R.P. Dahlke - Dead Red 04 - A Dead Red Alibi (2 page)

.

Chapter Three:
Wishbone Arizona

Since the property manager’s office
for my new home was in downtown Wishbone, we had lunch in a cute little café on Main Street. I snagged a card for the next time I wanted a quick and tasty meal in town and wrote,
Cornucopia. Best place for soup and sandwiches.

I
t was a quick walk to the real estate office. The property manager handed us a county map with red markers to show us the route, pointing out the difficulties with a stubby finger.

“So you’re heading east toward the Mules
, uh, that’s the Mule Mountains. You’re lucky it’s the dry season. Summers, we get Monsoon weather, and the gully washers will make that road impassable.” He looked up, searching hopefully for a sign that we were rethinking the idea, but seeing my dad nod, he shrugged and continued.

“
Well, anyway, I haven’t been up there in, um, a few months.”

I was now grateful that my dad’s choice for a Jeep was a sensible off-road Wrangler instead of the luxurious Grand Cherokee.

“Look for the green stripe of vegetation coming off the eastern hills—turn up toward it on Red Mountain Rd. There’s electricity to the house, but I’ll call and make sure it’s turned on for you by tomorrow.”

While he rolled up the map, t
he real estate manager openly admired my assets. I had him by a couple of inches, but if my height and cheekbones weren’t enough, I had realistic windblown blond hair, courtesy of my dad who preferred open windows to A/C.

My dad took possession of the map.
“How long has it been empty?” he asked.

“Um, maybe six months? By now, it’s probably got field mice or packrats inside, and where there are mice, rattlers follow. You’ll want to keep an eye out for the snakes. Now if you’d like to consider selling, I’d be obliged if you’d allow me to list it for you.”

Dad’s head snapped up. “What? Sell a rare piece of property like that? Not likely!”

When he wasn’t driving, Dad was reading about Arizona mining, sure that there was gold left in Uncle Ed’s gold mine.

I picked up the man’s card, and before my dad could ask where to buy gold mining equipment, I dragged him outside.

~~~~~~~~~~

With afternoon heat shimmering across the arid landscape, we followed the real estate manager’s map across the last rock strewn gulley and onto a potholed and seldom used private road. At the end of the road, a small dun colored adobe house was surrounded by a weed-choked, cracked adobe wall. Beyond the house, a weary barn and shed completed the impression that the property had been abandoned.

Dad pointed to the
thick stand of bright green cottonwoods along a dry creek.

“Green trees mean there is still water underground,” he said, happily getting out of the Jeep.

Since we’d be roughing it until the electricity was turned on, we brought jugs of water, groceries, insect spray, mousetraps, and because the property manager said snakes hate them, mothballs. Roughing it delighted my dad and sent me into paroxysms of terror at the thought of an infestation of mice and snakes.

Using a machete,
Dad cut a path through the courtyard weeds, unlocked the door, and we stepped inside. The living space was a pleasant departure from the drab exterior. The single story home had been built to appear larger than it was. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a bar of polished mesquite wood and four artistically wrought iron stools.

High ceilings bore hand-hewn beams, and though the floors had a layer of dust on them, the ochre and rust colored
Mexican tiles had the look of old world craftsmanship.

To the right, a floor to ceiling rock wall housed a big, well used fireplace
with kindling and logs all set for a cozy fire.

Two
old leather sofas, the dark brown hides worn from use, hunkered companionably near the cold and dark fireplace.

B
ookshelves had been inserted into the rock wall and held tattered copies of gold mining periodicals. I was amused by the hunk of quartz with a tiny fleck of gold in the middle.

I was delighted to see a bank of French doors across the living room, and though the small-paned windows were opalescent with age and dust, I could tell that when opened the morning sun would flood across the old tiles with happy light.

I suspected the real estate manager might’ve removed any carpets in favor of bare floors for renters, but I made a note to ask him about it. Somehow I doubted he’d admit to removing them, since he seemed to have lulled himself into believing the absent owners were never coming back.

Dad brought in the sleeping bags and water. “It looked bigger when I was a kid,” he said, lifting a
five-gallon water jug onto the kitchen counter.

I went to the stove and tried the gas. “I guess we need to get
propane.”

He bent over and tapped on the
five-gallon tank under the counter. “Empty. We’ll go into town and get it filled.”

“Even without electricity?”

“Pressurized gas will do for the day or two until the electrical is turned on. All you need is a match. And, I found that in the shed,” he said, indicating a shovel by the door.

I heard a coyote howl and shivered. “To fight off the wild animals?”

“No silly, for latrine duty. Water here is from the well and we’ll need electricity for the pump and the toilets.”

“Outside? No, no, no! Not doing that! Let’s drive into Wishbone,” I said, grabbing my purse. “We’ll get a couple of rooms and come back when the electricity is on.”

“
If the load is getting easy, you’re going downhill
,” he said.

“Not from where I’m standing.
There are wild animals out there. Gimme the Jeep keys, I’ll drive.”

He had his hands on his hips. “Now
Lalla, just remember,
People don’t fail, they give up.
You knew we were going to have to rough it for a day or two. Where’s your pioneering spirit?”

I snapped my fingers, signaling my impatience for the keys. “Pioneers yearned for hot baths and clean sheets, too. Now
gimme those keys!”

Then he said the one thing to stuff my nerves back where they belonged. “That would mean cell phone service. Then you’d have to answer your phone messages. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

He had me there. Stay here and I had the excuse there was no landline or cell service in this remote location. I already had seen enough texts and phone messages from Caleb to know he was alive, but not so many that I was ready to forgive him, either.

Seeing he’d won the argument, Dad patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. There are wires strung along the main road. It won’t be a problem to get the electric company out here by tomorrow.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Morning light sifted through the dusty window and landed on the
makeshift quilt from the sleeping bag I’d unzipped to cover my bare mattress. In that almost awake moment, I had an awful feeling that something was out of sync. I knew what it was—Caleb. I’d stubbornly rejected his attempts to make me understand why he had missed our wedding, though I had enough texts and messages by now to know the details. He’d stopped into a 7-Eleven and interrupted a robbery in progress. The upshot of his vigilante justice was that he was late for his own wedding. Heck, I knew Caleb better than to imagine he would choose to get drunk on our wedding day, but slipping away to avoid the aftermath of our botched wedding seemed like the right thing to do—at least it did at the time.

But n
ow I missed waking up next to him. My self-imposed loneliness added a bitter taste to an otherwise sweet morning.

Somewhere outside a bird sang,
and as my dad would say,
Some folks won’t look up until they’re flat on their backs.

I rubbed at sleep-filled eyes, sat up, stretched, and decided things could be worse. I wasn’t trespassing on anyone else’s hospitality. I had no one to answer to, no job to go to. Aunt Mae had deeded this house to
me
, and for the first time in my life, I owned something, a house and a piece of property. With renewed purpose, I opened the window over my bed and breathed in the promise of a new day.

By noon it would be warm, and by afternoon downright hot, but the thick adobe walls would keep the interior cool. All we needed was electricity for the ceiling fans, lights and the well pump.

I took my notepad of items we needed into the kitchen in time to see my dad walking out the door.

“Where
‘re you going?” I asked.

“I’m going out to see if I can find Uncle Ed’s old gold mine. I’ll be back in time for lunch,” he sai
d, closing the door behind him.

Of course he’d be back in time for lunch. Skinny as he was, my fathe
r was never one to miss a meal.

Now, where was I? I added oil for the gate hinges, a ladder to repair or replace the loose tiles on the roof, and because I didn’t know tiled roofs from horse manure, I wrote roofing contractor and gardener on the list.

The house could use a coat of paint. Something subtle for the exterior, maybe an earth color that wouldn’t fight with the terrain, and for the rooms, a native plant like sage green or a warm sunflower. I added native plant books and house colors to the list.

Putting the
notebook away, I gathered cleaning supplies and started on the windows.

~~~~~~~~~~

Five hours later my stomach rumbled. I looked at my watch. Two o’clock already? Didn’t Dad say he’d be back in time for lunch?

This was Arizona, not California. He took the Jeep to look for Great
-Uncle Ed’s gold mine, but that was five hours ago. Did he take his cell phone? I turned around to look for it. Sure enough, there it was on the table by the front door. He could be lying in one of those gullies, bones broken, unable to get out.

Dread at the worst possible outcome ground down the last of my patience and I power-walked the mile or so to our nearest neighbor’s home, and hopefully a phone.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said, to the woman who answered. “My dad and I are ….” I leaned on my knees, gasping out the last of my appeal, “here from California and—”

She took in my dusty boots, the angry scrapes left by passing mesquite, and invited me inside. “You’re at the old
Bains’ place, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “
Got here yesterday and … was cleaning the house and completely lost track of …”

She
pushed me into a chair, filled a tall glass of water to its brim and handed it to me. “Drink it down. All of it. Visitors forget we’re at five-thousand feet. You get dehydrated and wonder why you’re exhausted and delusional.”

When I wiped the last of the moisture from my lips,
she nodded for me to continue.

“My dad left in his Jeep this morning to look at our property, but he hasn’t come back and I’m worried. We don’t have a
landline yet. Could you call 9-1-1?”

Her gaze slipped to a sturdy Blue H
eeler on a dog bed, the attention starting a syncopated tail wag.

“Does he have a cell phone with him?” she asked, still watching the dog.

I shook my head. “No. I had barely convinced him to buy one, then daily remind him to clip it onto his belt. My dad views this sort of newfangled gizmo less of a convenience and more of an intrusion on his privacy.”

“How long has he been gone?” she asked, picking up her phone.

I looked at my watch. “About five hours. Can you call the sheriff or somebody to help me look for him?”

A smile tweaked at the edge of her generous mouth. “I will, but if you like, my dog and I are trained to track missing people, and the sooner we get started the quicker we’ll find him.”

I got to my feet, felt dizzy, and just as quickly collapsed into my chair again.

“You’re still dehydrated,” she said, handing me a bottle of water, and turning away, touched a few numbers on her phone.

When someone on the other end answered, she held up a
wait-for-me
finger.

“Larry? It’s me, Karen Paquette. I have a neighbor with a missing relative. Yeah, looks like it might be this side of the Mule Mountains. I’ll take Matilda, but I want you to know we’ll be starting at the old
Bains place. I’ll check in with you in an hour, one way or the other.”

She shut the phone. “I’ll get my gear.”

I drank down the last of the water, surprised by how quickly it helped. I gave thanks that I had found this no-nonsense young woman at home.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I come banging on your door and didn’t even introduce myself. I’m
Lalla Bains.”