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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: A Kendall O'Dell Mystery
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Good luck getting anything else accomplished once you are hooked on the the heart-pounding adventures of flame-haired, investigative journalist, Kendall O'Dell! Adventure #1, she stumbles upon a dark conspiracy when she accepts a position at a small newspaper in the remote desert town of Castle Valley, Arizona. Why did her predecessor suddenly vanish while working on the unsolved deaths of two teenage girls? Why is the woman operating the local shelter so secretive? And how is attractive rancher Bradley Talverson involved? When Kendall discovers the body of a third teen in the desert, her life hangs in the balance as she strives to uncover the horrifying secret.
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Phoenix, Arizona
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to beconstrued as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.Copyright © 1998 by Sylvia Nobel2nd Printing Sept. 1998, 3rd, Oct. 2000,4th Jan, 2003, 5th April 2004, 6th May 2009E-Book Edition Publication Date: April, 2009All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher.For information, contact Nite Owl Books2850 E. Camelback Road, #185 `Phoenix, Arizona 85016-4311(602) 840-0132FAX (602) 957-1671e-mail: [email protected] 978-0-9661105-1-7Cover Design byATG Productions, LLC.Christy A. Moeller - www.atgproductions.comLibrary of Congress Control Number: 97-754261
"Oh...my...God. What have I done?" I murmured aloud, staring transfixed at the barren desert valley below the roadside overlook. No way could this be my new home. No way. As I consulted the Arizona road map once again, a hostile brown wind charged up the steep cliff, whirling my hair into a tangle and filling my eyes with grit.
I began to regret my impulsive decision to take the newspaper job in Castle Valley. But, had there been any choice? All through the drive from Pennsylvania I had tortured myself with 'If onlys.' If only I hadn't been forced to a drier climate because of asthma. If only I hadn't lost my job at the Philadelphia Inquirer. If only Grant hadn't dumped me. If only, if only...
An odd smell and snuffling sound made me whirl around. Instantly, I froze in shock at the sight of eight weird-looking creatures approximately the size of large dogs standing between me and the safety of my car.
A tentative step forward caused one of the grayish, bristle-coated animals to let out a snort and clatter its long, sharp tusks. What the devil were these things? They looked ferocious, like something out of a science fiction movie. Heart hammering, I shrank back against the stone retaining wall and edged a glance behind me to the sheer drop. There was no escape unless I suddenly developed the ability to fly.
A surge of panic contracted my chest. Stay calm, I urged myself. The last thing I needed right now was an asthma attack and to make matters worse, I realized that I'd left my inhaler in the car. If only a balky fuel pump hadn't detoured me off the freeway to Prescott for repairs, I wouldn't have even been in this godforsaken spot.
For whatever reason, the strange beasts suddenly lost interest in me. They dipped their heads and rooted among the dry weeds, flicking only an occasional wary look at me. I wondered what else I could do to screw up my life.
As I stood baking in the warm April sunlight, I cringed inwardly remembering how my well-meaning father had oversold my abilities to his old newspaper colleague Morton Tuggs, convincing him that I was already an experienced investigative reporter.
"Dad!" I'd whispered fiercely, "You know I was only in research."
He'd cupped his hand over the receiver. "It's not like you have a lot of options, Kendall. This place isn't far from Phoenix and he's got an opening right now. You talk to him." He set the phone against my ear.
After I'd introduced myself, he explained that not only would my investigative background be a plus, he also needed someone he could trust. Three weeks prior, he stated, one of his reporters had mysteriously vanished without a trace.
That snagged my interest, but I felt a vague sense of foreboding when he seemed reluctant to answer any further questions on the phone.
"If you decide to take the job," he'd added gruffly, "we'll talk more when you arrive."
That would have been the time to confess my amateur status, but I'd said nothing.
The sound of an approaching vehicle pulled my attention to the road and a surge of relief washed over me when a tan pickup pulling a horse trailer roared into view. I waved my hand and the truck eased to a stop on the far side of the road. Two men got out. The driver, a tall lanky man wearing mirrored sunglasses, strolled toward me then stopped in his tracks and stared.
His older companion limped up behind him and gestured to my Volvo. "You got car trouble?"
I shook my head and pointed. Both men peered around the car, looked back at me, at each other, then broke into wide grins.
"Those pigs botherin' you, lady?" asked the tall one, tipping the hat off his forehead, his mouth working a piece of gum. There was an unmistakable note of sarcasm in his voice.
Pigs? These hairy, sharp-toothed things were pigs? But why should that surprise me? They were like everything else I'd seen so far in this hot, dusty place: wild, prickly, and ugly.
He stepped forward, clapped his hands, and hollered, "Eeeeyaah!" The animals squealed and galloped away.
He turned back to me and swept the wide brimmed western hat from his head, revealing thick, blue-black hair. With exaggerated flair, he executed an elaborate bow, his smile mocking. "Always happy to assist a damsel in distress." Even though I couldn't see his eyes, I could tell by the slow movement of his head that he was eyeing me from head to foot.
Damsel? Great. Was that how I appeared? Weak? Helpless? I squared my jaw, not sure if it was his macho behavior that irked me, or the fact that I was thoroughly fed up with men at that particular moment. A failed marriage and a broken engagement certainly entitled me to that.
The older man explained that the creatures weren't actually pigs but Collared Peccaries called javelinas. "They look a mite fearsome, but won't usually harm you unless you go after their young'uns." A friendly smile creased his sun-leathered face. By the look of their clothing, I gathered I'd come across some genuine Arizona cowboys.
"Should have guessed," the tall stranger said scornfully, pointing to my license plate. "She's a bird."
I bristled. "What do you mean I'm a bird?"
"Snowbird," the other man explained. "You know,
tourist. Winter visitor. Folks who come here for the warm weather and then skedaddle."
"But," the contentious one cut in, "not before you interlopers pollute our air, clog our roads, drain our water supply and ruin our way of life."
"No offense intended, ma'am." The old cowboy shot a questioning glance at his friend.
But I did feel offended. Without stopping to think, the lie leaped to my tongue. "I am not a snowbird. For your information, I happen to be relocating to Castle Valley. I've accepted a very important...managerial position at their newspaper." I regretted my impulsive words immediately and wondered why I should even give a crap what this arrogant man thought.
For a long minute they stared at me in silence, and then the tall cowboy grinned. "Well, now, is that a fact?"
A sharp ringing sound like metal striking metal, and a high whinny from the trailer got both men's immediate attention. "Come on, Jake," said the younger man, "we've wasted enough time. Let's get them back to the ranch." He reached the trailer in long strides, and I could hear him speak in a soothing voice to the horses.
I thanked Jake for his help, adding, "I'm not too crazy about your friend. He's got a real attitude problem."
His grin seemed rather sheepish. "Don't pay no attention to him. He just don't like newcomers much, and plus that you look a powerful lot like..."
His words faded as the ground suddenly swirled beneath me. I brushed a hand over my forehead as Jake stepped forward. Grabbing one arm, he led me to sit on a nearby rock in the shade of a scraggly tree. "You got water with you, miss?" A look of concern deepened the creases around his eyes. "It's real dangerous to be out here without some. People dehydrate in a matter of hours. The desert, it ain't nothing to fool with."
I decided I'd rather die than admit I was an ignorant snowbird. "Yes, I have plenty in the car." He didn't need to know I had only a few sips of soda left in my cup.
A loud shout from the truck. "Come on, Jake. Let's roll!"
I thanked Jake again for his kindness. He touched the brim of his hat murmuring, "Don't mention it," and limped away.
The dizzy spell behind me, I slumped into the oven-like interior of my car and downed the last of the warm soda, jumping in alarm when a hand reached through the window on the passenger side.
The dark-haired man dropped a thermos on the seat beside me. "You might need this."
I glared at him. "I'm perfectly fine. And anyway, I would have no way of returning this to you since it's highly unlikely we'll ever meet again." The haughty tone in my voice surprised me.
His slow grin was downright sardonic. "It's a small world. You never know." Waving a final salute in my direction, he headed back to the truck. I felt like he'd given me the finger as they pulled away. His bumper sticker read, WELCOME TO ARIZONA. NOW GO HOME!
By the time I reached the sign informing me that Castle Valley was fifteen miles ahead, I'd drunk half the water and was feeling rather foolish. The cowboy had been right after all.
Slowing for a cattle guard, I noticed a girl walking alongside the road. It wasn't my usual habit to stop for hitchhikers, but when she frantically shouted and waved, I pulled onto the shoulder. She begged for a ride and when I reluctantly agreed, she scooped up her backpack and plopped down beside me, exclaiming. "It's hotter than hell out here." I agreed and tried not to notice that she hadn't been within whistling distance of a shower for some time. "You going to Phoenix?" she asked hopefully.
"No. Just to the next town."
"Oh." A look of resignation flickered across her thin face. "No biggie. I'll get another ride. You mind if I smoke?" She flipped a damp blond curl behind one ear.
"Yeah, I mind," I answered, trying not to stare at the multitude of tattoos adorning her body, the studs in her nose, eyebrows, and that her ears must have been pierced a hundred times. Every time she moved, the array of earrings jingled when she moved.
"That's cool. No problem." There was a hard edge about her. I noted her ragged jeans and faded T-shirt. What in the world was this girl doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Was she a runaway? She couldn't be more than fourteen. As we continued down the road, she spoke little, staring straight ahead with vacant green eyes.
I dragged my thoughts from the girl to examine my new surroundings. Morton Tuggs had told my father that Castle Valley was a beautiful place and more healthful than Phoenix for me because it had no smog and was higher in elevation. My initial reaction was one of extreme disappointment. What a dinky town. It looked old and dilapidated, not at all what I'd imagined. A sign read: Population 5000. I wondered if that included the wildlife as a prairie dog skipped across the road in front of me.
At least the sunset was gorgeous. The sky boasted a brilliant tapestry of red, yellow and orange hues, tinting the rock wall to the east a vibrant shade of gold.
I stopped near the Greyhound Bus station, pressed a twenty-dollar bill into the girl's hand and suggested there might be a church or shelter where she could spend the night. She thanked me and got out, saying that the money would come in handy since she was headed for Texas. As I watched her walk away I suddenly felt very fortunate. Unlike her, I'd be staying at a motel tonight and I had a new job waiting for me in the morning.
I slept like a rock and rose late. As I downed my asthma medication, I prayed that the dry weather would restore my health and then I could return home.
When I arrived at the address I'd been given, my spirits tanked. How was I going to survive in this place? The newspaper building looked just like the rest of the downtown area - old and weather-beaten.
The receptionist at the Castle Valley Sun greeted me with a dimpled smile, and introduced herself as Ginger King. She seemed delighted to hear that I might be joining the staff and took my elbow in a friendly manner while ushering me to Morton Tuggs' office, which was situated at the end of a short L-shaped hallway.
I couldn't help but notice the smudged walls and frayed carpet as we reached the open doorway. From inside, a loud voice boomed, "The hell you say?" Hesitating, I turned questioning eyes to Ginger. "Don't fret none, sugar pie," she soothed, patting my hand. "His bark's a mite worse than his bite. You can set right there in front of his desk." Giggling, she gave me a little shove forward. The bald, red-faced man seated at the incredibly cluttered desk waved me in while continuing to harangue whomever was at the other end of the phone.
The wooden chair wobbled on uneven legs when I sat. Clutching my purse in my lap, I surveyed the room. It was crowded and shabby, relieved only by bright travel posters plastered on every available square inch of wall space.
"I paid you a shitload of money for this goddamned system," he shouted. He didn't have hair one on the crown of his head, but as he listened intently, his fingers absently fluffed, then pressed flat, the tufts of fuzz perched over his ears like gray cotton balls. "I don't give a rat's ass what you say, just get the hell over here and fix it!" The phone dinged when he slammed down the receiver.
After a few breaths to compose himself he edged me an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that." He reached out a welcoming hand. "So, you're Kendall O'Dell? Good to meet you. I see you got Bill's red hair. Quite a guy your dad. I guess he told you the story?" His brown eyes looked solemn, faraway. I took his hand, knowing he must be remembering the day my dad had saved his life when they'd both been foreign correspondents during the Vietnam War.
"It's nice to finally meet you too, Mr. Tuggs."
His other hand swiped impatiently at the air. "Tugg. Tugg. Everybody calls me Tugg." A hint of humor lit his face. "Except when they're calling me Tugboat behind my back."
I smiled, finally relaxing. We talked for a few minutes about what my routine assignments would be, the fact that his wife Mary had located several houses for me to look at and other general subjects.
During a lull in the conversation, I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Was I wrong, or was Morton Tuggs deliberately avoiding the subject I most wanted to discuss? I cleared my throat. "You said on the phone you needed someone with my investigative background and someone you could trust. Do you want to tell me about this missing reporter?"
A look of anxiety etched his face. Instead of answering, he rose, shut the door, and returned to his desk where he laced his fingers in front of him. "I have to tell you that I've agonized for several weeks over how to handle this. It was my intent to have you look into it but, under the circumstances...perhaps it would be best not to pursue the matter further."
I eyed him suspiciously. He wasn't behaving very much like the hard-boiled newspaper editor my father had described. "A man doesn't vanish for no reason. What did the police report say?"
"There was a search. It was called off last week. I've pressed, but there doesn't seem much interest in pursuing the case. The official line coming down is that he probably just got bored with our little burg and skipped."
"What do you think?"
Tugg absentmindedly fluffed the patches of hair again. "John Dexter wasn't real well liked. He delighted in digging up dirt on people. Go through some of the back issues and you'll see what I mean. He had a knack for really pissing people off. But," he added, "even though he was sort of flaky at times, I can't believe he'd just up and go with no notice."
"So, I'll talk to the police and see what I can come up with. Perhaps there's a lead they've missed."
"No!"
I jumped as his fist crashed on the desk. Then, noting my obvious shock, he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you...it's just that...I'm not sure giving you this assignment would be the right thing to do."
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. The major reason for my trip, resurrecting my aborted career, was fading before my eyes. "I'd appreciate a shot at this."
He swiveled in his chair and stared silently at the poster of Greece. After a minute he said quietly, "If you decide to work on this, it'll have to be strictly on the Q.T. Nobody else can know, and I'd caution you to be very, very careful."
His attitude disturbed me. It wasn't what he was saying, it was what he wasn't saying.
"Mr. Tuggs, Tugg..." I tried to keep the irritation from my voice. "You're going to have to level with me on this or I don't see how I can help. If you suspect foul play, which I gather you do, why aren't the police pursuing it, and why aren't you pushing for answers?"
As if struggling mightily with a difficult decision, he dropped his eyes and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Abruptly, he pulled open a drawer and extracted a ragged piece of paper. He stared at it, chewing his lower lip. "John called me at home the afternoon before he disappeared. We were having a big get-together for my daughter and it was so noisy I was having trouble hearing him. I wish now I'd paid more attention 'cause I only remember bits and pieces of what he said." He sighed heavily. "Something about meeting a girl later. Her information would tie into what he'd been working on earlier in the week, and if he was right, it would blow the lid off this town." He stopped, rubbed his temples as if in pain, then continued. "He'd been going through some files over at the sheriff's office and told me he'd discovered something weird. I'm not sure if there's any connection, but, I found this in his desk a couple of days ago."
I studied the smudged paper he handed me. In between a profusion of doodling, I read the scattered phrases: Med records gone. Both cases. Dead teens. T prof...Connection? Possible cover up?
Before I could speak he added, "One more thing. And, this is a doozy, the part that's really got me boxed into a corner. The last thing he said before he hung up was, "'Whatever you do, don't mention this to Roy.'"
I looked up. "Who's Roy?"
The pained expression again. "My goddamned brother-in-law."
It was frustrating having to drag every word from him. "So?"
"He owns half this newspaper and...he's the sheriff."
2
I left Morton Tuggs' office, my head still reeling from his disturbing revelations, and trotted after Ginger, who'd been charged with familiarizing me with the layout. For the moment, I pushed the John Dexter puzzle to the back of my mind.
In the paper-littered production room, I shook hands with Harry, a big, burly man with coffee stains on his T-shirt, and then Rick, who peered at me owlishly through thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Lupe and Al, busy on the phones with classifieds, flashed preoccupied smiles. While Ginger prattled on, filling my head with endless personal statistics about each employee, I strained to maintain an expression of interest. The place was much smaller than I had imagined.
"And this here's your office." She gave a grand sweep of her hand.
Inwardly, I cringed in dismay at the sight of the dingy room crammed with several filing cabinets and three scarred desks topped with piles of clutter. Two smeary windows faced east overlooking the parking lot.
"Jim's out on assignment, but I see Tally's still here. He writes all the sports goodies." She nodded toward a man hunched over a desk in the far corner with his back to us, the phone cradled on his shoulder. A playful lilt edged her words as she sang out, "Hey, darlin'! Turn 'round here and say 'howdy' to your new roommate."
Apparently absorbed on the phone, he didn't acknowledge us, so I told Ginger I'd meet him later. No sooner were the words spoken when he swiveled his chair around and stood to face us. Our eyes met, and my mouth sagged open as a jolt of recognition shot through me. It couldn't be! There in front of me clad in boots, jeans, and a checkered shirt, stood the tall, lanky cowboy from yesterday. The pig chaser.
He nodded. "Bradley Talverson at your service...again, ma'am." His lips twisted in a wry smile as he motioned toward a tiny, metal desk. "I hope you'll find the...ah...accommodations here in the executive office to your liking."
With a chill of embarrassment, I remembered my fabricated tale of an important managerial position. So, that's why he'd acted the way he had. He must have thought I was a complete ass and I had no doubt my face was as red as it felt. The expression in his dark eyes challenged me to react. For what seemed an eternity, I wrestled with disbelief, regret and irritation. There seemed only one right thing to do. I laughed.
A look of surprise flitted over his lean face. "Well," he chuckled, widening his stance and folding his arms across his chest. "I'm glad to see you have a sense of humor."
Ginger regarded the two of us with astonishment. "Y'all know each other?"
"In a manner of speaking," he told her, and I couldn't help but notice his eyes brushing over me again. We parted on a handshake and my promise to return his thermos in the morning.
As I moved to the front door, I could tell by the look on Ginger's face that she was dying to know how we'd met. But I'd have to tell her some other time. Tugg had arranged for me to meet his wife, Mary at her realty office, and I was already late.
En route to the address, I thought about the rest of my conversation with Tugg. The newspaper had been owned by his wife's family for many years and her father had been editor up until four years ago when ill health forced him to retire. Under pressure, Tugg had given up a good position at the Arizona Republic in Phoenix and relocated to Castle Valley. He'd found the Sun in sorry shape and deeply in debt. A large infusion of cash was needed to keep it afloat, but no lending institutions were interested. Help had finally come from within the family. Roy Hollingsworth, recently married to Mary's twin sister, Faye, had advanced the money.
"You can see why I haven't been able to pursue this myself," Tugg had said glumly. "I'm between that rock and hard place you always hear about. Can you imagine what would happen if the paper accused Roy of dragging his feet on this investigation? If he pulls his financial support, we're sunk, not to mention that Mary would probably divorce me."
I asked him the best way to approach the subject with his brother-in-law.
"With caution," he warned. "Roy's not a man to piss off. He's got a hard head, a short temper, and," Tugg emphasized with a scowl, "he carries a gun. Just remember that." Ushering me toward the door, he'd apologized for placing me in such a delicate spot, but felt with my background I'd be able to dig up something without being discovered. Once again, the opportunity had come for me to declare my amateur status, and, as before, I thought better of it.
"Why don't you just hire a private detective or something? That way there'd be no tie to the newspaper."
He looked weary. "I'm barely collecting a salary now. Where would I get fifty bucks an hour to hire one?"
As I parked the car at the Castle Valley Realty office, I had more than a few misgivings about my decision to accept the position.
Mary Tuggs welcomed me with a beaming smile as I stepped inside her office. "I'm so very glad to meet you."
At five foot eight, I towered over her tiny, round frame. "My goodness, aren't you a sight! You remind me of a young Katharine Hepburn. Do you know who she was?"
I did. That clinched it. I decided I liked Mary Tuggs a lot. Outside again, I wondered if she'd need a leg up as we approached her red Bronco. Somehow she scrambled into the driver's seat without assistance. She showed me several unremarkable dwellings nearby, renting for astronomical prices, and then, noting my dismay, suggested a place located five miles north of town. "Morty thought you might like to at least look at it," she said, swinging onto the main highway. "But I'm not sure you'll want to be so far from town."
She told me that the three-bedroom, two bath house was vacant because the elderly owner, Teresa Delgado, was in a Phoenix nursing home recovering from a fall. Afraid of vandalism, she wanted Mary to find a trustworthy renter to occupy it until she returned. "It's been empty for a month now, so she's lowered the rent to get someone in there," she added.
"Sounds interesting," I replied, watching the cactus -covered landscape fly past. There wasn't another house in sight when we turned east and bounced along a rutted dirt road, leaving a plume of swirling dust in our wake.
"This is Lost Canyon Road," Mary informed me. "You'll be quite close to the Castle."
"Castle?"
She laughed and rolled her eyes. "Silly me. Of course you wouldn't know yet. That's Castle Rock," she said, pointing toward a mammoth, multi-colored rock formation. "It was named 'Castillo del Viento' by Spanish settlers. It means castle of the wind, isn't that pretty?"
I agreed and we'd just dipped into a dry sandy riverbed she called a 'wash' and were rounding a turn on the opposite hill, when she suddenly wrenched the wheel to the right. A black Mercedes with heavily tinted windows roared by leaving us in a choking cloud of dust.
My heart racing madly, I wheezed and reached for my inhaler.
"I'm so sorry!" White-faced, she pressed one hand to her chest. "What a maniac. He didn't even slow down." She shoved the truck into gear, grumbling, "That had to be someone from Serenity House. Except for the Hinkle Ranch a couple miles south of Tess's place, no one else lives out this way."
I took a few deep breaths and let the medication seep slowly into my lungs. "What's Serenity House?"
She slanted me a sidelong glance. "Well...it's a mental hospital."
That captured my attention. "No kidding? What's it doing out here in the middle of the desert?"
"The property was cheap. It's on the site of an old Spanish monastery which was crumbling to ruins. Some developer restored it and tried to make a go of it as a health spa. When that failed, a psychiatrist named Isadore Price bought it about six years ago." She pursed her lips into a thin line. "That was probably his Mercedes."
"I hope he's a better doctor than he is a driver." Mary frowned. "He's kind of a peculiar old bird. Keeps to himself mostly. I've only seen him a few times in town at a couple of social gatherings."
"Have there ever been any problems at this place?"
"To be honest, there was an incident right after they opened. One of the male patients escaped. He'd chopped up his family or something."
I shivered involuntarily.
"This town's never seen such excitement!" Her face became animated at the memory. "There was a huge manhunt, and everyone was pretty much on pins and needles until they found him. After that, a real high fence was built, and from what I've heard it's very well guarded. Nothing else has ever happened."
"How far is it from the Delgado place?"
"Less than two miles. And, of course, that's the whole idea of having it so secluded." She glanced at me again. "If it bothers you, I can turn around right now."
"No. I'd still like to see it."
"Okay," she said, steering onto another dirt road named Pajaro del Suspiro. Explaining it was Spanish for 'Weeping Bird,' she braked the truck in front of a brick-red ranch-style wooden house surrounded by golden palo verde trees and stands of saguaro cactus.
I got out and took a sniff of the warm, pristine air. Yep. Just what the doctor ordered. I followed Mary up the stone walkway and when she pointed to the giant rock formation, I stopped in amazement. It did resemble a castle and the effect was breathtaking.
While she fiddled with the door key, I listened to the lonesome keening of the wind and wondered if I could stand to live in such isolation. My misgivings faded as she led me through the spacious interior, decorated in bright Southwestern colors and heavy, Spanish-style furniture. It was a gigantic improvement over the cramped apartment I'd just left in Philadelphia, and far cheaper. I expressed surprise that she'd had difficulty keeping it rented.
"The trouble is," Mary said, showing me through the sunny kitchen, "most renters want a signed lease, and Tess won't have it because she wants the freedom to return on short notice. That's the minus, but," she added with a cheery smile, "here's a plus. The last tenants left in such a hurry, I never got a chance to refund their deposit. So, if you decide to take it, the first month would be free."
"I like the free part, but, what does the 'left in a hurry' part mean?"
Mary opened the front door. "They called me out of the blue late one night, and announced they were leaving right then and there."
"Why?"
There was no mistaking her tone of skepticism. "Tess certainly never mentioned it, but...they swore this place was haunted."
3
Fascinated by Mary's intriguing remark, I chose to put aside my misgivings and move in. The proliferation of insects that trooped in and out of the Delgado house the first few days bothered me more than the supposed phantom. I'd always considered myself fairly brave for a woman, having no particular fear of snakes, mice, or bats. But, when it came to insects, spiders especially, I turned into a shivering coward. There seemed to be an abundance of the eight legged creatures about, plus scorpions, centipedes, and humongous roaches. At my request, Mary sent the exterminator.
On his second visit in three days, overall clad, grizzle-faced, Lloyd "Skeeter" Jenkins of the Bugs-Be-Gone Exterminating Company, told me all I needed to know, and more, about the insects and rodents indigenous to the great state of Arizona.
"Now I kin git rid o' them pesky mice fer ya, an'the powder I'll lay down'll keep them centipedes and scorpions on their toes, so to speak. Spiders is something else again. Them suckers kin walk right over the stuff with them long legs o' theirs."
He left me with the sage advice to "never put yer shoes on in the mornin' til you've whopped 'em good. There's no tellin' what kinda critter mighta moved in an' set up housekeepin' durin' the night."
I wondered if I'd ever get used to the bugs, the dust, and the scalding sun. The calendar said it was still April but I could have sworn spring had been canceled and we'd gone right into summer as it was already in the 90's. My asthma had improved, but I was miserably hot.
"Don't you worry, sugar," Ginger had soothed hearing my complaint, "as soon as your blood thins, you'll get used to it." I wasn't sure I wanted my blood to thin.
My first week on the job was an exercise in frustration and adaptation. The Sun, a sixteen page tabloid, was published only twice weekly, Wednesdays and Saturdays. I sorely missed the daily deadlines, the lively newsroom chatter, and stimulation of the big city. I knew I couldn't go back to damp, cool Pennsylvania and face a life of being incapacitated, yet I didn't want to stay either.
My other co-worker - young, blond, brash and not overly bright Jim Sykes - didn't sympathize with my position. He grabbed all the interesting assignments while I got the leftovers. If I had to cover one more banquet, Ladies Club function, or write one more article about who was visiting whom from out of town, I felt I'd go nuts.
After banging my knee on the narrow desk for the third time that morning, I grumbled, "I hate this damn thing."
Bradley Talverson swiveled around at my remark, and taunted me with a crooked grin. "Welcome to the club. We all started at the rookie desk. Now it's your turn."
"Yeah," young Sykes joined in. "Now that Johnny boy's split, you're low man on the totem pole."
I glanced swiftly from one to the other. Neither man seemed particularly disturbed by his disappearance, and I reminded myself again that even they could not know of my secret assignment. I phrased my question carefully, trying to sound indifferent. "Oh, yeah. What was he like? John Dexter, I mean?"
Bradley's eyes narrowed. "All hat and no cattle."
I raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"
"He was a pain in the ass. Interested only in trash journalism."
"But he was real popular with the ladies. Married or single, right Tally?" Jim's eyes gleamed wickedly.
I knew there was some significance to the remark by the deadly expression on Bradley's face before he turned his back to us. His constant mood swings puzzled me. Sometimes he was cordial and friendly. At other times, withdrawn, angry almost, as if he were struggling with some inner demon. More than once, I'd caught him looking at me with an unreadable expression in his dark eyes.
Anxious to pursue the subject of John Dexter, I had just formulated my next question when Ginger stuck her head in the doorway. "Come on, sugar, let's shake it. Time for lunch."
Damn! If only she had waited five minutes. Bradley and Jim resumed their work; my chance for more questions gone for now.
As we walked the three blocks to the Iron Skillet, I silently thanked God for Ginger King who'd unabashedly inserted herself into the vacant slot in my life marked: friend. Short and round with light brown hair and sparkling ginger-colored eyes, she bubbled over with good humor. She was also a hopeless gossip. Endearing, but hopeless.
Three days earlier, during our first lunch together, she'd shrieked with laughter when I recounted my story of meeting Bradley, whose close friends called him Tally, she informed me. I learned all about her family, that she'd been born in Georgia, relocated to Texas when she was fourteen, then to Arizona and finally her heartfelt desire to settle down and have children.
"How old are you, sugar?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Well, you still have some time. I'm gonna be thirty-three next month and eligible men in this town are scarcer than hen's teeth."
Mingled between anecdotes about the good citizens of Castle Valley, she skillfully extracted large chunks of my background.
"I got married right after college, but it lasted barely two years."
"Oh, that's a shame." For a few seconds her expression was sympathetic, then it turned impish. "So, what happened? He beat ya? Chase other women? Was he gay?"
I laughed. "I think you've been watching too many talk shows. Sorry to disappoint you, but it was nothing so dramatic. I'd been working at my dad's newspaper since I could read and could do every job there practically in my sleep.
I was restless, ready to move on and my husband was studying to be a pharmacist. His plans included us staying in Spring Hill, complete with picket fence and a dozen kids. Mine didn't. Neither of us could change, so we parted friends. He got the dog, and I took my maiden name back."
Throughout the remainder of the meal, she'd pressed me for further details, and it was amusing to hear some of the things I'd told her, repeated by other staff members the following day. Some details were embellished almost beyond recognition.
With that in mind now, as we entered the restaurant and slid into the red vinyl booth, I vowed to talk less of myself and concentrate on extracting information from her.
"Oh, lookee here," she cried, eyeing the menu with regret. "Chicken and dumplin's. And me on a stupid diet again."
"Go ahead and have it if you want it."
She drew back in mock horror. "Easy for you to say, being skinny as a rail. Food don't go to my stomach, darlin'. Everything goes right here," she complained, patting her hips.
We were both giggling when a chestnut-haired woman interrupted, asking for our order. "Oh, Lucy," Ginger gushed, a sly expression stealing over her features, "this is Kendall O'Dell. Kendall, this is Lucinda Johns. She and her Aunt Polly run this place."
When I told her how much I'd enjoyed the previous lunch, she smiled and thanked me. As she took our orders, I couldn't help but notice her enormous boobs. It made me feel positively flat.
"Kendall's our new gal on the beat over at the paper. Ain't that nice?" The syrupy tone of Ginger's voice surprised me.
Curious, I glanced at her, then back to Lucinda in time to see her smile shrink. "I see. Congratulations." She cast a speculative glance at me before turning away.
A mischievous light gleamed in Ginger's eyes. "Okay," I demanded, "what was that little scene all about? You might as well have told her I have some dreaded disease by the way she acted."
"I just wanted to see if she'd act jealous."
"Jealous of whom?"
She studied her fingertips. "You."
"Me? Why?"
"'Cause she's had her eye on Tally since grade school. Her knowing you are there practically sitting in his lap all day'll keep her on her toes."
"I'm surprised at you. That was downright catty."
"I can't help myself."
"Well, she needn't worry. I'm totally burnt out on the male sex at this moment."
She cocked her head in question, so I told her the barest details about my shattered romance with Grant Jamerson, glossing over most of the painful details. "It was for the best, however. He'd have made a lousy husband."
As the noisy lunch crowd filled the room, I watched Lucinda and another waitress scurry from table to table. Five minutes later, she set the plates down in front of us without a word and managed the barest of smiles before rushing away.
I shook my head sadly. "Shame on you, Ginger. I've only been here nine days, and already I have a mortal enemy."
"Oh, flapdoodle. She'd have found out about you eventually any hoot. She keeps pretty close tabs on him."
I dug into my tuna salad. "So, they're an item?"
"If Tally was willing, she'd drag him to the preacher tomorrow. He's quite a catch y'know."
Ignoring her implication, I buttered a roll and yawned my disinterest. "To each his own, I guess."
"A gal could do worse."
I stopped eating. "Forget it, Ginger. I don't mean to sound condescending, but I can do better than a hired ranch hand."
She choked on her sandwich. "Ranch hand! Didn't anybody tell you? He and his family own the Starfire. It's one of the biggest dang cattle ranches in the state."
I felt like my chin was going to hit the table. The sparkle in Ginger's eyes reflected her enjoyment.
"Well, what's he doing working at that two bit...I mean at the paper?"
"He ain't been there but two years. He needed to get his mind off of what happened, I guess." A dreamy look came over her face. "It musta almost stopped his heart when he laid eyes on you the first time."
"Why?"
"With all that flaming red hair? He's gotta be thinking of his wife, Stephanie."
I'm sure my face looked incredulous. "If he's married, why should Lucinda be jealous of me?"
"He ain't married no more. Stephanie's dead as a doornail. Rode out one stormy night on one of them prize appaloosa horses of his and got throwed off. Died of a broken neck, she did." It was obvious by the satisfied gleam in her eyes that she was relishing every word.
"No kidding?"
"Yep. But that ain't the half of it." She lowered her voice. "Now, I ain't one for carryin' tales, but some folks 'round here didn't think it was an accident, including our very own John Dexter."
"Really? And, what did he think?"
"That Tally killed her."
4
Ginger's remark blew me away. While the disclosure about Bradley was shocking, more intriguing yet was John Dexter's connection.
"Okay, you've got my undivided attention. Why did he suspect Bradley had anything to do with her death?"
She opened her mouth to speak when a loud voice from across the room cut her off. I turned to see Lucinda blocking the exit of a rather disheveled looking teen-ager clad in ragged jeans and tank top.
"This ain't a charity dining room. I'm sick to death of you free loaders jumping off the bus and coming in here to order up a meal you can't pay for!" She hustled the girl out the door. "You want a free meal, get your butt to the shelter three blocks over."
The teen cast a spiteful glance at Lucinda before slinking away, and I couldn't help but think of the young girl I'd picked up last week.
For a few seconds, the room was bathed in silence, and then one grizzled customer drawled, "Aw, Lucy. Now what'd you go an' do that for? She looked real pitiful, like a starved pup. You're not gonna go broke sharin' a sandwich with the kid." That brought a hoot of laughter from the man's companions.
Lucinda fixed him with a formidable glare. "You mind your own business, Elwood. I wouldn't care if it was just once in a while, but this is getting real old. It seems like every ragamuffin runaway in the country makes a beeline for my place. I can't afford to feed all of them. Let that Phillips woman do her job." With that she dusted her hands together and marched behind the counter.
"Poor little things," Ginger sighed, her expression troubled. "My sister Bonnie was showing me a magazine article just last week. They're called throwaway kids." Her voice got lower, more confidential. "As young as eleven or twelve they're turning tricks for food and money. Ain't that just shameful?"
"Awful. What shelter is Lucinda talking about?"
In between bites of her sandwich, she told me about the Desert Harbor Shelter located in a "big ol'" house on Tumbleweed, and run by a woman named Claudia Phillips. "I heard tell the place operates on a shoestring. She can't do a whole lot but give the kids some food and clothes and a place to stay a spell." Her tone turning ominous, she added, "Them are the lucky ones. Some of 'em just plain vanish."
"Vanish?"
"White slave traders."
"What are you talking about?"
"It was in all the papers. This gang was kidnapping blue-eyed blonde gals and selling 'em to them people over in the Middle East for their harems or some such thing."
"Oh, Ginger, get real."
"I swear on my mama's Bible! And then there was that bunch in Mexico snatching 'em up for human sacrifices."
Impatient to return to the previous subject, I steered the conversation back to John Dexter's suspicions about Bradley.
"Oh, yeah. Well, as I was sayin'..." She glanced at her watch and wailed, "Good Lord, it's almost one o'clock. Tugg's gonna have my fanny in a crack if I'm late again! I gotta scoot."
Twice now in two hours I'd let myself get sidetracked. "Wait a minute! You can't just drop a bombshell like that and then leave me hanging."
"Sorry, sugar. Lookee here. Why don't you come on over to supper tomorrow night? I'll rustle up a pot of my famous Texas chili, some homemade cornbread and fill in the rest."
"Okay."
She scribbled her address on a napkin and bolted out the door.
Aware that I had twenty minutes to kill before covering another terminally boring meeting at City Hall, I stepped outside, squinting into the glaring sunlight. I'd walked only a few feet from the door when one of Ginger's remarks struck me. Had I been so busy concentrating on what John Dexter had to do with Bradley's wife that I'd missed something important? Plopping down on the nearby shaded bus bench I pulled out the note Tugg had given me and read it again, zeroing in on the phrase, "dead teens."
I flipped open my notepad. In the center of the page, I drew a circle, wrote John Dexter's name in the middle, and then extended lines outward like bicycle spokes. On each line I placed one of the statements in the note, then leaned back against the hard wooden backrest to study it, only vaguely aware of people and traffic.
Was I way off base or could there be some connection between the dead teens and the runaways Ginger spoke of? Dexter had referred to something odd in some files at the sheriff's office. Were they the same ones he'd mentioned in the note?
I blew out a long breath. Obviously, I had my work cut out for me. On a new page, I made a note to go through past issues of the Sun and study the stories Dexter had written on the two cases. Step two would be the doozy; tactfully asking to see the files without agitating Roy Hollingsworth whom I'd finally met for the first time the previous Friday. Tugg had assigned me to cover the police blotter, or log as they called it. That would put me in the sheriff's office at least once a week.
I'd been surprised when I met Roy. From Tugg's description, I had expected to encounter a thoroughly uncooperative, disagreeable, perhaps even dangerous man. He appeared to be none of those, greeting me with a wide smile and a neighborly handshake. Standing well over six feet tall, his substantial stomach protruding over a gigantic turquoise belt buckle, he looked less like an adversary than he did a big, friendly bear. In uniform.
As we chatted, I couldn't help but stare at his curious eyebrows. They were light blonde, very fuzzy, and perched over his silver blue eyes like two giant caterpillars. I hid my surprise when he brought up the subject of John Dexter.
"Morty's been real unhappy with me over our manhunt for John Dexter, but as I tried to tell him, we can't produce the man out of thin air. Me and Deputy Potts, along with members of the sheriff's posse and other law enforcement agencies, combed this area for weeks and couldn't find a trace of him." Shrugging his aggravation, he added, "It's been real frustrating for me, too."
He was very convincing. I began to wonder if Tugg was on the wrong track. "I'm sure we'll hear from him sooner or later. When did you last see him?"
"Julie," he shouted. "Pull the file on John Dexter for me." Moments later, a slender, dark-haired girl appeared from another room and handed him a folder. The sheriff rifled through it as Julie and I exchanged introductions.
"He disappeared on March 29th, and I may have been the last person in town to see him. The reason I know that is because I wrote him a speeding ticket that day."
Tugg hadn't told me that. "Where did you ticket him?"
"Heading south on 89 toward Phoenix. He seemed real nervous when I stopped him. Agitated. He was...well, let's say, verbally abusive, but for John that wasn't out of character." He smiled wryly. "So you see, I don't think anything unusual happened to John. I think he had something else going. Why he didn't give Morty notice, I don't know." When he frowned, the two blond caterpillars fused together into one.
While he shuffled papers into the file, I decided either he was being quite up front with me or he was a remarkably good actor. He'd ushered me to the door, inviting me to come anytime or call him if I had any questions. Because he'd been so damned likable, it would make my job all the harder.
A screech of brakes jolted me back to the present. I closed the notepad and rose stiffly from the bus bench. The meeting ran for over two hours, and it was late afternoon when I returned to the newspaper office. Ginger greeted me with a smile reminding me again of dinner the following evening. I hauled out three boxes of back issues of the paper to take home with me.
The wind was blowing across the desert floor, whipping up funnels of yellow dust when I reached the house. Before going inside, I paused as I always did to admire the spectacle of Castle Rock. Ever changeable, depending on the angle of the sun, it glowed in shades of peach and burnished copper.
After an early dinner, I phoned my parents. They seemed pleased I was settling in. Dad asked about my job, Morton Tuggs, and my asthma. With forced enthusiasm, I told them about my new life and promised to call them again soon. As I hung up the phone, a sharp pang of homesickness enveloped me. To ward off the blues, I turned up the television and cleaned the kitchen.
Still filled with restless energy, I went outside to sweep the walkway and water the small front garden filled with a bright yellow sea of desert daisies. The sound of a vehicle made me look up. The black Mercedes I'd seen the first day purred down Lost Canyon Road followed by a white van. Was that perhaps my nearest neighbor, Dr. Price? I'd been meaning to check out Serenity House for days now, but hadn't had the time. I decided a nice long walk would do me good. Mary Tuggs had said it was about two miles away, so I should be back before dark.
It was so quiet I could hear my tennis shoes crunching on the rocky road. Except for the birds and an occasional gust of wind, nothing disturbed the silence.
When I reached a fork in the road, I chose the left which looked well traveled. The right fork, overgrown with tall grass and tumbleweeds, snaked off into the desert. I slowed my footsteps as I approached a large sign with bold red letters announcing: DANGER! NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL BEYOND THIS POINT.
The high fence topped with jagged coils of razor wire looked ominous, but in a way it made me feel secure to know it was there. For a fleeting second, visions of violent ax-wielding mental patients flashed through my mind like scenes from a cheap horror movie. "Don't be stupid," I muttered under my breath. I'd read that many of the new drugs did an excellent job of subduing patients.
I peered through the chain-link fence. Enclosed inside a second fence I spotted the top of an ancient bell tower. Patches of red tile roofs and white stucco buildings were visible among the groves of palms and cottonwood trees. It looked quite peaceful and not at all threatening.
Then, seemingly from out of nowhere, two enormous Dobermans rushed to the fence, eyes gleaming, teeth snapping, their throaty barks echoing through the stillness. Whoa! I jumped back, heart pounding. Without hesitation, I retreated. All during the walk home, the memory of the dogs' snarling faces kept me in a state of watchful anxiety.
Sometime during the night, the wind kicked up again. It whistled around under the eaves and rattled the windows. For hours, I thrashed about restlessly. When I finally did fall into a deep sleep I kept having the same annoying dream over and over. A voice kept calling for me to get out. "Get out. Get out."
The persistent phrase was so irritating, I finally opened my eyes. Then I heard it again. Was I awake or still dreaming?
"Get out!" The voice was quite distinct that time. This was no dream! Pulse racing, I sat bolt upright in bed and stared at the partially open patio door. "Who's out there?"
Besides the murmur of the wind rustling through the trees, I thought I heard footsteps disappearing into the distance.
5
Moonlight, bright and harsh, lit the patio area and the vast desert landscape beyond, in cold blue tones. Wind-tossed cottonwoods joined waving fan palms to send lacy shadows dancing across the table and scattered lawn chairs. My heart hammered in my ears as I stood in the doorway searching for the reason I was now awake. I snapped on the back patio light and called out again, "Okay, who's out here?"
Not really expecting an answer, I listened intently, hearing only the branches of the paloverde tree scratching against the side of the house. The effect was definitely eerie, and I was more aware than ever of my total isolation.
After I'd closed and locked the door, I reached for my inhaler. Several deep breaths of the medication loosened the tightness in my chest, bringing a semblance of calm. Perhaps the former tenants believed in ghosts, but I didn't. The first thing that came to mind was perhaps there had been another escape from Serenity House. That thought was definitely unsettling.
The digital clock glowed 2:30. Sleep was now out of the question, so I brewed myself a pot of strong coffee and settled down to read past issues of the Sun. Might as well make use of the unexpected time.
Three cups of coffee later, I found what I'd been looking for. The first body, unearthed the previous June, had been so badly decomposed, the medical examiner's report stated that cause of death and positive identification was probably impossible. He'd placed the age of the girl, based on the few skeletal remains, at somewhere between thirteen and eighteen years of age.
The second body, discovered in late September hadn't been positively identified until last month. Fifteen year old Charity Perkins from Tulsa, Oklahoma had been in trouble with the law and was a chronic runaway. Apparently, she'd become lost and fallen into a rocky wash. After two shaken ranch hands had reported the find, the autopsy revealed a sharp blow to the skull, presumably due to her fall. Homicide was not ruled out, but no trace of foul play, nor any link between the two deaths had ever surfaced.
