“We’ve considered that. We hoped for some tire tracks, but the rain took care of everything except some fresh dog tracks, compliments of Rufus.”
“Yuck,” Taffy said. “He loves to be out, but what a mess he can make of everything.” She stood on her tiptoes, stretching. “You want a cup of coffee or something? I’ve got some cinnamon rolls that are out of this world.”
“That would be delightful,” I said. As we strolled across the street to her house, I wondered how many sets of eyes were peering out around curtains, watching yet another episode that would be instantly forgotten should the wrong person ask.
Chapter Twenty-four
Taffy Hines was right. The cinnamon rolls were outstanding, their aroma graced by freshly ground coffee far better than any I ever made.
“Do you start every day like this?” I asked around a mouthful of melted butter and roll.
“I try to,” she said, and pointed at the small framed motto on the wall next to the refrigerator. “If that’s right-if each day is a gift-then I think it’s nice to mark it in some way. This is the best time of day to do that, before it’s spoiled somehow after the sun comes up and people start moving around.”
Her kitchen was a pleasant place to be, even at that early-morning hour. Splashes of color marked the painted cabinets, with artfully rendered vines and flowers running up the doors, the painted tendrils laced around hinges and handles.
I bent over and regarded the floor, a swirl of color and pattern that threatened to induce vertigo. The floor vinyl was an impressionist’s blurred idea of a flower garden, the vibrant colors spotted here and there with shiny black insects that crawled between the washes of flower petals.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” I said.
“Neat, huh?” Taffy said.
A light, tentative scratch on the door by the kitchen range turned my head. “Rufus?”
She nodded. “He smells the rolls. But it’s a dog’s life. He doesn’t get any. He’s fat enough.”
“Me, too,” I said, and sighed. I watched as she refilled my cup. “Thanks. So tell me,” I said, and waited for her to return to her chair. “Do things get a little hectic around the store as Election Day rears its ugly head?”
Taffy Hines coughed a sharp burst of laughter and pushed the pack of cigarettes and the lighter that rested on the table in front of her another few inches away. She hadn’t lit up yet, and I was just as glad not to have to endure yet another temptation heaped on top of the rich food and wonderful coffee.
“Most of the time, Sam behaves himself,” she said. “Most of the time. I guess I kind of like all the political hubbub. It gives him something to think about. Keeps him out of my hair.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“This will be my nineteenth year.”
“I knew it had been a long time.”
“Sometimes too long. But you know all about that, I suppose.” I nodded. “I’m sort of surprised that you’ve stayed on.”
“So am I, sometimes,” she said, but she managed to say it with a smile. “I like the store, I like the customers.” She sipped the coffee. “I like knowing people, you know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“I see the same faces, week in, week out. The same faces, buying the same things. It’s comfortable. Live alone like I do, and it’s important.” She paused and shrugged. “At least to me it is.”
“Not that it’s any of my business,” I said, “but what do you think about Leona Spears? What’s your prediction there?”
“If she’s going to win the election, you mean?” Taffy chuckled.
“What a kook.”
“That means ‘no,’ I take it.”
Taffy frowned and gazed down at the flower garden linoleum. “I don’t know why she’s even interested in your job, Sheriff. I mean,” and she held up both hands, “what qualifications does she have?”
“Interest, I suppose.”
“Sam goes on and on about her.”
“Does he.”
“Sure. You’d think by the way he talks that if someone other than his brother-in-law wins the election, the whole county is going to go to hell, pardon my French.”
“Well, we’re on the way, it seems sometimes,” I said.
“Well…” Taffy started, then bit off the words as she changed her mind.
With my finger I drew designs on the place mat for a moment, then looked up to regard Taffy Hines. “Has he been minding his own business lately?” I saw her eyebrows knit together and, so she wouldn’t misunderstand me, added, “About you, I mean. Has he been leaving you alone? No more calls?”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m just a piece of the store furniture to him now,” she said. “And I guess that’s better than being pawed or panted over.” She looked hard at me. “He’s a foolish old man, Sheriff. Well, not so old, either, I guess. I’m surprised that his wife hasn’t either left him or shot him long before this.” She managed a tired laugh. “I just don’t know.”
“It’s his life to ruin as he chooses,” I said as I admired the last bite of the last cinnamon roll that I planned to allow myself.
“He seems to like to include others in his misery,” Taffy said, then shrugged as if to dismiss the whole subject.
“Did Sam happen to mention to you anything about a letter that he received?” I wasn’t sure what prompted me to ask Taffy about the Pasquale letters, except that I agreed with her-Sam Carter wasn’t the soul of discretion, and it was hard to believe he’d be able to keep such a juicy tidbit close to the vest…especially when he might stand to gain more than he’d lose if the letter’s contents went public.
“Which letter might that be?” Taffy asked. She wasn’t playing coy-or if she was, she would have made a wonderful poker player.
“Sam showed me a note that indicated one of the deputies might be involved in some shady dealings-”
She interrupted me with a loud laugh. “Oh, God…that thing. The one that says Tommy Pasquale is stopping Mexicans and extorting money from them?”
“That’s the one.”
“I told Sam that if he was going to send some piece of trash like that, he’d better get himself a damn good lawyer.”
“You what?”
She shrugged. “When he showed it to me, my very first thought was that he was going to send the letter. That he’d written it himself. Then he set me straight, told me that he’d gotten it in the mail.” She made a face.
“You don’t think he did?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I get the mail most mornings, and I even slit open each envelope so His Highness doesn’t have to. But I don’t look inside. Maybe it was there, maybe not. If there’s something that looks really personal, I don’t even open the envelope.”
“So you still think that Sam might have circulated the letter himself?”
Taffy Hines reached across and pointed at my cup. “Some more?”
“No thanks.”
She picked up the cup, rose, and walked to the sink. “He’s capable of it. But so are a lot of other people. He made it sound like he didn’t want the story to get out until you’d had a chance to do something about it.” She turned away from the sink and looked at me. “And I remember thinking that if he was so all-fired concerned about spreading rumors, then he shouldn’t have shown the letter to me in the first place.”
I sighed and pushed myself to my feet. “Taffy, thanks a million for the breakfast.” I glanced at my watch.
She smiled. “Give you a break from the Don Juan,” she said.
“Ah, another of my secrets shattered,” I chuckled.
“It’s a small town, Sheriff. There aren’t too many secrets left.”
I grimaced. “Just a few little naggy ones,” I said.
As I collected my hat and started to move toward the door, Taffy held out a hand, stopping just short of touching my arm. “You’re doing the right thing,” she said.
“How so?”
“Keeping a discreet eye on Grace,” Taffy said. “She told me last night about your visit with her down in Las Cruces and how the cops had followed her all the way home. She was pretty steamed.”