by Sylvia Nobel
“As soon as Doreen and Wilma get here we can mosey over yonder an’ yak at her.”
“Sure.”
We were unpacking boxes and piling embroidered dishtowels and silk flower arrangements on the table when she suddenly drew in a startled breath. “Mercy! Take a gander at that fearsome-looking bunch.”
I looked up, following her gaze to the half-dozen or so multi-tattooed and pierced guys pushing through the crowd—probably the Harley riders I’d seen earlier. Not far behind them were several rough-looking women. It took only nanoseconds to recognize that these were not rich urban bikers out for the weekend attempting to look cool. Nope. These people appeared to be the genuine article. Clad in tight jeans and matching black leather vests or jackets, they rolled through the crowd like a dark wave of intimidation, obviously reveling in the fearful responses their presence invoked. Parents yanked children closer while other fairgoers averted their eyes and cleared a wide path for them.
“You see that moose of a guy with the paunch?” Ginger said under her breath. “The one with the ponytail and red checked bandana?”
“Yeah.”
“That there’s Randy Moorehouse.”
“Is that so?” I studied the ex-con with interest. He was a strapping man well over six feet tall. His beefy arms looked to be as big around as my thighs and it was obvious that he’d spent a substantial amount of time working out. Dressed from head to toe in black, his expression aggressive, he looked the epitome of the outlaw biker. The group paused at the canopy directly across from us to examine T-shirts and hats while the women stopped to pick through jewelry and sunglasses at the adjacent booth.
“Don’t make eye contact with any of ’em,” Ginger warned, but it was too late. One smarmy-looking dude with spider web tattoos lacing his elbows zeroed in on me and veered towards our canopy. “Oh, good Lord, deliver us from evil,” Ginger moaned, shrinking to the back of the tent with Nona as he and a second man arrived at the table. I fired her a ‘thanks for deserting me’ glance before turning to face them.
My chest tightened with annoyance and just a touch of apprehension as the taller of the two looked at me up down and sideways while transferring a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, probably to make sure I saw the bolt in his tongue. I’m sure he thought it was a major turn-on and to be honest, he wasn’t a bad looking guy—well-defined muscles, narrow waist and square-jawed. He was also close enough for me to notice the patches on his vest. One of them confirmed my suspicions when I read the words DESERT DEVILS. “Good afternoon, ladies.” His insolent smile revealed startlingly white teeth. “Whatever you’re selling, Red, I’m buying.”
My face warmed. Unfortunately my fiery mane of hair attracted not only swarms of bees and hummingbirds but sometimes the unwanted attention of men as well. Unflinching, I met his gaze. “Excellent. How many dishtowels and flower baskets would you fellows be interested in?”
The second man, shorter, heavier and bearded, guffawed loudly then said with an insinuating grin, “Hey, sweet thing. Is it true what they say? That red on the head means wiiiiilllld in bed?”
I had to dig deep to ignore his crude remark. With no sheriff’s deputies or security guards in sight I cautioned myself to remain cool. I lifted a quizzical brow. “Does that line actually work for you?”
His smile quickly dissolved while the first man appraised me with renewed interest. “Cute. Very cute.” He leaned in closer. “How’s about you an’ me getting together later for a beer?”
Suppressing a little shiver of revulsion I replied coolly, “How’s about we don’t.”
Apparently unaccustomed to being rejected his eyes changed from flirty to flinty. He couldn’t know that in the course of performing my job during the last six months I’d come into contact with men far more sinister than he perceived himself to be. “Now then,” I continued with forced sweetness, “back to business. How many dozen dishtowels were you thinking of purchasing?” I could just imagine Ginger’s horrified reaction to my confrontational behavior, but I had no intention of being cowed even though I was cognizant, having done several pieces on rival outlaw biker gangs, that these people believed that rules, regulations and laws that apply to the rest of society didn’t apply to them.
Locked in a concentrated eye duel I wasn’t exactly sure what my next move was going to be when a male voice from across the street called out, “Hey, Bo Bo, your little Ladybug needs some cash for trinkets. Get your tight ass over here.”
Bo Bo? Ladybug? Very slowly, he turned towards another biker standing beside a chunky blonde in an ultra-low-cut tank top. “Hang loose a minute, Thumper!” he shouted. Then, his cocky attitude still intact, he returned his attention to me. Smirking, he clicked his tongue. “Catch you later, Red.”
Stung by his brazen behavior, I breathed a sigh of relief as he swaggered away. My relief was short-lived when the intuitive sense that I was being watched swept over me. At that precise moment, I locked eyes with Randy Moorehouse—and it was distinctly disconcerting. Behind the passive curiosity lighting his deep-set eyes burned a host of emotions I could not decipher. Whatever he was feeling at that moment, his down-turned mouth and piercing stare punctuated by thundercloud black brows seemed designed to strike fear in people’s hearts. As he turned away from me striding into the crowd, people shrank away. Now I was more curious about him than ever. Was he truly just an innocent man who’d been wrongly convicted or the monster everyone believed him to be? Remembering that his new and rather incongruous vocation was delivering flowers made me wonder about the wisdom of people opening their doors to such an intimidating person. It wasn’t a difficult stretch of the imagination to envision this bull of a man hacking his girlfriend to pieces or the vengeful beheading of the judge who had sent him to molder away on Death Row.
9
“Tell me somethin’. Did you like to play with matches when you wuz a kid?” came Ginger’s brusque demand when the bikers were out of earshot. “For Pete’s sake, have you got a death wish? What in the name of Davy Crockett are you thinkin’ mixin’ it up with a guy like that?”
“What should I have done? Taken him up on his offer?”
“Well, no, o’ course not. But, geez Louise, what if he comes back?”
I shook my head. “Doubtful. I think that was all for show.”
“Darlin’, you better hope so.” She glanced over my shoulder, her face mirroring relief. “Oh good, the other gals are here.”
We exchanged greetings with the new arrivals and brought them up to speed on remaining stock before we left Nona dozing in the back of the canopy and joined the ocean of people jamming the aisles. “Myra’s tent is on the west side of the rodeo arena,” Ginger informed me. “Wait till you see her stuff.”
Strolling among the animated crowd, I jotted more notes regarding the wide array of merchandise being offered for sale to use in my piece for next week’s edition. Within minutes we arrived in front of a doublewide canopy marked only with a small sign reading MYRA COLTON ORIGINALS that was packed with a dazzling array of artwork. As I wandered among the items displayed my admiration mushroomed as I studied each intricately created piece. The artist’s work ran the gamut from woodcarvings of galloping horses to impressive plaster busts of stern-faced Native Americans, all the pieces well beyond my price range. Her ceramic angel collection was nothing short of amazing. Each of the various sizes of figurines had been created with loving detail right down to the dimpled cheeks on the smiling cherubs. When Ginger eyed me with one of those ‘what did I tell you’ looks I nodded my confirmation of the woman’s genius. One piece in particular caught my eye. Circling a three-foot high sculpture of a roping rider astride a rearing horse a vague concept began to percolate in the back of my mind.
“Told ya you’d like her stuff,” Ginger murmured, elbowing me gently in the side.
“I do indeed and especially this one.” But, when I spied the asking price of $4000 for the exquisite piece, my breath faltered. “Good grief,” I
muttered, “get a load of the price tag!”
“May I help you with something?”
We swung around to confront a statuesque woman with spiked, whitish-blonde hair staring back at us with intense, close-set brown eyes and a faint smile of polite inquiry. Her sallow complexion, sunken cheeks and willow-thin physique made me wonder if she was ill.
“Are you Myra Colton?” Ginger inquired breathlessly.
“Yes.”
Pink spots of color appeared on the woman’s cheeks as we lavished praise on the quality of her work. Smiling, she thanked us and then Ginger inquired about the possibility of her creating an ice sculpture for the engagement party. She puckered her lips in thought. “I’d love to tell you yes, but I’ll be out of town several times during the next month and in addition I’m preparing to exhibit some of my work at the Prescott Fine Arts Association in a couple of weeks.” Responding to Ginger’s downcast expression she quickly added, “I don’t have my events calendar with me at the moment, but perhaps I could get back to you ladies on Monday after I get home.”
I traded an expectant glance with Ginger who eagerly jotted our phone numbers on the back of a shopping receipt. “I’m keepin’ my fingers crossed that you’re gonna have time to do it.”
“I’ll certainly do my best,” she replied, accepting the paper and folding it into her pocket.
We thanked her for her time and halfway back to our canopy I stopped in mid stride when the idea germinating in the back of my mind fully blossomed. “You go ahead,” I told Ginger, “I have another question I’d like to ask Myra. It’ll only take me a few minutes.”
“I gotta run to the pot anyway,” she said, waving as she headed towards a row of blue portable toilets fittingly dubbed KAROL’S KANS. “Shoot, look at that!” She pointed to the dark clouds stacked above the ridgeline of the northern mountains. “I sure hope the rain holds off until the show closes tomorrow!”
“Me too.” I wheeled around and when I arrived back at the artist’s tent I found her slumped in a director’s chair in the rear, a book in her lap, her forehead resting in one hand. “Are you all right?”
Her head shot up and it seemed as if the shadowy circles beneath her eyes looked more pronounced than before. “Oh…yes. I’m just a little tired today. Is there something else I can do for you?” Closing the book, she rose from her chair with a look of cordial expectance.
I pointed to the horse and rider sculpture. “How long would it take you to create something similar to that?”
Faint frown lines creased her forehead. “Well…it depends on what else I’m working on and what medium you choose. That particular piece took me about two months to complete. Why?”
It was hard to contain my growing excitement. “Can you do an exact likeness of someone’s face?”
Her expression remained pleasant, but I thought I noticed a melancholy shadow pass swiftly behind her eyes before she answered. “Of course I can.”
I squeezed my palms together. “This is my lucky day! And the timing couldn’t be better.” I walked over to the sculpture and ran my finger along the horse’s smooth muzzle. “Something along these lines would make a perfect engagement gift for my fiancé, but I would need to have it in six weeks?”
She looked dubious. “That’s asking a lot—”
“I know, I know, and I also have no right to ask you to come down on your usual price…but if you could create one that isn’t quite as large as this one, I might be able to swing your fee.” When she still appeared hesitant I charged ahead. “Here’s the situation. Last night my fiancé gave me a gorgeous Appaloosa mare as an engagement gift and I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with an appropriate gift for him. In a million years, I never dreamed that there would be any chance that I could even come close to matching it…until now.” I knew I was laying it on a bit thick, but what the heck.
She mulled over my proposal for another moment before a compassionate smile revitalized her drawn face. “Well, as Aristotle once said, ‘Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.’ I’ll tell you what. Because it’s a special gift for such a special reason…I will do my level best to have it completed by your engagement party for a charge of…say fifteen hundred dollars? I’ll need half down to begin and I’d prefer cash. Does that sound fair?”
Ouch. Fifteen hundred would still be a hard nut to crack. That settled one thing. I would not be buying the cool new car I’d been thinking about. “Fair enough. Thank you!” I felt like whooping like a kid and performing a couple of cartwheels but restrained myself.
“I’ll need a photo of your fiancé and the horse as soon as possible. Actually several photos that show various angles of his face would be preferable. I’ll need them enlarged to a minimum size of sixteen by twenty if possible. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be,” she tacked on apologetically.
I was elated. Tally was going to be absolutely blown away. “Done. By the way,” I said, proffering my hand, “my name is Kendall O’Dell. I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier. I’m an investigative reporter for the Castle Valley Sun.”
Her probing gaze grew attentive. “Is that so? I wonder if I’ve read any of your articles.”
“If you subscribe to the Sun, you probably have. I’ve uncovered a series of pretty amazing stories the past few months.” She appeared mildly interested, yet her eyes looked distracted as if she were thinking of something else. “Anyway,” I continued, getting back on track, “do you live here in Castle Valley?”
“No, in Yarnell.”
“Oh, that’s right. Ginger mentioned that to me.” My mind raced ahead. It was going to take some time to find the right photo or series of photos. Since the copy shop was closed on Sunday it either meant a trip to Phoenix or wait until Monday. “I should be able to have them for you by Monday afternoon.”
“I won’t be back home until late that evening.”
“Oh. Well, I could mail them…oh wait, I just thought of something. I’ll be in Prescott on Tuesday attending a funeral. I could drop the photos off to you on my way back, probably before five o’clock. Would that work?” Right now the plan was to ride along with Tally and his family, but then how was I going to keep it a surprise? I’d have to think of a reason to go in a separate vehicle, and in any case the thought of traveling with Ruth didn’t exactly thrill me. “I’ll need directions to your house. Do you have a card or something?”
She patted her pockets. “I’m all out.” Striding to the counter, she laid the book down, slipped on a pair of reading glasses then jotted on the back of a blank receipt. “Drive to the north end of town. The road is easy to miss because someone crashed into the street sign two weeks ago and it hasn’t been replaced yet. Watch for a boarded up blue house and turn west directly afterwards. The pavement ends after a half a mile and you’ll come to a fork in the road. Go right at the first fork and left at the second. I’m kind of all by myself out there and I don’t have a land line so I’m including my cell number in case you get lost, although I can’t always get a signal because of the mountains. If I don’t answer leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
I accepted the paper and grinned my appreciation. “I can’t thank you enough.”
She patted the book she’d set on the counter. “I’ve just been reading some of Robert Browning’s poetry about love and I must say I think this is a very romantic gesture on your part.”
I grinned. “He’s worth it.”
She tilted her head to one side. “I’m sorry to hear that you’re going to a funeral. Losing a loved one is the hardest thing in the world. What a…what relationship…?” Her voice trailed off and she appeared chagrined. “I do apologize. I didn’t mean to pry into your personal affairs.”
“No problem. I never actually met…the deceased but at one time he was married to my fiancé’s aunt and remained a close family friend. It’s a pretty high-profile case. You may have read about it in our paper…Judge Riley Gibbons.”
A slow, sympatheti
c nod. “Oh my. Yes, I am aware of…that very unfortunate event. What is your fiancé’s name?”
“Bradley Talverson. He owns the Starfire Ranch northwest of here.”
“I see.” She looked at me expectantly. “So, are you investigating the judge’s death?”
“That’s my intention.“ Her troubled demeanor prompted me to ask, “Did you know him?”
“Actually, I did meet him a couple of times.”
“I’d be interested in anything you can tell me about him.”
“Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve had more personal contact with Mrs. Gibbons. We met at a social gathering last year. She admired the ice sculpture I’d done and hired me to create several pieces to display in the old hotel they’re in the process of restoring.” Looking grim, she added with a slight shrug, “I still haven’t been paid for the last piece the judge commissioned that I delivered there a few weeks ago.”
At that moment two well-dressed women walked into her canopy oohing and aahing so I backed away. “Looks like you’ve got some customers so I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you so much. See you Tuesday.” She waved goodbye and walked towards the potential customers.
It was hard to keep from skipping as I walked back to Ginger’s canopy where I found her tucking a shawl around Nona. The wind had picked up and the temperature was heading down. Predictably, Ginger was curious as to why I’d returned to Myra’s booth, and when I told her she beamed with pleasure. “Ain’t you happy now that I drug you over there to see her?”
“Absolutely.”
“Now, we gotta decide what kind of ice…hold the phone,” she said, peering over my left shoulder in wide-eyed admiration, “now that is one yummy-looking hunk of man! And…if I’m not mistaken he’s lookin’ right at you.”
“What?” I swung around and my stomach fluttered nervously at the sight of Grant standing in front of the booth across from us. He lifted a hand and smiled affably at me. Stunned and speechless I turned back to Ginger, my cheeks on fire.
