Seeds of Vengeance

by Sylvia Nobel

  “Interesting. I feel the same way about what I do. Guess our jobs aren’t all that different, except mine’s not quite as messy as yours.” I paused and added with a sardonic grin, “Most of the time.”

  “You’ll have to fill me in on all the stuff you’ve been up to.” She glanced outside into the gathering dusk. “Looks like the rain is letting up. I’ve got to go, but what say I drive you around to your car.”

  I accepted and we made our way down the slushy road to her maroon Toyota pickup. Hesitating, I stared with dismay at my dirt-streaked clothes and muddy shoes. “I hate to mess up your truck.”

  Her good-natured grin stretched ear to ear. “Are you kidding? You’re talking to someone who has traveled some of the roughest roads in the state into wilderness conditions in weather worse than this to examine remains. Heck, I spent the better part of three months at one of the landfills in Mobile sifting through chicken bones and dirty diapers looking for some poor woman who’d been stuffed in a dumpster.”

  I stared at her, marveling. “You worked on that one? I take it back. My job is downright cushy compared to yours. I’d sure love to join forces with you on this case. It’s weird. People kill people all the time and you almost get immune to it, but to cut the guy’s head off? That bugs me. It’s like…I’ve killed you, now I’m going kill you again.” I gave her an earnest look. “I’ve got to know. What kind of implement was used to…you know?”

  Her thoughtful expression turned skeptical as she contemplated my question. “I remember you were always up for just about anything when we were kids, but tell me, do you have an iron stomach?”

  My mind flashed back to the horrific scene I’d witnessed a month ago at the Mexican border while investigating my blockbuster story. “Sometimes.”

  She tilted her head in question. “Sure you want to know?”

  “I asked.”

  “I can’t give you all the details because of who you are and because all our tests on the soft tissue and cut bone are not yet conclusive. This much I can tell you. When we did the tool mark analysis we found it to be a very clean cut. Whoever decapitated him used a reciprocating saw, you know, like a Sawzall.”

  13

  Nora’s blunt statement sent cold shockwaves rolling through my gut. As she maneuvered her pickup along the uneven road, I could not dispel the nauseating image of Riley Gibbons’s handsome face being severed from his body. Considering what she’d said about the murderer often returning to the scene of the crime, I was more thankful than ever that it had been her hiding in the deserted bathhouse. Okay. Now I knew what I was dealing with. Not a madman as first suspected, but a cool, calculating individual who knew how to wield a reciprocating power saw. Choosing from the pool of local suspects pretty much narrowed it down to Randy Moorehouse or Winston Pendahl—each having a bone to pick with the judge.

  Bone to pick? Yikes! My thoughts were starting to travel down the same road as Walter and Jim’s. When Nora pulled into the parking area, we spent another fifteen minutes or so sitting in her truck reminiscing about our childhood. We only had time to touch briefly on current events with the exception of my upcoming engagement party.

  “I’m anxious for you to meet Tally and all my friends from the paper too,” I said, opening the door. A chill breeze rushed inside the warm cab. “You’ll come won’t you, and bring your husband and little boy? And guess what else? My folks, my brothers and some of my cousins from Ireland are flying in as well.”

  Her rosy complexion affirmed her delight. “I’ll be there. Your dad was always such a kick to be around. Wow. It really will be like old home week.”

  “Super! Sure you can’t join Tally and me for dinner tonight? We’ve got so much to catch up on.” I also wanted to grill her for more information about Riley’s case, but she declined, expressing her need to return home.

  Suddenly, I remembered what I’d found. “Hold on a minute,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “I don’t know if this is anything important, but it was hanging in a tree near the pond where the judge was found.” Grasping it with just my fingernails, I carefully pulled out the clump of cotton and handed it to her. “Doesn’t it look like the cotton they stuff in the top of prescription drug bottles?”

  “It sure does.” Her eyes lit up as she reached underneath her seat and pulled out a box of plastic gloves and a paper bag. She snapped the glove on, carefully took the cotton ball from me and placed it in the bag. “I’ll have it sent to the lab for immediate testing.”

  “How come you’re using a paper bag? I thought plastic was used to collect items for analysis?”

  “No. We use paper so as to not contaminate the biological evidence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Plastic is moisture holding and doesn’t breathe, so if you put biological evidence into a plastic bag, any moisture allows the DNA to degrade while fomenting mold like crazy, thereby contaminating your specimen. Law enforcement has moved towards using containers that have breathable paper on one side and plastic on the other so they can write on it, but I think the safest thing is to package everything in plain brown paper bags.”

  “Huh. I learn something new everyday. Well, anyway, assuming that the cotton did come from a prescription bottle,” I ventured, remembering the row of them lined up on La Donna’s windowsill, “will they be able to identify the type of medication?”

  “If they weren’t capsules there’s a good chance there might be traces left.”

  “How long until you know something?”

  “I’ll make sure it’s a top priority. Hopefully just a day or two.”

  “I’ll call you.” We exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses, hugged each other goodbye, and as I stood there watching her drive away, I wondered how much of what she’d told me I should share with Ruth. Would telling her that the judge had first died of a gunshot wound to the chest and then had his head chopped off make her feel better or worse?

  I checked my watch. Best get cracking since I had no idea what the road conditions would be like following the storm. I’d just cleared the raindrops from my windshield and shifted into reverse when a sporty white SUV pulled in and parked near the low wall. A guest checking in? Curious, I paused and watched a petite, young woman wearing jeans and an oversized pea-green sweatshirt slide from the driver’s side. The wind caught her short-cropped chestnut hair and blew the bangs away from her forehead. When she spotted me, she smiled and raised a hand in greeting before opening the rear hatch of her vehicle. The interior was stuffed with cardboard boxes and grocery bags which she began gathering towards her.

  I grabbed a business card from the dashboard and slid my window down. “Excuse me. Are you Marissa Van Steenholm?”

  She looked over her shoulder, her expression pleasantly inquiring. “Yes?”

  “Kendall O’Dell, reporter for the Castle Valley Sun.”

  The welcoming shine in her eyes diminished immediately. “Yes?”

  I held out the card to her. “I’m on my way out, but I was wondering if I could talk with you another time, perhaps tomorrow?”

  She stepped towards me and retrieved the card. “What about?”

  “Riley Gibbons.”

  “You know what?” she said, pursing her lips, “I’m really not in the mood to talk to any more reporters about that…awful situation.”

  I sighed. Time to cash in the connection card once again. “Judge Gibbons was my fiancé’s uncle. Did he ever mention the Talverson family to you?”

  Still wary, her shoulders relaxed slightly. “A couple of times. Why?”

  “Well, naturally the family is very distraught, so any additional information you could provide might be helpful.”

  “I’ve been following the coverage in your newspaper. It appears to be pretty thorough. I don’t think there’s anything I can tell you that you don’t already know.”

  I’ll be the judge of that, I thought, but said aloud, “Sometimes simple things are overlooked. I’d appreciate a few minutes of
your time.” I issued her a friendly smile.

  She paused, tucking a thatch of hair behind one ear. “Oh, all right, but I won’t have any free time until after our guests check out in the morning.”

  “Whatever time is convenient for you.”

  “How about eleven-thirty?”

  “That’ll work.”

  She nodded goodbye, loaded her arms with grocery bags and toed the gate open. Her swift backward glance in my direction before she turned away made me wonder if there was more hidden here than pools of water.

  I was almost to the main road when I rounded a corner and saw a white pickup and trailer stopped sideways in the middle of driveway, blocking my exit. The hood was up and a man was bent over the truck’s engine, obviously tinkering with something inside. He had a generous mass of wavy salt and pepper gray hair and his beefy shoulders looked a mile wide. I searched for a place to squeeze past, but there wasn’t enough room between the truck and the fence on either side. I coasted to a stop and stuck my head out the window. “Excuse me, could you please let me pass?”

  Obviously startled, the man swung around, saw me, turned back to what he’d been doing and then did a classic double take, staring hard at me. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and beard and I guessed his age to be mid-forties. Wiping his hands on a smudged cloth, he ambled towards me with a look of shrewd appraisal. When he reached my truck, he showed me a mouthful of very white teeth and leaned in the window, effectively invading my comfort zone. “Well, hi there, pretty lady. Anybody ever told you that you have amazing red hair?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “I’ll bet. Say, you think you could give me a jump?”

  He made no secret of checking me out and my cheeks flamed with irritation when his eyes lingered long on my boobs. Pretty brazen dude. Coolly, I answered, “I suppose so.” How else was I going to get him out of my way?

  “Great. Pull ’er up closer to me and pop the hood.” I did as he asked while he ran to the trailer, opened the back and after a moment returned and clamped jumper cables to the respective batteries. He hopped in his truck and signaled me to start my engine. I did and after several tries, his truck roared to life. He gave me two thumbs up, jumped out and trotted back to my truck. “Hey, thanks a bundle. Say, do you live around here?”

  Oh yeah, that was an original pick-up line. “Around. How about you?”

  Again, the wide display of shining teeth. “Winston Pendahl at your service. I’m doing all the renovations at the hotel.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep. And if you ever need anything fixed, built or serviced, anything at all, I’m your man.” His meaningful wink made my skin crawl. He whipped a card from his pocket and held it out to me. “You can call me anytime.”

  So, this was the guy who’d spent six years in prison for beating another man to death with a hammer. A quick glance at his muscular forearms and hands confirmed that he possessed the physical wherewithal to have easily performed such a feat. Operating a power saw would be a piece of cake for him as well. “Kendall O’Dell.” I pulled one of my cards from the dashboard and exchanged it with his.

  “Kendall, huh?” he repeated with an expectant gleam in his dark green eyes. “Well, well. Looks like you and me got something in common.”

  I didn’t want to have anything in common with this smarmy guy and it took supreme effort to keep my face expressionless. “Oh? And what would that be?”

  “We rhyme!”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Kendall and Pendahl! Get it?” He laughed heartily at his lame pun. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him to take a hike, but I wanted to reserve the opportunity to question him later.

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Well, thanks again, I owe ya one.” He glanced at my card and his face fell. “Oh? You’re a reporter.”

  “Yes I am. And I’d like to hear all the details concerning your discovery of Judge Gibbons’s body.”

  It was fleeting, and if I hadn’t been looking right at him I’d have missed the wary expression that flickered behind his eyes. He stroked his beard. “I…I can’t talk right now. I’m late getting this stuff to the hotel.”

  “Well then another time soon,” I pressed, watching him closely.

  His fawning disposition morphed into petulance. “I already gave my statement to the sheriff and I already talked myself blue in the face answering questions for all those other nosy reporters who were hangin’ around here a couple of weeks ago, so I ain’t got nuthin’ new to say.”

  I could tell he was retreating and mustered up a genial smile. “I’d prefer to hear your firsthand account myself just in case you remember something else germane.” I could tell by his vacant look that he didn’t know what germane meant.

  “I ain’t got nuthin’ to hide.” A trace of belligerence underscored his words.

  “I never said you did.”

  He appeared to be thinking it over. “Okay. How about you meet me this evening for a drink? I’ll be at the Hitchin’ Post around six.”

  Sure. Meeting this sleazeball after dark at a biker bar sounded like a really smart move.

  “I’m tied up this evening,” I replied, keeping my voice pleasant, modulated. “Another time would suit me better.”

  “Sure. Sure. Like I said, I don’t got a thing to hide.”

  “That’s good to hear. We’ll talk again.”

  He ran back to his truck and I pulled back to allow him to drive by. Black lettering on the side of his truck read: PENDAHL’S HANDYMAN SERVICE. I glanced in my rearview mirror in time to see him staring back at me. I decided that Winston Pehdahl’s dubious behavior suggested the man had plenty to hide.

  Clearing the shadowy canopy of palm fronds, I turned onto the main road thinking that my membership in the Fourth Estate certainly hadn’t earned me any accolades today. As Hidden Springs faded from sight my thoughts returned to Riley Gibbons’s intriguing message from beyond the grave. LET YOUR HOOK ALWAYS CAST. IN THE POOL WHERE YOU LEAST EXPECT IT, WILL BE FISH. I’d read enough verse and prose of well-known philosophers like Longfellow and Ralph Waldo Emerson to know that the words could be open to more than one interpretation. But, what had the judge meant by choosing that particular phrase?

  Patches of robin’s egg blue sky appeared overhead as I reached the top of the hill, and I stared in delight at the wide sweep of cantaloupe-colored sky to the west where feathery lavender clouds fanned out in preparation for twilight’s grand finale. The bulk of the storm had pushed southward towards Phoenix, but judging by the charcoal hue of the clouds congregating above the northern mountains, it was apparent we were going to get clobbered again.

  I switched into four-wheel drive and after negotiating a series of deep water-filled potholes in the rutted road I approached the first major dip with trepidation. There was only a trickle of water running through it. I sighed in relief. When it came to crossing desert washes in bad weather I was still uneasy as a result of being stranded in the middle of one in a raging torrent last summer. The water level was running a little higher in the second wash as I splashed across. In all likelihood, it was already raining or snowing in the higher elevations. The sooner I got to a paved road the better. When I passed the gravel quarry, I exercised extra caution rounding the sharp turns. Apparently inclement weather hadn’t halted deliveries, as evidenced by the cavernous tire tracks carved in the mud. It made negotiating the gummy surface challenging.

  Even though I was looking forward to seeing Tally, the thought of confessing my pact with Ruth filled me with anxiety. Mindful of his hectic schedule this weekend it might be wise to confirm our dinner date. I fished out my cell phone but had to travel another mile before I got a signal. A glance at the screen indicated that I had voice-mail. I dialed the number and listened to Tally’s message with dismay. The rancher driving in from Colorado with his mares had broken down and was stranded at a remote place called Chambers, Arizona, on the Apache Reservation. Tally and Jake were on
their way to meet him. Could we reschedule our dinner for tomorrow? Frap! Double frap! The more time that passed the more deeply enmeshed I’d be in this story.

  Mild irritation washed over me, but I shook it off. Might as well take advantage of the unexpected gift of time. I scrolled to Ginger’s number and her younger brother Brian answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, Kendall, what’s up?”

  “Oh, this and that. Your sister there?”

  “Yeah, hang on.”

  He set the phone down and I could hear the din of the TV in the background and Nona’s little dog Suzie yipping up a storm.

  “What’s cookin’, girlfriend?” Ginger said, coming on the line.

  “How did the rest of the show go? Did you get rained out?”

  “Talk about a gully washer! We’d no sooner buttoned ’er up, when down she came.”

  “No kidding. Hey, what are you up to this evening?”

  “Not much. Just settin’ here watching TV with Nona.”

  “My dinner plans with Tally fell through and—”

  She cut in, “Did you tell him yet?”

  “No.” I repeated his message to her.

  “In a way you got a lucky break. If he ain’t at the ranch that means Lucy ain’t had a chance to rat on ya either.”

  “True. Anyway, do you want to get together and go over plans for the party?”

  “Is a pig’s hiney made o’ pork?”

  I laughed. “I’m about twenty minutes from town. How about we meet at the florist and then if you’re up for it we can eat dinner at Angelina’s or I can get takeout.”

  “I think the flower shop closes early on Saturdays, but I’ll give Rulinda a jingle and buzz ya right back.”

  As I swung onto the main road my thoughts involuntarily strayed to Grant. I wondered how his interview in Phoenix had panned out and thought how odd it was that we were working the same story, albeit unintentionally. Even though it was best that we not meet again, on a professional level I wished I could compare notes with him because he was the best in his field and would no doubt have an interesting take on the whole situation. The phone’s merry tune burst into my musings.