by Alice Duncan
“Suicide? Mr. Copeland?”
I nodded emphatically. “That would put a whole ‘nother light on things. It means that Mr. Burgess wouldn’t have had to go to town and follow me to the caves, too.”
“Mr. Burgess didn’t do anything,” Phil said, disgusted.
“You don’t know that. Neither do I. He really scared me, Phil, sitting there like a gargoyle and holding that shotgun.”
“Serves you right for gallivanting all over the desert by yourself.”
“I wouldn’t have been alone if you’d agreed to go with me.”
“I guess so.” Phil stood up, surprising me. I was even more surprised when I saw him gesture at the police chief, Willard Vickers.
As the chief aimed his large belly in our direction and started over, I hissed, “Darn it, Phil, what the heck are you doing?”
“Getting to the bottom of one thing at least.”
Chief Vickers nodded at us and shook Phil’s hand. “How-do, Phil? Miss Annabelle?”
“I’m fine, thanks, Chief. Have a seat?” Phil gestured to his chair.
“Naw. I’m fine, thanks.” Mr. Vickers’ plump cheeks glowed and he smiled at his plate, which was heaped high with food.
I could have cheerfully kicked Phil in the shins. I was wearing appropriate shoes for doing so, too, since they were my good, pointy-toed black pumps. My mother would have killed me if I’d done any such thing, however, and I don’t even want to think about what Libby would have said.
“Say, Chief, what’s this gossip Annabelle was just telling me about Mr. Copeland committing suicide? Is there any truth to that rumor?”
The chief gave me a less-than-friendly look. I got the impression he didn’t want to be talking shop when there was food to be eaten. “Now, now, folks, there’s no good to be got out of spreading idle rumors. The poor man was murdered. Shot in the chest with a full load, and there’s no doubt about it.”
Embarrassed and wishing Phil to the devil, even if he had cleared up any doubt about Mr. Copeland’s untimely demise, I mumbled, “I just heard a couple of people talking about it, is all.”
Chief Vickers shook his head. “Shouldn’t ought to listen to such truck, Annabelle Blue. People just love to stir up trouble. Life’s hard enough without that sort of thing.”
“As if poor Mrs. Copeland doesn’t have enough to worry about,” said Phil, giving me a sidelong look. I pretended not to notice.
“Well, she won’t have to worry long. We’ll find whoever did this and put him away.” Still shaking his head, Chief Vickers waddled away, plucking tidbits from his plate and popping them into his mouth.
I wasn’t as confident as the chief about the successful outcome of his investigations. It wasn’t clear to me that he and his deputies, or Sheriff Greene and his deputies, had done much of anything about finding the killer of the other murdered man. And whoever that was, he was probably the same person as the one who killed Mr. Copeland, unless there were two homicidal maniacs running around Rosedale, which didn’t seem likely.
Then again, nobody in town had known that first guy, the one who’d died next to Minnie’s chicken coop. Everyone knew Mr. Copeland. Maybe the police would work a little harder to find the murderer of a prominent citizen than they would that of a nobody. And a Mexican nobody, too, if I were any judge. As I watched the chief move off toward the array of food laid out on the dining room table, I wasn’t sure about that. If the crime had involved food, I’d be more apt to trust Chief Vickers to clear it up.
When he resumed his chair, Phil looked smug. “There. You see?”
“I don’t know why you’re so darned happy about another murder, Phil Gunderson. I’d rather he killed himself. It makes me nervous to think that there’s a murderer in our midst.”
Phil tilted his head, as if acknowledging the merit of my observation. “Well, maybe, but I doubt the trouble has anything to do with either of us.”
“How can you say that, darn it? I was the one found the first body, remember? That makes me involved whether I want to be or not. And I don’t.” If I were younger, I’d have stuck out my tongue at him and added, “nyah, nyah, nyah.”
“Nuts.”
The fellow drove me crazy. However, I spotted Mr. O’Dell at that moment and decided to stop trying to make Phil listen to reason. “Be right back,” I said as I rose and headed off toward the punch bowl.
Mr. O’Dell looked solemn when he spotted me. “How-do, Miss Annabelle. Sad occasion, this. Sad.” I remembered hearing that Mr. Copeland and Mr. O’Dell had been good friends–or at least in the same lodge or something. Moose or Elks or Deer or some other large ruminant.
“It’s awfully sad. And kind of scary, too.”
He smiled mournfully. “I’m sure there’s no need for you to fret, Miss Annabelle, although I’d be happier if Mrs. Blue and Miss Libby were staying here in town. The world’s a changed place. These days, there’s safety in numbers, and there are more people here than there.” He shook his head. “It’s a sad and sorry world.”
“I guess so.”
“Wish Mrs. Blue would sell me that property of hers. That’s too much for two older ladies to take care of.”
“I’d feel better about everything if we had a younger dog watching out for Minnie and Libby,” said I, hoping that had been a tactful enough way to remind the man that he hadn’t fulfilled a promise he’d made.
It worked. Mr. O’Dell smacked his forehead with his palm. “Holy cow, I plum forgot about gettin’ you ladies a pup, didn’t I?”
“Well, I don’t know if you forgot,” I said, smiling, “but if you did, I hope you don’t mind me reminding you.”
“Not at all, not at all. Things have been so chaotic lately, I just forgot. I’ll look into the matter today, all right?”
“Thank you very much, Mr. O’Dell. There’s something strange going on out there. I saw clear evidence of it, and poor old Jeepers can’t hear well enough to be a good watchdog anymore.”
“You saw evidence of what, Miss Annabelle?”
Darn my big mouth. “Wagon tracks, is all.”
Mr. O’Dell looked thoughtful. “Hmm. Interesting. Maybe there really is something afoot out near there. All the more reason for you ladies to move into town, at least for a while.”
“You won’t get any argument from me,” I assured him.
“Have you talked to the sheriff about those wagon tracks, Miss Annabelle?”
“Not yet. I don’t really know anything.” Now I felt stupid for having said anything at all to Mr. O’Dell. I mean, when I thought about it, finding wagon tracks to a cave didn’t sound like much. “Thanks, though. I’ll feel better with a dog that isn’t deaf guarding the house.”
“Sure thing, Miss Annabelle. Sure thing.”
As long as I was near the food, I grabbed myself a piece of cake. I hadn’t noticed Mrs. Copeland standing there until that moment, and I felt funny, as if I shouldn’t have been so greedy or something. But she smiled her sweet, sad smile at me, so I didn’t put it back. When I turned to see if Phil was waiting for me, I discovered my brother Jack at my side.
“Hey, Jack. Want a piece of cake?”
“I already had one. Ma told me I could only have one.”
Without that restriction, my brother would likely have polished off the whole thing. “Good. Too bad about Mr. Copeland, huh?”
“I guess.” Jack stuck his finger under his collar and pulled. He hated wearing shirts with collars, especially on hot days, and pretty much any day in June was a hot one. “Say, Annabelle, when you coming home?”
“I don’t know, Jack. When Ma lets me, I reckon.”
“Huh.”
“Miss me?”
“Naw. I’m only sick of working in the store, but I gotta do it until you come home.”
“What a sterling declaration of brotherly affection.” The little fiend. “Talk to Ma. She’s the one who’s making me stay at Minnie’s. I don’t want to be there.”
“Wish I could find
a dead body,” Jack said morosely.
“If you hadn’t run out on me that day when you saw Minnie coming, it might have been you at her house instead of me.”
My little brother looked at me with horror writ large on his features. I guess not even finding a dead body was payment enough to endure the horrors of Minnie’s place. He was right, the stinker.
“Stop slouching, Jack Blue. You look like one of them thugs you see in the newspapers.” Libby. For once picking on somebody other than my personal self.
Jack straightened as if she’d whacked his rear end with the yardstick. It was the first time I’d found a useful purpose for Libby. Other than cooking. She was a good cook.
“Your auntie wants to go home pretty soon, Annabelle, so get your truck together.”
Since I didn’t have any truck, whatever that was, to get together, I guessed I was ready to go. “Let me say good-bye to Phil.” As Libby huffed at my back, I scurried off, scanning the room for Phil. Darn it, I wasn’t finished talking to him yet.
He still sat on the chair in the entry way, only Mae Shenkel was sitting in the chair next to him that I’d recently vacated. The daughter of the high school principal, Mae was a year younger than I was. Her black funeral dress looked as if it was newer than mine, and it made her appear as fragile and delicate as a blossom. She also had long blond ringlets, a la Mary Pickford, and big blue eyes that she was at present batting at Phil like fury. Naturally, Phil was lapping up the attention. I wanted to teach Phil that he couldn’t trifle with me by storming off and not speaking to him again.
Since I had a feeling he wouldn’t even notice if I left without speaking, I stopped in front of them, and they both glanced up at me, startled. Obviously, they’d been engrossed with each other. Not that I was jealous or anything. Really. Honest.
“Why, hello, Annabelle.” Mae smirked at me, as if she thought she’d scored a point to my detriment.
I smiled sweetly back at her. “Hey, Mae.” Turning to Phil, I said, “Libby and Minnie have to go, Phil. I’ll talk to you later.”
And I turned around and started walking off. My glee when I heard him scramble to his feet was wholly improper, but it was there anyway. Darned Mae Shenkel and her blond curls, anyhow.
“Annabelle. Wait!” I heard Phil hurrying after me.
So I stopped to wait for him. When I turned, I noticed Mae frowning, and a surge of triumph shot through me. Stupid girl. Mae, not me. “Yes?” My tone was as cold as the day was hot.
“You have to go?”
“Yes. Minnie and Libby are going, and I have to go back with them.”
“Listen, Annabelle, I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Well . . .”
Something occurred to me, and I grabbed his arm. “Phil, come over to Minnie’s when you get home after the reception. I want you to see that cave. Maybe together we can figure out what’s going on out there.”
“The cave?” He peered down at me blankly.
“For heaven’s sake, you haven’t forgotten what I told you already, have you?”
“Forgotten? Er . . . No. I mean . . .” Light dawned. “Oh, yeah! The wagon tracks.”
“Yes. And Mr. Burgess with his shotgun. He’s hiding something in that cave, Phil. Or he’s helping somebody else hide something there.”
“I don’t know, Annabelle . . .”
“Fine then. I’ll just go out to the cave alone again. I want to find out what’s going on there, Phil Gunderson.”
Phil slapped his hat against his leg. “Darn it, Annabelle, don’t do that. I’ll go with you.”
“You will?”
“Yes.” His yes was grudging, but it was a yes, so I decided not to quibble. I really didn’t want to go out to that cave all by myself again.
“Good. See you later on this afternoon.”
“All right.”
He looked so morose, I really shouldn’t have said what I said next, but I couldn’t help myself. “You’d better get back to Mae. Johnnie Nash is talking to her, and you wouldn’t want him to cut you out, would you?”
“What?” He turned around to look, and I walked off.
I knew darned well Phil didn’t give a rap about Mae Shenkel. On the other hand, I was glad he was going to be with me that afternoon. No sense courting trouble, don’t you know, and Mae was very pretty. Stupid, but pretty.
Boy, I hated leaving that reception. Not that it was a jolly affair or anything, but I could scarcely stand the thought of having to go back to Minnie’s. My mother knew it.
She gave me a short hug. “You’ll be home soon, Annabelle. As soon as everything’s cleared up.”
“Yeah? When will that be?” I’m not usually surly to my mother, mainly because she won’t stand for it, but I couldn’t help myself that day.
Chapter Thirteen
Minnie and Libby retired to their respective bedrooms for a nap when we got home. After I changed into trousers and a shirt, I went to the front porch with a book, The Sea Hawk, by Rafael Sabatini, and waited for Phil to show up. The book was so fascinating, I was almost disappointed when I heard Phil ride into the yard. Looking up, I saw that he was on Bartholomew, his bay gelding.
Bartholomew was a nice horse, big, and sort of clumsy, but I enjoyed riding him when Phil let me, mainly because I could pretend I was a trick rider with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West or a Medieval princess on a hunt or something. Okay, so I know I was nineteen and a grown-up. Some dreams die hard.
I reluctantly tore myself away from The Sea Hawk. “Hey, Phil.”
He dismounted and let the reins drop. Good old Bartholomew was too lazy to wander away. Removing his hat and wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, Phil mounted the steps and flopped onto the porch swing. “Hot.”
“Very.”
“I suppose you still want to go out there to the caves.”
I felt my mouth pinch up. “Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you had a fit of common sense or something?”
“To heck with you, Phil Gunderson. If you don’t want to go with me, you can jolly well stay behind.” If he backed out, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. Beg somebody else to go to the cave with me, I guess, although all my friends lived in town. Darned if I’d brave that cave alone, all by myself, especially if it meant going inside it, which it would if I wanted to find out what it was being used for.
He heaved one of the huger sighs I’d heard. “I’ll go. But can I have a glass of water or something first? It’s hot.”
“You already said that,” I muttered crossly. But he was right: the weather was stinking hot, and he was surely thirsty after riding over to Minnie’s from his house. I went indoors to fetch him some lemonade from the ice box. I’d already put a couple of jars of water in there to cool for our trip, although I wasn’t sure why I’d bothered. By the time we got around to drinking the water, it would be warm again.
While Phil sipped his lemonade, I hauled old Horace out of the stable. He didn’t want to come. I understood his reluctance. Not only was the heat nearly unbearable when you stood still in it, but he was going to be moving–and with me on his back, poor guy. On the other hand, he was a burro. That’s what burros did, was carry people around. I gave him a couple of dried apples, although he didn’t look much happier.
I took Phil’s glass to the kitchen and rinsed it out, and when I returned to the porch, Phil was mounted on Bartholomew. Horace glowered at me.
“Here,” I said to Phil, thrusting my bundle of useful tools at him, “you can hold this stuff. Poor Horace has enough to do.” I stroked the burro’s silky nose and cooed at him, but I don’t think Horace bought it. He still seemed glum when I got on his back (using the porch steps to boost myself up) and we headed off toward the cave.
“It’s a good thing you’re wearing a hat,” Phil muttered after we’d been riding for twenty minutes or so.
“It’s an old one of Uncle Joe’s.”
“You need a
hat when you go out on a day like this.”
“True.”
“Anybody with half a brain wouldn’t be out on a day like this.”
“You don’t have to go with me,” I said stiffly.
“Nuts.”
And so it went. Phil was grumpy, I was grumpy, and we all were hot. I probably should have asked Phil to come over in the morning, when the weather was cooler, but he’d have had to beg off work again, and Mr. Gunderson had already been giving him a hard time about losing so much time from the ranch.
Since I had pretty much figured out the wagon route the first time I did this, I led Phil a little to the east of Minnie’s house. Sure enough, after we’d ridden for a mile or so, we saw what looked like an unpaved road across the desert.
“Hmm,” said Phil, gazing at this phenomenon. “Looks like wagons have been here.”
I scowled at him. “You sound surprised. I told you there had been so many wagons along this route, they’d darned near carved a road.”
“Yeah, but you’re . . .”
It’s probably a good thing he didn’t finish that sentence. My scowl did not abate.
“Well,” he said eventually, “let’s follow it and see where it goes.”
I already knew where it went, but I didn’t object because I wanted him to realize that I’d been right all along about the cave. And Mr. Burgess. And probably everything else, too, darn it.
“How far does this thing go?” Phil asked at one point. Poor fellow was dripping sweat. I’d have felt sorry for him if I hadn’t been similarly afflicted.
“To the cave on the other side of Pine Lodge Road in Black Water Draw.”
“Huh.”
And that was that. On we went, slowly, thanks to poor old Horace, but I couldn’t make myself force him to go faster. Anyhow, he wouldn’t have reacted with favor if I had, and I didn’t much want to have to walk after he bucked me off his back.
We’d been following that stupid wagon track for about an hour, and I thought for sure I was going to die from heat prostration, when we finally got to the cave. I muttered, “Thank God,” because I couldn’t help myself, and slid off poor old Horace’s back. Horace gave me a pitiful look, and I poured some water into the bucket I’d brought along for the animals. He didn’t thank me, although he did drink the tepid stuff.
