by R. P. Dahlke
"I hope you have security for your home," Caleb said.
"I have security lights," Naomi said, "but if there are intruders bent on theft I have Artemis over there on his bed and a loaded rifle I keep by the door."
She glanced down at her calloused hands and then up through the proud dark eyes. "I was already interviewed by Detective Hutton. I have an alibi for the day Ron Barbour was killed. Then again, why would I want to kill him? I paid good money for him to find my husband's killer."
Caleb said, "Your interview with Sierra Vista Homicide said that you were at a jewelry show in Phoenix. I'm more interested in where you were this morning."
Her chin lifted, a defiant gesture meant to show that she wasn't going to be cowed by the likes of a police chief. "I don't have an alibi for this morning, Chief Stone. I was here all day, alone, so there is no one to vouch for me."
"All right," I said. "But you knew Pastor Jefferson, didn't you?"
Her head came up and her response to my question wasn't answered at once, but in an instant her demeanor morphed into that of someone softer, weaker, as if she had been crushed by circumstances beyond her control.
Her arm came up again to indicate that we should sit.
Caleb and I took the sofa and waited for her to continue.
She stared at her hands while she talked. "I was seventeen when I met Damian's father. He was stationed at Ft. Huachuca and about to be transferred to an Army base in DC, so we married. Unfortunately, that's where he met Mother Beason and her Miracle Faith Church. Her sermons about the repressed and downtrodden clicked with him but not me. I could not believe he could be taken in by the woman's lies, but then he revered my shaman father, too." She stopped talking, her eyes apparently interested in the shape of her fingers.
"But you came back to Arizona with your husband?" I asked to keep her talking.
"Only after I found out I was pregnant. I had my son and things were better for a while, but then the trouble started between the police and the church. Jesse Jefferson knew that I wanted out, but I couldn't find a way to leave without my husband threatening to kill me. By the time the deputies came, church members were lined up with rifles and shotguns refusing to allow anyone to come onto the property.
"With my suitcase and my son, I ran for Jesse's car. But my husband saw us and aimed his rifle at us. He was willing to murder his own son if it kept me from leaving. He would've too, but thank God someone else shot him first. Whoever shot him saved my life and maybe my son's as well."
"Does Damian know the details of that day?" I asked.
"I told Damian how his father died, but he's determined to find his father's killer."
"What's to say the man who shot Damian's father hasn't moved away? Or maybe he's already dead?"
"I believe Ron Barbour had a name," she said, quietly.
Ron could've been lying to get her money. There were plenty of times when he'd done exemplary work as an investigator, just not in the last few years.
"Have you and Pastor Jefferson kept in touch?"
I was surprised to see annoyance momentarily flash in her eyes. "I could never repay Jesse for what he did for me and my son, but after that day, we moved back here and I never saw him again."
Her words didn't match the look, but I wasn't about to call her on it now so instead I kept my questions to something less confrontational. "Did you live here with your father?"
She hesitated, glancing around the room as if looking for someone who should be there.
"I returned to live here when my husband died. This was my father's property but he wouldn't have anything to do with living in my new home. He had dementia, so I shouldn't have been surprised. He forgot what day it was and some days he did not even know me. Then a few days ago, when he was completely lucid, he walked away."
Now I felt a chill run over my skin. "How did he die?"
The woman's black eyes went darker as she thoughtfully appraised me. "He took his ceremonial costume, led a search and rescue team all the way up to the Cochise Stronghold, then leaped to his death, right in front of them."
Caleb and I exchanged a glance. I hadn't seen Ian Tom that night, but as Cochise County's sheriff, he would have been with the first responders, yet he never mentioned his relationship to the old man.
"I was part of that search and rescue team," I said, trying to cover my shock. "He said something as he went over, but I couldn't understand it. My team partner speaks some Navajo and he thought it might've been Apache."
Naomi's dark eyes gave me a thorough going over. "He spoke to you?"
"Well, sort of, but like I said…."
She moved a hand impatiently. "Did he speak to anyone else?"
"Uh-well, I don't think so. I'm still not sure why he chose to say anything to me."
Her eyes raked mine as if trying to understand the foreign language I was speaking. "And now you dream of him."
My breath caught in my throat. "I-I, well, uh, I think it was the shock of seeing him leap to his death in front of us."
She leaned forward, her eyes now wide with interest. "I am not a religious person. The old ways of my people seem childish and I hated my husband's fanatical church. I didn't listen when my father warned me of the trouble that would come of marrying. I thought he was just trying to keep me away from the man I loved. When I moved back here, he chose to live in the shack behind the house and we did not talk much. Yet, in your dreams he speaks to you. What does he say?"
"Nothing really. It was only two or three times. I think. In one dream, I'm sitting on the bottom of a lake, or maybe it's the ocean, which is weird since apparently I could breathe underwater. He sticks his head into the water and tries to speak, but of course, he can't, so he sputters and withdraws."
"Perhaps he is trying to tell you something."
"I should stay away from water?" I said, trying to make light of it.
"Perhaps," she said, and moved away from me.
Perhaps with her father's death she was having a religious reawakening and I had offended her. Until this minute, I'd forgotten about my own long dead mother rousing me from a drugged sleep so that I could escape from a burning house. This felt different and yet it wasn't. I guess I should start paying attention to my dreams.
<><><><><>
On the way home, Caleb warned me against doing any such thing.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you get sidetracked from the main issue."
"I think there's a reason why I continue to dream about him," I said.
"I think it's due to the shock of seeing him go over that cliff. So what did you think of her story?"
He was trying to pull me back on track.
"Oh, well," I said, thoughtfully. "For one thing, she doesn't strike me as the helpless type."
"Who said she was helpless?"
"Ian did," I said. "You were there. He said she was fragile, remember?"
"There's Gabby Hayes's account of the abusive husband," he said.
"Yes. Didn't you find it strange that there were no pictures of Damian? Only pictures of herself and her jewelry awards. What mother doesn't have photos of their only child?"
"What're you getting at?" he asked.
"Her brother said she was fragile, Jesse saves her from an abusive husband and someone else, maybe Wade Hamilton, or Andy Sokolov shot the man they saw as a monster ready to kill his own wife and son. What if this was what she meant when she told Gabby that she had her own plans for her husband?"
"You think she hired one of them to shoot her husband?"
"Hired? Oh, no I don't think so. She was young, very beautiful, still is for that matter. An affair between her and one of the men could've taken care of that problem. Or," I said, considering another angle, "what if she was the one with the rifle? She owns one and admitted being a competent shooter. So she hands Jesse the weapon and tells him it's her only chance to be free, once and for all."
"Someone had to have seen it happen. How was it kept se
cret?"
"I think that's why Ian came up with these three names: Wade Hamilton, Andy Sokolov and Jesse Jefferson. He knew, or suspected that these three men had something to do with the shooting."
"It's easy to hypothesize when two out of three of the suspects are dead or missing."
"You're right, but Pearlie and I have already come up with totally new leads; Harley Aldrich, Wade Hamilton's ex-bookkeeper and last but not least, Andy Sokolov's accuser. As for Naomi, we only have her word for it—that her husband was abusive and pointed a rifle at her and her child."
"Lalla, if any of this is true, she's not going to admit anything that will incriminate her now."
"But Ron's and Jesse's murders are recent, which brings me to believe that whoever is left is our killer. And there're the dreams. Two times with the water dream. I can't figure what that was about. Then the name Geronimo keeps popping up."
"I think you're stressing yourself out over this case."
"Can't argue with that. Have you heard from the M.E. on the cause of death for Jesse?"
"He was unconscious but alive when he was strung up over that rafter."
"From the gash on the back of his head?"
"More like smashed," he said, touching the spot near the base of his skull to show me. "It takes some strength to do that kind of damage. I think we can safely rule out Naomi."
Someone came up on him from behind, struck him on the back of the head, then carted him into the church and strung him up. Jesse wasn't a big man, but his murder had to be done by a man; someone strong enough to be able hoist his unconscious body up by a rope. "Why bother trying to make it look like a suicide when the M.E. was just going to declare it a murder anyway? What about time of death?"
"Lividity corresponds with an early a.m. death."
"I think it's time we talked to Ian about this. Will you call him?"
He looked at his watch. "It's late. I'll call him tomorrow. Maybe we can meet for lunch, will that do?"
"Yes," I said, wishing I didn’t now feel suspicious of Ian's motives. Did he know or suspect Naomi's involvement with Jesse? What else was Ian not telling us?
"You said Ian was tapping their cell and home phones?" I asked.
"Yes, but unfortunately, Andy has his Google location tracker turned off."
"How convenient for him. Do we have ours on or off?"
He gave me a look that indicated I shouldn't have to ask. "Sweetheart. Better than hanging a bell around your neck, isn't it? If you disappeared it might be the only way I'd have to find you."
"And is yours on?"
"Always, I'm a cop."
.
Chapter Twenty-six:
I awoke tired from a restless night. Sometime this week we'd get a notice from the State Board of Licensing telling us we were out of business. We'd also lose access to the internet tools we needed to continue as a P.I. firm. Dead in the water, a phrase that suited not only our future as P.I.'s, but also my unsettling dreams.
Caleb left for work and I got into the shower. As the hot water streamed over my back, I thought of last night's underwater dream. It was a lake rather than the ocean, wasn't it? Both places have tiny fish and sand on the bottom, but there was something else. Ah, yes, a beer can. Not just any brand, but the popular Mexican Tecate, like what Ian offered us when we first went to his home. Was this just my imagination running amok or was there a clue here I was missing? A lake. Wade Hamilton's last known sighting was at Lake Patagonia. Maybe it was time for me to revisit the place. I would do that right after I went back to see what Mrs. Jefferson had to say about a fourth suspect.
I went to the office, greeted Zelma and Velma and called Pearlie, but when her cell went to message, I looked at my watch. It was barely nine a.m. and Pearlie was a night owl. I left a message, told her where I was going and why.
<><><><><>
Mrs. Jefferson insisted I join her for a cup of coffee. "My morning routine seems to be all that's holding me together. Cream or sugar?"
I thanked her and accepted mine black. When we were both seated, I brought out the photos and spread them on the coffee table. "Do you know any of these people?"
"Well, of course, honey. That's the mayor, Andy Sokolov. He and his missus come to Easter and Christmas services, and this is Ian Tom. Ian and his wife used to come every Sunday until the cancer took her, poor woman. This picture looks like his sister. I think her name is Naomi? Yes, that's it. Nice woman, quiet, rather shy. Ian brought her a few times. Now, Wade Hamilton I know 'cause his face is on a local TV channel every night trying to convince folks that, 'Nobody beats a Hamilton deal.' But since he's not up for re-election I never see him in church."
When she saw my blush, she reached over and patted my hand. "Now, honey, don't you give it another thought. Of course, it looks good for the chief of police to attend services here. Jesse and I knew that and it wasn't so awful bad for our image, either."
"Thank you, Mrs. Jefferson," I said, putting the photos back into the envelope. Then I thought of something else. "You said Pastor Jefferson counseled people in the mornings. Did he ever counsel Ian's sister, Naomi White?"
"Well now, Jesse kept his own appointments. Let's go to his office and look at his calendar."
Mrs. Jefferson led me along a walkway until we came to a modular trailer with a sign on the door that said, Pastor's Office. She unlocked the door and ushered me inside. "We got robbed once, can you imagine? We don't have a lock on our own house, but Jesse had to lock his office."
She walked around his desk, muttering at the growing pile of mail. "Jesse didn't hold with fancy appointment books. He made all of his on this here desk calendar," she said, handing it to me.
I looked for the day of his murder, but this month's page had been ripped off. "Did the police perhaps remove this month's sheet for evidence?"
She shook her head, looking around the office as if seeing it for the first time. "Honey, I don't rightly know. It's all been a blur since he died. I-I can't hardly stand coming in here no more."
"We can leave," I said, gently guiding her out of the office. Taking the key from her hand, I locked the door and noticed that there were scratch marks on the keyhole.
Someone had broken in. Before or after Jesse was killed? I remember the morning we were called to the church. Caleb was beside himself trying to secure a crime scene that was getting out of hand. Way too many people coming and going; police, Mrs. Jefferson's church ladies, reporters and the TV vans and last but not least, Ian Tom.
<><><><><>
It was still early. I had plenty of time to get to the lake where I would sort out my theory, but I needed just one more visit to ask Harley if he would confirm one last identity.
He was working in his garden, hat on, shirt off, the bushy beard recently barbered. Now all of his handsome face could be seen. I only hoped Pearlie appreciated the concessions he was making for her.
He wiped his hands on his faded jeans and smiled. "Hello, Lalla Bains," he said, looking past me to the Jeep. "Pearlie not with you this time?"
No wonder this man had so many friends. Harley's inability to hide his feelings was so endearing that I was tempted to hug him. "Hello, Harley. No, sorry, too early for Pearlie."
"Well, maybe later today," he said. "Coffee? I still have a pot on if you like."
"I'm good, but thanks," I said, pulling out the photos I'd shown to Mrs. Jefferson and spreading them out on the kitchen counter. Harley remembered our last meeting, so I separated the photos I'd shown him a few days ago from the new ones.
"Okey dokey," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Andy Sokolov and several other men I know were sheriff deputies and they were at the shooting, but not the shooter." He pointed to a figure in the photo."This is the sheriff of Cochise County." At my look of surprise, he laughed. "I don't remember the face but I know the uniform."
"It's Sheriff Ian Tom. He moved back to the area to be close to his family about eight years ago."
"Thanks for that. I'll wri
te down his name so I can greet him properly when we meet. And this is…," he said, thoughtfully tapping the publicity photo of Naomi White. "She's older now, but this is the woman I saw running away with Jesse Jefferson."
I smiled my thanks and put away the photos.
"What does it mean?" he asked, as I prepared to leave. "Does the woman have anything to do with your murder investigation?"
"That's something I'm going to have to find out, Harley."
<><><><><>
I drove from Wishbone along Highway 92, passing the falling down buildings that had been the scene of Cochise County's fatal interaction with a religious cult. I took the Buffalo Soldier Trail, by-passing Sierra Vista and then it was a straight shot north on Highway 92 until a left turn onto Highway 82. Now it was all open range, fenced at the highway, homes and ranches dotting the dry and rolling landscape. I passed through the little town of Sonoita where Santa Cruz County fairgrounds held the state's oldest horse races and then slowed again at the small artsy town Patagonia and then made a right turn into Patagonia State Park.
I paid the fee and parked in the day use parking lot. Since it was Monday, only a few fishermen stood along the deep end of the lake, their lines dipping under the calm surface of the water. Two nodded a greeting as I passed, lifting me out of my somber mood with the pleasantries. I had made the right decision, coming out here where I could sort through the facts about this case.
I hiked uphill to the day camp area. A skinny old man smelling of stale cigarettes and old fish, climbed out of the bushes and passed me. He glanced up in surprise at my friendly greeting then tugged the brim of his hat down over his face. I guess not every everyone at the lake was happy to greet a newcomer.
I got as far as the path went before it ran out of macadam and into a wall of rock. While I considered going back or climbing over, I heard someone calling my name.
