by Sylvia Nobel
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, now, you want to get with the program ‘cause I’m gonna crash in about ten minutes.”
I had a feeling he knew more than he was telling but recent history took a front seat to the past, so I rattled off my questions.
His version of that night last May differed very little from what Marta had told me. Yes, he’d overheard Grady arguing with Jesse and Willow and he also confirmed the fact that Grady had been drinking heavily that day. After helping the old man to bed, he’d gone to pick up Marta, dropped her off, then stopped by his place to change clothes before going to meet friends at the Muleskinner. When he’d arrived home close to midnight, Grady was dead.
“I wasn’t all that surprised,” he concluded, “the guy drank like a friggin’ fish.”
“And he’d suffered falls before, correct?”
“Oh, sure. It’s pretty hard to walk straight after you’ve guzzled a quart of Jim Beam.”
Which you provided him, I thought, glancing at my notes. “Tell me something. If he was so hammered you had to tuck him in bed, how do you suppose he ended up on the second floor balcony in a pitch black house?”
He hitched his shoulders. “Who the hell knows? He must’ve slept a few hours and got up later to scout out more booze.”
Smooth answer. Logical and smooth. “Seems like Grady Morgan was uniformly disliked by most people. What about you? Did you like him?”
He flicked an ash from the cigarette. “He wasn’t all that bad when he was sober. Kind of pathetic, really. Lonely, I think. Man, he’d talk your head off if you looked half-way interested.”
“Really? About anything in particular?”
“Oh, I dunno. This and that. He was always ranting and raving about one thing or another.”
I thought his answer conveniently vague. “But, he didn’t know you were a paid informant for Jesse, did he?”
I was hoping to get a rise out of him but he remained stoic. “Look, I did my job just like I was paid to. So I picked up a couple of extra bucks now and then for passing on a few tidbits of information, so what?”
“What did Jesse want to know?”
“Who he talked to. What he was saying about her and Haston, but mostly she wanted to know what he said about what’s-his-name, Claypool. No real harm done.”
I thought about our close call on Boneyard Pass. “You’re sure of that?”
One corner of his mouth tilted sardonically. “You’re wasting your time trying to pin this thing on Jesse, and if you got some dumb idea that I’m covering her ass, you’re blowing smoke.”
“Am I?”
His movements stilled. “I don’t know squat about what happened that night, and to tell you the truth, I don’t really give a rat’s ass as long as somebody signs my paycheck.”
I found his cavalier attitude disturbing. “Yeah? Well, you may have to choose sides. Miss Morgan is less than happy about your alliance with the people claiming that she’s an imposter.” Audrey had made no such statement, of course, but I decided to take a little journalistic license to see if it would provoke him. It didn’t.
He inhaled deeply and the rising wind sailed the smoke over his head. “Well, I can’t do anything about that now. I guess Miss Morgan will do whatever she has to. And so will I.”
The words sounded benign, but was there some underlying significance? “Meaning what?”
“Meaning if she doesn’t want me here I’ll get work someplace else,” he replied mildly, yawning again. “You done yet?”
“Almost. What do you make of Marta’s story?”
“You mean the one about somebody sneaking into the house, knocking the old fart off the balcony and then flying away on a broomstick into the night?”
“You don’t believe her.”
“I believe she thinks she saw something. Come on. Marta’s a cool old gal, but let’s face it, she’s blind as a newborn pup.”
“What about Mr. Morgan? She’s sure she heard him talking to someone.”
He studied me in silence for a few seconds. “For a reporter, you don’t listen so good. He was a drunk. Most likely, he was having an argument with one of those ghosts only he could see and ended up scaring himself shitless.”
I was unable to curb my sarcasm. “What about the crank calls he reported to the sheriff. Do you think ghosts were placing them?”
D.J. polished off the cigarette and ground the butt under his boot. “Look, lady, we’re talking about a guy who’d be so totally blitzed, he’d wet himself. If you ask me, the old coot imagined the calls too. The booze pickled his brain cells, get it?”
“What about...”
He eyed his watch and held up a hand. “You want to talk more, catch me later. Right now, I gotta get some shut eye.” With that, he turned and swaggered towards the cottage. Before he disappeared inside, I couldn’t help but wonder again why he chose to wear such unattractive, baggy clothes.
Piqued by his curt dismissal, I flipped my notebook shut and started back up the driveway while unanswered questions swirled inside my head like a horde of pesky gnats. Not only did I believe D.J. knew a lot more than he was telling, as far as I was concerned, Bitsy Bigelow’s erratic behavior and possession of the jeweled hair barrette had thrust her on stage as a major player in this puzzle. But just how did she fit into all this? Was her reappearance only weeks before Grady Morgan’s demise coincidental, or was there more to it? And why the panic when I’d mentioned Audrey’s sister? I was becoming more convinced by the second that there was some connection, but what it could be eluded me completely.
‘Gotta have proof,’ Orville Kemp had said. “And you gotta have a motive,” I muttered to myself, pondering her link to Willow Windsong. Based on the older woman’s vociferous stance concerning the Defiance, it seemed entirely plausible that the two of them had conspired to do away with the old man.
The guttural roar of a car engine from the direction of the main house derailed my train of thought. I glanced at my watch. The ever-charming duo of Haston and Jesse had no doubt arrived. In no particular hurry to share their company, I paused to savor the rush of wind through the sycamore trees. Once again I was captivated by the stark beauty of Audrey’s little kingdom sequestered within the oddly domed hills that tumbled away into the valley like golden gumdrops.
A soft thunk nearby drew my attention to a small shed adjacent to D.J.’s cottage. Princess, apparently recovered from her run-in with him, had dumped over a can and was busily clawing and chewing her way into a plastic garbage bag. Increasing wind gusts rolled aluminum cans across the narrow clearing and captured bits of paper, pinning them against the tall gamma grass. Ordinarily I would have kept going, but a sudden pang of apprehension jabbed me. The cat was in full view of the open cottage windows and judging from D.J.’s recent display of cruelty, who could tell what kind of punishment he would mete out if he caught the unsuspecting animal?
“Princess,” I whispered, gesturing fiercely, “get away from there.” Either she didn’t hear me, or chose to ignore my pleas as she snagged something from inside the bag.
A strong rush of wind tumbled several sheets of paper along the driveway and I tried to grab them, but they spiraled away into the air like white kites. At this rate, D.J.’s personal correspondence was going to blow all over creation.
What to do? I wrestled with the dilemma for another moment and after convincing myself that my motivation stemmed solely from a strong desire to rescue the cat from possible harm, I darted towards the shed.
Quickly righting the can, I stuffed one of the bags back inside it. Princess, now only a few feet from me, continued to tear at the bony remains of what looked like chicken parts, seemingly oblivious to any hint of danger.
“Come on, girl, get away from there,” I coaxed in a soft voice while it suddenly occurred to me that even if I did get Princess safely away, the evidence of her mischief would remain.
Well, that could be remedied. I knelt and began to gather up some of the papers and other items b
efore drawing back in surprise. What was this? There were several syringes scattered about along with a small glass ampoule. I reached for it, then hesitated. Should I invade D.J.’s privacy by sifting through his personal belongings like some rag picker? I looked towards the cottage and after seeing no sign of him, grabbed up the vial and studied the label.
Unfortunately, it was so smudged with an oily compound, much of it was unreadable. The name, D.J. Morrison and the date 6-22 were legible, along with the dosage of 1 ML. every two weeks. But when it came to the substance, all I could decipher were the letters d-e-c-a-d---- My eyes were almost crossed. Was that an R or a U? The remainder was hopelessly blurred with the exception of the store’s origin. Farmacia Naco. I looked up thoughtfully. So this much of Marta’s story was true. He really was going to Mexico for drugs. But, if his allergies were actually so severe that he required injections instead of pills, how come I’d seen no obvious symptoms? Suddenly a whole host of questions clamored for answers. What did anyone really know about this man? Where had he lived and what had he done before coming to Morgan’s Folly?
After shoving the little vial into one pocket, I began to gather up more papers when the return name on one envelope caught my eye. B-r something, something - c-h-e Society, P.O. Box 262, Trinidad, Colorado. The postmark read July 5th. Trinidad. Now why did the name of the town ring a bell? I must have read or heard something about it recently. But other than the common knowledge that it had once been a prosperous mining town much like Morgan’s Folly, I could not think of what it was.
It would be interesting to find out what a background check on this guy would unearth. I stuffed the envelope into my back pocket and rose to my feet thinking that collecting clues was a little like eating hors d’oeuvres. They usually came in small pieces, were tantalizing, and one hoped they would eventually lead to the main course.
The sound of an approaching vehicle snagged my attention and I drew back at the sight of Archie Lawton’s white pickup roaring down the steep driveway. Oh no! He was going to catch me red-handed rooting around in D.J.’s garbage. Not a pretty thought. I ducked into the shadows beside the shed only seconds before he flashed by. A cautious peek around the corner gave me another start. D.J. was standing at his front door. So much for him being asleep. The liar. I wondered what else had he lied about?
Archie slid from the driver’s seat with a wily grin pasted on his face. “Hey, man, how’re they hangin’?”
D.J. stepped off the porch. “You stupid son-of-a-bitch!”
Archie and I both flinched in surprise and he took a little hop backwards as D.J. advanced on him, face contorted in rage. “You were supposed to be here last night. Where is it?”
“I...I tried, but I couldn’t get hold of him...”
D.J. looked unconvinced. “Shut up. I’ve waited long enough for you to get your shit together. Now, listen to me real careful,” he said, altering his tone ominously. “If you try and stiff me on this deal, your ass is grass.”
It was enlightening and a bit unnerving to witness yet another quicksilver evolution of D.J.’s easy-going personality.
“Awe, come on, you know me better than that,” Archie simpered, sounding like a whipped dog.
“Do I? Then what the hell’s taking so long?”
“This ain’t so easy to unload as the other stuff. If you want top dollar, you gotta give me time to make the right connections. Can’t you wait until this weekend?”
“I want the goddamned cash today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today.”
Archie swerved away as D.J.’s fist crashed into the truck only inches from his head. “Hey, man, t...take it easy. You’re gonna get it. I...I promise.”
His placating words seemed to pacify D.J. somewhat and when he spoke again, his tone was more moderated. “Look, things aren’t going too swift here. Time’s running out and I can’t risk doing anything like that again. You better come through like you promised.”
Archie rubbed his chin, still eyeing him nervously. “Okay. Okay. I’ll see if I can arrange to get with this dude today. If we can cut a deal, I ought to have the dough by tonight.”
Expectation kicked my pulse into high gear while questions rampaged through my brain like a herd of stampeding cattle. Arrange to get with whom about what deal? D.J.’s curious comments about time and risk coupled with the knowledge that he was headed for Mexico tomorrow coincided with my ripening suspicion that he and Archie were running drugs.
“I’m counting on you, buddy,” D.J. said, lighting up another cigarette and flicking the match away.
Apparently satisfied that D.J. had cooled off, the guileless expression on Archie’s angular face turned shrewd. “Ah...I guess you realize this is gonna take a bit of doing on my part and well I was thinking maybe...maybe we ought to talk about upping my percentage.”
“What for?”
“I always get the job done, don’t I?”
D.J.’s sharp laugh held scorn. “What about Tuesday? You blew that big time.”
Archie’s face fell. “That was different. If you’d just give me...”
“Yeah, yeah, save the sniveling. Tell you what. If things don’t go my way in the next few days, you’ll get a chance to redeem yourself. And if you don’t screw this up I might be in the mood to talk about it. Wait here a minute.” When he re-entered the cottage, Archie’s self-satisfied grin stretched all the way to his wide pork-chop sideburns and lasted until his cohort’s return seconds later.
“Get what you can for this,” D.J. said, shoving a box at Archie who issued him a sharp salute before he jumped back into the truck and accelerated up the hill.
For another minute, D.J. stood staring intently after the truck and I wished I could read his mind. My left foot was now sound asleep and when he finally went inside again, I scrambled up and stamped the ground until it tingled back to life.
Now, all I had to do was get out of here without being seen, without him realizing that I’d eavesdropped on their entire exchange. I could only hope that this time D.J. had truly gone to bed because my options for exiting the area undetected appeared nonexistent with the possible exception of crawling up the mesquite and chaparral-covered hillside.
I abandoned that idea and began to make my way back through the field toward the driveway. Pent-up excitement made it difficult, but I forced myself to walk slowly and even pause to pick a few flowers in the hope that if he did happen to spot me, it would appear that I was merely out for a peaceful morning stroll.
By the time I reached the house, a whole new set of suspicions were incubating and I was burning to know what had been in the box D.J. had given Archie. One way or the other, I intended to get to the bottom of this puzzle.
Chapter 18
I’d guessed right. The Pickrell’s snazzy pickup was parked near the new wing so most likely they were closeted in the kitchen with Audrey. As tempting as it was to jog over to see how she was handling herself with the gruesome twosome today, time was short so I headed straight for the parlor phone, anxious to share my information with Tugg.
“You just missed him, sugar pie,” chirped Ginger. “He’s headed up to Yarnell Hill. A big tanker truck crashed through the guard rail and went down the embankment.”
“Sounds bad. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Nope.”
“Crap.” Frustration immobilized my thoughts momentarily and then I asked, “Well, what about Jim? Is he around?”
“Afraid not. Being so shorthanded and all, he’s been as busy as a one-armed paper hanger...hold on a minute, darlin’.” Her voice trailed off and I could hear muffled conversation in the background. “You picked a perfect time to be gone,” she informed me, seconds later. “There are electricians swarming all over the place doing that re-wiring for the new computers.”
“At least that’s good news.”
“Easy for you to say. You ain’t sitting here with no air-conditioning sweating like a pig in a wool suit.”
I laughed aloud, then sa
id with genuine sympathy, “Sorry about that. Say, I don’t suppose Tally’s back from Flagstaff yet?”
“Come and gone. Dropped off his final copy before the chickens were up.”
“Oh?” Disappointment left a dull ache in my heart. “Too bad he didn’t have time to call and say goodbye,” I said matter-of-factly.
Ginger giggled at my transparent effort to sound blasé. “He said he’d phone you later on from the ranch.”
I noted the time. “We’re going to be on the road within the hour, so I’ll have to call him.”
“You need to get one of them mobile phones.”
“Tell me about it.” I’d already promised myself that if there was any money left over after the renovations, new press and in-house computers, a cell phone and notebook computer for me were number one on my list.
“Should I leave a message for Tugg?”
“No, I really wanted to talk to him right now.”
“Sorry, sugar, I guess this just ain’t your day.”
Unwilling to admit defeat and propelled by an inexplicable feeling of urgency, I said, “Ginger, I need somebody to do some leg work for me. How would you like to be my research assistant today?”
“Me?” Her shriek of delight was deafening. “Okay, but you know I’m sort of chained to this here phone until five o’clock.”
“You can do this after work.”
“Okay. What do you need?”
I dug the tiny glass bottle from my pocket and read off the letters to her in between interruptions while she answered other calls. “I know it’s not a lot to go on, but if you call Phil over at Crandall’s Drugs he might be able to figure out what kind of medication this is, what it’s normally prescribed for, and, oh yes, tell him the prescription was filled at a Mexican pharmacy.”
“Anything else?”
I thought about the return address on the envelope I’d found. It was probably nothing, but then again...”Yeah. This one will probably take a little more time. You can start at the library and if you bomb out there have your little brother get on the Internet and see if he can find anything.”
