by Sylvia Nobel
“Don’t delude yourself, Grant. I thought I made myself clear on Saturday. You and I are history.” A sidelong glance at his hangdog expression confirmed that my dig had hit home.
He threw his hands into the air. “All right. I’m just going to say it. Why are you rushing into marriage with this guy?”
“I’m not rushing.”
“Your mother thinks so.”
My temper blazed. “The three of you have been conspiring behind my back, haven’t you?”
A nonchalant shrug. “I’ll admit that we’ve had a few discussions about it. She thinks you’re doing it to get even with me. Are you? If you would just stop being so stubborn and find it in your heart to give me another chance, I swear I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work for us this time.” He edged closer. My heart curled into a protective ball and I placed my right palm firmly against his chest and pushed.
“It’s too late for that. Move back on your side, Grant.”
“Oh, come on baby, you know how good we are together.”
“Hey! You agreed that we’d be just friends, remember? If you want to bounce around some ideas concerning the Gibbons case with me, fine. Otherwise, you’ll be walking the rest of the way to Prescott.”
Undeterred, he beamed me an irresistible smile. “You don’t really mean that.”
I jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop on the narrow shoulder. My pulse pounding furiously, I turned to glare at him. “Try me.”
There was a measure of disbelief beneath his incredulous expression as we locked eyes and then he reluctantly slid back towards the passenger door and folded his arms. Staring straight ahead, he growled, “Okay, have it your way. Bounce away.”
Instant relief slowed my fast-beating heart. Feeling confident that I’d regained control of the situation, I pulled onto the final stretch of upward winding road where squat piñon pines, junipers and scrub oaks began to give way to tall ponderosa pines. Here and there small clumps of snow appeared. In Grant’s favor was the fact that he really knew his stuff and might offer some new insight. It chewed up the better part of the next half hour as I maneuvered around endless switchbacks up the mountain, but when I finished filling him in on everything I was at liberty to say, he wore a concentrated frown.
“Whoa, Nelly. Sounds to me as if each one of these suspects possesses a strong motive.” He pensively tapped one finger against the end of his nose and began speaking in an English accent worthy of a stuffy detective straight from Scotland Yard. “So then, let me see if I’ve got this all straight. First, we have the judge’s vindictive widow who has in her employ a swarthy ex-convict who possesses intimate knowledge of power tools, saws especially. Veddy, veddy incriminating. Then we have a second ex-con, allegedly innocent, incarcerated for ten years, who harbors a seething hatred for the judge and has recently been sprung from Death Row. Yes,” he added with an evil laugh, rubbing his palms together, “then we stir into the murderous brew his spiteful sister, adroitly skilled in the use of sharp cutting shears, add seasoning in the form of the judge’s penniless paramour, who just happens to be preggers with his spawn and serve hot with a cache of missing gold coins. Oh, this is just too good!”
I couldn’t help but smile at the entertaining delivery of his analogy. “I thought you’d be intrigued.”
“Of course, as you know so well,” he said, continuing in his Sherlock Holmes persona, “besides motivation, the question always comes down to means and opportunity. I’m sure you’ve considered the idea that it’s also none of the above.”
“Of course I have. There’s always the possibility there’s just some madman running around out there chopping off heads.”
“But, you don’t think so?”
“Not really. I’m thinking textbook premeditation by someone who knew the judge’s schedule, knew he was going hunting near Flagstaff and either followed or lured him to that remote forest service road which is where the authorities believe he was fatally shot.”
“Where is Flagstaff in relation to Castle Valley?”
“About three hours northeast in the mountains. Elevation is approximately seven thousand feet and they’ve had a ton of snow, which explains why posse members didn’t spot his white truck during the initial air search.”
“Is the truck still impounded?”
“As far as I know.”
“So…the four glaring questions are, how much time elapsed between the moment he was killed and his body was discovered in the pool, what was the significance of transporting it all the way back to Hidden Springs, where is the murder weapon and, most importantly, what was the point of beheading him and where is…said head?”
“All valid questions,” I remarked thoughtfully, taking note of the thickening cloud cover and increasing wind. “I still think the answer is buried among the myriad of details in the court transcripts or in past newspaper articles we’re currently researching.” I also filled him in on the wisp of cotton I’d found at the crime scene, my meeting with Nora Bartoli and her tip that a Sawzall had been the decapitation weapon.
“Hmmm. And that would implicate both of our ex-cons who each happen to own a reciprocating power saw. That’s almost too convenient. And what’s the reason again that you think our hunky handyman is single-handedly dismantling the third floor?”
“Call me paranoid, but I think he’s using the renovation as an excuse to tear the place up and search for the missing gold coins.”
“Hmmm. Getting his hands on them would have created a strong motive, but what makes him think the judge hid them on the third floor?”
“I’m not sure, except that’s supposedly where Riley hung out a lot reading and probably trying to escape the wrath of La Donna.”
Grant raised one well-shaped brow. “And do we suspect that he’s working alone, in tandem with Mr. Moorehouse and his sister, or is he in cahoots with the widow or the new girlfriend?”
“I don’t know.”
He fell silent for a few seconds before asking, “I noticed the warning tape stretched across the stairwell. Why did you go up there anyway?”
I thought back to the bizarre episode of the locked door suddenly opening and hesitated. Should I tell him about my ghostly invitation? “I was just looking around and…sort of got there by accident.”
When I didn’t follow up he urged, “Don’t stop there.”
I hadn’t meant to tell anyone, but the yearning to share my story burst out. His eyes glittered with speculative amusement when I concluded. “So, what are you saying—that you had a physical visitation by the wandering spirit of the young boy who’d been abandoned by his mother?”
“Honest to God, I don’t know what it was, but I’ve never experienced anything like that before in my life. I mean…for a period of time I actually felt like someone…something else was inhabiting my body.”
He began to clap his hands slowly and I turned to see his lips curled in laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. It’s just that…well, you always seemed so practical and this sounds—”
“Fanciful, I know. Okay, don’t believe me. Maybe it was just the wind, but stranger things have happened. Remember the story I told you about my Great Aunt Beverly’s house in Ohio?”
He frowned puzzlement and then his eyes widened in remembrance. “Oh, you mean the one where you and your two brothers stayed at her haunted mansion for a couple of weeks?”
“You can mock, but I saw it with my own eyes. No one ever had a logical explanation for how that silhouette of a man in a top hat always appeared on the wall in her bedroom in the same spot. She told us the previous owners of the house had painted over it three times, wallpapered and finally installed paneling, but the silhouette always reappeared in that exact place. It scared the living daylights out of us.” My phone played its cheery jingle and after digging it from my purse, I glanced at the caller ID, not recognizing the number. “Hello?”
“Hi, Stick, it’s Nora.”
“Fritzy! I was just talking with someone…about you,” I said, mouthing her name to Grant. “You must be telepathic.”
“Believe me, it would make my job a lot easier if I was,” she replied with a chuckle. “Anyway, you got a minute?”
“Absolutely.”
“Cool. I’ve got some news for you on that fragment of cotton you found at the crime scene.”
My expectations surged. “Shoot.”
“A friend from the lab just called. They were able to pick up a trace of a substance that is found in a drug commonly used for pain called Vicodin.”
Her disclosure shattered my concentration for a few seconds. Hadn’t I just seen a bottle of the very same drug in La Donna’s kitchen less than two hours ago? “That’s very interesting.” I remarked, cautioning myself not to jump to conclusions. “Anything else?”
“This is not for public consumption yet, so keep this under your hat, okay?”
“Okay.”
“It’s taken the pathologist a little longer to finish his examination of the slides of Gibbons’s tissue, but he did confirm my suspicion based on the bone analysis that something didn’t seem quite normal.”
“What do you mean?”
“Considering the estimated time that had elapsed since his death, there was something strange about the consistency of the samples. The tissue was amazingly well preserved and the cut was clean, suggesting that the tissue was firm and solid, not slippery, so I can now confirm a couple of things. One, prior to the body being found in the pool it had been frozen solid and two, the decapitation happened sometime before the body thawed out.”
I didn’t even want to form a mental picture. “So…what are you saying? That he was shot and then what? Someone buried him in a snow drift for a few days, came back, dug him out, sawed off his head and then transported him to Hidden Springs all without a soul hearing or seeing what happened?”
“That sounds about right.”
“But the search team was all over that area where the truck was discovered. If his body was even within a five mile radius, it would have been found, don’t you think?”
“Well, obviously not. I can’t really tell you where the body was frozen, just that it had been prior to its discovery.”
“And the reason for decapitation while frozen?”
“A whole lot less messy.”
“I see. Hey, thanks for the heads-up, Fitzy.”
“Don’t know if that’ll help you or not, but it’s all I’ve got right now. Catch you later.”
I snapped the phone shut and shared the new information with Grant. “Moorehouse admitted that both he and Pendahl were among a group of bikers riding in that general area around the same time the judge was there, and while he didn’t specify that particular weekend, it’s a good guess that the authorities are in the process of confirming just that. And speaking of the authorities, you were supposed to give me the exact wording of those quotes that were in those threatening letters the judge received.”
“Oh yeah.” He reached into his jacket pocket and his face went blank. He searched in the other pocket, pulled out a notebook and then burst out, “Crap! I left my cell phone on the charger in my room!”
“Don’t sweat it, I’ve got mine. Read the quotes.”
“Okay.” He flipped through the pages and my apprehension resurfaced as he began to read aloud. “LIFE BEING WHAT IT IS, ONE DREAMS OF REVENGE and REVENGE IS A KIND OF WILD JUSTICE.” He paused as he turned the page over. “And here’s the kicker, “FALSE WORDS ARE NOT ONLY EVIL IN THEMSELVES, THEY INFECT THE SOUL WITH EVIL. BEWARE THOSE WHO FEAST AT THE TABLE WITH THE EVILDOER.” He flipped the notebook shut. “Yep. That last one sounds like a real threat. This person’s definitely got an agenda.”
My stomach did a swan dive envisioning the horrific fate that could await the next victim on the killer’s list. And what if Ruth was right? What if it was Tally? I set my jaw with firm conviction. No matter what risks lie ahead, it was imperative that the murderer be found soon—before it was too late.
20
I’d only been to Prescott three times before that day, but each visit increased my appreciation for the mile-high community situated in a pleasant valley on the northern boundary of the Bradshaw Mountains. Tally had mentioned that the population of the area had tripled during the past ten years, but, even with the explosion of growth, thus far, the thriving city had been able to retain its small town appeal and unique charm, most notably the elm-shaded courthouse located in the center of downtown, which was bordered on three sides by Gurley, Cortez and Goodwin streets, each boasting a succession of stately buildings which housed quaint stores and small businesses. The fourth side of the square, Montezuma Street, known to the locals as Whiskey Row, had once been home to dozens of saloons, houses of ill repute, and frequent rip-roaring gunfights. Now the shop-lined street boasted only three saloons, which mostly catered to out-of-state tourists and groups of Harley riders.
Driving through a quiet residential neighborhood, Grant peered out the window at three once-elegant Victorian houses, each in the process of being refurbished. “I like this place. It has a real nice Midwestern feel to it.”
By the time we reached the Arizona Pioneer Home Cemetery on Iron Springs Road, the sky was turning the color of dirty dishwater, accentuating the gloom of the already solemn event. There was a long line of cars stopped ahead of us and I could see local police officers directing traffic to a shopping complex a block away from the wrought iron entrance to the cemetery. However, several stretch limos with dark tinted windows—most likely part of the governor’s motorcade along with other local dignitaries—were singled out and directed through the gate and up the winding road, which was bordered by dry brown grass and sparsely dotted with piñon pines and scraggly leafless trees.
“Guess we don’t rate a prime parking spot,” Grant grumbled.
When we finally reached the crowded parking lot and began a quest for a vacant spot, a little flicker of surprise went through me when I noticed the white Posey Patch Florist van. I could just make out the shadowy outline of someone seated behind the steering wheel while Rulinda, dressed in black slacks, coat and stocking cap, stood by the open rear doors next to a longhaired young man I’d not seen before. She pointed to the top of the hill, then handed him two colorful funeral wreaths. Taking into consideration her deep loathing for the judge, it seemed the height of hypocrisy for her to be at his burial, but then it occurred to me that many Castle Valley citizens would have ordered flowers for the occasion, including the Talversons. And as I now knew, Rulinda wasn’t one to pass up a buck and had probably overcharged everyone to make it worth her while.
We finally located an empty parking spot beside a white van with television call letters from Prescott while two other vans, displaying Phoenix television stations’ call letters, stood nearby. La Donna had been right. Riley’s funeral was going to be a big media event.
Unfortunately, the weather had decided not to cooperate. When I stepped from the truck, tiny snowflakes stung my cheeks like icy needles. Bundled up in heavy coats, hats and gloves, Grant and I had to hoof it several blocks fighting the ever-increasing wind. Just prior to reaching the gates to the cemetery, I noticed Winston Pendahl’s white pickup waiting at the stoplight, a morose-looking Marissa sitting beside him in the passenger seat. Grant’s steps faltered as he stared at the line of people trooping up the steep slope. “Damn. You didn’t tell me we were going to have to scale Mt. Everest to get there.”
“I think the more important you are, the higher your final resting place,” I replied dryly before tilting my head at him questioningly. “Since when has a little hill been an impediment to you, Mr. Downhill Racer, Mr. Cross Country Biker, Mr. Hiker of Many Mountain Peaks?”
“Sweet. Hey, I’m not exactly feeling myself today.”
“So, what do you want me to do? Carry you?”
He made a face at me. “Funny.”
With a sigh of resignation, he pulled the collar of his c
oat higher and we began our climb up the paved road, which was becoming slicker with each passing minute. Judging by the look of wonder on his face, I knew what he was thinking. This lonesome windswept cemetery bore little resemblance to the ones in Pennsylvania we’d visited where the dearly departed rested in eternal sleep beneath carefully tended headstones surrounded by lush, emerald green grass and shaded by groves of thickly leafed trees. This stark hillside offered only scattered crumbling headstones and flat grave markers, some looking sadly neglected with overgrown weeds, while a special few were well-tended and decorated with faded plastic flowers.
We trudged past the sleek hearse and joined the assembly of somber-faced mourners filing towards rows of chairs ringing one of the few gravesites graced with a small cluster of pines, which whipped back and forth in the capricious wind. Protected beneath a flapping white canopy, the flower-festooned coffin stood poised above a dark rectangular cavity rimmed with mounds of freshly dug earth. Although I tried, I couldn’t banish the mental picture of his headless corpse lying inside and it gave me one of those sickening little gut jabs.
With difficulty, I shook off the macabre image and glanced at my watch. Services were scheduled to begin in less than ten minutes. I gave the crowd a quick overview, searching in vain for Tally, hoping against hope that he’d been able to brave the storm and make it after all. I checked my cell phone for messages and with a pang of disappointment, finally accepted the fact that he wasn’t coming. Was he still stranded in northeastern Arizona with no phone service or was he en route to the ranch? My heart felt as overcast as the leaden skies at the thought of him driving in this wind pulling a horse trailer.
