by R. P. Dahlke
Still, we would be gone the minute we finished with our appointment with the homicide detectives. Tomorrow, at the latest.
Dad came back with a recently cleaned latrine shovel in his hand. “The boards may splinter and fly, so stand back,” he said, sticking the shovel between the boards and cracking one off from the wall.
“I wonder what treasures await us?” I asked, glad to be able to find a diversion from our upcoming interviews with Homicide.
“A generator or tools would do it for me,” he said, ripping off the second board.
We pushed through the opening and stepped inside. Spaces between the roof shingles acted like floodlights for the dust motes. Against one wall was a long workbench. Old, rusty tools and some cans of paint littered the bench, but a can of motor oil and an engine hoist hinted at a tractor or some kind of motorized vehicle hiding under one of the tarps.
Dad went to inspect a wooden trough. “Now, here’s a good thing to have. It’s a sluice box. Nowadays, they use rubber mats to catch the gold, but back then, they’d run water through the box and the heavier gold would land between these wood slats. You have to have access to water, but I see there’s a motor to run the pump. Too bad the creek’s dried up.”
“When Caleb gets back, we’ll go find Uncle Ed’s mine.”
I looked forward to anything that would keep me from the puzzle of the police chief and the dead art compound owner. I wandered between some empty crates, stopping at a heavy tarp covering a machine with wheels and propped up on wood blocks.
“I think I found your tractor, Dad.”
“Too long, too low, and those wheels don’t look right. Here, take a hold of the edge and we’ll pull off this cover.”
Together we pulled back the heavy tarp and draped it over the trunk of a small open vehicle. When the dust settled, there was just enough light to see that it was definitely not a tractor.
“It’s a little open cockpit two-seater,” I said, admiring the sleek shape. “And I think it used to be blue.”
“This isn’t a sports car, Lalla, it’s a race car,” my dad said, pointing to a dusty smudged number 6 on the side. He went to the bench and came back with an oily rag.
“It’s been here all this time? Why didn’t Great-Uncle Ed take it with him when he went back to Texas?”
He finished wiping away the dirt covering the white number against the sky blue paint, and plucked at his lower lip. “Don’t know.”
“No wonder the key didn’t work. Something like this must be valuable, right?”
“Depends,” he said working at the leather latches on the hood. “Let me open the hood and see if there’s even a motor in it.”
He raised the hood and released another dust storm, forcing us to back up.
In a hushed tone, I said, “I bet no one’s touched this thing in fifty years.”
He whistled. “That’s an aluminum engine, and this here’s an overhead cam with dual carbs. I’ve never seen one quite like it. I’ll have to look it up on the Internet.”
“Sure you will. As soon as we have electricity and phone service.”
“Oh, yeah. Maybe there’s a generator somewhere in here,” he said, looking around. “At the very least, we could get the well pump going for water.”
I snickered. “What happened to all that pioneering spirit?”
“I’d like to have running water,” he said, wiping his oily hands with the grimy rag.
Running water, my ass. He was excited about his new find and wanted to know more. And to think, until this year I couldn’t talk him into a cell phone, much less a computer. His lady friend cured him of his internet phobia when she showed him how it could compare prices and have purchases delivered without ever leaving the house. If there was one thing my dad hated, it was spending too much money and having to interact with salespeople to do it.
“But do you think it’s valuable?” I asked.
“Knowing your great-uncle Ed, it is. He’d already amassed a fortune in oil, land and cattle by the time they bought this property.”
“We should tell Aunt Mae it’s still here. She might want it back.”
My dad looked up and smiled. “Did you read the deed? It said, ‘The land and all of its contents entailed.’ Why don’t you scoot back to the house and get a flashlight, and let’s see if we can get this baby running again.”
I did as he asked, now excited about our find. Even if it turned out to be worthless, we’d have another vehicle to drive.
When I returned, he was leaning against the workbench, trying to read the print of a small book in the dim light. He muttered his thanks for the flashlight and went back to reading.
“Well?” I asked.
“The manual is in Italian, but I can pretty much figure out what’s what. It’s a Bugatti, whatever that is. The engine’s intact, but I’ll have to remove the carburetors. If it’s all gummed up …. and I’ll have to drain the oil. It will need fresh gas and a 6-volt battery, unless we want to use the hand crank. A golf cart battery would work. Where would I get one of those? Didn’t we see a sign for a golf course nearby? We could ask there.”
“When Caleb gets back,” I said, laughing at my dad’s enthusiasm.
“Sure, sure. In the meantime, let’s get to work on the engine.”
A half-hour later, I heard the Jeep.
“I guess I’d better go tell him what we’re up to,” I said. “Maybe we can buy a pair of cutters so we can make a more dignified entrance.”
“Huh? Oh yeah,” he said, pulling his head out of the engine compartment. “You do that. I’ll be right here.”
I squeezed through the break in the wall and skipped around to the driver’s side of the Jeep, excited to share our news.
“We found an old Italian race car in the barn,” I said, opening his door. “Dad is inside cleaning it up.”
Caleb laughed. “A what?”
“A race car. Come on,” I said, pulling his arm, “see for yourself.”
Caleb was, to say the least, astounded. “How the hell did a race car get here?”
I laughed. “I don’t know, but isn’t this fun? We need to pick up some things to get it running.”
“You kids go,” Dad said. “I’m going to look for the tires.”
“We’ll fill up a gas can at the nearest gas station,” Caleb said, reading the shopping list. “Buy the motor oil, and ask where to buy a 6-volt golf cart battery, right?”
I gave the sleek race car one last pat and turned to go with Caleb. “Did you have to arm wrestle the power company?”
“Good thing I did or you’d be still waiting on them,” he said, starting the Jeep. “They never heard of your property manager, and they sure didn’t have an order to come out here any time soon.”
“That rat. If I do sell, I’ll find another realtor.”
“I also stopped by the sheriff’s office. Homicide detectives will be out here today.”
“Today?” I asked, my nerves jumping into my throat. “And then we can go home, after the interview with the homicide detectives, right?”
He let the engine idle for a minute. “It’s more than likely that I will be released. You and your dad will be required to stay within the county until you’re cleared or a suspect is arrested.”
I looked out the window at the adobe house, the roof that still needed inspection, the rooms to paint. I had been making pretty plans for us. But of course he would have to go. He still had a job in California. Who was I kidding? I would miss him, especially now that we’d made up. My voice couldn’t seem to control itself when I asked him if he was leaving today or tomorrow.
“What—and leave you and your dad here to deal with a killer? I’m still on vacation, and I can take a leave of absence if I need to. Besides, I can help with the cleanup and painting. I’m staying.”
“Oh, good,” I said. In thanks, I reached up and squeezed the back of his warm neck. “I’m glad. You know, we could use your contacts to match suspects to the case and—�
�
“I have no jurisdiction here, sweetheart. For better or worse, the locals will handle this case.” He paused, the muscles in his jaw working around his own frustration.
“That homicide detective, Ian Tom, doesn’t look to be inept or lazy, but there’s still a chance he might try to stick Noah with it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“I know it and you know it, so let’s hope that your dad’s interview with them will clear up the last of their questions.”
My earlier happy mood dissipated. “Like what?”
“Like why he chose to go down that hole instead of calling 9-1-1 and how his jacket ended up at another crime scene.”
Fear made my voice rise an octave. “I remind him to take his cell phone every day, but he forgets. As for his jacket, he offered the detective a perfectly honest explanation for that.”
“Yes, and it makes sense to us, but I don’t think the detective is counting your dad out of the equation just yet.”
“Can’t you do something?”
“Lalla, believe it or not, I’m itching to butt in where I’m not wanted, but I’m going to give them forty-eight hours to come up with a realistic suspect.”
“And then what will you do?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Forty-eight hours, Lalla. You and I can do that, can’t we?” There was doubt in his voice, and worry too; the grim lines between his eyebrows said so. Did he know something I didn’t—like my dad’s chances really didn’t look so good?
I felt the lump in my throat form new tears. It was now final. We wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. I crossed my arms and stared blindly out of the window feeling as if we’d been dropped into an old western where the rules leaned toward lynching convenient strangers.
.
Chapter Eleven:
The good news was that Caleb had been able to light a fire under the telephone and electric company which meant the well worked and we now had water for the sinks and toilets when the detectives arrived.
They immediately separated us, putting me in the living room and my dad with another detective outside in the shade of the patio on one of the two folding chairs we’d found in a closet.
I added patio furniture to my growing list of items we needed to make this house a home and nervously watched the door.
While we waited, I leaned close to Caleb quietly going over the questions I’d been asked.
“Relax,” he said. “It’ll be over soon.”
“I was fine until they sprang the news on me that the art compound property used to belong to a member of our family.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“They didn’t tell you? Evidently, Aunt Mae used to own all of this,” I waved my hand around the room. “One hundred and forty acres, including the art compound.”
“That’s interesting, but what’s the connection now?”
“Like they need another reason to pin a murder or two on one of us?”
“What did you tell them?” He squeezed my shoulder to show me I was overreacting again.
“I told them the truth; that I didn’t know she used to own it, but it wasn’t all that big of a surprise, either. My great-aunt Mae and her husband were rich by anyone’s standards and they bought whatever they fancied.”
“No crime in that, sweetheart.”
“Then he wanted to know if this was our first trip to Arizona, and when I told him it was, he still tried to nail down Dad’s every footstep since he got here. He did that little mouth pursing thing, like he didn’t believe a word of it. I hate it when cops do that.”
“Interrogation techniques. Don’t worry about it.”
“He asked if he might’ve taken a vacation this summer,” I said, rubbing my hands together as if to wipe away the suspicious deputy. “I told him summers are much too busy for a vacation, and he pounced on that with—‘Your father’s retired, isn’t he?’ He ought to live in my boots for a summer. No one has vacations where I work.”
“What else?”
“I told him my father was retired but he still answered the phone and wrote up orders and such. I left out that he does so when he isn’t squiring widows around town. I hope Dad remembers to tell them about his trip to Alaska last year. I suppose that will be used against me, too. After all, it was summer, right? What did they ask you?”
“I had my interview yesterday. They have copies of all the files from Modesto—the murdered pilot this year, the body last year, the two the year before that.”
“Gee, when you say it like that, I do look like I might be a killer.”
“Homicide is just doing its job. You answered all their direct questions truthfully, didn’t you?”
My heart rate picked up. “I forgot to tell the detective that Dad sold the business. You think I’ll be in trouble for that?”
“I wish you’d stop,” he said, and went to the fridge for a couple of cold sodas.
I got off the couch but couldn’t stop my unremitting pacing. What was taking so long? What else could they possibly want from him? Should I start looking for a lawyer? Better yet, should we start looking for suspects? That was a ridiculous notion. I didn’t know anyone here, and the dour faces of the detectives indicated there would be no help coming from that quarter. I sniffed back a tear. The regulars at Roxanne’s café, the farmers, chemical salesmen, and newspaper cronies, The Lalla Bains Posse of Proficient Gossips, were all in Modesto, California.
Caleb could do background checks, but he really couldn’t ask or get answers, not without overstepping his position as an out-of-state lawman.
The French doors opened and the deputy ushered my dad inside. Dad saw me, squared his shoulders and attempted his most reassuring smile.
I wasn’t fooled for a minute. After Homicide finally trooped out of our home, I turned to the men and said, “We have to do something.”
My dad, looking old and defeated collapsed into a chair.
Caleb simply shrugged. “My hands are tied.”
That feeling of panic was gathering way too much space in my head. I needed to slow down and think. Where would I go to find the kind of help we needed? The kind that required time and trust built up over years. Who could we depend on when we didn’t know, much less trust, anyone?
.
Chapter Twelve:
I spent a restless night going over and over hopeful ideas on how to get the kind of proof that would satisfy the Cochise County Sheriff’s department and allow all of us to leave Arizona.
When my cell phone rang the next morning, I was already on the patio, coffee by my side, working on ideas for my non-existent investigation. Since we had no cell service, all I could do was glance at the name on the incoming call. Seeing who it was, I rushed to the home phone and called her back.
“Pearlie,” I gushed. “Just the person I need.”
“Howdy, Cuz. You tired of Arizona yet?”
“Home does have a nice ring to it about now.”
“Too much quiet, huh? Glad to hear you’re through moping, because it’s time to get cracking on that office space.”
“Not that again. Office space is a bit premature, when you don’t even have a P.I. license, isn’t it?” I asked, flopping onto a couch.
“We have to appear prosperous, don’t we? And if we want to look official, it’s location, location, location.”
At my lack of comment, she asked, “You got somethin’ better to do?”
No, I had nothing to do except prove my dad innocent of murder. And hadn’t I spent a restless night wondering who I could call? Someone the police didn’t already have on their list of suspects?
“Pearlie, how soon can you get to Arizona?”
“What’re you talkin’ about? I’m already at the airport.”
“Gassed up and ready to come out for that visit, huh?”
“Sugah, I’m at the Sierra Vista Regional Airport. Put some pedal to the metal and get out here. We can talk about our new business over food, I�
��m starved.”
I was still thinking I should tell her that it was a no-go on the P.I. business, but yesterday, seeing my dad looking like he’d been beaten with nightsticks I folded.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll be there in about a half-hour.”
My dad’s gray mood immediately improved at the mention of his favorite cook. He was so happy; he shaved and put on a clean shirt.
Granted, he’d done well with our long time housekeeper’s Mexican fare, but when family problems convinced her to move to Bakersfield, my dad thought he’d never get another decent home-cooked meal again. Then Pearlie and Great-Aunt Mae flew in for my wedding, and though Dad bristled at the idea of housing two more women for the time it would take to see me married, the minute he tasted Pearlie’s cooking, he did a complete about-face.
“What’s this about Pearlie being here in Arizona?” Caleb asked.
“She flew Aunt Mae home, turned around, and flew back to Sierra Vista. She’s got some whacked idea we’re going to start our own P.I. business.”
“You have to have a license for that,” said Caleb. “And last I heard, it’s a six month course. You also have to be bonded and get a concealed weapons license.”
“She has a way of ignoring those pesky little issues.”
“Well, flirting won’t count for diddly-squat with the California State License Board,” he said.
“Don’t worry. I have just the thing to sidetrack her from going back to California.”
“Now, Lalla, let’s not ….”
My nerves finally snapped and I whirled on him. “This was supposed to be a vacation for my dad too, Caleb, and you can see how that turned out, but we can’t go home. I say hang the forty-eight hours. If you won’t help, I’m going to start looking for suspects before they decide to arrest my father.”
Caleb shook his head. I could tell he was thinking. If I let Pearlie in on this there would be no controlling the two of us. My thoughts exactly.
