The Devil's Cradle

by Sylvia Nobel

  “Unreal,” Audrey murmured. Moving beside her, I studied the obviously dated photograph of Grady Morgan. Dr. Orcutt was right. He’d been one heck of a good-looking guy and the resemblance to Audrey was unmistakable. So, why had Jesse and Haston insisted she was an imposter with such irrefutable evidence staring them in the face?

  “And this is your grandfather, Mr. Jeb,” Marta said, pressing a small gilded frame into her hands. Though not nearly as handsome as Grady, the bushy brows were obviously a genetic trait, I thought, staring at the elder Morgan’s unsmiling face.

  Audrey pointed to another photo. “Who are those people?”

  “That is your Aunt Sarah and her husband.”

  “Haston’s parents.” I reflected. “Where are they?”

  “Dead.”

  “She was beautiful,” Audrey said, tracing the woman’s likeness with her finger before her expression turned hopeful. “Are there any old photos of...me? And my mother?”

  The woman’s heavy features crumpled into pity. “I think maybe no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Soon after I come here, Mr. Morgan is still very, very mad that you and your mother are gone away. Some nights he drinks a lot. He looks at the pictures and cries. Then sometimes when I clean the next day, I see them on the floor torn in many pieces or...” She hesitated and her deepening expression of concern propelled Audrey to ask, “What? What is it?”

  “One day he burns them in the fireplace.”

  Audrey swallowed hard. “All of them?”

  She shrugged. “There is a big trunk upstairs full of many old things. Perhaps you will find more,” Marta said, matter-of-factly, replacing the photos on the mantle above the blackened stone fireplace. “But first, you will have lunch now, yes?”

  Audrey stared uncomprehending, her hesitation seeming to signify that formulating a decision on that issue was more than she could handle at the moment. Or perhaps it was just plain shock. It was apparent that even though she’d done her best to prepare for this moment, she was still having difficulty accepting the reality of her situation. Famished as usual, I told Marta, “Lunch would be great.” We followed her through an arched doorway and down an L-shaped hallway that led into a large kitchen decorated with cheerful blue and white checked wallpaper. Colorful ceramic chickens of varying sizes apparently were the chosen decor, because they adorned every countertop and windowsill. They also appeared in the form of canisters, salt and peppershakers, oven mitts and refrigerator magnets. Happily accepting frosty glasses of raspberry iced tea, we seated ourselves at the cozy breakfast nook adjacent to a bay window overlooking the narrow slope of lawn leading down to a deep ravine that wound its way behind the house.

  A movement at the rear of the old Victorian caught my attention and I noticed a man kneeling there, poking the ground beneath a row of well-trimmed hedges.

  Audrey noticed too. “Who’s that?”

  Marta stopped her sandwich preparation and stared out the kitchen window above the sink. “Is it D.J.?” She narrowed her eyes as if to focus.

  “No,” I answered. “This guy’s older. Gray hair. Wearing a white shirt and tan slacks.”

  “Oh. That’s Orville Kemp from the sheriff’s office. Maybe today he will find something to prove that Mr. Morgan did not...” She aimed a worried glance at Audrey, then said, “I’m sorry. Does anyone talk to you about your father?”

  “A little.” Her inquiring gaze challenged me to do my job.

  I warmed to the task. “So, Marta, we’ve heard that Mr. Morgan had been drinking heavily the night he fell. What do you think happened?”

  Something flickered behind her dark eyes. “I think maybe it is not an accident.”

  “Why would you say that?” I asked, heeding the troubled look on Audrey’s face.

  Marta heaved a troubled sigh and pried open a head of lettuce. “Mr. Morgan worries much this past year. Something...how do you say…bothers his mind? Sometimes there are the telephone calls and afterwards his eyes, they are...” she hesitated, apparently searching for words, “filled with torment. His moods grow much worse until the last few weeks before he dies—and then the bottle becomes his mistress, day and night.”

  “Would you say he was despondent enough to have taken his own life?”

  She shrugged, her black eyes reflecting skepticism. “I don’t know.”

  “Was anything else bothering him?” I asked, noting with satisfaction the generous piles of turkey she heaped onto our sandwiches.

  “There were many fights with Mr. Haston and his terrible wife,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And also with that loco woman, Willow Windsong.”

  “Willow Windsong?” Audrey echoed.

  The two of us exchanged a look of wry amusement, before I said, “That’s a rather unusual name. Where does she fit into this picture?’

  Marta scowled. “The foolish woman cries big tears over the birds and squirrels that will be killed if Mr. Morgan opens the mine again.”

  “Did she ever threaten him?” I asked, swallowing another sip of tea.

  Marta stopped her meal preparations and stood for a moment, thinking. “One time she and some of her noisy friends all chain themselves to the gate at the entrance to the mine. Mr. Morgan has them all arrested and she screams at him that he is an abom...abomin...”

  “Abomination?” I inserted.

  “Yes. Abomination to the earth and all the creatures.”

  “Was Jesse Pickrell here the day he died?”

  Her lips curled in disdain. “Oh, yes. There was a terrible fight. In the late afternoon, Willow comes too. I would not let her in, so she screams at him from the driveway until he orders her away.”

  “Were either of them here when he fell?”

  Another shrug. “That night I visit with my daughter and her family. After dinner, I did not feel too good, so I come home early and go to bed.”

  “About what time was that?”

  Marta pressed the top slice of bread onto the lunch- meat and frowned at Audrey. “Your friend asks many questions.”

  Audrey flashed the woman an engaging smile that did wonders for her dour expression. “She works for a newspaper. She’s an investigative reporter.”

  “What is investigative?” Marta asked.

  “I’m sort of like a detective,” I replied, grinning, “except I get paid a lot less.”

  Marta tilted her head thoughtfully at me. “You will write about this in your paper?”

  “Only with Miss Morgan’s permission.”

  A look of contemplation glistened in the woman’s eyes as she set the two gigantic sandwiches in front of us. “This is good. I am happy to know there will be someone to listen with open ears.”

  After inviting her to join us at the table, I dug into my lunch and urged her to continue her story.

  She eagerly recounted how she’d been awakened around ten o’clock when she heard shouts coming from the old wing of the house. Thinking it odd, since Grady Morgan’s bedroom was also located in the newer addition, she arose to investigate and, after a cursory search of the house, found him crumpled in the ravine below the balcony at the rear of the mansion. While frantically dialing the sheriff’s office from the parlor phone located on the ground floor, she’d looked up in time to see someone run past the window and vanish into the darkness.

  “And you’re sure it was a woman?” I probed, finishing the last bite of my sandwich.

  An emphatic nod. “I think perhaps the sheriff does not believe me, but the moon it is very bright. I can see her hair flying. I can see her long dress.” A sudden look of dismay crossed her leathery-brown features and her tone turned reverent. “Mr. Morgan, he lays down there on the rocks,” she said, pointing a stubby finger towards the window, “and I think at first he is dead, but when I call his name, his eyes open and they are big with fright.”

  My heart leaped with anticipation. “Really? Did he say anything to you?”

  “Yes. It is difficult to hear him. His voice is ver
y weak. But I think he says, ‘the day is here.’“

  Audrey shrugged her puzzlement. “What do you suppose that meant?”

  “I don’t know. But that is not all. Then I hear him say very clear that she comes to visit him before and now justice is finally done.”

  “Who came to visit?” asked Audrey in a tense, sharp voice.

  Black eyes wide and solemn, she swiftly crossed herself, whispering “The angel of death.”

  Chapter 8

  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Marta’s story, but as Audrey and I followed her on a tour of the house, I was sure of two things. I didn’t believe an angel had been making crank telephone calls to Grady Morgan, nor did I believe for a second that one of the winged creatures had shoved him off the balcony.

  Of predominant interest to me was the fact that Grady, Audrey and Jesse had all received calls from an unknown woman. All I had to do now was figure out what linked them.

  Audrey declined Marta’s suggestion that she stay in Grady’s old room, and expressed no interest in the other two Spartanly-furnished bedrooms in the newer wing of the house. She was however, as enchanted as I was with the old Victorian and, much to Marta’s consternation, chose a room on the second floor.

  We both ooh’d and aah’d over the crystal doorknobs, delicate lace curtains and a carved Early American four-poster bed with matching armoire that would have made an antique dealer drool. Fingering the tiny pink rosebuds on the faded cream wallpaper, Audrey sighed dreamily, “This is the room I want.”

  “But, there is no air-conditioning on the top floors,” Marta protested, grunting as she tugged stubborn windows open to air out the stuffy room. “And this part of the house is not used for many years.”

  I rather suspected that she did not relish the thought of tackling the steep staircase on a daily basis and, considering her weight and age, I couldn’t really blame her. “It’s not all that uncomfortable,” Audrey insisted. “A fan will be fine for now.”

  I’d noticed that the ground floor bedroom boasted a window air-conditioner so I opted for that one.

  Realizing she could not dissuade us, Marta shrugged and went away grumbling that she would have to enlist D.J. to help with the cleaning. Audrey announced that she needed a nap and that left me free to undertake the first task on my list.

  Using the old-fashioned rotary phone in the ornate sitting room adjacent to my bedroom on the first floor, I put in a call to the paper only to find that Tugg was out to lunch. I gave Ginger the number and told her I’d be available later in the afternoon.

  “Oh, hey, sugar. Tally faxed some copy in from Flagstaff a while ago. He’s fixin’ to come back to town early Thursday morning and said he was gonna stop in here for a short spell before he heads on down to Mexico. You got any messages for him?”

  “If he has time, he can call me before he leaves,” I told her, feeling a tingle of warmth at the possibility of hearing a final farewell before his trip. “Otherwise you can tell him ‘all’s quiet on the Western front’ for now.”

  As I replaced the receiver I wished I had time to explore the rest of the house, but since the patrol car was still parked in the driveway, duty called.

  I retrieved my camera and hurried down the steps to begin my quest. It would be helpful if Orville Kemp could shed some light on Marta’s fanciful tale.

  The well-kept grounds were impressive. Apparently D.J. possessed a major green thumb. Tall willow trees dotted a perfectly manicured lawn embroidered with tiny purple and white flowers. The bushes were neatly pruned. The scrub oak and crab apple trees were trimmed to perfection. No sounds, save an occasional birdcall or the intermittent tinkling of wind chimes, disturbed the silence.

  My eyes traveled appreciatively over the graceful architecture of the old mansion. Jesse had declared it creepy, but in my opinion the place possessed a distinct air of enchantment.

  I snapped a few shots of the house and walked on. Clusters of sunflowers had been artfully planted around the rock outcroppings that bordered a path leading down towards a cozy-looking cottage. I wondered if it was D.J.’s place.

  I circled the house searching for Orville Kemp. Strange. Where had he gone? I crossed the ravine and followed the path uphill. Beyond a sagging range fence, almost unnoticeable among the tall chaparral and overgrown mesquite, I discovered what looked like the remains of an old road snaking over the top of the rise.

  But still no sign of Orville Kemp. I turned to admire the spectacular view of the San Pedro River Valley spreading out below me. Typical of the summer monsoon, the usual afternoon build-up of thunderheads was in progress. They towered above the distant peaks hovering majestically above the valley floor, their swollen gray bellies already releasing a wispy veil of moisture that didn’t quite reach the ground.

  “The Indians call that walking rain,” said a raspy voice from behind me. Startled, I swung around and stared into the ice-blue eyes of Orville Kemp who had appeared from nowhere. “Sorry,” he added, his lips cracking in a wily grin. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” Head cocked sideways his silver hair glinted in the sun as he appraised me carefully. “You the Morgan girl?”

  I told him who I was, where I was from, and why I was there. As I talked, he hitched his hip against a boulder and proceeded to light a pipe. After a moment, he puffed out a cloud of aromatic smoke. “Investigative reporter, huh? You talked to Deputy Brewster yet?”

  “Not yet. I was hoping I could get some answers from you first.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “You can try.”

  By the look of shrewd amusement gathering in his eyes, I suspected that I could ask, but he may not necessarily answer. “For starters, I’m assuming since you’re not in uniform, that you’re a detective.” Homicide, I hoped.

  “Yep.”

  Elation surged through me. Apparently the Morgan case was not yet closed. “Are you still investigating Grady Morgan’s death?”

  “We’ve got a few unanswered questions.”

  “Then, would I be correct in assuming that you’ve decided that Marta Nuñez’s story holds some credibility?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze roamed over the amber hills where the skeletal remains of ancient head frames marked the graves of abandoned mines. “Marta’s blind as a bat,” he countered lazily, returning his attention to me. “She can’t see ten feet in front of her in broad daylight let alone the dead of night.”

  I studied his craggy face. If he didn’t believe she’d seen something, what was he looking for? “Marta says Grady Morgan had altercations with Jesse and another woman the same day he died.”

  “Yep.”

  “And, from what little I’ve heard, they both had strong motives for, shall we say, hastening his demise.”

  His level stare deepened. I had the impression he was playing cat and mouse with me as he deliberately fiddled with his pipe, tamping it, re-lighting it. “Gotta have proof,” he said at length.

  “I know. Found anything interesting lately?”

  He answered that question with silence, then quietly stated, “I wouldn’t get too carried away with Marta’s wild tale, Miss O’Dell.”

  “Oh? What reason would she have to fabricate it?” With a sigh, he knocked the ashes from his pipe. I thought for a minute he wasn’t going to reply but then he said, “No doubt you’ll be hightailing it over to Bisbee to get a peek at the DR on Grady, so you may as well know that he filed several theft reports within this last year.”

  I locked eyes with him, not sure I’d caught his insinuation. “Are you saying he suspected Marta?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Why? What was taken?”

  “Don’t remember specifically, but he claimed the stuff was real valuable and the thefts seemed to coincide with her trips across the border to visit her sister in Naco.”

  “Where’s that?”

  He squinted over my shoulder. “Little border town over there at the foot of Thunder Peak.”

  “Why
didn’t he fire her?”

  “Again, Miss O’Dell,” he answered succinctly. “Proof.”

  Buffeted by a sudden gust of wind, we took note of the fast-approaching storm and, without another word, began to move towards the house.

  “So,” I continued, matching my steps with his. “You think she may have made the whole thing up to cover her activities?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did Deputy Brewster call you out to investigate the night Grady fell?”

  “Yep.”

  “And, can I assume that the examining physician was Miles Orcutt?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did Grady Morgan say anything to him?”

  He slid me a provocative glance. “Don’t know.”

  I sighed inwardly. Getting answers from this man was like pulling impacted molars. But then, I understood. While he was very good at playing the part of the backcountry law officer, I had the feeling that beneath his hick exterior lay the heart of a shrewd detective. I also knew that certain information was public record and the rest he might not be at liberty to divulge. Nevertheless, as we reached the kitchen entrance, I felt like I’d made some headway. Officially, he maintained that Grady Morgan’s death was still listed as accidental, but his inference was clear and I now had three female suspects.

  Armed with the new information, I looked at Marta through different eyes now as she rushed out the door wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “Whitey Flanigan calls on the phone. He says for you to come downtown now and he will get your car.”

  “Thanks.” I turned to Orville. “Do you think you could give me a lift?”

  “Yep.”

  I grinned and asked if he could wait a moment while I got my car keys. He nodded, bid Marta good-bye and ambled towards his patrol car.

  I hurried to my bedroom, snatched up my purse and then took the stairs two at a time to Audrey’s room where I found her unpacking suitcases. I was surprised to see that she was not alone. A fuzzy orange cat occupied the center of her bed.

  “So, who’s your new friend?” I asked, reaching to pet the animal’s soft fur. A deep, rumbling purr was my immediate reward.