He lived in a small town down the highway about twenty minutes from there. His seedy apartment complex made Marla glance over her shoulder as Dalton knocked on the door. The lamp outside mounted on a wall hung loose, its wire exposed.
“Who’s there?” came a shout from within.
“Hi, I have an interest in saguaro and was told you might be able to help me,” Marla called in a sugary tone.
The door cracked open, and a grizzled face peered out. “Who’s he?”
“Dalton is my husband. Please, can we talk to you? We won’t take much of your time.”
He opened the door wider but didn’t invite them in. “So what’s this about?”
“I’m researching an article for a blog post,” Marla said, offering the same excuse she’d told the engineer in town during their initial encounter. Maybe she should start a blog to be true to her word. “We’ve heard about the black market for saguaro. How much does one of those plants get on the street?”
“Are you cops? How did you get my name?”
“We’re here as tourists, but I’m doing a write-up when we get home. We were referred to you by a friend.” She dared not glance at Dalton and hoped he wasn’t glowering at the guy in an intimidating manner.
Raoul glanced up and down the walkway. Then he held out his grimy hand.
Dalton rolled his eyes and handed over a couple of twenty dollar bills. Raoul stayed silent, his lips pressed together, until Dalton slapped him another forty.
“I could get two thousand for one plant when I was, you know, in the business.”
“Who would buy them?” Marla asked, curious to know.
“Landscapers. A mature saguaro is highly valued.”
“Don’t those things weigh tons?”
Raoul grinned, exposing metal fillings. “I used to take plants around forty years old, señora, because they were only about seven feet in height and easier to transport.”
“Did you stop your, uh, activities because of forest ranger Garrett Long?”
Their informant rattled off a string of Spanish that didn’t sound pleasant. “I’d dug up a few saguaros and stashed them alongside the forest’s boundary. I had to get my truck to haul the plants away. When I got back, Long was waiting for me.”
“So he arrested you? And please be assured your name won’t be mentioned in my article.”
“Thanks to Long, I got nine months in federal prison and a five-thousand-dollar fine. My girlfriend left me. The ranger ruined my life.”
It wasn’t Garrett’s fault that the man’s lady friend deserted him or that he was probably still paying off his debt. Still, he wouldn’t view it that way.
“Have you seen Officer Long since your incarceration?” Dalton said, his tone mild but his eyes razor sharp.
Raoul stared at him as though he’d sprouted a cactus branch from his shoulder. “Are you nuts? I hope to never look upon his face again.”
“So you’ve gone legit now?”
“I work for a trucking company.”
“You must be happy to hear that Garrett Long is dead, then.”
Raoul’s eyes popped. “What?”
Marla thought he appeared genuinely surprised. “He fell off a ledge in the forest where he worked. The sheriff believes he might have been pushed.”
“Hey, you don’t think I had something to do with it, do you? Because while I resented him, I’d never harm the guy.”
Right, you only harm valuable plants that are irreplaceable.
“Do you have any idea who else might bear a grudge against him?” Dalton asked.
Raoul snorted. “I’m done talking to you.” Kicking Dalton’s foot out of the way, he slammed the door shut.
A couple of men lounged outside, admiring the SUV’s body parts as she and Dalton approached. Marla didn’t like the looks of them. She hastened to the passenger side and dove in, glad when Dalton zoomed away and the doors locked automatically.
Had he stuck his sidearm inside his boot this morning? For that matter, had he retrieved it from the safe when they’d changed rooms last night?
“I believe Garrett’s death was news to Raoul,” she said, hands clasped in her lap.
“Maybe so, but I don’t think he’s given up his life of thievery. Did you notice the dirt under his fingernails?”
“Not really, but that doesn’t mean he’s a murderer. I’ll go along with his story in that respect.” She took out the list she’d left in their glove compartment. “The pot farmer is next in line.”
After giving Dalton directions, she settled back in her seat to muse over their progress. They’d be lucky to find the other people at home.
They got nowhere with their next target, and the smuggler had moved to places unknown. That left the political activist and the dog owner.
“Can you tell us about your encounter with Garrett Long when you went camping with your family?” Marla asked the latter after they’d tracked down his trailer park. Her excuse this time was a blog article on ranger abuse.
The man regarded them with bleary eyes, a protruding belly, and alcohol breath. Barking came from inside his trailer, but he’d closed the door on his pets and gestured his visitors to an outside bench beside a patch of brown dirt.
“We went camping with the kids at our favorite spot, and we’d brought along our mixed pit bulls. They’re friendlier than they sound. Anyway, the forest ranger came around to check on permits. Our son Lyle was outside, and Daisy wasn’t on a leash. That was one of our dogs at the time. The officer yelled for Lyle to get the animal under control. Daisy rushed forward. She only wanted to be friendly.”
“Oh yeah, I know how friendly pit bulls can be,” Dalton muttered.
“The next thing we knew, a shot rang out. That ranger had fired at our dog with no provocation.”
“He might not have seen it that way. An animal can appear aggressive in a play for attention,” Marla suggested in a kindly tone. No matter the reason, it would hurt to lose a beloved pet.
“He claimed Daisy snapped at him, but that’s not true. Nor did the ranger give Lyle a chance to get the dog under control.”
“Then what happened?”
“Our other pet bolted out of the tent where my daughter had been sleeping. Imagine if that gunshot had gone astray! How could the idiot have been so reckless?”
“And the second dog?” she asked.
“My wife got him on a leash and drove both animals to the vet. Daisy died, but not before the efforts to save her left us with huge medical bills.” Towering over them where they sat and he stood, the guy bared his teeth in a snarl. “I don’t believe it was any accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who’d you say you’re writing an article for again?”
Marla mentioned a fictitious name for her online blog. Now she’d really have to start one when she got home. She had enough material from all she’d learned in Arizona.
“Officer Long had it in for us all the time we’d gone camping. He would always sneak up on us to check our permits. I could tell he thought of us as white trash.”
“Where is your wife now?” Marla peered past him toward the trailer.
“She passed last year, bless her soul. We’d bought a puppy to take the place of Daisy. At least our dogs were there to comfort her in the end.”
The man spoke more fondly of his animals than their children. “How did it affect your son? The dog’s death, that is.”
“He took a dislike to the police. I tried to explain how this was an isolated incident and the fault of one man, but he doesn’t get it. In his eyes, Garrett Long shot and killed his Daisy for no reason other than pure meanness.”
“Did you ever see the ranger again?” Dalton asked, taking over the conversation.
“No. We considered suing for damages, but our lawyer said we had no case. The dog was off the leash, which went against regulations, and it would have been Long’s word against ours.”
“Did you seek revenge another way?”
He gave a mirthless grin. “Not me, but it looks like someone got to him from gossip on the street. Word is that he tumbled off a ledge in a place he knew like the back of his hand. I’m thinking a fellow like him probably had lots of enemies.”
“Can you name anyone in particular?”
“Sorry, I can’t help you there.”
Marla observed the mountains had gone hazy. The wind had picked up, stirring the loose dirt on dry ground. Wary of a dust storm, she tapped Dalton’s arm. “We should go. Thank you for sharing,” Marla told the pet owner. “Your information will be helpful for my article.”
Their visit to the squatter family’s last known site was a waste of time since they’d moved to another state. And the target shooter had nothing significant to add. That left the political activist who resided in Scottsdale.
“We could leave now and stay overnight,” Marla suggested. “Then we won’t waste the whole morning driving there tomorrow. We have our purchases in the car. That should hold us over.” They’d have adequate supplies for an overnighter.
“Good idea. I’ll notify Wayne so he won’t get worried.”
“Okay. I can make a hotel reservation in the meantime.”
Several hours later, they chugged through traffic into Scottsdale. The sky was darkening when Dalton suggested they stop by the target’s house.
“He might be home from work and willing to talk to us now. It’s worth a chance.”
“Should I call him?”
“No, let’s drop by. We might learn more by catching him off guard. If we come in the morning, he’ll have had time to think about what he wants to say.”
Marla would never have identified the homeowner as a political protester from the immaculate condition of his single-story house with its shiny barrel-tile roof and brick-paved driveway. But then she’d learned that placid exteriors could hide people’s deadly secrets.
The man who opened the door was a lean fellow with bright brown eyes and a hank of wheat-colored hair. Marla’s claim of writing a series of blog posts on the environment had interested him, but he didn’t invite them inside.
“I thought you were coming by in the morning.” His narrowed gaze raked them over as he stood in the doorway.
“We decided to drive into town earlier and hoped you might be home,” Dalton replied in a bland tone.
“What is it you want to know?”
“We’ve studied the forest service and read that rangers are responsible for protecting our natural resources and cultural sites. Do you feel they’re doing an adequate job?”
“Hell, no. The Feds are stealing our land and denying access to the people. They’re turning our country into a tyranny, and the rangers are merely their puppets. You think those guys are concerned with preserving our resources? Their interest lies in the opposite direction.”
He expounded on his theories for several minutes, while Marla tilted her head to hear better as a UPS truck rumbled past.
“What’s worse is they’re conspiring with the Chinese. You know how foreigners have bought up our country? I’ve seen them for myself near our national property.”
“What’s this?” Dalton’s eyebrows lifted.
“I spotted them on the mountain above Rustler Ridge by the bottling plant. Do you realize a European owns that abomination? Officer Long was there talking to one of these foreign fellows. I didn’t need to hear their conversation to know they’re all in it together.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
* * *
“Do you really think there’s a Chinese connection?” Marla asked Dalton as they zoomed away in their car toward downtown Scottsdale.
The activist had rambled for the next twenty minutes about government conspiracies and how the people needed to be liberated, but he’d claimed to have halted his own involvement. He’d gotten a girlfriend who demanded a steadier lifestyle and one that would keep him out of trouble. Now he worked in computer technology, which alarmed Marla more. Hackers could be just as dangerous as domestic terrorists who set off bombs.
“It’s more likely he spotted the miners,” Dalton said. “Maybe Long discovered the mining operation and was talking to one of the workers when the activist spied him.”
“If Garrett knew about the mines, it could account for why someone wanted to silence him. We should pay a visit to Otto’s place to see what he knows.”
As they cruised down one of the main streets in Old Scottsdale, she pursed her lips. “Drat, the stores are all closed. We might as well find a place for dinner.”
Surveying the Indian Trading Post, Silver Star Jewelry, and Cactus Hut shops, she vowed to return in the morning. The selection of quality souvenirs and jewelry here was much greater than Rustler Ridge, and she could buy gifts for everyone back home.
Old-fashioned lanterns on posts gave the street with its adobe buildings a historic appeal despite the modern diagonal parking. At least that part was free. The town encouraged visitors, unlike downtown Fort Lauderdale where you had to pay for the privilege of shopping and dining.
“The Poisoned Pen Bookstore is still open,” she said while searching the Web on her cell phone for a place to eat. “They’re having a book signing tonight. I have to get Brianna and Nicole some mystery novels. There’s a trendy restaurant called Virtu nearby where we can go afterward.”
“Okay, give me directions.”
Marla stared in awe upon entering the bookshop. Shelves lined the walls and stretched toward the ceiling while other attractive displays lay on tables throughout the store. The author event hadn’t started yet, judging by the half-filled circle of chairs further along. Customers milled around or browsed the shelves. Marla snagged a bookseller to recommend mysteries set in Arizona.
“Sure, I can help you,” said a tall, handsome guy who wore a button-down blue shirt tucked into belted navy trousers.
By the time Marla left, she carried a canvas tote full of books and a couple of wrapped logo mugs as surprise gifts. Dalton had bought a souvenir mug for himself along with a tee shirt and baseball cap. The store also had a great collection of nonfiction works on the southwest. He’d purchased some history books and field guides to the state’s trees and plants, while Marla had gravitated to the travel and cooking section. Besides a regional cookbook, she picked up a few helpful titles on copper mining, life of a miner, and Arizona haunted hotels.
The next day emptied their wallets further. Marla shopped to her heart’s content, buying turquoise jewelry and Native American earrings, a western-style blouse, a red sunhat that she could wear in Florida, and various other tchotchkes. She bought an amethyst pendant for Brianna with matching earrings and copper necklaces for them both. It was easier to resist the Mexican woven baskets and pottery.
Dalton shopped the cowboy hats and boots and other leather goods, picking up some new belts in the process. After lunch, he called it a day.
“We should head back to the ranch.”
“You’re right,” Marla said, reluctant to go. She could have spent their whole vacation in this town. Nonetheless, she gamely climbed into the SUV for the drive through the mountains back to Last Trail Dude Ranch. The magnificent scenery drew her attention until their return.
They hadn’t missed much in their absence, Dalton determined upon checking in with his cousin from their resort room. Catching up on his phone calls, he called the sheriff next with their report. “I would eliminate the work contacts for Garrett Long. Most of these folks are occupied with their own lives now. They didn’t express any regret at Long’s death but I didn’t detect any real indications of involvement either.”
Dalton listened a moment while Marla unpacked their purchases and hung up their new clothing. Heading into the bathroom to sort out their supplies, she couldn’t hear the rest of his conversation.
“Beresby discounts the last guy’s claim about the Chinese man,” Dalton told her when she reappeared. “He probably saw whatever he wanted to see that fit in with his conspiracy theories. But th
e sheriff says the threat from the E.F.A. is real. They’ve been known to bomb facilities like Lovelace’s place.”
“Tate Reardon worked for him. Could the plant’s manager have been targeted by this group?”
“The sheriff is looking into it. He says the E.F.A. connection could link Garrett Long’s death with Reardon’s. He’s keeping an eye on Kevin Franks in that regard.”
“Oh, joy. That makes me feel safe.”
He strode over and massaged her shoulders. “Don’t worry. We’ll be okay if I have anything to say about it.”
She hoped his promise held true as they drove the next morning up the mountain toward Otto Lovelace’s palatial residence. She’d called ahead to take him up on his offer for a tour of his facility, and he said to park their car at his house. He would drive them through the gates to his industrial plant. As a precaution, Dalton had notified the sheriff and Wayne where they’d be heading.
The winding road led them to a Mediterranean-style villa nestled among the rocks. Driving up the steep incline of a driveway was an adventure in itself. Marla wouldn’t care to drive there at night. A separate cutoff ran to a second garage, but they parked at an upper level near the massive carved front doors.
Otto opened the door after they rang the bell. He wore a buttoned dress shirt and tailored trousers, but it was the worried look in his eyes that drew her attention along with the white stubble peppering his jaw. Those hinted at unrest. Since the new beard growth didn’t match his tar black hair, she surmised he dyed the latter. But his vanity wasn’t in question here. What had him upset this morning? Could his manager’s death have left him shaken?
“Come in while I get my keys. I’m glad you took me up on my offer.” His careful enunciation didn’t erase the trace of an accent in his voice.
Standing inside a marble-tiled foyer, Marla surveyed the living and dining areas and the terrace beyond. Her gaze fixed on an ornate clock by the fireplace mantle. She’d learned about clock-making back home when investigating a woman’s murder. The husband had studied horology, the art and science of timekeeping. He owned a shop to repair and restore chronological works.
Peril by Ponytail (A Bad Hair Day Mystery) Page 21
