The Nora Abbott Mystery series Box Set

by Shannon Baker

  Maybe her kachina was here in the sacred lands of the Southwest. With a growing hope that mingled with dread, Nora faced the spot where she’d seen the color. She stared in the bushes at the edge of the clearing and exhaled. No kachina. Her heart sank just a little.

  But the blue hadn’t been her imagination.

  A wooden box with a beautiful inlaid band of blue sat on a rock by the creek. Nora approached it, Abbey at her heels. It sat alone, oddly at home in the natural setting. Sunlight danced along the inlay. Rachel had been so lost, she must have forgotten this.

  Nora placed a hand on the sun-warmed surface of the box and sank to her knees.

  It was Lisa.

  5

  The weight of Abbey’s head rested comfortingly in her lap. Tiny wrens and warblers chirped and flitted amid the branches. The sun warmed the crown of Nora’s head. The willows swayed gently, their wispy green leaves contrasting with the deeper green of the new grass peeking out from the sand. The creek chattered along the bend. To the life in the clearing, it was just another day.

  The kindest thing for Rachel would be for Nora to skip the gathering at the bookstore and head back to Boulder. But Nora couldn’t leave Lisa out here. She tightened her lips.

  Nora shifted to stand, disturbing Abbey. He pulled himself up and shook, starting at his head and vibrating all the way to his tail.

  “Guess we’re going to Moab,” she told him.

  Nora picked up the polished wood box. Its heavy weight surprised her. The beauty of the intricate Native American inlaid border in blue and black suited Lisa’s taste. It seemed impossible that Lisa’s vibrancy and energy had been reduced to this.

  Nora trudged up the path to the empty parking lot at the trailhead. The Jeep sat alone on the side of the road. Nora let Abbey in, placed Lisa’s box on the floor of the passenger side, and climbed behind the wheel. She glanced up the quiet road and twisted to see the area behind her. Two lanes stretched in both directions, empty. About a quarter of a mile to the south, the road curved east. A slight rise to the north blocked the view after several yards. Nora hadn’t seen any traffic on her walk from the trailhead. Like much of the area around Moab, this was a lonely stretch of road.

  It was the emptiness Lisa had found so compelling. The vast swathes of rugged spires and canyons and stunning red rock formations resulting from millions of years of wind, ancient oceans, and the hands of the gods spoke to Lisa. She felt compelled to protect them from the modern world. Lisa raved about the archaeological sites with their petroglyphs and pottery shards much like other women might babble about their babies.

  Nora inserted her key into the Jeep, and as she turned it, a squawking noise startled her. For a moment she thought she had a problem with her engine, then realized it was her phone. Fay, one of the staffers at the Trust, had programmed Nora’s phone with bird calls. This one sounded like an angry raven. She reached into her pack in the back seat and pulled it out.

  Along with the announcement for the incoming call, Nora noticed six new voicemails. She punched a button to answer.

  “Etta here.” The no-nonsense blast from the chairwoman of the Board for Living Earth Trust sent the usual ball of snakes into Nora’s gut. “I’ve been thinking about Lisa Taylor and this situation.”

  Did Etta think the Trust should make a tribute? A grant in Lisa’s name or tree-planting event would be nice. Maybe gather money from the staff for a memorial. “What situation?”

  “The film, of course. We’ve invested well over a hundred thousand dollars so far. The committee vote is in three weeks, so they need to see this film tomorrow, if not yesterday.”

  Nora’s grief left little space to worry about the film. “The screening is scheduled in two weeks. I’ll be back in the office on Monday. Can I call you then?”

  Etta exhaled. “Today is Thursday. I don’t feel we have days to waste. How close was Lisa to completing the film?”

  Nora stared out her windshield at the yellow wild asters and tried to sound like a smart and savvy executive director. She failed with her first uh. “I haven’t seen much of the footage. Lisa wanted to edit it and show it to me when it was done so I’d get the full impact.”

  “Oh,” Etta said and paused. “I would have thought you’d be in on the whole project.”

  Nora lowered her voice to sound more confident. “Lisa was close to being done.”

  “Good. Bring it back to Boulder. I’ll meet you on Monday, and we’ll see what we need to do from there.”

  The last thing Nora wanted to do was to confront Rachel and ask for Lisa’s work. “I’m not sure I can do it that soon.”

  Etta’s long-suffering sigh wafted from the phone. “I’ll get an early flight from DC and be at the office Monday.” Etta didn’t wait for Nora’s reply. The phone went dead.

  Nora tugged on Abbey’s ear. “You don’t think it would be awkward to ask Rachel for the film on the day of her wife’s funeral, do you?” Abbey’s eyes drooped at the massage.

  Nora tapped at the voicemail retrieval and entered her password. “Hey, Nor,” began the first message. Her heart stopped, and her hand holding the phone turned to ice.

  Lisa.

  When had she called? And how had Nora missed it?

  Lisa’s voice sounded strained. “I really need to talk to you. You know those petroglyphs I told you about? In Fiery Furnace?”

  Nora couldn’t focus on the words. Lisa’s voice sounded so alive.

  Nora’s eyes came to rest on the box of ashes.

  “The Mormons are—well, it’s at the Tokpela Ranch. There’s this—oh, shit. I’ve got to go.”

  There was some fumbling on the other end, then a breathless continuation. “I taped it all just in case. You’ll know where the camera is. You know … if I can’t call.”

  Nora listened to the silence for a few seconds before the automated voice invited her to delete the message or save it to the archives. She pressed the archive number before it disconnected.

  She replayed it again and again, noting the call had come in the evening before Lisa’s accident. She checked the other five messages. All were from Abigail the morning after Lisa’s accident. Nora was so changing her phone plan as soon as she got home.

  “She sounded scared,” Nora told Abbey. He opened his mouth to pant in the warm Jeep.

  Fiery Furnace was a labyrinth of rock fins and canyons in Arches National Park. While Canyonlands encompassed a huge tract of land south of Moab, Arches was a smaller, if no less dramatic, park just a couple of miles north of town. Lisa had mentioned Fiery Furnace a few days ago. What about Tokpela Ranch?

  She started the Jeep and turned the wheel to make a U-turn across the lanes and head to Moab. What should she do about Lisa’s call?

  Just as the Jeep moved into the middle of the road, a white pickup popped over the western hill. Instead of slowing, the pickup seemed to gain speed. The driver laid on the horn.

  Electricity sparked in Nora. Her mind blanked.

  The truck sped toward her like a flash flood in a slot canyon, arrowed at the very spot where she sat frozen, hands on the wheel.

  She stomped on the gas and shot across the road, straight into the sandy shoulder. She slammed on the brakes before crashing into a stand of willows. Abbey tumbled from the seat to the floor, coming to rest on top of the box of ashes.

  Still leaning on the horn, the pickup sped past her bumper, close enough to shake the Jeep. Nora turned in her seat, spotting the black cowboy hat of the driver as the pickup slowed, eased into the right lane, and continued around the curve and out of sight.

  Not nearly as shaken as Nora, Abbey scrambled back on the seat. He wagged his tail and licked at Nora’s face. She managed to avoid his tongue as she sucked in a breath.

  Blood that had froze in those milliseconds of panic now thinned and surged. She concentrated on breathing. After a few seconds, Nora leaned over and righted Lisa’s box. Thank goodness the lid was still nailed shut. She couldn’t have faced her best friend�
�s spilled ashes.

  Nora put the Jeep into reverse. It revved. The tires spun in the sand; the Jeep didn’t budge. She shoved it into first and hoped to rock it to gain momentum. More spinning.

  “All this rock around here and I have to find a sand pile,” she grumbled. Abbey didn’t care.

  Nora climbed out and located the shovel she kept in the back. She went to work. The six-hour drive, the exertion, and the sun stole any crispness that had remained from her shower a million years ago at her apartment in Boulder.

  She dug a trench behind the wheels, found a few large stones to line it, and reversed the Jeep. It popped out onto the road and Nora and Abbey were back in business, sweaty, irritated, and craving a cool drink.

  By the time they made it to the Read Rock Bookstore and circled around the block to find parking in the back, not many cars remained.

  An alley ran between the bookstore and another building that led to Main Street.

  Easing the Jeep into a spot shaded by the building that would catch enough cool breeze to keep Abbey comfortable, Nora frowned at her disheveled appearance. She rummaged in her overnight bag, found a brush to run through her hair, and scrubbed the dried sweat from her face with a hand wipe from a container she kept in her glove box. It was the best she could do for now.

  She pulled Abbey’s collapsible dish from the back, filled it with water from the jug she always carried in the Jeep, and waited while he lapped it up.

  Moab was a small town of about five thousand that spread across the valley floor. Settled by Mormons, it had served as a rural supply center for the nearby ranchers. The population expanded with a uranium mining boom in the 1950s, then contracted again when it burst. Years later, its reputation as a recreationist’s dream spread. Mountain bikers and four-wheel enthusiasts gathered, followed closely by the enviros and hippie types. Trust funders and wealthy retirees building second homes wandered in, drawn by the amazing scenery. Now it had a mismatched feel. Eclectic shops featuring sweat-shop-free items comingled with farm and ranch supply stores, tourist shops, outdoor gear, vegan restaurants, and old-time diners. If the population of the area mimicked the town structures, this was one schizophrenic community.

  Nora picked up the box. “Be good,” she ordered Abbey before cranking down the windows for the cross breeze and leaving him to nap. Most of the vehicles in the lot were covered with the red dust of Moab. The luxury cars and expensive SUVs probably belonged to the moneyed people who had moved here for the gorgeous views and then tried to protect them from the traditional uses of the people who had lived here for generations. The old beaters most likely carried the more earthy types, those with master’s degrees in biology and environmental studies who worked for peanuts for conservation nonprofits. She made her way through the alley to the front of the store and scanned the street. She nearly dropped the box.

  A white pickup. THE white pickup. It sat empty along the street. Nora changed direction and approached it. She placed her hand on the hood. Warm.

  With new purpose, she strode to the bookstore and wrenched open the door.

  Bookshelves had been shoved to the side of the cozy shop to make room for the reception. The dark wood that lined the walls was filled with hardcover, trade paperback, and mass market titles. It wasn’t a big shop, but the inventory filled the room. An old-fashioned sales counter angled next to the front door, its surface cluttered with crocks full of pens and other bookish notions. Dreamcatchers, sand art, pottery, and other Native American art decorated the walls and shelves. Nora quickly scanned the space for kachinas but didn’t find any. The relative dimness of the store felt cool and welcoming, inviting people to stay and browse.

  The wood-planked floor creaked with the movement of Lisa’s friends as they mingled. White plastic tablecloths covered two five- foot tables in the center of the shop. Remains of a cake, sandwiches, and chips lined one table. The other table held a basket for sympathy cards and the used plates, cups, and forks from the funeral refreshments. It wasn’t fancy, but Lisa had never cared about finery. If she were here, Lisa would have a few words to say about the wastefulness of the plastic dinnerware.

  No one turned to greet Nora. She walked into the hushed store.

  Nora spotted a guy holding a black cowboy hat. He was the same one with the hate-filled gaze at the clearing. He stood with the man who’d led Rachel from the service.

  Both appeared to be in their mid-thirties. Where White Pickup Guy looked about as old-school cowboy as Gene Autry, the other man looked more boardroom suave. He wore black suit pants, cut and draped to show a well-toned lower half. His fresh-from-the-laundry blue shirt fit his broad shoulders perfectly. The conservative cut of his wavy dark hair and the tie knotted neatly at his neck gave him a professional air.

  Their conversation didn’t appear friendly. The dapper guy spoke, and his handsome face drew down in a frown. The cowboy looked at him dismissively. With one more muttered word, the clean-cut guy strode away.

  Nora stomped over to White Pickup Guy. “Did I do something to make you mad?”

  The cowboy’s thin mouth turned up in a smirk. He stood several inches taller than Nora’s five-foot-seven frame and looked as ropey and tough as a dried stalk of corn. Nora suspected the deep tan on his face and neck ended where the V of his shirt hit his chest. Not one gleam of friendly showed in his eyes. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Nora’s heart banged away and heat radiated from inside out. “At Moonflower, you nearly killed me.”

  He spoke in a low, slow voice, reminding her of Cole—except Cole had never sent goose bumps over her flesh. Not the scary kind, anyway. “I didn’t see anyone out there. Rachel sent me back for the ashes, but they were gone.” He nodded at the box Nora held.

  She hugged the box to her. “You ran me off the road and I had to dig out. You never saw me?”

  His dark eyes bored into her. “Tourists, such as yourself, don’t understand the local ways. They tend to get in the way and sometimes end up getting hurt.” His words came straight out of a spaghetti western, but the threat behind them felt real.

  Unnerved, Nora answered with bravado. “Next time, I’ll call the cops.”

  He threw back his head and let out a guffaw. “You do that.” He stuffed his hat on his head and sauntered away, cowboy boots thudding on the wood floor of the Read Rock.

  Anyone watching wouldn’t see her tremors. Probably. Why had she thought going head-to-head with a stranger would be a good thing?

  The well-dressed guy appeared at her elbow. He raised an eyebrow in humor. “Wow. Not many people stand up to Lee like that.”

  She watched the cowboy’s broad back. “Lee who?” “Evans. A longtime local family.”

  The door closed behind Evans.

  A well-established family who wouldn’t want Canyonlands’ borders expanded? “Does he have a ranch?”

  The man at her elbow nodded and held out his hand. “I’m Darrell Burke.” He said it as though they were having a casual conversation at a cocktail party.

  That’s when she realized she still held the box containing Lisa. Nora’s face burned even more. “I’m, uh, I’m Nora Abbott.”

  His face opened into a warm smile. “That’s obvious. You’re not from Moab, and since Lisa’s family disowned her, you have to be her best friend, the famous Nora Abbott.”

  She opened her mouth to say something but had no response.

  Even though he was a stranger, he made her feel comfortable.

  He laughed quietly. “Lisa told me a lot about you.”

  Had he said his name? Nora’s brain tilted on overload. Between losing Lisa, the voicemail, and the lunatic cowboy, she wasn’t at the top of her game.

  Lisa’s box weighed heavy in her hands. She stepped over to the plastic-covered table littered with used plates and cups to set it down, hesitating. It seemed disrespectful to plop it down next to red Solo cups with dregs of lemonade and plates holding half-eaten ham sandwiches, but she didn’t know what
else to do with it. The sun-drenched clearing by the creek felt more appropriate. Maybe she should have left Lisa there after all. She hugged the box harder, glad she hadn’t left Lisa for Lee Evans to find.

  The nice guy didn’t comment on the box but kept his eyes on her. “So Lee ran you off the road?”

  “Right into a ditch.” She set the box on the table.

  “Lee has a temper. Most folks avoid provoking it. Lisa didn’t.” He looked pointedly at the box.

  Nora asked the obvious. “If Lee didn’t like Lisa, what’s he doing at her funeral?”

  He lifted his chin, indicating something behind Nora. “He and Rachel used to be close.”

  Nora turned to see Rachel standing across the room. She was speaking to a blonde woman in a silk summer suit, her back to Nora. Rachel crumpled and fell into the woman’s arms. The sight brought Nora to tears.

  Nora knew how Rachel felt and almost wished she could fall into comforting arms, too. In fact, if she couldn’t feel Cole’s arms around her, the woman holding Rachel might make a good substitute.

  The handsome man followed Nora’s gaze. “This is going to be a hard time for Rachel.”

  Nora nodded, not trusting her voice.

  They watched the pair, and he spoke. “I thought I knew just about everyone in Moab, but I don’t recognize that woman.”

  “She’s not from around here,” Nora said. “You know her?”

  “That,” Nora started across the room, “is my mother, Abigail Podanski.”

  6

  Abigail stood a trim five foot six with a soft blonde bob—the perfect shade and cut to make her appear fashionable and age appropriate. She wore a beige silk suit and scuff-free heels. She and the man talking to Nora—what was his name?—would fit right in at a luncheon on Capitol Hill but were too formal for Moab.

  Nora’s natural inclination would be to take off in the opposite direction. But for one of the few times in her life, she actually felt happy to see her mother. After an uneasy relationship that often bordered on outright war, Nora and Abigail were forging a new bond. Well, working at it, anyway—a few ignored calls notwithstanding.