Chapter Nine
Nine
The white adobe building looked like nothing from the street. In keeping with Marfa minimalism, you had to venture inside to see what attracted visitors from as far away as New York.
Frigid air greeted Leanne as she stepped through the door.
She tucked her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, feeling out of her element as she glanced around the gallery.
Glass light fixtures suspended by gleaming silver chains hung down from the ceiling, illuminating a trio of sculptures in the center of the room.
Leanne crossed the concrete floor to the first piece, trying to make sense of the mishmash of crumpled tin and copper wires.
She’d taken an art class in college, but the slide carousels filled with Renaissance churches hadn’t given her much of a guide for appreciating modern sculpture.
Leanne eyed the security camera staring down at her from the ceiling. Instrumental music drifted from the back of the gallery, indicating someone was here, but the gallery staff was evidently fine to leave customers alone with the merchandise.
She approached an enormous floor-to-ceiling photograph depicting a starry sky above a canyon. The silhouetted rock formations looked familiar, and a glance at the nameplate confirmed her take: Milky Way Above Big Bend. The photographer was listed as Zach Olmstead.
Muffled voices emanated from a corridor, but still no one came out, and she moved to the next colossal photograph—a black mountain set against an indigo sky with chartreuse green swirls.
Like the neighboring piece, it was attributed to Zach Olmstead, but Leanne was certain the photograph wasn’t taken in Texas.
The third photo in the series showed another familiar rock formation, this one in the Australian Outback. Uluru at Night, read the caption.
The far wall contained another series of photographs, also taken at night. Leanne wandered over for a closer look. She recognized more views of Big Bend, as well as the McDonald Observatory in nearby Jeff Davis County.
“Good morning.”
Leanne turned around, unsettled that she hadn’t heard anyone approach. The woman behind her was tall and model thin, with straight blond hair that hung to her waist. She wore a white cashmere dress and slouchy suede boots.
Leanne nodded. “Good morning.”
“How may I help you today?”
The woman had an accent, maybe Scandinavian.
“Are you the manager here?”
She smiled indulgently. “I’m Freya, his assistant. Would you like to speak to Zach?”
“I would, thanks.”
“He’s in back unboxing a new shipment. One moment, please.”
She walked off, her shiny blond tresses fluttering behind, and Leanne stared after her.
Living in Dallas, Leanne had become accustomed to seeing women who looked like they’d just stepped off a runway.
Living in Madrone, not so much. But Marfa, Texas, was a whole different world and had much more of a fashion scene.
Leanne resumed her perusal of the gallery, making a full circle and arriving back at the Milky Way photograph as she heard footsteps on the concrete that were decidedly masculine. She turned around.
“Zach Olmstead.” He stepped forward and thrust out a hand. He wore all black, from his Hugo Boss polo to his shiny leather shoes. With his thick dark hair and deeply tanned skin, he was the visual opposite of his flaxen-haired assistant. Yin versus yang.
His handshake was firm and confident.
“I’m Detective Everhart with Madrone PD.”
An eyebrow arched. “The police. Wow.” His smile became a smirk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
People had all sorts of reactions when Leanne showed up unannounced.
The most common one was wary. In south Dallas, she might get a demand for a warrant or a door slammed in her face.
Madrone was more low-key—maybe a suspicious eye peering through the gap in the door. Sometimes she got simple curiosity.
What she didn’t usually get was lighthearted banter.
“I was just looking at the photographs here.” She turned to face them. “Are all these yours?”
“Not all. I have a few guest exhibitors.”
“Locals?”
“Some.”
“And do you own the gallery?”
“I do.” He stepped closer and folded his arms over his muscular chest. “Have you been in before?”
“I haven’t.”
“You’ll recognize this subject, I’m sure.” He nodded at the Big Bend piece.
“Santa Elena Canyon.”
“You’ve been out there, I take it. Do you like to camp?”
“No.” She nodded at the neighboring photograph. “And these are the northern lights?”
“Aurora australis.” He smiled. “Same thing, different hemisphere. This one was taken in Argentina.”
“I see.” Leanne glanced around. “Looks like you travel a lot.”
“Wherever the work takes me. These are part of my running series on dark sky destinations. We’re one of the few.”
“We?”
“Here in the Davis Mountains. We’re leading the way in astrotourism and combatting light trespass.”
“Interesting.”
He smiled. “You look skeptical.”
“I would think the two would work against each other.”
“Not at all.” He eased closer, warming up to the topic. “We’re one of the foremost dark sky reserves in the world. And the lack of light pollution here allows for some dramatic visual effects from a photography perspective.”
“So I see.”
He smiled again. “So, tell me, Detective. What can I do for you today? I’m sure you didn’t drive all the way from Madrone to discuss photography.”
She nodded, once again struck by how comfortable he seemed talking to a cop at his place of business. Most people would have become antsy with the small talk and gotten defensive by now.
“I came across this card in a file.” She pulled the business card from her pocket.
Now he looked genuinely intrigued. “Well, that’s a blast from the past. We changed our logo ten years ago.”
“You were the owner here then, too?”
“I was. I’ve been out here eighteen years.”
“And before that?”
He gave a shrug, and for the first time, she caught a hint of discomfort. “Before that, I moved around.”
“Are you from West Texas originally?”
“Originally? I’m from Florida.” He sighed. “At some point, are you planning to tell me what this is about?”
“Just doing some background research.” She gave a shrug and mirrored his easygoing stance. “Do you remember being contacted by a Madrone detective at any point with regard to a missing teenager? Her name was—”
“Hannah Rawls. Of course I know who she was. That was all over the news.” His brow furrowed. “And it’s back in the news now, if I’m not mistaken.”
“So, you remember talking to a detective at the time?”
“No. I said I remembered the case. I don’t recall talking to a detective about anything.”
She watched his eyes for signs of evasiveness.
The words “I don’t recall” were a red flag.
On the other hand, this would have been sixteen years ago, so maybe he truly didn’t remember.
Maybe Leanne’s father had stopped by here to ask about something, possibly about someone Zach Olmstead knew or something he may have seen, and the interaction was so minor he didn’t even recall it.
Or maybe her dad hadn’t spoken to this man at all—merely stopped in and picked up a business card. Why, though?
And why was Zach Olmstead’s former home phone number—a now defunct landline—written on the back of this business card? Clearly, her dad had taken the time during the extremely hectic days after Hannah Rawls’s murder to make the forty-minute drive to Marfa. The same drive she had just made.
He had to have had a reason.
Zach Olmstead was watching her with whiskey brown eyes that held a mix of interest and curiosity.
And something else. Uneasiness.
She smiled. “Well, I appreciate your time today.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “That’s all? Really?”
“Really.”
He shook his head. “All right, then.”
“I’ll let you get back to your work. Thanks again for the information.”
“Anytime, Detective.”
· · ·
Leanne squinted up at the sun as she left the gallery.
She unhooked her aviators from her shirtfront and slid them on.
After glancing up and down Highland Street, she headed north, following the vague recollection of a tucked-away burrito shop.
She passed a pair of boutiques showcasing designer boots and cowboy hats.
Similar shops were popping up in Madrone now, too, selling western-themed housewares and obscenely priced candles with names like “junipine” and “tooled leather.” Moving past the display windows, she replayed her conversation with Zach Olmstead.
He was smooth. And—she had to admit—extremely nice-looking. But nothing about his GQ looks or his glib answers made her think that she’d accomplished anything at all this morning other than wasting her time.
Her phone chimed and she pulled it from her pocket.
“Everhart.”
“Where the heck are you?”
It was Josh.
“Investigating. Where are you?”
She pictured him holding his phone, gritting his teeth at her nonanswer.
“I’m on my way to a domestic in Canyon Glen.”
Canyon Glen was a trailer park on the west side of town where some of their frequent flyers resided.
“Skip Sanders?” she ventured.
“You guessed it. It’s your turn, but you’re MIA so they tossed it to me.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I told Nadine I’d be out this morning. I’m in Presidio County running an errand, and then I’m making the rounds, checking on MP reports.”
“Hey, heads up, Novak is here again, and the word is they’re planning another press briefing sometime this afternoon.”
So, maybe she hadn’t wasted her time coming here. Looked like she had a reprieve from today’s photo op.
Leanne spied a yellow café awning and sped up her pace.
“Leanne?”
“I’ll be sorry to miss that.”
“Uh-huh.”
The awning turned out to be a coffee shop, and she glanced around, trying to remember where she’d seen the burrito place. She spotted a chalkboard sign at the end of an alley, and a line of people waiting.
“Thanks for covering Canyon Glen,” she said. “I’ll catch the next one.”
“I’m holding you to it.”
“Really, I promise.”
Leanne ended the call as she neared the line of people. She halted in her tracks when she realized they weren’t waiting in line for food. She glanced around for the chalkboard, but it was blocked now.
A murmur rose from the crowd, drawing her closer. People spoke in hushed voices, and Leanne’s radar went up. Was someone injured? She hustled past the line of people and came to a small courtyard surrounded by a low stone wall. At the back of the courtyard was a pink adobe house.
Leanne turned to the white-haired woman standing beside the gate. “What’s everyone doing?”
The woman said something in Spanish and nodded toward the side of the courtyard.
On the wall of the building was a mural of the Virgin Mary.
She was depicted in a sky-blue cape adorned with pink stars, an oval of lilies surrounding her.
Her hands were folded in prayer, and she gazed down at the people in the courtyard.
Some knelt at the Virgin’s feet. Others stood with their eyes closed, holding rosary beads. Something about their quiet reverence made Leanne stop to watch. Her gaze fell on a woman standing near the door to the house. She was short and round, and her dark brown eyes were fixed firmly on Leanne.
“Senora.” The woman stepped forward, gesturing toward the house. “Come in.”
Leanne glanced around, thinking she was talking to someone else.
The woman nodded. “Come. Please.”
Leanne hesitated. Then she stepped toward her.
“You are a police officer?” The woman pointed at the badge clipped to Leanne’s belt, partly hidden by her jacket.
“I am, yes.”
The intensity in her eyes put a knot of dread in Leanne’s gut. She’d seen this look before.
“I was just walking by, and I saw the crowd,” Leanne said. “What’s everyone doing here?”
“They’ve come to visit the Virgin.”
Leanne glanced at the mural again, then back at the woman. “Do they pay you?”
She smiled. “Some leave offerings.”
“Offerings?”
“Candles, fruit, money. We give it to the church.”
The cynic in Leanne took that with a grain of salt.
“I am Alma.”
The woman offered a hand, and Leanne took it. Her soft, two-handed grip felt like warm bread dough.
“I’m Leanne Everhart. I was just happening by—”
“It is okay.” She nodded. “Many people come by chance. The Lord brings them here.”
More like a burrito craving.
Leanne turned to look at the pilgrims shuffling through the courtyard in a slow-moving line.
It was a mix of women and men, old and middle-aged, speaking English and Spanish in low voices.
Some reached out to touch the mural as they neared it.
A row of bricks at the base of the painting was covered with coins and votive candles.
“Come in.”
She looked at Alma. This detour was the very last thing she had time for today. But the quiet plea in the woman’s eyes made Leanne follow her inside.