I wrote down Bea’s home address and phone number before we parted, promising to keep her up to date on my progress, even though Dorothy was technically the client.
There didn’t seem to be much I could do on the case at the moment. I placed a call to Randy Buckman but he wasn’t in, so I left a message. The day had turned beautiful, the sun bright and warm, and the wind silent at last. I spent the rest of the morning puttering in the yard, trimming the shrubs and setting out a few bedding plants I’d bought more than a week ago. I realized I’d forgotten to carry the portable phone outside with me when I went back inside and found the answering machine blinking.
“Charlie, Randy Buckman here,” it began. “Just to give you an update, we’ve decided to terminate the search for Mr. McBride. There’s been no trace at all and the odds are his body is somewhere between here and Las Cruces, out in the desert. At this time, my department doesn’t have reason to believe he’s in our jurisdiction. We’ll be pursuing the murderer of Bud Tucker but, frankly, I think he’s long gone.”
He didn’t suggest that I call him back but I did anyway, after scrubbing the garden soil from under my fingernails. I caught him on his way out the door, according to the dispatcher.
“Just wanted to let you know that McBride’s family still wants me to try to locate him,” I told Randy after our initial hellos. “Can we still share information on this?”
“Depends,” he said. “You know there are certain things I can’t divulge.”
“But you think someone killed Tucker on the spot, abducted Willie and his pickup truck, killed Willie along the road somewhere, and abandoned the truck in Las Cruces.”
“That’s about it.”
“When you processed the truck, did you find prints? Or blood?”
“Lots of prints, several sets. We’re getting Bernalillo County to take some sample prints from McBride’s house so we can eliminate those. We’ve run everything through the national system and haven’t come up with any known felons. Doesn’t mean much, though. Killer could be somebody small-time or it could have been a crime of passion, somebody who shot Tucker without thinking, then had to get out of there quick. McBride and his truck might have just been handy. No blood on the truck, but that might not mean much either.”
I told him I’d let him know of anything I learned about his case, reasoning that Dorothy and Felix’s possible shenanigans with Willie’s will didn’t seem to have much bearing on Bud Tucker’s death. And I still wasn’t convinced that Bud’s death and Willie’s disappearance were connected. It seemed to me that Bud had one set of enemies and Willie another.
A few minutes later under a steamy hot shower I had a brainstorm. There’s something about the lulling effects of hot water pounding the body that stimulates a person to think. Mulling over the few clues I had so far in the case, I knew what I had to do. But first I wanted to check out one of Beatrice’s assertions.
I toweled off and slipped into a pair of clean jeans and white T-shirt. Planting one hip on our new king-size bed, I pulled the phone book from the nightstand drawer and looked up the number of a real estate agent friend. I fluffed my wet hair while the phone rang.
“Shirley Mason.” The officious sounding voice didn’t jibe with the petite blond I knew, who was likely sitting in her home office right now wearing shorts and a halter top.
“Don’t you just love a friend who only calls a couple of times a year, and then just when she wants a favor?” I joked.
“Charlie?”
“The same. How are you?”
“Thriving. Hey, I heard you got married! Wow, what a change for you.” Her bubbly voice always cheered me up, reminding me that I really should be a better friend and call more often.
“I hate to admit this, but once again I’m calling for a favor. I’ll buy you a lunch for this one though,” I promised.
“Hey, it doesn’t matter. What’s up? Another big case?”
“I don’t know how big. But here’s the question. I’m curious about the value of a certain piece of property in the north valley.”
“Do we have a listing on it?”
“No, it’s not for sale. A client may soon inherit this place and is wondering what it’s worth.” The story wasn’t too far off the mark.
“Give me some details,” she prompted.
I gave her the address and a brief but accurate description of the house. “I would imagine that the land is worth more than the structure,” I added.
“The land, or the mineral rights,” she said.
“Mineral rights?”
“Probably nothing, but we did have a property in that area that brought a hefty price a year or so ago because of something to do with the minerals.”
Shirley went on with a few more gossipy personal tidbits, we set a lunch date for the following week, and I thanked her for the information.
Interesting, I thought, hanging up the phone. Who would have thought about mineral rights on a piece of city property? Who would have known to ask? Someone with some inside knowledge about exploration.
Someone like a geology professor at a university.
Chapter 12
This was beginning to make more sense than ever. Felix, with his knowledge of geology and access to inside scuttlebutt at the university would know of any new finds well before it became common knowledge. He could have easily pushed Dorothy to get Willie to change the will, then planned to get rid of the old man before anyone else could figure out what they were up to. But if another property owner had already sold for a whopping big price, the news would soon get around. They had to act quickly.
So, had Felix jumped the gun, getting rid of Willie before the new will was actually signed? Such a screwup would definitely explain why Felix and Dorothy were having words at the hospital. Maybe Felix wanted Dorothy to forge a signature on the will. He knew Willie would never turn up again and he wanted the paperwork to all be in order. Dorothy didn’t know Willie wasn’t alive—if her story was true about swerving across the traffic because she thought she saw him—and she’d rather have his actual signature to assure there wouldn’t be a legal battle later. Plus, there was the fact that she’d hired me to look for him. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone poking around if she knew he was dead. Unless . . . I was simply being used to add legitimacy to their story.
I sat on the edge of bed, staring at a space somewhere in the middle of the room. Just what was going on here? The endless possibilities were making my head hurt.
The phone rang, startling me out of my endless-loop reverie.
“Hi, hon, it’s me.” Drake’s voice came through louder than usual, with the sound of turbine engine whine in the background.
“Hi, sweetheart, where are you?”
“On my way home. They just released me from the job and I’m spooling her up now. There’s still daylight to make it back. Couldn’t wait one more day to be home with you again. My ETA is about five o’clock. Want to meet for dinner about six?”
“Pedro’s?”
“Sure. I’ll call you when I land.” His cell phone clicked off with a chirp.
With something better to do now than mull endlessly over the McBride family problems, I stepped back into the master bath to finish drying my hair. As promised, Drake called at five to close his flight plan and again forty-five minutes later to let me know he was on the way to Pedro’s.
Our favorite eatery is a tiny place near Old Town, run by a cute Mexican couple who have always treated me like one of their kids. Pedro and Concha, the proverbial Jack Sprat and his wife, make the best chicken enchiladas and margaritas anywhere (sorry, Keith). Rusty and I arrived a few minutes before Drake, and we took our customary table in the corner. Pedro held up one finger and raised his shoulders in question.
“No, two,” I said, shaking my head. “Drake will be here in a minute.”
By the time my honey had walked through the door Pedro was setting the perfectly blended drinks on our table.
“Umm, missed you,�
�� Drake said, giving me a long kiss.
“I just stayed with you night before last,” I teased.
“Yeah, but I was too tired to do much about it.” Something told me that would change tonight.
“I just had a thought,” I told him, taking a tortilla chip and dunking it deep into the salsa bowl.
He gave me a look that said, “Uh-oh.”
“Okay, it is for the case I’m working on, but we could mix business and pleasure. I need to go to Arizona.” While drying my hair this afternoon I’d decided that, twisted complications aside, my job was still to locate Willie McBride. And his ATM card had last been used in the Phoenix area.
“We could visit Paul and his family,” I continued. “And, if there’s time, we could even buzz up to Flagstaff to see your mother.”
“I can’t commit to that much time away,” he protested. “Not during the fire season.”
He had a point. But I had a point too, and I didn’t want this to become the source of our first big argument.
“Okay, what about this? We take the helicopter and you forward calls from your business line to your cell phone. If you get a call, you’re off the hook for any more family visits. You can just leave from there for the job. I’ll get back home however I can.”
The corner of his mouth scrunched up skeptically. “Let me think about it.”
Our enchiladas arrived just then, giving us a break from the conversation.
“I suppose we could rent a car once we get there,” Drake said, wiping the last of the sauce from his mouth.
“Sure. And Rusty can go with us so there’s no particular time-frame for getting home.”
He pulled his cell phone out and called the mechanic at the airport. They went back and forth about an upcoming three hundred hour inspection and Drake seemed satisfied when he hung up.
“Day after tomorrow,” he announced. “Chuck says they’ll need two days to complete the inspection, then we’re good to go.”
I held my breath over the next two days, waiting for the inevitable call to come that would drag him away from our plan, but by Saturday the coast was still clear. We packed two light bags and all the gear Drake would need if another fire call came in. He suggested I do the piloting to help build my hours, so at seven a.m. we took our seats, Rusty in back, Drake riding along as passenger, and me in the right seat. I’d done my preflight and cleared our departure to the west. After we’d cleared the Albuquerque International Airport’s airspace, we’d swing south-southwest. I was still getting used to the aircraft’s Global Positioning System and Drake had coached me through its programming so our course would take us directly into the Mesa Airport. I’d told him I really didn’t feel ready to deal with the air traffic at Sky Harbor, Phoenix’s massive international airport. Besides, Mesa was closer to our destination anyway.
Luckily, the beautiful spring weather held and I was able to maintain a track about two thousand feet above ground level without hitting any noticeable drafts. Little more than two hours later we were seeing the metro area on the horizon and I followed my GPS heading straight toward Mesa. The tower cleared me for landing among a group of general aviation craft and I set the JetRanger down gently.
“Great job,” Drake grinned. “You’ll be ready to take over some of my flights soon.”
“That was a piece of cake. No way am I ready for any fires or rescues.”
I noticed that he didn’t argue with me.
Rusty was eager to get all four feet on the ground again. I unbuckled my harness and went around to his door. Clipping a leash on his collar I headed him toward a dirt patch near one of the hangars that served as the doggie facilities. He took his time, sniffing every strange scent he could find. By the time we returned to the aircraft Drake had our personal things unloaded and was locking his fire gear into the rear cargo compartment.
“I brought along another portable GPS,” he told me. “Just in case we get out hiking around. It’s in your bag.”
“Good idea.” We headed for the car rental desk, where I’d reserved a mid-size that turned out to be generic silver in color.
Thirty minutes later we were cruising the streets of Mesa with Drake at the wheel and me acting as navigator, map on my lap, trying to remember the turns to Paul’s house. My middle brother and I weren’t as close as Ron and I, and I’d only been to his house two other times. The city had changed dramatically in the five years Paul and Lorraine had lived here; none of the landmarks looked familiar at all to me and I was relying heavily on the map.
“Did you plan for us to stay at their house?” Drake asked.
“Oh, I don’t think so. The last time I remember, it was total chaos. They don’t have much space and those two kids of theirs would drive me nuts after a day or so.” I remembered the last time they’d dropped in on a moment’s notice to spend a few days with me. “No, I think I’ll get a lot more investigating done if we stay in a motel. I’m thinking something down near Highway 60 will be convenient for us.
“We’ll just drop by now and invite them to lunch or dinner. Spend enough time to be sociable.”
The house looked virtually the same as the last time I’d seen it, right down to the bicycles lying on the front lawn, except last time they’d been bright plastic Big Wheels. Getting no response to several pushes at the doorbell, I scribbled a note telling them we were in town and would like to take the family to dinner. Knowing my brother, the offer of a free dinner would certainly bring them out. I wrote that we’d call them once we settled into our motel.
“Okay, let’s find a room,” I said, rejoining Drake in the car.
We located a place on Power Road that accepted dogs as guests and had inexpensive phone rates. I dug around in my purse while Drake brought our bags inside. Rocky Rhodes, the man I’d seen interviewed on Unsolved Mysteries was listed in the directory and answered on the second ring. I gave the condensed explanation of who I was and asked whether we might meet with him.
“Sure, sure, come on out,” he agreed. He gave directions to his place in Apache Junction, just east of us.
“Ready to learn something about the Lost Dutchman Mine?” I asked Drake after hanging up.
“Whatever milady wishes,” he said gallantly. I can never tell when he’s making fun of me and when he truly wants to be included in my sometimes outlandish plans.
Rhodes lived in a walled community of double wide trailers, one that nearly matched at least a dozen other such neighborhoods near his. He responded to my tap almost immediately. I introduced myself and Drake.
“You don’t want to leave your dog out there in the car, you can bring him inside,” he said, noticing Rusty’s head jutting out one of the fully-open windows. “He won’t hurt nothin’ in here.”
Drake released the prisoner and whistled for the dog to join us. He spent the first five minutes sniffing all corners of the living room, then settled beside me at the edge of an orange and brown plaid sofa.
“I think I mentioned that I’d seen your interview on television,” I began.
“Yep. Course that was a few years ago,” Rhodes answered. “Guess I look a little older now.”
He did, but not by much. He’d done away with the beard. I’d guessed him to be in his seventies by his white hair and liver-spotted hands, but his posture was still erect and he moved with the agility of a man accustomed to regular outdoor activity.
“I’m afraid I didn’t explain my own mission very well,” I told him. “I’ve been hired by an Albuquerque family to locate an eighty-four year old man whose habit is to go off prospecting by himself.”
“And you’re here because of the Lost Dutchman. ’Cause it’s the prize of all prizes, the thing any decent prospector would go after.”
“Well, something like that,” I laughed. “Mr. McBride had frequently mentioned it to his family.”
“McBride? Willie McBride?”
“You know him?” Surely it couldn’t be this easy.
“Well, sure I do. Known him many
years.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Well, gosh, let me think.” He rubbed his grizzled chin with the knobby fingers of one hand. “Guess he was by here a year or so ago.”
“Not more recently than that?” Drake piped in.
“Well . . . I’m thinkin’. I’d say it’s been a year or so, but then my memory’s not what it used to be. Hold on. I got a book I can check.” He rose a little stiffly from his orange recliner and crossed to a desk on the far side of the room.
I watched him pull a cloth covered diary from a drawer. He paged through it slowly while I fidgeted in my seat. If we were really this close, I wanted answers now.
“Yep, see here. June, it was. Last June. Guess that’s a little less than a year. I wrote that he stopped by the house here, wanted to go up into the Superstitions.” He rubbed a hand through his hair.
“Now, June woulda been way too hot to going out roaming those hills. I remember telling him that. It gets a hundred-fifteen out there, easy, in the summer. Told him he oughta wait till it cooled off.”
“So, maybe he did come back later,” I suggested.
“Well, let’s see.” Again, slow paging through the diary. “I’m skippin’ the hot months now,” he said. “Going right to October, November . . . Hmm, looks like I wrote about him again in the early part of December. Guess he was here then too. Funny, it seems longer than that.”
He continued to page through the book.
“Nothing as recent as this year, February or later?” I asked. “That’s when his family lost track of him, February.”
He flipped forward another chunk of pages, then slowed to a page at a time. “Nope,” he said finally. “Don’t see anything else about Willie.”
And I’d thought we were getting so close. Another thought came to me. I pulled the topo map and Willie’s little sketch from my purse.
“Did Willie ever talk about his own mine?” I asked. “Something he had his own claim on, here in the Superstitions?”
Reunions Can Be Murder: The Seventh Charlie Parker Mystery Page 11
