A Palette for Murder Read online

  A PALETTE FOR MURDER

  A LANA DAVIS MYSTERY

  A PALETTE FOR MURDER

  VANESSA A. RYAN

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, Cengage Learning

  Copyright © 2015 by Vanessa A. Ryan

  Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, digitizing, taping, Web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Ryan, Vanessa A.

  A palette for murder / Vanessa A. Ryan.

  pages cm. — (A Lana Davis mystery)

  ISBN 978-1-4328-3041-0 (hardcover) — ISBN 1-4328-3041-4 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-1-4328-3028-1 (ebook) ISBN 1-4328-3028-7 (ebook)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3028-1 eISBN-10: 1-4328-3028-7

  1. Insurance policies—Fiction. 2. Beneficiaries—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.Y347P35 2015

  813'.6—dc23 2014042016

  First Edition. First Printing: April 2015

  This title is available as an e-book.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3028-1 ISBN-10: 1-4328-3028-7

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  Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 19 18 17 16 15

  To Barbara

  CHAPTER ONE

  Miguel Garcia raised his fists and got in my face. I rolled my chair back. I didn’t want to be in the line of fire if things escalated. Where was Security when you needed them?

  “I’m the one who signed on her death certificate, Ms. Whatever,” Miguel insisted.

  The sign on my desk stated my name was Lana Davis, but I didn’t want to push the issue.

  “Antonio hasn’t been around for years,” Miguel growled. “I took care of her, and he thinks he gets everything. He’s just a little guy . . . with a big guy complex. A nothing.”

  Maybe everything Miguel said was true. His cousin Antonio was a bragging little runt who’d never amount to anything. Miguel was a big guy, so he knew what that meant. But as a six-foot blond female, I knew what that meant, so I found myself sympathizing with Antonio’s plight, especially when I considered the source of the complaint against him. Miguel had an ax to grind. He wasn’t the one getting the money. Antonio was.

  I glanced at the death certificate Miguel threw on my desk. “Mr. Garcia, thank you for bringing this to our attention, but it states on your great-aunt’s policy, Antonio Chavez is her beneficiary. I’m sorry. We can’t authorize any payment to you.”

  Somehow, I didn’t picture Miguel as a loving caretaker. But that wasn’t for me to speculate. His great-aunt had lived until eighty and died before her policy lapsed. Her file seemed to be in order and now one of her grandnephews, a certain Antonio Chavez, was to inherit five-hundred-thousand dollars. As of yet, he hadn’t come forward to claim it.

  “I’m next in line,” Miguel said. “If you don’t find Antonio, you have to give it to me. It says so in her will.”

  Whether it did or not was above my pay grade. “We’ll let you know, Mr. Garcia.” My response did little to placate Miguel. But I didn’t care. If I let all the Miguels of the world bully me . . . besides, the security guard had wandered by, and I felt safe.

  It wasn’t my job to find Antonio Chavez, or any beneficiaries of policies issued by First Century Life, where I worked. It was up to Antonio Chavez to find us to get his money. Most of the time we didn’t know about the death of a policyholder, unless a beneficiary came forward. But with large policies, such as this one for Maria Escobar, Miguel Garcia’s great-aunt, we got letters from lawyers or trustees handling the estates.

  Although it was unusual for an heir, especially one not named on a policy, to come into our office, I would have forgotten about it, except someone claiming to be Antonio Chavez showed up a day after Miguel did. He fit Miguel’s description of Antonio. He was a little guy with a big mustache and big muscles, despite his short stature. My boss Charley, a big, white-haired Swede with a ruddy complexion and an infectious laugh, told him to wait in my office. I didn’t say much to the man. I knew Charley was checking out his story.

  Twenty minutes later two uniformed police officers entered my office. “Mr. Chavez, is it? We need you to come with us,” one of them said.

  They escorted the man out. Charley told me later the man showed up with a phony driver’s license.

  A few weeks later Miguel Garcia filed a complaint against us with the state and with the Better Business Bureau. Of course, the complaints were bogus. We couldn’t give him the money. But Charley felt the complaints affected our ratings with the public, so he hired a detective agency to find Antonio Chavez. After they charged mega bucks and turned up empty-handed, Charley was in a quandary. To make matters worse, Miguel posted nasty comments about First Century Life on Internet complaint sites.

  The claims department, where Charley and I worked, was on the second floor of the First Century Life building in West L.A. And now the big boys on the penthouse level, ten floors up, were on Charley’s case. But they wouldn’t give him much of a budget to hire another detective agency. That’s when Charley turned to me. “How would you like to go to Santa Fe?” he said.

  “Yeah. Are we having a conference there?”

  “No. But that’s the last known address for Antonio Chavez. It’s your claim. You’re going to have to find him. So don’t get us fired.”

  Great. “What do I know about finding anybody?”

  Charley stared at me. “I know what you do on your lunch hour.”

  It was a common but unspoken practice that employees at First Century Life often used the company’s accounts at official research sites to look up people for unofficial reasons. The company conducted their own background checks on all employees and on certain policyholders, and that’s why they had these accounts. I had undergone such a background check before First Century Life hired me.

  The searches themselves, with the exception of the credit checks, weren’t illegal. People could do them online, if they paid. But using the company’s accounts was cause for termination. Yet we did it anyway, considering it one of the perks of the job. I caught Charley doing a search once. He didn’t realize I saw him. I knew better than to mention that now. And I knew Charley. He liked me, but when push came to shove, if didn’t find Antonio, I’d be the one fired, not him.

  That detective agency wasn’t stupid. Most likely, they had combed that town looking for him. The one positive aspect of this bummer assignment, aside from playing tourist in Santa Fe, was earlier in the year, during one of my searches, I discovered an old boyfriend lived there. To use the
cliché, he was the man who got away. What would happen when I came face-to-face with Alan Finley in Santa Fe? It might be fun to find out, especially when I didn’t have to pay for the trip. Maybe he’d take me in if First Century fired me.

  Landing in Albuquerque, where even the airport looked happy with its friendly, Southwestern architecture and bright orange colors, convinced me my life was about to change for the better, despite the whole Antonio Chavez thing looming over me. This, after all, was the land of enchantment, where anything was possible, if I believed my new-age friends. The serenity I felt when I gazed at white hills dotted with the dark green shrubs of the Southwest, further convinced me. I figured if this wasn’t the moon or a planet other than Earth, it was close to it. What really got me was the silence. The weird silence. Silence like this cost a mint in L.A. And here it was free.

  If New Mexico was like another planet, its people were earthy. Most of them had liquor on their breaths. The lack of greenery and the dry air must have made them thirsty. From the guy at the car rental in Albuquerque, to the bellhop at the Zimoro Hotel on the Plaza in Santa Fe where I was staying, everyone had imbibed, and it wasn’t quite ten in the morning.

  I knew the drill. My ex-husband was an alcoholic. Something he wouldn’t admit to. In the three years since my divorce, I had not missed him one bit. I didn’t drink anymore. It reminded me of the bad times with my ex-husband. Maybe someday I’d get over it. I used to enjoy a glass of wine with dinner.

  The Zimoro Hotel’s brochure didn’t lie. The place was luxurious, if a bit touristy. My room was no exception. Its carved, wood-beamed ceilings, Navaho rugs on Saltillo-tiled floors and Southwestern-style furnishings and paintings gave me the feeling I had walked into the life of some glamorous movie star from the past. Although expensive, the room and the car rental cost less than hiring another detective agency. And it gave Charley an excuse to blame me if things didn’t go right.

  After I tipped the bellhop for carrying my bags to my room, I took the elevator downstairs to see the concierge, a petite, young Hispanic woman with large, bird-like dark eyes. Her name was Angelica Ortiz, according to the badge on her blue suit. She wore a gold, heart-shaped locket with a small diamond in the center around her neck.

  “Angelica, I just checked in and I wondered if I could have a map of the area.”

  Angelica smiled, but her eyes looked somber. “Of course, ma’am. Where do you want to go?”

  “I’m trying to find Route Eighty. I couldn’t locate it on my GPS driving over here, and I couldn’t find it on the map I got at the airport.” I didn’t smell liquor on her breath, but judging from the way she stared at the bellhop, who meandered by and who resembled her, he was the reason for her less than enthusiastic attitude. Not to belabor the point, but I knew what liquor could do.

  Angelica retrieved a map from behind the counter and handed it to me. “This may help. Sorry you’re having so much trouble.” But Angelica didn’t look sorry. In fact, I felt she regarded me with guarded hostility. Well, the woman had a drunk for a brother and most likely, despite that pricey gem around her neck, the hotel didn’t pay great wages. She figured me for a rich, blue-eyed blonde from California who took more of her time than she wanted. Most of that was true, except for the rich part. My salary at First Century Life didn’t pay enough to put me in that category.

  “Thanks,” I said. Still, I pressed on. “See, here’s the address I’m trying to find.”

  Angelica frowned as she looked at a scrap of paper I showed her. She hesitated. “Uh, I think you just need to look on the map. It should be there.”

  I had seen frowns like that before. It usually meant people knew more than they let on. “I’m looking for Antonio Chavez. I think he lives there, or used to. Do you know him?”

  Angelica stared at me and then shook her head. “It’s a common name. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “I’m with First Century Life. I’m trying to find him. He’s inherited some money.” I gave Angelica my business card.

  “Sorry, I don’t know him. I wish I could help you.” With a nod and a polite smile, she dismissed me.

  I studied the map Angelica gave me, but I couldn’t find Route Eighty. I got the rental car out of the lot near the hotel and drove to a gas station. Someone there might know.

  A white-haired man was filling his car at the pump when I drove up. “Excuse me,” I called out. “I’m looking for Route Eighty. I can’t find it on a map.”

  The man smiled. “Those routes are used for mailing addresses. The streets don’t go by that. But I don’t know where that one is. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “Believe it or not, you gave me what I need. Thanks.”

  I parked and went online to check the address on Land Title’s website. First Century had an account with them. I probably should have done that before I left L.A.

  A cross-check search of Route Eighty revealed the real name of the street was Calle Fernando, and the property didn’t belong to Antonio Chavez. A company called the Blackwell Corporation owned it. The company listed Route Eighty as its mailing address. Calle Fernando was off West Alameda, a long road leading to one of the more rural parts of the city. West Alameda was about nine miles from the Plaza.

  On Alameda, I passed a cemetery. It reminded me that I was almost forty, divorced, childless and alone. And I was about to chase after some guy who probably didn’t remember me. Unless I got lost in these hills and never came back.

  A few miles later, when I turned on Selvin Road, the asphalt turned into dirt, the hills disappeared and the land became flat. Every house had several acres between them. Some were in the Santa Fe style, with flat wooden roofs, while others had pitched roofs and looked like farmhouses. All of them seemed to be made of red, brown or beige adobe. Turning on Calle Duma, the next dirt road on the map, the terrain got hilly and rugged—four-wheel-drive country in the winter snow or the rainy season.

  Calle Duma dead-ended with a right turn at Calle Fernando. The houses were far back from the road, so I saw only their mailboxes with the route numbers printed on them.

  I found the address. I parked and walked up a long dirt driveway. At the top of a hill, covered with junipers and native plants, was the house, a sprawling, one-story red adobe with a pitched roof and turquoise window sills. Turquoise was a big color in New Mexico.

  “Hey! Get out of here.”

  Startled, I turned around and saw a man with gray hair. He wore an old pair of jeans and a dirty white sweatshirt. His red, swollen nose gave him away as a heavy drinker. He also held a rifle, though he didn’t aim it at me.

  “Hello. I’m Lana Davis. I’m looking for Antonio Chavez. I have this as his last address.”

  The man rested the butt of his rifle on the ground. “What do you want with Lefty?”

  “Lefty? Why do you call him that?”

  “Everyone does. Why do you need to find him?”

  “I’ve got news for him. But he never answered the letters I sent.” I wasn’t about to tell this man about the inheritance. I didn’t want him thinking I had it on me and shoot me for it.

  “You don’t look like you’re related,” the man said. “Who are you?”

  “I represent people who are related to him. Does he still live here?”

  “He did. But maybe he went back to the reservation. His woman is a Suique from Los Rios. I guess you know that.”

  I nodded, as if I did.

  “Maybe he didn’t go there,” the man continued. “Maybe he just went away. He had a room here. He owes me rent. Maybe you can pay me.”

  “Well, sure. How much does he owe?”

  “Six, but I’ll take five—hundred. When you find him, I’ll get the rest.”

  I didn’t have that much on me and told him.

  The man pointed his rifle at me. “You must want Lefty bad. What’d he do?”

  I freaked. “Uh . . . nothing, really.”

  The man laughed. “You’re okay.” He lowered the rifle, poin
ting it away from me. Then he stuck his hand out. “Now give me the money.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money. I told you.”

  He aimed the rifle in my face again. “Then give me what you have.”

  I shelled out two one-hundred dollar bills from my wallet. That seemed to satisfy him. I’d put this down as a miscellaneous expense on First Century’s books.

  “Since I paid you two hundred dollars, how about letting me see his room? Maybe I’ll find something that shows us where he went.”

  “He didn’t leave anything.”

  “You never know. I might find something you overlooked.”

  “You might. But you aren’t.” The man pointed his rifle at me again and marched me to the road.

  I looked in the rearview mirror as I drove off. The man stood in the road, aiming his rifle at my tires. I gunned the motor and sped away, with shots ringing behind me. Fortunately, he was a bad shot. He didn’t hit the tires, or even graze the car.

  Maybe Angelica Ortiz knew Antonio as Lefty. Regardless, she knew something about that house on Calle Fernando. I just felt it. But when I got to the Zimoro, Angelica wasn’t at the concierge desk. Instead, a young man stood behind the counter. He spoke to me with a Texas accent. “Can I help you, ma’am?” I could have sworn he had tears in his eyes.

  “I’m looking for Angelica Ortiz. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  He looked aghast. “I’m so sorry. Angelica . . . she . . .”

  “What is it? I was here an hour ago. I talked to her.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. She was shot. The police are with her. There’s an ambulance . . .”

  “Oh! Is she . . . all right?”

  “If you’re a friend or family, go over there . . .” He pointed to an exit. Overcome with the situation, he didn’t say anything more.

  I rushed through the exit door and saw the ambulance in the street. The paramedics were loading Angelica into the van. She had her uniform on. It looked like she was still alive. I ran up to them, but a police officer stopped me. “You’ll need to step back, ma’am,” the man said. His face was a blur. I backed off.