Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis by Maria Swan (cheapest way to read ebooks txt) 📗

“Can you please take this call? It’s the Phoenix Fire Department. They said you are not answering your phone.” Tristan walked over to where Bob waited, he pulled out his own phone and checked.

“Dead,” he said, as Bob handled him his cell. I felt like a snoop, so I pretended great interest in the exterior shell of the horse trailer, the only sounds coming from a tree somewhere, an owl? That and quick steps on the gravel. Brenda had joined us.

“I need to go home immediately.” Tristan’s voice sounded like it came from an echo chamber, in fading waves of pain. “I need the truck.” He spoke to Ernie Lopez “Where is it?”

“The truck for the trailer? The men drove it to the bar,” Good Samaritan said. “Our truck still has hay in the back so we drove that one, we had no idea it would be needed.” Silence resounded loud. “What can I borrow? I need to go NOW.” Tristan’s hands were fisted, and his face, washed by the strange artificial light, seemed locked in a frozen expression.

“Here, take my keys,” Brenda said. “It doesn’t look like I’ll be going anywhere outside the ranch tonight. Take them. Go. We’ll be fine.” His eyes volleyed from Brenda’s face to mine, and the pain I saw in his was overwhelming. He reached out for the keys. Brenda pointed to the kitchen building. “It’s the Honda Pilot. It’s unlocked. Drive safely Tristan, there is a port for charging your phone where the cigarette lighter is located. Go. Now.”

He once again turned to look at me. Neither of us spoke. Then he said to Ernie Lopez. “You’re in charge of my mare. Don’t let anyone or anything hurt her. I hold you responsible.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He left, breaking into a run. A few minutes later, the Honda zoomed by us. He didn’t turn his head to look, didn’t wave. And just like that, Brenda’s Honda disappeared down the same road where Rogelio Avondo had driven off with the stolen truck.

“What happened? Is it Angelique?” I swallowed anger as I spoke.

Bob sighed. “That poor guy, he can’t catch a break. It’s his house. When the investigators went back to the house for a second search there wasn’t anyone there, and they smelled smoke. Apparently, someone set fire to the section of the house where Tristan’s rooms are. That’s all I know.”

“You think it was Avondo?” I asked.

“How? He was here when we got here, and by then the fire had already been set.”

No one said the name we all thought. Bob must have picked up the vibration. “Let’s not speculate. We’ll find out soon enough.”

As a validation of his words, a Sheriff’s vehicle with blazing strobe lights rounded the corner of the entrance to the No Name Ranch.

SIXTEEN

WE HUDDLED AROUND the sleek, but cold-looking industrial kitchen counter where I’m sure many of Brenda’s recipes had come to life and her dreams of Gourmet Meal Delivery for seniors met their fate. Poor Aunt Brenda. Her own utensils and books must have been packed in her Honda because I didn’t recognize anything in sight. She had however managed to make me a wonderful peanut butter and sliced apples sandwich. Not that I felt very hungry at this point. I couldn’t wash away Tristan’s look of defeat in the brief flash that our eyes met. Poor, poor Tristan.

Brenda had left to show Detective Reid the rooms Lois and Angelique had occupied at the ranch. She had no idea where Rogelio/Leo’s room was. His clothing littered the floor of Angelique’s room.

Luckily this was Saturday night, and I didn’t have any real estate business planned for the next day. Greg Coste’s inspection was scheduled for Monday, and my phone had been quiet.

All that took second place to my concerns regarding Tristan. Where would he sleep if most of the house had burned? Bob mentioned that the fire had been set on the side of the home where Tristan’s rooms were located. I remembered when I visited him after the car accident, resting on a lounge chair he told me belonged to his mother. He had recreated his mom’s sitting room where she would sit and read to him when he was a child.

Oh, my God... it wasn’t Tristan’s stuff the arsonist was after—it was his mother’s irreplaceable personal belongings. Angelique. It had to be her. It just had to. The odd conversation I had with Brenda regarding Angelique’s feelings toward Tristan’s mom popped into my mind. Angelique had called her a home-wrecker and claimed Philippe Dumont was supposed to marry her, Angelique, not the home-wrecker.

That had to be the reason behind the fire. To erase memories of Mrs. Dumont from the face of the earth? Revenge? After all Tristan did for ungrateful Angelique?

I wanted to know. No, I needed to know how he was handling the loss. I had already told Detective Reid everything and anything I knew about the brief, unfortunate encounter with Rogelio/Leo. Even adding the small detail about not seeing any car around the Dumonts’ residence on either day when Silvia De Aguilar visited.

Detective Reid said that the poor woman indeed had a car, which was now missing. A 2012 white Kia Soul. Oh, I called those cars the cube because of the square-looking shape, and I definitely didn’t see any Kia around as I’d driven by on that Wednesday and noticed the silver Escalade parked in the motor court of the Dumont residence.

By 2:00 a.m. both Phoenix PD and the Tucson group met in the same kitchen where I could hardly keep from falling asleep and told us we were free to leave. Someone would contact us if needed.

Since neither Brenda nor I had any means of transportation, Bob Clarke drove us home. I sat in the back with Dior who eventually ran out of enthusiasm and fell asleep on my lap. Brenda sat up front with Bob and two coffee mugs. They did have a good, friendly