by Sylvia Nobel
The digital clock glowed 2:30. Sleep was now out of the question, so I brewed myself a pot of strong coffee and settled down to read past issues of the Sun. Might as well make use of the unexpected time.
Three cups of coffee later, I found what I’d been looking for. The first body, unearthed the previous June, had been so badly decomposed, the medical examiner’s report stated that cause of death and positive identification was probably impossible. He’d placed the age of the girl, based on the few skeletal remains, at somewhere between thirteen and eighteen years of age.
The second body, discovered in late September hadn’t been positively identified until last month. Fifteen year old Charity Perkins from Tulsa, Oklahoma had been in trouble with the law and was a chronic runaway. Apparently, she’d become lost and fallen into a rocky wash. After two shaken ranch hands had reported the find, the autopsy revealed a sharp blow to the skull, presumably due to her fall. Homicide was not ruled out, but no trace of foul play, nor any link between the two deaths had ever surfaced.
John Dexter’s last article insinuated that because of misplaced evidence by someone in the sheriff’s office, the data from the second girl had not been entered into the NCIC (National Crime Information Center), therefore hindering positive identification. He’d hinted none too subtly that the job had been bungled. It wasn’t hard to see why he’d been disliked. Some of his pieces were malicious and dangerously close to being libelous. I wondered why Tugg hadn’t taken him to task.
I rejected the thought of a fourth cup of coffee and pulled out my notebook, adding the name of the one girl onto the spoke for dead teens and a question mark for the other. If both these events were accidental, was I on the right track, or did John’s cryptic note refer to different cases?
The melancholy cooing of mourning doves alerted me to the fact that it was dawn. I yawned widely. It was almost time to get ready for work, but as I began to bundle the newspapers back into the box, curiosity concerning one of Ginger’s remarks overcame me.
I rifled though the papers in the last box until one headline shrieked up at me: Wife of Local Rancher Killed! The photo underneath made my scalp prickle. It’s said that everyone has a twin somewhere in the world and while Stephanie Talverson was not that, there was a definite resemblance between us. Our noses were different, hers more pug, mine more aquiline, and she didn’t have my cleft chin. Our eyes were similar, but the hair was the most startling feature. We wore the same loose, curly style, but because the photo was black and white, I couldn’t tell if it was the same shade as mine.
I looked up and stared out the window at the glowing horizon, now understanding the startled look Bradley had worn when we’d met. He must think of her whenever he looked at me.
My assignment sheet was full when I arrived at the office. Lack of sleep left me groggy and lightheaded all day, and even during the busiest moments, the previous night’s episode bothered me.
By late afternoon I had a throbbing headache. Behind me, I heard Bradley hang up his phone. With Jim gone, the room grew silent. Since hearing Ginger’s damning revelation, his presence had made me slightly jumpy, although the idea of him being a murderer seemed preposterous. Even though I didn’t know him all that well, he just didn’t seem to fit the part. Nevertheless, I’d had difficulty meeting his eyes all day.
I sneaked a sideways glance toward him and froze when he turned in his chair and caught me. I averted my eyes immediately.
“What’s going on with you? And don’t tell me you haven’t been staring at me oddly all day.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snapped back. I could hardly say, ‘Excuse me, but did you murder your wife?’
He rocked back in his chair and grinned. “Don’t try to deny it. You’re captivated by me and you’re dying for me to ask you out.” He extended his arms outward. “I’m yours for the taking. Just say the word.” His eyes gleamed a wicked challenge.
When he wasn’t putting on his macho cowboy act, he could be dangerously attractive. “In your dreams.” I was relieved when my phone rang. It was Tugg summoning me to his office. No doubt he’d be expecting some answers, and other than a few hunches, I had zip.
Tugg motioned for me to close the door when I entered. “Well, Kendall, what have you been able to come up with?”
I told him my thoughts concerning the two bodies found in the desert. If they were the ones Dexter had referred to in his note, I would need a little more time for Roy to get comfortable with me, thereby making it easier to ask for the files.
He looked thoughtful. “What you need is a good cover story.”
“I have an idea. Ginger told me about some of the problems with homeless girls in this area and a little about the Desert Harbor Shelter. Why don’t I do a series on the runaway problem? That would allow me to do some snooping and not tip our hand.”
His eyes filled with admiration. “That’s a great idea! And what’s more, you can tie it into the annual fund raiser coming up weekend after next at Whispering Winds.”
“What’s that?” He explained that one of the locals, Eric Heisler, had gone on to become a successful Phoenix attorney and had turned the old Rocking Z dude ranch into a first class tennis club visited by the wealthy, the beautiful people from the world of show business, and the tennis circuit. The event had been the brainchild of his divorced, twice widowed mother, socialite Thena Rodenborn. Why not, she’d suggested, tap into this elite clientele to gather funds for some of the local charities including her favorite, the girls’ shelter?
“You can get some background information beforehand by talking to Thena and to the woman who runs the place. Phillips I think her name is,” Tugg said. “Tell ’em the publicity will alert more people and bring in extra bucks for their pet projects. Then you can cover the fund-raiser itself and you may be able to pick up more tidbits there.” He paused and gave me a questioning look. “So, what did you think of Roy when you met him?”
I hesitated, hating to tell him Roy seemed like a hell of a nice guy, and that perhaps he was all wrong in thinking the sheriff was involved in anything questionable.
“Ah…he seemed friendly enough. We’ll see how cooperative he is when I ask to see the crime report on those two girls.”
“Good work. You’re your father’s daughter all right.” He stood, came around the desk and patted me on the shoulder. “I’m confident you’ll find out what happened to John.”
As he ushered me from his office, I sincerely hoped he was right. So far, as an investigative reporter, I’d given myself a big fat F.
On the way back to my desk, I collided with Bradley as he rounded the doorway. His hands shot out to steady me, and for the brief time I was pressed against him, the unexpected tingle I experienced left me disconcerted. I sprang back, mumbling my apology.
“So what time shall I pick you up tonight?” He tipped back his hat, his eyes brimming with mischief. “Six? Seven?”
I eyed him with suspicion, wondering if he had planned the accidental encounter. “I can’t tonight.”
“I could make it eight if that’s more convenient.”
“If nothing else, you’re persistent.”
“How about Mexican food? I heard through the grapevine, you’ve never eaten it.”
“Yes, I have.”
His expression was scornful. “I don’t mean that frozen crap, and I don’t mean one of those places like Taco Stop. I mean the authentic stuff.”
“Thanks, but I’m due over at Ginger’s this evening. Perhaps another time.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said firmly. As he walked out I tried not to notice what great buns he had. I was anxious to get to Ginger’s house and hear the rest of the story about him. Perhaps it would put my doubts about him to rest.
Fifteen minutes later, I rang the doorbell at Ginger’s pink, adobe bungalow. Nature was putting on yet another spectacular sunset performance, lighting the western sky in brilliant shades of gold and crimson. Inside the house a
dog yipped, the theme song from a well-known game show blasted, and a shrill voice screeched, “Someone answer that dadblasted phone!”
I heard Ginger call, “It’s not the phone, Nona, it’s the doorbell. Brian, get it, will ya!”
A tall young man swung the door open. He had sandy hair, hazel eyes, and Ginger’s friendly dimples. I jumped as a fluffy gray and white cat sprinted between my feet and vanished behind the house.
“I’m Brian, the baby brother.” He extended his hand. “You must be the famous Kendall O’Dell?”
“That’s me.” I shook his hand, noting that except for the eye color, he looked like a clone of Ginger, right down to the spray of freckles across his nose.
“Hello? Hello!” Behind Brian, an elderly woman in a wheelchair shouted into the phone, “Well, for pity’s sake, speak up! I can’t hear you.” Beside her, a small brown dog danced and yelped in my direction.
Ginger rushed into the room wiping her hands on a red and white gingham apron. “Hang up, Nona!” She threw me an apologetic smile and waved me inside as she shushed the dog.
I tried not to gape at the old lady’s outrageous appearance as she wheeled up close to me. Over a brightly printed housedress, she wore a pink feather boa wrapped loosely about her sagging neck. Two bright splotches of rouge on crinkled cheeks, heavy blue eye shadow, and a platinum blonde wig with ringlets perched precariously on her head, completed the bizarre picture.
“Nona,” Ginger said in a firm voice, “this is Kendall. Remember I told you she was coming for dinner?”
“Candle?” Nona squinted up at me. “That’s a real funny name.” Before I could correct her she added, “I’m Wynona Callaway. I’m sure you’ve heard of me. Brian, fetch my scrapbooks!”
I arched a brow at Ginger, trying not to look as bewildered as I felt. The dog set up a mournful wailing.
“Shut up, Susie!” Brian pointed a threatening finger at the noisy animal, then turned to me. “You’ll have to excuse the pandemonium. Simple things like a doorbell ringing can be known to cause a major crisis around here.” He grinned impishly. “If you hurry, you can still escape.”
“Oh, hush, Brian.” Ginger pretended to smack him. With a devilish laugh, he threaded his way around a collection of mismatched furniture, and disappeared down a hallway.
Grimacing in mock anger, Ginger pushed the old lady to the television. “Kendall will look at the scrapbooks later, darlin’. Right now, why don’t you finish watching your show and we’ll eat in two shakes of a dog’s tail.” She touched Nona’s gnarled hand tenderly and motioned for me to follow her into a homey, but jumbled kitchen.
Ginger was not a neat cook. The counters were strewn with crusted pots and smeared with tomato sauce. Dishes towered in the sink, but I didn’t care. The heavenly aroma made my mouth water and stomach grumble. After declining my offer of help, she poured a glass of lemonade and told me to ‘park my butt’ at the kitchen table.
“You’re probably wonderin’ why Nona’s wearin’ that silly wig, right?”
“Was she wearing a wig?” I said straight-faced. “I hadn’t noticed.”
She cackled with glee and told me her grandmother had first been a silent screen actress, and then gone on to do theater in New York and London. “She was a real looker in her day,” Ginger sighed. “Poor ol’ love, she’s too vain to admit she’s almost bald. You should see her bedroom all chock full of ol’ costumes ’n’ wigs ’n’ stuff. It’s practically a museum!”
I told her I’d be delighted and we both giggled hearing Nona shout suggestions to the contestants on the game show. “Ask for an E, you jackass! An E!”
What I really wanted was to get to the subject of Bradley, and especially John Dexter, but I patiently waited as she told me about her new boyfriend, Doug Sauers, who worked at the Whispering Winds Tennis Ranch. I perked up at that, remembering what Tugg had said about attending the fund-raiser. “This one is worth keeping my eye on,” she said with a wink. “He’s got him a good job, and he ain’t never been married before. Like the spider and the fly, I’m gonna have to set my trap real careful like, so’s he don’t get away like the others.”
I sensed she was deliberately making me wait, so I interrupted her. “Come on, Ginger. Out with it.”
“Patience, Girl, patience.” Her eyes blazing with mischief, she poured herself a glass of lemonade, and scooted a chair up close to me. Then she launched into her tale with gusto.
On his twenty-fourth birthday, Bradley had stunned his family when he told them he’d decided to do something else with his life besides run the ranch. He wanted to get a degree in journalism and write. Overriding the strong protests from his father, Joseph, and tears from his mother, Ruth, he’d packed his things and headed east to stay with an uncle, ignoring his father’s threat to disown him.
Following graduation, which his father refused to allow either his mother or sister to attend, Bradley met a dazzling red-haired socialite named Stephanie Tate. A sizzling romance ensued, and they married over the bitter objections of both families.
“Some folks ’round here say she was the cause of his pa’s death,” Ginger informed me, solemnly stirring the ice cubes in her glass with one finger.
“How so?”
“Old Joe Talverson’s temper was legendary. He wasn’t easy to take even if you liked him. Anyhow, when Tally finally brought Stephanie home, it was hate at first sight for her and his pa. They squabbled like a pair of fightin’ cocks.”
“How did she get along with the rest of the family?”
“About the same. Ronda, that’s Tally’s sister, stayed out of her way most of the time, but, she told me Stephanie deviled the bejesus out of Ruth who’s just a tad flighty in the head, ya know.”
“What do you mean?”
Ginger made a face and twirled her finger beside her temple. “Kinda teched.”
I drew back in surprise. “You mean she’s mentally ill?”
“Well, she ain’t no candidate for the nut house or nothing. She was always jest a mite fragile. Ronda says it’s chronic depression.”
“I see. Go on.”
Between sips of lemonade, Ginger recounted Bradley’s dilemma. His father was leaning on him hard to stay, and Stephanie, claiming she couldn’t survive in such a primitive place, was threatening to leave him. He’d finally given in to her tantrums, and the two had returned to the east coast. Shortly afterward, Joseph Talverson had his first stroke. “Tally’s ma called and lectured him about duty, roots and all that. So he came back, dragging his reluctant bride with him.” Ginger rose to stir the bubbling chili and chop lettuce for the salad.
“What happened then?” I asked, finishing my drink.
“It wasn’t too long after that his pa had another stroke. Up and died, he did. Having Tally home made Ruth and Ronda happy as clams, but Stephanie went plum wild, drinking, staying out till all hours, making no secret of her runnin’ around on him. Flaunted it in his face, she did. Ronda said they had some hellacious fights.”
I gave her a sharp look. “Was John Dexter one of her lovers?”
Ginger wore a look of disdain. “That’s what he wanted everybody to believe, and she did come onto him pretty hot ’n’ heavy one night over at Buck’s Corral. Knowing John, he wouldn’t have turned it down.”
“So I’ve heard. But that aside, tell me why he thought Bradley was responsible for her death?”
Half the town, she replied, was gathered at the Starfire Ranch for the annual barbeque dinner. It was the end of the week-long Gold Dust Days celebration held each June. All evening, Stephanie had been drinking heavily and flirting outrageously with all the men, including John.
“Tally stood it as long as he could,” Ginger stated, bending to pull a pan of cornbread from the oven, “then he hauled her into the barn. Ronda said everyone could hear her screaming at him. Afterward, she stormed into the house and he went back to his guests. It was pert near dark when she up and rode off into the desert. Hell bent for leather. When Ronda
told Tally, he took off after her, saying he was worried about her horse spooking ’cause of all the lightning that night. Anyhow, he found her an hour later face down in a cholla field holdin’ a handful of reins.”
“Jesus,” I whispered trying to absorb all the details. Something still didn’t add up. “Ginger, I must be dense, because I still don’t get why Dexter suspected Bradley. It sounds like a freak accident to me.”
“It was supposed to look like that, sugar, but there’s those who didn’t believe it then…and still don’t.”.
“And why is that?”
Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Word around town was them reins might’ve been cut.”
6
Her dramatic exposé sent a little ripple of shock zinging down my back. Ginger quickly added that even though the motive apparently existed, the inquest had cleared Bradley. I wondered. Was he innocent or had he cleverly covered his tracks? But then, she’d also said there’d been hundreds of people there that night. Who else in Castle Valley would have benefited from Stephanie Talverson’s death?
Ginger appeared pleased that her news had scored high on my astonishment scale. She shooed me from the kitchen with a request to fetch Brian while she finished preparing dinner. I went reluctantly, still bursting to ask more questions. Could this latest revelation mean Bradley had something to do with Dexter’s disappearance? But that didn’t add up. Two years was sufficient time for the feud between them to have cooled.
By the time I knocked on Brian’s door, I’d convinced myself the two incidents were unrelated. We chatted for a few minutes until we heard Ginger holler ‘chow’s on!’
Everything tasted delicious. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stuffed myself so much at one sitting. The strawberry shortcake crowned with a mound of whipped cream almost finished me off.
“Don’t let me eat another bite,” I said pushing away from the table.
“What’s that?” Nona inquired with interest. “You’ve been in a fight?”
Everyone giggled and then jumped when the big cat I’d seen earlier vaulted with a bang onto the front screen. “Let Churchill in will you, Brian?” Ginger asked. Brian got up, opened the door, and the cat sauntered in, tail waving, its mouth clamped onto something most definitely alive.
