By seven Rusty and I were in the Jeep, headed south on I-25. We pulled off at one of the exits on the edge of town where I topped off the gas tank, checked under the hood, verified the tire pressure, and bought a breakfast sandwich and large coffee. Modern travel has become such a one-stop affair.
I ate the sandwich in the car, giving the last bite to the dog, before we pulled out of the service station’s lot. Back on the interstate, I sipped my coffee and listened to a radio host taking calls on the topic of the road construction mess in Albuquerque. It felt good to be out of the city for a bit, zipping along ten miles over the speed limit.
The countryside became pure desert the farther south we traveled. Flat-topped mesas stood regally on our right, while the Rio Grande River showed as a strip of green vegetation cutting through the land between us and the pale purple shape of the Manzano Mountains to the east. I exited south of Socorro onto highway 380, wishing I’d planned it better. If I’d arrived here closer to noon, one of the world famous burgers at the Owl Bar would have been a real treat. Maybe I’d catch one on the way home.
By ten o’clock I’d passed through the little crossroads town of Carrizozo, turned north and found the sign for the turnoff to White Oaks. Nine miles of road winding through a land of pale earth dotted with scrub piñon and juniper led me into the old mining town. A cemetery, whose metal archway entrance stood on the right-hand side of the road, greeted the visitor first. I cruised past it, planning to come back later and browse the names of the inhabitants. Mine tailings dotted the hills on my left, small heaps of orange and yellow mineral residue showing brightly against the surrounding earth. I drove through the town once.
End to end it wasn’t more than a mile or two. A few buildings remained along the main drag, with others, including a couple of sizeable Victorian homes, dotted around the surrounding hilly terrain. When I reached the northeastern edge I U-turned and retraced the route. On my right, I passed the shell of a once-massive sandstone building, most of its front façade chipped away but its two-story exterior walls intact. Across the road, adobe foundations and fragments of walls stood like silent soldiers in a field of scrub piñon and tumbleweeds.
I hadn’t noticed a single car anywhere on my first trip through but now I spotted a small pickup truck parked behind the town’s one and only eating establishment. I pulled into the dirt flat spot in front of the tiny wooden building with the single word CAFÉ lettered in red paint on the front window. Rusty raised up from his spot on the back seat, suddenly interested now that we had stopped. I retrieved a bowl and canteen and poured water for him, which he lapped sloppily beside the open car door. When he was finished I ushered him back into the Jeep and rolled each of the windows down several inches.
“I’ll be right back,” I told him.
Grabbing my purse from the seat beside me, I walked up to the wooden porch and peeked in the window. A couple of lights burned overhead, the only evidence that the place might be open. I tried the door and it swung inward with a loud creak.
“Be right there, Jeb.” A male voice came from the back somewhere.
I looked around. A polished wooden counter ran the length of the room on the left side, with red leather-topped chrome stools in front of it. Three sets of tables and chairs jutted out from the right wall at intervals, leaving only a narrow aisle between the end of each table and the stools at the counter. Behind the counter were an industrial sized coffee maker, a soda dispensing machine, and a shelf containing a long line of beer bottles. Through a window cut into the back wall, I could see a kitchen with a long grill, a variety of pots and utensils, and one of those chrome spinners that waitresses clip your order to. I took a seat at the counter.
“Little early today, ain’t ya?” The man who stepped out of the back room was wiping his hands on the bottom edge of the large white bib apron he wore. His jaw went slack when he finally looked up and saw me. “Well, you ain’t Jeb, are ya?”
“No. Sorry.”
A wide grin spread across his round face, making his jowls overflow the top of the blue chambray shirt he wore. The top of his head was nearly perfectly round; his white hair had been clipped so short at first glance I thought he was bald. A pair of red suspenders emerging from behind the white apron disappeared over his broad shoulders, no doubt holding up the pair of dark blue work pants that the apron didn’t quite manage to cover. He ambled slowly to the back of the counter.
“Well, you’re a damn sight prettier than Jeb anyway.”
I think I blushed.
“What can I get for ya?”
My very early breakfast had worn off. “Are you serving lunch yet?” I asked.
“I’ll serve ya anything ya want, anytime ya want it. I don’t hold with these places that serve one kinda food till exactly a certain time then cut ya off and only serve somethin’ else. Food is food. I cook it all.”
“Well, then maybe something like a tuna sandwich?” I ventured.
“Tell ya what the best thing on the menu is.” He leaned heavily on the countertop and extended his index finger on the glossy surface. “The cheeseburger and fries. Ain’t none of them pre-formed patties or none of them frozen little sticks they call fries in them fast food places. I use my own ground buffalo meat that a guy near here brings me. Make the patties myself. Cut the fries myself too, out of a whole potato.”
I caught myself glancing at his hands. They were freshly scrubbed, the nails clean and well-trimmed.
“Course, I make a pretty mean enchilada plate too. Get my corn tortillas made fresh from this little ol’ Mexican lady over in Carrizozo. Use the ground buffalo meat for them too. And my sauce is my own recipe. Now anyone can make a green chile sauce—that’s pretty simple. But a fine red sauce is a rare thing. Rare indeed.”
I felt myself wavering. Both of his suggestions sounded far better than a tuna sandwich. I told him so. “So, which would you recommend?”
He pinched his lips together and looked at some unseen place in the distance. “Me, I think I’d go with the burger. Don’t know why, exactly. That burger meat just looks real tempting today.”
“Okay—sold.”
“You got it.” He slapped his hand down on the counter and pushed himself back to a standing position. “Want a Coke or somethin’ while I’m cookin’ it?” He’d already reached for a glass and filled it with ice.
“Sure, a Coke would be great.”
“So, what brings you to White Oaks?” he asked, setting the Coke down in front of me. He started toward the kitchen at the back. “Go ahead, talk while I’m cookin’. I like somebody to visit with while I cook.”
“I’m looking for an old man who told his family he was coming here to do some prospecting.”
“Yeah? You an investigator or somethin’?” He peered through the window at me, ducking to avoid the chrome spinner. The burger meat sizzled in the background.
“Sorry, I should have introduced myself. Charlie Parker. I’m with RJP Investigations in Albuquerque.”
“Pleased to meet ya. I’m Keith Randel.” He turned away to flip the burger, then stuck his head back through the window. “So, who’s this guy you’re looking for? Maybe I know him.”
“His name is William McBride. He’s in his eighties.” I started to fish in my purse for the photo Dorothy had given me.
“Willie? Well, hell yes, I know Willie,” Randel chuckled. “He’s been coming around for years.”
“Really? Have you seen him recently?”
He raised an index finger and turned away. I could see him shuffling things back at the grill. He emerged a minute later with a platter; the surface was filled by the thick oversized burger snuggled into its onion roll and the fresh-cut fries glistening with oil. He set the platter in front of me and reached to the back counter to hand me a set of flatware tightly wrapped in a white paper napkin. The fabulous meaty smell wafting up at me nearly made my knees weak.
“Let’s see,” he said, shuffling around the end of the counter to plop onto a st
ool two places away from mine. “Guess I saw Willie, what, about maybe a month, two months, ago?”
I swallowed a generous bite. “His daughter says he left Albuquerque in February.”
“Guess that’d be about right,” he said. “It was pretty cold, as I recall. Willie’d come in here and get me to fill up his coffee thermos for him.”
“Was that the only time you’d met him?” I dunked a fry into a puddle of ketchup I’d made on the platter. It was still practically sizzling and I bit gingerly into it with just the tips of my front teeth.
“Oh, hell no. Willie was a real regular. Guess he’d get fed up to about here,” --Keith indicated a spot under his own quivery jowl—“with that family of his. Then he’d head for the hills and do a little prospecting. Didn’t do too bad with it either. Found him a little gold every now and then.”
I nodded, understanding perfectly well how someone could get fed up with Dorothy.
“Yep, he’d come down here two, three times a year. Used to bring him a sleeping bag and just camp out up there near the mines. Last few years, though, I think he stayed at one of them motels in Carrizozo. They got a couple there that’re pretty cheap. Guess his old bones just got to where the cold ground hurt ’em.”
I’d made my way through most of the huge burger, but just couldn’t finish all of it. I wiped the grease off my lips with the remains of my crumpled napkin.
“That was wonderful,” I told Keith. “Your recommendation was absolutely right.”
He beamed as he carried my plate into the kitchen.
“Could I get you a piece of pie or a milkshake for dessert?” he offered. “I got a lady, bakes the pies at home. And I make a real milkshake, nothin’ from one of them powdered mixes.”
I groaned, holding my stomach. “They sound wonderful,” I laughed, “but there’s no way another bite is going to fit in here.”
He refilled my Coke, though, clearly not ready to give up his only visitor.
“So, Keith, you have any idea where Willie might be now?”
He leaned over the counter again and gathered his lower lip up with his upper teeth. Eventually he said, “I think . . . if I had to guess . . . I’d think Willie would have come in here, showin’ off anything he might have found. My guess is that he’s gone somewheres else.”
“I wondered whether he might have gone up there into the hills and gotten hurt. He could be lying there injured,” I ventured. Even as I said it though, I knew if Willie had indeed been injured up in the hills he was likely dead. No way an eighty-four year old man, unable to move, would be able to survive for two months. “Did he always go up there alone?” I asked.
“I don’t rightly know,” Keith said. “I ’spect he usually did. But he was pretty good friends with ol’ man Tucker up at the museum. They mighta gone out prospecting together.”
“Maybe I should see if I can talk to Tucker.”
“You could try. I ain’t seen him around town in a few weeks.” He chuckled. “Which is surprisin’. With only about twenty of us living here anymore, it ain’t too hard to see everybody in town mite near ever’ day.”
“Think Tucker might have gone up in the hills with Willie and they’re both missing?”
“Naw, I kind of figured it was more like Tucker went down to El Paso with that girlfriend of his for a wild weekend, and she snagged him into marryin’ her. She got her a cute little place over to Ruidoso and she been buggin’ him for years to get married and settle in with her. Hell, they’re both in their eighties, so I guess it’s high time they started doin’ whatever they damn well please with their lives.”
I had a hard time picturing the octogenarian lovers. My skepticism must have showed on my face.
“Course, Tucker coulda just caught a cold or somethin’ and went on over to stay with his daughter awhile. She always babies him right along anytime he’s sick or anything. Think I’da heard about that though. Ain’t nobody got any secrets in a town this size.”
I could certainly believe that. I also began to believe that I wasn’t going to get much more out of Keith Randel at this point. I asked him how much the burger, fries and Coke came to and he started to give me change back from my five dollar bill. I waved it away and added another dollar on the counter as a tip.
“Where’s the museum Tucker works at?” I asked.
He ambled around the end of the counter and walked over to the front window. “See over there?” he asked, pointing across the road.
I joined him at the window.
“That rock building with the little bell thingy on top. That’s the old schoolhouse. Now it’s the museum. Ya get to it by taking the first road there to your left. You’ll drive down this little wash and up the other side. If ya see a car in the lot, somebody’s there. If not, they ain’t.”
I thanked him and climbed back into my Jeep. A dusty pickup truck was just pulling in beside me and the middle-aged woman at the wheel gave me a long, hard stare. Guess any stranger was cause for speculation in a town this size. Rusty greeted me enthusiastically until he discovered that I hadn’t remembered to bring the remains of my hamburger for him.
Backing out of the tiny parking area, I scanned the highway in both directions. The woman had slid out of her truck and was watching me from the front door of the café. I followed Randel’s directions to the old schoolhouse and was pleased to see that there was a compact red car in the parking area. Maybe Tucker really was here. I pulled the Jeep into the shade of a piñon tree.
Before I reached the steps of the old rock building, a woman came out the door. She was probably in her sixties, with yellowed gray hair pulled tightly back from her weathered face into a ponytail. She wore a pair of brown denim jeans over her thin hips, a plaid flannel shirt, and a blue denim jacket that had been worn nearly white in places.
“Hi there,” she greeted. “Want a tour of the museum?”
“Actually, I’m looking for a man named Tucker,” I told her.
“Pop? Well, you and ever’one else.”
“You’re his daughter?”
“Yep.”
“Keith Randel down at the café told me Tucker might be staying with you.”
She looked puzzled. “No. He just up and went off with that friend of his, Willie McBride, awhile back and I ain’t heard nothin’ since.”
I introduced myself. “I came to town looking for Willie,” I explained, filling her in briefly on the fact that Willie’s family were looking for him. “Where did they say they were going?”
“C’mon in,” she invited. “I gotta get off my feet.”
She led me into a wide hallway that stretched the full length of the building. To the right I caught a glimpse of an old-fashioned kitchen with a woodstove and metal topped counters. I followed her through a doorway on the opposite side of the hall; it led to a large classroom full of desks. A raised platform at the other end of the room held a teacher’s desk, a piano, and two flagpoles—one with the American flag and one with the New Mexico state flag. A potbellied woodstove stood against the far wall. I noticed that the blackboards circling all four walls were actual sheets of plywood, painted black. Years worth of chalk writing and erasure dusted the surface.
“Have a seat,” the woman offered. She was standing crookedly with her left hand pressing against her hip. “Sorry, my back ain’t the greatest these days. Got pitched off a horse a couple weeks ago and it’s been botherin’ me ever since.”
We moved toward two of the old fashioned school desks.
“By the way, my name’s Sophie,” she said. “Sophie Tucker. Don’t say it. I get razzed about it all the time.”
“I know. I get razzed about being Charlie Parker all the time too. And I’m not the least bit musically inclined.”
“Me neither,” she laughed. “Now, you was asking about Pop and Willie?”
“Willie’s family seem to think he came to White Oaks to do some prospecting. But they haven’t heard from him in almost two months.”
“Not sur
prising,” she sighed. “Those two old guys’ve always been pretty independent.”
“Did they tell you where they were going?” I repeated my earlier question.
“Not really. Pop never answered much to me. He lived on his own, you know, and pretty much came and went as he wished. Even had a lady friend over in Ruidoso, and he’d drive down there to see her pretty often.”
“Would she know where they are?” I asked.
“Nah, she’s been driving me crazy, callin’ every few days to see if Pop’s back yet. She can’t tell you nothin’.”
“So, Willie and your father—I don’t even know his first name—they have a favorite place around here?”
“Bud. That’s what everyone calls him. His real birth-certificate name was Delmar. But nobody never called him that. Just Bud.” She shifted slightly in her seat to get more comfortable. “Yeah, I could point you in the direction of their favorite spots. I ain’t had time to go poking around up there, what with this bad back of mine. But you’re welcome to try. But I got this feeling you won’t find ’em up there.”
“Why’s that?”
“Willie’s truck is gone.” At my puzzled look, she continued. “See, they left Pop’s car at his house and they took Willie’s pickup to this spot—well, I’ll show it to you. Anyway, it’s a place they park, then they start out hiking from there. I drove up there more’n a month ago. The truck’s not there. I think they got in their heads to head for Arizona and start lookin’ for that Lost Dutchman place. They both been talking about that for years.”
“And they’d just go off like that without telling you?”
“Oh yeah.” She shrugged. “Like I said, Pop’s a real independent cuss.”
“Do you have a map of this place up in the hills here where they started out?” I asked, glancing around.
“Well, the museum’s got nothin’ like that for sale or anything, but I can sketch it out for you. And I’ll take you up to the startin’ point. Heck, I don’t think we’re getting any museum business today anyhow. Just let me lock up.”
Reunions Can Be Murder: The Seventh Charlie Parker Mystery Page 3
