by Sylvia Nobel
“The handyman discovered his body floating in one of the natural springs on his own property this afternoon.”
“Oh, my God!” My mind did a quick back flip. I vaguely recalled Tally mentioning that the judge and his present wife had, within the past year, purchased the old Hidden Springs Guest Ranch, which in its heyday had served as an exclusive hideaway for celebrities, royalty, politicians and the affluent. “So…what are you saying? He died from a gunshot wound or he drowned?”
“We don’t know for sure.”
I eyed him with growing suspicion. “Tally, quit beating around the bush.”
He slumped onto the bench beneath the amber porch light and twirled his hat in a furious circle, always an indication of distress. When he finally looked up at me, the ominous expression on his face chilled my gut. “We weren’t even sure it was him until I recognized the watch I’d given him for Christmas about ten years ago. Whatever the cause, there is no doubt that he was murdered.”
My mouth went dry. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you say he was just found a few hours ago?”
“Yep.”
“Then, how can you make a definitive statement like that before forensic tests have been performed?”
“Easy. His head is missing.”
3
News of the grotesque decapitation shook Castle Valley to the core of its foundations. The site where the judge’s body had been discovered was cordoned off while a swarm of local law enforcement personnel and a forensic specialist, called in from the Maricopa County Medical Examiner’s office in Phoenix, pored over every inch of soil within a half mile of the crime scene. Divers combed the waters of the pools. By the time a full week elapsed, no definitive clues had been discovered. The pall hanging over the town was as thick as the unusual cloud cover that had blanketed the state for several days. The result of everyone’s efforts produced only one serious investigative lead or person of interest—ex-convict Randy Moorehouse. If the authorities did have any significant information, they were sitting on it. Who and why anyone would have committed such an atrocity dominated every conversation and had everyone wandering around in a profound state of shock. For me, the judge’s death held far more personal significance due to my relationship with Tally. While shaken up as much as anyone by the hideous nature of the crime, I was doubly disturbed that yet another tragedy had befallen the Talverson family. Ruth had been so traumatized her shrink had sedated her for three days and Tally seemed withdrawn and deeply troubled. He’d been insistent that I not be alone at my isolated house in the desert. When he’d been unable to stay for several nights because of his mother’s delicate emotional state, I’d acquiesced and stayed two nights with Ginger. After that, if he couldn’t stay overnight, he’d arrange to have a couple of his ranch hands patrol the grounds of my place until dawn. While I appreciated his concern, I felt no hint of impending danger. To me, the circumstances did not suggest a crime of passion or the attack of a madman. By its very nature it appeared that this had been a carefully premeditated crime aimed directly at Riley Gibbons. Of course, I wondered along with everyone else what kind of a sick mind had been at work, but secretly had to admit that it had ignited my sense of morbid fascination.
Everywhere I went it seemed as if people were looking over their shoulders. Time after time, I encountered townspeople clustered together, whispering in hushed tones, their eyes dark with apprehension. A byproduct of the blood-curdling murder was the land office sales of deadbolt locks and home security systems—both concepts at odds with this peaceful desert town where nothing of consequence usually happened.
By the time we gathered in my office for our usual Friday morning editorial meeting, additional details about the judge’s life and mystifying death had begun to emerge. With Tugg taking a vacation day and Tally gone to drive his mother to her shrink’s appointment in Phoenix, there were only three of us present. Whereas I would normally be right in the thick of things, I was instead relegated to the sidelines. And it was killing me. But in deference to Tally’s wishes that I not be professionally involved, I concealed my frustration and agreed to assign the story to Walter Zipp. It took every smidgen of willpower I possessed to go along with Tally’s request.
Needless to say, I was now persona non grata in the eyes of Tally’s mother. Hadn’t my cheerful, well-intentioned words promised to deliver happy news? Instead, after I’d left the ranch last week, Tally had the sorry task of informing her of Judge Gibbons’s horrific fate. Glumly, I wondered how I’d ever be able to make things right with her. As it now stood, she still didn’t know about our engagement. The new plan was to tell her this coming weekend. But only if Tally felt she was psychologically ready to handle it, and only after I’d agreed to apologize for causing her such extreme distress, even though it had been unintentional on my part.
As every law officer knows, if significant evidence at a crime scene is not discovered within the first critical twenty-four hours the case begins to turn cold. That sobering fact served to jumpstart the level of community anxiety. Understandably, the primary concerns were who had killed the prominent judge and what was the motive? Staring down at the file photo of the attractive, gray-haired man, I imagined that the next question on everyone’s mind was probably the same as mine. Why had someone gone to the extra trouble of cutting his head off? To me, the last and most disconcerting question was, where was it?
“Okay,” I said, addressing Walter after he and Jim had pulled their chairs close to my desk. “What have you got so far?”
His lips puckered in a grimace. “Well, I hate to say it, but I haven’t made a hell of a lot of headway.”
Eyes twinkling with mischief, Jim piped up, “How much does a head weigh?”
“Jimbo, you are one sick puppy.” They both roared with laughter while I rolled my eyes. “Okay, guys, whenever you’re ready,” I finally said after they’d given each other a high five.
“Sorry.” Walter cleared his throat and told us he had repeatedly pressed for details from Sheriff Marshall Turnbull and also Deputy Duane Potts, who’d been assigned as the case agent in charge of the scene. At this point in the investigation, they had very little to go on in the way of physical evidence. “At least that’s the official word,” Walter pointed out, appearing skeptical. “More than likely they’ve got something, but they’re keeping it under their hats.”
“Any other leads besides Randy Moorehouse?” I asked.
Walter glanced at his notepad. “Nope. They’ve had him in for questioning twice, but apparently they’ve got nothing to tie him to the murder. I drove out to interview him day before yesterday and let’s just say he wasn’t exactly overjoyed to see me. All he’d tell me was that he had nothing to do with it and that he’s sticking to his story. He claims he was out delivering flowers for his sister that day and—”
I stared at him blankly, interjecting, “Delivering flowers for his sister? Who’s his sister?”
“Rulinda Platt.”
I shrugged and Jim filled in, “She and her mom run the Posey Patch Florist over on Kokopelli.”
Suddenly the name clicked. That was the name of the florist on Ginger’s contact list for the engagement party. “Okay, I know who you’re talking about.”
“Right now, Randy is living in a camper out back of her place while he’s building an addition over her garage. When he got out of prison a couple of weeks ago, Rulinda gave him a job driving a delivery van since nobody else in town seemed interested in hiring him.” Walter scrunched his nose in distaste. “I can’t say as I’d blame people. He’s one scary-looking dude. He’s twice my size and has spent more than a few hours inhabiting tattoo parlors. I stopped by her shop yesterday and asked if she had any thoughts on the judge’s death and I can attest to the fact that she’s not mourning his demise. Here’s her direct quote,” he said, holding up his notes. “‘As far as I’m concerned I hope Judge Gibbons is rotting his nuts off somewhere in the deepest, darkest, hottest corner of Hell. Him sending my brother to pris
on for a crime he never committed ruined his life, my life, and damn near tore the whole family apart.’”
“If we paraphrase the nuts part, I think we can go with that entire quote,” I commented dryly.
Jim threw in, “I remember reading that Rulinda raised holy hell after Randy’s conviction. She got herself some face time on TV calling Judge Gibbons every name in the book. Then she got involved with a couple of these protest groups who organize candlelight vigils every time one of these guys is executed and she’s responsible for getting the case reopened.”
“Interesting. So, let’s go back to her brother. You say he was delivering flowers the day the body was discovered? Can he account for his time?”
“Apparently. But, get this. One of his regularly scheduled deliveries was to Hidden Springs.”
I gave Walter an appraising look. “Even more interesting.”
“He told the sheriff that he was there just long enough to drop off their weekly delivery. After that, he stopped to have lunch and a beer with a couple of his biker brothers over at the Hitching Post Saloon. He claims he was there for several hours. But, who knows? You know the code among these people. They take care of their own and you can bet your sweet ass that even if he wasn’t there as long as he says he was, to a man, none of them would say anything to the contrary.”
“Hmmm. Okay. So what’s the story with the judge’s widow?” Tally had just mentioned to me in passing a couple of weeks ago that they’d been separated for several months.
Walter tapped his notepad with a pencil. “On that subject, I’ve barely scratched the surface. You probably already know he was married to Ruth Talverson’s older sister, Ginny, for many years.”
“Of course.”
“After her death Riley remained single for a good long time. Apparently he earned quite a reputation as a ladies’ man until he finally got hitched again about three years ago to a woman by the name of…” he paused and flipped a page, his eyes searching. “Damn, I had it here a minute ago.”
I filled in, “I remember Tally mentioning her name once or twice. Is it La Donna?”
“Righto,” Walter replied, nodding. “La Donna Hendricks. She’s been a flight attendant for twenty-five years, married previously. During the past year she was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. The disease has progressed to the point that she went on medical leave about four months ago, just about the time she and the judge separated. She moved into one of the guest cottages next door to the main residence. Apparently because of her physical limitations she couldn’t handle the stairs any longer and was having trouble keeping up with the everyday operations of the place in addition to overseeing the ongoing renovations to the original structure.”
“Where has the judge been living all this time?”
“During the week he stayed at his condo in Scottsdale, but he usually drove up here every weekend and…well, you’re gonna love this,” he crowed, shooting me a wily grin. “Apparently the old guy wasn’t one to let grass grow under his feet. A couple of weeks before his um…untimely departure, he moved his new girlfriend into the old hotel.”
That was a surprise. If Tally had known this fact, he’d never shared it with me. But then I had only a vague knowledge of the man’s existence, having overheard Tally mention his name once or twice in passing. “So, the judge’s girlfriend and his widow are both living at Hidden Springs? How does that work?”
Walter’s wide grin was decidedly sardonic as he exchanged a meaningful look with Jim. “Sounds pretty kinky, huh?”
“Just a little.”
“Looks like the judge had a little trouble keeping his pants zipped,” Jim remarked with a ribald snicker.
Walter joined in with a hearty chorus of laughter before continuing with, “Apparently. Now, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to snag an interview with either of these ladies yet to confirm all these rumors, but I was able to corner the housekeeper the other day outside the grocery store.”
“What’s her name?” I asked, absently drumming my pen on the desk.
“Bernita Morales. Nice lady, probably late fifties, early sixties. Anyway, according to her, when…” he paused to glance at his notes again, “Miss Marissa Van Steenholm moved into the largest suite of rooms on the first floor of the hotel, La Donna gave the judge what for. I guess she was screaming at him so loudly some of the guests thought she’d gone off the deep end and checked out early. Anyway, Bernita told me that La Donna refused to leave the premises even though the divorce papers had been filed. She immediately counter-sued and their attorneys were still trying to hash out the property settlement when well...you know.” In a macabre gesture, he swiped his forefinger across his throat in a slicing motion that sent a shiver up my spine.
I shook my head thoughtfully. “This whole scenario sounds like a plot for a really bad soap opera, or maybe a good one.”
Walter’s good-natured grin turned devilish. “Hang onto your head…I mean hat. It gets a whole lot better.” Assuming a self-satisfied expression, he shifted his bulk and flipped the page over. “The grieving widow, La Donna, is claiming that the lovely Marissa, who’d worked as a clerk in Riley’s Phoenix office, and by the way is a good thirty years younger than him, was banging the handyman while the judge was in Phoenix.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. The handyman? Back up. You’re talking about the guy who discovered the body?”
“One and the same. Duane gave me the stats on this guy. His name is Winston Rudy Pendahl. He’s a forty-two-year-old ex-con with a mile-long rap sheet ranging from vandalism starting at age twelve to petty theft as a teenager and on to burglary and aggravated assault. The highlight of his distinguished criminal career was a six-year gig in Florence for taking out a guy with a claw hammer. Of course he claims it was self-defense and that he’s been living a squeaky clean life since he got out of prison ten years ago. He fessed up the minute they brought him in for questioning. Said he knew they’d find out about his past, so he laid it out for them.” Walter leaned forward, his expression provocative. “Something else noteworthy. Guess who the presiding judge was during the trial for Pendahl’s last conviction?” He cupped a hand to one ear, smiling expectantly while Jim and I chimed in, “Judge Riley C. Gibbons.”
“You got it.”
I sat back in my chair. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that Judge Gibbons would employ a person with such a questionable background? Especially someone he’d sentenced to prison?”
Walter lifted his massive shoulders. “I had the same thought. Apparently Winston had been hired by the previous owner of Hidden Springs and since the conviction was so many years ago and his appearance had changed, the judge probably didn’t realize who the guy was. I’m sure he couldn’t keep track of all the ex-cons running around who’d appeared in his courtroom.”
“Do the authorities consider him a person of interest?”
“Not at this time. Duane told me that he was questioned and released. In fact, the really disturbing thing about this case is after a week of the authorities scouring the area practically twenty-four-seven, they still haven’t found enough evidence to point the finger at anyone else for that matter. But like I said, that’s the official word.”
We all sat there for a few seconds mulling over his statement in silent speculation before I said, “Um…getting back to the judge, Tally told me that the medical examiner’s office hasn’t released the body for burial yet. Any word on when that will happen?”
“From what they tell me, they’re really short-staffed and running way behind on their caseload. But, since this one’s high profile they bumped it to the front and gave it to the top dog. Have you heard of Dr. Nora Bartoli?”
“I think I’ve read about her. Isn’t she a forensic anthropologist?”
“Right.”
Walter peeked at his notes again. “Anyway, she finished her examination yesterday and the…remains should be released today for burial preparation at the Heritage Memory Mortuary in Prescott.” He glanced at his notes
again. “According to the funeral director the visitation will be next Monday night starting at six o’clock at the Prescott United Methodist Church on Gurley Street in Prescott and then the judge will be laid to rest in the family plot at the Arizona Pioneers Home Cemetery at 2 p.m. on Tuesday.”
Jim piped up, “So…I’m guessing it won’t be an open casket?”
Walter grinned. “Getting ahead of me today, Jimbo?”
“No, but I think we may be in over our heads on this one.”
I rolled my eyes. “You two are just awful.”
“Let me add another element of intrigue to this equation,” Walter continued, his hazel eyes glimmering with excitement. “Riley Gibbons had a new will drawn up two weeks prior to his disappearance.”
I raised a brow. “Now that is noteworthy.”
“Oh, it’s more than that. Get this. He deeded the hotel over to the very fortunate Marissa Van Steenholm.”
I gawked at him. “Really? I’m assuming La Donna Gibbons plans to contest it.”
“I would if I were her.”
“Good job, Walter.” As pleased as I was with his efforts I could hardly stand it. Every fiber of my being screamed out to be front and center in the ongoing investigation but all I could do was sit by and listen. “How’d you find out about this?”
He grinned broadly. “Deputy Potts.”
“Duane? How would he know?”
“He got called in during the reading of the will.”
“Why?”
“To restore order.” Walter looked extremely pleased with himself. “According to the judge’s attorney, Richard Mills, La Donna Gibbons was already in a high state of agitation when she arrived. When he got to the part about the deceased leaving the Van Steenholm woman the hotel, which is smack dab in the middle of the Hidden Springs property, La Donna went ape shit. Mills reported that she lunged at Marissa like an enraged lion, or lioness. I guess it was quite a brawl. When Duane finally arrived and got her calmed down, she demanded that he arrest Marissa.”
