Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 01 - The Legitimate Way

by Rohn Federbush

  Robert stroked his mustache, pleased. “Conversation is, after all, intercourse.”

  His kindly voice and an invitation to his room encouraged her attempt at seduction. He said he decided not to take advantage of her vulnerability. She admitted her heightened sexual drive developed after she left Ricco, probably to prove she was attractive to heterosexuals. Mrs. Clankton’s 3:00 a.m. visit mortified her. The immediate need for using the facilities caused Mary Jo to at least shut the bathroom door, but she failed to turn the lock, as any decent person should in a stranger’s house.

  The roads of Florida, Alabama, and Mississippi melted away the worst of Mary Jo’s fears. She drove the breadth of Texas the second September Saturday night.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Coldwater, Arizona

  Second Sunday in September

  Sunday morning in Arizona, Mary Jo hoped the Courtyard Motel in Coldwater might be a pleasant place to hang out. She did not mention the bunnies to the hotel clerk. No one helped with her luggage. Crouched in the van, she efficiently switched the bunnies from their cage to a pet carrying case. After depositing them in the bathtub with an emptied box of salad greens, she folded up their cage, emptied the litter box in the hotel’s dumpster, and re-provisioned their cage next to her bed. Mary Jo hoped the maid would think she received clearance for her pets.

  The smallest, and happiest, bunny scurried past Mary Jo’s feet as she tried to fetch the rabbits from the bathroom. An entire hour of flipping towels in the little devil’s general direction finally wore the rabbit out. Or, the rabbit pitied her owner enough to stay perfectly still under the towel until Mary Jo could climb over the bed to reach her. The brown, calmer rabbit was transported from the bathroom to the metal cage, once Mary Jo refilled the carrying case with timothy hay and kale.

  Two swimming pools promised she could escape any crowd or family group. The marks on her neck were pretty well hidden under pancake makeup. She needed to exercise her travel-weary muscles without encouraging any acquaintances.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Coldwater to Jerome, Arizona

  Third Monday in September

  One day of peace was gained before Mary Jo noticed the same smiling faces were showing up too often near her table in the restaurant, hanging around the pool, or stationed in the lobby. If they were not interested in her personally, which she did not need at the moment, they could have been private detectives, waiting for Ricco to arrive.

  One of the older men summoned up his courage with what looked like a glass of white wine but smelled like gin. He approached her with a straightforward line. “Are you someone I can ask out?”

  Mary Jo lowered her eyes. “Waiting for my husband to join me.”

  So Monday night she packed up the bunnies and the few items purchased at Orlando’s Wal-Mart. She headed for Jerome, Arizona, a touristy, abandoned mining town in the mountains to the north of Coldwater. One night’s stay in the upstairs guest bedroom of a mystic, crystal healer of questionable, friendly motives provoked her continued flight.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Reservation, Arizona,

  Third Tuesday in September

  A rental log cabin on the reservation north of Lake Chekobee seemed remote enough for Mary Jo on Tuesday night. George Dade, the landlord, asked if she needed food stamps before she handed him the first month’s rent in cash. “No.” Mary Jo could feel her blush of embarrassment. “I have a bit of money. I need to be alone.”

  “A writer, then?” George sized her up.

  “Just a dreamer.”

  “Good place for dreams. I could build you a sweat lodge.”

  “In time.” Mary Jo bowed her head, not wanting him to see her eyes. She knew he thought she was on some sort of mystical or spiritual quest. Well maybe she was. Mary Jo lifted her head and looked straight into his deep black eyes. “I need to rest.”

  “Supplies are a mile away.” George pointed to the north. “Give them my name as a reference.” Mary Jo extended her hand for him to shake. Instead, George gave her a bear hug, lifting her from the floor. “You are welcome here. My wife will be over shortly with a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine.”

  “Thank you.” Mary Jo felt somehow steadied by the friendly attack and the knowledge the giant’s wife knew where he was. As she turned away from her new cabin’s door, her eyes tried to focus through her tear-filled eyes on the unlit logs in the fireplace. After transporting the rabbits’ cage inside and tending to their needs, she set about lighting the fire. It was not at all cold. She knew she would nap and let the fire go out, but she needed to make the place hers for however short a time she was allowed to stay put.

  Chapter Seven

  Arizona

  Third Wednesday in September

  The only restaurant on the Lake Chekobee reservation sat a half mile from the interstate, as if to testify to its historic precedence. The blue-painted flat-roof building in front of the eating establishment reached a block in each direction from the entrance. Native-made tourist articles ranging from oil portraits to life-size stone and woodcarvings of the region’s animals as well as every conceivable object remotely tainted with Native American history stocked the shelves. Three cash registers kept busy with lines of people from the tourist buses. Signs pointing to the back of the building hung low enough for John and Sam to duck. Sally led the way to the A-framed building attached behind the store. The restaurant boasted a three-star classification.

  Thanks to Sam’s detective license, after a considerable amount of money and time spent at competing detective agencies in Phoenix, and a future phone bill Sally tried not to think about, a George Dade had agreed to meet them for lunch to tell them what he knew about Mary Jo.

  “Sammy.” John directed the officer-detective, posing as their son, to a chair facing the window. Sally thought John might understand from his hotel restaurant experience old women try to sit with their backs to the source of any harsh light. So, she agreed to sit with her back to the view and placed the red-and-white checkered napkin in her lap. The menu listed no prices. The message conveyed, “If you can’t afford it, leave.”

  John unfolded a piece of paper before handing it to Sally. “While you and Sam were busy on the computers, I interviewed each detective in the agencies. These are the books they recommended to study for the investigator’s license.”

  Sally scanned a list of twenty books ranging from treatises on bones, forensic methods, wire-tap procedures, as well as lists of library resources and web search engines. “No more television for the two of us.”

  “Sylvester failed the test twice already.” Sam surveyed the team of uninterested waitresses. “I could eat,” he raised his voice, “a big horse.”

  Sally checked her watch. Since they were seated, no waitress arrived for half an hour. Sally explained they were in an, “Alternate time culture.”

  “The people behind Sam already ate and received their checks.” John clinked his glass with his fork.

  A group of French tourists at a table farthest from the entrance was intent on causing a scene. “No wine?” one of the louder members shouted.

  “No one can enjoy a civilized meal,” his skinny female companion said, “without a glass of wine.”

  “Savages can’t drink.” A spirited waitress with hips enough to challenge the idiots stomped to their table. “You are on a dry reservation.”

  “All the more reason to drink,” the third Frenchman said. The waitress pointed to the door of the restaurant and the three unfed tourists left.

  “Perhaps our tribal leader gave instructions to wait for him to arrive,” Sam said, as John waved uselessly in the direction of the serving staff.

  “I’d fire the bunch.” John hissed. “For ignoring customers!”

  Sally said to Sam, “John owns a hotel in St. Charles, where I went to high school.”

  Sam nodded. “With the loss of liberty, posing as a child eating with his parents, I refuse to comment.”

 
When a man the size of Montana finally arrived, the wait staff snapped to attention. He wore black jeans and a black leather Harveyet. Sally expected to see a bike helmet in his hand, but he carried a lone eagle feather. His shoulder-length black hair shone blue from the restaurant’s wall of windows. Sam and John rose to greet him.

  “Are you Mary Jo’s mother?” the man asked Sally, handing her the eagle feather.

  “No.” Sally quickly added to keep the giant’s attention, “But I want to protect her.”

  “Good,” George Dade said. Four waitresses arrived to fill the four glasses with water. George waved them away. “Do you need to eat?”

  “No.” Sally stood to join the three men.

  George led them through the front part of the building to the parking lot outside. He climbed on his bike, saying only, “Follow me.”

  They scrambled into the rental car, peeled onto the interstate, and raced after the trail of dust and smoke. When they arrived at the mountain’s tree line near Flagstaff, George turned off the road and crossed a narrow bridge. A gravel drive led to an adobe building overlooking the gorgeous mountain stream. Sally struggled to get out of the back seat as fast as she could. “The view is breath-taking.”

  “My home.” George opened the front door, but a small woman with arms crossed stepped out onto the stone threshold.

  “Who are these?” the old woman asked.

  “Friends looking for Mary Jo, Gran.” George bowed, helmet in hand.

  “Off with you.” His grandmother waved at them energetically as if to disperse their evil spirits.

  “Is Mary Jo safe?” Sally’s determination was unbroken by the older woman’s aggression.

  “Never heard of her,” Gran said.

  “Now, Gran.” George pointed to Sally’s face, where angry tears were beginning to slide.

  John put his arm around Sally. “Madam, just tell us if Mary Jo is with you and we’ll leave.”

  “Mother Dade.” Another woman with grey hair down to her shoulders pulled the older woman inside. “You know George wouldn’t bring trouble to his own door.”

  George, looking somewhat relieved, ushered Robert’s friends into his home. “That was my wife, Constance.”

  Mother Dade was sequestered into a back bedroom, where they heard the television being turned up unusually loud. Constance returned with a tray of lemonade. “Please excuse an old lady who is not accustomed to receiving strangers.”

  “Sorry.” Sally declined her glass. “I’m allergic to lemon.”

  “George,” Constance said, “bring in a glass of ice water.” He also brought in a tray filled with plates, paper napkins, and a chocolate layer cake.

  “We have known Mary Jo for less than a week,” Constance said. “Why are you seeking her?”

  John and Sam filled their mouths with cake, so Sally explained as quickly as she could. “Our friend in Ann Arbor, Robert Koelz, who is also a friend of Mary Jo’s, is being questioned about her disappearance by the police. Her abusive husband claims Robert is involved.”

  Constance sat quietly on the long, red couch, judging Sally’s words. Her dark eyes appeared to look into the depths of her own soul, searching for a clue for the correct action. Sally was humbled by the woman’s spiritual strength. Constance finally looked up at George, who stood near the fireplace. He gave no indication of any decision on his part. “I’ll speak to her.” Constance rose. “Now if you’ll excuse us, I’m sure George knows how to reach you.”

  John and Sam voiced their opposition to this plan, but Sally hushed them. “We’ll wait at the motel.”

  Constance turned from her exit to the kitchen, formed a slow but genuine smile, and said, “Mary Jo will appreciate your patience.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Feeling somewhat defeated, John, Sam, and Sally returned to the rental car. John drove to the first motel outside the Lake Chekobee reservation. It was dark by the time they checked in.

  “Does this place have food?” Sam asked. “I’m about starved to death.”

  John guided Sally away from her motel door toward the restaurant. “Let’s discuss our failure over supper.”

  “We didn’t really fail,” Sally said. “Should we call Andrew?”

  “Eat first.” Sam held the Big Boy’s restaurant door open. “Everything will make more sense.”

  Sally took refuge in the politeness of the moment. Andrew could wait for their bad news. Robert was probably already inebriated. They could wait. Besides “no news” was not good news in this instance. Perhaps Mary Jo would be too afraid to return to Michigan from her safe refuge. Sally admitted an army of men would have trouble harming Ricco’s wife. As things stood, they would have to go through crazy Mother Dade, mammoth George, and Constance’s formidable gauntlet to get to her.

  “Nothing makes sense.” John slid into the booth indicated by a surly waitress. “That scene was crazy. We should have demanded to see Mary Jo …”

  “What, and drag her back to Ann Arbor?” Sally asked.

  Sam used his brains. “Why don’t we rent a video camera? If they let us back on the reservation and if Mary Jo can’t face Ricco’s violence. After all, there is no way we can protect her. At least, we’ll have a record of her, alive, to show the prosecutor.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Arizona,

  Third Saturday in September

  After two days of waiting for word from Constance Dade or Mary Jo, Sally packed to return to Ann Arbor. Trying to relax in the pool with John’s trim body hovering around, as he asked for news every ten minutes, was driving Sally crazy. She needed to find an AA meeting, too. The facts were evident. She wanted to control the outcome of their visit to Arizona. She was tired of repeating the Serenity Prayer and digging her nails into the plastic lounge chair. She didn’t want to drink, but her state of nerves gave her enough warning to seek out fellow recovering alcoholics. Closing the suitcase, she realized one thing was certain. For some reason Mary Jo did not trust them. Sally urged John and Sam to pack up, too. “She must have seen me in Orlando.”

  Sam shared the motel room with John. “Mary Jo couldn’t think her husband sent you?”

  “Let’s wait one more day,” John said. “You need proof she’s alive.”

  As the word “alive” resonated, George Dade knocked once on the frame of the open motel door and stepped inside. “Constance says you may return. She has more questions for you.” Without another word, he sailed off on his motorcycle with John, Sam, and Sally dropping everything and piling into the rental car to give chase.

  “Don’t lose him.” Sally handed the video camera into the back seat. “Sam, you’ll be better able to figure this thing out. It’s a miniature computer.”

  “I hope I don’t lose sight of the bike,” John said. “Do you remember which road George turned off on last time?”

  After they got lost completely, ending up in Flagstaff and backtracking for fifteen more minutes, Sally finally recognized the bridge they initially crossed to get to the Dade residence. “Here, here!” she shouted, grabbing the steering wheel.

  John fishtailed the car as he slammed on the brakes. “You’re going to get us killed.”

  Sally readjusted her seat belt, thankful the airbag did not inflate. “I was afraid you would miss the turn.”

  John backed the car up along the median of the main road before he could turn down the dirt lane.

  “You don’t suppose Gran could be occupied?” Sam asked.

  “What happened?” George stood in the yard, waiting for them.

  Sally wondered if this giant was too afraid of his own grandmother to knock on the door. She stated the obvious. “Lost.”

  “We went all the way to Flagstaff.” Sam repositioned the shoulder strap of the camera bag onto his left shoulder in order to pump George’s hand. George shook his head and indicated John should knock on the door.

  “Don’t you live here?” John asked, unable to understand the man’s shyness.

  �
��When they allow me in.”

  “Strong women-folk,” Sam said in an admiring tone.

  Mother Dade did answer John’s timid knock with a frown, but Constance was expecting them and encouraged their entry. “Come in, come in.” Escorting the old woman from the room, Constance told her, “Mother Dade, Doctor Phil already started interviewing the prostitute.”

  “Reality’s drama plays second fiddle to fakers,” George said.

  When Sally noticed they were not offered the usual welcoming amenities of cold drinks and cake, she steeled herself for the worst. Constance invited them to sit down at the bare, round dining-room table, not to eat, but to better monitor their reactions to her questions, Sally surmised.

  “Mary Jo wants to know what Ricco told you.” Constance smoothed her numerous strands of turquoise beads against her amble chest.

  Sally included John and Sam. “We’ve not met the man.”

  “No, Mrs. Bianco,” Sam said. “I did see Ricco at the Ann Arbor police station. I heard what Ricco told Robert Koelz and his lawyer.” Sam turned to Constance. “Andrew Sites is Robert’s attorney. I listened to Ricco’s false murder accusations against Robert.” Constance extended a hand in Sam’s direction to elicit more of the details. “Ricco claimed Robert was the last one to see Mary Jo alive. He contends they planned to meet at Robert’s bookshop, at Mary Jo’s insistence. However, Mary Jo never showed up at the Michigan Theatre.” Knowing Constance was unaware of Ann Arbor’s lay of the land, Sam added. “That’s across the street from Robert’s bookshop, the Bibliopole.”

  “What day?” Constance asked.

  “A Monday, three weeks ago,” Sally supplied. Was Robert questioned so long ago?

  “The Sunday before, around six in the evening.” Sam paged through his pocket notebook. “Was when Ricco said his wife didn’t show up.”

  Mary Jo Cardonè appeared at the Dade’s kitchen doorway with a rabbit under each arm, one was white the other fatter and brown. “So, Ricco waited a day before going to the police.”