“Ooh! This is so hot.” Lizzie gave a quick shimmy. “A love triangle. Wear the black dress again.”
That dress had already gotten me in enough trouble.
“By the way, I need one more favor.” I pulled out the turkey sandwich I’d brought for her lunch.
“What? No soda?” she pouted.
I produced a can of Coke from the bottom of my bag. “I need to get someone’s home address.”
“So why don’t you just call them and ask for it?” Lizzie opened the sandwich and sniffed at the meat. “Ooh, real turkey breast!”
“I’m afraid that if I call, she’ll recognize my voice,” I explained. “And she may not want to give it to me.”
Lizzie nodded understandingly. “No problem. Just give me the name and number.”
I did so, and she picked up the phone and dialed Golden Shaft. “Is this Dee Salvano? Hi, I’m with Publishers Clearing House. I’m just checking to make sure you’re the Salvano we’re looking for. Did you happen to send in an entry a while ago? Great. One more question. I need to verify that you are the correct person. Could you state your address for me, please.”
Lizzie wrote it down and gave me a thumbs up. “Thanks, Dee. You’re one of our three finalists. We’ll be in touch if you’re the lucky winner.
“Ta dah!” Hanging up the phone, Lizzie handed me the address with a flourish.
“I’m impressed.” The girl deserved to be a star. “But wasn’t that a bit risky? After all, how do you know that she even bothers to open junk mail, let alone answer it?”
Lizzie took a bite of her turkey sandwich. “Get real, Rach. This is gambling country. Who’s gonna live here and not bet on winning a cool million?”
Lizzie had a point. My bungalow was chock-full of magazines I’d ordered from entering contests and then never bothered to read. I picked up my bag and headed for the door.
“Thanks for the help, Lizzie,” I said, waving good-bye.
“Make it tuna next time,” she called after me.
The conservation center seemed to be the next logical place to hit, after learning about Bill Holmes’s high and mighty connections. But Holmes was nowhere to be found. If any of the staff knew where he was, they weren’t talking. I cornered a portly guy in baggy jeans with ragged cuffs for a quick interrogation.
I hit him with a right. “Does Holmes usually take days off unannounced?”
“I don’t know,” the young biologist ducked.
I hit him with a left. “Did he call in sick?”
“Can’t say,” the scientist swerved.
I countered with a jab. “Is he at home now?”
“I’m with the Smithsonian. I don’t know where he lives,” my opponent blocked.
I moved in for the kill. “Then he is at home!”
“It didn’t come from me!” The biologist quickly turned and walked away.
Uppercut and knockout.
I jumped in the Blazer and pulled Holmes’s list of addresses out of the glove compartment. I also dragged out a map, hoping to decipher my way. Then I stepped on the gas and made a beeline for one of Vegas’s newer subdivisions.
Holmes’s street address was in the middle of a ritzy development. I double-checked his list to make sure I hadn’t gotten it wrong; but there were no two ways about it. Holmes was living among the crème de la crème. Either he was quite a nifty saver or something else was supplementing his income.
I pulled into his driveway and let Pilot out as I headed for the front door. The doorbell chimed a few classical notes, but no one was home. That made it the perfect time to snoop around. I peered through the front windows and saw that Holmes was sorely lacking in the decor department. A purple bean-bag chair sat plopped in the middle of the living room, positioned in front of a thirty-five-inch-screen TV. Above it hung a black velvet portrait of Elvis decked out in enough sequins to have made Liberace drool. There was no other furniture in sight.
I moved around to the back of the house as Pilot occupied himself marking the only bush on the grounds. Rounding a corner, I nearly tripped over a makeshift cactus garden badly in need of water. Next to it stood a small plastic pool that was bare. I pulled an empty bucket up to the back window and turned it upside down to stand on top, catching a glimpse of Holmes’s kitchen. This room appeared to be a little more lived in, with a yellow Formica table and four green plastic yard chairs. A clock with dice in place of the hours hung above his stove. On the floor was a plastic mat with a water bowl and a dish full of food that looked crusty and old. I leaned in closer, pressing my face against the glass to get a better view, when something jumped up, startling me badly. A tabby cat rubbed its body against the window and then turned to hiss at me, warning away an unwanted intruder.
I retraced my tracks to the front of the house in time to catch Pilot uprooting the lawn. Fortunately none of the neighbors had appeared to scream at us yet. I decided to press my luck. Heading for the double garage, I jimmied the door, pulled it open, and walked inside.
A flashy red Miata sports car sat ready to rock and roll. I supposed that if you were going to live in a neighborhood like this, you had to at least give the impression you belonged here.
I looked around his garage. It was obvious that Holmes was no handyman; there were no tools in sight—only a large garden hose that lay rolled up in the corner like a sleeping boa. For a moment, I seriously thought about giving his cactus a spritz. I walked over and tapped the hose with my foot, and saw a can of spray paint nestled among the coils. Leaning down, I picked it up, curious as to what Holmes could be decorating. The color of the paint was a bright neon-green.
Like the stenciled tortoise I’d seen at the Center and the one in Annie’s bathroom. My mind began to race. It seemed possible that an arrogant little twit like Holmes would have the audacity to steal tortoises right out from under the county’s nose—and it would help to explain his influx of extra cash. But I couldn’t see him as a coldblooded killer. Still, how many people kept cans of neon-green spray paint hanging around?
I put the can back and left the garage, closing the double door. Pilot sulked as I dragged him away from his work in progress, refusing to get back in the Blazer until I gave him a rawhide bone. At this point, a can of neon green spray paint would only prove that Holmes had bad taste. I needed something more solid to go on. I pondered the problem as Pilot proceeded to decimate his toy, but nothing came to mind.
I pulled out my cellular phone and checked the machine at work in order to kill some time. To my surprise, Harley’s voice came at me loud and clear.
“Listen, Porter. I’m calling about the other day. We better talk. You’re a newcomer to the West and have to understand how things work out here. So I’m gonna give you a second chance. Head on out this way again and it’ll be one-on-one this time. Just come alone and you’ll be fine.”
Interesting that both Monty Harris and Harley found it necessary to teach me how things work in their West. Though it was like learning ethics from Machiavelli, I’d be a fool to turn down his invitation. But, if Harley thought I planned to set foot out there without Pilot, he was sorely mistaken.
I was still thinking about Harley when my cell phone rang. As far as I knew, only Sam had my number, and I seriously doubted that he’d interrupt his downtime to jingle me for a chat. I fumbled with the phone, finally answering on the fifth ring.
“Hello?” I half expected the call to be a wrong number.
“Back off, Porter,” a mechanically distorted voice hissed in my ear.
I glanced around, as if someone might be there. But not a soul was in sight.
“Who is this?” I demanded.
“You value your health? ’Cause you’re about to lose it,” the diabolical whisper threatened.
God, I hated anonymous threats. “Yeah, that’s what my personal trainer keeps telling me. You wanna give me a clue here, buddy?” I asked belligerently.
“This is your only warning,” the metallic voice continued. “Either st
ay out of the way, or we’ll blow your fucking head off.”
“It’s thoughtful of you to call, but how can I stay out of your way if I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
My question was answered with a click as the line went dead. I had no doubt that the voice meant every word it had said. The problem was that the message could have come from anyone and been about anything. And I’d be damned if I’d wind up the subject of some hackneyed obituary without knowing why.
I thought about my anonymous phone call on the way out to Harley’s. I wondered if Holmes had spotted me at his house and was trying to scare me off. It could also have been either Randall or Deloyd, frustrated that I had walked away the other day. Let alone anyone connected with the tortoises, Annie, or the mine. But none of that explained how someone had managed to get hold of my cell phone number.
As before, Harley knew I had arrived by the time I reached the top of his drive. Dressed in the same plain shirt and worn-out jeans, he sat motionless on his horse, appearing to view me with much the same interest he would an itinerant piece of tumbleweed. I got out of the Blazer as he silently eyed Pilot. Then he slowly raised his focus to me.
“I see you brought your dog again,” Harley commented in a flat drawl.
A large chaw of tobacco was pushed into one side of his cheek, making me think of a squirrel storing food for the winter. Harley turned his head and spat out a dark stream of tobacco juice, staining the dry desert floor.
“He goes where I go,” was all I said.
Harley pulled at the brim of his hat. “You know, I’d have shot you by now if it wasn’t for the fact you’re a woman.”
He was clearly a dyed-in-the-wool sexist, but whatever kept me from being gun bait was okay by me.
“Hell, you might as well come on up to the house. No sense in us facing off here in the middle of the road.”
I got back in the Blazer and followed him over the rocky dirt path that I assumed was his driveway. By the time we reached his ranch house, a large covey of miniature Harleys had gathered to greet us.
“These are my kids,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
He tied up his horse as Pilot and I got out of the car. I counted fourteen children in all, ranging from about two years of age to eighteen. Each had a mop of unruly blond hair and distrustful blue eyes, with a mouth that turned down as though they’d been regularly force-fed spoonfuls of cod liver oil. His wife was nowhere in sight. I figured she was probably too tired to venture outside.
I was wrong. I heard a crash inside the house and a scraggly cat the color of orange marmalade came flying out through the front door spread-eagled, and landed at my feet. The feline pulled itself up, took one startled look at Pilot, and the hair on its head flew up as straight as a porcupine’s quills. Pilot let out a roar and started to lunge. I grabbed onto his collar and dug my feet into the ground, but the cat wasn’t sticking around. Emitting a bloodcurdling shriek, it took off around the back of the house. A similar screech arose from inside the ranch.
“Stay the hell out of this goddamn house, you miserable critter, before I cook your skinny ass and serve it for dinner!” a woman’s voice threatened.
Another crash added emphasis to her statement. Except for the part about the skinny ass, I hoped she wasn’t talking about me. I ducked as a pie tin flew over my head, scattering the children in all directions. Then Harley’s wife came into view.
“This here is LuAnn.” Harley nodded toward her, keeping his eyes carefully aimed at the ground. LuAnn’s frame filled the doorway. After bearing fourteen children, she had apparently lost all interest in her appearance. Or maybe it was in order to keep Harley away. Part of her hair was pinned on top of her head; the rest hung in ragtag strings down to her shoulders. A faded cotton housedress, held together in front by a series of safety pins, was splattered with the remnants of eggs and oatmeal from that morning’s breakfast. While the kids had inherited Harley’s eyes, there was no mistaking the fact that each had her mouth. Deep creases at both corners of her lips split the bottom half of her face lengthwise. Her eyes, small though they were, appeared even tinier, lost in a sea of flesh, while her nose had the width of an animal’s snout, all adding up to a slightly piggish appearance. She clenched a sharp paring knife in a hand as pink and round as a ham while she sized me up as though taking my measurements for that evening’s dinner.
“What the hell is she doing here?” LuAnn spat, never taking her eyes off me.
“We’re gonna talk,” Harley sheepishly explained.
“Not in my house you’re not.” LuAnn squatted down, throwing the paring knife into the wooden step in front of her. Pulling it out, she threw it again, her eyes darting back and forth between Harley and me.
I made an attempt to be friendly. “I’m just here to understand your position, Mrs. Rehrer.”
But LuAnn wasn’t buying. “My position is that the federal government is nothing but an invading army, and as one of its soldiers, you deserve to be shot, hung, and quartered.”
Okay. Her position was pretty clear.
“The trouble is that unless things can be worked out, the fines you owe will go even higher—and no one wants you to lose your house,” I explained.
A grin slowly spread across LuAnn’s face that made my skin crawl. “Ain’t no way we’re losing this ranch, girlie. Before that happens, I guarantee you’ll be dead.”
“Are you threatening me?” I asked, knowing full well it went way beyond that. The woman was far more frightening than her notorious husband.
“Whatever it comes down to. Whatever it takes,” she answered in return, staring me square in the eye.
LuAnn continued to gaze at me long and hard as she grabbed her paring knife and stood up. Then she walked back inside, slamming the door behind her.
“Maybe we better go for a ride,” Harley suggested after a moment.
That sounded fine to me. I headed for the Blazer, but Harley’s voice stopped me.
“Not in that. We’ll go on horseback.”
Call me a city slicker. Call me a coward. But I’d never ridden a horse. It just wasn’t on my list of things I was burning to do.
I watched in silence as Harley brought one of his horses out from the barn. He saddled him up and handed me the reins. I began to panic as I looked at the animal that towered above me. I knew that if I refused to ride, I’d be knocked down about ten notches in Harley’s eyes. I was left with little choice.
“What’s his name?” I asked, stalling for time.
“Terminator,” Harley replied without the hint of a smile.
Just perfect. I hooked my foot in the stirrup and grabbed onto the horn of the saddle, trying to throw myself up onto the horse’s back.
“Done much riding before?” Harley drolly asked, as he watched me make a fool of myself.
“A little,” I grunted, before attempting the impossible once again.
Harley finally got tired of waiting. “I’ll give you a boost.”
He pushed me up onto the saddle, where I viewed the world from a whole new perspective. One that was high and unsteady.
“I’m gonna take you for a ride on my range,” Harley said.
He slapped Terminator on the rump and we took off.
“You mean the federal range, don’t you, Harley?” I managed to sputter as I felt myself slip from side to side in the saddle.
Harley pulled up beside me and leaned over until he loomed in front of my face. “I’m the public, which makes me the owner of this land. You think you’re gonna come out here and tell me what to do?”
I held onto the horn with both hands as I leaned forward to meet him. “Say what you will, but this is federal land, Harley. That means it’s owned by the entire public, not just you. Which means you have to obey the rules.”
Harley sat back and appraised me. “You’re either stubborn or stupid, Porter. Either way, you’re asking for trouble. I got my rights and I don’t like something being crammed down my thr
oat.” He focused his baby-blue lasers on me. “You know, I could shoot you right now and no one would ever find you.”
“Yeah. But then you’d have to deal with my dog.” I bluffed.
Pilot was paying little attention to either of us, having already run ahead, delirious at the sight of a jackrabbit.
Harley pulled a pack of chewing tobacco out from his shirt pocket as he continued to ride. Extracting a wad, he shoved it into his mouth with fingers as rough and callused as a horned toad, adding onto the stash that was already there.
“You’re killing our way of life out here in the West,” he said in between chews of tobacco. “You’re slowly destroying our heritage.”
I wasn’t about to be pinned with the guilt of doing in every cowboy. “I don’t buy that, Harley. Things change everywhere.”
Harley seemed to be more sad than angry. But only for a moment; then the old flame flickered back up.
“There’s gonna be a war, Porter. It’s being played out right here in the West. And it ain’t got nothing to do with the public. It’s the government that’s building up for an attack, what with their ’copters flying around every night. The war is against us ranchers.” A stream of tobacco flew out of his mouth. “What it all comes down to is lock up and lock out.”
This thing about nightly government choppers was beginning to drive me crazy. It seemed as if everyone in southern Nevada had seen them except for me.
“The ’copters have to be from Nellis Air Force Base. They’re just out on practice maneuvers,” I said. Close to Yucca Mountain, Nellis had always considered Clark County its own private shooting range.
But Harley shook his head in disagreement. “Whatever’s going on, it ain’t no practice session. These are big mother Black Hawks. They’re never around during the day. Only at night. And they’re always headed in the same direction.”
“Where’s that?”
Harley turned in his saddle and pointed due south in the direction of the Golden Shaft mine. That made no sense. Either there was one more riddle to unravel or too much desert sun had caused paranoia to run rampant among the local conspiracy loonies.
Tortoise Soup (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 16
