Peril by Ponytail (A Bad Hair Day Mystery) (6 page)

By the time they finished their hike, she was starving. They ate lunch in the dining hall, the bounteous buffet making her glad they’d exercised earlier. At one o’clock, the temperature had risen into the eighties, and she felt as though she’d worked out all day. Fortunately, two cups of coffee revived her, so she got her second wind.

Dalton drove their loaner SUV up the mountain toward Craggy Peak after getting directions from Janice at the front desk. Neither one of them had run into Wayne so far that day. He must have had business elsewhere. Marla wasn’t sure she wanted to spend another awkward evening in the family’s company so soon after the last one, but she didn’t mention it to Dalton. Dinner was later. They had enough to do to occupy themselves for now.

After a climb where her ears popped, they arrived at the construction site. Hammering and drilling noises sounded as they parked their car on a gravelly swale. At this elevation, evergreens, tall brown grasses, and yellow wildflowers provided a splash of color against the rocky landscape. Panoramic vistas with mountain views showed from every angle, while wispy clouds graced a brilliant blue sky. A breeze blew hair into her face as she stepped from the car.

Walking uphill as they headed toward the noise made her short of breath. Where she lived in South Florida, stair climbing was rare and slopes non-existent. The only exercise she got at an incline was climbing the escalator in the shopping mall.

“This must be the main street.” Dalton halted to survey the road where it rose to the base of a higher mountain and veered around a bend. Wood-framed structures in various states of disrepair mixed with brick buildings along the avenue. Electric wires strung overhead brought a sense of modernity to the scene, as did the construction equipment from the work crew. Posts along the wood-planked sidewalks remained for tying horses, a remnant from the bygone era.

The sinewy laborers glanced at the new arrivals and then went back to work. Marla hoped they spoke English as she and Dalton approached one fellow applying a coat of paint to window trim. She sidestepped past a ladder on the walkway and tools on the ground.

“Where can we find Raymond Campbell?” Dalton asked, hooking a thumb into his belt. He wore a navy sport shirt tucked into jeans and ankle-high boots.

The guy muttered something in Spanish and then wagged his finger toward a two-story stone structure. A sign hanging over its entrance delineated it the Silver Bar Saloon. They headed in through a set of beautiful glass-paneled doors.

Raymond stood inside, conferring with a worker wearing a cowboy hat and a frown. Their relative’s eyes brightened upon spying them.

“What a surprise! You guys, come and meet Alberto Gomez. He’s my foreman. Al, this is my nephew, Dalton, and his wife, Marla.”

They shook hands, the foreman bobbing his head and giving them a broad smile.

“Nice to meet you,” he said in accented English.

“Look at this place. Isn’t it magnificent?” Raymond swept his hand in a broad gesture.

Marla did a full turn and took in the gleaming wood bar, the huge mirrors, and the decorative hanging lamps. Painted portraits adorned the walls.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “You’ve done a great job.”

“The copper mine was discovered in 1889. Back in its heyday, the town held one hundred and eight registered saloons. Many of them were lost to fires. This one is my showpiece because the original bar still stands. She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Once our renovations are finished, I’ll lease these buildings. We’ll have shops and restaurants, maybe a museum or two.”

“Too bad there isn’t a historical society to support your efforts.”

Raymond raked his fingers through his short, white hair. “Garrett tried to raise interest, but people cited their economic problems as a deterrent, plus their lack of time to volunteer. They didn’t have the foresight to see what a boon this attraction will be to the local economy. Meanwhile, we’re providing jobs and paying taxes. Once we bring in merchants, the revenue will increase. Folks at Rustler Ridge are too narrow-minded to see beyond their noses.”

“It’s a shame they’re not more encouraging. They should realize that when the attraction opens and tourists arrive, it’ll bring more people into town.”

“They’re looking out for their own self-interest. They should have been more like Garrett. He was proud of the region’s history and recognized the value of these old buildings.”

Marla shifted feet. Too bad the restored saloon didn’t have any tables and chairs. “What happened to shut things down? Did the copper mine run out of ore?”

“Nope, copper prices dropped. It wasn’t profitable anymore, so the owners closed the operation. There wasn’t any point to the miners and their families sticking around. Come on, I’ll show you more. I’m glad you decided to visit.” He turned to Alberto, who’d stood by looking politely interested. “Go ahead and order those awnings. I don’t care what they cost. The originals are too decrepit. And don’t worry, I’m sure news of Eduardo will surface eventually.”

“Is he the man who went missing?” Dalton said after the foreman left.

“Yep. I think he walked off the job, but his friends insist he saw a ghost and followed it up the hill. This is a ghost town, after all. It comes with its own share of stories, and most of these guys believe them.”

“I can understand why.” Marla glanced around, soaking in the atmosphere. Dust clogged her nostrils, sensitive from the dry air. “Any ghosts associated with this saloon?”

“Supposedly, three spirits haunt this establishment. We’ve had reports of a guy in a cowboy hat spotted by the restrooms. And a woman in a white dress with long hair appears in photos but not in person. Rumor has it they’re guarding a stash of cash that they hid in the basement after a robbery. I’ve searched the place, and there’s nothing down there except old wine barrels.”

“Who’s the third ghost?”

“He was a fellow who got shot while drinking whiskey at the bar. Nearly all of our buildings have stories associated with them, and not only the courthouse with the gallows out back.”

“Did you search these structures for your missing workman?” Dalton asked.

“Hell, yes. He isn’t anywhere to be found.”

“I presume you’ll hold nightly ghost tours once things are operational?” Marla took a few steps toward the door, eager to see some of the other buildings. It was gloomy in there with a heavy miasma. Or maybe the ghostly tales were affecting her.

“Of course. Once you see what’s at stake, you’ll agree this project is worthwhile. The town is a historic treasure to be preserved. Our construction cannot possibly be responsible for the dry conditions affecting Hugh Donovan’s ranch.”

“Where is his place from here?” Dalton asked when they’d emerged outside.

Raymond pointed to the top of the hill. “If you go that way, the road curves around the mountain, and then you’re in his territory. He’s just looking for an excuse to shut me down.”

“You’ve been having your own problems on the project, I understand. What’s been happening?”

“We’ve had scaffolding collapse, graffiti sprayed across newly painted walls, equipment misplaced. The workers say we’ve disturbed the spirits, and they’re causing the incidents. Watch where you drive, because nails and broken glass have appeared on the road on more than one occasion.”

He led them a few doors down, while Marla wondered who could be the saboteur. And what was his purpose? To scare the laborers off the job? To cause delays? Or maybe Raymond was jinxing himself to raise credibility for his ghost stories.

“Here’s the Neville Hotel.” Raymond pointed out a four-story structure. “Originally built in 1898, it burnt down in a fire and was reconstructed in brick. Upstairs were rooms for up to forty guests. And that concrete building next door is a former bank. See the apothecary shop across the street? I’d like to have a soda fountain come in there when it’s finished.”

Marla gawked at the sights. It was an ambitious project but definitely worth the effort to save this wondrous history. Her imagination conjured tea parlors and quaint cafés among the proposed shops, hotels, and museums.

“What about brothels?” Dalton asked with a raised eyebrow. “Prostitution was as big in those days as gambling.”

“On the next street over are the pleasure palaces with their cribs,” Raymond replied. “A crib is the bedroom where women entertained their guests. One of them, Maddy Terrence, did so well she bought herself a saloon and hung naked pictures of herself on the walls. Here’s the old theatre. Do you want to come inside? It’s pretty well preserved and is said to be haunted.”

“Can I take pictures?” Marla remembered she’d brought her camera. At Raymond’s nod, she fetched it from her purse and began snapping shots of the various buildings and the mountain views beyond. A few steps away, she viewed the whole valley laid out below.

She followed the men inside the ancient theatre, which consisted of a hardwood floor, a stage at the far end, and box seats on either side at an upper level. The dingy chandelier didn’t make for good lighting, but maybe an apparition would show when she put her photos online. She snapped away, more interested in the area behind the stage.

“The theatre is two stories with a basement,” Raymond said, gingerly sidestepping a broken chair in their path. “It held a saloon and gambling hall as well as the stage and balcony seating. The place was popular and kept its doors open until the mine closed.”

The floor creaked as they proceeded behind the scenes. Relics and odd pieces of furniture littered the open space. Marla tilted her head. Was that whispering she heard?

Downstairs, they moved on to a combination bar and gambling den. Here were dressing rooms for the performers, a bedroom, and a lavatory. Marla smelled perfume as she peered into the bedroom that retained its old furnishings. A mannequin lay on the bed, lending a note of authenticity with its period dress.

“Why is the place supposed to be haunted?” she said. “Did someone die here?”

A movement in her peripheral vision made her shoot a second glance at the bedroom. The hairs on her nape elevated. Where before she’d seen a figure, now the bed was empty.

She swallowed with unease but had enough presence of mind to snap pictures. Her imagination must be running wild.

Raymond regarded her and stroked his jaw. “Well now, there’s the tale about the two women who liked the same man, gambler Billy McLean. One evening, his girlfriend pulled a knife on the hussy chiseling in on her guy. Delilah died right here over a gaming table. Then we have the man who was shot to death in his box seat. Some folks claim they’ve seen his ghost still sitting there. Another guy committed suicide after losing his fortune at cards.”

“What’s in that crawl space underneath the stage?” Dalton indicated an opening that led off into the dark.

“Old furniture and other items were discarded there and left behind. We’ll go through them eventually to see if any of it can be restored. Come, let’s go back upstairs.”

Marla accompanied them, eager to leave the premises. While the history fascinated her, this place creeped her out. She still wondered about that figure on the bed.

Raymond halted in the middle of the main floor facing the stage. “I’ve had a hard time getting the workers to come in here. They’ve reported hearing footsteps, finding items moved from one spot to another, their work being undone. They’ll nail a section one day, and when they return, the nails are popped out. They might believe spirits are to blame, but I know better.”

“What are their beliefs about the afterlife?” Marla asked, curious. She’d heard of the Day of the Dead where Mexicans revered their ancestors, but did they believe in actual ghosts?

“In the old days, people believed they were partners of the gods, chosen to nourish them. The energy residing in their hearts and blood, the
teyolia
or soul, sustained these deities. This is why the Aztecs held human sacrifices, to feed the gods the energy they needed to survive. After death, a person’s
teyolia
fled to the world of the dead, known as the sky of the sun.”

“So they don’t believe in heaven or hell?” Living in Florida, Marla knew more about the Cuban culture, but even then her knowledge was pitifully inadequate.

“Not in the sense that we do. Souls exist after death, waiting for the one day each year when they can return home to be with their loved ones,” Raymond explained. “Then there’s La Catrina, a goddess of death. She’s represented in Day of the Dead figures that look like female skeletons dressed in finery. People buy them as sculptures made from native materials. I don’t encourage these practices among my crew. Superstition doesn’t serve any useful purpose.”

“So do the workmen believe this goddess called to the man who disappeared? He saw her apparition on the hill and went for a look?”

“That’s correct. They think La Catrina summoned him to glory. I took a look around there myself and came up empty. These ghost stories are good for publicity, but they’re not real.”

“The only thing we have to fear is other people, not spirits.” Dalton’s statement put them firmly back on the ground.

Marla glanced up as a shadow flickered in her peripheral vision. Was someone in the rafters?

A rattling noise sounded right before the chandelier descended from above.

Dalton flung her to the ground and shielded her with his body as the chandelier crashed to the floor with a huge clang and the sound of shattering glass. Clouds of dust and slivers of crystal billowed into the air.

“Uncle Ray, are you all right?” he called once the debris had settled.

“I’m still here. Are you guys okay?”

Marla, crushed under her husband, wriggled free. “We’re fine. Aren’t we?” She brushed off her clothes after Dalton helped her to stand. Her body trembled. She folded her arms across her chest while her racing heart calmed.

“That was close,” Dalton said, his face somber.

His gaze scanned the catwalks, as did Marla’s. She didn’t discern anything unusual. Had she imagined the shadow before? Or the hint of laughter in her ears now?