Fire Dancer

by Susan Slater

This time he found a parking place at the curb, a short half block from Samuels’s office.

  “Mind walking? At least the wind has died down.”

  “It’ll feel good.” She turned and smiled, leaned across the seat and kissed him. “I like being with you. Just tell me Robby’s going to be all right.”

  “I wish I could. But what’s going to be all right is your being with me, Mrs. Pecos.”

  “Mrs. Pecos? Aren’t you rushing things?”

  “I wish I could.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  So many things dimmed in importance with the light of day. Conviction could turn to speculation, an overheard comment to hearsay. Suddenly, Julie had doubts. So, two men were friends and both explosives experts. So what? It was a long time ago. It didn’t make them killers. Experts might blow up a house, but it didn’t put either of their hands around Connie’s neck. Yet, both did have a lot to gain.

  And could one femur really attest to height? Unequivocally so? And age … fifty-something or forty-something could be close. Still, this was not proof of anything. Who’s to say Stan Devon didn’t accidentally blow himself up? However, Mac was the only one who could have planted the ring and left his shirt. Then the question became, why?

  Why did Mac want to, or even need to, slip into anonymity? Was all this reason enough to ask questions? She was hoping Lieutenant Samuels would think so. She opened the photo album and nervously pulled several pictures and two articles from beneath the yellowing plastic protection. Lieutenant Samuels was in a meeting and it gave them time to get prepared—and have second thoughts before he appeared in the doorway and summoned them into his office.

  “So, what do you have for me? More coincidence?” Lieutenant Samuels was the only person who laughed. He put a handful of papers on his desk and sat down.

  “Actually, yes.” Julie handed him the articles and pictures. “I think we might be getting closer to who could be behind the use of explosives.”

  The Lieutenant quickly scanned the articles, “This doesn’t necessarily prove—”

  “I know. And you’re going to use the word ‘coincidence’ and it is.”

  “It’s more than that.” Ben moved to stand behind Julie. “We can pretty much prove that Stan Devon is dead, and Art or Mac McNamara is alive. We can’t prove he killed Mr. Devon, but he did exchange places with him.” He quickly reiterated their findings at the OMI. Now, they had the lieutenant’s interest.

  “Must have had a reason to disappear.”

  “That’s what we think.”

  “And you believe this McNamara is behind the death of Professor Mondragon? Behind the gift of the skull?”

  “Yes, I believe Robby’s story. I think an audit of Skip’s accounts will show a yearly payoff to Mr. McNamara. And I believe there’s a gun somewhere with Connie’s prints.”

  “And they needed to blow up the house to cover their tracks?” Lieutenant Samuels leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped.

  A tap on the glass panel in the office door interrupted any further speculation.

  “Excuse me for a minute.” The lieutenant stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.

  “So, what do you think?” Julie asked.

  “I think we have his attention. Not sure what he’ll do with the information.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “We’ve got a little problem here.” Lieutenant Samuels stepped back into his office. “About an hour ago, a jogger reported a car on fire. Sandia foothills, not far from Tramway. Belongs to that lawyer fellow, your friend, Wayne.” The lieutenant turned and sat on the edge of his desk. “I’m sorry about this, but he was found dead in the car.”

  “Burned?” Julie asked a little breathlessly.

  “No. Thanks to the jogger, the fire was put out before it did very much damage. Preserved the scene of the crime.”

  “How was he killed?” Ben just had a feeling, but he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

  “Strangled. Guess I don’t have to use the word coincidence, do I?”

  “I think you’re stretching things.”

  “In my line of work, people use guns and knives and fireplace pokers—I don’t see a lot of strangulation. So, when I do and it’s the second instance in a month on the same case, suspicion mounts.” He paused, looking first at Ben, then Julie. “Do either of you know where I might find Robby?”

  “You were the one who told us Wayne had bailed Robby out. We haven’t heard from him.”

  “I know I don’t have to ask you to call if he gets in touch. And I mean it. You may think you know this young man, but be aware that you may be in danger if you try to help him.”

  + + +

  The wind had picked up, and blowing snow swirled around them. The walk to the truck meant heads tucked into raised jacket collars, obscuring vision. Talking was impossible with less than six inches between them. Ben started the truck the minute they were in, cranking the heater up full blast. A fine dusting of snow slipped across the warming windshield to clump on the wipers. Would there be a white Christmas in three weeks or was this shot winter’s best? Ben knew New Mexico’s weather was unpredictable. He’d never lived in a state where the TV weathermen were wrong fifty percent of the time. Or so it seemed. He turned on the wipers to clear the windshield but didn’t pull out. This was as good a place as any to sit and talk. And a plan was half forming …

  “Wayne bailed Robby out, but we don’t know where he was taking him. Then Wayne and his car ended up in Sandia Heights, sans Robby, with Wayne dead of strangulation and the car on fire. The car was found less than three miles from Connie’s property—three miles from the lodge. If Mac is indeed alive, he doesn’t know that we know. He won’t be taking any extra precautions like staying under cover. And my guess is he’s been living at the lodge.”

  “Are you suggesting we look?”

  “Why not? There’s got to be a reason this Mac wanted to remain ‘dead.’ He could be doing the dirty work for the family—killing Connie, destroying evidence—now maybe his aim is to kill Robby.”

  “Wouldn’t it be a little dangerous for us to just show up?”

  “Cold feet?”

  “Never! Let’s go.”

  “I’d contact Lieutenant Samuels but I don’t think he’s ready to hear a theory that doesn’t include Robby as perpetrator. And I don’t want us to look like idiots, getting the cops involved in chasing down some half-baked hunch. We really don’t have any evidence. So, I’d like to think a ride out there would be innocuous. We don’t even have to leave the car. We can tell by the snow if anyone’s driven in or out. Then we get APD involved—hope they’ll send someone out to check.”

  “And if we suspect Robby is being held?”

  “We call for help. No heroes in this truck … got that?”

  Julie nodded. “I just can’t understand why Wayne would be killed and not Robby. The two of them were together. It also makes no sense to kidnap Robby. Unfortunately, Robby is only good to the family if he’s dead. There should have been two bodies in that car, according to our theory.”

  “Unless the family’s had a change of heart and wants to welcome their sort of half-brother into the family fold. Which I doubt. Or, we can believe like Lieutenant Samuels—Robby killed Wayne.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I agree.” Ben added, “You know it’s possible Wayne had already dropped Robby someplace.”

  “That would be great, but where? He doesn’t have an apartment, or car … I can’t imagine where he would go. And why does it look like Wayne was on his way to Connie’s? Or the lodge?”

  “Maybe he was supposed to meet with members of the family. Wayne and Robby. Robby could have talked him into letting him skip. And maybe, just maybe, Wayne’s death is a fluke—a random robbery, make it look like a body burned on the mesa. Happens every day.”

  “Why am I not convinced?”

  “I know. Me, either.”

  They rode in silence. Ben ne
eded to give all his attention to a road that was getting slick and snow packed. He’d had a new set of Michelins put on at the end of the summer and the truck had four-wheel-drive; still the driving was quickly getting dicey. The flakes were big and round and coming faster now. It was all the wipers could do to clear a path across the glass and then do it again, wiping even more snow to the side two seconds later.

  “It’s beautiful if you can get past the danger.”

  “The snow? Yeah, I’m just afraid we’ll miss our turn.”

  “There it is. The street beside the 7-11.”

  “Looks like they’re getting ready to close.” Ben saw the outside lights blink off. “Guess the storm is giving merchants a respite.” Of course, he reminded himself, this was a city that closed down if an inch stuck to the ground. Every year, kids were still in school in June to make up for the many snow days.

  Ben slowed, put on his blinker, moved to the far right lane and turned. The truck sashayed, then gained traction and began to climb. There would be pavement for about two miles and then the county road, packed gravel, would take them the last mile to the lodge. In these less-traveled areas, the snow had stuck and even drifted in spots. Ben shifted into four-wheel-drive. The mountain seemed to pull them into its whiteness, wrapping them in a fleecy blanket. Trees bowed with snow leaned over the road, forming a tunnel that offered some protection from the relentless storm.

  They passed the turnoff to Connie’s house and followed the road as it veered left.

  “It’s still so sad to think that there’s no house at the end of the lane. It was so beautiful. It would have made a perfect museum.”

  “I’d like to think the pueblo will follow her wishes—even if they have to build something. A museum would help everyone.”

  The road leveled and Julie could see the spot where the mailbox had been. So many reminders on this road of such horrendous acts—her own near brush with death included. She couldn’t suppress a shiver. “The road to the lodge connects with this one in about a quarter mile on your left. Then it’s maybe another quarter mile to the front door. The road starts curving to the right almost as soon as you turn onto it then back to the left.”

  “No other way out?”

  “I don’t think so. Connie never mentioned one. Unless this road cuts back to the county road farther up the mountain.”

  Ben slowed and turned onto the road leading to the lodge. It was marked on either side by Colorado blue spruce. All about fifteen feet tall, all snow-laden—it was like turning into a fairyland inhabited by Christmas trees.

  “Do you get the idea you’re in a winter wonderland? I know Bing Crosby’s around the next turn—I think I hear sleigh bells.”

  “Stop. I’m trying to squelch the Frosty the Snowman refrain that’s been repeating itself in my head, as it is. But I’m not having any luck.”

  “I could start whistling a pretty good rendition of Jingle Bells.”

  “No, don’t.” She laughed. “I don’t know which would be worse.”

  “I don’t see any tracks. If someone came in earlier, they stayed in. The storm is so intense that someone coming in a couple hours ago would have his tracks completely covered. I bet they’d be wiped out in less than half an hour.”

  “And, of course, we could be wrong. The lodge may very well be empty.”

  The afternoon sun was only a glow obscured by clouds, and a near white-out wall of snow blew on a slant to blanket the ground. The wipers were almost useless, losing the battle against the heavy wet stuff. And maybe that’s why the sudden appearance of the black Hummer coming straight toward them seemed to explode out of nowhere. Black against white, a colossal giant with snow flying from wide hood and fenders. Julie screamed as Ben yanked the wheel to the right and slid sideways, slipping backend-first to rest half on and half off the road. The Hummer didn’t even slow.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because I want to follow him. But it might be dangerous. I want you to hike into the lodge. It can’t be far from here. See if there’s any sign of Robby. I’ll call Samuels and he can have this guy picked up. But I don’t want to lose him. This could mean getting Robby off the hook.”

  Julie already had the door open. “Be careful.”

  “I should be back within the hour. Make sure your cell’s on. Take the flashlight.” Ben reached under the seat and handed over a fourteen-inch silver cylinder.

  She grabbed the flashlight, slipped to the ground, pushed the door shut and stepped back. The rear wheels spun then caught on the gravel substrate, popping the truck back on the road and headed the way they’d come. Ben accelerated and the truck fishtailed, then straightened. Julie watched until the taillights disappeared.

  She had a stab of angst about missing the fun and getting left in the snow. But she knew he wanted her to be safe. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t dressed for it. And she could do a thorough check of the lodge on her own. She fully expected to find evidence that Mac had been working with explosives or had held Robby captive. She idly wondered if Ben would find Robby in the Hummer being spirited away against his will.

  She pulled her goose-down hood over her head, snapped the down coat closed to mid-calf, and retied the scarf at her neck. Her boots were rough-out leather lined in shearling and laced to her knees. She felt like she was about to do “one giant step for mankind” but she was comfortable; she was prepared for the snow and cold.

  There was no getting lost on the spruce-lined path. The wet snow made it slow going, but she probably wasn’t in a hurry. She had a feeling the Hummer contained exactly who Lieutenant Samuels was looking for and maybe the evidence he’d need to put one Art McNamara away. She only hoped Robby was safe. And Wayne? Was she upset? Yes. But not broken up. More shocked and sad—sorry that someone had cut his life short. She couldn’t think he’d been caught up in any wrongdoing but could she really speak for him? She’d realized she didn’t really know him anymore—maybe she never had. She honestly couldn’t say what he was or wasn’t capable of. But still, murder …

  The going was easy if she stayed in the Hummer’s tracks. She could just see the outline of the lodge ahead. The snow was still a curtain, a gossamer one that shifted from something almost solid to shimmering, see-through gauze. In this half-light, the lodge looked ethereal. The snow gave it a majesty that the light of day would take away. No worn boards with peeling paint were noticeable; no ugly spans of roof with chunks of missing shingles. It looked serene, at peace, no longer the home to hunters fresh in from the kill.

  Julie stopped at the base of the porch steps then lightly held onto the banister to better balance in the ice and snow. The massive front door was ajar and a small mound of snow was building up just inside the threshold. She pushed the door open then turned and, with the toe of her boot, flicked the gathering snow back outside. Judging from the black stained hardwood flooring next to the door, this wasn’t the first time water had found its way underneath. Caulking and weather-stripping were the first things to go in old buildings like this.

  But where to look first? She switched on the flashlight and scanned the foyer. The floor was covered in prints of someone coming and going. In fact, she’d be very surprised if the prints were from just one person. She bent down and found a couple clear sets—one a dress shoe with smooth sole and one a hiking shoe or boot deeply grooved along the instep, toe and heel. There was about an inch difference in length and because of size, both male, she guessed. So, one thing was proved and they had been right—the lodge had been occupied.

  Did the one pair of shoes belong to Robby? He’d been wearing hikers the other day. The tread pattern was showing so clearly that she surmised the shoes were new—she remembered Robby’s had that just-out-of-the-box clean look. She scanned the area but saw no other prints. Two men. Should she take heart that the prints seemed to indicate Robby was alive? She really needed more proof he’d been here, but she had a hunch.

  She straightened and walked thro
ugh an archway on her right. A gigantic stone fireplace and mantel was the centerpiece among well-worn leather couches and chairs in the gathering room. Rats and other rodents had not done the Indian rugs any favors—most were in tatters. Likewise, the trophies. A large bull elk was missing an eye; several antelope had bare spots where hair should have been. A rogue’s gallery—certainly one which had seen better days. The flashlight only made the animals appear menacing, looming outward, casting weird shadows. The gloom would be better. She switched it off and moved to the next room.

  Once-polished plank tables filled a large alcove off the great room and served as a dining area. Somewhere along the way, someone had broken up a couple, maybe to use as firewood. The fireplace in this area was part of a see-through with the one in the great room, but it was missing stones from its hearth. And someone had put the proverbial cigarette in the mouth of the elk’s head above the mantel. She never understood how anyone could find that funny.

  The next room in her path was the kitchen. She remembered it ran the length of the lodge across the back. Floor-to-ceiling china cabinets, now empty, seemed to waver above her. She chided herself for having an overly active imagination. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of sadness. Or was it a foreboding? Wasn’t the structure doomed to be razed? It seemed like such an ignoble ending. She remembered the lodge from her youth when it was vibrant and comfortable, offering a great vacation for her family. There wasn’t a time when a cauldron of Skip’s famous elk-meat chili wasn’t simmering on one of the Chambers wood stoves. Was tequila really his secret ingredient? Now those stoves were gone and three blackened and greasy holes remained in the adjoining counter space.

  The Coleman camp stove sitting on the oak island was a poor replacement—but once again proved recent occupancy. A wastebasket filled with empty Hormel chili cans attested to diet. A battered saucepan with stuck-on brown sludge sat in one of the utility sinks. What a mess, but why did she expect squatters to wash dishes? Turning, she almost fell over a knee-high bar fridge sticking out from the edge of a counter. She pulled the door open—a six pack of Budweiser, a jar of olives and a stick of butter. Not exactly the condiments she’d choose to accent a bowl of canned chili but maybe she was missing something. She supposed the beer was the right touch, though.