“City folks wouldn’t think much of our little town. It’s a lot smaller than Sedona. The closest big city is Paris, Texas. Honey Grove has seen better days, but the people there are the best in the world. They’ll do anything for a neighbor. It’s a great place to raise a family, but we can’t keep our kids from moving away when they grow up. Kevin was always an outstanding kid. The little guy was the leader of the pack from first grade right through high school. He was class president, star athlete, and a 4.0 student. I was so proud of him. He was so much better at everything than I ever was. Did you know he got a petroleum engineering degree from the University of Texas?”
I replied that Kevin had told us that he received his degree in the spring and was taking a year off to hike before he got a job with an oil company. We talked about Kevin and about my son John. In about an hour, Margaret came into the kitchen and began to make breakfast. A little later Marilyn joined us. We ate a big breakfast and chatted until it was time for church. We had offered to take them to the local Baptist church, but they had decided to go to St. Paul’s with us. I think they were a little curious because of the connection to the Father Sean murder.
At 9:45, we drove to the church using my Explorer. I had a chance to introduce the Rikers to Father Antonio before the Mass. Our priest said all the right things. I was proud of his ability to form a bond with the Rikers in their grief. Father Antonio was very good at his job and truly a compassionate man. At mass, Father Antonio gave a sermon on the Good Samaritan. He tailored his remarks as a tribute to young Kevin Riker, who had brought the long history of tragedies in the Secret Mountain Wilderness to an end. Our priest explained that we could not fully understand the ways of God, but God’s hand was always in the world. After mass, many friends from the congregation, including Rose Rios from my office, stopped to express their condolences to the Rikers.
The plan was for Margaret to take the Rikers to the funeral home in Flagstaff after lunch. I would pick up Chad at the office. We would drop in uninvited on the Wood family this afternoon. After that visit, we’d go up to Flagstaff to keep the 3:30 appointment with Professor Stone at NAU. I did not expect to take any Sundays off until we had caught every evil bastard involved in these murders.
CHAPTER 25
I drove into the parking lot of the Sedona office at 12:45. I wanted to make a phone call before Chad and I went to see the Wood family at the Apple Tree Tavern in Oak Creek Canyon. I went to my small office and phoned the illustrious head of the Society of Jesus for the Province of California, Monsignor Carlos Costilla.
An assistant answered. He claimed that the monsignor was not available, and that I needed to make an appointment to talk with him on Monday. I explained that I was investigating the murder of Father Sean Murphy. I made clear that I had met Monsignor Costilla at his funeral, and that it was essential that I speak with him today. After a wait of a few minutes, the Jesuit Province Head came on the line. He sounded annoyed by the interruption. “Hello Lieutenant Damson, do you have some news about Father Sean?”
“Monsignor, we have discovered that Father Sean’s murder is connected to a very long series of ritual murders that go back more than fifty years. All of these murders followed the same pattern, death by fire in a remote area of the ponderosa forest south of Flagstaff. I am very anxious to examine the reports that Father Sean was sending to the Vatican. Have you had a chance to ask Monsignor de Navarro for his reports?”
“I saw part of your press conference on the news and know the general situation. I’m very sorry that I can’t help. I called Superior General de Navarro, but he does not have any reports to share. He did not keep them,” Costilla said.
“Even if the actual documents were not kept, surely Monsignor de Navarro can help by telling what was in them.”
“I am sorry, but the information is of a confidential nature. The superior general would not even tell me what was in the documents. I was surprised when you told me that Father Sean was communicating directly with the Monsignor de Navarro. That is not customary in our order. We are an obedient order. When the superior general says no; it’s final. These communications involved clerical matters. They are not matters for the civil authorities.”
By this point I was getting a little pissed off at Costilla’s responses. Those reports might have information that could have prevented Kevin Riker’s death. They still might help solve this case before anyone else was killed. I said in my forceful police interrogator voice, “Monsignor Costilla, YOU ARE WRONG. This is a civil matter regarding at least thirty-two murders. There might be information in those documents that could prevent another murder. I must have access to either those documents or a detailed report of the information that was sent by Father Sean.”
I’m sure that Monsignor Costilla had not heard that tone of voice in many years. There was a very long pause on the line. I just waited. After awhile, I was afraid that Costilla might have hung up, but finally he said, “You are right my son. I will call Francisco de Navarro again. I will ask that he contact you directly regarding the communications from Father Sean. I have your business card, and I will ask that he call or e-mail you. God bless you and your efforts to solve these crimes.” He hung up without waiting for me to respond.
I heard a snap. I had twisted the handset of the phone in my hands breaking it. This was the third time since I accepted this Sedona job that I had unconsciously broken a phone. The first time was when a battered woman told me she would not testify against her bastard husband. I was usually good at controlling my emotions. The broken receiver embarrassed me. Rose had ordered some spare handsets after my first one. Well, at least Monsignor Costilla had ended the call by blessing me rather than excommunicating me. Maybe de Navarro would contact me soon.
Chad came into my cube anxious to get moving. He smiled at the broken handset. The office would have another good laugh about it. We took my Explorer towards Oak Creek Canyon. About a mile past the Midgley Bridge, Chad had me turn east onto a gravel road. We had not yet entered the narrow section of the canyon. The canyon walls were a half a mile apart at this point. The road led steeply down to a low-water bridge over Oak Creek. This time of year the tame autumn creek flowed through the culverts under the concrete bridge. During the spring snowmelt, creek waters would rush over the top of the bridge, preventing access to the Apple Tree Tavern for several weeks.
In this sunny rather open part of the creek, the giant trunks of Arizona sycamores surrounded us, white giants with mottled gray spots. As we drove uphill on the east side of the creek, we entered an apple orchard. The principal crops of many of the early settlers were fruit trees, and this orchard looked like it might be a hundred years old. The trees were not tall, but their trunks were huge and gnarled from decades of pruning. The carefully tended branches formed an apple tree canopy over the gravel roadway. It is quite possible that the Apple Tree Tavern had nothing at all to do with Druids. It might just be named after this old orchard.
After we passed through the apple trees, I could see the east side of the canyon rising in a perpendicular wall of orange, tan, and red ahead of us about a quarter of a mile. We entered an opening in the trees in which a dozen cute rock cabins were ranked around a square. They were made of the natural rocks of the creek bed. They all had green metal roofs that extended over the fronts of the cabins to form broad covered front porches. The porches held old-fashioned gliders and cushioned lounge chairs. There was a No Vacancy sign hanging from the largest cabin, really a substantial size house. Within the square formed by the rock cabins, an open area with picnic tables and barbecue grills was carefully maintained under huge oak trees. I thought that this is the sort of vacation spot that Margaret would love. It was pretty and quiet with a great place to read on the front porch of each cabin. A dozen gray and tan quail rushed along the road in front of our slow moving vehicle. They dodged into the brown grass when we got too close.
Chad pointed at a side road that led towards the wall of the canyon. As we drove around
an especially large oak whose top branches were heavy with mistletoe, I could see the tavern. Acorns crunched under our tires as we drove slowly around the tree. Under the huge oak was a rock picnic table with a sandstone top stained with the tannin from decades of autumn acorns. There were no apple trees in the immediate vicinity. The tavern was also built of native rocks and had a green metal roof. It was pressed against the wall of the canyon, which formed the back wall of the old building. The large front window had a red Budweiser sign. The tavern appeared to be closed on a Sunday afternoon. We parked in front of the bar and walked up to the heavy wooden door. It was locked. I pointed at the hand-made sign above the tavern door. In green paint, it said Oak Creek Hideout.
Chad look surprised. “Well Mike, I did say it’s ten years since I’ve been here. I don’t even know if the Wood family still owns it,” he said.
I looked closely at the sign. The paint was not weathered or faded.
We drove back to the office of the tourist cabins. As we turned on the gravel road that led to the quaint rock cabins, another vehicle approached the office. It was a mid-size Ford pickup with a wench attached to the front bumper. The pickup parked in front of the office. A gray haired couple got out. “That man is Malcolm Wood,” Chad said.
CHAPTER 26
We parked next to the couple. I showed my identification as I approached saying in my rather gruff official voice, “Mr. and Mrs. Wood, I’m Mike Damson with the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office. This is my partner, Chad Archer. We need a few minutes to visit with you.”
Malcolm Wood was a big man, over six feet and maybe 250 pounds. He was certainly not a guy with a size seven and a half boot. His wife, Helen, was also a sizable woman. Mr. Wood extended his hand and said, “Sure Mike, glad to visit. Hi Chad, how’ve you been, long time no see.” His tone was jovial as he shook hands with Chad; the sort of greeting you would expect from someone who has been a barkeeper his whole life. He remembered a good customer even after ten years. Mr. Wood wore a tan suit, and Mrs. Wood also appeared to have dressed for church in a gray skirt and white silk shirt. We sat down on the cushioned chairs on their broad front porch.
I took out my notebook and began the interview. “We’re talking to residents of Oak Creek Canyon about a black Lincoln Navigator that was involved in a hit and run killing. The vehicle was driven into the creek and set on fire up the canyon at the Banjo Bill Picnic Area. Have either of you seen a Navigator around the area recently?”
Mrs. Wood said, “We ask all our guests to give the make and license of their vehicles when they check in. I’d be happy to look through them for you. We’ve had a full house lately with folks coming up from Phoenix to see the maples and other fall foliage. I’ll go get the registration book.” She went into the house.
“Is a Navigator the same thing as that huge Ford Expedition?” Malcolm said.
“Similar, same thing with an extra five grand for the Lincoln name I think,” Chad said.
Malcolm laughed good-naturedly. “They get bigger every year. I don’t know why Ford and GM don’t put their nameplates on school buses and semis and save a lot of development costs.”
Helen returned in a few minutes carrying an old-fashioned check-in ledger. She also had a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and four glasses. I had not seen a hand written registration book in decades. “I found three of them in this year’s book,” she said. “The Howard family from Phoenix stayed twice. They have a dark green one. We get a lot of return business here. Mostly, customers come because of word of mouth from other loyal customers. We don’t do any advertising because the place stays full without it. We keep the cabins spotless, and Malcolm is always repairing or fixing something. Since we are closed from January through April every year, we have time to see that everything gets fixed every year.” She seemed proud of their business. I was inclined to believe her.
“We had a one-week stay in July by the Muskrove family from LA. They have a tan 2001 Navigator. I think this was their first visit with us. They went hiking every day and didn’t spend much time here at the cabins. The other Navigator was a red one owned by the Carters of Mesa. They come up every year for a week. Sorry, none of them were black.”
“Do you know anyone in Oak Creek Canyon who owns one?” I said. Both Woods shook their heads.
“We’re kind of out of the way back here in the orchard, no near neighbors on this road, you know. Most of our friends are from the Flagstaff First Presbyterian Church or from the Elks Club here in Sedona. I know a lot of guys who come to the tavern, but none of them live here in the canyon,” Malcolm said.
I followed up his comment by saying, “Chad has told me about your wonderful little bar, but he thought it was called the Apple Tree Tavern. We noticed that it’s now called the Oak Creek Hideaway. Why did you drop the old name from such a historical little bar?”
Malcolm smiled showing no concern at the question. “Oh, we just decided that it was time for a change. The new name makes it clear that we’re located right in Oak Creek Canyon. Helen thinks it’s easier to remember than the old name. I changed it last year after Dad died. He would never agree to change anything about the old place.”
“I’m sorry to hear that old Angus passed away,” Chad said. “I remember his wonderful stories told in that accent. Was it an Irish accent? He was the reason a lot of us came to the tavern, a fine man.”
“We certainly miss him,” Malcolm said. “He added a lot of character to the tavern for sixty years, and he was the patriarch of our family. Dad personally built a lot of the cabins you see here. In fact, I grew up helping him build this place. We added a cabin every winter. He made it a success through hard work. Dad constructed the Apple Tree Tavern with his own hands, and he would never let me change anything about it, even the music in the jukebox. He was originally from the area of Derwentwater, Cumbria, in Northern England. Dad came to Arizona back in 1935 when he was a twenty-year-old youngster. He fell in love with Oak Creek Canyon and never left. My mother, Martha Hale Wood, grew up in Camp Verde. They were married in 1939. Dad had a great life here in Arizona. Everyone in Sedona remembers him fondly.”
We sat on the porch discussing the rapid changes going on in Sedona. According to Helen the influx of rich Californians was destroying the little town. When I brought up the murders up above the West Fork, the Woods indicated that they had heard about the terrible discovery while they were at church this morning.
“We’re not on the cable here, and the TV reception is so bad next to the canyon wall that we don’t ever watch it. From what we heard after church today, there might be hundreds of bodies up on the plateau. I think it’s probably some crazy drug folks from LA who did the killing, like the Manson bunch. On those illegal drugs, people aren’t even human anymore,” Mrs. Woods said.
We left the friendly couple and headed for the campus of Northern Arizona University. The Woods made a great first impression. They seemed open and genuine, the kind of down-to-earth people that Margaret and I were most comfortable around. Unfortunately, I’ve been a police officer too long to take much at face value. I wanted to know a lot more about their truck with a wench on the front bumper, about what size Mrs. Wood would wear in a man’s hiking boot, and about their whereabouts on the evening of October 31, for the past thirty or so years.
CHAPTER 27
The drive up 89A to Flagstaff was uneventful except for my attack of guilt as we passed Pumphouse Wash. I just could not get the thought of the terror of falling that great a distance out of my head. How many seconds would it take to tumble a thousand feet?
Chad knew the campus very well since he had spent four years at NAU getting his degree in criminology. He directed me to the closest parking area for our destination. As we drove up to the history department’s building, I asked Chad if he had known Professor Stone while he was in school here.
“I knew who he was although I never had him for a class. No jock ever took one of Stone’s classes and passed. His classes were ‘Hard as Stone.
’ He taught mostly upper level history classes, but you really didn’t want to get him for Intro to European History. The drop out rate was fifty percent. He was already a full professor when I was here years ago.”
I found a convenient parking place because it was Sunday afternoon. The Northern Arizona University campus was quite beautiful. It was built in a forest of mature pine. Many hills and buildings on campus had spectacular views of the snow-covered San Francisco Peaks a few miles north of Flagstaff. We went to Professor Stone’s third floor office. He had enough seniority to have an office with a stunning view across campus toward the mountains.
His door was open, and he came out and greeted us. “Hello, Detective Damson. I recognize you from the press conference. You handled a difficult situation well.”
After shaking hands with me, he turned to Chad and said, “Chad Archer, I remember you from the Lumberjack Football team. I’ve been to every home game for twenty-five years, and you’re one of the best tight ends we ever had.” Chad seemed a little embarrassed that the well-known professor would still remember him nearly ten years after he graduated.
Professor Stone asked us to have a seat. His desk was arranged with his back to the window. We sat across from him where we could see the mountains behind his head. I thought the view was so good it would be distracting to work here.
“I’m flattered that you would come to me for help,” Professor Stone said. “I promise that you can have as much of my time as you need. For the sake of the whole state we need to clear up these murders. It is shocking to find something like this in our community. How can I help?”
“You probably know why we called you. We understand that you’re a nationally known expert on the history of Druid practices and Celtic religion. We’ve come to you to see if you think there is any connection between pagan religions and these murders,” I said.
The Dead Priest of Sedona Page 12
