the power cord from it.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice more croaking toad than human.

  “Get out of the house.” The whispered words sounded tense, distorted.

  “What?”

  “I said get out of the house.” The voice increased in volume.

  “Who’s this?”

  “A friend. No time for questions and no time to dress. Just get out.” The caller hung up.

  Fully awake, Frankie grabbed her robe from the end of the bed. She slipped it on and slid her feet into furry, flip-flop slippers. The smoke alarm began pulsing its warning as an undulating yellow glow spilled into the hallway from the living room. Crackling sounds of burning wood soon became a low roar, and the air thickened with smoke.

  Fear seized Frankie’s stomach in an icy fist. Had she forgotten to bank last night’s fire? Had Collette somehow managed to get beyond the fire screen and paw a glowing ember onto the rug?

  She dropped her phone into her robe pocket and grabbed her purse, tote bag, and keys. With the flames lighting her way, Frankie lurched toward the front door. She disengaged the Katy bar and slid back the chain lock, but Collette’s throaty growl of terror stopped her from stepping out into the night.

  After a millisecond of internal debate, she closed the door, turned back toward the hall closet, and grabbed the pet carrier while calling the cat’s name. But Collette didn’t appear.

  Intensely aware of the ticking seconds and billowing black smoke, she ran through the rooms not yet aflame, lowering her head to see under the roiling ceiling of black smoke. Her eyes watered, and her lungs heaved in an effort to draw in oxygen.

  She should leave the cat to fend for itself, but the damned creature was helpless. It needed her, depended upon her.

  She gave her life for an arrogant animal that couldn’t have cared less. Too many words for an epitaph, but they might make for a good obituary. Frankie’s self-mocking snort metamorphosed into a coughing spasm.

  As smoke clogged her throat and swirled around her head, she ran to the living room, where Collette snarled at the world from her favorite hiding place atop the bookcase. Frankie reached for the animal, but the terrified creature shied from her touch. Hissing and growling, she pressed her body tightly against the wall and swiped at her owner’s extended hand.

  “You either come with me, or your next eight lives will be spent playing a harp in kitty heaven.” Frankie made her voice as calm as she could. “And I’ll be right there beside you, honking away on my harmonium.” She held the open carrier in front of Collette as she had done at the kennel. “I’m counting to five. After that, you’re on your own.”

  Collette surprised her by shooting into the pet carrier. Coughing and gagging, Frankie carried her through the front door and out into the night.

  With the furnace-like heat at her back, the cold night air flowed over Frankie like ice water poured from a pitcher. She set the pet carrier down on the concrete of the driveway and reached into her pocket for the phone. Her shivering fingers grew numb as she punched in the emergency number and reported the fire.

  The fire grew in intensity. Its dancing glow lit up the windows as its victory cry roared into the night stillness. The smell of burning wood filled the still air.

  A list ran through Frankie’s mind of all the things she wished she’d had the time and presence of mind to bring out with her. Important things like legal documents and family photos. Things like Tim’s laptop containing his journal and notes.

  Tim’s laptop.

  Frankie dropped her bags on the driveway next to Collette and ran back toward the house. But the fire’s heat reached her before she got near the door. The adobe construction of the house created an oven effect, making the fire so intense the paint on the outside of the door bubbled and the metal door handle glowed red-orange.

  Tears that had nothing to do with the burning smoke sprang from her eyes. Her new home, her oasis from the world was disappearing in front of her. Her new furniture, her new window dressings, her clothes. All gone, along with her food stores.

  Feeling as if she’d just been sucker-punched, she picked up the carrier and put it into the passenger seat of her car. She climbed in behind the wheel, backed out of the driveway, and parked a little way down the street to allow the fire truck easy access. She turned off the engine, stared out the windshield, and waited.

  Several lights came on in neighboring houses. Heads appeared in doorways and drapes were pushed aside.

  Frankie opened the carrier door, and the cat jumped into her lap. The two huddled together, watching their home burn.

  Firemen, police, and emergency first-responders arrived less than ten minutes after her call. Bustling activity replaced the quiet stillness typical of very early morning. The roar of flames mingled with the shouts of the firemen as they moved in practiced efficiency, focused on their fight with the beast consuming her home. She got out of the car and approached one young fireman pulling tools from a truck.

  “This was no accident,” she said, her voice flat.

  The fireman’s head shot up, and his eyes locked onto Frankie’s. “And you are…?”

  “The owner. This is my house. I’m Frankie O’Neil.”

  “Do you know how the fire started?”

  “No, I don’t. But someone called me and warned me to get out. Otherwise I’d probably still be in bed.” Disbelief mixed with horror as the reality of her words hit her with the force of a sledge hammer.

  The fireman nodded toward an older man talking into a phone. “Our fire officer will call an investigator. He should be here shortly.”

  Frankie nearly doubled over with a coughing spasm, and the fireman motioned for her to stay put. He stepped to a lidded box built into the side of the fire truck, and pulled out a blanket, which he threw over her shoulders.

  A female paramedic carrying an oxygen tank approached. “I’m told you inhaled some smoke. Oxygen will help your lungs do their work.”

  After Frankie nodded her acceptance of the young woman’s ministrations, the EMT slipped the oxygen mask over her face and turned on the valve.

&nb
sp; “You’re lucky you got out when you did. Most people who die in fires don’t die from the flames, they die from smoke inhalation. But your color’s already improving.” The young woman snapped a plastic, clothespin-looking instrument onto the tip of Frankie’s index finger. “Your blood oxygen level is not bad. But if you’d like, we can take you to the hospital for observation and some tests.”

  Frankie shook her head. “No, I’m feeling better…I feel okay.” Besides, her insurance deductible was more than she could manage. The only way anyone was going to get her into a hospital was if she were unconscious.

  When she could fill her lungs with air without coughing, she pulled the oxygen mask off. She thanked the young woman for her help, signed the form that would be used in the police report and sent to her insurance company as proof of services rendered, and made her way back to her vehicle.

  She started the engine and turned on the heater. In a few minutes warm air poured through the vents. Frankie offered a prayer of thanksgiving for the genius who invented the marvelous thing.

  A man approached, and she rolled down her window. Cold air poured in, displacing the warm bubble inside her car. The man nodded his head once by way of salutation, introduced himself as the fire investigator and questioned her. He asked her things like what time the call came, did she have any enemies, did she ever burn candles, and did she leave a fire going in the fireplace.

  Then he pulled a paper from a green plastic folder and handed it through the window. He instructed Frankie to fill out the interview form and then write on the back her memory of events up to and including the time she received the call.

  “We’re nearly done here,” he said. “Once everything has cooled down, we’ll determine the cause of the fire. We’ll most likely need to speak to you again. Do you have anywhere to go tonight, someplace to stay?”

  Frankie’s mind went blank. “I…I hadn’t even thought about it.”

  “Any family close by? Someone we could call for you?”

  “No…no one.” You don’t even have any close friends. “I’ll stay in a motel for a while.”