A Dead Red Miracle

by R. P. Dahlke

  "Who teaches this kind of stuff to little kids?"

  "Their uncle Carlos. He's locked up but what the boys really need is a different environment."

  "They're just little boys. Isn't there anyone who can help?"

  "Doesn't look like it. Not with an absent mother and an indifferent half-brother. Foster care will be the best we can hope for."

  "They'll split them up won't they?"

  "Those two feed each other trouble, so that might not be a bad thing. Look," he said, scratching at the back of his head, "If it helps, I'll call Sheriff Tom. Ask him to look into something for the boys."

  "Why Sheriff Tom?"

  "Because the mother is Chiricahua Apache and if you remember, Sheriff Tom is half Apache. Maybe he can find foster parents for the boys on the res."

  "Well, that's something. Thanks, Caleb," I said. Though I wasn't sure how much the boys would thank anyone if they ended up on the res. I'd never been to the Chiricahua reservation, but our search and rescue team leader said it was like most reservations, too much alcohol, no prospects for jobs, and no chance for a child to grow up with any kind of hope of getting one.

  Putting aside the subject of the Garza boys, now was as good a time as any to bring up Ron Barbour. "Did Sheriff Tom happen to have anything to say about the fire?"

  "In a manner of speaking."

  I took a bite of my sandwich and pretended to ignore the pickles. My husband thought unwanted pickles might remind me that I'd neglected to call him the minute I thought there might be trouble; like I should've known that Ron's house was going to blow up.

  "Caleb," I said, pushing aside my plate and grabbing a handful of chips. "You know how hard Pearlie and I have worked for what we thought was going to be our very own P.I. firm. Yet, in the last months business has been falling off and yes, Ron had his excuses, but today a client showed up asking for him. A client we knew nothing about."

  "He was retiring, anyway, why would he do that?"

  "Hide income from his two greedy exes? Cheat his business partners? And as awful as it sounds, we're beginning to think this was all part of his escape plan. If we hadn't gone to his house for a showdown…."

  "You think someone beat you to it?"

  "Pearlie wanted to kill him. I just wanted to talk."

  "You've never mentioned going to his home before today."

  "We had enough of Ron every day without going to his home."

  "I can find out who owns the house, but if he didn't live there then why do you think it was Ron on the floor?"

  "I don't know, maybe three years of looking at his bald spot and bad suits? I'm pretty sure it was Ron."

  "What about the kid and his case―he didn't give you a phone number so you could contact him?"

  "No, and nothing in the files for any murder case, much less one with someone owing us money. All we had were the few insurance cases we were finishing up. Add insult to injury, our recommendation to the state for our P.I. license is now circling the drain."

  "You had a month on your three year internship. So what're you two going to do? Find another P.I. to work with?"

  The thought of starting over again made my my stomach turn over. We had tried all the P.I.'s in Tucson and got laughed out of their offices. Ron was our best chance for a business of our own and I couldn't let it go. Not now. Not after all the time and money we spent on this deal.

  "I'll tell you what we're going to do; we're going to find Ron Barbour's killer and the name of the person that kid was looking for and the nice fat check for doing it right."

  Even to my ears it sounded like so much hubris. But then, Ron Barbour was, if nothing else, a darn good investigator. And didn't he teach Pearlie and me everything we knew about investigating?

  .

  Chapter Four:

  Leaving Caleb to clean up after lunch; I stopped by my dad's place to see how his helpers were doing on a new concrete walkway and a backyard patio. The young Mexican workers were leery of dogs, so Hoover had to take up residence with us, at least until the concrete was poured and cured. Unfortunately the truck was still waiting for a dry spell.

  I was surprised to find my dad in a folding chair, a beer in one hand, a mining magazine in the other.

  Looking over the half-finished foundation, I asked, "Did you get rained out again?"

  "No rain, but they're finished for the day."

  "Who quits at two in the afternoon?"

  "Mexican holiday. Some saint's birthday or something."

  "Uh-huh," I said, figuring Rafael and his two cousins had a soccer game. "Those boys trot out a new saint's day every week. Aren't you going into Wishbone today? You still have lunch with Cie Taylor, don't you?"

  "Not if I can help it."

  Though Dad would be the first to say there was nothing between him and the landlady who ran Wishbone's only B&B, everyone else knew Cie Taylor had plans for widower Noah Bains.

  "Then what're you doing out here?" I asked.

  "I'm waiting on my lunch and here it comes," he said, getting out of his chair and tucking in his shirt.

  "Cie is bringing you lunch?"

  "Not Cie, Rafael's aunt."

  Knowing how much my dad missed our housekeeper from California and her Mexican meals, I could see how he would be interested in the aunt's cooking.

  "That's nice of her. Does she live in Wishbone?"

  "Douglas," he said, smiling.

  I shaded my eyes with a hand and watched a white pickup trailing a cloud of dust turn into his driveway. "All the way from Douglas?"

  "She's also looking for a housekeeping job."

  I looked him up and down. "I thought you said you weren't interested in having another housekeeper."

  Dad snorted and loped for the pickup. He held the door for her with one hand and took the covered dish with the other. Turning for the house, he was smiling again. Now, that was something. It must be the familiar fragrance of cumin and roasted peppers.

  Her hair was completely covered with a scarf, and I could see that she was small. A tiny little thing and probably too old and frail to do housework, but hoping her cooking would tilt the scales in her favor.

  Then she removed her scarf, releasing a cascade of shiny black hair. She reached up and pushed the bangs out of her eyes and I heard the tinkling sound of youthful laughter.

  My father might be in his late sixties, but he was not immune to the flattery of a pretty woman and certainly not one who brought food. He waved her over to make the introductions.

  "Lalla, this is Rafael's aunt, uh, what'd you say your name was again?"

  In a patently flirtatious gesture, she tilted her chin to one shoulder and looked up at him through a pair of sparkling chocolate brown eyes.

  "Oh, Señor Bains. I tol' you. I am Coco Lucero," she said, giving her words a breathy lisp.

  Housekeeper? Coco Lucero looked like she should come with castanets and dancing shoes. B&B owner, Cie Taylor had better look out. Her competition just arrived.

  <><><><><>

  Pearlie and I were in the office going over strategy for our interview with Detective Hutton when the phone rang.

  Pearlie pantomimed surprise, her eyes wide. "You think it's Ron calling to tell us it was all a joke?"

  "Answer it," I growled.

  She grabbed the receiver off its cradle.

  "Detective Hutton," she said, with a smile in her voice. "No, no, we haven't forgotten. As long as there won't be water-boarding involved, we'll be there. You want to change it to five? Sure. No problem."

  Pearlie stuck out her tongue at the phone. "We have an hour's reprieve."

  "Maybe he'll have an ID on the body by then," I said.

  "Or maybe he'll have enough to charge us with murder."

  "Don't say that," I said. "Besides, he seems to like you."

  "Unless he decides we're responsible for Ron's murder." She put her chin in her palm and sighed. "If we'd only gone to the police academy, we'd have a badge by now."

  "You
don't like uniforms."

  "The buttons're in all the wrong places. Besides, we'd be the oldest female rookies in the history of Wishbone's police department," she said.

  "You couldn't live on the pay," I said, and winced. "And I wouldn't want to."

  Pearlie shuddered. "Can you imagine what kind of harassment we'd have to take?"

  I groaned. "More blonde jokes than I want to hear in a lifetime."

  She tapped a pink-tipped fingernail on the table. "We have a knack for this job and P.I. work means we can take the jobs we want and we get to wear disguises."

  "You mean those tacky flowered housedresses and strollers? I keep forgetting what a glamorous job this is."

  "All those witnesses were more willing to talk to pregnant women than some old bald guy with a bent nose."

  She held up her forefinger about an inch apart from her thumb. "We're this close to our dream job and I'm not willing to give it up now."

  "Who says we have to? We have all those cases with our initials on them, our pay stubs and our tax returns. Surely the state will take that into account."

  Pearlie smiled. "You really want this job then?"

  "Of course I do!"

  "I was hoping you'd say that," she said. "Because, I'm afraid that detective is going to try to make a case against us. Think about it Lalla, Ron's business was going down the tubes and we were coming up on a final payment we didn't have."

  "The only reason it's failing is because Ron has been hiding clients." I cringed. "All he has to do is look at our contract to see we had motive."

  She shrugged. "Maybe he won't think of it. We've got a week. We can play two dumb blondes. Oh come on. How many times have we used it to our advantage?"

  "But the police will think we're incompetent."

  "Let 'em. It's only until we find Ron's killer and solve this case. Then no one will be able to doubt us."

  Pearlie hated being called a dumb blonde even more than I did, yet it was our best disguise.

  "How long do you think we got until the state pulls Ron's license?" Pearlie asked.

  I bit at my lower lip. "It'll take a week for Ron's death certificate to get to them. It's Monday. We have a week before they shut us down."

  "Well then, let's get to it," she said, slapping the desktop. "So what do you remember about the kid?"

  "He said he was in training, and he had an athletic patch on his sleeve," I said, tapping the spot on my shoulder.

  She snapped her fingers. "That's right. I remember seeing it too. It was a gold and purple patch. We'll find him at the gym where he's training."

  Pearlie listed the selections. "There's the Cochise Health and Racquet Club, Power Zone Gym, Summit Fitness. All of these are for weight lifting and the logos don't quite look right." She squinted at the print on the page, then leaned back and rubbed her eyes. "I'm going to need reading glasses. Wait… look at this one…here it is."

  I read aloud. "Muay Thai, boxing, cross-fit, and training for American Ninja Warrior―whatever that is. Got any ideas on how to get an owner to reveal a member's name and address?"

  Pearlie held up a finger. "I have a card for that."

  She reached for her card folder, worked the card she wanted out of its plastic sleeve and shoved it across the desk. "This will do. I'm a renowned independent journalist working for the San Francisco Examiner, doing a piece on athletes training in Arizona."

  I scrutinized the name. "Didn't the San Francisco Examiner go out of business?"

  "They're now online news, and if I need it, I have a friend who can vouch for me," she said, swiveling around in her desk chair to pick up her laptop. "So it'll look like we know what we're doing, let's see what we can find on this stuff. I'll take the American Ninja Warrior and you look up MMA. Research always makes me hungry. Will you go over to Jack in the Box and pick us up some burgers and fries?"

  I added research to the growing list of things that made my cousin hungry, grabbed my purse and left to get her a hunger-stopper.

  When I got back to the office, Pearlie leaned away from the computer screen and rubbed her eyes. "No need to look up MMA. He's training for the American Ninja Warrior contest."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "For one thing, five hundred thousand dollars to the winner and for another…." She got up and slid the vertical blinds open on our second story window. A neat hole had been punched out of the glass.

  "They break into offices?" I asked.

  "Not as a rule, but they do climb walls. If he doesn't win the competition, he can always get a job as a second story man."

  "He must really want that name to jeopardize his chance at five hundred thousand dollars," I sighed. "Did you call the police?"

  "And miss out on losing a client? Not a chance."

  "The file cabinets aren't locked. What'd he take?"

  "My cell phone."

  "Your cell? I thought you kept it in your purse?"

  "Not today. I was in such a hurry to confront Ron, I left it in my desk drawer."

  "He was looking for Ron's phone number," I said.

  "Fat lot of good it'll do him now. Ron's dead."

  "If he was looking for Ron about the same time we were, we can check him off our non-existent list of suspects. Have you called the landlord about the break-in?"

  "The deductible on our insurance is too high and we don't have the cash in the bank to pay for a new window."

  It also might be a tad embarrassing to admit that she'd been outwitted by a wall climbing ninja.

  "So," I said, rubbing my hands together in anticipation. "We go to this gym and pretend to be journalists and ask if there are any young men training for American Ninja Warrior, right?"

  "That's the plan."

  .

  Chapter Five:

  The local gym where we hoped to find a lead on our ninja thief had ten or so cars parked outside. Inside, young men and women shouted encouragement to a rope climber while others swung from hanging boards, and another ran a gauntlet of slippery rolling drums.

  An older man sidled up to us, his toothy smile beaming. "Hello ladies. If you're looking to join one of our MMA classes, we have signups open for Tuesday evenings."

  "Actually," Pearlie said, handing him her fake journalist's card. "I’m writing an article about training for America Ninja Warrior and if you have some time, I'd like to interview the owner and a few of the athletes."

  His pupils became dollar signs. "Well, you came to the right place. Outside of Phoenix, we're Arizona's premier ANW training center. Our trainers are former finalists and our trainees dedicate every minute of their lives to this year's contest."

  "All that just for the title of American Ninja Warrior?" I asked, wide-eyed.

  The owner leaned in as if to add his big secret. "Five hundred thousand dollars to the winner and product contracts worth as much as a million dollars."

  Pearlie whistled and wrote it down in her notepad.

  "It's not an easy win, either. Hundreds wait in line for a chance to compete. Entrants are selected from try-outs in five cities across America."

  "But isn't Sierra Vista a bit out of the way?" Pearlie asked.

  "All the major city gyms are filled to capacity. Training for the title is the newest, hottest thing for athletes. Did you see last season? The ANW held a side competition teaming the best Americans against European challengers, none of whom had ever done any of these games. Europe sent their best rock climbers; Swiss, French, Italian and English, and they never hesitated, they just flew through that course. That the Americans barely beat them by a few points has been taken seriously by the American teams. Now all our training includes rock climbing in the Chiricahuas."

  The man peered at Pearlie's notes. "So what kind of circulation will your article have?"

  "I expect the feature will get picked up by Reuters, and with the popularity of the show, it's sure to go viral, maybe even get a spot on NBC or CBS. You mentioned training in the Chiricahua Mountains. It might really heighten
reader interest if any of your participants were local, maybe even Native American?"

  "Hey, yeah, we got a Chiricahua Apache. That's our claim to fame here in Cochise County, you know. America's two favorite Indians, Geronimo and Cochise lived in this part of Arizona. That would be something if an Apache like this kid won, wouldn't it?" He looked at her card. "The San Francisco Examiner, huh? Well, let me see if I can find him for you."

  He stepped away to talk to one of the trainees.

  "I don't know, Pearlie," I said. "Maybe we're wasting our time."

  "Bet you five dollars, he's here," she said. My cousin hadn't been to Vegas in three years, not after investing her life's savings in Ron's business, but since gambling came second nature to Pearlie, I couldn't resist being the chump who always said, "You're on."

  Searching the participants, the owner called to a young man. "Hey, Mike, you seen Damian?"

  The guy called Mike pointed at a back door as a faded blue Ford pickup fishtailed out of the parking lot, tossing gravel and peeling rubber as the tires hit the highway.

  The owner's jaw dropped. "Well, uh, he must have an emergency of some kind. Damian wouldn't want to miss out on an opportunity to get his name in the news."

  Pearlie tapped her pencil on her notebook as she glanced my way. Damian had ID'd us. By now, he must've heard that Ron had been murdered and was distancing himself from us, the law, and whoever killed Ron.

  "Sorry we missed your Apache," I said, "but we'll be happy to interview Mike instead."

  "Oh, sure," the owner said, drawing the guy over to us. "Mike here is a two time finalist."

  Mike, delighted to be the center of attention, listened to my pitch, eagerly nodding at the idea of an exclusive interview. "I was in the second round last year, but the warped wall got me. This season we've built our own. If I can get past the floating boards, the doorknob grasper and the jumping spider, I'll win that title for sure."

  Head nodding, Pearlie scribbled, giving the young man her undivided attention. After one more boring detail, the owner mumbled something about paperwork and left us alone.