The Little Tombstone Cozies Box Set

by Celia Kinsey

  I intended to hunt down Jasper’s ladylove, but first I wanted to know where August might disappear to once he made bail. I had a nagging fear he might go missing.

  I took the list of names I’d jotted down while doing the people search associated with the addresses I’d found on the creditor’s demands I’d found under August’s bunk.

  Several of the names turned out to be dead ends, either mistakes, or possibly minor children, but once I’d winnowed through them all, I found three names and addresses that seemed legitimate; an Amy Taylor in Denver, a Melissa Taylor in Des Moines and a Christine Taylor in Omaha.

  I then looked up each address on the tax assessors’ web sites for the applicable counties. On each of the three properties, Augustus Taylor was named on the deed.

  August was clearly a very busy man. I wondered how he managed to keep three families afloat, especially since it was highly likely his three wives had no idea that the others existed.

  On closer inspection, I noticed that two of the three properties had unpaid property tax. I saved the pages to my phone and moved on to the search for Jasper’s Tina.

  I called every tire place in Albuquerque one by one, asking for Tina. On the twenty-first call, the man who answered informed me that it was Tina’s day off, but she’d be in tomorrow if I wanted to call back.

  “What time will she be in?”

  “She comes in at eight.”

  I guessed that would make her lunch break fall around noon. I knew where I’d be at noon the next day: the waiting room of Speedy Pete’s Tire Service in North Valley.

  In the meantime, I had an 80th birthday party to go to.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  When I got down to the dining room of the Bird Cage, Roberta Haskell’s 80th birthday party was in full swing.

  The place was packed. It appeared the entire population of Amatista had taken the “everyone is invited” clause in the announcement in the Amatista Advance at face value. At least I had, although Roberta had personally invited me that day I’d run into her at the post office.

  I looked around the room, searching for Roberta’s son Rory. I spotted him easily, standing next to his mother.

  I walked up and congratulated Mrs. Haskell.

  “This is my son, Dr. Rory Haskell,” Roberta said. “Rory this is—”

  I tried not to betray my amusement at Roberta’s insistence on using her son’s formal title in such a casual social setting.

  I stuck out my hand. “Emma Iverson,” I said. “Pleasure to meet you. Your mother has told me so much about you. I hear you’re—”

  “Have you tried the tamales?” Rory said as he pointed to the buffet which had been formed from pushing several tables together. “Better get at them before they’re all gone.”

  “Tamales? I don’t see any tamales.”

  That was a lie. I could see the tray of tamales plain as day at the end of the buffet, but I needed to get Rory away from his mother long enough to have a word with him about those missing envelopes of money he’d supposedly been sending through the post.

  “Over there,” Rory pointed.

  “Where?”

  “I’ll show you,” he said.

  I felt like a lion on the Serengeti separating the weakest gazelle from the herd, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Halfway to the tamales, I said, “Never mind the tamales. I’d like a word with you.”

  “Oh?” Rory looked wary. I couldn’t blame him. I wondered if I was not the first to take this opportunity to confront him about his mother’s insistence that someone was stealing her mail.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but your mother is going around telling people that Juanita is stealing the money you’re sending her.”

  I watched Rory’s face crumple. He was aware of it, and judging by the look on his face, he found the situation even more distressing than I did.

  “I do know,” he said wearily. “I’m going to have to tell her the truth.”

  “And what is the truth?”

  “I’ve had to stop sending my mother money.”

  “I figured that much,” I said, “but why is your mother convinced that Juanita has been stealing her mail?”

  “Because Juanita has been stealing her mail.”

  “I don’t quite follow.”

  “Juanita has been going through my mother’s mail looking for letters from collection agencies. They somehow got her address—”

  “How?”

  “I made the mistake of having my mail forwarded to my mother when I lost my house. After I stopped the forwarding, the collection letters kept coming to my mother’s address—so far Juanita’s managed to catch them all.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My mother hasn’t said anything, and she definitely would.”

  “And you don’t want your mother to find out you’re broke?”

  Rory appeared on the edge of tears.

  “How can I tell her? She’s so proud of me. All she can talk about is ‘my son Rory, the surgeon.’”

  “Aren’t you still a surgeon?”

  It felt cruel to force Rory to spell it out like that, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit I’d been cyberstalking him.

  “I lost my license, my job, my house. I’m sleeping on my friend’s couch. You know I’m not even paying for this party?”

  I tried to look shocked, but I don’t think I succeeded.

  “Juanita?”

  Rory nodded. He was blinking fast and swallowing hard.

  I wanted to hug the poor man, but if I did, he was sure to dissolve in a puddle of tears. Plus, the other guests might find that a trifle odd.

  I felt a vise grip on my elbow.

  “Did you need something?” Juanita asked Rory in a falsely cheerful voice. She was already dragging me back to the kitchen.

  Juanita has only been angry with me a handful of times in my life, and with the exception of the moment when she’d kicked Frank in the shins, I’d never seen her this angry at anyone.

  “You had no right—” she said as she released me from her grip.

  “I didn’t know,” I said weakly.

  “You knew enough to know better,” Juanita said.

  “But Roberta has been going around saying—”

  “I know what she’s been going around saying,” said Juanita. “What business is it of yours?”

  “I can’t let people think you are stealing.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t.”

  “I’m telling you to forget everything you know, and let Roberta Haskell think whatever she wants to about me.”

  “Are you the one who’s been putting hundred-dollar bills in Roberta’s Bible?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re putting on this party for free?”

  “Yes.”

  “For a woman who’s going around telling anyone who will listen that you are stealing her blind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the kindest thing to do is rarely the easiest thing to do.”

  She had me there.

  “Wouldn’t it be better for Rory to tell his mother the truth?”

  “Isn’t that for him to decide?”

  I wasn’t sure Juanita was right, but I also knew there was no convincing her when she’d made up her mind to see this thing through.

  “I’m sorry, Juanita,” I said. “I won’t interfere anymore.”

  I might have been lying. The part about being sorry was true, but refraining from interference into the problems of other people has never been my strong point. It was a promise I had no business making and probably wasn’t capable of keeping.

  I think Juanita knew that, because she said, “Whatever you do, don’t tell Roberta the truth.”

  “I won’t,” I said.

  I meant it. I wouldn’t tell Roberta her son was broke and practically homeless, but given the opportunity, I doubted I’d be up to resisting the urge to tell
Rory to tell his mother himself.

  I was going to go back upstairs a try to soothe my wounded feelings after being scolded by Juanita, but just as I was passing through the back vestibule on the way to the stairs, I heard someone say, “Hello, Phyllis.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  There are doubtless many women named Phyllis in this world, possibly several with connections to Amatista, but when I heard the name, I perked right up and forgot I was smarting from being reprimanded for interfering in Juanita’s affairs.

  I couldn’t resist taking a peek at the Phyllis, in the hopes it was Hank’s ladylove.

  It was Nancy who had greeted Phyllis, and I practically galloped over to say hello.

  Nancy introduced us, and I got straight to the point.

  “How’s the pawn shop business these days?” I asked, just to be sure I was talking to the right woman.

  “Same as usual,” said Phyllis.

  It had to be Hank’s Phyllis. The chances of two pawn shop-owning women in their 60s named Phyllis showing up at a party in Amatista were next to none.

  I stood there as Nancy and Phyllis chatted about this and that for a few minutes until Nancy wandered off to the buffet, and I had Phyllis all to myself.

  “How did you meet Hank?” I asked.

  Phyllis looked a little taken aback at the question, but she recovered her poise and said, “A mutual friend introduced us.”

  “Hank seems to have really gotten into crossword puzzles lately,” I said.

  “He certainly has,” said Phyllis.

  “Has he mentioned that he believes his dead mother is communicating with him through the crossword puzzle in the Amatista Advance?”

  Phyllis sighed. “Yes, and it does worry me a little.”

  It worried me, too, and not just because it might indicate that Hank’s tenuous grasp on reality was eroding even further than it already had.

  I was concerned that someone was setting up Hank to take some action prompted by the crossword puzzle. It might be anything, and without knowing who was behind the puzzles and what motivated them to target Hank, it was impossible to predict whether their intentions were sinister or benign.

  “Why does it worry you?” I asked Phyllis.

  “I don’t know—”

  “I also find it concerning.”

  “I just don’t know what this person wants from him,” said Phyllis.

  “Or why?”

  “That too.”

  I would have quizzed Phyllis further, but Morticia came over and asked how Phyllis was recovering. Evidently, Phyllis had recently had a knee replacement.

  “Your mother has been such a help, Morticia,” said Phyllis. “I really don’t know what I would have done without her being right next door.”

  “Your mother and Phyllis are neighbors?” I asked Morticia. It was restating the obvious, but I wanted to be completely sure I’d heard correctly.

  “Hettie and I have been lived next door to each other for twenty years,” said Phyllis.

  I looked around the room. Pretty much everyone from Little Tombstone was there to help Roberta Haskell celebrate—although, if most of them were being perfectly honest, they’d have admitted they were mostly there for the free tamales.

  “I don’t see Ledbetter,” I said to Morticia.

  I figured he might just be staying away because he’s not big on crowds, but Morticia knew otherwise.

  “I guess you didn’t hear,” she said. “Earlier this afternoon, Ledbetter got a call about his mother.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s been hospitalized. They think she had a minor heart attack.”

  “So Ledbetter went to Tucson?”

  “He left not long after he got the call.”

  “Do they think she’s going to recover?”

  “I think so,” said Morticia, “but I expect he’ll be gone for at least a week.”

  I certainly didn’t begrudge Ledbetter going off to look after his ailing mother, but his absence threw a wrench in my plans.

  “What are you doing tomorrow morning?” I asked Morticia.

  “I usually don’t get clients until the afternoon, although it’s hard to predict.”

  I wanted to ask Morticia for a favor, but Phyllis was listening, so I just said, “I’ll text you later.”

  Later that evening, after I’d gone back upstairs, I texted Morticia and asked her if she’d be willing to go with me to do another search of the abandoned ranch. I stressed that Hugo and August were currently waiting to make bail. Time was of the essence.

  Morticia agreed to go with me, and we arranged to meet in the trailer court at the crack of dawn.

  It was cold the next morning. I’d left Georgia a note taped to the frying pan, just in case anything went wrong. I hadn’t told her of my plans in advance. I didn’t think she’d approve.

  Since we couldn’t be absolutely sure there weren’t other unknown partners in the chop shop operation still at large, Morticia and I decided to take the same route on foot we’d taken the night we’d gone in search of Maxwell and his menagerie.

  “It’s cold,” said Morticia as she stamped her feet and exhaled a cloud into the frosty air.

  “I wouldn’t drag you out so early, only I have to be in Albuquerque by noon.”

  Morticia didn’t ask why I had to be in Albuquerque, and I didn’t tell her. I figured the fewer people who had a clue to Jasper Hamm’s whereabouts, the better, and nothing would be gained by telling Morticia I might be on the verge of tracking down the missing cowboy.

  In the daylight, it was much easier going, and fifteen minutes later, we were standing on top of the gentle rise that sloped down to the—hopefully—deserted ranch buildings.

  “What didn’t you ask Nancy to drive you down here?” Morticia asked. “After all, this does belong to her.”

  I’d considered that. I’d even called Nancy and asked permission to come down and search the place again. She’d offered to accompany me, but I’d declined.

  The thing about Nancy was, should push come to shove, she’d pull out a gun to defend herself or her property. Should the other party also be armed, there was a strong chance that someone—quite possibly Nancy—was going to get shot.

  Jorge was already dead, and I didn’t want to be instrumental in upping the body count.

  When we got to the bottom of the hill, I headed straight to the old root cellar next to the house. When we got to the entrance, I pulled out a flashlight and a small garden spade.

  “Stay outside and warn me if you see anyone coming,“ I told Morticia. “I’m going to poke around in here, and after that, I’d like to search the old house.”

  I never got to searching the house because not more than five minutes poking around the dirt floor, my spade hit metal.

  “I think I found something,” I called out to Morticia. “You’d better come in and hold the light.”

  “Good. It’s freezing out here.”

  Ten minutes later, I’d unearthed an old army green ammo box.

  “I’m nervous about opening it,” I said as I brushed the dirt from the latch with my mittened hand.

  “I could do without the suspense,” said Morticia. “What are you hoping to find in there?”

  “Cash,” I said.

  “Really?” Morticia was skeptical. “Who’d bury cash in an old root cellar?”

  I’d gotten the dirt cleaned off the latch. I lifted the lid as Morticia shined the light into the interior of the box.

  “You were right!” she said.

  The ammo box was stacked practically to the top with bundles of hundred-dollar bills.

  “Ill-gotten gains,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Ill-gotten gains. I’ll bet this is proceeds from the chop shop, but whoever buried it had no intention of sharing.”

  “Possibly.” Morticia appeared unconvinced. “What’s that writing on the side?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Printed on the side of the
ammo box in yellow were the words “200 cartridges,” followed by “7. 62 mm M. B. M 60-M73.”

  “I don’t think what’s printed on the box is relevant,” I said.

  “There’s something handwritten on the can,” said Morticia, moving the light closer and illuminating the word “August” written in heavy black marker on the side of the container.

  The printing looked suspiciously like the printing I’d seen on the initials J.H. on the bloody work glove that Earp had found in the sagebrush.

  “I’d better call Officer Reyes about this find,” I said. “I don’t think there’s any merit in digging through wads of cash. If there’s anything else worth noting in there, the police will certainly find it.”

  Morticia was eager to get out of there, so I snapped a photo of the stash, then set the can back inside the hole, replaced the lid, and smoothed the dirt back over it. Morticia took the additional precaution of tamping the dirt down, just in case the person who’d concealed the money came back to check that it was still there, undisturbed. She suggested that if anyone thought it had been tampered with, the first thing they’d do was dig it up and hide it someplace else.

  From the top of the ridge, I called the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s office and asked to speak to Officer Reyes.

  While Morticia and I stood on the top of the slope watching for the arrival of the police, I decided to try one more time to pry out of her why Hank was suddenly so taken with tarot.

  “I had no idea that Phyllis and your mother were friends,” I said.

  Morticia just said, “Yeah.” This was nothing unusual. If you want details out of Morticia, you have to dig for them.

  “What do you think Phyllis sees in Hank?” I asked.

  Morticia shrugged.

  “How long have Hank and Phyllis been together?”

  Morticia shrugged again.

  “Have they ever talked about getting married or moving in together?”

  All I got for the trouble of asking was another shrug. I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I decided to work on a hunch and engage in a minor deception.

  I’m usually big on telling the truth. Lies can have unintended consequences far beyond what one might imagine the moment they are being spoken into existence, but I decided that this small untruth was unlikely to cause anyone harm.