Forbidden Entry (21 page)

Her shaggy brows edged higher. “Who?”

“The black cat.”

“Oh. Well, in case you didn't know, there's a shitload of heartless assholes out there who think nothing of dumping unwanted or injured animals in the desert. The locals find 'em wandering half dead down around Cleator, Cordes and Bumble Bee. They know they can bring 'em to us and we'll care for them.”

“Sounds like a time-consuming and costly proposition.”

“It is. A couple of times a year we make room for more by taking the adoptable ones to a couple of the no-kill shelters in Prescott and Phoenix.” She paused, frowning. “So, where are we goin' with this?”

I pointed to the photo once again. “You do know what happened to them, right?” I studied her reaction closely.

She palmed her hands upward with an impatient, “No. What?”

When I explained, her splotchy, sun-wrinkled face crinkled with genuine shock. “I'd heard that some young folks died out there in the snowstorm last week, but didn't have a clue it was them.” She shook her head glumly. “That's awful sad. She's…she seemed like a real nice girl. Gave us a generous contribution to boot. And they're tax deductible, you know,” she tacked on with a look of hopeful expectation.

Taking the hint, I dug out my wallet, hoping my gesture would buy me some good will and access to more information. “You're doing a wonderful thing here and I'd be happy to make a donation,” I said, pressing two twenty dollar bills into her hand accompanied by what I hoped was a charismatic smile.

Her expression mellowed somewhat as she pocketed the cash. “Much obliged. I'll make sure you get a receipt.”

“That would be great. Do you happen to remember the approximate date Jenessa adopted the cat?”

She stared over my shoulder, a faraway look glazing her heavy-lidded blue eyes. “Can't say as I do. Last month sometime, I think. I'll have to check the records.”

I knew it had to be at least three weeks prior because of the receipt I'd seen in Jenessa's room for cat food and accessories. “Would Daisy remember?”

Her expression sardonic, she said, “Her? Trust me, the porch light is on, but there's nobody home. Can't you tell?” Her voice had a brusque, critical edge to it.

There didn't appear to be a diplomatic way to respond to her question. “Well, I had my suspicions…”

“Anything else you want? I got animals to feed and broken crates to repair before dark.”

I wanted to say that with the amount of money she'd just astutely extracted from the sand and gravel company, she could buy a hundred new ones. But I let it slide. “Do you have a suggestion as to which other residents I should talk to?”

“About what?”

“To find out if anyone saw or heard anything suspicious…”

“Well, good luck with that,” she interjected with a meaningful glance.

“Yes, I noticed all the signs. Not exactly welcoming. Some came across as deliberately intimidating.”

Her gaze turned shrewd. “I saw you talking to Burton Carr and I'm guessing he filled your head with bloodcurdling stories about some of the people who live here, right?”

“He mentioned that there might be former inmates from various penal and mental institutions living here.”

She let out a snort of laughter. “Well, that's a real tactful way of putting it.” She scratched her armpit. “I'll admit we've had our share of scoundrels here from time to time and a few folks who probably should be locked up for their own good, but it's damned annoying when law enforcement tries to pin every little thing on us. If someone gets so much as a hangnail within fifty miles of here, they're automatically banging on our doors first.”

Oh, good opening for one of my questions. “Are you aware of the other two deaths that occurred in this area within the past year or so?”

She scrunched her substantial, badly blotched nose at me. “Yeah. One of 'em was that pesky filmmaker who was always hanging around.”

“Hanging around where?”

“Here. There. Everywhere. The guy was all over the place. Told anyone who'd listen that he was making a documentary on how the locals feel about the environmental impact of the state's plan to build a freeway through Bumble Bee and having a sand and gravel company in their backyards. I think he got an earful.”

“Yes, I saw the protest signs. Why do you say he was pesky?”

“Because he was! He was pushy and annoying. Constantly bugging people with questions. Personally, I think he fancied himself to be some kind of big shot Hollywood type, all huff and blow, running around here acting like he was real important. I guess we were supposed to be impressed because he had a friggin' video camera. Big whoop. Some folks around here, well, they don't want to be bothered, let alone wind up on the Internet or some reality TV show.”

“Do you know anything about the death of the second man?”

“The road surveyor? Not much. I saw him doing his thing a couple of times down around Cordes and Mayer. Nice-looking young fellow. Always waved at me real friendly-like. Then I heard through the grapevine he'd had one too many drinks at the Crown King Saloon and offed himself driving over a cliff.”

“The sheriff told me it was ruled as accidental death. Have you got any thoughts about that?” I watched her expression change from befuddled to insightful.

“Oh, you mean because he worked for the transportation department? You think one of the pissed-off residents maybe helped him over the side of the road?” An eye roll accompanied her slight shrug. “I wouldn't be surprised, but I also don't think we'll ever know.”

At the sound of an approaching car engine, we both looked around. I stared in amazement at the unexpected and rather unnerving sight of the vehicle emerging from the mist—a hearse—a big, long, black hearse.

CHAPTER

20

Undaunted, Darcy raised a hand in greeting and shouted, “Hey, Goose, how ya doing today?”

The driver, a fiftyish-looking man with a short salt and pepper beard, yelled back, “Fair to middling!” before proceeding to slide mail into the boxes.

“Well, that's different,” I remarked in wonderment. “Unique choice of vehicles for mail delivery.”

“Ain't that a hoot?” Darcy cackled, slapping her thigh. “He gets the biggest kick out of parking that thing in front of the bar down there in Cleator and watching people's expressions as they drive by.” Humor sparkled in her cornflower-blue eyes. “Sort of like the look on your face just now.”

I grinned. “Well, it's not everyday you see a guy delivering mail in a hearse. Is Goose his real name?”

Now it was her turn to grin. “Naw. It's Percy Cross. I don't remember who pinned that nickname on him.”

“Is he an official postal carrier?”

“In a roundabout way. Contract worker. Regular guys won't come up that bad road, so we only get mail once or twice a week unless we want to run over to Black Canyon City.”

“I'm surprised he can negotiate the curves in something that substantial.”

“He's got a quad if the weather's too bad, but he's got that thing all tricked out and road worthy.” Noting my skeptical expression she added, “He restores vintage cars. You passed his place on the way here. Didn't you notice ‘em all lined up in his yard?”

“Sort of. It was hard to see anything very clearly in the fog.”

“I bought my truck from him,” she announced proudly, thumbing behind her. “When she ain't all mud-caked, she's pretty spiffy-looking.”

“Yeah, same for me,” I murmured, observing my now-filthy Jeep. It was encouraging to see her crusty demeanor softening towards me, and I got the distinct impression that even though she appeared reticent to talk, she was actually in her element sharing the local gossip with me. How lucky was I to have stumbled upon a treasure trove like Darcy Dorcett? Tapping the horn lightly, Goose waved farewell to Darcy and nodded in my direction before driving away. When I turned back to her, Darcy was staring at her cell phone. I drew back, surprised. “Oh. You have cell service here?” I pulled my phone out again to check. Nope. No signal.

“Not really. I was just checking the time.” She drew in a huge breath. “Here's the deal. To get a signal, you gotta stand in just the right spot with the phone pointed directly southeast and even then most of the calls fail within a minute or so. But, if you're determined…see that big tree over there?” she asked, pointing across the road.

“Yes.”

“If you can shimmy up it and park your butt on the first limb and then hold the phone out at arm's length with your tongue set in just the right place, you might get a decent signal for a few minutes.” Her lips curled up at one corner as she enjoyed her own joke. “Up here we rely on good old-fashioned land lines, and even they sometimes fail us if we get a hellacious storm like the last one. The phones can be out for days at a time.”

“That must be frustrating. With my job, I'd be lost without my phone.”

“We're used to it.”

Aware that we were fast running out of daylight, I asked, “When those two guys died, did the authorities question any of the local residents?”

A nod and snort of distain. “You guessed 'er, Chester.”

“Anyone in particular?”

Her expression grew furtive. “Ah….that I don't remember.” Really? Was her memory actually faulty or was she sticking to the Raven Creek code to not rat out her neighbors? But then, she quickly added the caveat, “I won't lie to you. There are some damaged souls living here. We got a few squirrelly dudes who did some rotten things, but they've paid their debt to society and just want to be left alone. There's also a couple of ex-military guys with pretty severe symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and a few like Daisy, a little light in the brain cell department, mostly harmless, but like I said, folks mainly keep to themselves, mind their own business, keep their mouths shut and leave people to live their lives as they see fit. That seems to suit everybody just fine.”

I stared at her. “Mostly harmless? So, you never feel concerned for your safety?”

A perfunctory head shake. “We get a bad apple every now and then, but most know better than to shit in their own nest, if you get my drift.”

“I see. The honor among thieves principle.”

“Pretty much. And if someone gets out of line…word gets back to the mayor, and things…well, they get handled. Of course, we can't do anything about the crazies who camp out in the forest.”

I peered across the narrow valley dotted with a conglomeration of cottages, shacks and mobile homes tucked in among the boulders and trees. There couldn't be more than twenty or thirty residents. I turned back to her. “Raven Creek has a mayor?”

“Well, not officially, but everybody kind of refers to him as that since he owns most of the land. All except this property and one other piece,” she clarified, gesturing towards Daisy who was calling, “Here chicky, chicky, chickies,” as she shooed the flapping hens into the coop. The sharp-eyed rooster, perched atop a rusted-out washer, closely monitored her activities. “Our pappy left us these two acres, so we don't have to pay rent like everybody else.”

“Oh, really? I thought this was all part of the Prescott National Forest.”

“Nope. Besides the McCracken Ranch, our little paradise is one of those few remaining parcels of private land left around here, but don't you know they'd love to get their grubby hands on it if they could.”

“So, who owns the third piece of property?”

“Shitfire, you ask a lot of questions.”

Hoping to thaw her crusty demeanor and keep the information flowing, I smiled appreciatively. “Just doing my job, and you've been very helpful.”

Apparently unimpressed by my attempt at flattery, she flicked a glance towards the western sky. “I got five more minutes and that's it.”

“I really appreciate it.” I paused expectantly, waiting for her answer. “The other landowner?”

“Oh, yeah. I can't remember his last name. It's something long and weird-sounding. Everybody here just calls him Stilts. Guy's a real loner. Hardly ever see him unless he goes out for supplies or to sell his honey.”

“He's a beekeeper?”

“Uh-huh. But, he's not the only one who raises the critters now. A couple of other people got hives goin', including our mayor. He even recommends honey to his patients. Yep, if you got any questions about bees, Stilts is our resident go-to guy.” She pointed across the valley towards the base of the rocky cliff where a sizeable flock of ravens sailed lazily on thermals. “See that goofy-looking house over there?”

I narrowed my gaze, focusing past her finger. “You mean that big, stone structure without a roof and all the chimneys?”

“Yeah. He's been working on that place for the last fifteen years. Never seems to get finished for some reason or another.”

“Why do you call him Stilts?”

An extended shrug. “ I dunno. I'm guessin' because he's a real beanpole.”

Goose. Stilts. The people living here seemed partial to nicknames. Was that to disguise their real names? “I see. The major landowner sounds like someone I might want to speak with. What's his name?”

“Gabriel Gartiner. Dr. Gartiner.”

“Really? What kind of medical doctor is he?”

“Naturopath. He used to teach chemistry before he started his practice about five years ago.”

I looked around. “How do patients find him?”

“He runs a real nice clinic in Prescott.”

“Does he have a nickname too?” I ventured, unable to suppress an impish smile.

She grinned back. “Nah. We just call him plain old Doc.”

I chuckled. “Of course.”

I definitely hit the jackpot when I ran into Darcy. She appeared to know everything about everyone. As much as I would have loved to keep her talking, I wanted to locate Harvel Brickhouse before I ran out of daylight, which, as the sun slipped behind the peak, plunging the valley into shadow, I realized would happen soon. “I'd really like to ask you a few more questions, but I need to leave if I want to get out of here before dark. Perhaps when I come back tomorrow…”

Her eyes narrowed with interest. “You're coming back?”

“I'm planning to meet up with Burton Carr.” Of course, he didn't know that yet. I would contact him on the drive back to Castle Valley.

A speculative gleam entered her shrewd gaze. “What for?”

“He offered to show me the location where the bodies were found.”

She nodded approval. “Well, Burton can be a real pill sometimes, but you couldn't ask for a better guide. He knows every square inch of these mountains.”

“Sounds like you're pretty well-acquainted with him.”

“Oh yeah. Known him a long time. Knew his whole family actually. His mom, Billie, came here from Casa Grande after her first husband died in the service. Burton was just a toddler and never knew his real daddy. She met Calvin, husband number two, when she lived in Mayer and then they all moved to Crown King after they both went to work for the Forest Service.”

“So, Burton followed in their footsteps?”

“Sort of. They manned the old fire tower I mentioned earlier for a long time,” she informed me, gesturing westward towards the craggy mountaintop. “That is until Calvin keeled over from a heart attack. After that, Billie stayed on for another four years by herself, but quit the tower when she remarried again.”

“This must have been a fascinating place for a kid to grow up,” I remarked wistfully, eyeing the fleecy clouds hovering around the peak.

“Maybe. But I think he was a pretty lonely little boy.”

“Really? I thought you said he had a brother.” One who bullied him, I recalled.

“Step-brother, actually. Darren Pomeroy came into the picture with husband number three, who just happened to be Doc Gartiner's half brother, Chris. He owned a nice motel up there in Crown King. That's how they met. Anyway, Burton was maybe eight or nine at the time and Darren a couple of years older. I never did care for the Pomeroy boy,” she remarked, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “He bedeviled the hell out of poor Burton.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. Burton was a quiet, sensitive little kid and Darren was aggressive and argumentative. They never got along from day one, but then Burton acted kind of strange sometimes.”

“How so?” I was itching to get back to my original topic, but before I could steer her in that direction Darcy continued in a confidential tone, “Billie told me he got real sick and almost died when he was four. She said he must've had one of those near-death experiences because he kept jabbering about seeing God and angels and stuff. He had an odd fixation with death after that. Anyway, when Chris kicked the bucket five years later, Darren took off for Phoenix saying he had bigger fish to fry. Now he's a big shot lawyer down there. Poor Billie,” she added with a forlorn smile, “she started calling herself the black widow because she put three husbands in the ground. She was just starting to get her life back together when she got diagnosed with ovarian cancer.”

“Is that so?” Good grief. She may have been reluctant to talk initially, but she was on a roll now.

“I was her caregiver those last six months,” she tacked on. “Burton was a real devoted son. He moved her down the road into the stone house so she'd be close by me. And Doc Gartiner too. He checked on her almost every day, but that cold-hearted nephew of his only came by to visit her twice that I know of that whole time. Poor Burton, well, he was a complete basket case after Billie passed away. I've never seen anybody so bummed out. And then he had to rely on his stepbrother to untangle the legal mess left behind from all three deceased husbands. Personally, I think Darren Pomeroy monkeyed with the paperwork so he'd inherit the bulk of the inheritance.”

“That's too bad,” I murmured, struggling to keep from peeking at the time on my phone. “How long ago did that all happen?”

She fiddled with a couple of disturbingly long white hairs on her chin while she contemplated my question. “Three years ago. Poor lady suffered something awful towards the end. Too bad we didn't have the medical pot to offer her back then. She'd have been a whole lot more comfortable that last year.”

That got my attention. “I overheard you saying that you're able to cultivate a certain amount for your patients?”

“Yeah, but not for much longer.”

“Why's that?”

“Because a guy opened a dispensary in Black Canyon City, which means the state will pull my permit soon.”

“Because…?”

“If the patient lives within twenty-five miles of a dispensary as the crow flies, that's where the medical pot has to be purchased.” A sniff of distain accompanied her derisive, “Kind of a stupid law if you ask me, and the rules keep changing. It's legal in one state, but not in the next, while other states say recreational marijuana is fine. But then, it's still illegal to possess it at all under federal law. I can't keep up. Typical government mess if you ask me.”