by Sylvia Nobel
As I drew closer to the mobile home, a little shock of amazement ran through me. Cats! A whole slew of them. There must have been at least two dozen felines—some hiding beneath the sagging porch, some crouching in the grass, several others lounging and bathing on an old blanket-covered couch or lying in the tall grass, all sizes, all colors. Three sleek black ones studied me with bright green eyes and the two gorgeous orange and white tabbies reminded me of Marmalade.
I about jumped out of my skin when a scratchy, high-pitched voice behind me bellowed, “Who are you? Who are you?” Whirling around, I stared down at a petite woman almost as round as she was tall. Really. Everything about her was round, from her body, to her face to her eyes—the palest, blankest blue eyes I’d ever seen. For a second, I almost mistook her for Darcy. Probably in her fifties or sixties, this woman had similar facial features—same prominent globular nose, mottled skin—but instead of having thick, dark eyebrows, hers were almost nonexistent. Dressed in a red warm-up suit and boots, she wore a black stocking cap pulled down over lank, ear-length white hair. For some reason, she had a wad of tissue or toilet paper stuffed in one nostril. “Who are you? Who are you?” she demanded again in a singsong tone before running her tongue along protruding, yellowed teeth. I couldn’t help but notice the bulging cloth laundry bag tied around her waist and was slightly taken aback to see her clutching a ragged stuffed bunny.
“Ahhh, Kendall O’Dell. Is Darcy around?”
Her change of demeanor was lightning swift. Beaming with pleasure, she stuffed the bunny in the bag and grabbed one of my hands in hers, pumping it up and down several times. “You know Darcy! You know Darcy! Did she tell you about me? I’m Daisy. My momma named me after a flower—a yellow flower. Daisy. Daisy is my name. Daisies are very pretty, aren’t they?”
Why was she repeating everything? “Well, yes they are. Nice to meet you, Daisy.”
“Me and her are twins, you know,” she confided, her tone friendly and confidential. “Me and Darcy. She came out first. She’s older than me. Twelve minutes older. Twelve minutes.”
“I see.”
“You’re really tall. A tall, tall lady.” Wide-eyed, she reached up and stroked my hair, crooning “Such pretty red curls. So, so pretty.” Then she dug in one pocket and pulled out a camera. “You look like a movie star. Can I take your picture?”
I smiled down at her. “Um…well, sure, I guess so.”
She backed up a little and snapped several before cocking her head to one side. “What about animals? Do you love animals?”
Slightly taken aback at the rapid-fire change of subject matter, I replied, “I do.”
“Me too! Me too! I love animals. These are all my animal friends,” she exclaimed, opening her arms wide, a magnanimous smile softening her weathered features momentarily before her expression altered to a forlorn pout. “Bad people throw them away you know. But, I take care of them. Even the sick ones. Even the hurt ones. That’s what I do, yes, that’s what I do.” Then she fell silent and just stared at me, slack-jawed for extended seconds with slightly crossed eyes.
I filled the sudden void with, “That’s very commendable.”
“What?”
“Commendable.”
“What is commendable?” she asked, her gaze vacant.
“It means…you’re doing a wonderful thing,”
“Oh, yes, a wonderful thing. Wonderful. Yes. Yes.” She reached down and picked up a grey and white cat that had only one eye. “Would you take this sweet kitty home? There’s whole bunches of them here. This is Penelope. She is a snuggle bunny.” She hugged and tenderly kissed the cat on the head. “Don’t you just love, love, love a snuggle bunny?”
It was now clear to me that the woman was mentally impaired. “I do. But…I already have a cat…” I paused and we both looked around as Darcy’s battered red and white pickup rattled along the driveway and stopped. Frowning at me from behind the wheel, she slid out of the truck and five chickens flew out with her, plopping onto the ground. “Aren’t you the redhead I just saw down at the bottom of the hill awhile ago?”
“Yes.”
“Thought so.” She shooed three more squawking hens from the cab of the truck and slammed the door. “Daisy, get these girls back in the coop.”
“Why did you bring ’em back?” she asked, furrowing her light brows at Darcy. “Why didn’t Emma take ’em to Globe with her?”
She let out an audible groan. “It’s a long story. Just put ’em away, okay?”
“But, I’m busy. I’m busy. See? I’m showing this lady Penelope. See? I don’t want to do it right now. Don’t want to.” She sounded obstinate, petulant, childlike.
“Don’t argue with me.” Darcy peered at her, pointing to her nose. “Your nose bleeding again?”
“A little bit.”
“Humph. We’ll deal with it later. Hop to it and get these hens rounded up.”
Apparently her supposedly compassionate nature didn’t extend to her sister. Lips quivering, a defiant light glimmering in her eyes, Daisy hesitated before she set the cat down and stomped by me, muttering in an accusatory tone, “She sucked up all the air, you know. She sucked up all the air.” Baffled by her comment, I looked after her while Darcy confronted me with a blunt, “Who are you and why are you here?”
I dragged my gaze away from Daisy and handed her my card. “I’m an investigative reporter with the Castle Valley Sun.”
“You’re kinda off the beaten track, aren’t ya? What d’ ya want?”
“To ask a few questions.”
“About what?”
I pulled out my phone and located the photo. “Do you recognize either of these two people?”
She looked at the image. “Mmmm. Yeah. I think the girl’s name is Jennifer, Janice or something. I can’t remember his name.”
“Jenessa. And that’s her boyfriend, Nathan.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“Did you take this photo?”
“Nope. Daisy must have. That’s her thing. She loves to take pictures of everyone and everything,” she remarked, sounding mildly derisive. “Drives me nuts. Thank God for digital cameras or I’d have to rent a second storage unit to hold another ten million prints plus all the other crap she drags home. In case you didn’t notice she’s got a few problems. She’s got ADD, she’s OCD and a bit of a kleptomaniac, so don’t set anything down if you want to see it again.” Her gaze strayed to Daisy struggling to round up the chickens and then back to me. “So, what is it that you want?”
“Do you know why Jenessa and Nathan were here in Raven Creek the day this photo was taken?”
“I’m not a mind reader. All I know is I got home from taking care of one of my patients and they were standing here listening to Daisy’s nonsensical chatter.” Her twisted smile held just a trace of sardonic humor. “Kind of like you.”
I ignored her mild ridicule. “Did they stop here for directions? Do you know if they were lost or just out exploring the area?”
“I don’t keep a diary.”
Oh my. Forthcoming she was not. While pondering my next question something dawned on me. I showed her the photo again. “Did she adopt this cat from you?”
“Maybe.”
“And did it have only three legs?”
“I can’t tell from that picture, but yeah. We had one here and Daisy pushed ’em pretty hard to take it.”
Talking more to myself than her, I mused, “How in the world did Jenessa find you? I mean, how does anyone find you up here?”
Her eyes reflected ironic affirmation. “You noticed that we’re not exactly a destination. I’ll tell you what, it was a hell of a lot easier to get here before the damned Forest Service screwed us over by closing the only good road we had.”
That captured my attention. “When was that?”
“I dunno. About four years ago, I
think.”
“And why exactly was it closed?”
“Because according to the powers that be, it wasn’t worth maintaining just for us. They claimed it wasn’t needed anymore after the old lookout tower got shut down. And get this,” she went on, her ruddy face reddening, “they didn’t just close the damn thing, they dug out the culverts and bulldozed it to make sure we couldn’t use it anymore. And now every time it rains water comes pouring down the hill and washes out part of the canyon road. And adding insult to injury,” she went on, brandishing a hand eastward, “Old Buster McCracken always allowed us to use the shortcut across his ranch to the main road. He kept it up real nice, but after he died, the damn gravel company gated it off, supposedly for safety reasons.” At that point in her soliloquy, she had to pause for a breath before finishing with a vociferous, “Bunch of heartless bastards!”
I’d obviously hit on a sore point and decided it might be best to gently direct her back to the matter at hand. “It does seem unfair.” A fluffy cream-colored cat with no tail rubbed against my leg, sparking the memory of Marcelene’s poignant observation regarding her daughter’s predisposition to rescue animals and people with disabilities. Had she already known about this place or just stumbled upon it accidentally? I bent down to pet the cat’s soft fur. “So, do you advertise your animal sanctuary? I mean, how did Fiona end up here?”
Her shaggy brows edged higher. “Who?”
“The black cat.”
“Oh. Well, in case you didn’t know, there’s a shitload of heartless assholes out there who think nothing of dumping unwanted or injured animals in the desert. The locals find ’em wandering half dead down around Cleator, Cordes and Bumble Bee. They know they can bring ’em to us and we’ll care for them.”
“Sounds like a time-consuming and costly proposition.”
“It is. A couple of times a year we make room for more by taking the adoptable ones to a couple of the no-kill shelters in Prescott and Phoenix.” She paused, frowning. “So, where are we goin’ with this?”
I pointed to the photo once again. “You do know what happened to them, right?” I studied her reaction closely.
She palmed her hands upward with an impatient, “No. What?”
When I explained, her splotchy, sun-wrinkled face crinkled with genuine shock. “I’d heard that some young folks died out there in the snowstorm last week, but didn’t have a clue it was them.” She shook her head glumly. “That’s awful sad. She’s…she seemed like a real nice girl. Gave us a generous contribution to boot. And they’re tax deductible, you know,” she tacked on with a look of hopeful expectation.
Taking the hint, I dug out my wallet, hoping my gesture would buy me some good will and access to more information. “You’re doing a wonderful thing here and I’d be happy to make a donation,” I said, pressing two twenty dollar bills into her hand accompanied by what I hoped was a charismatic smile.
Her expression mellowed somewhat as she pocketed the cash. “Much obliged. I’ll make sure you get a receipt.”
“That would be great. Do you happen to remember the approximate date Jenessa adopted the cat?”
She stared over my shoulder, a faraway look glazing her heavy-lidded blue eyes. “Can’t say as I do. Last month sometime, I think. I’ll have to check the records.”
I knew it had to be at least three weeks prior because of the receipt I’d seen in Jenessa’s room for cat food and accessories. “Would Daisy remember?”
Her expression sardonic, she said, “Her? Trust me, the porch light is on, but there’s nobody home. Can’t you tell?” Her voice had a brusque, critical edge to it.
There didn’t appear to be a diplomatic way to respond to her question. “Well, I had my suspicions…”
“Anything else you want? I got animals to feed and broken crates to repair before dark.”
I wanted to say that with the amount of money she’d just astutely extracted from the sand and gravel company, she could buy a hundred new ones. But I let it slide. “Do you have a suggestion as to which other residents I should talk to?”
“About what?”
“To find out if anyone saw or heard anything suspicious…”
“Well, good luck with that,” she interjected with a meaningful glance.
“Yes, I noticed all the signs. Not exactly welcoming. Some came across as deliberately intimidating.”
Her gaze turned shrewd. “I saw you talking to Burton Carr and I’m guessing he filled your head with bloodcurdling stories about some of the people who live here, right?”
“He mentioned that there might be former inmates from various penal and mental institutions living here.”
She let out a snort of laughter. “Well, that’s a real tactful way of putting it.” She scratched her armpit. “I’ll admit we’ve had our share of scoundrels here from time to time and a few folks who probably should be locked up for their own good, but it’s damned annoying when law enforcement tries to pin every little thing on us. If someone gets so much as a hangnail within fifty miles of here, they’re automatically banging on our doors first.”
Oh, good opening for one of my questions. “Are you aware of the other two deaths that occurred in this area within the past year or so?”
She scrunched her substantial, badly blotched nose at me. “Yeah. One of ’em was that pesky filmmaker who was always hanging around.”
“Hanging around where?”
“Here. There. Everywhere. The guy was all over the place. Told anyone who’d listen that he was making a documentary on how the locals feel about the environmental impact of the state’s plan to build a freeway through Bumble Bee and having a sand and gravel company in their backyards. I think he got an earful.”
“Yes, I saw the protest signs. Why do you say he was pesky?”
“Because he was! He was pushy and annoying. Constantly bugging people with questions. Personally, I think he fancied himself to be some kind of big shot Hollywood type, all huff and blow, running around here acting like he was real important. I guess we were supposed to be impressed because he had a friggin’ video camera. Big whoop. Some folks around here, well, they don’t want to be bothered, let alone wind up on the Internet or some reality TV show.”
“Do you know anything about the death of the second man?”
“The road surveyor? Not much. I saw him doing his thing a couple of times down around Cordes and Mayer. Nice-looking young fellow. Always waved at me real friendly-like. Then I heard through the grapevine he’d had one too many drinks at the Crown King Saloon and offed himself driving over a cliff.”
“The sheriff told me it was ruled as accidental death. Have you got any thoughts about that?” I watched her expression change from befuddled to insightful.
“Oh, you mean because he worked for the transportation department? You think one of the pissed-off residents maybe helped him over the side of the road?” An eye roll accompanied her slight shrug. “I wouldn’t be surprised, but I also don’t think we’ll ever know.”
At the sound of an approaching car engine, we both looked around. I stared in amazement at the unexpected and rather unnerving sight of the vehicle emerging from the mist—a hearse—a big, long, black hearse.
CHAPTER
20
Undaunted, Darcy raised a hand in greeting and shouted, “Hey, Goose, how ya doing today?”
The driver, a fiftyish-looking man with a short salt and pepper beard, yelled back, “Fair to middling!” before proceeding to slide mail into the boxes.
“Well, that’s different,” I remarked in wonderment. “Unique choice of vehicles for mail delivery.”
“Ain’t that a hoot?” Darcy cackled, slapping her thigh. “He gets the biggest kick out of parking that thing in front of the bar down there in Cleator and watching people’s expressions as they drive by.” Humor sparkled in her cornflower-blue eyes. �
�Sort of like the look on your face just now.”
I grinned. “Well, it’s not everyday you see a guy delivering mail in a hearse. Is Goose his real name?”
Now it was her turn to grin. “Naw. It’s Percy Cross. I don’t remember who pinned that nickname on him.”
“Is he an official postal carrier?”
“In a roundabout way. Contract worker. Regular guys won’t come up that bad road, so we only get mail once or twice a week unless we want to run over to Black Canyon City.”
“I’m surprised he can negotiate the curves in something that substantial.”
“He’s got a quad if the weather’s too bad, but he’s got that thing all tricked out and road worthy.” Noting my skeptical expression she added, “He restores vintage cars. You passed his place on the way here. Didn’t you notice ‘em all lined up in his yard?”
“Sort of. It was hard to see anything very clearly in the fog.”
“I bought my truck from him,” she announced proudly, thumbing behind her. “When she ain’t all mud-caked, she’s pretty spiffy-looking.”
“Yeah, same for me,” I murmured, observing my now-filthy Jeep. It was encouraging to see her crusty demeanor softening towards me, and I got the distinct impression that even though she appeared reticent to talk, she was actually in her element sharing the local gossip with me. How lucky was I to have stumbled upon a treasure trove like Darcy Dorcett? Tapping the horn lightly, Goose waved farewell to Darcy and nodded in my direction before driving away. When I turned back to her, Darcy was staring at her cell phone. I drew back, surprised. “Oh. You have cell service here?” I pulled my phone out again to check. Nope. No signal.
“Not really. I was just checking the time.” She drew in a huge breath. “Here’s the deal. To get a signal, you gotta stand in just the right spot with the phone pointed directly southeast and even then most of the calls fail within a minute or so. But, if you’re determined…see that big tree over there?” she asked, pointing across the road.
