by Steve Laracy
“You come too, Lucky,” Felicity said. “There’s plenty for everyone.”
“Much obliged,” said Lucky. “I could do with a bite and a cup of java.”
Felicity grabbed plates, utensils, and napkins from the sideboard along the wall and set places for the Kid and Lucky. She grabbed a cup, poured Lucky a coffee and moved the cream and sugar within his reach. He avoided the cream but added enough spoonsful of sugar to raise the coffee level in the cup about a half inch.
“Have you been out to Lucky’s claim, helping him mine for gold?” Felicity asked the Kid as she reseated herself.
“Yes, but all I found was rain and dust and little critters crawling around.”
“And a dead body,” said Lucky nonchalantly, tucking a napkin into the top of his shirt.
I noticed Costello straighten up, stop eating, and stare at Lucky. “You found a dead body out in the desert?” he asked.
“Well, it wasn’t a whole body, just a bunch of bones. Picked clean. Looked like they had been out there quite a while.”
“Do you remember where you found the bones?” asked Costello.
“I reckon I could find them again. With all the rain we had, it’s easy to follow the tire tracks.”
“Could you take me out there?”
“Well, I’ll be going out to my claim after breakfast, and where we found the body is on the way. But you’ll have to take your own car so I don’t have to drive all the way back to town and drop you off.”
“It’s a deal,” said Costello.
After breakfast, the Kid went upstairs for a bath, and Felicity cleaned up. Lucky got up, stretched, and headed for his jeep.
Costello also rose. “I’m afraid our little talk will have to wait until we return,” he said.
“We?” I asked.
“Of course. You are coming with me, aren’t you?” Again, the sinister smile.
“Sure,” I said. “I haven’t seen a skeleton since high school biology class.”
As we got up to leave, Felicity said, “Milo, could you help in the kitchen for a minute?” I followed her into the kitchen while Costello headed for the porch.
Once we were in the kitchen and out of hearing range, Felicity said, “I don’t think you should go with him. He scares me. And you remember what Skipper said about the gun.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be okay. He’s probably just an anatomist studying skeletal remains.”
“Yes, but he’s an anatomist who is packing heat. Is that the way you say it?”
“Well, I’ve never said it quite like that, but I get the idea. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“Okay but be careful.”
I headed out to the porch, where Costello was waiting. Lucky was revving the engine of his jeep, waiting for us.
“We’ll take your car,” said Costello. “The trunk of the compact car from the rental agency isn’t big enough to hold a body.” I hoped he was joking.
I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the body of a skeleton or one with more flesh on it, like mine, but I was sure he wouldn’t try anything since too many people knew we were together. I was more worried about what the bumps and grinds of the desert roads would do to my new axle.
Lucky took the road out of town heading east. Costello and I did little talking. We both realized that the time for talking would come after we had seen the body and returned.
When we came to a crossroads, Lucky turned right onto County Line Road, rather than continue toward Chiquita. I did the same. The road became harder to follow and eventually disappeared. After another fifteen minutes, Lucky veered to his left, heading toward some foothills a little way off in the distance. We could see the tire tracks made previously in the rain, now hardened. Another ten minutes and the jeep pulled up by the side of a hill that rose for about twenty feet and then flattened out at the top.
Lucky got out of the jeep, and Costello and I followed. The skeleton he had mentioned was lying in a heap at the bottom of the hill. It wasn’t really a skeleton but rather a pile of bones, clearly human, scattered around the immediate area. It looked like a complete set, but then I wasn’t counting.
Costello walked over and stooped down to get a closer look. I decided I was close enough where I was.
“Interesting,” he said as he stared at the bones. Turning to look at Lucky, he asked, “Do you have a shovel with you?”
“Got one in the back of the jeep.” Lucky ambled off to fetch it.
When he returned, Costello said, “I think I’ll take a little look at the top of this hill.” He took the shovel and started climbing. The hill was not steep, but Costello, not in the best physical condition and carrying a shovel, had a hard time negotiating the climb. When he reached the plateau on top, he walked around for a short time, occasionally scraping the ground with the shovel, not really digging.
I stayed at the bottom of the hill with Lucky, thinking the chances were slim that Costello would find another body. Also, I was hot and not the finest physical specimen myself, so I wanted to avoid the climb up the hill.
As Lucky and I were staring at the bones, he said, “Some hiker or prospector who got lost in the desert and died of thirst. The body has been here quite a spell, and the vultures have picked the bones clean.”
Overhearing this, Costello hollered down, “And mighty tidy vultures they were, since they also took the trouble to bury his clothes up here.”
Hearing this, I realized I couldn’t further avoid climbing the hill, so I scrambled up, followed from behind by Lucky.
We saw when we reached the top that Costello had uncovered a pile of old clothing buried about a foot under the dirt. What I call clothing was rather a pile of scraps of mildewed material lying in a heap in the hole. On closer inspection, I could make out a battered pair of shoes and something that may have at one time been a belt among the scraps. An old potato sack was lying next to the clothes.
“What do you make of it?” I asked Costello, who was now bent over, examining the pile.
“I have my theories, but that will have to wait.” He reached down and removed something from the pile, then stood up and held out his open hand toward me. “What do you make this is?”
He held a small round object in his hand. It was made of metal, was gold in color, and had a small insignia like a coat of arms imprinted on the front. Costello turned it over; it had a small loop on the back.
“Looks like a button of some sort, the kind you would find on a suit jacket or blazer, presumably worn by the fellow at the bottom of the hill.” For some reason, I thought if Sam were here, she would chastise me for assuming the skeleton was male. I hadn’t inspected it close enough to determine the sex, and even if I had, I wouldn’t know what to look for.
Costello was not interested in my detective skills, or lack thereof. He reached into his pocket. For a moment I thought of Felicity’s warning, but he withdrew his hand and showed me a button, identical to the one he had just found in the hole.
Confused, I said, “But where…?”
Before I could finish, Costello said, “I found this button in the old tank behind the diner the night you followed me.”
“But what does it all mean?” I asked.
“Again, I have my theories,” Costello replied, “but I’d rather not discuss them until we get back to town and I can clean up a little and get a cold drink.”
He then became silent and stared down at the pile of clothing with a quizzical look, as if undecided what he should do next. After staring at the pile for about a minute, he turned his back to us and walked a distance away and stared out into the desert. I heard him softy whistling another classical music tune I couldn’t identify. This one sounded like a waltz.
Lucky and I stood and stared at Costello’s back without talking. Five minutes later, he snapped his fingers, stopped whistling, and turned and walked back to where we were standing.
He gathered up the articles in the hole, stuffed them in the potato sack, and refi
lled the hole. “C’mon,” he said as he clumsily descended the hill, carrying the sack.
When we all had reached the bottom, Costello turned to Lucky. “I’d like you to do me a favor if you don’t mind.”
“Depends on what you’re askin’,” replied Lucky.
“I want you to take this sack back to your campsite and burn it and everything inside. Can you do that for me?”
“I reckon I can, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
Costello handed the sack to Lucky, who threw it in the back of his jeep, climbed in, and drove off further into the desert. He seemed to be unfazed by the preceding events.
Costello took one more look at the pile of bones and headed to my car.
“Are we going to take them back with us?” I asked, gesturing toward the bones.
“We’ll leave them here,” he said. “Better not tamper with the evidence any more than we already have.”
“You’re beginning to sound like a cop,” I said.
“Well, what do you think I am, a Mafia hitman or something? A sharp fellow like you must have figured that out already.” Again, he gave me a sinister grin.
“Who do you work for? The FBI? CIA?”
“Those are just initials. Let’s say I’m on Uncle Sam’s payroll.”
We got in the car and I turned to head back to town. Costello did not speak on the drive back. I had a lot of questions, but it was clear I wouldn’t get any answers until we were back in Cordoba.
I wasn’t confident I would get many answers there, either.
> CHAPTER 35
MORE INTRIGUE AT THE DINING ROOM TABLE
Felicity was sitting on the porch, reading, when we returned. Our disheveled appearance made us look a lot like Lucky O’Leary without the hat.
“What have you two been up to?” she asked with slight alarm.
“First a cleanup, then the questions,” Costello replied as he walked up the dining room stairs. I gave Felicity a dumbfounded look but said nothing and followed Costello upstairs.
We took turns washing up and changing our clothes and returned to the dining room together. Felicity was sitting there waiting for us.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked us. “You must be thirsty. How about a glass of iced tea?”
“Have you got anything stronger?” Costello asked.
“Well, I keep some wine around. Other than that, there’s not much.” Suddenly remembering, she said, “I have an unopened bottle of bourbon somewhere that a salesman who stayed here left me a year or two ago. He said after a week in Cordoba, mingling with the local citizens, he had decided to quit drinking and check into a clinic.”
“That will do nicely,” Costello said. “I’d like a glass of tea with a shot of bourbon in it.”
“I’ll have the same,” I said, “but hold the tea.” After the events of the day and anticipating Costello’s explanation, I needed something to settle my nerves.
Felicity went into the kitchen to get the drinks. We could hear her wandering around, opening and shutting cabinet doors, searching for the bottle of bourbon.
A short time later she returned with a tray holding a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, a pitcher of iced tea, a bottle of ginger ale, and three tall glasses filled with ice cubes.
“I thought you might prefer ginger ale to tea with your bourbon,” she said.
She set the tray down and poured herself a ginger ale. Costello grabbed the bottle of bourbon, opened it, and filled his glass about halfway. He then filled the glass with ginger ale and took a sip. I poured a lot of bourbon and a little ginger ale and ice in my glass, and Felicity and I both took a big slug of our drinks and waited for Costello to talk. Before long he accommodated us.
After filling Felicity in on what we found in the desert, he began.
“What I am about to tell you is part fact and part conjecture. It goes without saying that what I tell you never leaves this room.”
Felicity and I both nodded in agreement.
Costello continued. “In the mid-seventies, a prominent former union leader disappeared. I won’t mention any names since this is an ongoing investigation, but if you read the newspapers back then or caught the national news on TV, you came across this man’s name. It was always assumed that this union leader had been involved with organized crime elements. In fact, he spent a few years in jail on corruption charges. When he got out there was concern in certain quarters he would try to reassert his control of the union.
“One morning in 1975, he walked out the front door of his house and went to a restaurant in Detroit to meet some people. When they did not show up, he walked to a pay phone across the street and called his wife. After that, he was never seen again. All of this may be familiar to you.
“At the time of the disappearance, there was a diner in Secaucus, New Jersey, named Frankie’s Place, run by a fellow by the name of Frankie Bellini. Frankie, who was called Frankie the Stick because of his thin appearance and twig-like arms and legs, was long rumored to be connected to the mob and was even suspected of being a Mafia hit man. At the time of the union leader’s disappearance, Frankie the Stick was questioned by the authorities based on an anonymous tip, but they found nothing and turned their attentions elsewhere.
“Shortly thereafter, Frankie packed up his belongings and took his diner and headed out west. That’s where the story ends…until a few months ago, when the bureau got another anonymous tip that Frankie the Stick Bellini was responsible for the death of the union leader and was living in a small town in the middle of the California desert. The bureau has received thousands of tips since the man’s disappearance and tries to follow up on any credible information. I was assigned to check into this one.
“That’s the factual part of the story. The rest is pure speculation on my part, but I think it is an accurate depiction. I can’t prove it, and it may never be proven. In fact, I hope it never is proven.
“Here’s what I think,” Costello continued.
Before he could go any further, Felicity raised her left hand with a signal for him to stop talking. Costello obliged.
Felicity had drunk about half her glass of ginger ale. Without saying a word, she reached toward the tray, grabbed the bottle of Old Grand-Dad, and filled her glass to the top. She took a good-sized sip followed by a slight shiver and said to Costello, “Continue.”
Before he went on, Costello and I also took the opportunity to refresh our glasses.
“Here’s what I think,” he continued where he had left off. “Frankie the Stick was somehow involved in the murder of the union leader, either as murderer or accomplice. From what I have learned during the investigation, I don’t think Frankie had the disposition or the personality to be the hit man, although I could be mistaken. He was involved with illegal activities, run from his diner, but just making book and running numbers.
“A likelier scenario is that someone else murdered the union boss and that the obsolete water tank sitting behind Frankie’s Place was a convenient place to deposit the body, either temporarily or permanently.
“Frankie was aware that the body was stashed in his tank. At some point, he decided it was best not to continue to reside in New Jersey. Whether he was spooked by the visit from the police or he was concerned that the mob would like as few living witnesses as possible to the victim’s whereabouts, or both, I’m not sure. In any event, he took off, diner, water tank, and all, looking for a place in the middle of nowhere where no one would ever look for him.”
“That place being Cordoba,” I interjected.
“Exactly,” said Costello. He turned to Felicity. “No offense, Felicity, but not many people would stop here, and fewer would choose to linger.”
“I guess they don’t know what they are missing,” said Felicity, offended despite Costello’s instructions. The bourbon was making her feisty.
“I agree with you wholeheartedly,” Costello responded. “After spending an extended time here, I
realize how special this place is, but for the first few days, all I could think of was the fastest way to get out of town. I’ll wager the sheriff here had the same reaction.”
“Something like that,” I said, taking a quick drink, amazed at the accuracy of his observations. “But I’m not the sheriff anymore.”
“That’s good,” Costello said. “We want as little involvement with the law as possible. Any questions so far?”
“Why didn’t Frank—Frankie leave the tank and the body back in New Jersey?” asked Felicity.
“A diner with a water tank out back is an ordinary sight, but a solitary tank sitting in the road would invite attention. He could have dumped it somewhere, but in either event, it might be traced back to him, and he couldn’t take that chance.
“Well, I guess it’s obvious at this point that Frankie the Stick Bellini moved his diner to Cordoba and changed his name to Frank Blaine. Along the way, he also decided to adopt the persona of Hilda Bluff as a disguise, in case someone was following him. So, he picked up the padding and wig and makeup and kept traveling west until he hit Cordoba.”
“Why the double identity? Why not just become Hilda?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” Costello said. “Maybe he figured it would be too hard to disguise himself as a woman forever. Perhaps he wanted to establish the identities of both Frank and Hilda so that after the heat wore off and he felt safe, Hilda could conveniently leave town and just Frank would remain.
“As for the split in the personalities, you’d have to talk to a psychiatrist. I have no doubts that Frank and Hilda are two different people now. Take for example the talking and arguing the Flagg sisters hear. I don’t know when it happened or why. Maybe the desert heat got to Frank, or he needed someone to confide in about the crime and the only one he could trust was Hilda. But at some point, the two became separate personalities.
“Anyway, to finish up the story, I arrived in town a couple of weeks ago and checked out the diner. The Flagg sisters saw me one night, searching around the back of the diner. Frank, or the part of him that was still Frankie, got worried that the past was catching up with him and decided he better do something. Early one morning before it got light, he went to the tank and loaded up the bones and clothing in an old potato sack, threw them in his pickup, and drove out to the desert to bury them. The Flagg sisters also saw that, not that they were snooping.”
