about Joyce?”
“They never said anything to me. You could call my brother in Seattle to see if they mentioned anything to him. Of course, he left home before I did.”
Elena’s phone rang. She dug around in her purse and grabbed it. “Hi, Mom. No, I’m with Detective Stillwater.” She looked up at him. “Did you know that Joyce had a criminal record?”
He watched her face as she listened to the answer.
“You did, but I don’t—” Her hand curled into a fist. “Okay. No, I’ll be at the shop in a few minutes.” She closed her phone and carefully placed it in her purse. Raising her chin, she met his gaze. “Mom knew about Joyce’s past. Are we finished? I need to meet her.”
“We are for now.”
“What does that mean?”
“I might have more questions as the investigation goes along.”
She nodded, gathered her purse, and left. He carefully observed her. He’d checked out her background. Elena Segura Jackson had no criminal record. Adopted at the age of ten by the Jacksons after the trauma of seeing her mother murdered by her father, she’d had a normal life with teenage rebellion. She had one ticket for speeding, but that was it. Her college records showed her as an A student and her move to New York had been uneventful as far as law enforcement was concerned. He needed to interview the mother and brother. It might turn up something.
There was something that bothered him. It was this attraction thing. What he needed to do was to chalk it up to too little sleep.
His cell rang.
“Hey, Dad, are you going to be home before I leave for school?” April asked.
“I’m on my way, now, sweetie.”
“Good. Grandma wants you to bring home some milk. She says you won’t mind.”
He laughed. His mother’s friend, Rosalyn Mendoza, had come to his rescue when he came home from his unit in Afghanistan to take care of his wife, who had breast cancer, and daughter. His own mother had died before his daughter was born, but Rosalyn had adopted his daughter as if she were her own granddaughter. April only knew Rosalyn as her grandma. “You tell her I’ll bring the milk. If she’s plays her cards just right, I might bring home some apricot empanadas from Juan’s.” He knew the baked turnover was a favorite of his daughter’s.
April cheered. “Hurry home.”
He laughed. “You just want the empanadas before you go to school.”
“No, Dad, it’s you I want to see.”
Her words brought on bittersweet pain that reminded him of how little he’d given his daughter over the years. But with the Lord’s help, that would change.
Getting off the bus at the northwest corner of Amarillo Plaza, Elena tried to put aside the fear gnawing at her. She didn’t want to think about what happened last night, but it seemed to race after her like a stalker. Hurrying past Mama Rosa’s Cantina on the corner, Elena walked toward Past Treasures on the north side of the central plaza in old town Santa Fe. This square was part of the original city, built with adobe. Wooden beams used to construct the adobe stores were used to support the new wooden awning built to give shoppers shade in the middle of a blistering day. In the center of the square, old hitching posts were left to emphasize the history of the area.
When she got to the shop, there was nothing there to indicate a murder had occurred within those walls. All the police tape was down, but the door remained locked. She found the keys in her purse and opened the door.
With her hand on the knob, she prayed, “Lord, give me strength.” Slowly, she entered the building. Her gaze scanned the room. The police had moved things, and there was black powder on several pieces of furniture and the back door.
Walking into the room, she heard voices coming from the janitor’s closet at the back of the store.
“You don’t have to do that yourself, Diane. Call your experts that deal with rugs.”
From the voice, Elena recognized Preston Jones, the owner of the art gallery next door. Preston dealt exclusively with artists from Santa Fe, Taos and the surrounding area.
“Is there anything we can do for you?” Cam McGinnis asked. Cam owned the native jewelry store on the other side of the shop.
The three of them emerged onto the showroom floor. Cam carried a bucket, and Preston had sponges. Diane saw Elena, handed her rag to Cam and raced to her daughter’s side.
“Oh, baby, how are you?” Immediately she was surrounded by her mother’s favorite perfume. “I was so worried about you. How did you get down to the police station?”
“The bus.”
Preston and Cam appeared behind her mother.
“How are you doing?” Cam asked, coming to her side. In his early fifties, he was a hippie, who came to Santa Fe in the early seventies and never left. He still bore some of his rebellious attitude toward the establishment and wore what was left of his hair pulled back in a ponytail. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed. His designs had become famous, and he’d developed a wide following. He was also a major dealer of native jewelry created by local artisans.
Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he hugged her.
She stiffened. “I’m okay.” She didn’t sound convincing to her own ears. When he released her, she stepped back.
Preston caught her gaze. “Are you sure?” He was the polar opposite of Cam. Preston Jones was tall, with a hundred-dollar haircut and clothes of the Hollywood elite, silk shirts and designer pants. She didn’t believe for a moment that he would help scrub this room. He’d probably give the sponge to her mother or Cam and then supervise.
“I can’t believe what happened here.” Cam looked around the room. “When I arrived this morning, the last of the cops were driving off. No one would tell me anything until your mom got here.” Shaking his head, he asked, “Why would anyone want to harm Joyce?”
Elena looked at her mother. They needed to talk.
“Guys, Mom and I need a few minutes,” Elena informed them.
The men glanced at Diane and she nodded.
Cam rested his hand on Elena’s arm. “If there’s anything that I can do, you let me know.”
She appreciated Cam. He’d been a rock when her father died. Those first few days after she arrived home from New York City had been hectic, but if something needed to be done, Cam had stepped up and helped until Adrian had arrived from Seattle.
Preston nodded. “Those are my sentiments, too. If you need anything, call.”
After the men left, Diane turned back to her daughter. “How are you?”
Elena sat down in the old rocker they’d recently acquired. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d go get my keys and purse from the cops. Detective Stillwater was still there.”
Diane sat on the coffee table next to the rocker. “And—”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about Joyce’s police record?”
Diane looked down at her hands. “It wasn’t my secret.”
“You didn’t think I needed to know?”
“At the time, no.” When Diane looked up again, she grabbed Elena’s hand. “Do you remember when your father worked in the prison ministry?”
“Vaguely.”
“It was something he had a passion for. He met Joyce while she was still incarcerated for helping her ex-husband to pass counterfeit twenties. Apparently her ex-husband convinced her to pass some of the funny money.”
“She knew that money wasn’t