The Wrong Hill to Die On: An Alafair Tucker Mystery #6 (Alafair Tucker Mysteries)

by Donis Casey

  There was a lot of water around, considering they were in the desert. Many of the streets had irrigation channels like the one in which Bernie Arruda had met his maker; large, open ditches half full of turgid water running down either side and a fair-sized ditch leading into every yard. One channel that Webster had called the “Willow Ditch” could have been mistaken for a small creek, except for the fact that it ran straight and true down the side of the road for which it was named.

  Every time Alafair looked to the east toward the sunrise the single streak of cloud that hovered over the horizon had changed to some brilliant new shade; orange to gold, salmon to pink. Colors she had never seen, fading just before the sun came up to a shade of delicate pearl that reminded her of the inside of the abalone shell one of the kids had given her a few years before.

  The sky had taken on its clear winter blue by the time Elizabeth turned the automobile south onto the main thoroughfare, Mill Avenue, named for a large adobe flour mill at its end, next to the broad Salt River which made up the northern boundary of the town. Alafair commented to Shaw on how wide Mill Avenue was and what a spacious feeling the town had. All the streets in town were unpaved, but Mill was lined with concrete sidewalks shaded by ash trees, and many of the red brick buildings sported balconies and second floors with deep overhanging roofs. The soft morning light gave the town such an air of elegance and refinement that Alafair wondered aloud how on earth anyone had decided to build a such lovely town here in the middle of the desert.

  Cindy turned and hung an arm over the back of her seat. “Back in ’70, old Mr. Hayden started a ferry crossing over the river for travelers heading south toward Tucson.”

  Alafair was surprised. “It’s a much older town than Boynton, then.”

  Shaw laughed. “Plenty old. It’s a year older than me!”

  Elizabeth turned east off of Mill onto Eighth Street and drove them past the Tempe Normal School campus, eight red brick buildings surrounding a pleasant green quad with a fountain in the middle. By the time they turned south again onto Canal Street, the campus had given way to clusters of houses, then farms and fields of winter wheat glimpsed through a corridor of mature ash and sycamore trees lining the road. The country outside of town was beautiful, but strange. Directly behind them them to the north a conical butte poked out of the flat landscape, and in the distance rose a strangely pink-tinted humpback mountain. Far to the east, a range of mountains lined the horizon, so tall that the four distinct points of the tallest peaks were still snow-covered.

  “Those are the Superstition Mountains,” Elizabeth told them. “They say there is a lost gold mine somewhere in those hills.”

  Lush cotton fields and pleasant farms were situated next to desert so barren it was frightening. Blanche excitedly pointed out a stand of two or three giant cactuses that looked like silent creatures with raised arms. “They look like they’re calling down a blessing from heaven, Mama!”

  Let it be a blessing and not a curse, Alafair prayed. To be stranded alone in the middle of such country with no mode of transportation would be a death sentence.

  Blanche slipped her hand into Alafair’s. “It’s nice here, isn’t it, Ma?”

  Alafair took a deep breath.“It is, honey.”

  Rural School

  It was not a long drive once they turned onto Canal, perhaps three miles.They could see the abandoned school rising up out of the land like a mushroom. It was a one-room affair, but good-sized, with a bonnet roof that shaded the low porch on all four sides. There was a covered well a few yards from the front of the building, and two outhouses in the back—one for the boys and one for the girls.

  “It looks like a nice building,” Shaw said. “Why are they letting somebody blow it up?”

  “There will be a new school here, I understand,” Elizabeth told him, as they turned up the drive from the road. “Mostly farmers’ kids go to school out here, but the town is growing out this direction. I reckon they think eventually they’ll need a bigger place.”

  A young man directed them to a sunny area of bare dirt where several autos were already parked. The horse-drawn vehicles were being sent to a tree-lined spot nearer the school. “I reckon they figure the automobiles don’t need shade like the horses do,” Elizabeth speculated, as she pulled in next to a Ford and killed the engine.

  Quite a number of spectators had made the trek all the way out from town to see the performance. Alafair thought there were close to fifty people milling around the designated viewing area on the other side of the drive from the school. She took Blanche’s hand and they walked toward the activity, leaving Shaw, Elizabeth, and Cindy to haul the canvas folding chairs out of the Hupmobile’s boot. A woman with long blond braids who was dressed in riding trousers, a blousing white shirt, and a floppy straw hat herded them into the spectator’s corral, where Alafair and Blanche made their way to the front to hold a place for their chairs. Alafair hadn’t been able to tell from the road, but they were on a slight rise that gave the gallery an excellent view of the action.

  Two large cameras were set up on tripods near the schoolhouse, but if it hadn’t been for that, Alafair would have thought she was watching a tribe of Indians standing around and chatting pleasantly with armed Mexican soldiers.

  Blanche was so excited she was practically hopping from foot to foot. “Hey, Mama, hey, Mama, look, there’s Chris who was at the party! Where’s Dorothy? Do you see Dorothy?”

  All Alafair could see of Chris Martin was his back as he peered through his camera lens, made a tiny adjustment, peered through the lens again. She noted with amusement that he had turned his cap around backwards so the bill would not impede his view. She scanned the crowd of actors, but didn’t recognize either of the women who had come to Elizabeth’s gathering. “I’m guessing she’s one of the Indian girls, sugar. I doubt if she looks the same today as she did the other night.”

  Shaw, Elizabeth, and Cindy elbowed their way through the spectators, folding chairs held high to keep from braining any innocent bystanders. They spent a couple of minutes setting themselves up along the edge of the drive, next to the dozen or so other civilians who had had the foresight to bring their own chairs.

  Blanche crawled up in her father’s lap and Elizabeth leaned over in her chair to give Alafair’s shoulder a nudge. “There’s the director yonder, Mr. Carleton. “

  Alafair looked in the direction Elizabeth had pointed and saw a middle-sized man in boots, jhodpurs, and a broad-brimmed hat stalking up and down the line in front of the abandoned schoolhouse, his pleasant face furrowed with concentration as he studied the shot. He lifted his hat and ran his fingers across his scalp, momentarily exposing a shock of greying hair and clear blue eyes behind a pair of rimless spectacles.

  Hobart Bosworth

  A very tall, good-looking man dressed in nothing more than a loincloth and moccasins broke away from his castmates and walked across the drive toward them. Everyone began to murmur, and Elizabeth and Cindy stood up as he neared. “It’s Mr. Bosworth,” Elizabeth said over her shoulder, though Alafair had already gathered that from the whispers around her.

  He bore little resemblance to the image she had seen in Cindy’s photograph. His skin was darkened with makeup and his blond hair covered by a rather obvious black, shoulder-length wig, a beaded headband low on his forehead. He was working the crowd, greeting the spectators, shaking hands, speaking to the women and children. His smile was broad and white, his incongruous blue eyes sparkling with what looked like real pleasure. Alafair and Shaw exchanged a glance. No wonder Elizabeth was enamored.

  “Mrs. Kemp, Mrs. Stewart!” the actor exclaimed as he neared. “I do declare that you two ladies have been the most faithful followers of our little enterprise. I’ve missed you the past few days!”

  Cindy blushed becomingly before she smiled and ducked her head, but Elizabeth wasn’t in the least star-struck and answered like she had known the man all her life. Alafair smiled at her brass. Some things never changed. “We h
ave missed you, as well, Mr. Bosworth. Sir, this is my sister, Alafair Tucker, her husband Shaw Tucker, and their daughter Blanche, come to visit us all the way from Oklahoma.”

  Bosworth looked into Alafair’s eyes as though no one else was around when he took her hand in greeting, and followed up with a hearty handshake for Shaw. He turned his full attention to Blanche, who had pushed herself in front of her father. “I am honored to meet you, Miss Blanche. What a beautiful little girl you are!” He looked up at Shaw. “Now, here’s one who could have a career in the cinema when she gets a little older.”

  “I’m afraid she’d have to step over my dead body,” Shaw joked.

  “Oh, Daddy!” Blanche was exasperated. “It’d be fun to be in the flickers.”

  Alafair could not let this pass without some teasing. “Why, honey, your grandfolks would fall over dead from shock to see you flaunting yourself in front of a camera for the whole world to see.”

  The remark served to galvanize Blanche’s resolve. “When would Grandma and Grandpapa ever see a moving picture? I could be in every picture from now to forever and they’d never know about it. Mr. Bosworth, is it true that a person can make a lot of money from acting in a picture show?”

  Bosworth winked one very un-Indian blue eye at Alafair before he answered. “Some can, dear girl, if they are lucky enough to get a lot of parts, but it’s a hard business.”

  “See, Ma, if I got a lot of parts, I could buy y’all a house and an automobile and some clothes.”

  Shaw laughed. “Then you’d be too high-falutin’ to keep company with your plain old folks.”

  “I don’t care about the money,” Elizabeth interjected. “Why, I would adore to act in motion pictures just for the adventure!”

  Bosworth turned to look at her, a spark of admiration in his gaze. “Well, Mrs. Kemp, you would change your tune about the excitement of the moving picture business if you did it for a living as I do. I spend much of my day letting people get me up in ridiculous outfits. Then I stand around for hours in the hot sun while my beloved yet temperamental director decides the exact spot to place his camera. After which I get to spend fifteen minutes making a monkey out of myself while the camera man films it for all the world to see.”

  Elizabeth puffed. “Sounds like exhilaration itself compared to the drudgery of my life, Mr. Bosworth.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Cindy breathed.

  “Well, ladies, if you’re so keen, why don’t you sign on as extras? The very last shot of this picture is coming up at the end of the week, and it calls for several townswomen such as yourselves to engage in a bit of running and screaming.”

  Both Alafair and Shaw chuckled at the very idea, but Elizabeth exclaimed, “Why, we’d love to!”

  Cindy paled at the thought. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. My husband would never let me do such a thing.”

  Elizabeth would not be deterred by her friend’s faint-heartedness. “Unless you tell him. By the time Geoff finds out, it’ll be too late, and you will have had some fun and made a dollar!”

  Bosworth was taking the conversation in a spirit of fun. “That is exactly right, Mrs. Stewart. What possible harm could it do? Why, you might even find yourself a new career!”

  The director was waving impatiently at Bosworth, who waved back. “Well, it was nice to meet you good people. I hope you enjoy the action. It should be most entertaining.”

  He turned to go, but Elizabeth held out a hand. “Mr. Bosworth, is Bernie Arruda’s death going to cause any difficulties for your picture?”

  Bosworth hesitated and gave her an odd look.“No, he was only a bit player. But he had quite the personality, and I was sorry to hear that he died. Why do you ask? Did you know him?”

  Elizabeth waved in Alfair’s general direction. “It was my sister here who discovered his body that morning in front of my house.”

  The actor’s eyebrow’s knit. “Oh, my goodness, how distressing. He was a nice young man, so proud to be in our motion picture, especially since he was actually a Yaqui, one of the very people whose story we are telling here. He and his brothers helped us a bit with costume details, and Bernie scouted some locations for us. It was he who found this abandoned school. I certainly hope whoever killed him is brought to justice.”

  “I didn’t know Bernie was a Yaqui himself!”

  “Yes, I figured that was why he portrayed his Mexican army officer character as so cruel. Bernie had some ability, the poor fellow. He could have had a career as a character actor out in California.”

  An assistant director was calling Bosworth’s name by now, and he cast an amused look over his shoulder. “And now I really must be going. Every moment of delay costs money, you know.” He turned back to Elizabeth and Cindy. “And, ladies, if you change your mind about appearing in our little play, report to the casting director as soon as you may. Tell her I sent you. Blanche, darling, you look me up in about ten years if you decide to pursue a film career. Mr. and Mrs. Tucker, so glad to meet you. And don’t worry for a moment. There is nothing in any of my films that I wouldn’t be proud for a ten-year-old to see.”

  They watched for a moment as the actor walked away, until Alafair broke the silence. “Bernie was a real-life Yaqui?”

  “Sounds like he was more involved in this film endeavor than we realized,” Elizabeth noted.

  “Mr. Bosworth remembered our names,” Cindy said with a sigh.

  A Hard Rain

  The spectators watched enrapt as the film crew shot a scene in which several “Yaqui” women and children were herded into the abandoned schoolhouse by sinister-looking Mexican soldiers. They did three or four takes, moving the two cameras around for different angles, and there was a lot of emoting and swooning from the actors which looked less than realistic, Alafair thought. Even so, she did find herself feeling anxious about the fate of the captive Yaquis. Fortunately, Mr. Bosworth’s character, Tambor, the hero, managed to foil the evil soldiers and free the captives just in time.

  Carleton finally decided he had enough footage to work with and dismissed his extras for the day. Then for the next hour, there was a great deal of inexplicable scurrying about on the set, yelling, and other mysterious activities that Alafair could make neither heads nor tails of. The spectators talked, strolled around, broke out snacks and drinks, and seemed not in the least bored. Alafair, Shaw, and Blanche took the opportunity to walk a little way out into the countryside and admire all the little prickly plants and creatures.

  When everyone had reclaimed their places and shooting finally resumed, the director sent two crew members into the schoolhouse to make sure it was clear before he turned toward the spectators and shouted at them through a megaphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to blow this schoolhouse to kingdom come. For the last hour, my explosives expert has been placing seven hundred pounds of dynamite at crucial points within the building, and when I give the signal to blow it up, the blast will be epic. It will also be very dangerous and extremely loud, so please follow Miss Weston up the rise to the safe area behind the rope at the top of the little hill. You should be able to see everything. I’ll give you plenty of warning before Mr. Johnson sets off the dynamite, and I will suggest you cover your ears when I give the signal. Keep your children on a tight rein. I don’t want any accidents. Now, we only have one chance to get this shot, so I’m going to insist that everyone cooperate, or we will remove you from the set.”

  It did not take a second warning to convince Alafair and her party to pick up their chairs and follow the pigtailed Miss Weston a few yards up the rise to the safe zone. Alafair did not want to stay at all since she hated loud noises, but she was overruled. Shaw tried to contain it, but she could see the spark of boyish eagerness at the prospect of blowing things up. So she resigned herself. There was no possibility that she would leave Blanche with a bunch of people who had temporarily taken leave of their senses.

  She wanted to stand behind the press of watchers, but Blanche slithered through the cr
owd like an eel to the front of the crowd and pressed against the rope. Shaw would have lifted her up onto his shoulders if Alafair had not objected. He ended up holding Blanche in his arms while Alafair pressed up next to his side with one arm around his back and the other clutching Blanche in a death grip.

  The actors, still in costume, were sitting in canvas chairs under a canopy off to the left of the spectators, chatting calmly amongst themselves. Below, they could see Carleton wave a white flag. The assistant director, a tall youth in a tweed cap and shaded spectacles, turned and faced the onlookers. “When Mr. Carleton lifts the red flag, ladies and gentlemen, that will be the signal to cover your ears.”

  It took another ten minutes of unexplained activity on the set, ten minutes of unpleasant anticipation that Alafair did not appreciate, before Carleton lifted a small triangular red flag over his head. The explosives man, Mr. Johnson, came out of the schoolhouse door, walking backwards and rolling out a length of wire. Some yards from the building he dropped to his knees and attached the wire to a small box with a plunger.

  “Stick your fingers in your ears, gals,” Shaw said to the women around him.“Clean up to your elbows, if you can manage.”

  Down went the flag and the explosives expert depressed the plunger.

  The schoolhouse disintegrated before their eyes, suddenly nothing but dust and shards of board flying straight up into the air. Alafair felt the shock before the sound of the blast reached them. Even with her hands pressed tight over her ears the noise was unlike anything she had ever heard, and she had fired many a shotgun in her time. The unrecognizable remains of the little wood schoolhouse seemed to float motionless in the air for a second, then begin to fall in a noisy rattle like hail. Or like shrapnel.

  They were being pelted with debris. Seven hundred pounds of dynamite was apparently overdoing it. The crowd scattered like chickens, arms and hands over ducked heads. Alafair grabbed the back of Shaw’s coat and felt herself jerked into a run. Shaw was already halfway down the backside of the rise carrying Blanche squashed up against his chest, pressing her face into his waistcoat with one hand. If this is even a little bit what war is like, Alafair thought in awe, how can anyone make himself fight after the first cannon is fired or bomb is dropped?