Cactus Heart (David Mapstone Mystery 5)

“I guess so,” I said. “I guess one might take it personally if somebody kidnapped his brothers and they were never seen again.”

“We don’t even know they did it!” Gretchen shouted, holding my wrist tightly enough that it hurt.

“Sorry.” She let go. “When I drink, I get passionate.”

She was on her second margarita.

“Do you doubt they did it?”

“I don’t know, David. I don’t know.”

“The newspaper articles made it sound pretty open-and-shut.”

“The newspapers,” she said, her tone neutral. Then, “So what do you think happened with Max? Are you allowed to tell me?” The rich brown eyes fixed on me intensely. “Do you trust me, David?”

“You’re helping me on the kidnapping, so of course I trust you. On Max, we just don’t know much.”

“He sounded so powerful. So much money.”

“Didn’t do him much good in the end.”

Gretchen sipped her drink. “Do you wish you could have that kind of world? All that money? And you didn’t even have to work for it. It just seems like a madness nowadays. Twenty-five-year-old kids with millions in stock options. And here we are, two civil servants.”

“I envy the rich their options,” I said.

The waitress brought our check. One other couple came in and sat at the opposite end of the room. They weren’t talking to each other.

Gretchen said, “My dad’s a teacher, so I’ll never inherit much money.”

“Well, my grandfather was a dentist before dentists made big money.”

“And your parents?”

“They died in a small-plane crash. I was just a baby. Dad was a lawyer for the state. Mom was a music teacher. I didn’t really know them.”

“Oh, baby…”

“I was very fortunate with my grandparents. And who knows about great wealth. There’s that whole business about the rich man passing through the eye of a needle.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please, no religion during the holidays.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being ironic. How could you know these days?

Just then my cell phone rang. The number was unfamiliar.

I excused myself and went to the little alcove off the Los Olivos bar to return the call. A mariachi band was playing Christmas tunes in the sound system.

“Deb Boswell.”

“It’s David Mapstone with the Sheriff’s Office,” I said.

“Mapstone, you’re quite something.” Her voice was brighter than the dour academic I remembered from Hawkins’ office. “Your grandfather was a dentist?”

“That’s right.”

“And he treated these boys? Andrew and Woodrow Yarnell?”

“Apparently.”