by Sylvia Nobel
Harmon’s boots crunched through the gravel as he walked up and laid more wet towels on the hood, muttering under his breath, “Stupid-assed people,” while he resumed wiping away the sinister message.
“Tell me a little more about Bitsy. You said she’d come back recently. When did she live here before?”
“She was born right here.”
“Really? And how long ago did she leave?”
He lifted the battered cap from his head and scratched thoughtfully. “Oh, quite a while. Fifteen years, maybe?”
“So, you’ve been here a long time yourself?”
“Oh, hell, yes.” He pointed to the ground and flashed me a tobacco-stained grin. “Worked down in the hole since I could crawl.”
“I see. What can you tell me about Bitsy?”
He stared at me with memory-fogged eyes. “Not much, really. She was a real sweet little kid and my daughter and her was friends, but when they got to junior high, Doreen, that’s my wife, well, she didn’t want her coming around no more.”
“Why?”
“I ain’t too clear on the details,” he mused, “but it seems like she got real mouthy and rebellious. I think she’s the one...no wait, maybe that was the Wickert girl...well, anyhow, one of ‘em used to pal around with the Morgan kid until...”
“Dayln?” I asked sharply.
His quick glance held appreciation. “Looks like you been doing your homework.”
“Whitey Flanigan told me she was bad news. Did you know her too?”
“I’d see her around town. You gotta remember something…Miss O’Dell, was it?”
I nodded.
“I was just the hired help. Didn’t really mingle much with the big shots at the mine. Or their families. So, most of what I know is gossip, pure and simple.”
“I’ll take gossip.”
The conspiratorial glint in his eyes matched his grin. “Okee dokee. From all I heard, Dayln Morgan was smart as a whip, but didn’t get no real discipline.”
“Why?”
“Some say it’s ‘cause she was just a hell-raiser like her pa, but other folks think it was because her ma was so sickly. The poor lady spent most of her time in hospitals or home in bed.”
“Oh, yes, the first wife, Lydia. What was wrong with her?”
A faraway look settled in his eyes again as he absently scratched his chin. “I ain’t sure, but she was ailing a good long time, and wasn’t up to keeping a watchful eye on the kid. Next thing you know Dayln got herself mixed up with a rambunctious bunch of boys and there weren’t no controlling the girl. I heard she was in trouble for vandalism, shoplifting, starting fires and all manner of devilment.”
“And where was Grady in this equation?
A look of irritation crossed his face. “He didn’t win no prize for father-of-the-year, or husband neither that’s for sure. Too busy pleasing himself on the side, if you get my drift.”
“Lots of lady friends?”
“Lots.”
So, I could now add infidelity to the man’s growing list of shortcomings. “How old was Dayln when her mother died?”
He pursed his lips for a few seconds. “Eight, nine maybe.”
“I see. And did you know Grady’s second wife, Rita?”
His face softened. “The doc’s nurse? Sure did. She was a real sweet lady,” he murmured, looking wistful. “But, getting back to Bitsy, it wasn’t but a year or two after the Morgan girl died that she run off and married some cowboy who come through with the rodeo. Didn’t even finish high school.”
“So, what brought her back here after so many years?”
“Doreen says she finally got up enough nerve to dump the no-good rotten sonuvabitch.”
I must have looked expectant because he filled in my unasked question. “I heard he busted her up pretty bad. Last time, he damn near killed her. Doreen says them scars on her face are from cigarette burns and that she looks like a whole different person since she got her broken nose and jaw fixed.”
“I’m assuming she’s finally divorced the scumbag.”
“Yep. Cooling his heels in jail right now.”
“Good. So, does she have family left in town?”
“Just her Aunt Edna. Waitressing don’t pay much, so I guess she’s bunking with the ol’ lady till she gets on her feet.”
I mulled over everything he’d told me and then pointed to the car. “Does she seem like the type of person who could do something like this?”
He frowned and sprayed a blue liquid on the glass. “No, she don’t.”
“Does Willow, pardon the pun, have the guts?”
He cackled merrily. “To get her point across? Man, I wouldn’t put nothing past that one. I guess she means well trying to help save them critters and such, but I wish to blazes they’d all simmer down. The rest of us need Miss Morgan to get this place up and running again, so we can get our lives back.”
We chatted a few more minutes and I expressed my sincere thanks for his efforts. I left him there still trying to coax Jigger out from under the bush. The poor animal probably still feared punishment for his deed, but I for one was grateful that the dog’s antics had helped diffuse this latest piece of mischief.
But as I turned onto the highway, I was deeply troubled nonetheless. While the rabbit prank itself had proved harmless enough, the underlying message was ominous. If it was the militant environmentalists, to what lengths were these people prepared to go should Audrey choose sides with Haston?
By the time I located Toomey’s Garage at the end of Carbide Street, adjacent to the remains of several gutted brick buildings splashed with peace symbols interspersed with X-rated graffiti, I was burning to confront Willow Windsong.
But the interview would have to be earned, I thought with a sigh, turning into the driveway. Judging by the number of bored-looking men who took immediate interest in my arrival, like the Muleskinner Saloon, this too was apparently a popular daytime hangout.
The crumbling remains of a concrete foundation, now served as a handy card table for one foursome, while several other groups of men lounged against a stone retaining wall, drinking and smoking. They looked to be a younger, rougher crowd of guys than I’d met at the Muleskinner yesterday.
The good news was that meant gossip would flow like beer at a frat party. The bad news was I had to get out of the car and enter this testosterone-charged den of male humanity. Wishing more than ever I’d worn jeans instead of the short, tight skirt, I shrugged on the suit jacket and braced myself to endure the gauntlet course of ogling that was sure to come.
Doing my best to appear nonchalant, I got out and walked swiftly towards the entrance. I didn’t have to wait long for the first comment.
“Hey, Red,” came the expected shout from one lecherous-looking dude whose grizzled face hadn’t encountered a razor blade in days, “if you’re having trouble keeping your engine running, you jest let me know and I’ll be glad to slide in under your hood and oil all the parts.”
Raucous laughter erupted and a chorus of wolf whistles followed along with several other ribald remarks including one cat call I’d never heard before. “Whooee! Get a load of the hitch in her git-a-long.”
“Thanks, fellas,” I shouted back good-naturedly, never missing a step and not daring to turn around for fear my face would be as scarlet as it felt. I hurried inside the garage and spotted a stout man sporting a sandy crew haircut. He pulled a cloth from the pocket of his paint-smeared overalls and asked, “You looking for somebody special, young lady?”
“Lamar Toomey.”
“You found him.”
“Oh, hi. My name is Kendall O’Dell. How are you today?”
“Fine as frog’s hair,” he commented, transferring a wad of gum from one cheek to the other. “And most folks just call me Toomey.” He stopped a few feet from me, wiping his hands on the cloth while looking me over with interest. Unlike the lustful scrutiny of the other men, his eyes held only curious appreciation.
I told him
about the damage to my car, that he’d come highly recommended by the patrons of the Muleskinner, and was there any way possible he could repair it in a few days? When I noticed several other cars reposing in various stages of restoration, I added apologetically, “I meant to call first for an appointment, but...”
He beamed me a friendly smile. “That’s okay. “I’ve been expecting you.”
I wasn’t surprised. “Of course you were.”
He edged a look behind me. “Looks like you got the boys all hot ‘n’ bothered, Miss O’Dell.”
“They act like they’ve never seen a woman before.” He smiled and shook his head slowly. “Not like you.” He strode to the doorway. “Hey! You boys best behave yourselves. I can’t afford to have you aggravating my customers, you hear?”
Like Whitey Flanigan, he seemed to command respect. Several of the men shrugged sheepishly while others leveled me glares of resentment before returning to their card games or sauntering away.
What these able-bodied men needed was a good day’s labor. I remembered my grandmother’s wisdom about idle hands being the Devil’s workshop and decided that Morgan’s Folly was a perfect example.
Toomey grabbed a clipboard from a hook on the wall and accompanied me out to my car. This time there were no whistles or catcalls.
As he slowly circled my Volvo, jotting notes, I mentioned that I’d seen Grady’s classic car collection and how much I admired the restoration work he’d done. “That must have kept you busy for a few hours.”
“Just a couple.”
“You must have gotten to know Grady Morgan pretty well then,” I remarked smoothly, watching his tawny brows pinch together as he ran a finger across one deep gash in the paint.
His eyes sparkled with amusement. “I was wondering when you were going to put your reporter’s hat on.”
I acknowledged his remark with a gracious nod and waited for his answer, which came after a moment of contemplation. “He wasn’t an easy man to know. Grady was kind of like a whole bunch of folks all wrapped up in one.”
His reply gave me pause. It struck the same chord as Dr. Orcutt’s remark. “Are you saying he had multiple personalities?”
“I don’t know as I’d go that far, but people did tend to walk on tiptoe around him.”
“Did he appear to be mentally unstable to you?”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The Morgan’s were all sort of high strung. Grady just happened to have a powerful temper that he could cut loose if you looked at him cross-eyed. Yep,” he mused, backing up a few feet to view the car from a distance, then scribbling on the paper, “sometimes I’d get real flusterated trying to deal with his moodiness.”
Flusterated? That was a new one on me. “And the last few months before his accident, did he seem to be more stressed than usual? Preoccupied?”
“Didn’t see him that much. Oh, he’d call and we’d talk about this and that he wanted done on the cars, but most times he’d send D.J. down with a list.”
“Oh, yes, the loyal handyman. I understand he took pretty good care of the old man.”
Toomey squinted at my front fender and remarked dryly, “I’m not so sure about that.”
“Oh?”
“If you ask me, D.J. didn’t help matters much.”
“In what way?”
“Guess you already know he goes down to Naco every couple of weeks.”
“Yes, with Marta Nuñez. So?”
“Hell, he was supplying the poison that was killing Grady.”
I frowned disbelief. “D.J. was bringing back liquor from Mexico? Who told you this?”
“Some of the fellas,” he said, inclining his head toward the small group of men still playing cards.
While Toomey assessed the damage, I pondered this strange new information. Not only did D.J. hang out with Archie Lawton & company but while playing nursemaid to the old man, as well as spying for Jesse, it appeared that his inappropriate actions could have very well hastened Grady’s death. Had the devious Jesse put him up to that too?
Moments later, when Toomey handed me the clipboard and told me the work could probably be completed before noon on Friday, I had a strong suspicion he was bumping me ahead of other jobs.
“That would be fantastic.” While signing off on the estimate, I eyed a smudged door marked OFFICE and casually asked, “Is Willow Windsong working today?
“You just missed her. She only works mornings.”
“I wonder if you could tell me where she lives.”
His sea-green eyes gleamed with curiosity, but all he did was point to a series of what looked like a thousand stone steps scaling the hill behind the garage. “Up there.”
My jaw dropped. “I think I’d rather drive to her place.”
“You can’t. Copper Canyon Bridge got washed out in a big storm last month. Good thing it happened while she was here at work,” he said, motioning towards an ancient VW bus embellished with brightly painted birds and flowers, its dented bumper attached to the frame with duct tape. “You could park over near the creek, but it’s actually shorter to go this way.”
I let my eyes rove upward once more. “How far is her place once I get to the top?”
“When the stairs end, follow the footpath for about half a mile.”
“Is there a specific address?”
His broad grin matched the impish light in his eyes. “You’ll know it when you get there, but if you don’t mind my saying so, those shoes you’re wearing are a little bit fancy for hiking, don’t you think?”
I stared ruefully at my already scuffed pumps. It would be more practical to go back to the house first and change clothes, but then I’d feel bound to tell Audrey about today’s episode. Then she’d want to come with me and the inevitable clash between the two would vaporize my chances of questioning Willow in a calm setting. Plus that, I rationalized, because of Audrey’s earlier attack, it was unlikely she’d be up to such an arduous climb at any rate. I flashed him an optimistic grin. “I’ve already hiked the mine road in them, so I guess they’ll do.”
He stuck his hand out. “I’ll take your car keys and get started right away.”
I handed them to him, got my camera and purse, accepted his offer of a cold ‘sody pop,’ and had my foot on the first step when guilt set in. This initial meeting with Willow might prove significant and Audrey had a right to be in on it. After wrestling with indecision a moment longer, I decided that perhaps I’d better call and see if she wanted to come along. And in addition to that, I needed to arrange for a ride back to the house.
I spied a pay phone around the side of the building, looked up the number in my notebook and dialed. Marta answered on the second ring. “Morgan residence.”
“Marta, this is Kendall O’Dell. Is Audrey around?”
“What?”
We had a very poor connection so I said in a loud voice, “Is Audrey available to talk?”
Hiss. Pop. Crackle. “I think she is still sleeping.”
The revelation dawned on me slowly, prickling my scalp. I had found the staticky phone.
Chapter 14
In the wake of my inadvertent discovery, I was still wavering somewhere between elation and shock by the time I set foot on step number sixty-eight. Of course there could be other telephones around in the same condition, but its close proximity to one of Grady’s most ardent adversaries seemed to point the finger of guilt firmly in Willow’s direction.
Not wanting to box myself into one theory, however, I had to consider the other suspects. Grady wasn’t alive to confirm what time of day he’d received the bulk of his crank calls, but in any case, why would Jesse use this particular phone in the dead of night or any other time? Why would Marta for that matter?
I couldn’t discount the likelihood that it was none of these women. The caller’s cryptic admission to Jesse that she’d known Rita Morgan a long time ago opened up a score of other possibilities. What about Fran Orcutt? She certainly fit into the category of mysterious a
nd she had been closely acquainted with Audrey’s mother.
My feet burned, my legs ached, and I was beginning to regret my decision as I stared up at the seemingly insurmountable column still waiting. Willow must be in some kind of great shape, I mused ruefully, glad that I wasn’t trying to tackle this back home in Castle Valley’s 110 degree heat. At least the light breeze and the higher altitude afforded somewhat cooler temperatures, and all things considered, it still beat being stuck behind a desk.
My breath was coming in wheezy gasps when I collapsed onto a wide landing at what I hoped, was the half- way point. A few months ago my asthma would have made a climb like this impossible and I was still rather awed by my newfound stamina.
I slipped off my shoes and massaged my aching toes while surveying the view. From this lofty perch, I could take in the whole canyon, from the barely visible ribbon of road that was Boneyard Pass to the east, past the stubby pockmarked mounds hunching over Morgan’s Folly, to the pointed gables of Audrey’s house perched regally on Devil’s Hill to the west.
I’m sure to the casual eye, it would appear idyllic, but every instinct I possessed warned me that underneath the sleepy facade of this dying town lay a morbid secret someone did not want unearthed. And considering everything I knew now, combined with the disturbing events of the last few days, Whitey’s hypothesis that the past and present could not be separated, seemed not only plausible, but a certainty. And I was determined to ferret out the connection.
Acting on Whitey’s suggestion to contact Ida Fairfield, I flipped open my notebook and jotted a reminder to call her. I also wanted to question D.J.’s lady friend, Bitsy Bigelow, as well as make another attempt to get Dr. Orcutt to divulge more of what he’d stubbornly sworn not to. That would probably take some doing. And while I was at it, perhaps a discussion with the doctor’s elusive wife might prove fruitful.
But right now, I needed to get on with the business at hand. Wincing slightly, I squeezed my shoes over the blisters forming on my heels and rose to my feet, dusting off the back of my skirt.
