Free The Exiled by Christopher Charles

know this how?”
    “I found letters.”
    “Where?”
    “Her office.”
    “We have a warrant for that?”
    “An employee of the store gave me permission to search the premises.”
    “Clara. All right, Raney. I’ll get on it.”
    “There’s something else.”
    “What?”
    “We need the county computer geeks. Mavis had a laptop.”
    “You’re after that ledger?”
    “Among other things.”
    “I’ll see if I can get one down here.”
    “The sooner the better.”
      
    Clara invited him up.
    “You know, I used to work narcotics,” he said.
    “Pot isn’t a narcotic.”
    “It isn’t legal, either.”
    “Then arrest me. I would have thought you had more important things to do.”
    “I’m just returning your keys.”
    Her tone softened.
    “If I put this out, will you stay?” she asked. “Daniel’s asleep. I don’t smoke in front of him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
    Raney hesitated.
    “I’ll make us tea,” Clara said.
    “As long as it isn’t herbal.”
    “I don’t drink my herbs.”
    He followed her upstairs. She’d changed into jeans but wore the same faded yellow T-shirt. The back read NM ARTS FESTIVAL, 2000 above a blood-orange rendering of the Zia sun symbol.
    “Did you grow up in New Mexico?” Raney asked.
    “Outside Sacramento. You?”
    “Brooklyn.”
    “Two coasts, meeting in the middle,” she said. “Or somewhere near the middle.”
    The apartment was a converted loft: kitchenette and bathroom cubicle along one wall, gypsum-board bedrooms off a slim back corridor. Television, couch, coffee table in the living space. An easel set on a canvas tarp facing the front window. The window was open, a pedestal fan blowing fumes and smoke out above the street. The painting-in-progress looked like a New Mexico vista if the colors from different times of day all bled together and the mountains turned flat. There were a dozen more paintings lined against the wall, each part of the same series.
    “They’re beautiful,” Raney said. “You’re talented.”
    “Whether I am or not doesn’t matter today.”
    “No,” Raney said. “But it will again.”
    The TV was on. The screen showed an aerial view of the Wilkins ranch, the tagline COUPLE KILLED DAYS APART streaming across the bottom. Raney thought: What about Junior?
    “They’ll start calling it the murder ranch now,” Clara said.
    Raney caught a snippet of the commentary: “Police claim to have leads but are refusing to release any information at this time.”
    Bay was holding firm.
    “Is it true?” Clara said. “You have leads?”
    “We have a clear direction to look in.”
    “The side business?”
    “Maybe.”
    “That’s all you can say?”
    “For now.”
    The kettle started to rattle. She dropped tea bags into two oversize mugs, stirred in sugar and milk.
    “Oh, shit,” she said. “I should have asked.”
    “It’s fine,” Raney said.
    They sat at arm’s length on the couch. Clara switched off the TV.
    “Did you find anything in the shop?”
    “I’m not sure. Let me ask you—how do you explain the difference between Mavis’s office and home?”
    “You mean the clutter?”
    “That’s a kind word.”
    “The house was all Jack,” she said. “He wouldn’t stand for a hair out of place. The office was compensatory. I think the real Mavis was somewhere in between.”
    They were quiet for a moment. Then Raney said:
    “What do you know about Mavis’s life before Jack?”
    “Not much. She’d been here so long that the early years never really came up. And I had the impression she didn’t want to talk about it, like she was afraid of resurrecting some trauma.”
    “What kind of trauma?”
    “Family, I’m guessing.”
    “Did she give you any details?”
    “No. But she invited me over every Christmas and Thanksgiving. No one else came. No one called.”
    And your family? Raney thought.
    “What was it that made you so fond of her?”
    “I don’t know. She was a good person. She was kind.