A DEAD RED MIRACLE: #5 in the Dead Red Mystery Series (14 page)

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Chapter Twenty-one:

Leaving Harley's house, I took the roundabout for home, then on a whim, pulled into Wishbone's police station. I closed the car door on Pearlie's objections and walked to the entrance. At times like this, I could not understand why she would be rude to someone like Harley Aldrich, so I didn't care what she thought of the impromptu stop. She could sulk in the car.

I leaned on the counter and knocked on the heavy glass partition. "Hey Betty. Is he in?"

She smiled and buzzed the door open.

He was reading a file, his feet up on his desk, leaning back in his dad's old wooden office chair, the one thing he'd insisted on bringing from California to his new job as police chief of Wishbone, Arizona.

He let his feet drop off the desk. "What're you doing in town?"

"We went to interview Harley Aldrich. You know him?"

"Harley? Yeah, sure. He cuts and delivers oak wood to folks who still have fireplaces. Why Harley?"

"Damian, of course. That's the one case that still has money on the table."

He held up a finger. "Uh, about Harley…."

"Yeah, we know. His mother wasn't exactly forthcoming on that issue, but I suppose if we had thought to ask anyone in law enforcement they would've told us his testimony wouldn't fly in court."

Relieved to see that I wasn't going to argue for putting Harley on the stand, he said, "Harley's okay. You saw him last Friday night. He plays fiddle with a blue grass band at Screaming Banshee Pizza. "

I tried to remember Harley in the band of five guys. All those bushy beards looked the same to me. I lifted my shoulders to show my complete ignorance.

"He wears an old floppy gray fedora with the brim turned down," Caleb said, "and ancient coveralls. It's all part of their look―Wishbone's version of the Soggy Bottom Boys."

"Oh, now I remember. He was great on the violin, but how does he get along? I mean without remembering the people he meets?"

"He recognizes everyone he knew from before the accident and luckily that's most of the residents in Wishbone," Caleb said. "And I hear he compensates with a keen sense of smell."

"Not very romantic, but he certainly seemed to like the way Pearlie smelled," I said.

I wouldn't bring up Pearlie's terse reaction to Harley. Caleb still had doubts about Pearlie as my business partner. Hot headed he'd called her. But then that's what people used to say about me, too.

"Have they found Wade Hamilton yet?" I asked. "Or his body?"

"Not yet," he said, picking up a thick file, "But the sheriff's department has Emily's and Joey Green's statements and the DA is ready to charge him with grand theft auto―that is if he shows up alive. Right now, I'm reading up on local copper thieves. A whole family of them, if you can believe that."

"That's sad."

"It's like being in the Ozarks, hunting bootleggers."

"Are you hearing banjo music?" At his bewildered expression, I said, "Never mind. How
does
one steal copper?"

"This family will steal any metal they can get their hands on, but when the price of copper is up, they go for the wires and pipes out of vacant homes and businesses. We got a call this morning after someone spotted one of the brothers running away from an open manhole. There were two of them, one as look-out and the other to go down a manhole and cut out the copper wire."

"They didn't know the wires were hot?"

"If they were smarter they'd be doing something else, now wouldn't they? And the idiot left his dead brother for us to find."

"It's getting late," I said, looking at my watch, "and Pearlie is waiting in the car. So dinner out or should we go home and eat?"

"Let's eat out. I'll meet you in the parking lot."

There was a note under the windshield of my Jeep.
I got a ride to Screaming Banshee's Pizza. I'll save you and Caleb a seat or I can get a ride home.

I held out the note to Caleb. "I guess we're eating at Screaming Banshee's."

By the time we got to the pizza place all of the outdoor tables were full and the musicians were tuning their instruments.

"Over here!" Pearlie waved at us from a table by the wall.

"You know the guys playing tonight?" I asked.

She giggled. "I know the one tuning his fiddle." She pointed at Harley, his ear to the
f
hole on his violin. He saw us and waved.

"Harley doesn't seem to have a problem remembering us," I said.

Pearlie's smile was tenuous. "He may not remember our faces, but I gotta hand it to him, he sure knows how to live for today."

I wasn't about to sully her good mood by reminding her of her earlier bad manners toward Harley. "How'd you end up here?" I asked.

She looked down at her hands, an embarrassed blush staining her cheeks. "I was hot, tired and hungry, so I thought I'd hitch a ride into Wishbone, get something to eat. Then Harley and his pals drove up, pulled me into their truck and here I am."

I looked over at Harley and his band members. Maybe Harley's
carpe diem
was rubbing off on my cousin.

Nik arrived with two large pizzas. "Hey, guys. Harley ordered two kinds, so I hope you're hungry."

She laid the pizzas on the table and returned with a pitcher each of root beer and beer on tap.

"I figure if someone else is driving, I might as well enjoy myself," she said, reaching for the beer.

I ignored the implication that she would be going home with one of the band members and poured root beer for Caleb and me.

"And let's not talk about murder tonight, okay?" she said. "I've had enough sad stories for one day. Let's just eat and listen to some music."

What was it about Harley that brought out the worst and then the best in my cousin?

By the time the pizza, drinks and the last set was finished, Caleb rose to pay the bill, but Nik waved away his money. "Harley took care of it. You staying for the encore, Pearlie?"

"Shuuure." Pearlie, I noticed, had single-handedly finished the pitcher of beer.

Nik winked at us and said, "One of us will see she gets home all right."

I looked from Nik to the band wondering whose home she meant.

Caleb leaned on the Jeep. "Looks like it's going to rain. Tomorrow I have to take the Garza boys up to the res. You want to go with me?"

An entire day spent with my husband sounded good. Besides, we could use the time to discuss the case. "Sounds good to me. I'll see you at home."

I drove home under clouds chasing each other across a starlit sky. The wonder of Arizona was that when the rain stopped, the air cleared so that constellations seemed to spread from horizon to horizon. If it wasn't raining by the time we were ready for bed, we'd take our sleeping bags and go up on the flat roof of our house and watch the sky until we fell asleep. That made me very happy. Or was it the fun music, or the idea that I wouldn't have to contend with a hungover business partner tomorrow morning?

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Chapter Twenty-two:

We never made it up to the roof last night, as rain hit the minute we got home. But sleeping inside only got me another strange dream. This time I'm in a submarine in the bottom of a lake. Naturally it's a yellow submarine, but at least there's Beatle's music to go along with it. A hand reaches down, grabs the submarine and pulls us out of the water. Dumb dreams.

I rolled over and nudged Caleb. "You starting coffee or am I?"

"It's Saturday," he mumbled into his pillow. "Officially my day off, right?"

"Oh yeah," I said, blinking my way out of sleep. "Except we have to take the Garza brothers to the res today." I slapped his butt. "Get up and get in the shower. I'll make the coffee."

I dropped my feet over the edge of the bed and slipped into a pair of flip flops. Since it was monsoon season, none of us went barefoot in the house for fear of stepping on a scorpion. These small, light on their feet critters seemed to dislike getting rained on as much as the next person and scurried for cover with every downpour. Unfortunately, they didn't always scurry fast enough, and retaliation was a wickedly painful sting from the end of an upright tail.

The kitchen wall clock we'd brought from Dad's home in California said six a.m. We'd pick up the Garza brothers at eight a.m., head up to the Chiricahua Apache reservation and get them to the foster parents who had signed on to feed and board them until their mother would be released from rehab.

Coffee started, I heard Caleb get in the shower. I was tempted to join him, but our time this morning would have to be by the clock. The matron at Juvie expected us to be on time.

I dressed, left Caleb's cup on the counter and a note that I'd taken Hoover over to my dad's.

<><><><><>

Hearing voices coming from the back of the house, I cinched Hoover onto a leash and led him around to the back patio.

I was surprised to see Coco Lucero in a frilly apron over white slacks and cotton shirt, a tray with coffee pot and mugs in her hands. She was all smiles until she saw Hoover, then her eyes went wide and the tray wobbled precariously.

My dad sprang out of his chair to catch the tray before it slipped out of her hands. "It's only Hoover," he said. "Don't worry, he's friendly."

Hoover, totally unconcerned with the idea that his reputation might be maligned, flopped down next to my dad.

Though I knew he was only doing it to calm Coco, Dad reached over and accepted the dog's leash.

"Buenos días, Señora," she said, keeping an eye on the dog. "Will you join us for coffee?"

"Thanks, but I just brought Hoover home." I smiled down affectionately at Hoover. Completely relaxed; tongue lolling in a wide doggie grin, Hoover was perfectly happy to lie here for the rest of the year.

"He live
here
?" she said, her delicate brows drawn together in dismay.

Seeing that we were not going to contradict her, she scooted her chair another couple of inches away.

Generally, Hoover had the run of the house, the yard and went everywhere with my dad. He was not only good company, but ever since the mine collapse, he was also Dad's bodyguard.

"Caleb and I have to take the Garza brothers to the Chiricahua Reservation today and it's a long drive. We don't want to leave Hoover alone in the house all day."

"He can stay with us," Dad said.

Us? I looked at him for an explanation, but he ignored my questioning stare and poured a cup of coffee for Coco and then himself. What was this? Was she his housekeeper or his new love interest?

Looking up as if surprised to see that I was still there, he said, "If you go to Costco, could you pick up some things for us?"

There was that
us
again. "Uh, sure. If you have the list ready."

Dad looked at Coco, who took a piece of paper out of her apron pocket and handed it to me. "He is out of everything."

The list was written in a woman's hand. Yep, definitely his housekeeper.

But she was also wearing mascara, lipstick and a distinctive perfume. Maybe she was his girlfriend. But as my daddy would say,
None of your business, Missy.

I excused myself and left for the short drive home, wondering if it was too late to call our old housekeeper and beg her to come save my dad from the man-eater who'd taken up residence in his home.

<><><><><>

We picked up the Garza boys at eight a.m., but we only got as far as Benson before they started begging us to stop at McDonalds.

"Didn’t they feed you breakfast?" I asked.

"Gruel," the younger boy said with a theatrical sigh. "That's all we've had for days."

"It wasn't gruel, dummy. It was mushy oatmeal and fruit,” his brother said. "At home we get McDonald's."

Caleb and I looked at each other. Of course they did. Their mother kept them on a diet of fast food because she had a steady date with a bottle of whiskey. Since this might be the last McDonald's they would get for some time, we swung into the drive-through and got the boys their burger fix, then got back onto the highway.

They unwrapped their meals and polished it all off with milkshakes and fries. When they were finished, they rolled down the window and threw the wrappers out.

"Stop that!" I said, swatting at them over the back of the seat. It was too dangerous to pull over and make them get out and pick it up. Besides, by the time it took for us to stop, the wind would've blown it all into the desert.

I glared at the two miscreants. "There's a fine for littering, you know. Just count yourselves lucky there was no DPS patrolman behind us."

The boys snickered.

If I thought Damian was a pain in the butt, these two made him look like a southern gentleman. "You two behave yourselves."

"Or what?" the older one said. "You'll take us back to Juvie?"

"Yeah," his little brother echoed. "We got a new family waiting for us."

"You don't want to disappoint them, do you?" The older brother's singsong taunt was intended as a dare, but it was easy to see that he was as nervous of the future as his little brother.

I would probably never have children of my own. Good thing too, because I wouldn't want to have ones like these two. Yet, I knew that underneath the bravado, they were just two frightened little boys who were being sent off to live with complete strangers in a new and alien environment.

An hour into the ride, the younger boy started kicking the back seat.

"Stop that," I said. "We're passing farm land. Count cows."

"There's no cows," he said. "You know any jokes?"

"Can't think of any," I said, knowing he was going to tell me one.

"I got a knock-knock joke," he said.

His older brother snickered. "Not that old thing again."

"What do you know, Mom says it's funny."

"When she's drunk everything is funny," the older one muttered.

"Okay, I'll bite," I said. "What's your knock-knock joke?"

Pleased at my willingness to hear his joke, he said, "Knock-knock."

"Who's there?" I answered.

"Orange," he said, with a giggle.

"Orange, who?"

"Orange you glad to see me?"

His little boy enthusiasm was so genuine, so pleased to have a surprise punch line I couldn't help but laugh. I reached over the backrest and tickled his ribs. "That's a good one, now sit back and look for clouds shaped like houses."

Instead, he leaned his chin on the backrest. "You got any kids?"

"No, we don't," I said, glancing at Caleb's profile. His mouth tweaked up in a slight smile. It was my fault, I'd encouraged the kid and now I was his pal.

"Then what do you do all day?" he asked.

"I work."

"Where do you work?"

Thinking of the simplest way to explain what a P.I. does, I said, "I'm an investigator. I find people."

"You do? Could you find my dad?"

His older brother grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back onto the seat. "Shut up about that, doofus."

"You shut up," his little brother said, his voice quivering. "If we had a dad, we wouldn't be going to live with Indians."

"What's wrong with Indians?" I asked. "You're part Apache."

The little one pulled himself up to the backrest again. "Our step-brother says injuns can't hold their liquor and since Mom's half Indian, we'll end up just like her."

I heard Caleb take a deep breath and let it out, but he still refused to be drawn into the conversation.

"Well," I said. "I think the best way to avoid becoming an alcoholic is to not start drinking in the first place."

"What's a aka-akaholic?"

"An alcoholic is someone who is addicted to alcohol."

That stumped him for a minute and then he said, "Are you an akaholic?"

"No," I said, "But I'm beginning to understand why your mother might be."

"Well, my mom's not an akaholic. She only drinks whiskey."

I punched Caleb for laughing out loud.

Pleased to see that his comment was so well received, the little boy beamed and said, "I know a song. Want me to sing it for you?"

"Sure," I said, reaching over to pat Caleb's arm. "It'll make the trip go quicker."

<><><><><>

We were met at the reservation office by a social worker who accepted the paperwork Caleb handed her.

"Well, are you ready?" she said cheerfully to the boys. "I hear they have horses to ride."

I felt a small, sticky hand take hold of mine, and looking down, a pair of brown eyes telegraphed his fear. I looked at Caleb for help, but figured he had his own problems. The older one was hanging on his sleeve. "What is it?" Caleb asked, frowning down at the boy.

"We'll be good," he said, swallowing hard. "I promise. Please don't leave us here."

The social worker just smiled. "Now, boys, don't make it any harder than it already is. You're going to get a nice home with kids to play with, and don't forget the horses."

I don't know why, but I blurted, "We'll go with you, won't we, Caleb?"

<><><><><>

The mother showed the boys two double beds in the room they would share with the younger children. The little ones were about three and five and they both were using their sleeves to wipe matching drippy noses.

The Garza brothers cast us sorrowful looks. "Do we have to sleep in the same bed? We don't at home."

I had no reply for that, but the social worker said, "You can sleep on the floor if you like, but a double bed is plenty for two, especially if you keep to your own side."

The social worker did ask where the two older boys slept and was assured that the boys were fine in the barn. I gasped. Winter was coming, for crying out loud. Who let their kids sleep in a barn in the winter? Feeling Caleb's restraining hand on my elbow I shut off thoughts of vermin in the straw and two teenagers covered with snow every morning.

The father, seeing the look on my face, deadpanned, "It's warm by our standards, but then we're Apache."

After that, I kept my face a mask of indifference and waited while the social worker inspected the kitchen, checked the source of their water and made sure the safety valve on the propane tank was tight. She ticked things off her list and asked more questions, while the two older boys silently checked us out; our light skin, blond hair, blue eyes, the quality of the boots we wore, Caleb's police uniform, his holstered weapon and the radio on his utility belt.

Caleb noticed the speculative looks too and kept a hand on his sidearm.

When they finished inspecting us, their dark eyes shot arrows at the usurpers. Never mind the little ones with colds, the Garza boys were going to have a hard time fitting in with the teenagers.

The father assured the social worker that he would enroll the boys in the reservation school, see that they got to the bus stop every morning; and pick them up every afternoon. After school, everyone had chores, but there would be time for play and they could ride the horses.

When it was time to say good-bye, the Garza brothers followed us out, hanging on until the social worker gently pulled them away. "I'm sorry," she said. "Goodbyes are never easy, but they're going to do just fine here, you'll see."

Against my better judgment, we left the boys with their foster family; the ones whose two bedroom home was already filled to capacity and whose teenagers didn't look happy about the additional mouths to feed.

<><><><><>

Caleb and I argued all the way home. I was a wreck leaving those two children at the reservation but Caleb insisted that I'd been duped by a couple of miniature con artists. Besides, the family had been vetted by social services and they weren't going to mistreat the little buggers. Chances were more than likely to be the other way round. And they only had to stay until their mother got out of rehab, one month at the most. What could possibly go wrong in just a month?