“No way what?” Brenda asked. I hadn’t realized I was talking out loud. Angelique was messing with my head in more ways than I had imagined.
“According to Rogelio Avondo, her name is not Angelique Chervais. He said she paid him to provide her with fake documents. That’s crazy. Angelique was Tristan’s dad’s girlfriend from his past, certainly he would have known what she looked like. Avondo must have tired of waiting for her to come back and bail him out so he’s making up these stories.” I had to stop to breathe. “Do you think Tristan reads the newspaper?” I asked Brenda.
“We eat in five minutes.” Was her answer. I didn’t care. Would the newspaper publish such an outlandish story without verifying it? Who could I ask?
Chills ran down my spine. I wrapped my robe a little tighter. If she wasn’t who she said she was, then... who? I kept on reading. Oh, her first name was Pauline? “OMG.”
“What now? Kid, when you get religious before nine a.m., I worry about you.”
I must’ve said it out loud again.
“Well? What is it? The cops nabbed Angelique?”
“She isn’t Angelique,” I mumbled. “Her name is Pauline Chervais. She’s Angelique’s younger sister. That explain how she fooled Tristan’s dad. She probably knew all the old details. What a conniving bitch.”
“Okay, that’s it. Put the paper down and sit at the table. No talking about depressing subjects until your belly is full. Everything will feel less scary. I promise.”
I pointed to the front page.
“No, no. no. Zip it.” Brenda put her hand to her lips and pretended to lock them. I got off the couch and sheepishly walked to the dining room table where she had served a large plate of delicious-smelling bumpy something. She must have seen my expression. “The mounds are the apple chunks. Do you want syrup or honey?”
“I want Tristan.”
I sobbed once.
For a very long moment the dining room seemed like a frozen scene in an old 60s movie—Brenda with her apron, holding a plate of food, Dior on her heels, drooling and wagging his tail. And me, the family moody kid acting up instead of acting her age. I wiped my tears with the back of my fuzzy king-size robe before sitting at the table, like a good girl.
“Thanks, Brenda,” I said. “After breakfast I’ll take Dior for a long walk.”
“Excellent, some fresh air will do both of you good,” she said, and I felt like Judas after the kiss, as I fully intended to drag Dior to Tristan’s home.
TWENTY-THREE
IF BRENDA HAD seen me drive off with Dior in the car, she would have run after me. Right? I’m sure I mentioned something about 40th Street to her. Regardless. Here we were, heading toward the Phoenix Mountain Preserve and—oops—the Dumonts’ home.
We reached the end of 40th Street and the parking lot of the trailhead south of Shea Boulevard. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been there with Dior. He must have recognized the place because he went nuts. I parked away from the bathrooms and the ramada in a quiet spot. Managed to get the leash on the super excited Dane, and after checking my lipstick and mascara in the side mirror, I locked the car, and we walked out of the parking lot toward Tristan’s home. It was a little after eleven a.m.
Dior pulled so hard on the leash I had trouble keeping a normal pace. I couldn’t help wondering if he remembered that this was the road to Tache’s home. Would he be disappointed his playmate wasn’t there?
Had I been on roller skates and let Dior pull me without restraint, we would have been flying down the narrow road that meandered through the large homes on acre lots and ended up smack in sight of the Dumonts’ residence. We had made it there in no time at all.
A few cars were parked outside the open gate. I could see a vehicle up by the front door in the motor court.
The closer we got, the higher the excitement, both for Dior and me. The Great Dane charged up the driveway like a freight train with faulty brakes, and I found myself at the wide-open front door, panting. I paused there, trying to compose myself and also hoping to see Tristan before anyone else noticed me. No such luck.
“Hi, Monica, did you bring an escort?” Detective Eve laughed looking at Dior who wouldn’t stand still a minute. He now pulled toward the room that opened onto the patio and the large, fenced back yard—home and playground to Tache. Once inside the vestibule the smoke damage glared from walls once richly dressed in Venetian plaster but now covered by black smoke. An acrid smell lingered throughout the room.
“Wow, somehow I thought the fire was only in some of the upstairs rooms.” I couldn’t divert my eyes.
“Well, this is only smoke damage, but you’re right. The upstairs rooms suffered the worst,” the detective said. “Tristan is actually up there discussing the amount of the loss with the insurance people. And we are finishing up our third sweep of the house.”
I nodded and resisted the temptation to ask what they were looking for.
With an amused expression she watched Dior’s cavorting “Why is your dog so restless?”
“Oh, he wants to go outside. He thinks he’ll get to play with Tache, Tristan’s appaloosa. They are good playmates.” I patted Dior’s back hoping to calm him down. “Will it be okay if I go out there with him while I wait for Tristan?”
She gave me a knowing smile and nodded.
The yard looked just the way I remembered it, minus the mare of course. I removed the leash and let Dior run. He headed straight for the barn. I sat on the wooden bench, my back to the house. Such a peaceful place—the winter grass freshly mowed, birds singing, and the blue sky above. February in the desert, paradise on Earth.
Hard to believe so much drama had happened in such
