The Mosaic Murder. Lonni Lees
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in order but she worked as hard or harder than all of them combined. Barbara stood a statuesque 5’ 9”, and carried herself with the grace of a runway model. Her legs were long and her lean body was crowned with silky blonde, shoulder-length hair. High cheekbones accentuated her straight nose and determined mouth and her natural beauty belied the fact that she was at the high end of her forties. Nature and genetics had been good to her.
Barbara leaned against her rake and sighed, then continued raking the tiny leaves into piles and lifting them into the trash can.
“Okay,” she said. “This will have to be good enough.”
“Fine by me,” said Rocco. He wiped the gritty perspiration from his brow and threw his rake to the ground, looking around for any loose twigs they may have missed. It was an exercise in futility. By tomorrow morning hundreds more mesquite leaves would have fallen to replace those picked up today.
“Adrian,” Barbara said. “It’s getting late, could you wind it up there?”
“Hey, I’m on a roll here,” said Adrian as she lifted another broken shard from the bucket. “Three more tiles, just three more.”
“Right. And then three more after that.”
Rocco picked up the rakes and leaned them against the side of the building, then dragged the trash can beside them. He looked around and decided it was a job well done. He could feel the tension building between Adrian and Barbara, thickening like bad gravy in the hot air. He didn’t like tension or arguing or anything that edged its way in to disturb his inner calm. Whenever those things threatened to raise their ugly heads Rocco was the peacemaker, the one to smooth over hurt feelings and imagined slights and ease things back into his comfort zone.
“C’mon Adrian,” he said. “We’ve got to get a move on.”
“Don’t bug me.”
“Put it away and I’ll give you a ride home,” he offered. He gave her a disapproving frown, with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head meant only for her eyes. She caught it and gave him a nod.
“Gotcha,” she said.
Barbara looked at her watch and exhaled an impatient sigh. It was getting late and there was still no sign of her husband. She cleared her throat, then spoke: “I’m sorry guys, but could you stop by The Trader’s on the way and pick up some food for the reception? I’d really appreciate it.”
Adrian pulled herself up from where she was squatting with a loud grunt and reached for the bucket of tiles.
“Isn’t that Arrrrmando’s job?” she said with a sarcastic roll of the r in Armando.
Barbara looked at her apologetically. “He hasn’t made it back from Nogales yet. I guess he got tied up at the border check again.”
“He’s always got some excuse,” Adrian said. Then muttered under her breath, “Gullible.”
Rocco walked over to where Adrian stood and put his arm around her broad shoulders. “Just let it go,” he whispered to her, in another attempt to diffuse the tension that mixed with the hot afternoon heat. “You know you’re just spitting in the wind, let it go.”
She ignored him and went on. “Picking up more of those Mexican artifact rip-offs from across the border? He had to do it today? My God Barbara, how can you display that crap in the gallery? It’s....”
“It sells.”
“At what cost to your reputation? They’re worthless tchotchkes that belong in a 99 Cent store. I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it.”
“It sells,” Barbara repeated.
“Okay ladies, enough,” said Rocco. “We’ll gladly pick up the food, Barbara, won’t we Adrian?”
“Nice to know how valuable we are when you need something,” Adrian muttered under her breath.
Rocco shook his head and gave her another disapproving scowl. “I’ll get you a six-pack of those orange-cranberry scones, sweetness,” he said.
Barbara went inside the gallery and returned with some petty cash. She handed it to Rocco and thanked him. He kissed her on the cheek, took Adrian by the arm and led her out to his parked van.
“Where’s your Victory?” she asked.
“Motorcycle’s in the shop,” he said, opening the door of the van for her, hinges creaking. “It’s getting Gatlin’ gun exhaust tips.”
“You should spoil your women as much as you spoil that bike,” she said as she slid into the passenger seat.
“If I could find one as charming as you I would,” he said with a wink.
“Why Rocco, you keep up that flattery and I might be tempted to go straight.”
“That’ll be the day,” he said with a hearty laugh.
* * * *
Detective Maggie Reardon pulled the dusty car into an empty space in front of the mini-mart. The heat was stifling and she wanted a cold drink. The day had been reasonably quiet and she felt more relaxed than she had in days. She turned off the key and slid out, feet touching the hot pavement as she slammed the car door and walked to the entrance. The leather from her gun belt squeaked in unison with her steps as she pushed her way inside. The bell above the door jingled, announcing her arrival.
Carlos, a slightly-built elderly man, looked up from where he stood behind the counter by the cash register and gave her a smile. His yellow-toothed grin filled half his face and made his dark eyes sparkle. “Buenos Dias, Señorita Maggie,” he said. “You be out catching the bad boys, sí?”
Maggie gave him a wink and a nod, then headed for the back of the store by the fountain drinks. She pulled out a cup, placed it under the spigot, and began filling it with ice and soda. She was the only customer in the store so decided she’d take a few minutes to chat with Carlos before heading back out. He was a kindly old soul and had been a permanent fixture by the cash register for as long as she could remember. He was there when she was a little girl who would come in for a bag of chips after school. He was the one who firmly told her no when she walked in as a teenager trying to buy her first pack of cigarettes. He consoled her when her parents died. And he was there to congratulate her when she walked in wearing her uniform for the first time, pride filling his eyes. Carlos was a second father to her, always knowing the right words to make her feel better when something in her life went haywire and always there to praise her when praise was due.
After Maggie pressed the lid in place and shoved in a straw, she walked down the candy aisle in search of the sugar fix that would serve as today’s lunch. Not a good balance of the basic food groups, especially with a day that always began with four cups of black coffee and five cigarettes, but it would do. At least, she thought, I usually pick up a Mickey D or something during the day to get my protein and vegetables. She knelt down to check out the array of candy bars lined up along the bottom row of the aisle.
The bell over the door jangled as a customer walked in and headed for the cold beer in the refrigerator case along the side wall. He was a wiry little guy, not much more than a teenager, with acned skin and a nervous twitch. He pulled out a six-pack, closed the refrigerator door with his skinny butt, did a quick look around the store and headed for the register. He plopped down the beer with a thud.
“I have to see some identification, please sir,” said Carlos, eying him.
“Ain’t got none,” said the kid.
“I’m sorry, señor, but it’s the law,” Carlos shrugged.
“Okay, okay,” said the kid as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun, aiming it at Carlos with a shaky hand. “Here’s my identification, now open up the register and give me what you’ve got.”
“Please, no problem, señor,” said Carlos holding out his palms in a gesture of defeat.
“Hurry