Desert Heat

by D'Ann Lindun

  Flipping on the light next to her bed, she reached for her purse half expecting the map to be gone again. But she found it. Drawing it out, she laid it on the desk and pulled up a chair. After putting on her glasses, she studied the creased yellow paper. Once again, she noted the same landmarks that now were familiar. Tortilla Flat and Goldfield among others. The ranch marked with the little X.

  But there were no other clues to lead her to the Lost Dutchman or any other treasure. Turning it to and fro, she looked to see if anything jumped out from a different angle, but nothing struck her. If the paper was so worthless, why had Skeeter carried it around sewn into his pant leg? He was eccentric, but was he that nutty?

  There was a big map in the library. Maybe there was something on it that would give her an idea. Not relishing the idea of running into anyone, Mallory bit her fingernail. Surely they would all be in bed. She folded the paper along the crease and slipped out into the hall. The lights were dim and nothing showed under Mike’s door. Creeping by, she almost jumped into the library to hide.

  The map hanging on the wall was obviously old. About two feet high and four feet wide, it had been professionally framed. Showing no modern landmarks, the drawings depicted the mountains and the desert. There was no Apache Junction or Jumping Cholla resort. But Tortilla Flat and Goldfield were clearly marked. Taking Skeeter’s creased, yellowed paper from her pocket, Mallory rested it on the wall next to the bigger drawing. The landmarks were identical—with the exception of the ranch’s location.

  Looking so close her nose almost touched the glass, Mallory studied the empty spot on the big map. What had drawn the original homesteaders here? Had there been a mine or an Apache burial ground here at one time? Did the river attract them there? She didn’t think it had run this way a hundred or more years ago. If it were like most water in the desert, it had been diverted that way by modern engineers. But she didn’t know for sure.

  She took a step back. What had she expected? To find the Lost Dutchman marked with a big red checkmark in the middle of the page? Right on the ranch? She smiled, thinking of it. Wouldn’t it be funny if they had the gold right here under their noses the whole time? Unlikely, but funny.

  Maybe not that funny, actually. Something had drawn Wendell Wallace to the ranch. What? Did he have a map of the area with something on it, too? If so, what? Her mining facts were a little cloudy, but maybe what had drawn the original ranch owners to the river, if it were here, was the river itself. Didn’t gold miners need water for sluice boxes?

  Excited, she looked around. Surely somewhere in this library there would be a book about Arizona gold mining. Maybe one of them could tell her if there’d ever been a mine on this location. With a racing heart and damp palms, she began to search.

  ~*~

  Mallory looked up from her research. She’d hunted through every book in Mike’s library, but hadn’t found anything about a mine being in same location as The Cholla. She rolled her head from side to side and lifted her arms over her head. The grandfather clock showed it to be after one in the morning.

  If she was going to keep this up much longer, she needed caffeine.

  Slipping into the hall, she glanced both ways. Nobody was about. She headed for the kitchen, remembering too late it was locked. Maybe a Coke would do the trick. There was a machine near the front doors. She turned that way when she noticed the kitchen door standing open and the light on.

  She peered around the corner.

  Brent stood with his back to her, the fridge door wide open. So she wasn’t the only one with an urge for a late-night snack. Moving in, she spoke. “Looks like I’m not the only one up.”

  He spun around, his shirt hanging open, the top button of his jeans undone. And in his right hand he held a hypodermic needle. “Get away from me.”

  She backed up as fast as she could. “I’m sorry.”

  He advanced, holding the needle aloft. “Quit slinking around here spying on people.”

  “Hey, I wasn’t spying. I came down for a drink and I noticed the light on. I looked in to see who was here. That’s all.” Mallory began to wonder what he was high on. “I’m not the one who’s in the kitchen in the middle of the night shooting up.”

  He laughed. “If only. This is insulin. I need it two times a day, plus when my blood sugar spikes. Like now.”

  “Insulin? You’re diabetic?” She knew some diabetics didn’t appear sick. Brent, on the other hand, looked like he had a terminal illness. She’d never expected this.

  “Type 1 since childhood.” He waved the needle again. “Meet my old friend. Keeps me alive.”

  “That’s what they meant at breakfast when they asked you if you had taken care of things.” Mallory almost laughed now, remembering how her thoughts had run wild.

  “Yeah.” He looked at his bare stomach. “I don’t like people feeling sorry for me or babying me.”

  “So that’s why they were worried about you being out all night without your insulin. That’s why you dared the flood. If you stayed there you could’ve gone into insulin shock.”

  “You got it,” he said. “Face death by drowning or shock and coma.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”

  She didn’t think he was, but she didn’t want to argue about it. Leaning a hip against the stainless steel counter, she asked, “You said you chatted with Skeeter sometimes, right?”

  “Yeah.” He took on a guarded look. “So?”

  “I was just wondering if he ever talked about the resort before it was a resort.” She reached around him and took a pop out of the fridge then backed up again.

  He frowned as he discarded his used syringe. “I guess.”

  “Can you remember what he said?” She tried for subtle so as not to scare him off.

  “Not offhand.” He buttoned his shirt.

  Darn. She was going to have to be direct. “Like, for instance, did he ever say anything about gold being buried on this ranch or the surrounding area?”

  Brent sniffed. “You’re buying into that theory, too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your old man wasted his life on this wild goose chase. So, apparently, did the guy who was whacked over the head. Now you’re asking about it. It stands to reason gold fever’s biting your butt, too.” He grinned but it wasn’t a friendly look.

  “I’m just curious,” she denied. “I’m not my father and I have no interest in gold other than the fillings in my teeth.”

  “Everyone has an interest in gold,” Brent corrected. “Ever heard of the La Paz gold rush in 1862? Every miner in the country went there looking for gold, but all they found was sand and cactus.”

  “No, I’m not familiar with it,” she said.

  “Funny,” he said, not looking amused, “Skeeter was. He told me all about it.”

  “Did he talk about any other strikes closer to here?” Mallory knew enough Arizona geography to know where Brent spoke of. It was on the other side of Phoenix, near Wickenburg.

  “Not that I recall. But he wasn’t really interested in mines. He was more interested in lost treasure.” Brent leaned his elbows on the counter across from her.

  “They go hand in hand, don’t they? People believe the Lost Dutchman gold was hauled out from a mine in the area,” she told him.

  “Yes, but we’re not strictly talking about the same thing, are we?” He made patterns in the mirror-like surface of the counter.

  “Not strictly,” she said. “But close enough.”

  “Skeeter played his cards close to his chest. If he knew anything about the treasure, he never breathed a word to me.”

  “Was he close to anyone on the ranch?” she asked. “Was there anyone who he might’ve confided in?”

  “I was probably the most likely,” Brent said. “But when we met up we didn’t talk about treasure hunting. We discussed the weather, the desert. Just chit-chat. Once in awhile, when I had some time, he’d tell me stories a
bout the area. But, no, before you ask, nothing important.”

  She wanted to groan with frustration.

  “You might look up an old dude named Gentleman Jim Weeks. He was the head wrangler out here for a long time. Now he lives at one of the old folks’ homes in Mesa. I don’t know which one, but his daughter would. Her name is Sandra Weeks and she lives in Phoenix. She’ll be in the phone book. If Gentleman Jim is still coherent, he’ll know about any gold around this ranch. Maybe Skeeter told him something. I don’t know.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call Sandra tomorrow.” She waited a beat. “Why are you helping me?”

  He looked up. “I guess I feel bad because you got the short end of the stick where your old man was concerned. If following his trail and asking questions makes you feel better, then go to it.” Before she could ask him why he had changed his mind, he walked to the door. “Got to get some rest.”

  She watched his shadow move down the hall and out of sight. Had he told her the truth? Or was everything that came out of his mouth a lie? No way to know. In the morning she’d call Sandra and see if her father felt like company.

  ~*~

  Mike lay on his couch, watching the late news, trying to keep from hurling something at the screen. The local TV reporters had somehow found out about Wendell Wallace. No matter which local channel he flipped to, they all showed the shallow grave, the ambulance pulling out with the body and The Cholla’s front gates. Just as he feared, every single channel brought up the SRPL. More than one perky reporter hinted at a connection between the body and the injunction. The name hadn’t been released, so the fact that he was a treasure hunter wasn’t mentioned in any piece.

  It would take a miracle to get the ranch back on its feet again.

  He rubbed his aching neck.

  Today had been rotten in so many ways. He kept thinking he’d go to bed, wake up, and the nightmare would be over. The ranch would be full of happy guests, his staff would be busy and earning their wages, and he would be doing what he loved.

  If all that were the case he wouldn’t have met Mallory.

  Like it mattered. He’d convinced her to stay for dinner only to have his friends accuse her of making up the whole loose horse incident. He didn’t know what to think. She was so sincere. But on the other hand, his friends wouldn’t lie to him. Dianna had been genuinely shocked that he thought she had lured Mallory away so he could rifle her room. But if she hadn’t done it, who had?

  One by one, he listed them.

  Shelby.

  Wouldn’t hurt a flea.

  Alan.

  Kind of gruff, but harmless.

  Brent.

  Too ill to be conniving.

  Dianna.

  Motive and . . . what did the cops say? Motive and opportunity.

  She had both.

  Was she a good enough actress to feign so much surprise and hurt? He didn’t think so. He’d never seen her be anything but straight up. In fact, she was too much in your face with her opinions sometimes.

  Alan suggested Mallory had made a dumb choice, gone outside for a walk, and wound up lost. And then, too ashamed to admit it, had fabricated the whole horse story.

  Mike didn’t buy it for a minute.

  He didn’t know Mallory that well, but he couldn’t feature her lying about anything. From the minute he’d met her, she’d been straightforward and honest. If she hadn’t made up a story, and none of his friends had tried to get her out of the lodge, then who had done it? No one else was here.

  His buddy up the river at River Adventures had his rafts slashed one night. Ryan couldn’t prove it, but he suspected the SRPL. They had shut him down, too. A little more aggressive than Mike, he had a fist fight with one of their more vocal supporters. Later, his rafts had been ripped to shreds with knives and hatchets.

  The incident had scared Mike’s other neighbors enough they kept their mouths shut and their heads down. He wasn’t afraid, but he didn’t antagonize them either. Had one of them snuck in at night and knocked on Mallory’s door, thinking it was his? The possibility sent a shiver down his back. If so, the group had gone beyond trouble. They were now endangering lives.

  And maybe not for the first time.

  Had one of them found Wendell Wallace digging up the desert and hit him? The SRPL was rabid in their desire to protect the river and the land surrounding it. Wallace might not have known about them or that he wasn’t supposed to be on that area of public land until the matter was solved. The possibility was a long shot, but there might be enough merit to it that Mike made a mental note to talk to Sheriff Bodine about it in the morning

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mallory rose early and found Sandra Weeks in the phone book. She dialed and waited for several rings before a woman with a light, sweet voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Uh, hi.” Now that she had the woman on the phone, Mallory couldn’t think of what to say. “Sandra Weeks?”

  “Yes, dear. What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Mallory James and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions. Actually, I’m wondering if I could meet your father. I think he may have known my father and I would like to meet him.” Mallory twisted a pen in her hand.

  “Oh, dear. My papa passed away last year. But I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”

  “What? What did you say?” Mallory took the phone from her ear and shook it, then placed it next to her ear again. “I think I heard you wrong. You said you’ve been waiting to speak to me.”

  “That’s right, dear. My papa told me you’d be calling when Skeeter died. Oh, dear. This call means he died, doesn’t it?” Her quiet voice sounded sad.

  “Yes,” Mallory managed. “Skeeter died a few days ago. How did you know? I don’t understand.”

  “I prefer not to talk over the phone, dear,” Sandra said. “Come to four-o-nine Cactus Court in Phoenix at promptly ten A.M. We’ll have brunch and I’ll answer all your questions then.”

  The line went dead.

  Mallory pinched her leg to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. “Ouch.”

  She looked at the clock8:00 A.M. Not a lot of time to get ready and find her way to Sandra’s house. She jumped up and showered. A few minutes later she threw on a pair of jeans and a dark brown silk top she liked and ran a brush through her hair. She ran down the hall and knocked on Mike’s door.

  He opened in a flash. Like her, he had just showered. The ends of his blond hair shimmered in the light and she had a sudden wish to touch them. “Can I borrow a car? I have to meet someone in an hour.”

  To her surprise he shook his head. “Not covered by insurance. I had to cancel most of the policies. But I can take you wherever it is you want to go.”

  The last thing she wanted was to go anywhere with him, but whatever Sandra had to say outweighed her reservations. “I need to be in Phoenix in an hour and a half for brunch.”

  He reached on the table near the door and grabbed his keys. “Let’s go.”

  Mallory told Mike where they were going and why as they drove into Phoenix. He didn’t make much comment, only listened.

  ~*~

  At exactly 10:00 A.M. they stood in front of a Spanish-style bungalow. Palm and oleander trees shaded the red gravel walk. Mallory rang the doorbell and waited.

  Soon, someone tiny with dark eyes peered through a window set within the door. “Miss James?”

  “Yes. And this is—”

  “Mikey. Yes, I know.” The peephole closed and a tiny, hunchbacked lady opened the main door. “Come in.”

  Mallory glanced at Mike. He shook his head and lifted his hands palms up in a who knows gesture. Together, they stepped inside. For a minute she thought she’d entered another realm. Or at least another country. The house looked like something a Spanish aristocrat might own with lots of red velvet and brocade everywhere.

  “Miss Weeks?” Mallory asked. The woman wore a mid-calf black lace dress and a mantilla folded over the back of her steel gray hair. Her shoes were
two-inch spike heels that brought her almost up to Mike’s chest.

  “Yes, dear. You don’t look a thing like your father.” She tipped her head much like a small rodent might and studied Mike. “And this is Mikey. I see you don’t remember me. My dear papa was the head horse wrangler at The Jumping Cholla when your parents first bought it. I used to go out and visit dear Papa. You were always so sweet the way you’d go trekking off through the desert. You were about ten or so. Many years ago.”

  He smiled at her. “I remember now.”

  “Yes, dear.” She waved a hand toward the back. “Let’s sit on the patio and catch up. I can tell Miss James is anxious to hear about her father.” She turned and led the way through an immaculate, but overdone, house to a fenced-in backyard. A fountain bubbled in a corner near the wall. On a table there were cereal, bananas, and a carton of milk. Alongside them was an expensive looking silver tea set and china bowls, tea cups, and saucers. “I hope this will do. I just don’t have company these days.”

  “It’s perfect,” Mallory assured her.

  Mike waited until she and Sandra were seated, then pushed them in and sat. They waited for Sandra to shake out a lace napkin and serve herself before they helped themselves to cereal. She sliced a banana on top of hers with surgical precession. Finally, she took a bite.

  “How is your father?” Mike asked.

  Sandra set her spoon aside. “He passed last year, sweet old dear.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mike said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Yes, he lost touch with most of his old friends.” She shook her head sadly. “Poor Papa didn’t have many friends. But Skeeter stuck around.”

  “My father stayed in touch with your papa when he was in the nursing home?” Mallory toyed with her cereal. “They were that good of friends?”

  Sandra’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh no, dear. They weren’t close. Skeeter didn’t have friends. He had acquaintances that he might or might not speak to. He liked to talk to Papa because he thought Papa might know something about lost treasure. Skeeter never quit hounding my poor papa about those damn myths until the day he died.”