by Sylvia Nobel
Moving on, I stepped through the next doorway into a spacious sunlit room, marveling at the height of the ceiling, probably twenty feet at least, and the ornate crown molding trim. It was easy to see where the draft was coming from. In several areas, clumps of plaster hung down and I could see evidence of daylight from above. Dark splotches staining the walls told of recent water damage, but even devoid of furniture, the massive size and lofty windows gave the room an elegant cathedral-like appearance. Since it was obviously too large to be a bedroom, I presumed that it must have served as a drawing room in bygone days. It was easy to imagine the room filled with genteel ladies attired in starched lace blouses and long skirts sipping tea to the accompaniment of soft harp music, or groups of men arguing the politics of the day as they puffed on cigars and drank from snifters filled with fine brandy. My, my, O’Dell, aren’t we fanciful today. Forcing my mind back to reality, I moved past the wide entrance to the staircase, also strung with yellow caution tape, and stopped in front of a magnificent white marble fireplace. For some reason, large sections of the wall on either side of the hearth had been bashed in. How odd. Curiosity drew me to the gaping cavities, but my fear of spiders necessitated finding a scrap of wood to thrash around inside the hole before I gingerly eased my head inside for a look. Other than catching a whiff of musty timbers, it was too dark to make out anything in detail.
At that moment a strange shushing sound reached my ears. Startled, I jerked my head out and spun around. Relief poured through me when I finally identified the source of the noise. A bird. It soared around the room several more times and then vanished through an opening in the ceiling. I wondered how many other critters had set up residency in the abandoned rooms.
Wandering into the hallway, I had to watch my step because of the yawning cracks where rotted planks had apparently been removed. I continued, peeking into the empty rooms, noting with interest that holes had been cut in various locations in the walls and again, some sections of wood flooring had been removed. I ran my hand over the smooth wall surface. How strange. Except for those specific areas, however, the thick plaster walls and floorboards appeared to be in stable condition. So, why had Winston Pendahl declared the third floor a danger zone?
At the end of the hallway, I stopped in front of a closed mahogany door complete with a crystal doorknob and what looked like a new lock. Interesting. This was the only room where the door had not been standing open. I tried the knob and to my surprise, the door opened easily. I stepped inside and drew in a breath of delight. The room was furnished. And nicely at that, although half-filled moving boxes scattered throughout the room suggested that someone was in the process of packing up the contents. I peeked inside some of the boxes, noting assorted vases, lamps and bric-a-brac wrapped securely in bubble wrap, and nearby, several more filled with books. Adjacent to a small fireplace stood several partially filled bookshelves. I crossed the room to study some of the remaining titles, not surprised to see scores of mystery novels by Edgar Allen Poe, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler and many more. There were also volumes of philosophy, prose and poetry. So this must have been Riley Gibbons’s library, the place he retreated to for solace from his hectic professional and, most certainly, personal life.
When I turned towards the arched window, I was afforded a breathtaking view of the Praying Nun. From this angle the two shadowy wind-carved crevices on either side of what looked like the lady’s nose gave the impression of eyes set in the unique rock formation. Perhaps it was my overwrought imagination, but it seemed as if the inquisitive eyes were staring directly in the window. On a nearby pedestal stood a bronze statue of a dreamy-faced young girl. Her eyes were cast skyward and her arms outstretched towards two golden butterflies suspended above the palm of each hand on delicate strands of almost invisible wire. The piece was eye-catching and extraordinary in its detail. Again, I recognized another of Myra Colton’s unique creations. Was this the piece she’d not yet been paid for? On the way out, I stopped and looked again at the new lock. Had it been installed to preserve this room’s integrity? Ah, but then, why had several of the floorboards adjacent to the fireplace been removed? Puzzled, I pulled the door shut behind me, and continued walking towards a stained glass window at the very end of the hall. As I approached it, I could see that one corner of the windowpane was broken. The wind blowing through the hole sounded eerie and lonesome, like a far off train whistle.
It’s hard to explain in words what happened next, but all at once, a chill invaded my body and an irrational but crushing sense of melancholy consumed me. Every hair on the back of my neck quivered. At first, I attributed the bizarre sensation to the draft, but then I began to tremble violently from a cold so profound, so intense, it was as if my bones had frozen solid. Even more disturbing was the innate knowledge that I was no longer alone. Rooted to the spot, I gasped aloud, feeling as though an icy presence had actually passed through one side of me and out the other. Spellbound, I stared at what appeared to be a swirl of dust motes kicked up by the fickle breeze. But within seconds, the hazy cloud vanished, as if magically pulled through the wall.
19
I don’t know how long I stood rooted to the spot, mesmerized and unable to come up with a logical explanation for the phenomenon. Given the ethereal ambiance of the place, it would have been easy to dismiss the incident as pure fantasy, but my intuition convinced me that I had just experienced something not of this world. While intriguing, the encounter, if that’s truly what it had been, unsettled me so much I lost the desire to stick around any longer. With haste, I retraced my steps and beat a path down the angled staircase. Twice as traumatic as the haunting episode, was colliding in the semi-dark stairwell with Winston Pendahl. We both gasped aloud, our faces only inches apart before I leaped back up a step and he stepped down several.
Breathing heavily, he bellowed, “Sweet Jesus! What the hell were you doing up there?”
“Just…having a look around.” I hoped my voice sounded matter-of-fact. It wouldn’t be good for him to know that I’d come close to wetting my pants.
“No one is supposed to be on the third floor. Can’t you read?” he demanded with a menacing scowl as he swung one muscular arm behind him towards the open door below. “The sign says to stay out! It’s too dangerous for people not familiar with the…with the ongoing renovations to be snooping around.”
Snooping around? His belligerent attitude infuriated me. “Hey, back off, buddy. There’s no need to shout.” In addition to the blaze of fury in his eyes, I’m pretty sure I saw a trace of alarm. Was my supposed welfare the only reason for his apparent distress? When he realized that I wasn’t cowed by his threatening behavior, he retreated from his hard line stance and squeezed out a cheesy smile that really creeped me out.
“Sorry. It’s just that we can’t take a chance on any of our guests getting injured.”
His proprietary attitude irked me even more. We? Our guests? “I didn’t realize you were one of the owners of this establishment.”
“Well…I’m not,” he backpedaled, his smile collapsing. “What I mean is, I’m just thinking of Mar…I mean, Miss Van Steenholm’s welfare. If someone accidentally got hurt, it could be…bad, ya know? She could get sued.”
Why was he trying to pretend he didn’t know her very well? “You needn’t worry. I was very careful. Now, if you don’t mind moving out of my way, I’m on a tight schedule.”
“Sure, sure. Me too.” He turned and trotted ahead of me down the remaining steps into the hallway, stopping to pick up a power saw and plug it into an outlet. I breezed past him and when I reached Grant’s door, the sudden screech of the saw sent a little shock of horror running through me. I flicked a glance over my shoulder only to find him glaring back at me, his hooded eyes furtive and speculative. I turned away and knocked on the door while several disturbing thoughts crossed my mind. Now that I really thought about it, there appeared to be some deliberate reason behind the systematic pattern of holes tha
t had been created in the floor and walls. But for what purpose? His uneasiness concerning my so-called snooping around on the third floor now seemed highly suspicious to me. This guy definitely bore watching.
Emotionally pummeled by the number and magnitude of events that had occurred within a twenty-four-hour period, it was hard to concentrate on the barrage of questions Grant fired at me while I negotiated a series of tricky hairpin switchbacks on the one-way divided highway that climbed steeply up Yarnell Hill four miles to the summit of Table Top Mountain. Why was the funeral being held in Prescott instead of Phoenix? Did I know which dignitaries would be in attendance? How long would it take to drive there from Castle Valley? Was there more snow forecast and was I sure I could actually handle this big 4x4 pickup on these narrow roads? It wasn’t until he fell silent that I finally glanced over to find him staring out the window, apparently transfixed by what I considered one of the most spectacular views in Arizona—a stunning panorama of the sprawling valley below encircled by a palisade of mountains and topped off with a boundless expanse of clear cerulean blue sky. As we sped by the scenic overlook, vivid memories of meeting Tally there for the first time passed before my eyes. It was mind-boggling to realize how much my life had changed since that April day and I felt a twinge of wistful regret when I thought ahead to the sky-high hurdles awaiting both of us—especially after Ruth broke the news to him about Riley.
The lack of chatter from Grant prompted me to glance at him. He was staring a hole right through me, the expression in his bright blue eyes provocative. “What?”
“You seem…preoccupied. Something bothering you?”
He had no idea. “A little of this and that.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“No.”
“Oh, I get it. Even though I’m trying my best to be sociable, you’ve decided to stay pissed off at me.”
“Everything isn’t all about you, Grant.”
Apparently choosing to ignore my remark, he responded in a cheery tone, “Maybe I can help. Want to talk about it?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, yes, you do.”
I directed him a look of mild irritation, not surprised to see his face set with a look of smug satisfaction. He knew me too well, but then, I knew him too. He had his reporter’s cap on now and, like a small dog with teeth firmly embedded in someone’s pant leg, there was no way he was going to let go until he found out what was troubling me. We’d always shared that particular mulish trait. “Okay. I’ve been kicking around various aspects of the Gibbons case.”
“Ah, so Kendall O’Dell, investigative reporter extraordinaire, is back in the saddle. Just thought I’d throw in some western lingo.” His impish grin indicated he was pleased with his little joke.
“Temporarily, anyway,” I murmured, watching a cluster of white waffle-like clouds push over the ridge, no doubt the forerunner to the impending weather change. As we crested the summit of boulder-capped Table Top Mountain and followed the meandering road through the village of Yarnell, picturesquely sandwiched between the towering ridges of the Weaver Mountains, Grant sat quietly studying the scattering of antique stores, cozy cafes and small businesses that included several offering crafts from Native American tribes and Mexican imports catering to the tourist trade. I’d told Grant earlier that I had to make a stop on our way back and as we approached the north end of town I began to search for the boarded-up house Myra Colton had told me to look for. It was nearly hidden in a grove of overgrown trees and as I cruised by, I spotted the side road snaking away to the west just as she’d described.
We left Yarnell behind and entered a lush basin filled with deep gorges rimmed with mammoth clusters of granite rocks and rolling pasturelands dotted with cottonwood and black walnut trees—home to the peaceful ranching community of Peeple’s Valley. I glanced ahead, taking note of the frothy storm clouds beginning to pile up to the north. The windshield was beginning to fog up so I reached to switch on the defroster as we rolled past a mishmash of cottages and small businesses, which included names like the Muleshoe Animal Clinic and Saddletramp Saloon. After traveling past miles and miles of white pipe fencing it was a joy to see the scores of beautiful horses frolicking or grazing in the wide fields at a thoroughbred horse ranch. Then we left the grassy meadows behind and cruised into a tawny patchwork of chaparral, mesquite and scrub oak—high desert land known as Up Country to the Arizonans living in the valley below.
“I liked all the big trees back there, kinda reminds me of home,” Grant remarked, turning to look back before he slapped a hand across the back of his neck and yelped in pain.
Flinching, I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Damn, I shouldn’t have done that. Now my neck is killing me again.”
“Didn’t you take your pills?”
“I took one early this morning,” he answered, massaging the nape of his neck, “but I didn’t want to take any more until after the funeral services. They put me in la-la land.”
“Gotcha.”
He laid his head back against the seat rest and was silent for several moments before saying quietly, “Kendall, you seem…different.”
I glanced over to find him staring despondently at my engagement ring then quickly refocused my attention to the road. “How so?”
“Lots of things. I keep remembering you as a city girl who loved museums and the theater, eating out at nice restaurants, skiing, dancing, hiking, and now here you are living in the middle of nowhere all tanned and buff-looking, driving a pickup and looking like a…cowgirl.”
“That’s meant to be a compliment, I hope.”
“Oh, yeah. And if you tell me that in your spare time you’re out riding the range herding cattle, then I’ll know there’s no way that you’re coming back to Philly…even though I’m hoping the thought has at least crossed your mind once or twice.”
It had in the beginning when I wasn’t sure I’d be able to adapt to the snail-paced lifestyle, starkly different landscape and scalding heat, but I replied, “Not really,” as I swerved around a squished lump in the road that looked like a dead coyote.
He sat in silence again for thirty seconds, before blurting out, “Don’t you go nuts with boredom? I mean, are you sure you want to stay out here in this wild country for the rest of your life?”
“Don’t let the wide open spaces fool you. This place is not as tranquil as it looks. In fact, I’ve broken several unbelievable stories since I arrived here. Surviving the summers will always be a challenge, but all things considered, yes. I love Arizona...for many reasons.”
“The scenery is great, but I don’t know if I could live with just cactus and rock and dirt forever. Be honest, compared to Pennsylvania, don’t you think it’s kind of…barren-looking, for lack of a better word?”
I shrugged. “To each his own.”
“Come on,” he cajoled, “are you saying there isn’t anything back home that you miss?”
I caught the subtle inference in his tone and slid him a warning look as he inched closer and nonchalantly slid his arm along the back of the seat. “Where are you going with this, Grant?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m onto your little game and you’re wasting your time.”
“Geez, you’re so suspicious.”
“It’s part of my nature, remember?”
“Yes,” he said softly. “That’s what makes you such a damn fine reporter.”
“Thanks.”
“So, you’re telling me you don’t even miss your family?” he persevered, his fingertips now only inches from my shoulder.
“Of course I do.”
“My mother misses you a lot.”
“And I miss her.” Boy, did I ever. For the umpteenth time, I wished that Phyllis were going to be my mother-in-law instead of Ruth. But the familiar pang of guilt reminded me that, unfortunately, Tally’s eccentric mother came with the territory. “I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t sometimes miss the change
of seasons, flowers and green trees,” I went on, trying to keep the subject matter on neutral ground, “but if for no other reason, I have this little asthma thing, remember? This barren place as you call it, has made it a whole lot better and unless the earth has shifted on its axis since I left, and Pennsylvania has moved closer to the equator, the weather there will continue to be damp and cold the majority of the time.”
“You call this warm?” As if to validate his statement, he nodded towards the craggy snow-dusted mountains looming above the small town of Wilhoit.
I made a face at him. “All right, I’ll give you that one. But, it’s unusual. According to the locals this has been one of the coldest winters on record and there hasn’t been this much snow for forty years. You should feel right at home in Prescott because by the look of those clouds, we’re going to get some more. Soon.”
“Well, who knows, I might just learn to like it here after all.”
He met my sharp glance. “And what exactly does that mean?”
“That I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Lying around there in that quiet room at Hidden Springs has given me time to assess what’s important in my life and a change of pace might be good for me.”
“What are you saying?”
“That maybe I’ll relocate to Phoenix.”
My heart fluttered and a heavy sensation, like the time I ate one too many buckwheat pancakes at my grandmother’s house, settled in my belly. “Get serious.”
“I am serious, Kendall.” The silky, persuasive quality in his voice rattled me, plunging my emotions into treacherous territory. Taking everything into consideration, it made no logical sense that anything he said or did should affect me one way or the other. But, since when does the heart take notice of logic? Was it possible that I had unresolved feelings towards him? No. Having him in Arizona long-term would not be a good thing.
