Renee Simons Special Edition

by Renee Simons

  "Maybe I'll explore some more."

  Leaving behind the racket of buzzing saws, banging hammers and the rhythmic pounding of power-driven nail guns, she headed for the ruins and the entrance to the Golden Eye mine. By taking the path that led off to the left of the central staging area, she hoped to go deeper this time.

  She seemed to be moving south but couldn’t say how she knew that or if she was correct. A set of narrow gauge tracks pointed the way down a gradual incline.

  "Wonder what these were used for?" she asked aloud. Soft as her tone had been, her words echoed in the silence.

  Her flashlight showed rough-hewn walls like those in the original tunnel. The walk felt unending. Callie toyed with the idea of turning back, but there seemed to be sufficient, if musty, air to breath, fewer cobwebs and nothing threatening in her way. Curiosity led her on until she finally came to a wooden door secured with a heavy metal lock.

  A small handcar waited at tracks' end. Not that she'd ever seen one in person before, but she recognized the rusted, dust-and-cobweb covered object as being a smaller version of others she'd seen in old movies. Whether it worked was another matter.

  At the door, she yanked the padlock several times. Though old, it held firm. The hinges also looked solid. The only breach came in the form of a small chink between the vertical slats in the center of the door. Shining the light through the narrow crack revealed only darkness on the other side.

  "Well that was a big dead end."

  Hardly expecting the beam would disclose anything of interest, she pointed her flashlight at the walls and ceiling. Something just to the right of the door caught the light with a dull gleam. An old key hung on a hook protruding from the door frame. She chortled with pleasure. This is just too Agatha Christie-ish.

  Handling the flashlight, the key and the lock proved a little tricky, but eventually, she got the job done. This time, the padlock opened after two hard pulls. The hinges screeched loudly as she forced the door open just wide enough to look inside.

  The light disclosed a shorter passageway and a second door, this one without a padlock. With images of Chinese puzzle boxes inspiring her, she turned the knob. It grated, held for a moment and finally rotated. She directed the light ahead of her but instead of being able to step through the doorway, she came smack against a wooden panel.

  Had the entrance been boarded up to keep people out? Frustrated, she pushed against the panel, expecting to meet resistance. Instead, it rocked gently beneath her palm. She rapped her knuckles lightly against it. "Hollow," she muttered.

  Trailing the light around the sides revealed that the panel formed the back of a cabinet. Carefully, she maneuvered it away from the opening and stepped around it into a room she could make out in disjointed fashion as the flashlight's beam moved from spot to spot. Excitement set her heart beating erratically, threatening to burst forth as an adolescent giggle. In the center of the room, she yanked on a light cord dangling from the ceiling fixture and laughed in delight as her own basement emerged from the darkness.

  Chapter Six

  Callie turned slowly, surveying the cellar and the equipment being used to repair the sagging joists. Why was everything strewn about so haphazardly? She expected better work habits from Nick's men. She examined the scarred old utility cabinet hiding the door. Had anyone wondered about it? Or seen the door on the blueprints? Did anyone know about the passage?

  Who had built the tunnel? Had the handcar been used for convenience or to mask clandestine activities? Should she do something to conceal her discovery?

  Deciding to simply put everything back as she'd found it, she pulled the cabinet into place and shut the door. Although inspection had shown that the padlock could be used on either side she decided to leave it in its original position to avoid detection.

  She made her way back to where she’d started. A faint sound of hammering became louder the closer she got. Hugging the wall, she watched Luc put the final touches to a wooden door fitted to the head frame of the mine entrance. With her way in and out barred, she had no choice but to retrace her steps to The Mansion’s basement.

  Curious about the disorder and the silence, she stepped onto the veranda. Two men were helping a third into a mud spattered pickup. The tires ground into the dirt as the vehicle spun out and sped toward the road.

  Callie approached Nick Forrest. "What happened?"

  The contractor thumbed the air over his shoulder. "Scaffolding collapsed on one side of the building."

  "Sheriff Moreno's down by the old mine,” she said. “Should I get him?"

  "Yeah," Nick replied absently. "Okay. Maybe he oughta take a look at things."

  "How'd this happen?" Luc asked when he returned with Callie.

  "Don't know yet," Nick said in a voice so controlled it seemed strangled. "Been so busy takin' care of my men, I haven't had a chance to check it out."

  "How many were hurt?" the sheriff asked.

  "Two. One's more scared than anything, 'cept for scratches and some bruises. He managed to grab onto a neighboring frame. Other one separated a shoulder, I think."

  The two men knelt to inspect the pile of metal uprights and cross braces that resembled a bunch of pickup sticks strewn at odd angles by an impatient child.

  "Here's the problem," Luc said, pointing to two pieces of aluminum piping. "The pin's been sheared off where the sections of frame join."

  Nick inspected the scaffolding on the other side. "Same here. Looks like the only thing holding this together were the cross braces."

  "The sections probably tore loose when they shifted apart," Luc said.

  "How could something like this happen?" Callie asked.

  "Well, it wasn't an accident, that's for sure." Nick ran his hand across the shadow of a beard roughening his cheeks. "This was done with a blade of some kind — hacksaw, maybe."

  "It might have happened during the night," Luc said. "You didn't notice any problems yesterday, did you?"

  "Would've done something if I had."

  "But you don't check the scaffolding every day?"

  "Didn't see any need," Nick replied. “It went up under my supervision."

  Luc turned to Callie. "Did you hear anything during the night?"

  “Three or four nights before the scaffolding went up, I thought I heard footsteps on the veranda, but didn’t find anything when I checked.” She sighed. “And there were a couple of evenings when I wasn’t home.”

  "Might've happened while you were away," Nick said.

  "When you heard the footsteps, whoever did this could have been watching,” Luc said, “waiting for a time when you weren’t around to interfere with him. I don't like the idea of your living here by yourself."

  She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "Like it or not, I’m staying."

  "There’s no use looking for footprints, or anything else." Luc looked around. "Too much activity." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Better check this rig every morning, Forrest. I'll nose around, but I’m not optimistic."

  "Please tell your workers how sorry I am this happened," Callie said.

  Nick turned to her. "We'll bring out some more scaffolding. Set up again tomorrow." And then to Luc, "Appreciate anything you can come up with, Sheriff. I don't need any more of this kind of trouble. The schedule can't handle the strain. Neither can my insurance."

  Luc and Callie watched as he and his men gathered up their tools and piled into an assortment of small trucks and four-wheel drive vehicles. In a few minutes they had disappeared down the road, leaving behind exhaust fumes and a curtain of dust.

  "Are you sure you can't do anything to track down whoever did this?" Callie asked.

  "This place has been trampled over all morning. If there had been any footprints or tire marks, they've been destroyed."

  "How convenient."

  She couldn't see Luc's eyes because of the dark glasses he seemed to wear any time he was out of doors. His tone remained even. "Whoever did this counted
on not getting caught. I'll ask some questions, but I'm not about to throw around unfounded accusations."

  Callie stared at him. How vigorously would he investigate the people who paid his salary? Folks who would prefer to see the project fail. At this moment, she found it easy to think the worst. Why, then, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach?

  * * *

  Mail waiting for her at the Mercantile three days later had contained a note from Luc that the lease was ready for her signature if she stopped by his office. At the back of Town Hall, an engraved stone plaque over the side entrance said "JAIL". A scarred but legible wooden sign beside the front door indicated "Sheriff's Office Within". Callie knocked once and went inside. Her call went unanswered.

  Apparently, he was out making rounds or whatever sheriffs did in places like Blue Sky, where nothing much ever happened. "Except for collapsed scaffolding," she muttered.

  She looked around the office. The rough textured walls had been painted a warm beige reminiscent of the sandstone formations she’d seen on the ride back from the Moreno ranch. A huge map hung in the space between two wooden doors. She moved close enough to get past the glare of the protective glass.

  Dated 1620, the map had faded with age and turned brown as weak tea. She recognized very little of the Spanish wording, and had equal difficulty in deciphering the flowery penmanship, although she clearly made out symbols of a river, mountains, buildings she thought might represent Indian pueblos and one unmistakable reference.

  "Interesting?"

  "Very." Pointing to the name Moreno, she turned toward the sheriff's voice and found him leaning against the door frame. "Is this your family?"

  "Was. Three hundred and fifty years ago."

  Around the same time Dorotea and Fernando’s house had been built. She traced the outline that seemed to encompass many thousands of acres. "Did they own all this land?"

  "Briefly," he replied, moving to his desk with his Stetson and glasses in hand.

  "What happened?"

  He seemed embarrassed. "They lost it." He reached into the center drawer and took out a manila folder. "You have to sign these."

  "Shouldn't I have a lawyer?"

  "You did. My father. He made sure these give you what you want."

  "Is he still practicing?"

  "He gave it up long ago, but he hasn't forgotten how the system works."

  She examined the document. "Apparently not," she murmured.

  Relief flooded through her. She'd have unimpeded use of the land for two years, an option for a third and an opportunity to petition for another extension after that should the land remain available. Exactly the break I need.

  A shadow darkened Luc’s eyes.

  "Your father was generous," Callie said. "I'm sorry you're not pleased about that."

  His shoulders lifted and fell in the shrug she'd seen before and recognized as an elegant substitution for anger, frustration or resignation. "Like I said — things don't always work out the way we plan."

  "And shortly after, someone sabotaged the scaffolding. I wonder what I should expect this time."

  His eyes narrowed briefly. "Why expect anything?"

  She mimicked his shrug. "Why indeed?" She took a pen from several in a cracked coffee cup and signed all three copies. "Done."

  Luc handed one back to her. "For your records."

  "Have you had any luck investigating the collapse?"

  "Not so far."

  She folded the papers and slipped them into her knapsack as she walked to the door. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

  * * *

  A visit from Mercedes Gunn did surprise her. The woman wore black as she had at the meeting. Callie wondered if she ever wore any other color, or if she affected a kind of uniform to intimidate others. And she did present an imposing picture: tall, spare, stern-visaged with an unsmiling mouth and those eerie, grey eyes that seemed to hint at a dark and angry nature.

  "Please come in," Callie said. "I've no furniture to speak of, but you can join me at the bridge table for tea."

  “I've come to talk business and we can do that out here on the porch."

  Porch, my foot. It's a veranda, lady. Callie bristled silently in defense of her once proud house. "Very well, Mrs. Gunn."

  "You've obviously decided to go ahead with the restoration,” Mercedes Gunn said, “despite my feelings on the subject." Her resentment was obvious.

  "I couldn't have done that without the Board's permission." Callie made a point of keeping her own tone of voice gentle, without rancor. "Yours was the only vote against."

  "Be that as it may, I'm here to make an offer — one businesswoman to another — that will allow you to turn a quick profit on whatever you've invested so far. I'm not a wealthy woman, but I am prepared to offer you two hundred thousand dollars if you'll cease all work on the house, drop this insane idea and leave Blue Sky."

  "The amount you've offered would barely compensate me for my investment to date. If I were to leave. But I'm not, Mrs. Gunn. I like it here. I'm determined to complete the restoration."

  "Are you holding out for more money?" Mercedes' eyes narrowed with suspicion. Her jaw tightened as she seemed to struggle with her anger. "I could come up with another fifty thousand, but that's my top offer."

  "Keep your money. I'm not interested."

  "Who are you, Miss Patterson?"

  "I beg your pardon?" Callie wrinkled her brow at the woman's abrupt change in direction.

  Mercedes’ drill-sergeant posture stiffened even further. "You are a parvenu,” she said, “a newcomer, with no history here and, therefore, no right to come in and stake a claim where you don't belong and aren't wanted."

  So Elvira hadn't told the woman who she was. Apparently, neither had the sheriff. Gram’s warning or not, Callie needed to go on the attack with this woman.

  "You asked me who I am, Mrs. Gunn. Now I have a question for you. Do you remember Lucinda Everett?"

  The woman's face turned ashen. Her thin lips clamped into a thin, bloodless line. "What about her?" Gunn's deep voice had gone hoarse.

  Wow, Callie thought. Gram had never mentioned the woman, yet her name had rendered Mercedes Gunn nearly speechless. Exposed by the V of her silk blouse, a pulse pounded in the hollow at the base of her throat. Unduly fascinated by the woman's discomfort, Callie forced herself to speak.

  "She was my grandmother."

  "Was?" A strange light glittered briefly in Mercedes' eyes, then subsided, leaving her expression cold and hard as before.

  "She passed away some months ago."

  "And left you this house, I presume." Her voice had returned to normal.

  "You presume correctly." Callie found herself admiring the woman's quick recovery from what had obviously been a shock. "And as for not being wanted, somebody wants me here," she said softly, "or I wouldn't have gotten permission to begin. If I don't belong at this moment, I will by the time the restoration is completed."

  "If I were you, young woman, I wouldn't consider the restoration an accomplished fact, un hecho consumado." Mercedes Gunn stepped down into the street, turned and pointed her outstretched arm at Callie like some biblical prophet of doom. "As committed as you are to this project, others are equally committed to seeing you fail."

  More amazed than angry, Callie watched the woman turn and stalk away. Inside, she put up water for coffee. While she waited for it to boil, she wondered whether revealing her identity had been foolhardy. She wrinkled her brow. Would her family's history in the town work against her? Was that why Elvira hadn't mentioned her connection to the house? Had she decided it was Callie's place to speak up?

  And why had Luc kept silent? To protect her? Just because he disagreed with her didn't mean he would take any overt action against her. He was, after all, a lawman. But even more than that, he'd seemed uncomfortable at his parents' table, even a little saddened, by his need to oppose her plan.

  And just maybe, Callie thought, maybe she was giving Luc Moreno m
ore credit than he deserved. An image of his smile flashed before her mind's eye, sending her into confusion. Why the need to invest the enemy with an admirable quality like fairness or concern?

  "Well, kiddo," she whispered. "You'd better be ready for anything."

  Two nights later, dinner sizzled on the portable barbeque. A light breeze stirred the smoke rising from the bed of charcoal. She’d spent a productive day making notes for the advertising campaign, planning layouts and sketching mockups of possible ads. She enjoyed the peaceful moment.

  As she turned a burger and vegetables, glass shattered somewhere behind her. She dashed to the front of the house; footsteps stomped across the veranda in the direction from which she'd just come.

  "Not the French doors…." she wailed.

  She shot straight back through the house, reaching the dining room as the first panes crashed to the floor. She stumbled past an undamaged door, brandishing a two-tined fork in one hand and long-stemmed tongs in the other. The vandal, in dark clothes and hooded jacket effectively hiding his features, crashed through the remaining door and vaulted the railing to the ground below.

  Guided by the light shining from the kitchen window, Callie tossed the barbecue fork at his retreating back. It landed points down on his shoulder, eliciting a yowl of pain before bouncing away. She followed with the tongs, clipping him on the side of his head. The taut, vicious curse gave her some brief satisfaction but, out of ammunition, she could only watch in frustration as the man fled into the darkness.

  He stumbled through the dry desert growth as weeds and grasses crackled beneath his feet. When his thrashing had faded into silence, she turned to assess the damage. Glistening shards littered the floor inside and out. In several panes, jagged remnants clung to the frames. Barely conscious of the tears streaming down her cheeks, she leaned a hip against the rail and folded her arms across her chest.