by R. P. Dahlke
Pearlie felt my nudge and put away her notebook. "I would like to interview your friend, Damian. You know, for local color. Does he live around here?"
"Damian? Oh, yeah. But he'll have to wait in line for a chance to compete and most of the new guys bomb out in the first round. They only take ninety for the TV show and like I said, last season I made it to the finals so chances are your readers will see me before they see Damian."
"Then I'll want to do a follow up on you too. What's your phone number?"
Now pleased to have the journalist in his corner again, he eagerly recited the number.
Pearlie looked up from writing. "And before I forget, do you have Damian's phone number or where he lives?"
Mike's forehead wrinkled in dismay. Refuse to be helpful and blow off a possible feature in a big newspaper, or cooperate and get his name in print and maybe even on TV?
He scratched at the back of his neck and said, "Well, I know he's darn proud of his Apache heritage. We got nicknames, you know. He insisted we call him by his namesake, Geronimo. He's staying with his uncle, so I guess it's okay if I give you the number."
Leaving the gym, Pearlie nudged me and winked. "Five bucks. You can pay me later."
I always fall for it, and of course, I always lose.
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Chapter Six:
Leaving the gym where we'd just missed cornering our wall climbing Apache, I read aloud the address to the uncle's home on King's Ranch Road. "If we kept going on Highway 92," I said, "you'd see the old Bible College campus where that religious group took over."
"Anyone still live there?"
"I hope not. The roof is falling in, window glass and doors are gone. Whatever is still standing has been boarded up to keep the local kids out."
The left turn onto King's Ranch road was so potholed, it threatened to shake the fillings out of our teeth.
"It'll go away if you drive faster," I said.
She picked up speed and the ride smoothed out. "All these homes out here and they can't get the county to fix the road?"
"County living is a double-edged sword. Winter and summer rain goes where it wants to on unpaved roads, leaving gullies deep enough to hide a Volkswagen. Just count your blessings it isn't raining or your cat-piss rental would be in serious trouble."
"You gotta respect the kind of wild-west attitude folks have living here," Pearlie said.
"Did you know that Arizona was the last territory to become a state in the contiguous United States?"
"I heard they were hold-outs to join the Union," Pearlie said. "Southerners don't hold with Yankees."
For a dyed-in-the-wool southerner like Pearlie, a state's position on the Civil War was the bell weather of their trustworthiness.
Pearlie changed the channel on the radio, finally getting a station with current pop music. I felt an eerie shiver when the song Say Geronimo by Shepard came on.
Pearlie slowed and took a right onto a private driveway marked with a house number. Fenced and cross-fenced, there were cows and horses in the pasture. We parked next to a nice looking single story ranch house, took the short walk to the house, and knocked.
A tall, muscular man in his forties, white denim shirt tucked into sleek, faded jeans answered the door. His black eyes flickered from Pearlie to me. But before I could say anything, Pearlie stuck out her hand. "Howdy, sir. I'm…."
He ignored Pearlie to shake my hand. "Sorry, I missed the wedding, Lalla. I had a family emergency. Pardon my manners, ladies. What can I do for you?"
"Sheriff Ian Tom," I said, "This is my cousin Pearlie Bains. I wish this were a social call, but do you have a nephew by the name of Damian?"
Ian Tom's hand reached up to rub at the back of his neck. "What's that boy done now?"
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Ian Tom ushered Pearlie and me into his living room and offered cold drinks. It took me six months to learn that a beverage offered in this part of Arizona is one part hospitality and one part war against dehydration. At four to five thousand feet, no one wants visitors collapsing from dehydration or altitude sickness. "Water would be great," Pearlie said.
"Me too," I said, settling into one of his comfy club chairs.
The living room was tidy, photos in simple frames lined a rustic mesquite mantle, and lamps with pierced tin shades sat on polished mesquite end tables. The wood was polished, the carpets clean, but I knew Ian had been on his own since his wife died of cancer several years ago.
Pearlie's eyes swept the room, her brows rising in question. I forgot that Pearlie hadn't met Ian Tom. She'd been in the hospital from a rattlesnake bite during the investigation of a murder when we first got to Arizona so, until now, she didn't have any reason to meet him.
"I'll tell you later," I whispered.
Ian brought back our cold water and perched on the edge of the couch to hear what we had to say about his nephew.
"Ian," I said. "It's not anything to get the police involved in; at least−not yet it isn't. Damian's staying with you while he trains for the next American Ninja Warrior competition, right?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Ian said, unclenching his hands. "Damian has been in and out of trouble over the years, but I thought he'd cleaned up his act. What's he done now?"
"He broke a window to get into our office," Pearlie said with a huff.
When Ian reached for his wallet, Pearlie held up a hand. "It was a second story window, Sheriff. He scaled the outside wall to get to it and used a diamond cutter to open the latch. If it weren't so embarrassing, I'd give him a medal for creativity, but he stole my cell phone and I'm gonna want it back."
"Your office―you mean Ron Barbour's office? Caleb told me you ladies were interning with him. I thought paying for Damian's training would be enough, but he can be single-minded. Did he take anything else?"
"What do you know about this case, Ian?"
Ian looked up at the ceiling and then at us. "His father was a member of a religious cult in Palominas. It was years ago, before your time and mine too. There was an altercation with the sheriff's department. Both sides had guns, shots were fired and Damian's father was shot in the back. No one knows who shot him, but my nephew is now determined to find the person who killed him."
I nodded. "Damian came to our office this morning because he said Ron called to say he had a name for him. Do you know anything about that call?"
Ian looked from me to Pearlie. "No, I don't. What time did my nephew show up at your office?"
"About ten. I doubt he had anything to do with Ron's house blowing up."
"But someone obviously did," Ian said.
Pearlie's brows went up. "If it makes you feel any better, Homicide would be more willing to think we had reason to kill Ron Barbour."
"It's a long story, Ian," I said, "but it has recently come to our attention that Ron's business practices could sully our own reputations."
"Damian didn't believe that we were in the dark about his case," Pearlie said. "So he waited until we left and broke into the office.When he couldn't find what he was looking for he took my cell phone. I suppose he thought we were keeping Ron's whereabouts a secret."
I suppose you've told Homicide all this?" Ian asked.
I saw Pearlie thoughtfully consider before she answered. "We thought we'd talk to you first," she said.
Ian Tom bit at the inside of his cheek. "Thank you. I'll call Detective Hutton and make an appointment for Damian. He's over eighteen, but he has his mother's temper and impetuous nature, so I'll have to make sure he has a lawyer present for the interview. That is if he comes home at all."
"Has it been confirmed then?" Pearlie asked, glancing at me. "It was Ron Barbour in the house?"
"Yes. I got the news an hour ago. His dental records were with a local dentist. Homicide will release it for the news people right after they get in touch with next of kin."
"He had two ex-wives," I said.
Pearlie shot me a bitter smile.
I shrugged. So
oner or later Ron's exes would come sniffing around, looking for any crumbs he might have left on the table. Our final payment to him would become a bone of contention sooner than I would like, but I wasn't going to think about that now.
"Ron Barbour wasn't held in the highest regard in this county," Ian said.
"We've heard a few things," I said.
"It's not surprising that he would exploit a naïve kid like Damian," Pearlie said. Her sympathetic words countered my own growing suspicion that Ian might know more about Ron than he was saying. Was he protecting his nephew or someone else?
Ian flashed a quick and insincere smile. Her ploy wasn't going to work on him. He had, after all, been a homicide detective in Chicago before he came home to Arizona to work with the sheriff's department. "Please understand that I’m not unsympathetic to my nephew's search for justice," he said. "I had a serious look at the case before Damian took it on himself to hire a P.I. If for no other reason than to satisfy myself that everything had been done that could be done. I have to say that the entire file had little or no evidence collected, and the rest of it was just so much sloppy paperwork. It would never have been tolerated on my watch, that's for sure, but it was before my time."
"Was there any evidence on the shooter?" I asked.
"First, let me give you some background on Miracle Faith Church. Mahala Beason was a self-proclaimed messiah for people of color and anyone who felt disenfranchised. Setting herself up as the voice of God, she started calling herself Mother Beason and moved the group to Palominas in the hopes of taking over A.A. Allen's old bible college. When the sale didn't happen; she bought land across the highway and then began a vicious campaign against anyone who didn't go along with her doctrines. Naturally, trouble started when she closed ranks against the locals and white people. There were rumors of intimidation and corporal punishment within the congregation, but none of it could ever be confirmed. Some of the parishioners left with the help of a local church. Some worked in town and did fine, others got in trouble and arrests were made for everything from traffic violations to petty crime. The file I read said that warrants were issued for non-appearances at court, but the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak, was when Mother Beason decided to put up a roadblock on Highway 92, effectively turning around all through traffic. It should've brought in the state police, but it looks like the governor thought it too political for the state troopers to handle so the local sheriff's department got the job.
"Deputies were sent with instructions to remove the barricades and arrest the miscreants. They were met by Mother Beason and her church, armed and ready for battle. Knowing how badly this whole affair was handled, it's no surprise that there was nothing to prove, no slug found, or that no one was willing to testify as to who shot one of the rioters in the back."
"What happened after that?" I asked.
"As a church, Mother Beason was the cohesive link, and after the gunfight, she and her congregation deserted the property and never returned."
"Where did Damian get the money to pay for a private detective?" Pearlie asked.
"If Damian hired Ron Barbour, it was with his mother's blessing and her money. His mother, Naomi, is my sister. She makes a good living from her Apache jewelry and design. I just wish she didn't feel the need to fuel Damian's misdirected anger."
I had more questions about Damian's mother, but in that moment, we heard someone drive onto the property.
Ian strode for the door. "It's Damian. Stay here. Let me talk to him."
When the door closed, Pearlie and I jumped out of our chairs and peeked through the shades.
Ian hung onto the door of the truck in a vain attempt to get his nephew to see reason.
Damian shouted at his uncle, then put the truck in gear and leaped over a barrier into a flowerbed. Dragging limp geraniums and asters behind him, he raced for the main road and disappeared.
Ian, head down, trudged back to the house, and by the time he yanked open the door, we were back in our seats.
"He apologized for the window," he said, tossing Pearlie her cell phone as he headed for the kitchen.
Leaning on the open door of the fridge, he asked, "What time do you have?"
"Uh, two-thirty," I said, glancing at my watch.
"Good enough for me."
I heard the clink of bottles. "Either of you ladies want a beer?"
Pearlie grinned. "Whatcha got, Sheriff?"
"Pacifico or Tecate."
"Either is fine with me," Pearlie said.
"How about you, Lalla?" Ian asked.
"I guess I'm driving, so no thanks," I said, frowning at my cousin.
Pearlie tossed me her keys, happy to be in the position to accept a beer.
The fridge door was kicked shut and Ian handed Pearlie a Tecate.
"Where I come from," she said, "you could hyphenate Tecate with Texas and no one would think anything of it."
The sheriff raised his beer in salute. "Where in Texas are you from Ms. Bains?"
"Southeast Texas. My granny has a cattle ranch that reaches almost to Mexico. Sheriff, I know something about wanting to find out more about a father. My mom and dad were killed in an auto accident when I was in my teens. I didn't even know I had kinfolk until my dad's lawyer handed me the letters sent to my dad from his mother. She had disowned him on a count of his wild living, so I figured I'd hunt her down, spit in the eye of the mean old bat who would abandon her only son. I discovered how wrong I was, but it was only her patience that finally weeded the hurt out of my pasture."
Ian nodded thoughtfully. "If you'll give me a day, I'll see that he pays you for the broken window."
"Ah, now Sheriff," Pearlie said, "you're looking to rein in a troubled boy. But that broken window is not the problem here. Someone murdered Ron Barbour and set his house to blow, which means Damian could be in that killer's sights too."
Ian glanced down at his hands and asked, "Ron Barbour didn't tell you he was working on this case?"
Pearlie grimaced. "It kinda looked like Ron never intended to share this case with us."
Ian's head shot up. "Are you saying…?"
Pearlie answered with a snort.
"We knew he had some questionable parts to his otherwise sterling character," I said, "but stealing clients from our partnership has left us pretty much in the lurch."
"If he weren't already dead," Pearlie said, "I'd sure have motive to kill him."
Ian shook his head. "I can see you would have cause. I've sent Damian to my sister and told him to stay put, but I don't have to tell you that this man may also think you know who he is."
I felt a shock run under my skin. We'd been so distracted by our recent discovery of Ron's double-dealing, we'd overlooked our own vulnerability.
Ian got up to see us out to our car. "You two keep a low profile now, won't you?"
Pearlie winked to show Ian she wasn't worried and patted the zippered compartment on her purse. "We'll be careful. Besides, I've got my Pearlie special and Lalla has Caleb Stone. I think we'll be just fine."
In the rear-view mirror I saw him watch us leave, arms crossed; a man ready for whatever came his way. I wish I felt so confident.
"So what's the sheriff's story?" Pearlie asked.
"He's a good man. Caleb certainly respects him. Other than that, I know he was a homicide detective in Chicago before he and his wife moved back to Arizona and he joined the sheriff's office. Caleb said his wife died of cancer a few years back."
"We still have an appointment with Detective Hutton," Pearlie said. "I'm taking one of Ron's beaters, which I may or may not fill up before I bring it back."
I laughed. "You can pay for the gas or not, but I don't think it makes any difference to Ron, he's already dead."
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Chapter Seven:
I left the police station after my interview with Detective Hutton, feeling secure in the knowledge that the detective had nothing on me. I wasn't so sure about Pearlie. The detective might be looki
ng to put something on her, but first he'd have to buy her dinner.
On the way home, I stopped by my dad's place. He was gone, but his Mexican workers were there. When I got out of the car, they all stopped what they were doing and watched. I greeted the crew boss and asked if he knew when Mr. Bains would be back.
He tilted his ball cap back and smiled innocently. "Lo siento, señora. No hablo inglés."
"Oh, sure you do, Rafael. My dad said you went to high school in Douglas."
Grinning, he dusted off his hands and got to his feet. "Busted. I promised your dad if another real estate lady showed up, I'd pretend I couldn't speak English. Say hi to my cousins, will you? Otherwise, they'll think you're la migra."
I smiled and waved. Immigration can be so annoying, especially when you don’t have a green card. They politely nodded and smiled. "Did my dad say when he was coming back?"
"He said he was going to pick up some lumber."
"Lumber? For what?"
Rafe shrugged. "It's not for this job, we're just cleaning up."
"Okay," I said. My dad had been talking about getting wood to shore up the old beams in the mine so maybe that's what it was for. "Did he say when the truck would pour the concrete for the patio?"
"Mañana?"
Remembering that the Spanish word for tomorrow was mañana, I smiled and left. When a Mexican says mañana, what they really mean is, who knows?
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Caleb wasn't home yet, and since the afternoon temperature was still hovering around eighty degrees Fahrenheit, I took a beer outside and flopped down onto a padded lounge chair in the shade and admired the water feature we just put up in our garden.
The first thing I did after moving here was put in pretty plants, only to come out in the morning and see that javelina had torn them all out, including the beautiful blue agave chosen especially for its lovely color. The javelina didn't care about any part of the agave but the tender roots. Deer ate the flowers off the rose bushes and gophers devoured the rest. After that, we put in plants resistant to javalina, deer, and gopher. Lavender, geraniums, jasmine, and lantanas did well, especially after we added a five foot adobe wall to enclose the garden. The jasmine soon outgrew its trellis and climbed aboard the pergola to lend a sensuous fragrance to our summer evenings. We added garden lights, an automatic drip system for the plants and the world's biggest grill for the times we entertained.
