Desert Heat

by D'Ann Lindun

  Her appetite gone, Mallory whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t, dear. Your father abandoned you when you were a little girl. You can’t be held responsible for his obsession.” Sandra clicked her tongue against her teeth.

  “How did you know that?” Mallory’s throat felt like she’d swallowed something sharp, as if cut glass scraped across her tonsils.

  “Because your father talked freely about you and your mother. He dreamed of finding a big strike and going home to the hero’s welcome.” Sandra took a bite of cereal and chewed. “But if you’re here, that tells me that didn’t happen.”

  “No. He died with nothing,” Mike said. “Well, nothing but a burro and a map.”

  “Then the map was worthless,” Sandra said. “My papa told him so, but Skeeter wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  Mallory stared at her. “What map, Miss Weeks?”

  Sandra swallowed. “Many, many years ago my dear papa found a map in one of the saddlebags of an old unused saddle at The Jumping Cholla. He thought it might be a treasure map of sorts and he used to search a little on his free time. But he never found a thing.”

  “How did Skeeter know about it?” Mike sat on the edge of his seat.

  “I can’t say for sure,” Sandra said. “All I know is when Papa finally gave in and handed it over, Skeeter never came back again. Papa told me you’d be next to come when Skeeter died, asking questions too.”

  “I’m nothing like my father.” Mallory’s temper flared a little. “Are you like yours?”

  “Of course, dear. The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.” She waved her spoon and cackled. “See this house? My dear papa didn’t find anything, but I did.”

  “Are you saying you found the gold your own father and Skeeter couldn’t?” Mallory gaped at her.

  “Why do you look so surprised?” She smiled. “I wasn’t always an old woman and I learned well.”

  “Your father gave Skeeter a worthless piece of paper because you’d already found the loot?” Mike sounded as skeptical as Mallory felt.

  She chuckled again. “Why would my dear papa give away the only thing he ever had to Skeeter? What was he to him? Nothing but a pest who hung around wanting something that wasn’t his.”

  “Technically, the map wasn’t your father’s either,” Mike reminded with a hint of a bite in his voice. “It was ranch property.”

  “Papa found the map long before your family ever came to The Cholla,” Sandra said. “And I guess the previous owners can sue me if they like.”

  “Did your father ever talk about the map with anyone else?” Mallory asked. “Did he promise it to any other person besides my father?”

  Sandra frowned. “My dear papa had the heart of a king, but the pockets of a pauper. He promised many things to many people.”

  “So, in other words, he did tell others they could have the map,” Mallory said. “Do you know who?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Sandra said. “Papa talked a lot when he was sick. But by that time it didn’t matter. I had beat them all.”

  Sandra looked very satisfied with herself. Maybe Skeeter deserved what he got, but all Mallory felt was an overwhelming sadness. Her father had spent half of his life chasing a dream that someone else found first. She pushed her chair back. “I think I’ve heard enough, Miss Weeks. Thank you for your time.”

  “Wait a minute.” Mike looked at Sandra. “I would like to know where you found this treasure. And why didn’t you tell the press? Half of Arizona has been tearing up the desert looking for the Lost Dutchman. If you found it, as you say, why didn’t you take the glory?”

  She smiled. “Who said I found the Lost Dutchman? Did I say anything about that old fable? There is more than one lost treasure in the desert. And where it was is for me to know and nobody else to find out. I don’t need fame when I have the money.”

  Mallory stood. “Enjoy the money, Miss Weeks. Thank you for your time.”

  “Any time, Miss, any time. And Mikey. Always a pleasure.” She took another bite of cereal. “You don’t mind showing yourselves out, do you?”

  Mallory waited until she was in the car until she said, “Do you believe one word of that?”

  Mike started the Durango. “I don’t know. She lives well enough. Wranglers, even head wranglers, don’t make that much money. I don’t think Gentleman Jim ever had much more than a saddle and an old pickup.”

  Fighting tears, she asked, “Was Skeeter really like that? Willing to harass an old man on his deathbed?”

  Mike didn’t answer for a minute. She watched him through misty eyes as he struggled to answer her. “I didn’t see him that way. He was just an old man who had a dream and he followed it.”

  “At any cost.” Mallory couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Home, family, friends. Nothing mattered but Skeeter.”

  “You heard Sandra,” Mike said. “She said Skeeter talked about you and your mother and how he wanted to find the big strike to come home to you with something to show for his trouble. That’s not someone who doesn’t care at all.”

  Mallory considered his words. Had Sandra said one thing true thing? Mallory had no way to know. “I would have much rather had him that the stupid money. Why couldn’t he see that?”

  “I don’t know.” Mike shut off the engine.

  She sniffed. “Neither do I.”

  “Does it matter that much?” Mike’s voice was kind. “You’ve lived most of your life without Skeeter and you’ve made it. Why are you tearing yourself up over a man who wasn’t there for you in your childhood or your teens? Did he stop you from becoming a wonderful young woman? He lost a lifetime with you. If he takes one minute more, then you lose, not Skeeter.”

  His words, so simple, rang true. She swiped at a tear. “I know.”

  With a gentle touch, he turned her chin toward him. He looked into her eyes. “Don’t let him matter anymore, Mallory.”

  She saw the compassion there and she gravitated toward it.

  He met her halfway, his lips brushing over hers in a light touch.

  No questions, no urging her for more. Her tears dried as he smoothed away the hurt with soft, tender kisses. She lifted her hands and cupped the back of his neck. His hair brushed her thumbs and she raised them, eager to feel the texture. She massaged his knotted neck with her fingers. He moaned a little and she smiled against his lips.

  How could a kiss do so much? Somewhere, she wished she knew, but she didn’t dwell on the puzzle. Instead she let his mouth coax her to forget anything but him. She inhaled his scent—natural and clean—like the desert he loved so much. Not even the slight odor of soap or shampoo lingered on him. Mallory closed her eyes and parted her lips a little.

  He touched her tongue with his and she angled her head so he could have better access. Expecting him to take advantage of the moment, disappointment swelled in her when he pulled away instead. Her eyes opened. He was so close she could see the tiny spot he’d missed shaving.

  “When I kiss you again I want you thinking about me, not your father,” he said.

  “What makes you think I’ll let you kiss me again?” She straightened.

  “Just a hunch.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice. She shivered a little thinking of sharing another intimate moment with him. “I’ll think about it.”

  He chuckled and the sound sent another tremble through her. When he looked at oncoming traffic, searching for a spot to jump into the sea of cars, she touched her lips with her fingertips. She’d let him kiss her again. Even though she knew better.

  ~*~

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Mike parked in front of the Apache Park nursing home and turned toward her.

  “Yes. If you don’t mind.” She reached for the door and her hand shook.

  He noticed and opened it for her. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” She stepped out and her legs wobbled.

  Mike jumped out
and raced around the front of the SUV to her side. “Lean on me.”

  What was wrong with her? She hadn’t been this shaky the first time she came here. She took his arm and allowed him to guide her into the building. A nurse, busy talking on the phone, ignored them.

  Mallory let go of Mike’s arm. “I’m fine.” She looked around and saw a water fountain. After sipping from it, she did feel much better.

  The woman on the phone finished her conversation and graced them with a cool smile. “May I help you?”

  Mallory matched her tone. “Yes, I’m looking for someone who may have known one of your residents. A man named Jim Weeks.”

  “Gentleman Jim Weeks,” Mike said at her shoulder.

  The nurse’s eyes widened with recognition. “Oh, sure. I knew Jim. He died last December.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Mallory said. “I’m wondering about a visitor that he used to have. A man named Skeeter James used to come by. Does that name ring a bell?”

  She frowned and shook her head.

  “An old prospector,” Mike said.

  “Oh, yes. Of course.” She eyed them suspiciously. “What do you want to know about him?”

  “I’m curious to know if Mr. Weeks and my father were friends.” Mallory felt foolish for coming to the nursing home. What had she hoped to accomplish? “Do you know?”

  “I have no idea,” the nurse said, “but Clarence DiMato could tell you. He was Mr. Weeks’s roommate.”

  Mallory shot Mike an excited glance. “May we see him?”

  “I think Mr. DiMato would love company. No one comes to see him any more. Although you’re his second group of visitors since last night.” She pointed down the hall. Fourth door on the left is the game room. He’s usually in there playing cards. Look for the man in the ball cap.”

  They hurried up the hall and looked for Mr. DiMato. As promised, a short, rotund man wearing a baseball cap sat at a table, playing solitaire. Mallory touched him on the shoulder. “Mr. DiMato?”

  He looked up. “Yes?”

  “My name is Mallory James, and this is Mike Malone. May we sit with you and ask you a few questions?”

  “Surely.” He waved at the chairs across from him. “Do you play cards?”

  “Not well,” Mallory said.

  “Poker,” Mike told him.

  “Gambling man, eh?” Mr. DiMato grinned.

  Mike laughed. “I guess you could say that.”

  “If you didn’t come to play cards with me, what brings you?” Mr. DiMato cut right to the chase. He shuffled his cards, obviously impatient to get back to his game.

  “We understand you were roommates with Mr. Weeks,” Mallory began.

  “Jim? Sure was. Four years we shared a room. Now I’m stuck with old Raymond Sharfe. He snores, he sleepwalks—”

  Mallory cut him off. “Could you tell us if you remember my father? A man named Skeeter Davis? He was a—”

  “Desert rat?” It was Mr. DiMato’s turn to cut her off. “Sure I knew old Skeeter. What happened to him? I haven’t seen him around in a good while.”

  “He died,” Mallory said. “A few days ago.”

  “Died?” Mr. DiMato looked at her as if he didn’t understand the term. He shook his head. “No. That can’t be. He was just a pup.”

  “Unfortunately, he passed away about a week ago.” Mike put his hand on Mallory’s shoulder. “And his daughter is trying to find out some information about him.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you.” Mr. DiMato fiddled with the edge of his cards. “I usually hit the road when he came by.”

  “Why is that?” Mallory tensed. She didn’t want to hear more bad things about her father.

  Mr. Dimato looked up. “I wasn’t interested in lost treasure, that’s why. That’s all those two old fools ever talked about. If I tried to bring up baseball or something else, they’d cut me right off and go back to the same old thing.”

  “Do you know if Mr. Weeks talked of a map of a buried treasure with my father?” Mallory slid forward on her seat.

  “Sure, sure. Jim gave it to him right before he died. Said Skeeter was the only one who believed in it. Even more so that he did.”

  “What about Mr. Weeks’s daughter? Did she think there was a treasure?” Mike asked.

  “That hell cat. Course she thought there was a treasure. She grilled Jim like a trout, but he didn’t want her to know a darn thing.” Mr. DiMato shuffled his cards again. “Sandra was more interested in gold than being a daughter. She threw Jim in this place and forgot all about him except to come by and ask for the map. But Jim wouldn’t give it to her.”

  “Did Mr. Weeks tell anyone else about his map?” Mallory held her breath.

  “Nope. He was pretty tight lipped with anyone but me and Skeeter.” Mr. DiMato lifted his John Deere ball cap and scratched his bald head. “Let me think. I’d guess the staff might have known about it. Nothing’s private in this place.”

  “Anyone in particular?” Mike’s hand on her shoulder tightened.

  Mr. DiMato took on a faraway look. “I just can’t think.”

  “That’s all right,” Mallory said. She leaned back in her seat. “Did Mr. Weeks look forward to Skeeter’s visits, or dread them?’

  “Huh?” Mr. DiMato pulled his bushy white brows together. “Haven’t you been listening, gal? Jim lived for the days Skeeter would drop by and shoot the bull about treasure.”

  Her throat tight, Mallory nodded.

  Mike squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “If you happen to remember anyone in particular who was interested in Mr. Weeks’s map, would you call us?” He dug in his wallet and handed over a business card.

  Mr. DiMato took it without looking at it and stuffed it in his pocket. “Will do.”

  After thanking him, Mike and Mallory walked outside into the bright sunshine.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  “A little.” She nodded. “I hope Skeeter wasn’t just using Mr. Weeks to gain information.”

  “I doubt that’s the case,” Mike said. “You heard Mr. DiMato. He said Jim loved to have Skeeter visit him. If he didn’t want him to have his map, he wouldn’t have given it to him.”

  “Sandra said Jim knew it was worthless.” Mallory’s voice went flat.

  “I don’t think she was telling the truth, do you?” He stuck his hands in his pockets, pulling the denim tight over this thighs and crotch, creating an enticing bulge.

  She flushed and looked away. “I don’t know what to think.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Oh no,” Mallory said.

  Sheriff Bodine leaned against his Blazer, deep creases outlining his downturned mouth.

  “I completely forgot we were supposed to meet him this morning,” she said.

  Mike rubbed his neck. “Yeah, me too.”

  “I think we’re in for it,” she said as he parked. She opened the door, ready to face the music.

  Mike stepped out and they walked toward Bodine together.

  “Out for a joyride?” Sheriff Bodine asked.

  “No.” Mallory looked into his sunglasses and saw only her own reflection. “We went to visit an acquaintance of my father’s.”

  “Why?” Bodine continued to frown.

  “Because we wanted to find out if someone who was once an employee here gave Skeeter a map.” Mallory stared at herself reflected in his dark glasses. The sensation was oddly disturbing.

  “And what did you find out?” The sheriff crossed his ankles, leaving about a two-inch line where dust hadn’t covered his cowboy boots. “Anything you didn’t know?”

  “Yes, actually.” Mallory glanced at Mike. “We met a woman named—”

  “Sandra Weeks,” the sheriff said. “And she told you she found a lost treasure.”

  Mallory and Mike exchanged glances.

  “And she told you her dad hated Skeeter, but he gave him the map anyway.” The sheriff grinned, but it wasn’t a nice smile.

  “How did you
know?” Mallory asked. “And are you aware that Mr. Weeks actually did like my father?”

  Sheriff Bodine nodded. “Yes, I found that out, too when I interviewed—he looked at his notebook—Clarence DiMato last night. He told me his roommate at Apache Park Nursing Home, Jim Weeks, gave Skeeter James a map on his deathbed.”

  “Yes,” Mike said. “You knew about that last night. We told you and you thought Dianna Lewis might have had something to do with Wendell Wallace’s death.”

  “That’s right,” the sheriff said. “I couldn’t find a connection between Miss Lewis and Jim Weeks. Plus she’s got a stone cold alibi for the night he went missing. But I did find out a couple of interesting things.”

  “Such as?” Mike crossed his arms over his chest and spread his feet.

  Mallory wanted to pinch him to get him to take the testosterone down a notch. “What, Sheriff?”

  “Well,” he began. “I found out that Wendell Wallace worked in a nursing home as a CNA. Want to lay a bet on which one?”

  “Apache Park?” Mallory knew the answer before he nodded.

  “Yep.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked. “Did you find a map on him?”

  He smiled again. “Now, you know I shouldn’t tell you that. But, I will. No, he didn’t have any kind of map or any other papers with this body.”

  “But Wendell must’ve seen Mr. Weeks’s map or heard him and Skeeter talking about it,” Mike said. “But that still doesn’t give us a clue as to who killed him or why.”

  “There’s more.” The sheriff smirked. “Guess which environmental agency our DB belonged to?”

  “The Salt River Protection League,” Mike said flatly.

  “Bingo.” The sheriff made a gun with his finger and thumb and fired it into the air. “Right on the first guess.”

  “But aren’t they against tearing up the land?” Mallory shot Mike an apologetic look. “And he was out digging holes in the desert.”

  “That piece doesn’t fit,” the sheriff agreed. “So, I’m betting he heard about the map from the old coots at the home, knew right where to look from hearing about The Cholla from his cronies—hell he might’ve even stuck in one of those signs in himself—and when greed got the better of him, he snuck out here in the night and dug around.”