by L C Hayden
The phone rang and out of instinct, Bronson glanced at the caller I.D. Briefly, he wondered if it was work, then remembered. No, of course, it wouldn’t be. He picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” and immediately regretted it. It sounded more like a snap than a greeting. “I mean, hello?”
A brief pause followed then, “Is this Bronson? Detective Harry Bronson?”
“You could say that.”
“This is Wayne Weeks, Events Coordinator at the Sun Lodge in Safford. I—”
“Where?”
“Safford.”
Never heard of it. Bronson retrieved a notepad and wrote down Wayne Weeks—Events Coordinator: Sun Lodge–Safford.
Weeks, as though reading Bronson’s mind said, “That’s Safford, Arizona.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ever heard of a group called The Slayers?”
Bronson searched his memory bank. Nothing clicked. “Nope, can’t say I have. Sorry. Are they some music group?”
“Hardly.” Weeks’ tone hardened, as though he’d been put out. “Allow me—”
“Look here.” Bronson glanced down at the notepad. “Weeks, is it? What exactly is it that you’re sellin’?”
“I’m not selling. I’m looking to hire you.”
Now the man was talking. “I’m no longer with the police department.”
“I know.”
“I’m not a private detective either.”
“I know.”
“I’m just a citizen.”
“I know.”
This Weeks person knew a lot. That bothered Bronson. “I’m listenin’.”
“Back to the Slayers.”
Bronson wrote down the name. “Go on.”
“Ever heard of Dorothy L. Sayers?”
Now that name, Bronson knew. “My wife—she’s a reader. Favorites are mysteries. Seems she’s read some of Sayers’ work. She was a British mystery author from the 1940’s or 50’s. Are you talkin’ about the same person?”
“The one and only.”
“Uh-huh.” Bronson wrote down Dorothy L. Sayers—mystery author.
“That leads me to The Slayers. It’s a rather large group of—now, how should I phrase this?—aficionados of the mystery genre. Most members live in the Phoenix or Tucson areas, but they come from all over Arizona. You can see how they chose their name. It’s to honor Dorothy L. Sayers, but since they’re a mystery group, they’re the Slayers, instead of Sayers.”
Cute, but what does that have to do with me, Bronson thought as he skimmed through his notes. Nothing there to give him a clue. “So how does this lead to a job?”
“Once a year, the Slayers put on a—what should I call it?—a week-long convention? Monday is the day everyone arrives. Not much going on, just mainly socializing. Tuesday, the ground rules are laid out.”
Rules? “What kind of rules?” Bronson, who had been writing everything down furiously, used the temporary pause to wiggle his fingers.
“There’s going to be a murder, Detective Bronson, not a real one, of course. It’s just something the group makes up. They break into teams and they have the next three days to solve the crime. Friday night all of the losing teams treat the winners to a nice meal at our local steak house, Brick’s. After dinner, the winners are given the trophy that they get to keep until the next, uh, convention. Saturday, the group spends celebrating and comparing notes. Sunday, after their usual good-bye breakfast, everyone packs the suitcases and leaves.”
“Sounds like these people are playin’ a game.”
“It is that, but it’s a harmless game, and each year they contribute to Safford’s economy, so we always welcome them.”
“So what we’re talkin’ about here is one of those dinner/murder theater things.”
“I suppose you could say that, except that it’s a week-long convention.”
“Fascinatin’, but where do I come in?”
“The Slayers have a consultant, someone the contestants can turn to. It’s up to the consultant how much he wants to tell them, and what questions he wants to answer. But he’s always available, twenty-four hours a day for those three days.” Weeks paused and cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, their consultant for the past seven years was involved in a—what shall I call it?—a serious car accident and won’t be doing that anymore. Would you be interested in the position?”
Yeah, sure. He would be a great one to tell them about proper procedure. “Give me some specifics.”
“Pay is excellent, considering you’re working only a few days. Before you leave, you’ll receive a check for a thousand dollars, and on top of that, all of your fees to the convention are paid. That includes the admission fee, all of your meals, and the motel room.”
“I have a camper.”
“Roper Lake has some very fine facilities. We’ll pay that, too, or you can park your camper in the motel’s parking lot. There’s plenty of room. Your choice.” He paused as though giving Bronson an opportunity to digest his words. “I’ve got a brochure that will answer all your questions and then some more. I can drop it in the mail today, if you’re interested, and you should have it by tomorrow. Or I can email it to you or if you have a fax. . .”
“No, no fax.” That was another thing Bronson missed about work. He put down his pen and tapped the notepad. “I have one question which I know won’t be answered in the brochure. How did you get my name?”
“I read the article in the Dallas newspaper about you retiring. It mentioned that you’ve got a motor home and plan to do some traveling. I’ve got a camper myself, and I’m always looking for places to spend the night for free. I bet you will be too. So, do I send you the information?”
It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. Besides, something in Bronson’s gut told him there was more to this than just a game. “Give me five minutes. I need to talk it over with the missus.”
“Of course, I’ll call back in five minutes.”
“You do that.” Bronson hung up and retrieved the caller I.D. number. Area code 928. He took out the map that listed the area codes and looked up Arizona. The area code matched for the Safford area. Next, Bronson looked up the Sun Lodge on the Internet. The number on his caller I. D. and the one listed on the Internet were the same. He dialed the number.
“Is this the motel where Wayne Weeks works?”
“Yes, sir, he’s our Events Coordinator. Would you like for me to connect you to him?”
“Not right now. I just wanted to make sure I had the right coordinator attached to the right motel.”
“You do.”
“Good. Thank you.” Bronson hung up and stared at his notes.
If he did that long enough, something would surely jump out.
It always did.
This time it didn’t.
The phone rang. The caller I.D. identified the caller as Weeks. Five minutes sure went fast when you were having fun. Bronson gave him the address and added, “There’s one more question.”
“Go ahead.”
“You said you read the article about me in the Dallas paper.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s a Dallas paper doin’ in Safford?”
A small pause followed. “You know, I can’t really remember. But the paper was lying around somewhere, and I happened to see the article.”
“That’s unusual.”
“No, not really. This is a motel. People are forever bringing newspapers from different cities. They read the paper and leave it here.”
Bronson supposed that made sense, but he still made a note of it. He thanked Weeks and hung up. He continued to stare at his notes.
One word jumped out.
Safford.
That’s where he would go.
Safford, the city that began with an S.
Chapter Three
“You’ve been pounding at that computer now for hours. What exactly is it you’re looking for?”
Bronson turned to face his wife. He removed his glasses and set them down.
Car
ol took a step forward. “My god, Harry Bronson. You’ve gone and accepted a job. Haven’t you?”
Now how did she know that? Maybe she should join the police department. “Not exactly.” He walked toward her.
“What does ‘not exactly’ mean? You either did or you didn’t.”
Bronson led her to the couch. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
“I think I’m not going to like what you have to say, Harry Bronson.”
“And I think I don’t like it when you call me by my full name. Reminds me of Mom. She used my full name when I did somethin’ wrong.”
“So did you do something wrong, Harry . . . Bronson?”
Dang that woman. If she didn’t make him feel like a naughty child. “Ever heard of Safford?”
Carol shook her head.
“It’s a city in Arizona, about two hours away from Tucson. They have a lake just on the outskirts of town. That’ll be Roper Lake. It’s got real nice campin’ facilities, and you can swim in the lake or fish. Part of Roper Lake is Dankworth Ponds for fishin’. And it’s got a nice walkin’ trail. Some more trails at Roper Lake. I got pictures on the Internet and I can show you. Looks nice. Real nice. Very relaxing. Beautiful scenery. Right dab in the middle of the desert, but it’s got plenty of trees.”
Carol stared at Bronson through eyes that seemed both bottomless and captivating, like a student paying close attention to the teacher. “So far, so good. Keep talking.”
“Close by is Kartchner Caverns State Park. That’s that new cave they just opened a couple of years ago. It’s the big rave of the Southwest. Arizona is using the latest technology to keep the cave alive. That in itself is worth the trip.”
Carol leaned back and stared at the far off corner. Bronson wondered if she could see the caverns from there. Or worse, maybe she was staring at the hole on the wall he had promised to fix five years ago. After a slight pause, she said, “Sounds even better.”
Good, she hadn’t mentioned the hole. “There’s more. Mt. Graham and that Discover thing—they’re there too, and—”
“Stop with the Chamber of Commerce information. I want to hear about the job part.”
“Oh.” Bronson explained about the game and how he would serve as a consultant. “So you see, it’s not a real job. I’m just there to play this game, and they pay all expenses. And we can use the thousand dollars to expand the trip. We can stay in the area a bit longer. I’d take you to the cave, and Mt. Graham, and—”
“Yes.”
“Did I tell you about the hot springs? They’re—” Surely, Bronson hadn’t heard what he thought he heard. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Yes’.”
Well, hot-diggity-dog. And here he thought he’d have trouble convincing her. “I called the Safford Chamber of Commerce. They’re sendin’ us a bunch of information. They’re real nice folks. You’ll like it in Safford.”
“I already said yes.” Carol walked up to Bronson and kissed his lips. “You can stop with the P.R. work.” She pointed to the hole on the wall. “It’s still there, you know.”
Dang, she had noticed it. “Right after supper, I’ll fix it.”
“You do that. In the meantime, while you’re waiting for supper, finish up whatever you were doing. Supper will be ready in about ten minutes.”
“Actually, all I have is one more thing to look up.” He went back to the computer and typed the search engine’s name. When the page popped up, he clicked on the white pages, keying in Safford, Arizona.
He scrolled down to the S’s and read the residents’ names. Just as he had suspected, he found it. The tip of his finger stroked the name.
Dolly Secrist.
His connection to Safford.
Dolly, Casey’s mother.
Bronson looked away from the monitor and wondered if it really would be wise to drag Carol to Safford.
Chapter Four
The next week flew by like a tornado touching ground here and there. A zillion things needed to be done: find a house sitter, arrange for the mail, mow the lawn, pay bills, cancel the paper, and even clean the house. Why in heaven’s name clean the house?
It seemed to Bronson that if they were leaving for a month or more, cleaning the house used up energy better used elsewhere. Surely, dirt would creep into the house while they were gone. So why clean? Wasted energy, he had told Carol, but she insisted, so they cleaned.
Then there was the packing. Was Carol really serious? Did she really need to take all those items? Goodness, they were going to be gone for a month, not a year—unless Carol had plans that she hadn’t revealed. Bronson bit his lip. Nah, she wouldn’t do that.
And speaking of packing, there was one thing he should pack, and he might as well do it now while Carol was busy cleaning the upstairs. He went to his study, removed the picture, opened the safe, and stared at his gun collection. He had hoped that once he retired, he wouldn’t have to use a gun, but better safe than sorry.
He reached for the five-shot snub nose revolver and a box of ammunition, closed the safe, replaced the picture, and headed for the car. He opened the trunk and hid his cache under the spare tire.
Now he had packed.
He rushed back inside and continued working on the list of One Thousand Things That Needed to Be Done before they could leave. One thing for sure, this going on a nice, relaxed vacation sure puts the stress in my life. I’d rather be workin’.
But now, as they headed west on Interstate Forty, Bronson could see that excitement enveloped Carol. She looked forward to this vacation and her excitement filled him with a sense of wonderment. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, this traveling.
Bronson was even beginning to push this Casey S thing to the back of his mind. He hadn’t even gotten around to calling Paul and following up on the fingerprint and DNA results. Not that that mattered. Had Paul found something, he would have called.
One thing that pleased Bronson was that he hadn’t heard from S. That probably meant that it had been someone’s idea of a sick joke. But now it was over or at least he hoped so.
After all, they hadn’t yet reached Safford where he planned to contact Casey’s mother, Dolly Secrist. If she had sent those notes, then he had nothing to worry about. Dolly was as gentle as a lamb.
Carol’s voice interrupted Bronson’s thoughts.
“Look at the size of that cross.” Carol moved her index finger to her right.
She didn’t need to point. No way Bronson could have missed the gigantic cross. It had to be close to two hundred feet tall. “Want to take a closer look?”
Carol nodded and Bronson pulled off the highway and followed the access road to the parking lot. Once there, he scanned the area. He saw a red truck, pulling a white trailer. He also spotted a Class C motor home and three sedans (blue, black, and red.) Two of the cars had Texas tags. The other one was from Missouri.
An elderly couple, holding hands, headed toward the motor home. Other people stood by the life-size bronze statues arranged in a wide circle. Each statue depicted the various stages of the cross, beginning with Jesus’ capture and ending with His empty tomb. Toward the back, on a hill, steps led to a resurrected Jesus. Bronson took all of this in, but mainly he concentrated on the people.
“Harry Bronson!”
Startled, Bronson turned to Carol. “What did I do now?”
“You’re working.”
“Workin’? How can you say I’m workin’? I’m in. . .in. . .where am I?”
“We’re close to Groom, Texas.”
“Ah, yes. Good ol’ Groom, Texas. I’m in Groom, Texas, starin’ at the biggest cross I’ve ever seen, and you say I’m workin’?”
“You were studying people.”
Bronson shrugged. “Old habits die hard.” He reached for Carol’s hand and led her toward the cross. They stopped to admire the first bronze sculpture that depicted the journey of Jesus Christ to Calvary, then moved on to the second one.
That’s when Bronson first noticed it. It cam
e like a prickle in the back of his neck. He had felt the same thing many times at work, and he knew exactly what it meant.
Someone was watching him.
He stood alert, like a bird ready to take flight. His gaze darted from sculpture to sculpture. He saw a young couple, standing close together. The young man had his arm wrapped around his gal. A middle-aged woman with a bright, colorful blouse shielded her eyes as she stared at the top of the cross. Two elderly men, both wearing green shirts, headed toward a small building on the west side of the property. A family huddled together at the foot of a statue of a resurrected Jesus.
These people were tourists. No one paid any attention to him.
Still. . .
Bronson shook himself, forcing his feelings aside.
As Carol looked at the Tomb for the Unborn, Bronson once again grasped the opportunity to glance around. No new faces. No surprises.
Carol turned to stare at him.
Bronson smiled.
She smiled back.
He led her to the small building and they stepped in.
Carol gasped. “Look! It’s a replica of the Shroud of Turin.” She squeezed her husband’s hand.
Bronson nodded.
“Do you think they’ll let me take a picture?”
Bronson shrugged. “Dunno. I don’t see any signs saying No Photographs, but ask her.” He pointed to a young lady who answered the questions the two men in green asked. Carol headed toward the clerk.
Bronson stepped outside. Another family had arrived and a woman, apparently by herself, moved from statue to statue.
He felt someone touch his arm. He turned and faced Carol.
“Did you see it?” she asked him.
“Who?”
“Not who. What. Did you see the Shroud of Turin?”
“Of course. It’s so. . .big.”
“Big?” Carol frowned. “Okay. Out with it.”
“Out with what?”
“You can’t fool me, Harry Bronson. Something’s going on, and I want to be in on it.”
Dang that woman, but when she’s right, she’s right. Something was going on, but Bronson couldn’t quite place it. “I was thinkin’. This is our first tourist stop after I retired. We should sign the guest book. Think they’ll have one there?” He pointed to an even smaller building that presumably housed the gift shop. Maybe whoever was watching him had sneaked in there.
