Second Grave on the Left

“You didn’t either,” she repeated, distressed. She was typing away on her laptop.

“Fan clubs!” I said, more than slightly appalled. “He has fan clubs. And mountains of mail.”

A sharp pang of jealousy slashed through my chest, ripping a hole in it. Metaphorically. Hundreds of women, possibly thousands, knew more about Reyes Alexander Farrow than I did.

“Why would anyone create a fan club for an inmate?” Cookie asked.

I’d asked Neil that very thing. “Apparently, there are women out there who become obsessed with prisoners. They scour news articles and court documents until they find prisoners who are attractive, then they make it their mission in life to either prove that prisoner is innocent—as they all profess to be—or they just admire him from afar. Neil said it’s almost like a competition for some women.”

“That’s just so wrong.”

“I agree, but think about it. The pickin’s are pretty slim for these men. Maybe women do it because they know they’ll almost surely be accepted by the prisoner. I mean, who’s going to reject a woman sending you love letters or going to the prison to visit? What do these women have to lose?”

Cookie cast a worried glance my way. “You seem to be taking all this exceptionally well.”

“Not really,” I said, shaking my head. “I think I’m in shock. I mean, holy cow, they tell stories.”

Cookie seemed to be in a state of shock as well. She was surfing a site on her laptop as I drove to one Elaine Oake’s house. Her eyes were wide and slightly lovestruck. “And they have pictures.”

“And they tell stories. Wait, what? They have pictures?” I decided, in the interest of transportation safety, to pull to the side of the highway. I hit the hazard lights then looked over at Cookie’s screen. Holy mother of banana cream pie. They had pictures.

An hour later, we stood at the doorstep of the woman I could refer to only as Stalker Chick. I mean, really? Paying guards and other inmates to get information on Reyes? To steal from him? Not that I wouldn’t do the same, but I had good reason.

A tall, thin woman opened the door. Her blond hair was cut short and styled to look messy, but I doubted that a single hair on her head was not exactly where she wanted it to be.

“Hello, Ms. Oake?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice holding the slightest hint of annoyance.

“We’re here to ask you about Reyes Farrow.”

“I have hours posted.” She pointed to a sign over her doorbell. “Can you come back then?”

I fished my PI license out of my back pocket. “Actually, we’re on a case. We’d really like to talk to you now, if you have a minute.”

“Oh. Well … okay.” She led us inside her humble abode, if a multimillion-dollar house with something like twelve gazillion rooms could be considered humble. Which, how could it? “I was just getting so many visitors, I had to post hours. Never a free minute.” She led us to a small sitting room. “Shall I call for tea?”

Was she serious? Is that what rich people did? Called for tea? “No, thank you. I just had thirty-two ounces of sugar-free nirvana on ice.”

She brushed a knuckle under her nose as if my uncouth behavior was … well, uncouth. “So,” she said, recovering from my impudence, “what has that rascal done now?”

“Rascal?” Cookie asked.

“Reyes,” she said.

Jealousy caused my muscles to spasm with her casual mentioning of Reyes’s name. It was uncharacteristic of me. I rarely spasmed, and in my book, it was every woman for herself. May the best flirt win. I’d always assumed I didn’t have a jealous bone in my body. Apparently, when it came to Reyes, I had 206.

I tamped the emotion down with teeth gritted and fists balled. “Have you been in contact with him any time over the last month?”

She laughed. Apparently, peasants amused her. “You don’t know very much about Rey, do you?”

Rey? Could this get any worse, I thought as my eyelid twitched. “Not really,” I said with my teeth still clamped together, so it was kind of difficult.

When Elaine stood and walked to a door, Cookie placed a hand on mine and squeezed. Probably to remind me there’d be a witness should I murder the woman and bury her lifeless body under her azaleas. I didn’t even know azaleas could grow in New Mexico.

“Then maybe you should come with me.” She opened a set of adjoining doors that led into what could only be described as a Reyes Farrow museum.

I stood with a gasp as a huge mural of Reyes met my eyes, teased me, caressed me with a fiery gaze that left me weak kneed and breathless.

“I thought you might like this,” she said as I drifted out of my chair and walked aimlessly forward.

I floated into Reyes heaven, and the rest of the world fell away. The room was large with lighted display cases and framed pictures lining the walls.

“I was the first,” she said, pride swelling in her voice. “I discovered him even before he was convicted. All the other Web sites followed in my wake. They know nothing about him except what I tell them to know.”

Or what guards at the prison tell her to know. Neil informed me they had fired four guards over the years for selling information and pictures to this woman, all featuring Reyes Farrow. And from the looks of her house, I’d be willing to bet Elaine could have afforded a lot more. Most of the framed pictures were the same ones featured on the Web site, candid shots that guards had taken when Reyes wasn’t looking. I wondered what she’d paid them to risk their jobs. And knowing Reyes, their lives.