I tossed my camera, notepad and briefcase filled with the research I'd already done on hog ranches into the Camry's back seat, grabbed my purse and took off.
Hog Heaven was a scant thirty minutes away from Garnet Pass on a seldom traveled, straight, flat secondary road. A leisurely drive. Before long I spotted the oddly shaped long butte that was Clyde Bodie's sleeping dragon. From here it looked more like a weird three-and-a-half humped camel, but even that took a wild stretch of the imagination.
Gradually, the Hog Heaven buildings took shape in the distance. I'd thought I might be able to see the remains of the old hog ranch approaching from this direction, but the Four Mile ruins were well hidden. A good thing, as both Clyde and Opal had said. I'd seen enough evidence to remind me that in this part of the world road signs and vacant buildings were considered fair game for target practice.
I turned into the wide drive that led to the Hog Heaven store and noticed that no further work had been done on the sign above the door. Poor Clyde. Ronnie Mae's threats and her death must have disrupted his plans for the budding New Sedona. The ladder lay in the weeds beside the store, along with the can of black paint.
Not wanting to block any possible customer's approach to Clyde's prized antique gas pumps, I parked beside an enormous Buick that sat close to the fence enclosing his and Opal's double-wide trailer.
Clyde stepped out of the store, waved, and headed for a rattletrap truck that looked like it might once have been red. He opened the truck's door, but waited for me to get out of my car.
"Go right on in," he called, with a grand wave of his hand that included his mobile home and its gaily decorated yard, the store, and everything else in the immediate vicinity. The king and his domain. "The missus is expecting you." He climbed in the truck, slammed the door twice before it latched, then stuck his head out the open window to yell apologetically, "Got to get going."
"Thanks," I hollered back, and ambled toward the house while the truck lurched, coughed and rumbled out to the road. I opened the wire-mesh gate. The yard was a crafter's delight, filled with wishing wells, bird condos and flower beds lined with gleaming hunks of rose quartz. Brilliant fish and flower banners flapped from a tall yard light pole, and above the front door hung an old saw blade decorated with a painting of a fantastically lush landscape like nothing ever seen in these parts.
Even though the front door was open, and Clyde had said to go on in, I knocked on the screen door first and waited a bit before stepping inside.
"Hi, Mrs. Bodie," I called out. "It's me, Thea Barlow." No one answered. Probably in the bathroom, I thought.
I reached around to pull the screen door closed behind me and in the process tipped over a bowl of polished agates that stood on a table by the door. The stones rattled across the entry floor.
"Sorry," I said, loudly enough to be heard in the back. "I knocked over your bowl of rocks." Righting the bowl, I dislodged a perilous stack of junk mail, most of which also fluttered to the floor. Jeez! Gathering it up, I pushed keys, glasses, and a spent shotgun shell, with its crimped end gaping open, to the far end of the table to make room for a sturdier pile of mail. The table was obviously a handy catch-all for pocket contents and anything else one might be holding when they came in.
Then I scooped up the scattered stones, admiring the lacy patterned agates, rosy quartz, and brilliant hues of minerals I couldn't identify. I also picked up assorted debris that must have been dropped in the bowl over time, some wadded up gum wrappers, paper clips, and a couple of rubber bands. Suddenly aware that I hadn't heard a peep out of Opal, I quickly put the stones back in the bowl, and the paper clips and rubber bands on the table.
"Opal," I called again. I glanced around for a wastebasket, but didn't see one, so I dropped the gum wrappers in my shorts pocket, and walked through the living room toward the back of the house.
The room was large and comfy looking with lots of crocheted afghans and paintings on the walls. Rock and mineral specimens decorated shelves and end tables, along with more samples of her craftwork.
I peered into the bedrooms, and called her name. Empty. As were the bathrooms.
With a flash of embarrassment, it occurred to me that Opal was most likely in the store; with Clyde gone somebody had to be tending to business. Oh Lord, and here I was poking around their house. I rushed outside and loped over to the store, hoping Opal hadn't been watching me out of a window.
The store's interior was dim and cool, with a warm musty smell of old wood, and not enough cleaning. I didn't see anybody.
A long counter on the left held a cash register, a small case of souvenir items, and the usual clutter of trinkets, candy, brochures, whatever.
"Hi! Anybody home?" No answer. Again, the bathroom seemed a logical choice, but I didn't mess around this time, just headed around the free-standing food displays to the back room.
The only relatively cleared-off surface in the clutter-stuffed room was an old Formica-topped table which held several boxes of ammunition and some kind of weird contraption with levers that I didn't bother to examine. In a far corner I could see the open door of a small washroom.
"Mrs. Bodie?" I called again, but it was obvious the store was as empty as the house had been. I shrugged and went back outside. Clyde had said Opal was expecting me. Wherever she was, she'd be back soon, and would know where to find me. I'd explore on my own. I headed off around the far side of the store toward the clump of cottonwood trees where Clyde had said the ruins were.
There wasn't a path or trail, just hard-packed ground that gradually gave way to a heavy growth of brush and weeds. I picked my way through the prickly stuff and finally found the remains of an overgrown track.
The air was hot and still, the wind calm for a moment. Startled grasshoppers cracked and whirled, bouncing out of the weeds like corn in a popper. Ahead I could see the scraggly stand of old cottonwoods and the low building close to the creek bank.
Fifty yards away stood the remnants of a small corral, most of its poles gone. Beside it, two rows of hewn rock blocks, three high, formed the corner of what might once have been a barn. Planks of wood blackened with age and weather were everywhere, some stacked in neat piles as if someone had made an attempt to clear the rubble, others lying every which way ready to trap unwary toes. The wind picked up, rattling through the trees and tugging at caught tumbleweeds.
I picked my way through the boards and wire and miscellaneous junk to the long, low building backed against an equally long hillock. It was old, old. I could tell that by the thick crumbling walls made from an early form of crude cement that was mixed with gravel rather than sand. I ran my fingers over the rough surface. What was left of the building's roof sagged in the middle like a sway-backed horse. There were four doorways, bare lintels now, except for one which still had a door of sorts, hanging from loose hinges. These had been the cribs, rooms where the "girls" lived and plied their trade.
I ducked into the first opening and stood in the small room trying to get a sense of what life might have looked like all those years ago. But the ghosts were long gone. The floor was hard-packed dirt and the ceiling low. The air held a nasty tinge, fetid, and dank even for this dry country. I jumped as something scurried from under a pile of leaves and debris in the corner and disappeared under the wall so quickly I couldn't identify what it was. Rats, I thought with a shiver, quickly stepping out into the sunlight.
I pushed tentatively at the loosely hanging door of the last room, prepared to beat a fast retreat if the squealing hinge surprised another critter, but nothing rushed around at the noise so I pushed more firmly. The bottom hinge less end of the door flapped awkwardly, making it hard to move. Another shove lifted the room's musty gloom with enough light to see a bundle of clothes... or something... lying on the dirt floor.
I moved from the door, letting in even more light, and gasped. "Opal?" There was no mistaking those heavy, pale legs. She lay on her back, shoulders turned slightly to the side, one arm flung over her
face. Her voluminous T-shirt, decorated with knots of pink ribbon, bunched in awkward folds around her middle. I reached out and bent to kneel beside her. A sudden movement, a slight swish of air warned me, but not quickly enough to avoid the sharp blow to the middle of my back that whipped my neck and sent me sprawling on top of the woman. I landed with force on something so hard it knocked the wind from me.
Dimly aware of footsteps pounding away, I rolled onto the floor, heaving with the need to pull air into my lungs. Pain coursed up my neck, ringing my ears, numbing my brain. I pushed onto my knees, desperately sucking in tiny threads of breath. Finally able to gulp air, I stared at Opal's motionless body.
"No!" I croaked, and tried to jump to my feet, but my knees gave way. I'd fallen on the thick curved handle of a knife protruding from the folds of Opal's shirt. As I watched, a dark stain crept through to the cloth's surface.
"Oh, no, no." I put my hand on her neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. I'd fallen on the knife. If Opal hadn't been dead before, she certainly was now. I had to get help.
I lurched to my feet, fighting a surge of nausea. A noise outside, like someone stumbling on a board, brought my head up. Relieved, I opened my mouth to cry for help, but some heightened awareness warned me not to. Silence, thick and ominous, hung in the air. Fear ruffed the hair on my arms. Another small sound, closer now, to the left of the door, instantly muffled.
Someone was out there, waiting, stalking. I had surprised Opal's killer. Had he come back now, to finish me off? Afraid I might have seen him? Frantically, I looked around the little room. Nothing. No other door, no window, nowhere to hide. I leaned back into the shadows, and crouched beside Opal's body. My heart began to pound. Then, without warning, a sharp crack against the partially open door flung it farther open and a man with a rifle ducked into the room.
I jerked the heavy knife from Opal's body and swung it up to face him. The motion sent blood trickling down the blade and onto my fingers. I didn't care. Some foreign primordial being had taken over my body. I felt dizzy with power. Strength pounded through my body. Crouched in a fighting stance, I balanced lightly on the balls of my feet. Waiting. Opal might have been easy prey, but not me.
The man stood in the shaft of sunlight. I couldn't see his features, just his outline cast in an eerie golden glow.
"Drop the knife," he said.
"Not on your life." I shook the blade at him, flinging droplets of blood onto the dirt floor.
Slowly, he backed out the door, keeping the gun trained on me. "Out," he said, motioning with the rifle barrel.
Yes. I wanted to get outside. "Back off," I said. My voice sounded hard and raspy. He moved farther away from the door. I could see him plainly now. Dan Lorenzo, Ronnie Mae's husband. I stepped over Opal's body and out into the bright daylight. My legs began to shake; the power disappeared; reality set in.
I knew that if Dan Lorenzo wanted to kill me all he had to do was shoot. I had no defense. The knife felt incredibly heavy and my arm began to quiver. I fought an urge to throw it down.
It took a moment to realize that the sound I'd been listening to was the wheeze and chug of an old pickup. Clyde Bodie! If I could just break and run. I firmed my grip on the knife and began to sidle toward the path.
Dan heard the truck, too. He raised his head, and to my surprise, motioned me toward Hog Heaven with his rifle.
Neither of us took our eyes off the other as we sidled down the path, knife and rifle held ready.
We rounded the end of the store and saw Clyde Bodie lifting a carton from the back of his truck. Relieved, I dropped my defensive stance and ran the few feet to his side.
"Bodie!" Dan yelled, hot on my heels, "call the sheriff. Fast."
"What's going on here?" Clyde asked, eyeing the rifle warily. He set the box on the ground. "Put down that damn fool gun, boy," he said, holding a protective arm in front of me.
"Don't just stand there," Dan said, his voice rising on a note of panic. "Call the sheriff. She just killed Opal!"
Chapter 7
"Killed Opal?" Clyde said, clearly not taking it in. "Why would she do that?"
"I didn't," I gasped, flinging my arm out in an accusing gesture. "He did!" Horrified, I saw the bloody knife still clutched in my hand. With a sharp cry, I tossed it to the ground. "I thought he was going to kill me." Panic shrilled my voice as I tried to explain. But Clyde's eyes were on the knife. We both stared at it. "I didn't... I grabbed—"
"Don't listen to her!" Dan broke in, nudging my shoulder with the rifle, motioning me away from Clyde.
"Whoa, now," Clyde said, dodging the wildly waving gun. He pulled me behind him.
Enraged, Dan yelled, "I caught her!" Spittle sprayed from his mouth. "She was standing right there with the knife in her hand!"
"Calm down, boy," Clyde raised his hands in soothing gestures. "Calm down, now. Let's just go get Opal. She'll clear this up."
It was our turn to stare at Clyde. I tried to speak, but words wouldn't come.
"She's dead, you old fool," Dan spat the words at him. "That's what I've been trying to tell you!"
Dazed, Clyde looked to me, his eyes pleading for a denial, but all I could do was nod bleakly. I gripped his hand.
"She's... she's dead?" he asked in a barely audible whisper. I nodded again. My throat tightened. Tears burned behind my eyes.
None of us heard the new arrival until the pickup sped into the lot. Clyde's anguish lifted at the sight of it, as if this could be a messenger from God come to change the verdict. But he recognized the fluorescent green truck.
"Twila," he said, as the pickup spun to a gravel-spitting stop behind Clyde's. Dan jumped back out of its way.
Clyde turned to me, his shoulders sagging with disappointment. "Where's Opal?"
"The hog ranch," I answered, my voice thick with misery. "The end room, with the door."
Opal's friend, Twila Pettigrew, popped out from the truck's cab. "What in tarnation's going on here, Clyde?"
Quick-stepping around the front of the truck, she elbowed past Dan Lorenzo, dismissing him as if he were a ten-year-old. "Put that damned gun away before you kill somebody," she told him angrily. Her short, swept-back gray hair bristled like a battle-ready porcupine.
In her right arm she cradled a... chicken? I gaped. The large brown bird, loosely wrapped in a baby's receiving blanket, had a fleshy red comb on top of its head that bobbed grotesquely as the bird craned its neck to cast curious one-eyed stares at everyone. Twila scratched the chicken's neck feathers absently, as one would a dog's ruff.
"They say Opal's dead, Twila." Clyde's face was hazy with shock. "I've got to go find her." He pointed toward the clump of cottonwoods.
"Opal?" Twila looked from me to Dan.
"Yeah, and this one killed her," Dan said, his voice hard, eyes watchful.
"I did not kill anyone," I told her forcefully. "Please call the sheriff."
The damn chicken mimicked Twila, cocking its head to glare at me again with a bright, doubting eye.
Dan gave a derisive snort. "I caught her standing over the body holding that knife." He jerked his head at the weapon lying in the dirt.
Twila gave me a wary look and put the chicken on the ground. "Hop down, Sugar," she said. "I'm getting the phone."
The chicken stretched its legs, eyeing me balefully, then raced to the knife and pecked at the blade glimmering in the sun. Tink, tink. My stomach churned.
Dimly, I heard Twila talking on her cell phone, but I couldn't take my eyes from the chicken. It lifted its head and glared at me again like a harbinger of doom. Its sharp little beak hung open. Panting in the heat? Or laughing at me? Tink, tink. It pecked again, eating up the dust-spattered blood, then suddenly turned and raced toward me, head down. Startled, I jumped back, pulling my feet away, then, embarrassed, held my ground. It was just a chicken, for pete's sake. I could kick it across the yard if I had to.
"Opal's all alone," Clyde said to no one in particular, and lumbered off toward the old
Four Mile.
"Wait for me," Twila said. "The sheriff's on his way. Keep your eye on her," she told Dan needlessly. "Calm down, Sugar," she admonished the chicken who was stalking me in wide circles, its eye now on my blood-spattered hand. I quickly hid it behind my back.
Twila hurried off to catch up with Clyde.
"Hey," I yelled, rushing after her. "Don't leave me here with this maniac! I'm coming with you."
"No, you're not." She turned, ready to stiff-arm me if I got any closer.
"He'll kill me."
"No he won't." She gave him a hard look. "Not if he knows what's good for him," she said. "And you don't give him a reason to."
"But he—"
"Just go sit down over there, girl. The sheriff will be here in a few minutes." She trotted off.
I started to follow, but Dan stepped in front of me, rifle pointed at my belly.
"You better do like she says. Sit down over there." He motioned me to the store's front stoop. "Yeah," he said, "you're looking kinda green."
I felt green. Sweat dripped from my nose and chin and I began to shake uncontrollably. Staggering over to the store, I sat on the step and put my head between my knees, breathing deeply.
"You just sit tight," Dan pronounced, "and nothing will happen."
Yeah, right, I thought, knowing he could blow me away on the thinnest excuse. From my head-down position I could see the damned chicken's feet, strutting back and forth in front of me like a Nazi storm trooper. Dan kicked a clod of dirt at the bird and it jumped in the air with a squawk and ran off. I felt more kindly toward the man than I'd thought possible.
Feeling slightly better, I sat up and rubbed my neck. "Have you got some quarters? I need a drink."
He looked at me suspiciously, shifting from one foot to the other, licking his lips nervously. He hesitated, as if speaking to me might contaminate his vigilance.
"Oh, for Pete's sake," I said, disgusted enough to throw caution to the wind. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm as anxious for the sheriff to get here as you are." I stood, my knees wobbling just a tiny bit. Now that the adrenaline rush had drained out of me there was nothing left but a quivering mass of nerves twitching around in my belly like a nest of snakes.
Dead in Hog Heaven (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Three) Page 5
