Adrien English Mysteries: Fatal Shadows & A Dangerous Thing

by Josh Lanyon

  Jake made a sound between a snore and a grunt, and rolled onto his side. A werewolf would have to be hopping up and down on the foot of the bed for him to notice.

  I pulled the blankets up, rested my head against Jake’s back. His bare skin felt warm and smooth against my face. Comforting. I kissed him beneath his shoulder blade.

  Sex wasn’t everything. There were other things: someone to see you through sickness and in health, someone to wake up with on Christmas morning, someone to bail you out of jail. Companionship counted. Sex wasn’t everything -- but it was a lot.

  Jake began to snore.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Marnie Starr has an alibi for the night Ted Harvey was killed,” Jake informed me over eggs and bacon the next morning.

  “Oh? Oh.”

  Correctly interpreting my lack of enthusiasm, Jake said, “I know you think Harvey and Livingston’s deaths are related, and I know you have your heart set on lost gold mines and ghostly assassins, but it never hurts to answer the easy questions first.”

  I ignored the jibe. “So what’s her alibi?”

  “Ms. Starr was playing bingo. At least ten people will testify she was at the Moose Club all night eventually walking away with a lovely Elmer Fudd Chia Pet.” Jake splashed more coffee into my cup and then his own. “Your boy Kevin does not have an alibi.”

  I wondered why he had not shared this information last night? Didn’t want to ruin the mood? “Does everyone else at the camp have an alibi?”

  “Shoup and Marquez were going over grid maps or something.”

  “At midnight?”

  “That’s their story. There’s no reason to doubt it. Pocahontas was staying with friends in Sonora. O’Reilly and what’s-her-name-Bernice were sleeping in camp -- not together, so it doesn’t count toward an alibi. The girl, Amy, took the first watch, and allegedly hit the sack afterwards.”

  “So no one has an alibi except Marquez and Shoup. So that really doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It’s not conclusive.”

  “What about the autopsy results? Lab tests? Ballistics?”

  “As of yesterday, Billingsly hadn’t got the ballistics report. The autopsy confirmed Harvey was the corpse in the cave; that he was most likely killed Thursday night or early Friday morning; and tentatively, that he was killed by the same weapon that killed Livingston, most likely a .22 hollow-point.”

  “Why is this taking so long?”

  Jake raised his eyebrows. “It’s not taking ‘so long.’ This isn’t TV with a fifteen minute crime lab turnaround. Lab results take a day or two. Figure in that this is a small town and a not particularly ... urgent ... case.”

  “Have they confirmed that Kevin’s rifle was used?”

  Jake’s honey-colored eyes met mine. “They haven’t confirmed it, but the kid’s rifle had been fired recently and the load is right. It was his gun all right.”

  “He keeps that rifle in a gun rack in his truck. Anyone could have borrowed it.”

  “You’re assuming premeditation?”

  “Yes, definitely. First Livingston is murdered and hidden in the barn. Why?” I answered my own question. “Because someone wanted to hide the fact that he was dead. His car was parked in town so that everyone would think he’d gone to San Francisco as planned. And if his body were to be discovered, it would implicate Harvey.”

  “Harvey is implicated. His being dead cinches that.” Jake swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “Do you have any idea of the street value of an acre of marijuana?”

  I applied the little gray cells. “You’d have to be able to process and market it. It would depend on the grade ... and the particular street.”

  “Taking all that into consideration, do you have a rough notion of what that cash crop was worth?”

  “No.”

  Jake’s mouth quirked. “At last estimate a pound of cannabis was valued between $700-900. An acre could bring in anywhere from $50,000 to a cool million. Now, do you still think that pot was not a motive?”

  That shook my certainty, I had to admit. “It’s not the only possible motive, surely?”

  “No, but it’s the most likely.” He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt and set a misshapen bit of metal next to the peppershaker. “I dug this out of your front porch post. It’s a 30.06.”

  As I suspected, the reason he had been so accommodating about my library research was he intended to do the real sleuthing while my back was turned. “So someone else shot at us?”

  “Or the same perp used a different gun.”

  “Because they couldn’t get access to Kevin’s?”

  Jake sighed.

  “You tell me what you think happened,” I invited cordially, picking up my coffee cup.

  “I don’t know what happened. I can guess. Harvey arranged for a buyer. Someone with connections, maybe a student at a local college. Livingston found out about it, made threats. This unknown person eliminates Livingston. Maybe he tries to frame Harvey for it by planting Livingston in the barn here. It’s clear Harvey and his confederate had some kind of falling out because Harvey was iced five days later.”

  It was a neat fit. Logical. Absently I scratched the yellow jacket bite on my hand. Looking down at the red welt a tiny memory flickered in the back of my mind.

  Jake’s next words derailed my train of thought. “From everything I’ve been able to find out, Livingston sounds like an up and up guy. Strict but fair; I heard that about three times. The worst anyone could say was he lacked imagination.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Dr. Shoup.”

  “Did you do any background checking on Shoup, while you were at it?”

  Jake studied my face as though he couldn’t read my tone. “Yeah, I did some checking. Apparently there was some problem between him and the British Museum. A question of selling antiquities.”

  I opened my mouth but Jake said flatly, “Nothing was proved, but he was asked to resign, and he did. His problems at Berkley have to do with a salary dispute. From what I gathered, he felt he was worth a lot more than he was being paid.”

  “Selling antiquities? And you don’t think there’s a tie in?”

  “What antiquities were sold or even stolen here?”

  “Jake, the man was suspected of --”

  He cut me off. “Baby, you were suspected of murder once, remember? Were you guilty?”

  “No, but don’t you think it’s too much coincidence --”

  “Don’t you think the sheriffs think it’s too much coincidence that now you’re involved in a second homicide case?”

  I didn’t have an answer. At last I said, “What about Marquez?”

  “There’s nothing on Marquez. He had a parking ticket about ten years ago.” Jake said, more kindly than I was used to from him, “Let’s go home, Adrien. I’m running out of vacation and you’re not going to enjoy the next few days.”

  I stared at him: the pale, sleep-mussed hair, the leonine eyes that could unexpectedly warm with amusement, the firm mouth that tasted uniquely Jake. What could I say? Maybe our relationship was undefined, but he had proven his friendship a dozen times over the past week. He had come to my rescue without being asked; he had spent his vacation making sure I didn’t get myself killed playing detective; hell, he had taken a bullet that could have been meant for me. Gay or straight, I’d never had a better friend. Now he was asking me for something, probably asking as much for my sake as his own. I listened to the water dripping from the leaky tap to the sink in slow, regretful tears. I nodded.

  * * * * *

  I had the best intentions.

  I intended to go straight to the Realtor’s office and arrange for someone new to stay at the ranch as a caretaker. Somehow I found myself driving past the library one last time.

  When Miss Buttermit saw me coming she made a fluttery gesture -- like a villager warding off the Evil Eye.

  “I was hoping ...” I began.

  Miss Buttermit whipped the key off her k
ey ring and handed it over with conspiratorial haste. I thanked her and returned once more to the basement.

  Though pressed for time, I was now convinced I knew what I was looking for. And after some feverish page turning, I found it. In 1857, a stagecoach traveling from Basking to Sonora had been robbed by three Mexican bandits. The stagecoach had been carrying an unusual load: gold from local mines bound for San Francisco. Valued at well over three million dollars, the hold-up had taken place in Senex Valley, minutes after leaving the stage stop. The two guards riding shotgun had been killed, the driver wounded.

  I was absently scratching the yellow jacket bite on my hand as I read this, and as I stared down at the welt, a light bulb -- metaphorically speaking -- went off. Granted, it was an idea that probably should have lit the echoing corridors of my empty brain before now. The first clue had been right under my eyes that very first day.

  Hurriedly I hunted through the shelves, pouring through every volume, scanning every page, but I could find nothing more about the stagecoach robbery.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I cornered Miss Buttermit about the missing newspapers.

  Miss B seemed to be mostly concerned with the defacement of library property, but at last I got her to focus on my question.

  “You!” she answered indignantly. “You and Kevin were the last ones to examine those papers.” She looked mad enough to revoke my library card on the spot.

  “Anyone else? Anyone from the archeological site?”

  Miss Buttermit thought back and shook her head. “It was weeks ago. It couldn’t have been him.”

  “Him who?”

  “The doctor. The English doctor.”

  “Dr. Shoup?”

  “The very man,” concurred Miss Buttermit.

  * * * * *

  Taking Miss Buttermit’s advice, I left the library and cut across to Royale House. An urgency close to panic nipped at my heels.

  I caught Melissa on the porch, locking the front doors. CLOSED, read the sign swinging inside the glass pane.

  “I can’t talk now,” she said, whipping past me on the stairs. The tips of her black hair floated against my face and I thought of the ghost story she had told me about Royale’s first wife.

  “Hold on.” I caught her arm. “Are there copies of The Basking Gazette archived here?”

  She scowled. “Why?”

  “Because the library doesn’t have a complete set and I need to check something out.”

  “Can’t it wait? Kevin’s been arrested and the dig’s been called off. Hadn’t you heard?”

  “No.” My fingers tightened on her arm as she started to pull away.

  Impatiently she said, “They matched the bullets that killed Harvey and Livingston to Kevin’s rifle.”

  Jake had hinted that was coming, but it was still a shock.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said automatically.

  “It’s a fact. They found traces of blood and hair in Kevin’s truck bed. They think he used the pickup to transport the bodies.” Her black eyes held mine. “But you know all this.”

  “I do?”

  “Sure. You and your copper pal have been working with the sheriff.”

  “We have?”

  “Don’t play dumb.” She smiled. I’d never noticed what sharp incisors she had. “What were you up to, wandering around in those caves above the hollow, if you weren’t looking for Harvey’s body?”

  She was a pretty woman, but more than prettiness there was strength and character in the face turned to mine. I didn’t understand her, but I admired her in a way.

  “I think you know what I was looking for,” I said.

  A beat later red suffused her dusky skin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about spirit voices echoing out of the caves at night when all good little archeologists are tucked snug in their sleeping bags. I’m talking battery operated Kuksu in stereophonic sound.”

  She went very still, didn’t move a muscle. A hell of a poker player she’d make.

  I said, “Are you going to let me into the museum or not?”

  She pivoted on heel, marched back up the stairs and unlocked the frosted glass paned door.

  “Do you have proof?” she questioned, her back to me.

  “Yes, I think so.” Instinctively I patted the pocket of my denim jacket.

  As we stepped into the museum she said, “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “But you know who did.”

  She did face me then. “No, I don’t! If I did, do you think I’d let them arrest O’Reilly?”

  “Truthfully? I don’t know.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t! The guy’s a pain, but ....”

  “Then what’s up with the sabotage? Are you saying you haven’t been trying to stop the dig?”

  “NO ONE HAS BEEN HURT!” She yelled it so loudly I expected the portrait of the giant-sized Abraham Royale to blink.

  “What about the dog?” I was beginning to feel like Sherlock Holmes in “Silver Blaze,” forever blethering on about the curious incident of the dog in the night.

  “What about the damned dog? Coyotes got it.” Yet something about her expression wasn’t what it ought.

  I thought, She believes in the legend of the Guardian.

  More calmly she said, “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Try me.”

  She was silent. A born martyr looking forward to the first burning brand.

  I said, “You took over your grandfather’s shaman duties, didn’t you? You’ve said a number of times you believe the hollow is sacred.”

  “Oh for --! Life is sacred,” Melissa retorted. “I wanted to stop the desecration of holy ground, but I wouldn’t kill anyone to do it.”

  “Did you put a snake in my mailbox?”

  “Did I what?” Her mouth dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

  I tended to believe her -- or her expression anyway.

  “Can I check the newspaper archives?”

  Melissa checked her watch. I checked mine. I’d promised Jake I’d be back within the hour, and forty-five minutes had passed already.

  “I don’t have time for this. The Student Union has asked me to organize legal aid for O’Reilly,” she said. “I’ve got things to do and people to see.”

  “If we can prove who really killed Livingston and Harvey, legal aid won’t be necessary.”

  Undecided, she contemplated me and then turned with a whirl of her black hair and led the way downstairs.

  The cellar of Royale House was cool and dry. Melissa lit a lantern and the smell of kerosene mingled with the smell of dried apples and sawdust.

  “What year are we looking for?” She inquired, dragging out a bulging cardboard box. I moved to help her.

  “I’m thinking 1857. I read about a gun battle between Mexican bandits. Royale’s partner, Barnabas Salt was killed.”

  “I know about that,” Melissa said. “The same banditos had robbed the stage a couple of weeks before. They got away with a couple million dollars worth of gold dust and bullion.”

  “Everybody in the county must have been hunting them.”

  “Yep, but Salt and Royale found them holed up in Senex Valley.”

  “And in the ensuing fight, the bandits and Salt were killed.”

  “‘Ensuing fight,’” she mocked. “I could listen to you for hours. Do you write like you talk?”

  “You wouldn’t want to concentrate here, would you?”

  “In the ensuing fight,” Melissa informed me, “all three bandits were shot to pieces, along with good old Barnabas Salt.”

  “And was the gold recovered?”

  Her expression went totally blank.

  “Yoo-hoo,” I prompted. “The ill-gotten gains: whatever happened to them?”

  She snapped back into life. “Never mind that box.” She disappeared into a dusty recess and reappeared dragging another box over. The friction of the stone floor tore the deteriorating box apart. Newspa
pers spilled everywhere. “Fuck! Try these. This is the time frame we’re interested in.”

  Evelyn Wood couldn’t have speed-read any faster through those brittle, yellowed pages. The kerosene lamp threw flickering shadows that danced against the wall like Zuni spirit helper figures. I kept watching them out of the corner of my eye.

  “Try to be careful, can’t you? These are historically valuable.”

  “I am being careful.” I nodded pointedly as a piece of page broke off in her hand. Just like old times. “Maybe we should get some help.”

  “There’s no time. He knows how close we are. He’s liable to split any minute.”

  He. We both knew now who we were after though neither of us had put it in words yet.

  “Without the gold?”

  “Maybe he’s found the gold.”

  Maybe. Maybe not. What was it about gold that drove men to leave their homes and families, to risk everything -- to commit murder -- on just the promise of it? Gold fever, they called it back then. In the 1800s it had been an epidemic; now and then there was still an outbreak.

  “What happens if we can’t find anything?” Melissa asked after a silence of some time.

  “I don’t know. Even if we find the right article it isn’t proof. We have to use that information to confront him.”

  “You think he’s going to fall apart because we shove an old newspaper article in his face? We’ve got to do more than that.”

  I should have listened to her, but my attention was caught by the article before me.

  BANDITS SLAIN IN SHOOT OUT proclaimed the banner headline. In the faded old-fashioned typescript I read how Abraham Royale and Barnabas Salt had been set upon by the three notorious Mexican bandits who had robbed the Sonora stagecoach line only days before. A gun battle had ensued (that word again), and all three miscreants had been slain, saving the honest taxpayers the expense of hanging Juan Martinez, Eduardo Marquez, and Luis Quintana. Tragically Barnabas Salt, Royale’s long time partner in the Red Rover mine, had also been killed. The search for the stolen booty continued.

  I lowered the paper. A moth was bumping against the lantern, a soft desperate sound as it fought to immolate itself. Melissa stared at my face and then eased the paper out of my hands.