Desert Exposure (9 page)

She stepped away from him, and looking up, gave him a watery smile. “I’m okay now, thanks. It’s probably my overactive imagination. Let’s get coffee.” She indicated Michael should go ahead of her. And when he did, she swiped at her eyes with the hem of her t-shirt. Thank goodness she hadn’t put on mascara.

“Kitchen is the first door on the right.”

Ralph trotted beside her, but she pulled up short, and turned to look back toward the darkroom. Had Grandpa been murdered, in there? Had the floor been this way when the cops came to investigate his disappearance? She started to sweat, feeling the beginnings of panic. She still couldn’t remember how it had looked on the day of the police investigation. Or what they’d done, or what they’d asked her.

There had been no evidence of him being attacked in his home. She took some calming breaths and put her right hand to her forehead and squeezed. If only she could remember the rest of the details. It seemed the cops thought he’d wandered off somewhere.

“Are you okay?” Michael asked, and took hold of her hand as she walked into the small kitchen. He looked anxious, which made her feel worse.

“I’m a little dizzy. Could be from the smell of the bleach,” she said. “Or the memories, you know.”

“Sure. But listen, the floor wouldn’t smell like bleach from two weeks ago. If that’s where your thoughts had headed.”

Of course! What a dummy
. She almost slapped her forehead. She’d panicked when her thoughts had jumped to the worst possible thing. Her whole body began to relax, to soften. She felt like a balloon with a slow leak, letting all of her negative thoughts escape. The smell had to be from the chemicals, and the cabin being closed up for so long. The floor probably always smelled that way. She’d never actually gotten down and taken a sniff before.

“You’re right, absolutely right.”

“Why don’t you sit down, and—”

“No,” she said, smiling. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

His eyebrows shot sky high.

She hadn’t meant to be suggestive, but somehow in her relief, her voice had switched to happy because Grandpa really might be alive. Darn it, she’d sounded flirtatious. Working in a bar she’d become used to being flippant, sharing a joke, and teasing, even though her staff and customers knew not to overstep boundaries, and so did she.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she said, as heat flushed her face. She smothered a laugh. “I guess I was relieved about…you know…the floor. Grandpa.”

“No problem.” Michael leaned his back against the countertop, hands in his pockets.

Rachel sensed he tried for casual, but the expression in his eyes had gone to super alert like an animal that had gotten the scent of something interesting. She squashed the thought, and waved a hand in the direction of the rear of the cabin.

“Grandpa’s bedroom is down the hall, at the end. There’s a dresser full of stuff, but nothing fancy. Go see what you can find,” she said brusquely, and turned away. “I’ll make coffee.”

****

Michael walked back into the kitchen a few minutes later.

“The sweats aren’t going to cut it,” he said. She would never find him hot in this get up. And he scowled at that. Why the hell did he care what Rachel thought of his attire? Or his hotness factor? He looked like farmer Joe. Well, he would if he had a straw hat and a corncob pipe.

“And look at these jeans.”

Her eyebrows flicked upward as she traced his frame.

The tight jeans left nothing to the imagination. Grandpa wore smaller sized pants than he did. Hell, he doubted he could even do a knee bend in these things. “I’m waiting for the flood.”

“What?”

“The jeans are two inches too short.”

She looked down at his feet and laughed. “Yeah, and the dress shoes…now that’s a good look. But hey, the t-shirt fits you okay, and I like the red and green checked flannel shirt.” She gave him a thumbs-up. “Good choice there.”

Michael ran a hand over the green t-shirt with its white letters that claimed birders were awake at sparrow fart. He’d tried to cover it with the flannel shirt.
Kill me now.

“Anyway, nobody will see us,” Rachel said, smothering her laughter and opening the cupboard. She grabbed a couple of coffee mugs. “We’ll be on the boat that’s tied up out back. Grandpa has his own jetty.”

“The sea is right behind us?”

“Duh.” She poured a mug of coffee, and then slid it toward him. “There’s sugar and powdered creamer.”

“Thanks. I’ll take it black,” he said, with an exaggerated shudder.

“Yeah, me too. I hate powdered stuff. You know his pantry is really empty. I was lucky to find coffee.”

Michael shuddered again when he tasted the potent black brew. He carried the mug to the small window set above the single cracked enamel sink, and pulled aside the faded yellow curtain. The huge expanse of the Salton Sea gleamed in the sun, and tied to a small jetty bobbed an old motor boat. It had been a long time since he’d been in one of those, and this one looked like it had weathered one too many storms.

He looked down at his new shoes. “The land is kind of marshy.”

“Yeah. You could borrow Grandpa’s rubber boots. Tuck those short jeans into them.”

“What size?”

Rachel shrugged, blew on the coffee, and pulled a chair up to the table. Took a quick sip of the liquid and didn’t even flinch. “Eleven, I think.”

“Where are they?”

“I’ll get them. They’re in the darkroom.”

“Stay there,” he said, waving her back onto the chair. Things were looking up. At least he and Henry wore the same size shoe. “Enjoy your coffee. Ralph and I’ll get them, right boy?”

He slapped his thigh, and Ralph came running like he’d said cookie. They went down the hall and sure enough the boots were there. He grabbed them, and hurried back to the kitchen. He sat and pulled out a thick woolen sock from each boot, and then tried to force his foot into the right boot.

“There’s something in here,” he said, moments later. He upended the boot and shook it vigorously. A roll of film dislodged itself and skittered across the floor.

Ralph lunged, and Michael stared at Rachel, almost afraid to move. Rachel, her mouth formed into a perfect “O”, moved first.

“Sit,” she said, clapping her hands together and glaring at Ralph, who immediately backed away. “Good boy. Hell, the last thing we want is Ralphie’s slobber on this.” She picked up the roll of film and turned it gently in her hand.

It could be evidence that would point to whoever had killed Henry Copeland. Rachel looked at him with shining eyes.

She blinked hard. “He planted it there. He left a clue.” She started to cry.

“You don’t know for certain.”

Rachel nodded, and swiped at her wet cheeks. “I do.”

She lifted up the bottom of her shirt and dabbed at her eyes.

Michael averted his gaze from the smooth stretch of tanned skin that flashed above her blue jeans, and concentrated on her face. He’d been about to go to her, to comfort her again.

“I knew something was wrong in the darkroom,” Rachel said, and reached for a sheet of paper towel. She blew her nose noisily.

“How so?”

Smoothing the shirt back into place, she tossed the paper into a trash bin, and then looked over at him. “Grandpa never left his boots in there.” She sniffed hard, and blinked rapidly a few times. “Not ever.”

“Okay, fine,” Michael said. “Give it to me. We’ll turn it in to the Indio PD.”

“What? Are you crazy? No way in hell.” She clutched the film tight to her chest. Her eyes had widened, and she looked half-crazed. “Those guys have done nothing to find Grandpa,” she said. “Not a damn thing. His case has been on the back burner for two weeks now…and…oh, sorry.” She finally came up for air, and met his gaze.

He knew to stay silent, and remained leaning casually against the countertop.

She waved a hand around, and started again. “I know you all have procedures you have to follow, and everything. And they did do a search of the whole area, and all of the abandoned buildings. But then they seemed to just drop the investigation.”

He nodded. It wasn’t the time to defend the department.

She looked away, and then back at him. Craziness still flashed in her eyes. “I found this film, and I’m developing it.”

“Technically, I found it,” Michael said, and took a sip of coffee. “And it’s evidence.”

She made a run for it, tore down the hall and into the darkroom and slammed the door.

Cursing loudly, Michael put the coffee mug on the counter, sloshing coffee down the side of it and hurried after her. The door clicked shut as he pulled up outside of it.

Damn.
He slammed the flat of his hand against the door. “Rachel, open up. Let’s talk about this. Don’t be hasty. Don’t tamper with evidence. It might reflect on your grandfather’s case.”

She didn’t answer.

He jiggled the door handle. Then he checked around the door frame. A thick metal bar hung from the other side of the door jamb. He studied it for a moment. It could be positioned across the doorway and had another piece which encircled the doorknob, and then attached to the wall. An open padlock dangled from it; an archaic form of an external deadbolt. Had the old guy been robbed over the years?

Michael guessed yes, with what he knew about the drifters in these parts. He knocked on the door again. “Rachel, come out, or I’m breaking the door down, and to hell with exposing the film.”

She didn’t answer. Aware they might soon have clues, maybe something to do with her grandfather, or even the Suarez brothers, Michael toyed with letting her proceed. The snitch had murmured that they might be hiding out near the Salton Sea, and he trusted the snitch. He tamped down on his sudden surge of excitement and curiosity. Rules were rules.

After searching the cabin for tools and finding nothing that would take off a door, he positioned his shoulder. It would hurt like a son of a bitch.

“Stand back. On three,” he yelled.

The door opened. Rachel held her lips pressed tight for a few seconds.

“Here,” she said, and shoved the film at him. And then she stomped back to the kitchen.

She picked up her purse and the car keys. “Let’s go.”

“Now? What about investigating the—”

“Forget it. You wanted some clue. I wanted some clue. We got it. Now let’s just hope your famous PD doesn’t screw around for a week before developing the film.”

She stomped outside, ahead of him, and stood on the front verandah.

He looked down at his clothes. No way in hell would he enter the Indio PD dressed like this. “Give me two seconds.”

They drove back to Indio in complete silence. Michael guessed Rachel’s thoughts were running wild. He respected that. When they pulled up at the front of the building he asked her if she wanted to come in.

“It won’t be a top priority. I can request a rush,” he shrugged. “But you know how it goes. It depends on whatever else—”

“I’m going in to Cliffs to check up on things,” she said, gripping the steering wheel and looking straight ahead. “Call me. Let me know what they find. I’ll pick you up so you can get the Hummer.” She gave a quick shrug, and drove off.

Michael strode into the department, alerted to her indifference. She no longer cared. Something wasn’t right but he’d figure that out later. Right now he needed to twist a few arms to get the film developed.

Chapter Five

Rachel set her jaw in determination as she lined up everything she needed, and in the precise order she’d need them: can opener, scissors, film, reel, film processing tank. Then she switched off the safe light and allowed the darkness to settle around her.

Working in the dark she gently fed the film onto the reel until she reached the end, and then cut it off at the spool. She placed the reel in the tank and put the lid on. Then she turned on the safe light. She’d been doing this since she was a kid, and soon set up the water bath to hold the necessary solutions. She adjusted the temperature, checking with a thermometer. Then she put the loaded tank into the bath water.

Fortunately Grandpa always pre-mixed the developer and kept a supply in a container under the vanity. She’d saved some time. She put the developer into the container in the bath water, checked the temperature in the bath again, and started the timer. Then she added the developer into the top of the tank, closed the outer lid, and agitated it. How she would break the news to Michael, if she did discover anything, she had no idea. She’d worry about that later.

No way in hell she’d let someone else handle this film.

She knew to the very second how much time she’d need in each process of development. She agitated the tank again, using the timer, checking the water temperature religiously, and praying.

Then she continued with the acid stop bath, the fixer, the wash. The wash always took the longest time. She carefully disposed of the chemicals, made sure the fan and the vents were off, and with the tank empty, she filled it with wetting agent and put the reel in. Carefully removing the reel from the tank, she slowly pulled the film from the reel and clipped one end to the overhead line. After removing all of it, she weighted the other end with another clothes pin.

She could see dark areas and lighter areas on the negatives and shivered at the outlines. She opened the six foot high heating cabinet, which Grandpa had made out of the old linen cupboard. She hung the negatives inside. With the door closed, she turned on the hair dryer that provided the heat into the unit; crude, but effective. In an hour or so, she’d be ready to print.