by R. P. Dahlke
“She was born with a bifurcated skull. It’s a rare birth defect,” he said. “There’s no surgery, no therapy, no fix. She’s—she was, except for the birth defect, very normal. Her artistic abilities run in the family, though it missed me by a mile. I gave her the best private tutors and later, private art classes. I took her to museums and art shows, but the staring and whispers became too much, and after a while she stopped going. Then she stopped painting. That’s when I decided to send her out here to be with her granddad. My father was a very private person too, so it suited them both. He left her the property in his will.”
A sympathetic touch would not be welcome, so I kept my hands to myself. I asked, “Have you begun the arrangements for the funeral yet?”
“I can’t—not until the medical examiner releases her body. An autopsy,” he said, spitting out the insulting word. “I’m going to see if I can get permission to bury her here in the plot with her granddad.”
“We’ll see what we can do about the medical examiner for you, Mac,” Pearlie said.
“Thank you. I-I would appreciate the help. I still have to contact the rest of our family. I don’t know how I will tell her mother.”
Pearlie stiffened at his comment. I knew what she was thinking. What kind of man wouldn’t immediately call the mother?
“Her mother hasn’t been well,” he said, lifting his pugnacious chin as if daring us to criticize him. “She lives in a full time care facility.”
With his explanation, Pearlie’s temperature dropped, and she took out her smart phone, snapped a copy of Bethany’s photo, and returned the original to Mac. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to talk to the residents before we leave.”
“I don’t have a problem, as long as you keep our agreement. You’ll report to me what you find, right?”
He ushered us to the door, drawing it open with a flourish and whispering it closed the minute we crossed the threshold.
I followed her down the wide porch steps. Catching up with her, I pulled on her sleeve. “Wait up. We forgot to get a copy of the items Homicide took from the house.”
“We will, but rule number two of my P.I. lesson is to establish trust with the client. We had our ice breaker. We’ll be back later for a quid pro quo. That is, unless that laptop appears to be in the hands of one of the residents.”
“The detectives couldn’t have missed it.”
“It may not be on that list. Her killer could’ve taken it.”
She squinted in the changing light, looking across the hard packed dirt yard toward the cabins. Even though they were shaded by the stand of poplars, the sun had moved so that the light on the windows was reflected back into our faces. There was no way to tell if someone was at home or not.
“They missed the CD in the player didn’t they? They could’ve forgotten to ask about the laptop.”
“Or not,” I grumbled.
Pearlie nodded at a bright light coming from the barn. “Someone’s working. Let’s go introduce ourselves.”
Pearlie’s stride radiated a confidence I couldn’t quite match. I was feeling guilty about removing evidence from a crime scene. Caleb, if he knew, would feel obligated to turn it in. But if it turned out to be nothing—well, best not to tell him just yet.
.
Chapter Sixteen:
Skylights had been added to let more daylight into the barn converted studio. A man in a T-shirt, overalls, and long leather welder gloves and helmet, was welding half a bronze horse to a tall ornate gate.
I nudged Pearlie. “I knew it. It’s the same as the one in the gallery.”
We stepped into his line of sight just when he tipped up the helmet to examine his work.
Dropping his welder’s torch he cursed and yanked off his helmet. He picked up the torch and snapped off the blue flame. “Jesus! Who the hell let you two in?”
“The barn doors were open,” Pearlie said, ignoring his overheated demeanor. “Wow. This is really beautiful.”
“Bethany’s dad sent us,” I said, and nudged Pearlie. “A card?”
He ran a broad, calloused hand though wavy hair the color of sandstone. His turned down mouth reinforced my first impression; handsome was not happy with the two blonds in his way, and he was impatient to get back to work.
“You’re one of the resident artists here, aren’t you?” I asked, while Pearlie took out a business card.
“What does it look like to you?” he said, pulling off the gloves.
I could see the resemblance between artist and his work. Both were young, muscular, and dangerous.
Pearlie’s hand with the card fluttered to her breast, a telltale sign she’d completely forgotten our mission.
I lifted the card from her nerveless fingers, glanced at it to be sure it was one of her P.I. cards and handed it to him.
“Okay. I get it. You’re private investigators. What do you want to know?” he asked, glancing at his watch.
Pearlie flicked him a coy glance from under her lashes, “Your name would be a good start.”
I mentally groaned.
Handsome rolled his eyes and switched his attention to me. “Jason Stark. Next question?”
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Long before Bethany took over.”
His answer seemed defensive. My antenna went up. “You didn’t like her?”
“She’s—she was okay. I don’t know what’s going to happen to the place now that she’s gone. I don’t suppose her father told you his plans for it.”
“Did she raise the rent when she inherited it from her grandfather?” I asked.
“Lady, a few bucks more isn’t the issue. My work sells well and since places like this are almost impossible to find, I could work with the devil himself if it meant keeping my workshop.”
“And you aren’t concerned that a killer might still be in the vicinity?” I asked.
His dark brows went up a notch. He pointed to a loaded shotgun leaning against the bench. “That’s my usual welcome for strangers. You’re just lucky I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Yes, we noticed the No Trespassing signs,” I said, “But that was for Bethany’s privacy, right?”
“Those signs went up because I put ‘em up. Her granddad used to feed the immigrants, then traffic changed, and now it’s cartel bastards, mules and armed guards so I keep a gun handy.”
“But you want to know where I was when she was killed, don’t you? I was right here, welding.” He shook the leonine head. “With my welding helmet and the torch on, I wouldn’t have heard a damn thing.”
He swiped at his nose and looked away, but not before I saw a glint of tears in his brown eyes.
“You liked her,” I said, pleased that he wasn’t entirely a heartless bastard.
“I said she was okay, didn’t I? Now, if you don’t mind, I have a commission to finish.”
I would have liked to ask more questions, but Pearlie looked about ready to start licking the sweat off his patrician forehead so I pushed her out of the barn.
Outside, Pearlie fanned her overheated cheeks. “Warm in there, wasn’t it?”
“It would be great if you could stay on track long enough for us to get a few questions answered.”
“I was doin’ fine until you butted in.”
It was my turn to do an eye-roll.
“Oh come on,” she huffed. “You have to admit, Jason Stark is a fine specimen of manhood. The untamed, wild sort, ain’t he?”
“Get out your notebook,” I said, pulling her away from the barn and the smell of the torch burning into metal.
She did, but her mind was still with handsome Jason Stark.
“Snap out of it, will you?” I said, stabbing a finger at the forgotten notebook. “Write down his name, Jason Stark, long-time resident artist, he knew her grandfather. He had mixed feelings about Bethany. The tough act didn’t go with the tears I saw in his eyes. Oh, and he said that he put up the No Trespassing signs.”
“Not
by Bethany’s dad and not for her privacy. I wonder who’s lying?”
“We need more on this guy,” I said, stabbing a finger on her notebook page. His finances, girlfriends, or if maybe he’s gay.”
“Aw, now that was just mean,” Pearlie said.
“Good. Just remember, he wouldn’t be the first man to go all blubbery after killing a woman. Maybe he thought he should’ve inherited the place instead of Bethany.”
Pearlie snorted. “Slim, very slim.”
I was pretty sure she was alluding to Jason’s slim hips.
“Isn’t there something in your P.I. manual that says not to discount any possible suspect?” I asked.
She ignored me and pointed toward the cabins. “Hey, look. There’s a car next to one of the cabins. Let’s go talk to them.”
The car was a white truck and the paint on the hood was peeling. Karen must be right about cars in Arizona needing to be white. And while Dad couldn’t identify the truck speeding away from the mine pit, knowing which suspects owned a white truck might narrow down the list.
I nodded at the notebook in Pearlie’s hand. “We should find out what Jason drives.”
Resentment momentarily flashed in her eyes, but she scribbled the information under Jason’s name.
With her notebook back in her purse, we stepped up to the door of the cabin.
Inside, shouts pulsed against the thin walls. There was the sound of glass shattering and a woman’s answering wail.
Outraged, Pearlie pounded on the door.
The door was jerked open, and a short, swarthy young man in sagging jeans leaned against the doorjamb. His dark, muscular arms were inked with the Virgin Mary, a cross and skull, and the name Reina.
“Who the hell’re you?”
“Pearl Ann Bains, Private Investigator. We’re working for Bethany’s father. Who’re you?”
I had to give it to Pearlie, she never let a man push her around—well, maybe in bed, but she could go toe-to-toe with a bully.
His dark eyes anxiously glanced behind us, perhaps worried that if we heard loud arguing, Mac Coker might’ve heard it too. When he saw that we were alone, his puffed up attitude was back. “Okay. So?”
Going on the offensive, I stuck a finger in his chest. “You didn’t answer her question and where’s the woman we heard screaming?”
“Nobody’s hurt, okay?” He removed his hand from the door and looked nervously from Pearlie to me. “Come on, lady, you don’t argue with your old man once in a while?”
Pearlie hated bullies almost as much as she hated a man who would strangle a woman, and about now we were both thinking this guy looked good for our killer.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, pushing past him.
The living area was tight quarters for anything but art. There was a tattered loveseat and an armchair, but most of the cabin was used for the sole purpose of creating art. Two professional easels squatted in the middle of the room with big canvases on them. One was five by five: a square with dancing colors in a juxtaposition that was almost 3-D in its effect on the human eye. The other canvas was six-feet by nine. The artist had sketched the scene in sienna. I saw, or imagined I saw, brooding clouds over low mountains, a winding road and a lonely farm house about to get rained on. Or perhaps it would be none of those things, but if I was right, this painting would be a complete departure from the ones stacked against the wall and on the other easel.
A door opened, and a young Hispanic woman drifted out tying the knot on a chenille robe. Her delicate features looked drawn and weary and she’d been crying, but there were no bruises to indicate that she’d been beaten.
Pearlie smiled. “Hello, I’m Pearl Ann Bains and this is my cousin, Lalla Bains. I presume you’re the resident artist?”
“Yes. I’m Reina Schmidt,” she said, her brown eyes darting from Pearlie to me. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“We’re investigating Bethany’s murder,” I said. I was getting used to the idea of calling ourselves investigators. And just a teensy bit sorry I’d left my fake badge back in California.
Reina put a slender hand to her mouth and collapsed onto her couch.
Her companion stood next to her, squeezing her thin shoulder and glowering as if we were now responsible for making her cry.
Pearlie and the young man exchanged a couple of heated stares, but before she opened her mouth and antagonized him, I said, “Where were you when Bethany was—”
When Reina’s hands flew up to her face, her companion murmured, “Reina, you don’t have to—”
She threw off his hand. “You should go to work, Julio.”
He reluctantly withdrew his hand as if by doing so he was severing a vital connection. “Are you sure?”
She stretched a tight smile. “I’m all right. I’ll call you later.”
With a nonchalant shrug, he picked up a backpack, and shooting one last warning glare at Pearlie and me, left.
Pearlie didn’t waste any time. “What were you two arguing about?”
“Money. What else?” she said, her posture stiff on the couch as if waiting for something to happen..
“Yours or his?” I asked.
“He always wants to give it to me, and I always refuse.”
Pearlie took out her notebook. “His name and his relationship to you?”
“His name is Julio Castillo and he’s my boyfriend,” she said, tensing again. If she was expecting some kind of reaction, I sure didn’t know what it was.
“Does he live with you?” I asked.
“No—heavens, no,” she said, leaning back into the cushions and relaxing. “He lives in Tucson. He has a paint and body shop on 22nd Street. He’s worried about me living here now—now that Beth has been murdered. He thinks it’s not safe.”
“He does have a point,” I said. “I’m sure the sheriff wouldn’t object to you leaving the property until her killer is found.”
“Yes, I’ve been told,” she said, looking at her hands. “But I’m better here than anywhere else.”
I was quietly struck by the odd reply, but Pearlie immediately filled in the gap. “Are there other residents here?”
“In the last year it’s just been me and Jason. He lives next door.”
“By himself?”
“I think he’s divorced.”
“How well do you know him?”
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends.”
“Were you friends with Bethany?”
Reina’s smile flashed with bright tears. “She was my best friend. And if you’re working for her dad, you must know about her facial deformity. Maybe it was because she had private tutors growing up, you know? She never had to suffer mean girls in school, so she wasn’t afraid of nobody. She’s-she was the bravest person I ever knew.”
Reina’s narrow hands rose as if to capture the other young woman’s ghostly essence then dropped onto her lap.
This was not the young woman her father presented to us, in delicate health and reclusive. But then he was the parent, and an overprotective one at that.
“How did you meet?” I asked.
“At an art show in Scottsdale.”
An art show? Bethany kept a lot from her father.
“It’s because of Bethany that I even got a career. She introduced me to her agent and now I’m in five galleries.”
I was drawn back to Reina’s paintings. She and her friend Bethany attended art shows.
“Did she wear a veil?”
“Never. Her patrons didn’t care. They all adored her. Everyone loved her.”
I wondered if she wasn’t a bit jealous.
“You pay rent here?” I asked.
“Of course. I make a living at it now, but—” Reina’s tears coursed unchecked down her face. “What’s going to happen now that she’s gone?” She looked up, swiping at her cheeks. “You’re here to find her killer then?”
Pearlie nodded. “That’s the plan.”
Reina got off the couch, her
motion lethargic as she drifted over to a ceramic dish on the kitchen counter. “Here’s my card. If you need any help, anything at all, please let me know.”
As I took the card, I noticed how cold her thin hands were and wondered if Bethany’s murder was taking a toll on her health. But when my eyes met hers, I saw an undercurrent of fear that I found at odds with her earlier stance with the tough boyfriend. If she wasn’t afraid of him, then what was Reina Schmidt afraid of?
.
Chapter Seventeen:
The walk from Reina Schmidt’s cabin to the Jeep didn’t take long, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this young woman was keeping a secret and it was wearing a hole in her heart. And what was up with the boyfriend? In spite of his tattoos and surly demeanor, we had no way of knowing his history. I would have Caleb check.
Pearlie repeated the process of hooking the stirrup to the door frame on the Jeep and hopped into her seat. When she took out her notebook, I pointed to Reina’s name.
“Julio certainly didn’t want us alone with her, did he?”
“No, and even without him picking on her, she doesn’t look healthy.”
Pearlie had been sexually abused as a teenager and her empathy toward another vulnerable young woman could just as easily obscure the truth.
“She’s tougher than she looks, Pearlie,” I said. “She made him leave, didn’t she?”
“He did, but did you notice her watching us for a reaction when she told us his name? Julio Castillo. Maybe he’s a wanted criminal.”
“We should have Caleb run his name for prior convictions,” I said.
Pearlie snorted indelicately. “Sure thing, Cuz. As long as you don’t mind getting a load of grief ‘cause we’re investigating Bethany’s murder.”
“Yeah, I suppose, but I keep going back to Reina’s words, that she was ‘better here than anywhere else.’ What do you think she meant by that?”
“How should I know?” Pearlie’s voice had an edge to it, “and don’t go all psychic on me now, I don’t have a card for that.”
