The Devil's Cradle

by Sylvia Nobel

  “What about jewelry?” Audrey prattled on, rummaging through a small quilted case. “I have a little gold locket, these beads, or I could wear the pearls my mother left me.”

  “Nix on the pearls,” I advised her. “Too old. Look, Audrey, it’s almost nine o’clock. I’ve got to make that call and then I’m going to look through that trunk upstairs. You want to come with me?”

  Her movements stilled and I met her apprehensive gaze in the mirror. “I don’t feel like going up there right now. But, if you find any photos, you can bring them down here.”

  Considering her stark terror last night, I wasn’t all that surprised that she declined. “Will do.”

  Downstairs in the cozy parlor, I phoned Ida Fairfield. The voice at the other end of the line was thin and quavery, indicating she must be quite old. After initial confusion on her part, I patiently explained the purpose of our visit and asked if we could see her Friday morning.

  “Can’t do it, honey,” she informed me, “got to drag these old bones over to Sierra Vista to see my doctor, but I should be home before noon. Why don’t the two of you come for lunch?”

  That would only give us a couple of hours until Audrey’s forthcoming rendezvous with Duncan. “That sounds great.” I wondered why she didn’t avail herself of Dr. Orcutt’s services as I jotted down directions to her house and hung up. That resolved I climbed to the third floor and re-entered the little circular room, slightly out of breath after scaling the steep stairs. For a moment, I stood still, listening to the sound of my own rapid heartbeat, and wondering again what had caused Audrey to flee in terror. But nothing untoward struck me, nothing disturbed the utter silence.

  As anxious as I was to explore the old trunk, I dallied for a while to examine a few of the books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  Their covers tattered, the bindings cracked, some appeared to be quite old. Sure enough, when I selected one threadbare volume and opened it, a musty smell wafted out. The copyright date confirmed that it had been published over a hundred years ago, so I shelved it with care, cognizant that many of the books might possess great value.

  It was interesting to note that, interspersed among the scores of mining journals, historical works, and technical manuals, someone in Audrey’s family had been a fan of the Zane Grey Western series. It wasn’t difficult to imagine generations of Morgan children thumbing through the frayed pages.

  Someone, D.J. no doubt, had closed the window since our visit, so after jostling it open a second time to allow fresh air to permeate the stuffiness, I dropped to my knees in front of the old trunk. It didn’t open easily, but when I gave the latch a final tug, the lid creaked upward. The sharp scent of mothballs stung my eyes and nose as I began to sift through the assortment of private family keepsakes. There were a few masculine items, including a chipped shaving cup with stiffened brush, and a heavy gold pocket watch. But everything else was distinctly feminine, from the dainty satin and lace undergarments to the pewter brush and mirror set. Delicate wooden embroidery hoops, still fastened firmly around yellowed doilies, a few of them with threaded needles still pinned to the unfinished floral designs, gave me the wistful impression that they’d been set aside temporarily with plans to finish them the next day. I picked up one hoop and admired the exquisite pattern of tiny pink and blue flowers. It was fun to imagine that it had belonged to Hannah Morgan, but perhaps that was too fanciful. It could have just as easily belonged to Grady’s first wife or even Audrey’s mother. But how would we ever know with all of her relatives, with the exception of Haston, now deceased?

  After unloading almost everything in the trunk, I finally found what I was looking for. Photo albums. The spine of the first one, its maroon and gold cover appearing positively ancient, almost crumbled away in my hands when I picked it up.

  Settling onto the floor cross-legged, I began to turn the pages with care. Faded pictures, filled with the faces of strangers dressed in the fashions of a bygone era, stared solemnly back at me. At the bottom of each one, the dates had been diligently recorded in a stilted hand. 1892. 1895. 1901. 1909. But it was disappointing to find that no one had bothered to record any names. Lucky for me, because of the photos Marta had shown us when we first arrived, I recognized a younger Jeb and most likely a very old Hannah Morgan. In fact, I was sure of it. Age had erased her striking beauty, but the embers of her legendary spirit still burned in her eyes.

  By the clothing and the make and model of the cars, I figured the first album took me up to about the early 1950’s. I set it aside and pulled out a thick brown album in much better condition.

  This one contained newer photos, some in color and some in black and white. One blurry picture showed a robust Grady Morgan standing near the mine entrance flanked by a prim-faced young woman with short-cropped hair holding a small child whose face was in shadow. I wondered who they were. It dawned on me then that I’d never seen a picture of Rita Morgan, so I couldn’t identify her. But of course Audrey would know.

  I turned the page. Then another. Now this was odd. Places where photographs had once been were strangely blank. Well, well. Perhaps Marta’s tale, recounting Grady’s maniacal desire to erase all traces of Audrey’s mother from his life was really true.

  At first, as I continued to leaf through the pages, I felt only a tinge of sadness. But, little by little, a distinct sense of unease emerged.

  Something wasn’t right. Somehow, this cruel act of expulsion didn’t seem to portray the reckless actions of a person ripping out photos in a frenzied, drunken rage. Instead, it appeared that someone had taken great pains to methodically remove them.

  Chapter 17

  Fierce sunlight and the shrill reveille of birdcalls woke me at half past seven the following morning. I’d slept far longer than I intended, and even though it would have been nice to stay and savor the soft comfort I jumped out of bed.

  Among the many things I needed to accomplish today was to have a heart-to-heart with Audrey concerning the missing photos. My opportunity last night had never materialized because when I’d returned to her room, she was stretched out across her bed fully clothed and sound asleep.

  After dressing in jeans and a comfortable cotton blouse, I took a few minutes to page through the book on southern Arizona Tally had given me and try to absorb as many facts about the Bisbee area as I could. Then I gathered together Willow’s brochures, the epilepsy book, and picture albums before checking to see if Audrey was up. She wasn’t. Sometime during the night she must have wakened, because she was buried under the covers with Princess nestled close beside her.

  I shook her gently. “Hey, sleepy head, it’s almost eight o’clock. What time are Haston and Jesse coming?”

  She moaned and squinted at me in confusion before answering. “I don’t know, nine or ten, I think.”

  “Okay. Well, listen, while you’re getting ready, I’m going to eat because I need to buttonhole D.J. and make a couple of phone calls before we leave.”

  Tousled and yawning, she sat up absentmindedly stroking the cat before her eyes cleared. “Oh? Now I remember. I went to sleep before you came down last night. Did you find any pictures?”

  I patted the albums. “Yep. But, before you look through them, could you show me a photo of your mother?”

  She threw me a look of bemusement, clambered out of bed and pulled a wallet from her purse. “I have a lot better ones at home. This was taken two years ago right after she got sick.”

  I made note of the sad eyes and vague smile on the careworn face of Rita Barnes Morgan, confident now that she was not the woman I’d seen pictured with Grady. Was she wife number one, perhaps?

  One thing struck me though. Dr. Orcutt had referred to Audrey’s mother as beautiful and while there lingered in her fine-boned features the faded remains, time, stress and disease had certainly taken a terrible toll. To me, it seemed as if Audrey’s dark beauty came from her father’s side, because she bore little resemblance to this wispy-haired woman.

&nbs
p; “Let me see the albums now,” she demanded, plopping back onto the bed.

  As she thumbed through the pages, her expression of animated curiosity dwindled to dismay when I pointed out the blank spots. “So, Marta was right,” she said. “He took out all the pictures of my mother.”

  “Maybe so, but that isn’t what’s bothering me.”

  Her sharp glance held resentment. “Well, it bothers me.”

  “No, no. That’s not what I meant. Look how painstakingly they were removed. Does that look like the work of someone enraged or half in the bag to you?”

  Her somber voice matched her expression. “No. It looks like he meant to do it. He must have really hated her...and me too.”

  I had no idea, but said quickly, “What reason would he have to hate an innocent three year old?”

  “But, he must have. There are no pictures of me either.”

  Good point. “Well, that’s probably because you were in the photos with her.”

  She looked only slightly mollified, so I reminded her of Marta’s claim that there were more boxes of pictures in her father’s room.

  Hopeful determination filled her eyes as she jumped to her feet. “I’m going to go look right now.”

  “Fine. And when Haston gets here, you might want to show him the albums and see if he can identify some of these people.” I set the book and brochures on her night- stand and when I informed her of our appointment with Ida Fairfield, her interest level seemed to edge up a few more notches.

  Downstairs, I phoned my brother and was disappointed to learn that he was out of town again. I left a message with Margie for him to call me when he got in, then followed the aroma of fresh-baked muffins to the kitchen.

  Breakfast was a mouth-watering delight and I’d no sooner finished my second helping of salsa-smothered Southwestern quiche accompanied by warm, homemade tortillas than I saw the Suburban flash past the window followed by a battered red Pinto.

  Well now, who was this?

  I grabbed up my notebook, hollered a thank you to Marta who was outside in the back yard hanging clothes on the line, and headed down the flower-lined path, stopping for a minute to pet Princess who was spying on a fat gray dove.

  “Still trying to round up breakfast, huh, girl?” At my touch, she stretched and purred with delight. I echoed her sentiments. It was a glorious morning. Above the almond-colored hills, the dazzling sun dominated a sapphire sky and, thankfully, there was just enough of a breeze to mitigate the rising heat.

  Last night’s sound sleep had done wonders for my spirits, but I decided it was more than that. Not only was I looking forward to the adventure of being on the road again, the prospect of talking to Tally once more before his departure, made my heart feel considerably lighter.

  The well-worn path veered sharply left and intersected with the gravel driveway. I followed it down the incline toward the cottage, arriving just in time to see a slender woman clad in a black skirt and white blouse, helping D.J. load an assortment of placards proclaiming WE LOVE ANIMALS! KEEP THE MINE CLOSED and DEFY THE DEFIANCE! into the rear of the red car. Obviously unaware of my approach, he leaned in and planted a tender kiss on the nape of her neck before disappearing into a small shed nearby.

  At the sound of footsteps crunching on the stones, the woman turned towards me. My immediate impression of her age was early thirties and most likely, the color of her ultra-brassy, auburn hair, pulled loosely into a ponytail, had come from a bottle. “Hi, you must be Bitsy Bigelow.” “Who are you?” she asked in a none-too-friendly manner.

  While giving her a brief rundown, I studied her with interest, deciding that her over-sized, wrap-around sunglasses not only shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare, they also covered a good portion of her face. But even at that, she hadn’t quite managed to conceal the jagged scar etching one cheek. The sight of puckered flesh along her upper lip sent a rush of sympathy through me and gave credence to Harmon Stubb’s contention that she’d suffered burn wounds at the hands of her sadistic ex-husband. Vaguely, I wondered what her now thinly sculpted nose had looked like before plastic surgery.

  “If you have a few minutes,” I said, moving closer, “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  A long hesitation. “About what?”

  “For openers, Audrey Morgan’s sister.”

  Her chin sagged. “Dayln? My God, I haven’t thought about her in years. What’s she got to do with anything?”

  “Well, nothing really, except with both of Audrey’s folks gone, we’re having a little trouble piecing together some recent family history.”

  “To do what with?” she said, her voice rising shrilly. “Print in the paper?”

  I thought her tone surprisingly caustic for such an innocuous question. “Perhaps, but since you were her friend...”

  “You’re wrong! We weren’t friends. Not at the end anyway. Not after she...”

  “Leave her alone!”

  I turned sharply and assessed D.J.’s irate expression as he brushed past me and deposited two cans of paint into the trunk of her car.

  Had the mild-mannered, supposedly unflappable D.J. finally lost his air of cool detachment? When he slipped a protective arm around her waist, I tried to dismiss the memory of him fondling the dress form, reminding myself again that his sexual proclivities had no bearing on Audrey’s story. “This has nothing to do with you, D.J.,” I put in mildly.

  “The hell it doesn’t.” His lips were drawn tightly against his teeth. “Stop bugging her and lay off.”

  The hostility in his voice puzzled me. “Chill out, will you? I didn’t plan to....”

  “And anyway,” Bitsy interrupted, her confidence level apparently buoyed by his presence, “I don’t see how bringing all that stuff up after such a long time is going to help anybody.”

  “Well, we were hoping you could tell us...”

  The remainder of my question was terminated by Bitsy’s terrified scream when Princess suddenly bounded from the field of knee-high, Black-eyed Susans and landed on her foot.

  “Get it away from me,” she screeched, clutching D.J., who unceremoniously dropkicked the cat about five feet. Fur puffed, back arched high, Princess hissed and vanished into the heavy underbrush.

  Disturbed by D.J.’s surprisingly aggressive behavior, I felt a full measure of guilt knowing the cat must have followed me and when I turned back to them, I couldn’t resist saying, “Well, it’s certainly heartwarming to see how much you both love animals.”

  Shame-faced, Bitsy disengaged herself from D.J.’s grasp. “I can’t help it. Cats scare me. Their eyes look evil.” “Don’t sweat it. She ain’t hurt,” D.J. grumbled, as if that excused his actions. “That stupid cat’s always sneaking around getting into things.”

  With great effort, I kept my face impassive and swallowed back a biting retort. “Bitsy, if I could just ask you a few more questions...”

  “No! I don’t have time. I have to go back to work.” She landed a quick peck on D.J.’s cheek and when she turned to jerk the car door open, shock zapped me like an electrical charge. A jeweled barrette in her hair, almost identical to the one I’d found in the yard, glinted in the morning sunlight

  Stunned by the implication and intrigued by her evasive, panicky behavior, new doubts plagued me. “How about later,” I called after her, finally propelling myself into action. “I could come by tomorrow...”

  “Give it a rest, will you?” D.J. cut in, eyeing me with displeasure. “Can’t you see she don’t want to talk no more?” He reached in and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll call you later, babe.”

  I got one last apprehensive frown from Bitsy before she gunned the car up the hill. Wow. The mere mention of Audrey’s sister seemed to really set people on edge.

  More eager than ever to meet with Ida Fairfield, I felt a hard knot of tension settle in my stomach as Rita Morgan’s cryptic words about the secrets of the dead being buried with them, reverberated in my head once again.

  Wh
en I swung my attention back to D.J., his placid expression had returned. “Don’t feel too bad,” he said, pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket and scraping the match to flame with his thumbnail. “She doesn’t like to talk much about the past. Even with me.”

  “I heard about her nasty ex-husband and I didn’t plan to get into that.”

  “Tell you one thing,” he said, clicking his tongue for emphasis, “all I’d need is a couple minutes alone with that bastard and he’d never lay a hand on another woman.”

  His half-joking words were spoken lightly, but I sensed menace behind them. And it was enlightening to note that from what I’d observed to this point, none of the emotional situations he’d been involved in had cracked his calm veneer. Until now.

  “When you talk to Bitsy later, tell her I’ll keep the subject matter confined to Dayln Morgan. That’s it.”

  “It’s ancient history, but sure.”

  “So, you know the story?”

  “Bits and pieces.”

  “Such as?”

  “I heard she tried to do in the old man with a butcher knife and then bit the big one in a fire at that nut house he shipped her off to.”

  I cocked my head with interest. So, that explained where she died, but it didn’t explain Whitey Flanigan’s assertion that there’d been mysterious circumstances surrounding the blaze. “That’s all?”

  Yawning, he massaged the back of his neck. “I don’t really give a crap. Whatever happened back then doesn’t concern me.”

  “But it may concern Miss Morgan.”

  “Whatever. Hey, listen, Marta gave me the word you needed a car, so I’ve got one sitting outside the garage all gassed up and ready to go.”