Seeds of Vengeance

by Sylvia Nobel

  “Oh, piffle! You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It would be nothing more than one friend doing a favor for another. It’s not like I’m asking you to give Grant another chance, even if it would make me the happiest woman on earth if you two did patch things up, but it would just be for a few hours. It would mean so much to him and it would mean so very much to me. Please, Kendall, you know I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if I didn’t feel it was of paramount importance.”

  “But—”

  “Please! You know how much I care for Grant and you. If something happened to him because of—” her voice cracked and I felt like my heart was sinking into my shoes. Choking. I was choking.

  “Okay, Phyllis, I’ll pick him up and drive him to the funeral.”

  “You are an absolute peach!” she cried in my ear. “I can’t thank you enough. Your mother is very lucky to have such a fine daughter. I’ll call Grant right now. What time should I tell him to expect you?”

  “Tell him to be ready by noon.”

  I set the phone down and considered two possibilities. One, eat the second pint of ice cream beckoning to me from the freezer, or two, pour myself a huge glass of wine. Before I could do either, Marmalade’s sides began to convulse and she made a couple of gurgling retches before hacking up a gigantic fur ball at my feet. I stared down at the gooey mess and remarked tiredly, “My sentiments exactly.”

  18

  Monday didn’t start out much better. I arrived at the copy shop at eight o’clock sharp with the photographs in hand and was apologetically told that the equipment used to make enlargements was out of order. A technician would arrive sometime on Tuesday and my order would be processed by Wednesday. I stood there for a moment, jingling my keys and debating as to whether I had time to drive to Phoenix. Nope. With Jim on vacation for the week and Tally stranded in the snow, we’d be too understaffed for me to take off, considering I’d be gone most of the following day.

  Lamenting my continued run of bad luck, I left the photos and drove to the office. On the way, I dialed Myra Colton’s number and got her voicemail. I left a message explaining the situation, told her that I would stop by the following afternoon regardless to give her the deposit, and then I would make a second trip to bring her the posters on Thursday or Friday at the latest.

  The only cheerful note was the weather improvement. The heavy cloud cover finally broke up enough for intermittent sunshine to brighten the landscape, although according to the weather report, it was to be a brief respite pending the arrival of the next Pacific storm. I tried unsuccessfully a half dozen times to reach Tally and wondered if he’d been successful in getting the horse trailer repaired. It made me uncomfortable to think that he was snowbound on some out-of-the-way ranch without the means to communicate or perhaps even travel. I decided right then and there that if he didn’t get himself a cell phone when he returned, I would buy one for him.

  I managed to get through the hectic day, and by the time Tuesday morning rolled around I was up early mulling over what would be appropriate to wear to a high-profile funeral. I finally chose a black pantsuit, cream-colored turtleneck shirt and black suede boots. Calculating that I could get a couple of hours of work done at the office before picking up Grant, I filled Marmalade’s food bowl, left the kitchen light on and dug my knee-length wool coat from the guestroom closet. I hadn’t thought it would ever be cold enough to wear it again but I was glad I had it on when I stepped outside into the freezing wind.

  “Well now, don’t you look like you oughta be on the cover of a fashion magazine,” Ginger chirped, giving me the once over as I entered the lobby. “You goin’ to a party or somethin’?”

  I grimaced. “No, Ginger, I’m covering Judge Gibbons’s funeral, remember?”

  “Oh, mercy!” she gasped, looking embarrassed, “I plumb forgot that was today.”

  It seemed as though I’d barely dug into the pile of papers on my desk when I looked up and realized it was almost eleven o’clock. Hurriedly, I put my desk in order, then waved goodbye to Tugg, who was parked in front of his computer with the phone jammed against his ear. I stopped by Walter’s desk to chat for a few minutes and asked if he could do a computer search to look for any ancillary cases or past newspaper articles that may have come to light regarding anything unusual connected personally or professionally to Judge Gibbons. Dashing past Ginger’s desk, I called out that I wouldn’t return until the following morning and headed down the road towards Hidden Springs. Buffeted by strong gusts of wind, I traveled beneath a dome of sapphire sky so clear and sunshine so intense it was hard to imagine that it had been spitting snow this time yesterday. A quick check of the weather on the all-news station confirmed that while the roads north were currently clear, Arizonans should brace for a new storm due to blow in sometime this afternoon. I hoped the worst of it would wait until we got safely home.

  I was in a strange state of mind as I followed the winding ribbon of road into the secluded valley and my agitation heightened as I severely berated myself for getting stuck in this quagmire. What I needed in the future was duct tape. Lots of duct tape. A wheelbarrow full to place over my big mouth the next time I was tempted to make snap promises to anyone. If I’d done that, I would have been unable to give my hasty pledge to Tally or foolishly become ensnared in Ruth’s tangled web of deceit. And now, I’d gotten myself backed into another sharp corner because I’d lacked the guts to say no to Phyllis Jamerson. “Another fabulous mess you’ve gotten yourself into, O’Dell,” I grumbled aloud, thinking that it might be wise to rehearse what I planned to say to Grant. I had no intention of parsing words. He must understand that I was going out of my way today as a favor to his mother, pure and simple, and if he attempted to read anything more into it, he was sadly mistaken. Period. End of discussion.

  I pulled into the parking area and stepped outside, buttoning my coat against the icy, yet exhilarating wind. A second white compact car that I assumed was Grant’s replacement rental car sat near the wall. Pausing to decompress before confronting Grant, I closed my eyes and listened to the soothing swish of palm fronds while inhaling the aroma of damp grass and leaves. Yes, very calming. Okay. I was good to go. As I pushed through the gate, I wondered if La Donna had changed her mind and decided to attend the funeral after all. Passing by her cottage, I was surprised to see the front door standing open and two of her cats roaming about in the garden. A third sat on the doorstep looking out. That was curious. Hadn’t she made a big fuss of making sure they not go outside? I’d only advanced a few steps further when I heard what sounded like glass breaking from within the little house. Wheeling around, I ran towards the door. The cats saw me coming, froze in place, then with their backs and tails puffed up, they bolted into the house. Pausing at the doorway, I called out, “Hello? Is everything okay in here?” It was then I heard the ragged sobs coming from the direction of the kitchen. I hurried inside and froze at the sight of La Donna standing near the refrigerator in her bathrobe, hair disheveled, tears streaming down her blotched cheeks. At her feet were shards of broken glass and a clear liquid splattered across the tile floor. A swift glance at the soaked label on the remains of the bottle identified the contents as vodka. Good grief! It must be something pretty serious for her to have been so careless with her cats and be totally blitzed before noon.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, gingerly picking my way towards her, glass crunching beneath my shoes. A half-filled tumbler sat on the countertop next to an open prescription bottle lying on its side. I cocked my head slightly and was able to make out the name of the drug. Vicodin. So, she was mixing painkillers with booze. Not a good combination.

  She focused her bleary gaze on me. “What are you doing here?” Her words were slurred.

  “I’m here to drive…someone to the judge’s funeral.” There was no point in going into my relationship with Grant.

  My innocent remark ignited a look of rage. “That someone wouldn’t happen to be Marissa, would it? Yes,” she conti
nued, before I could correct her, “why don’t you take her with you so she can flaunt herself in front of all Riley’s colleagues and the TV cameras! Why not complete my total humiliation!”

  “You’re mistaken. I’m not here to—”

  With an abrupt swipe of her hand, she cut me off. “I can hear the whispering behind my back, the snickering, their sanc…tim…on…sanctimonynus tongues wagging, especially now.”

  “Why especially now?” I asked cautiously.

  “Because I was over at the hotel this morning doing some paperwork and I overheard that…that…that—”

  “Slow down. You overheard what?”

  She pressed fingers to her eyes. “I heard Marissa talking on the phone to her doctor.”

  Uh-oh.

  “It all makes sense now, why she’s been so sick these past few weeks. That little whore is pregnant with Riley’s bastard!” she wailed, pointing an accusing finger at me as if I’d somehow played a part in it. She picked up the glass and took a gulp. “That lousy son-of-a-bitch! He’s fixed it so I’m the one who’ll look like the bad guy, turning a mother and child out into the cold. How easy is it going to be now for me to contest his will?”

  I didn’t have a ready response to her question, or tirade, to be more accurate. Considering her inebriated, confrontational behavior, I decided this was a bad time to try and reason with her. “I understand your feelings—”

  “No you don’t!” she screeched. “Nobody does!”

  “Okay,” I said softly, hoping to placate her. “Why don’t we try and get you out of here and into bed so you can…” I was tempted to say sober up, but said instead, “rest.”

  “I don’t want your help. I want Bernita! Go get Bernita!”

  “Okay, okay. Stay right where you’re at and I’ll send her over.”

  I hotfooted it to the hotel and felt a rush of relief when the elderly Mexican woman answered the door. I explained the situation and she nodded gravely. “Mrs. Gibbons was very mad this morning. She learned about the baby and called Miss Marissa many bad words,” she announced, ushering me into the foyer.

  “I heard a few of them. Is Marissa here?

  “She’s lying down in her room. She complains of having pain here,” she said, pressing on her abdomen, “but insists she will go to Mr. Gibbons’s funeral anyway.”

  “Really? Is she driving by herself?”

  “I think maybe yes.”

  I made an instant decision. Having Marissa along would reduce the awkwardness of having to travel alone with Grant. “I’d be glad to take her with me.”

  Bernita shrugged and pointed towards the hallway. “You can ask her. She is in the first room on the right.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced around the corner into the little sitting room. No sign of Grant. “By the way, do you know where Mr. Jamerson is?”

  “I have not seen him yet today.”

  That didn’t sound too promising.

  “I will go now and take care of Mrs. Gibbons.” It was hard to miss the undertone of resignation in her voice. La Donna appeared to be profoundly unstable, not as bad as Ruth, but the woman definitely had serious issues to deal with. Bernita acknowledged my sympathetic smile with an insightful nod as she reached for the doorknob. After she left, I crossed the foyer and knocked on the bedroom door.

  “Marissa? It’s Kendall O’Dell.”

  “Door’s open.”

  I walked in and drew in a breath of appreciation at the room’s stunning décor—high scrolled ceiling, delicately flowered wallpaper, an extensive array of antique mahogany furniture, and scattered about the spacious room were several exquisite Persian rugs. Curled beneath a comforter in the center of a massive four poster bed lay Marissa.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, noting how ashen her complexion appeared in contrast to her dark hair.

  “I hope so.” Her voice sounded faint. “I’m having some cramping and I’m not sure what it is.”

  “Bernita says you’re planning to attend the funeral. I’m here to pick up Mr. Jamerson and you’re more than welcome to ride with us. Considering your condition and the fact that there’s another storm coming, do you think it’s a good idea to travel alone?”

  “That’s really kind of you.” She threw off the comforter and sat up, smoothing the skirt of her ankle-length black dress. “I guess I could go with you as long as you can bring me back by four-thirty for my doctor’s appointment.”

  “Oh. That won’t work. I have to make a couple of stops in Yarnell on the way back and I’m not sure how long it’s going to take.”

  “Well, thanks anyway. Winston was planning to drive to Prescott today to pick up new windows and he offered to bring me along, so I guess I’ll take him up on it. See you there.”

  I forced a smile, hoping she wouldn’t notice how much her remark bothered me. “Yeah. See you.”

  I left the room and headed for the stairs. I liked Marissa and was deeply troubled by the implication that she would be comfortable driving alone with Winston Pendahl to Prescott or anywhere else for that matter. Did that give credence to La Donna’s damning assertion that the two of them were lovers? Did it breathe life into her supposition that Marissa had prior knowledge of the gold coins that had supposedly been in the judge’s safe deposit box and that she and Winston had conspired to murder him in order to get their hands on them? Yet Marissa had vehemently denied the accusation and La Donna admitted that she had never actually seen the gold. So…had the judge been telling the truth? If the answer was yes, what happened to the quarter of a million dollars worth of gold? Perhaps the two of them were sitting on it until the investigation grew cold. Or…had La Donna made the whole thing up to divert suspicion away from herself? She certainly had ample justification for killing her two-timing husband.

  Another scenario could be that Marissa had innocently mentioned the gold to Winston Pendahl who’d then shared the information with his pal Randy Moorehouse. Then the men had kidnapped the judge, taken him to the bank and forced him to empty the safe deposit box before driving him to a remote spot where they’d shot him and then sawed his head off. Yeah. I liked that theory a lot better. Now all I had to do was prove it, I thought, tapping on Grant’s door. “It’s Kendall! You ready to go?” No answer. I rapped harder, waited, and when I heard no response, tried the knob. It turned easily, so I pushed the door open. “Grant? You in here?” The blinds were closed, but there was just enough light to confirm that he was still in bed.

  “Kendall?” he mumbled, turning over and blinking at me in surprise.

  Suppressing a flare of irritation, I stomped over to the window and yanked the blinds, allowing brilliant sunlight to flood the room. “Come on, lazybones, it’s almost noon. Time to get your butt out of the sack.”

  He grimaced. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  “Why not? Didn’t your mommy give you my message?”

  “Your displeasure is duly recorded.” He struggled to a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, groaning, “I’m sorry. These pills make me feel really goofy.”

  I folded my arms and maintained my disapproving expression. I knew it was childish, but considering how many miserable nights I’d spent crying my eyes out after being dumped by him, it felt rather good to have the upper hand.

  He focused on my face, looking bemused. “What? Can’t you wait until I grab a shower and get dressed, or would you rather I’d go like this?” He threw off the covers to reveal black silk boxer shorts. He actually looked pretty darn cute sitting there, bare-chested, his blonde hair all tousled. An uncomfortable heat engulfed me as memories of our past intimacy paraded before my eyes and mixed signals from my heart filled me with guilty confusion.

  “If you want a lift,” I said, keeping my tone crisp, businesslike, “you’ve got twenty minutes. If you’re not ready, I’m leaving without you.”

  “Give a guy a break, will you?”

  Unsmiling, I narrowed my gaze at him. “Consider yourself fortunat
e that I’m here at all. And don’t think for a second that I’m not onto your little scheme.”

  His eyes twinkled with innocence. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “Twenty minutes.” Feeling uncertain and off-balance, I backed out the door, relieved to put some distance between us. What was the matter with me? Being around him again resurrected remnants of affection I thought were long gone. Okay, Kendall, get a grip. Concentrate on other matters. I peered down the dim hallway. Might as well use the time to explore this fascinating old place.

  With dusty shafts of sunlight peeking in here and there through smudged windowpanes, I picked my way around the clutter of power tools and building materials, glancing into empty bedrooms and bathrooms, all in various stages of repair, until I reached the last door at the end of the hallway. When I tried the knob, it didn’t budge. Assuming it was locked, I turned away only to spin around when I heard what sounded like the latch quietly releasing. To my amazement, the door slowly opened a crack as if pushed by an unseen hand. My scalp prickled. I’m not sure what I expected, but then I felt the breeze. Oh. I’d probably jarred the lock loose and then a draft from above had blown the door open. Of course, that was the logical explanation. I felt strangely disappointed. Had I been expecting a visit from the hotel’s alleged ghost?

  Pushing aside that capricious thought, I pulled on the doorknob and was amazed to find not a room but a hidden staircase. How cool was this? Remembering Marissa’s warning about the dangerous conditions above, I tentatively placed my weight on the first step. It creaked a little, but appeared sturdy. I looked around for a light and pulled on the chain snaking down the wall from a bare bulb high above me. It wasn’t a very bright light, but better than none at all. With care, I ascended the steep, spiral steps unable to contain my excitement. The antiquated building reminded me of descriptions I’d read of brooding, haunted mansions in countless spine-tingling murder mysteries from childhood. I could identify with how enamored Riley Gibbons must have been with this place, since he’d shared the same propensity for whodunits. Sure enough, when I reached the top, I was confronted by yet another closed door. I turned the crystal doorknob and the hinges squealed in protest when I tugged it open to reveal a small kitchen with ancient-looking appliances and a rusty sink. The steady drip of water from the faucet echoed in the silence like a ticking clock. No doubt I’d entered the third floor via the servants’ entrance.