A Dead Red Miracle

by R. P. Dahlke

  They laughed and Zelma said, "We're fraternal twins."

  "Though you wouldn't know it," Velma said, with a twinkle in her eye. "She looks so much older than me, doesn't she?"

  Zelma hooted. "That's a good one. You got kids older than me."

  I held up a hand to stop the arguing before it got out of hand. "Do either of you have any questions before we leave?"

  "Well," Zelma said looking around at the drab office. "The place sure looks run-down. Don't you wonder what Ron did with his money?"

  She was fishing, hoping we knew where he'd hidden his stash of get-out-of-town money. "We wondered about that too. His house sure wasn't anything to look at."

  "We worked at a call center," Zelma said, "so you just want us to answer phones, take messages and that sort of thing?"

  "What sort of thing?" Pearlie asked, looking up from sorting photos.

  "We did phone surveys, questionnaires," Velma said.

  "Really?" Pearlie laid her purse on the desk. "Then go through Ron's old accounts. Find the businesses that could use our services. Make a list to call on Monday."

  The two women whipped out their matching notepads and started writing.

  "We can ask them when was the last time they used Ron's services," Velma said.

  "That's a good idea," Pearlie said with a wink at me.

  "And if they quit Ron, you want to know why, right?" Zelma said.

  I shuddered, wondering how many other people Ron tried to blackmail.

  "And if they're using another P.I. firm," Velma said, "would a discount convince them to use you ladies as private investigators?"

  "A discount?" I squeaked. "I don't think…"

  Pearlie elbowed my ribs. "We'll take anything you can get, but make any appointments for a week from today."

  By then, we'd know one way or the other if we would get our P.I. Licenses or our walking papers.

  "By the way, what're you going to call your business?" Velma continued.

  "It's Bains and Bains Private Investigations," I said with a straight face.

  The twins giggled. "You sure you don't want to call it Two Blondes' Investigations?"

  Pearlie nudged me. "Aren't they clever? And so close to my original suggestion of Two Blonde Jobs."

  "No thanks," I said. "We're going to have enough problems getting companies to take us seriously."

  As I closed the door behind me, I noticed the twins hungrily eyeing Ron's old file cabinets. I figured the minute the door closed, those two would start tearing up the place looking for the money Ron had looted from our business.

  Taking the stairs down to the parking lot, Pearlie assured me that Harley could see us today.

  We took separate cars to our meeting with Harley. Pearlie needed to do grocery shopping and I intended to stop by Wishbone's police station and see if Caleb had any more information on Jesse's murder.

  Taking Highway 92 south, I passed the ruins of the Miracle Faith Bible Church. It reminded me that we were down by one more suspect. With Jesse dead and Wade Hamilton presumed dead, we were left with only Andy Sokolov and no witnesses other than a pitiful wheelchair bound woman.

  It was only bad timing that prevented us from interviewing Jesse Jefferson. Someone had to have known we were about to ask him questions. There was nothing in the file that said he was ever a member of the Faith Miracle Church. Had he become a minister as penance for his crime? Or was he the one person with proof against the other two? If so, Jesse's reputation as an honest pastor would've sealed Andy's and Wade's fate.

  I looked in the rear view mirror at Pearlie. Following anyone, much less me, was not her strong suit. She preferred to be in front and ahead of me―in everything. Well, she could pass me up anytime she wanted.

  But she'd been right about the twin sisters; they were just what we needed. The idea of new business in Ron's old client list was a stroke of genius. We'd find Ron's killer, wrap Damian's case and have new business waiting for us when we got our licenses approved by the state.

  If we got our licenses. It would work. It had to work. Yes, that's the way to think. I wouldn't worry about it today. Worrying about this today was the sledge hammer to failure. That much I knew to be true. I'll think about it tomorrow. Or as Dr. Phil would say, so how's that working out for you, Scarlett?

  <><><><><>

  Today's summer rain had brightened the sky and greened up the hills behind Harley Aldrich's home, making the multi-hued paint job on his house stand out like a pop art poster for psychedelic drugs.

  We parked and took the path to his front door, but hearing the buzz of a gas powered saw, I hesitated. "Sounds like he's cutting wood. What if he doesn't remember us?"

  Pearlie shrugged and led the way to the back of the house

  He had on a straw hat, no shirt and a pair of faded and ripped tight jeans. He couldn't hear us over the saw, so Pearlie put out a hand to stop me from trying to speak over the noise. She winked, grinned and patted the spot over her heart as she watched the muscles ripple across Harley's sweaty back.

  Feeling like a silly voyeur, I decided to stop Pearlie's peep show and called to him. "Hello, Harley!"

  "Ah, you're no fun," Pearlie said, smacking me on the arm.

  He put the gas saw in neutral, waved back and shut off the saw. He removed his work gloves and waited.

  "I don't think he recognizes us," I said. "I hope we won't have to start all over again."

  Pearlie snorted and held out her hand. "Hi Harley, remember me?"

  He took her hand in his and drew her to him. "Pearlie. How could I ever forget you?"

  She laughed and put a hand on his broad chest to push him away. "And you need a shower, Harley Aldrich."

  Well, well. Harley's facial recognition didn't interfere with his ability to play the fiddle with my cousin. And I never did get to pin her down on how she ended up in Wishbone so early this morning. Maybe he was right, all those photos and descriptions on the walls were just so he could keep in practice.

  Harley, keeping Pearlie's hand, looked at me and asked, "Who's your friend?"

  Okay, so I was wrong again.

  "Oh, don't tease her. Let's go inside. You got any lemonade?"

  He laughed. "Okay, sorry. Hi Lalla. Just let me hang up this saw and I'll be right with you."

  "So how did he do that?"

  "We'll talk about it later. You got the photos?"

  "Of course."

  Harley insisted on serving us lemonade and another plate of his homemade cookies. "Excuse me for a few minutes? I've got woodchips in my hair and if I don't go clean up, it'll be all over the house in no time."

  When he left for the bathroom, I asked, "How does he do it?"

  "He told you how he does it. Remember the first thing he said to me was that I smelled good? His sense of smell is so heightened that it all comes back to him the minute you get close to him. That and the fact that you were with me. He's not stupid, you know."

  It was clever of him, but I was looking forward to testing out Harley's memory of the one person he hadn't identified from the earlier pictures. "I thought you didn't like him?"

  "Don't go putting words in my mouth. I never said that."

  "Okay, but I thought you were dating the homicide detective?"

  "That's off. He won't share anything on Ron's murder case, much less the covers. I knew I was right about that man."

  "Then you and Harley, huh?"

  She shrugged. "He'd have to shave that horrible bush off his face and I doubt he'd do that even for me."

  Harley came back, buttoning up a clean shirt. "Would you be satisfied with a trim?"

  Unwilling to listen to Pearlie backpeddle, I said, "We've brought more photos of the shootout."

  Harley listened, but his attention was on Pearlie. "You're rushing over parts of this because you think I won't remember, right? Let me help you out. I remember most everything. It's new people, new faces, okay?"

  "Right. Got it," I said, fanning the photos over his coffee
table. "Do any of these people look familiar?"

  "Sure," he said. There's Ted Moskel and Danny Oaks, Marvin... uh, forgot his last name, but Marvin went into the Marines and came back pretty messed up. Now he lives on the street and everyone just calls him Marvin the can man. I give him all my cans to sell. Okay, so you brought me some new photos. That's Andy Sokolov," he said. "He used to be a deputy sheriff, but now he's the mayor of Wishbone. I don't know this guy," he said, pointing to a picture of Ron Barbour. He shuffled through the photos and picked up the picture of Jesse Jefferson, "I saw this man at the shootout, but I don't know his name."

  "Was he behind the barricades, or with someone?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure. He wasn't in the last photos you showed me, but he was there. Wait. Now I remember. I saw him pull a woman and her little boy away from the fight. I remember because her long braid was coming loose and she was crying. I wondered what happened to her and the kid. Then the shooting started and the police pushed all of us out of the way."

  "Most of the women in the church wore head scarves. Are you sure her hair was in a braid and not covered, Harley?" Pearlie asked.

  He tilted up his head and worked a forefinger around the back of his head as if feeling for a braid. "She was different. Much prettier than the other women and her hair was black, but it was definitely a braid, not a scarf. I also remember that her skin was a coppery color. Well then, she was Native American?"

  "This was Damian's mother?" I asked Pearlie.

  "Who?" Harley asked.

  Pearlie said, "She's the only native American we know of associated with the church. But how did she know Jesse Jefferson?"

  "We can talk about that later," I said, standing. "I need to go by the police station and see Caleb."

  "Wait," Harley said holding up a photo. "You forgot to ask me about this one. It's your shooter. He's older and he wasn't in a deputy's uniform, but this is your guy."

  Wade Hamilton's toothy smile smiled at us from his publicity picture. "Are you sure he wasn't in uniform?" I asked.

  Pearlie slapped my arm. "If he said Wade wasn't in uniform on the day of the shooting, then he's sure, aren't you, honey?"

  Now her empathy meter was working? I decided to leave it for later.

  "Did I help?" Harley said, getting to his feet.

  "Yes, you did, sweetums," Pearlie said, squeezing his hard bicep.

  I swept up the pile of pictures and stood.

  "Are you leaving already? I was going to make lunch. Pearlie?"

  "I'll be right back," she said, touching Harley's cheek.

  I rushed her outside and gushed, "That's it, then. Wade Hamilton was the shooter."

  "Sure we have a name, but if you will remember, Harley's testimony would be inadmissible in court."

  "But… "

  "I'm staying," she said, her hand on the door knob. "Harley fixes the best chicken salad and he's got fresh homemade bread."

  "All right," I said, feeling my earlier euphoria slide into oblivion. "I'll see you at the office after lunch."

  <><><><><>

  I grabbed the bag of sandwiches I'd bought at Cornucopia Café on Main Street, then drove to Wishbone's police station. Counting myself lucky to find a guest parking spot, I positioned the requisite sunshades across the front windows, then cracked the driver's side window to allow the hot air to escape, scooted around a couple of officers jawing about a recent ball game and stepped through the entrance.

  Rapping on the window to get Betty's attention, she came around to open the door for me. "Hi Lalla, go on back."

  I thanked her, turned into the hall and knuckled the frame on his open door. "I've got lunch," I said, holding up the two paper bags.

  The skin around his light blue eyes crinkled happily.

  "Outside?" I asked.

  "Someone put the umbrella up on the patio set out back and I could use the break."

  "Have you been at your desk all morning?" I asked, opening the bag and parceling out the turkey, avocado and cheese sandwiches. I licked at a dollop of avocado and sighed happily. I loved lunch at Cornucopia. I'd eat there every day, but then I'd gain weight.

  "Fielding reporter's questions, mostly," he said, chewing.

  "Can you get out of here this afternoon?" I asked. "I want to talk to Naomi White and I'd like you to go with me."

  "Today? I'd like to. Where's she live?"

  "It's off Highway 10, up Texas Canyon, at the turn-off for the Amerind Museum."

  "We should go back there when they have the Chiricahua celebrations."

  "Sometime soon, I think. I'll call the museum. So what do you think? Can you get away?"

  He tilted his head. "Wasn't that where you lost the Alzheimer's patient?"

  Yes, I'd been in the area recently. Hours of trekking in the cold and dark and I've been dreaming about him ever since. "Yes. Same area. Can you come? I'll fill you in on what we learned about Pastor Jefferson."

  Caleb understood that for me, this would be revisiting a site I'd just as soon forget. "Give me five minutes to clear my calendar and I'll go with you."

  "Great," I said sweeping the crumbs and wrappers into the lunch bag. "My Jeep or your SUV?" I asked, hoping I could avoid another tank of gas on my no salary job.

  He patted my cheek as he passed. "We'll take my ride. It's official business, isn't it?

  .

  Chapter Twenty-five:

  On the drive to Naomi White's home near the Dragoons, I told Caleb that Harley Aldrich identified Jesse Jefferson helping Naomi and her son escape the shooting.

  Caleb nodded. "I think everyone knew Jesse was helping church members get out of that cult, but if he was there to help Naomi and Damian escape, someone besides a twelve-year-old kid must've seen them."

  "I can think of two people who might've seen him: Wade Hamilton and Andy Sokolov. And I've got a theory. Either Jesse shot Damian's dad and the other two have been keeping his secret. Or one of the other two killed the dad and Jesse agreed to keep it a secret because he was there helping Naomi get away from her husband."

  "Naomi White has been interviewed several times by Homicide and so far she's never admitted to having any connection to Jesse or Wade or Andy."

  I was thinking of my search and rescue partner's comment about how reticent Native Americans are to give up information, especially to local law enforcement. Left with only speculation, we followed the interstate highway east into Texas Canyon. Erosion has scoured away the dirt, leaving boulders stacked one on top of the other, looking like a giant had deliberately placed them there just to please visitors. My favorite time to drive through the Texas canyon was when the late afternoon sun flamed the stacked rocks red and left the others in shades of lavender.

  Taking the turnoff for the little hamlet of Dragoon, we passed the Amerind Museum, reminding ourselves to come back for a visit.

  Forty minutes later and a wrong turn that ended at a locked gate, we found the entrance to Naomi White's place. Passing under a striking metal arch of interwoven arrowheads, I felt I should know the place.

  "Could it be the same property?"

  "I didn't go to the man's house, or meet his daughter. Besides, it's so dark out here everything outside of our headlights simply vanishes."

  I caught a glimpse of an old weathered shack behind a triple-wide modular home. Next to it was a giant metal arrow someone had planted in the earth to look as if it had been shot from the quiver of the boulder stacking giants of Texas Canyon.

  We knocked and the door was opened by an attractive woman in her late sixties, her graying hair pulled back into one long braid, her calloused hands gripping the collar of a very alert German Shepherd. Her eyes were large in her face, very dark and heavily fringed by thick straight lashes. Casually dressed in jeans and a simple white linen blouse, she managed to look elegant, her only jewelry consisting of multiple bracelets banding both wrists.

  When she spoke, her voice was low and modulated in that way of someone whose English is a second language.
"I was expecting a private investigator, not Wishbone's police chief. Is this an official visit, Chief Stone?"

  "I have a couple of questions that you can help with," Caleb responded. "May we come in?"

  "Of course," she said, lowering her eyes so that the thick lashes lay artfully against the high cheekbones. She gave a soft command and the dog trotted over to a bed of old blankets, curled up and with head on paws, kept us in his line of sight.

  Lifting a languorous hand she waved us inside.

  The interior of her home was sparsely furnished with a coffee table in front of a sofa. There was no TV, but an iPad was hooked up to a couple of small speakers and Native American flute music softly played.

  On the wall were framed magazine covers with her picture and several framed award ribbons from Native American jewelry contests. In striking contrast to Andy's wheelchair bound accuser there were no photos of her son, Damian. Not on the walls or in frames on her mantle. I thought it telling of this woman's character, or maybe I was making too much of it.

  The rest of the living room was devoted to a long workbench, tools and boxes of supplies. It all looked costly, but Ian did say she made a good living at it.

  "The bracelets you're wearing are lovely, are they your designs?" I asked.

  She held out her arm for me to see, laying a slender, tanned finger on one silver and turquoise cuff. "Only this one. The others are gifts from friends."

  She pointed to her workbench and showed us her tools. "This is a sand cast for silver. I draw my design, work it in clay and then carve it from Utah sandstone. It is very soft to carve and gives a wonderful natural look to the silver, but like a lot of things in this life, it doesn't last very long."

  "The boxes," I asked. "What's in those?"

  She folded her hands in front of her and in that softly modulated voice said, "I keep silver and stones in those boxes against the wall. A photo on the front of each box describes what's inside. Silver birds, buttons, various sizes, shapes, The colored stones I put in alphabetical order: fluorite, malachite, opal, tanzanite, tourmaline and turquoise."