He laughed softly against my ear, and I no longer cared where he was staying or who married whom.
“Sorry, it’s the old guilt, and I feel like it’s all my fault.” I paused. “What happened with Jessie? I didn’t mean to cause her trouble.” There I go again.
“Fiat, sweetie, you didn’t. Turns out she’s sort of dating the Jeep guy. Probably the reason she doesn’t get followed; he’s one of the main instigators. They had no clue you were next to them. Well, they still don’t. One of their tires blew up and they ended up in a ditch. And I’m sure you didn’t have anything to do with the tire.” He paused and then he spoke in a much sweeter tone of voice. “When can I see you? What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I don’t know. The only thing on my calendar is taking Dior for a walk. I miss bumping into you and Tache...” I swallowed, remembering our encounters on the trails. Then, whispering, “Do you still have the red bandana?”
“You remember that? Oh, girl, I miss you. I haven’t worn it in maybe a year. It may have burned along with most of my clothes.” I had forgotten about the fire. “As a matter of fact I’m supposed to meet with the insurance adjusters tomorrow. The two detectives you call Adam and Eve will be there also. Why don’t you come over with Dior, he’d like running around Tache’s grassy field.” He knew about Adam and Eve? Luckily, he couldn’t see me, my cheeks were on fire.
“You brought your horse back?”
“No. That’s something I’d like to discuss with you tomorrow. I’m not moving back into the house. I’ll either stay at the Tucson ranch temporarily or find a place for Tache up here.” He lowered his voice, and I sensed he wanted to be more intimate—maybe he wasn’t alone. “But what I want most is be with you.”
And just like that an overwhelming feeling of love taken and given coated my soul like frosted butterscotch on the red velvet of Tristan’s voice.
Only after we said goodnight did it dawn on me that he never said a word about Angelique or her whereabouts. Like it or not, she was still his wife for all legal purposes, and her going missing didn’t make it any easier for him to get a divorce. Or at least that was my assumption.
I tossed and turned a lot and couldn’t figure out why. By eight thirty I dragged myself out of bed, all bundled in my warm, Sherpa shaggy bathrobe, and headed to Brenda’s back door. The robe dragged a little because it was a size too big. A gift from my coworkers one Christmas when I was home with a bad cold. It felt like a big, soft hug.
Thanks to my place being behind Brenda’s house, no one could see me from the street. That particular feature of my housing situation had come in handy on more than one occasion. Brenda was up, and so was Dior. I could smell the fresh-brewed coffee the minute I opened the back door and went straight to the coffee machine.
“Well, good morning, sunshine. What happened?” Brenda asked without turning to look at me.
“Nothing happened, why?”
“Why? When was the last time that you showed up at my back door in your king-size robe and—”
“Hey, I’m not a bed, and if I was, I would be size... is there a petite-size bed?”
She snorted. Then laughed. I kept a straight face, stirred my coffee, and slurped loudly. “Hmm, good. What are you doing?”
“Breakfast. Want some?’
“It depends. What is it?”
“Baked apple French toast.”
I paused. “Have I eaten that before? Did I like it? And what’s with this apples everywhere thing? Did you invest in some orchard or something?”
She laughed again. “I see you’re in top form. Dior, stop licking the floor. I only dropped a spoon, not a spoonful of something.”
In response Dior plopped himself between me and the cook.
“It has to bake for about thirty-five minutes, so if you’re in a hurry I’ll make you some plain French toast.”
“I’m good. I can wait. Did you get the newspaper?”
She nodded and pointed to the couch. The Arizona Republic, still rolled up, sat on the coffee table. I decided to check my horoscope. Best thing next to Kassandra’s daily tarot card reading. I never got to the page with the comics and the horoscope, a smiling photo of Angelique filled about one-eighth of the front page, under the dramatic headline, “Where in the world is the mysterious Angelique Dumont?” And next, in smaller font, “Is the jilted lover ready to talk?”
“OMG!” It slipped out so loud even Dior stopped sniffing the kitchen floor and looked at me.
“What? Did you burn your tongue? You know the coffee is hot...”
“No, it’s not me. The paper has a big article about Angelique and—”
“That piece of garbage who pretends to be human? Look at all the lives she messed up. What for? I bet she killed Tristan’s dad too. And the poor soul goes out of his way to help that—that—don’t get me started.” She shook her head. “His dad, Silvia De Aguilar, Lois, that poor, poor Lois...”
“You think she killed Lois? Not the Avondo creep?”
Brenda kept shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk about that monster. The sooner they catch her, the better this world will be. She may be hiding here in town. What do we know?”
“Brenda, don’t say stuff like that. You scare me. With today’s technology she’ll be caught. You’ll see.”
I sat and read the whole article hoping to reassure myself, but instead it seemed to agree with Brenda. Something about Avondo claiming he met her when she asked him to provide her with
