by L C Hayden
Dolly laughed and the wrinkles around her eyes formed, giving her the look of a gentle, warm person. “Follow me.” She led him to the kitchen.
Sammy Kiewell sat at the kitchen table, a half-full glass of milk in front of him and a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie. He looked at Bronson and squinted. “Are you here to eat my cookies again?”
“Sammy!” Dolly scolded.
Bronson laughed. “You remembered. You’re a bright young boy.”
Sammy beamed. “Okay, you can have some.” He offered Bronson the cookie he had been eating.
“Very kind. But today I’m here to eat some apple pie.”
Sammy shrugged and stuffed the rest of the cookie in his mouth. “Cookies are better.” He finished his milk and set the glass down. “Can I go play, Grandma?”
Dolly nodded and pointed to his wooden wagon. “Why don’t you walk around the house and see how many toys you can pick up off the floor and put in your wagon?”
“One toy for one cookie?”
Dolly smiled, bent down, and kissed his forehead. “I’ll add it to the number of cookies I owe you.”
“Okay.” Sammy pulled his wagon behind him as he walked out of the kitchen.
“Cute kid,” Bronson said.
“Adorable. Just absolutely adorable.” She set two slices of pie a la mode on the table and poured Bronson his coffee. “But as much as I delight in talking about him, I’m sure you’re not here to talk about Sammy.”
Bronson took the time to put the sugar and milk into his coffee. He stirred it before answering. “I’m here about the job.”
Dolly pierced a small piece of pie and with slow, deliberate moves, stuffed it in her mouth. Anyone watching her would have assumed she had to judge its flavor. “Job?”
“You know, I was hired to be the conference’s consultant.” He sipped his coffee, but not once did he remove his attention from Dolly’s gaze.
“Oh, that job.” She wiped her lips with a cloth napkin. “What about it?”
“I want to know how I was hired.”
“Goodness, didn’t you tell me that Wayne Weeks hired you?”
“I did.”
Dolly attempted to smile, but it came out looking more like trembling lips. “Then?”
“I’d like to know how Wayne Weeks found out about me.”
“Didn’t you tell me that he read about you in the Dallas paper?”
No, I didn’t. “And you subscribe to this Dallas paper?” She had already told him she did, but he wanted to verify the information. He watched her lips tightened and her nostrils flare.
“No. . .yes.” She looked down at her slice of pie as though it would vanish if she looked away. “I know what you’re thinking.” Her voice came out as a whisper as though ready to reveal some sinister plot. “You think I gave him the paper. Suggested your name.”
“I think you left the paper lyin’ around, opened to that page. Weeks saw it, and knowin’ that you’re from Dallas, asked you about me. I’m sure you gave me a very good recommendation.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“No, nothin’ at all, but I want to know what you thought you’d accomplish by havin’ me here.”
Dolly gave a small shrug. “Thought I could get you to look at Casey’s case all over again.”
“And how were you goin’ to do that?”
“I. . .I don’t know. I didn’t think ahead.”
Bronson reached out and wrapped his hands around Dolly’s. “Tell me what you’re not tellin’ me.”
Dolly let her breath out as though she’d been punched in the stomach. She withdrew her hands and looked down. “I. . .I don’t know what. . .you’re. . .talking about.”
“Oh, Dolly. Dolly. Dolly.” Bronson finished his pie and pushed the plate away. “Best apple pie in the country. It’s as good as it smells.”
Dolly’s lips twitched as she gave him a small nod.
Bronson leaned back on his seat and folded his hands over his chest. “Tell me about the newspaper.”
Bronson heard a noise coming from somewhere in the living room. Must have been Sammy picking up his toys. Bronson heard the clock tick, the television play. Outside, a car zoomed by. A dog barked.
He wished he had more coffee but didn’t want to break the momentum he had built. He focused his gaze on Dolly.
Slowly, she looked up and when she saw him staring at her, she quickly looked away. “What did you say?” she asked, her voice small and timid.
“The newspaper.”
“Oh, yes, the newspaper.” She sighed and looked around the room. Her gaze rested on each object as though she were seeing it for the first time. “I cancelled my subscription to the Dallas paper a long time ago.”
“I figured as much.”
Dolly looked at him, squinted, and shook her head. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
“Am I now?”
“You knew all along and you never let on. What else do you know?”
“You tell me.”
Dolly took in a deep breath and sat up straighter. “I received the article in the mail one day. In the same envelope I also received some information about the conference and a little typed note saying that Wayne would be hiring a consultant. I thought maybe once you were here, I could convince you to work on Casey’s case. Then I got to thinking. Someone sent me that article about you retiring and about the position opening. I figured whoever did could easily be connected to Casey’s case. Why else would I receive those clippings? Wayne and I are sort of seeing each other—” She flashed Bronson a quick glance. There was a twinkle in her eye and a blush in her cheeks. “Anyway, I put the article down in a place I knew he’d find and, as they say, the rest is history.”
“You didn’t by any chance keep the conference information you received or the envelope it came in?”
Dolly gasped. “No. I should have. I didn’t think.” She closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“What about a return address?”
Dolly shook her head, and then brightened. “But I did look at the postmark. It was mailed from here, Safford.”
Not much help. Whoever had mailed it had made sure he didn’t reveal his real hometown. Bronson made a mental note to add this detail to his list of loose ends. “Tell me, Dolly, how much trouble did you go to get me here?”
“No trouble. No trouble at all. Once Wayne saw the article and I told him what a good detective you are, he brightened. He was really worried about finding the right person.”
“And once I got here, how did you plan to get me involved in Casey’s case?” He had asked the question before, but often he got answers by repeating the questions.
“I figured you knew I was here. You’d come see me. We’d talk about Casey. I’m even willing to pay you to look into the case.”
“That’s not necessary. I made you a promise a long time ago to look for Casey’s real killer, no matter where I was, how old I got. I aim to keep that promise.”
Dolly closed her eyes. “I know. It’s just that sometimes I get so depressed. You’d think that after twenty years. . .”
“Since you received that article and flyer, has anybody contacted you about the case?”
Dolly shook her head.
“Do you know anythin’ about the conference, how it’s run?”
Again, Dolly shook her head.
“I believe you.” Bronson stood up. “This much I’ll tell you. Your wish came true. I’m workin’ on Casey’s case.”
Dolly gave him a genuine Crest smile. “Thank you, Detective Bronson. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. All I’ll ask of you is to never keep anythin’ from me again. Promise?”
Dolly stood up. “Promise.”
“One more question. Do you know who wrote the manuscript?”
“What manuscript?”
“For the play—the mystery the conference attendees are supposed to solve.”
“No, I didn’t even know there was a manuscript.”
Bronson could tell she spoke the truth. He wished she had written it as an attempt to get him involved, but things were never that simple.
And he knew things would only get worse.
Chapter Twenty-nine
A nap is a nap, no matter where the napper naps, Quaid thought as he glanced at the couch in his office. Often, he or one of his deputies slept there, mostly on weekends or holidays when the place filled up with drunks, and the area needed more officers on duty. Every once in a while, Deputy Quintana slept there and everybody knew he’d had another fight with the little misses.
Quaid headed toward the couch once more and felt the house keys in his pants pocket calling him. Nah, the couch at work wouldn’t do. The one at home, that’s a different story. There, he could slip off his shoes, loosen his pants, and stretch out on the couch while his family was out of the house. He would catch up with the much-needed sleep he had missed out on because of this Bronson thing.
As he drove home, he felt the lullabies of sleep lure him, but of course, he resisted. After all, he reasoned, everyone expected the sheriff to stay awake, at least during working hours, and more often than not, during non-working hours too.
He reached home just in time to hear the phone jingle. He sprinted toward it and picked it up on the fourth ring. “Sheriff Quaid.” He heard an audible sigh and realized he had made a mistake. He shouldn’t have identified himself. He pressed the phone closer to his ear, straining to hear whatever he could.
A brief silence passed, followed by a soft voice, one level above a forced whisper. “Sheriff, you don’t know me, but I’m one of the conference attendees. Thought maybe you’d want to know. Day before Trent died, I heard Bronson and his wife talking. She mentioned something about a vial, and he immediately hushed her. Way they talked made me think there was something sinister. Then Trent died—well, I thought maybe you’d want to check Bronson’s room, or at least know about the vial.”
A loud click followed and Quaid knew the informer had disconnected.
Quaid replaced the handset in its cradle and his hand lingered on the phone. The informer had called his home phone, probably thinking he wouldn’t be talking to him directly.
Early in his career, Quaid had chosen an unlisted number. Very few people had this information. Yet someone had called him, someone with connections enough to get his home phone, and chances were that connection led back to Bronson.
Quaid wondered if Judge Kile would give him a search warrant based on an unidentified informer’s call. Maybe Quaid would have to rely on friendship, and maybe ask for a favor. He hated that.
* * * * *
Out of the three towns that shared the valley, Safford, Thatcher, and Pima, Safford reigned as the largest, but even so, by anyone’s stretch of imagination, Safford could not be considered a large town.
Consequently, Bronson reasoned as he waited for the light to turn green at the intersection between Staghorn Avenue and U. S. Highway 191, finding the two teens who had probably been paid to stage the fight should not be too difficult. A couple of trips to the high schools, some properly asked questions, and perhaps the clincher, a reward offered, would lead to the actors.
Only problem with that, Quaid would probably arrest him for interfering with an ongoing investigation. Times like these, Bronson missed officially being called detective.
The light turned green and Bronson turned onto Highway 191, heading back toward the lodge. Maybe if he called Quaid and offered to follow up on the quarreling youths—
The ringing of his cell disrupted his thoughts. He recognized the ring as belonging to his lab buddy, Paul McKenzie. Bronson pulled over and answered the phone. No need to give the sheriff a reason for ticketing him for driving and talking. “Hey, Paul.”
“Hey, yourself. Got your mystery solved.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“That’s why I called.”
“Okay. Now that we got that straight, how about gettin’ to the mystery?”
“Spoil sport.”
“That’s me.” Bronson scanned the area. No cars had pulled off when he did, and none had turned on the next available corner. Seems like Quaid hadn’t requested a tail. Surprise, surprise.
“Your ex-partner tells me you’ve been held for Trent Powers’ murder. Are they crazy over there or what?”
Bronson smiled. It was nice knowing he could always rely on Mike and Paul for moral support—or any other kind of support, for that matter. “You know how ornery I am. They couldn’t hold me. No evidence, but I’m still their number one suspect.” He looked around. Still no sign of a tail. “So what mystery did you solve?”
“The O’Days. Remember I told you they didn’t seem to exist?”
“I remember.” Bronson continued to watch the street behind him.
“That’s because the O’Days name is an alias. Their real names are Victor and Betty Lowes.”
Even though Bronson knew that Paul couldn’t see him, he nodded. He had assumed that O’Day was an alias, but now he knew for sure. “How did you figure that out?”
“Those glasses you sent with the fingerprints. They matched the Lowes’. I then got on the computer and Googled them.”
“And what did you learn about the Lowes?” Still no trace of a tail. Either these guys were very good or he wasn’t being followed. Bronson suspected the latter.
“Nothing you want to hear. They’ve got clean records, not even an outstanding parking ticket. They live and work out of San Bernardino, California.”
San Bernardino? Wasn’t that where the previous consultant, Max Iles lived? “What else can you tell me about them?”
“He’s a private investigator.”
Interesting.
Chapter Thirty
Although the lodge’s parking lot had been designed to accommodate more cars than the lodge had rooms, it was filled to capacity. Murder obviously was good for business. Bronson drove through the parking lot twice before he found a parking space. Naturally, it had to be on the opposite end from his room.
He headed for the side door and inserted the room card in the slot. The door opened and Bronson stepped into a side hallway, thus avoiding most of the crowd. He headed directly for the elevator and punched in his floor number.
Just as the elevator door closed, it reopened and Katherine Shepard stepped in. She flashed Bronson a courteous smile.
“Ms. Katherine, ma’am. Are you, like the O’Days, from California?”
“Yes.” Her eyes snapped open. “No. Like I told you before, I’m a Texas girl.” She quickly punched in her floor and the door closed. She focused her attention on the closed door.
“Maybe you’re a Texas gal at heart, but you reside in California. Tell me, did you know Max Iles?”
The door to the elevator opened and Katherine bolted out. “Later, Detective Bronson.”
As Katherine stepped out, Gerri stepped in. “There you are.” She reached to punch her number. “Oh shoot, this is going up. I wanted to go down.”
“Eventually this will go down. In the meantime, you have the distinct honor of ridin’ with me.”
Gerri threw her head back and laughed. “That, I do.” Turning serious, she added, “You missed the meeting today.”
“What meetin’?”
“L’ee called a meeting. Due to the circumstances, we voted to disband. Some of the conference attendees have already checked out. Most, of course, are staying. I mean how often do we get a chance to participate in a real live murder mystery?”
Bet Quaid loved that, Bronson thought, then wondered if L’ee would still pay for his motel room now that he no longer worked as a consultant.
A third thought hit him, and he blurted out, “What about the script? Do we know who penned it?”
Gerri’s eyebrows arched. “No, I’m sorry. L’ee didn’t mention it. I should have brought it up. But maybe she didn’t say anything because she knows who wrote it.” She shrugged. “Maybe.”
The ele
vator door to Bronson’s floor opened. He stepped out. “Let’s hope so. Thanks for tellin’ me about the meetin’.”
As the doors closed, Bronson saw Gerri wave goodbye. He smiled and headed for his room.
Carol had just stepped out of the shower and was in the process of drying off.
Bronson walked over to her and his lips brushed hers. “Looks like I arrived just at the right time,” he leered and moved his eyebrows up and down in fast succession.
“You bet—but not for the reason you think. You’re in time to take your shower and take me out to dinner.”
Bronson kissed her lips once more. “We’re not eating downstairs?” He’d been looking forward to a quiet evening with Carol. Maybe even ordering room service.
“Nope, too crowded. Ever since poor Trent’s death, this place is a buzzing. Besides, the gals told me about this super Mexican food restaurant in Solomon called La Paloma.”
Visions of hours spent driving to the restaurant filled Bronson’s mind. “Where?”
“Solomon. It’s a tiny town, not too far from here.”
“Define ‘not too far.’”
Carol rolled her eyes. “You’re such a baby. Fifteen minute drive, maybe? Twenty, tops. Anyway, listening to everyone rave about La Paloma makes the drive worth the time. People come from all over just to eat there. I’ve got directions and I’ll be driving us.”
Bronson brightened. Was there such a thing as Mexican coffee? He’d soon find out, and he wouldn’t have to bother with the driving. Not bad. “I’ll take a two second shower and be ready to go in ten minutes, tops.” He winked.
She rolled her eyes and walked away.
He took off his shirt as he headed toward the bathroom.
* * * * *
Once Bronson stepped out of the shower, dried, and got dressed, Carol approached him. He looked at her, ready to tell her he’d be able to walk out within three minutes. Instead, he stared at her, concern nipping at his nerves. The frown she wore created deep crease lines in her forehead and around her eyes. Her breathing came at strained intervals.
