Forbidden Entry

by Sylvia Nobel

  I looked up at the mass of gray clouds hovering over the treetops and yelled back, “I’ll be fine, but thanks.”

  “I’d get a move on real soon if I were you,” he advised sternly, then acknowledged Daisy with a smile and friendly wave. “How are you doin’ today, Miss Daisy?”

  When she didn’t answer, I turned around in time to witness her staring at him in goggle-eyed, open-mouthed alarm. No, actually it was more than that. She looked petrified. Was she worried that I might tell him about the book she’d stolen from his mother’s house? She didn’t respond to his inquiry and seconds before she darted back inside the trailer, her startled gaze met mine and I heard her mutter, “He sucked up all the air. He sucked up all the air.” Well, that was just plain weird. I glanced back at Burton, but he had already pulled away. Before I could even begin to analyze her peculiar statement, a powerful gust of wind roared down the mountainside, almost knocking me off my feet. Oh brother! I could only hope my family wasn’t experiencing the same fate in Monument Valley. I grabbed up my cell phone and then my heart fell when I remembered there was no cell service.

  “Crap.” Please don’t let their tour be cancelled, I prayed. The excursion had cost me almost a week’s salary.

  I hopped inside the Jeep and sat there trying to shake off my escalating blue funk. Was it the cloudy weather? Over these past nine months, I had become totally addicted to sunshine and sharp blue skies. My complaining stomach reminded me that I’d never eaten lunch, so, with the insistent wind as my companion, I ate my sandwich and mulled over the day’s events.

  Merely summoning up the unhappy recollection of Jenessa and Nathan’s watery grave depressed me even further and made it difficult to swallow. The now-dried-out bread hit my belly like a brick and formed a hard lump. And the unnerving encounter with the very strange ‘bee man’ known only as Stilts was as distressing as it was puzzling. For the life of me I could not fathom what could have transpired to cause a display of such intense hatred toward a kind and gentle human being like Jenessa. And his cruel exultation following the announcement of her death totally mystified me. What could possibly be the basis for such shocking behavior? Had Jenessa’s confrontation with Stilts taken place the same day she’d visited Daisy? Cognizant of the woman’s limited mental capabilities, could I really rely on anything she had told me so far? Was I wasting my time?

  I laid my head back and let out a long breath. Either there really was no story here or I just couldn’t find it. Besides scratching the paint on my new Jeep, what had I really accomplished driving around the Bradshaws these past two days? I started the engine. Marcelene and Ginger were counting on me to find some answers to the puzzle and so far all I had to report back to them was…nothing—a big, fat stupid zero. Boy, had I made a wrong decision. If I hadn’t suffered a weak moment and instead stuck with my original plans, I’d be having fun vacationing with my family right now instead of sitting on this stormy, lonesome mountaintop.

  Matching my dismal mood, random drops splattered on the windshield. Of course it was going to rain again. I turned on the windshield wipers and made my way slowly along the sloshy, deeply furrowed road. I was rocking past Percy Cross’s place when I glanced over towards the dark spires of the unfinished house. Overcome by a powerful impulse, I turned into his driveway and parked behind the creepy-looking old hearse. I could almost hear my dad’s admonishment ringing in my ears. ‘Pumpkin, it’s too soon to throw in the towel.’ It would be far easier to accept the fact that Jenessa’s death was truly an accident, but try as I might, I could not extinguish the lingering sense of doubt.

  So, why was I here? Who better than the mail carrier to know something about everyone residing in or around Raven Creek? Why not take just a few minutes to pick his brain? Perhaps he could provide additional information about the mysterious beekeeper. He might even know the man’s real name. Couldn’t hurt to ask.

  I reached beneath my seat, pulled out my seldom-used umbrella and stepped into the driving rain. Sprinting by the jumble of vintage cars in his front yard, I could smell the tantalizing odor of mesquite smoke pouring from the chimney of the small wooden house. Two quick steps up to the porch and I was out of the downpour. I raised my hand to knock when I heard a peculiar sound emanating from within. Honk! Honk! Honk! It sounded like a goose. I rapped on the door and when it swung open, I stood face to face with a watery-eyed Percy Cross, wiping his nose with a dishtowel. Oh. I now understood the source of his nickname.

  After I’d introduced myself and told him why I was there, he croaked, “Yeah, I remember seeing you at Darcy’s place.” He paused. “Look here, I got me a real bad cold, so I jest thought I’d warn ya, ifn ya don’t want to come in.”

  I hesitated. I couldn’t very well question him with the rain pounding on the roof, but I wasn’t thrilled about catching a cold either. Decision time. I told him I wouldn’t stay long and he invited me inside, where I stood in front of the crackling woodstove fire warming my cold hands.

  “Join me in a cup o’ hot cider?” he inquired, his friendly gap-toothed smile lighting up his watery brown eyes while he tightened the belt on his flannel checked bathrobe.

  “Sounds good to me,” I answered, gazing around the crowded, unkempt wood-paneled room. It looked like a bachelor pad—frayed armchairs, dusty, dated furniture piled with newspapers and magazines, the remains of frozen meal containers scattered about along with empty beer and soda cans.

  A few minutes later, he joined me in front of the stove, handing me the steaming cup of spicy-smelling liquid. “You might want to wait a minute. It’s pretty hot.”

  “Thank you.”

  Blowing his nose with a resounding honk again, he shuffled back to the kitchen, returning with a cup in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. “I got me a touch of Jack Daniels in mine. You want a little nip too?”

  I smiled wryly. “If I didn’t have to conquer that winding road, I would definitely join you.”

  “Ya get used to it after awhile.” He moved across the room and settled himself into a chair. “I’m gonna sit over here so I don’t give you this creeping crud, okay?”

  “I appreciate that.” I sat down near the fire.

  “So, what is it you’d be wanting to know about old Stilts?” he asked, taking a drink of his cider.

  I filled him in on my strange encounter and he nodded sagely. “Yeah, he’s an odd bird, I’ll give ya that. I don’t know a whole hell of a lot about him ’cept I understand he’s been living here close on to fifteen years. Keeps to himself, never talks about where he come from, don’t seem to have no friends and for some dang reason, never finishes building that house.” He sipped more cider continuing with, “Wish I could help ya out with his real name, but ya see, I don’t deliver his mail. He uses a PO Box in Black Canyon City.”

  Now I was even more curious. Using a Post Office box is the best way for a person to go underground. “But he must have had mail delivered at one time. There used to be a name on the mailbox, but all that I could make out was a G and a T.”

  “A G and a T,” he repeated, stroking his beard. “Well, I jest took this gig over about six years ago after Millard Boggs passed on. The name on that old box might’ve belonged to someone who lived there before him.” He paused and his eyes lit up. “You know what? I think I remember hearing that Doc Gartiner’s brother once owned that property. So, there ya go! There’s your G and T,” he announced with a look of supreme satisfaction. “Anything else ya want to know?”

  I pulled out my phone, tabbed to the photo of Jenessa and Nathan and after a brief explanation, crossed to where he sat and held it out to him. “I was wondering if you recalled seeing them anytime during the past few weeks and if so, where?”

  He grabbed a pair of reading glasses from the cluttered side table and perched them on his beet-red nose. He studied the photo for a long time before looking up to meet my inquiring gaze. “I wish I could
help ya, but, ya know, I see so many of these kids tearin’ around up and down the roads on their cycles and quads, I’m just not certain. Sorry.”

  Well, great. Every path of questioning I started down seemed to lead to the same dead end. I returned to my seat and took a swallow of the cider. Tasty!

  “Anything else?” he inquired, pouring more of the amber liquid into his cup.

  “What can you tell me about Harvel Brickhouse? You know him, right?”

  He made a face. “Yeah, I know him. What do you want to know about the old skunk?”

  Skunk? I smiled. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

  “I know he works a bunch of mining claims back here in the hills,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder.

  “The sheriff told me he was convicted of involuntary manslaughter quite a few years ago. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I heard he beat a guy to death with his bare fists down at the Cleator bar a long time back.”

  “Do you know who and why?”

  He scratched his disheveled hair. “Well, I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I heard he was once sweet on Elizabeth McCracken. Her name’s Hinkle now, and that this feller he coldcocked had made some derogatory remark about her and that’s when the fightin’ started. When Harvel got out of prison, I think it might’ve been five years later, Buster McCracken hired him on as a ranch hand and now he’s kind of the part-time caretaker when he ain’t out workin’ his claims.”

  “I’d like to talk with him. Do you have any idea where I could find him?”

  He let out a humongous sneeze and goose-honked into the dishtowel again before proceeding to have a coughing fit. My stomach churned when he finally hawked something up. He noisily cleared this throat. “Sorry about that. What’d you ask me?”

  “Do you know where I could locate him?”

  “Harvel’s a hard guy to find. He don’t stay in one spot very long.”

  It was only then that I realized the rain had stopped and even though it was only three-thirty, early twilight was fast descending. I rose hastily. “Well, thanks for your help.” I headed for the door.

  “Well now, hold your horses a minute,” came his voice from behind. “I can’t tell you where he is at this very second, but I can for certain tell you where he’ll be on Wednesday.”

  I swung around. “Where?”

  He edged me a crafty smile. “No matter how far he roams, he manages to truck it on back to the McCracken Ranch by two o’clock in the afternoon the second Wednesday of the month.”

  “Why?”

  “I deliver his monthly check that day.”

  At last something I could actually bank on. I thanked him for the cider and drove out of Raven Creek with a little prayer that the canyon road wouldn’t be a perilous river of mud. Even though I hadn’t made much progress on the side of finding any concrete proof to reinforce Marcelene’s theory, I was convinced that there had to be something more going on here than met the eye. There just had to be. There were too many unanswered questions, too many suspicious events. All I needed was one small piece of tangible evidence to prove it.

  CHAPTER

  25

  What a difference four thousand feet makes. By the time I reached the turnoff at the bottom of the hill, the wind had died down considerably and streams of sunlight intermittently punched through the ragged, fast-moving clouds. Amazing. Behind me, the summit was still shrouded in a misty cloud cap of charcoal grey. The mountain did indeed create its own weather patterns.

  Back in the land of cell service, my phone started dinging like a pinball machine as message after message came through. I pulled to the side of the road to scroll through them. The first one was from my dad and included several photos of the family standing at the entrance of Monument Valley. REALLY WINDY BUT HAVING A BALL! WISH U WERE HERE WITH US. He wore a cheerful grin, but Sean and my mother were not smiling. In fact, they both looked peeved. Oh boy. No doubt they were still at each other’s throats and I wondered again what we were going to do about his destructive behavior and drug use. Should I plan a family intervention after our engagement party? It would be more effective if our brother, Patrick, were present. He was a level-headed, no-nonsense type of guy and would most likely concur with my assessment of the situation. But the mere thought of what could prove to be a volcanic family upheaval with possibly no resolution sent my spirits spiraling downward again. There seemed to be no good solution to the dilemma.

  I tapped the next message from Marshall Turnbull. NOT SURPRISED! I NU YOU’D END UP WORKING THIS CASE! ☺ HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE 2 CONTACT THE TAYLOR BOY’S MOTHER YET. WORKING ON IT. He also included the phone number for Nathan’s father. Good. At least I could call him tonight or tomorrow.

  I scrolled to the next message. CAN’T WAIT TO HEAR WHAT U FIND OUT, GIRLFRIEND! CALL ME LATER. COME OVER 2 MARCELENE’S 2MORROW NITE AROUND 6. POTLUCK. BRING CHIPS & DIP. BONNIE, TOM, NONA AND BRIAN WILL BE THERE 2. WE CAN TALK ABOUT THE PARTY PLANS 2. ☺

  Perfect. I always enjoyed visiting with Ginger’s sister and especially their colorful grandmother, Nona. Plus that, it would be a good time to find out if Brian would be able to access the information on Jenessa’s laptop and there might even be time to go through the rest of her receipts to determine if they contained any significant information.

  There was also a text from Tugg reminding me that he would not be in the office until Wednesday morning. Time wise, that would work out well for me. I would make sure I was at the McCracken Ranch that afternoon well before two o’clock. Tally had left me a message commenting on the photos I’d sent, reminded me again to be careful and that he missed and loved me. That alone made my day. Feeling more optimistic, I set the phone down and shoved the Jeep into drive.

  Traffic was pretty light on the way towards Cleator, but when I heard the distinctive whine of ATVs behind me, I pulled to the side. Two young guys raced by and bolt of surprise shot through me. Wait a minute. Was the second guy with his hat turned backwards the same one I’d seen twice in the past two days? I was pretty sure it was. A fluke or did he live somewhere around here? A tight, uncomfortable knot formed in my stomach when he briefly glanced over his shoulder at me. I don’t know why the notion that he might be tailing me flashed through my mind, but it did. I waited until they were out of sight and then continued on my way.

  When I neared the entrance to the gravel company, the unexpected sight of more than a half a dozen cars parked along both sides of the road caught my attention. What was this? I eased to a stop behind a white van plastered with an array of bumper stickers and decals all warning of mankind’s destruction of Mother Earth. I counted eight women and two men, arms locked together, blocking the driveway and waving signs protesting the company’s alleged desecration of the desert landscape. SAVE OUR PRISTINE DESERTS, FRIENDS OF THE LAND and GREEDY CORPORATIONS DESTROY THE EARTH! THIS COMPANY COLLUDES WITH ADOT!! DELIVER US FROM THIS EVIL!

  I looked up and down the empty road. Since there were so few passersby, whom were these people attempting to influence with their inflammatory signs? Obviously, this demonstration was meant solely for employees and management of the sand and gravel company. I shook my head. They were wasting their time, but I shouldn’t waste mine. Adversity always presents a good story opportunity. I smiled to myself. Tugg’s sage prediction that I’d find some angle to write about echoed loudly in my ears. Okay. Since I wasn’t making much headway on the exposé I was hoping for, why not take advantage of the human-interest story right in front of me? What did my dad always say? When life hands you lemons, make lemonade or, better yet, a lemon meringue pie.

  I grabbed my notepad and approached the group. After my introduction, they eagerly seized on the publicity aspect for their cause, posed for pictures and passionately voiced their opinions regarding the grave environmental impact of the gravel company. There were vociferous accusations that the company was sys
tematically destroying the landscape, flora and fauna, birds, bats, lizards and toads, plus a flagrant disregard for EPA safety rules. In regards to the impending freeway construction and the supposed collusion between Raven Creek Sand and Gravel Company and the Department of Transportation, they uttered a barrage of words I could not print. I was happily jotting down their concerns on my notepad when I felt first the vibrations and then heard the roar of one of the big gravel trucks fast approaching.

  The group quickly hoisted their signs and locked arms again. Well, this ought to be interesting. I swiped to my camera icon fully expecting the truck to reduce speed and stop for the chanting chain of humanity. Not only did the driver not slow down, to my horror, he accelerated and bore down on us. I barely had time to leap to the side of the driveway. “Run!” I shouted, scrambling up the side of the knoll. “He’s not kidding!”

  Screaming like banshees, the protesters scattered like frightened sheep in all directions. From my awkward position on the embankment, I managed to raise my phone and tap the screen multiple times as the giant vehicle rumbled through the gate in a choking cloud of dust. Good God! What was he thinking? He could have killed all of us. Short of breath, heart thundering in my ears, I sat down on the sloped ground to collect my thoughts. Was it possible he’d been blinded by the late afternoon sunlight and hadn’t seen us? Surely, he wouldn’t have intentionally mowed us down? I scanned my photos but they were backlit and out of focus except for the blurry outline of the man’s profile. Could that possibly be Rod, the surly driver who’d been in the dust-up with Darcy, or was it the young Hispanic guy? I enlarged the photo, but could not nail down the driver’s identity.