The Botanist (7 page)

Chapter 12

“So Jonathin didn’t die as a child or a young man?” Stieger asked.

Ronnie Martin, a white-haired man with striking dark eyes and a spare tire around the middle, shrugged. “Lived to be at least seventeen.”

“What happened after seventeen?”

Ronnie gave Stieger a conspiratorial smile.
“That there’s the question, isn’t it?”

Stieger smiled indulgently. Ronnie had stories to tell—boy did he ever—and obviously he seldom got to tell them to anyone who hadn’t already heard them a hundred times, so Stieger let him ramble. Stieger hadn’t been a patient man in his youth, but age and PI work had taught him better. Patience always got the payoff.

It was getting late but it was a weeknight and the bar wasn’t busy.

“They say”—Ronnie set his empty beer mug down on the bar and went on without any urging—“that Jonathin and Alastair had a fallin’ out.”

“What kind of falling out?”

Ronnie shrugged. “Who’s to say? Alastair ’as a mean old cuss and he and his son didn’t get along.” Ronnie leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “When Jonathin up and disappeared, lots o’ people said Alastair might’ve flown into a rage and killed his son.”

“Isn’t it possible that father and son had a disagreement, and Jonathin simply left home—struck out on his own?”

Ronnie leaned back, resuming his normal voice and looking disappointed. “Yeah, I guess that’s a possibility, too. Actually, a few people say they sawed him marchin’ out o’ town, knapsack over one shoulder and wearin’ his best hikin’ boots.”

Stieger took a draw on his beer to hide a smile. Despite the macabre excavation going on in the desert, the truth was generally less juicy than local gossips liked to believe. So Jonathin had left town, which explained why he never owned land here and—if he had passed—why there was no death certificate for him in the county records.

Stieger glanced down the bar. A middle-aged woman with rumpled clothes and greying hair pulled back into a loose bun was watching them. She’d been watching and listening since Stieger had first started talking to Ronnie. A fit, thirty-something bartender polished glasses behind the counter. He was listening, too.

“Still,” Ronnie persisted, “it was odd that people saw him leavin’ town, but no one saw him after that.”

“Why is that odd?”

“Well more people
should’ve
seen him. There was farm houses he’d have to pass, goin’ that way, people goin’ in and out of town.” He leaned forward again. “Folks said maybe he tried to leave, but never got far. Maybe Alastair couldn’t stand the thought o’ his son tryin’ to leave him. Maybe Jonathin’s ghost haunts the old Landes farmhouse to this day.”

Stieger frowned. “Is Alastair’s house still standing?”

“Yup. The old place is still creakin’ away. It’s a shell of a place now. Junior high kids go there on Halloween to tell ghost stories. High school kids go there to get frisky. One o’ those places, you know?”

Stieger chuckled. Most likely Jonathin had simply left the main roads, not wanting to be seen or harassed by lifelong nosy neighbors.

“And then”—Ronnie almost knocked his glass over—“there were the rumors that Alastair’s transient had something to do with it.”

Stieger
’s ears perked up at that. This was not something he’d heard before.

“What transient is that?”

“So get this.” Ronnie turned fully to face Stieger so he could gesture with his hands. “One day this man just walks into town—no expression, no personality, no identity. Gives everyone the creeps, like some phantom come out o’ the desert. No one liked him at all. But Alastair gives him work.”

“Doing what?”

“Workin’ his ranch. Some folks said Jonathin didn’t like that too much, that Alastair favored this transient over his own son. Plenty o’ people thought maybe they got in a tiff and the transient killed Jonathin.”

Stieger frowned. “Forgive me, but if Jonathin felt this man was threatening his home, his father, his . . . place, wouldn’t he have more incentive to kill the transient, rather than the other way around?”

“Sure, but no one liked the transient. They thought he was weird, and Jonathin’s the one that disappeared.”

“Did this transient have a name?” Stieger asked.

“Sure he did. I just don’t remember it.”

“How long did he work for Alastair?”

“Oh, a handful of years—seven? Eight maybe?”

“So the town would have gotten pretty used to seeing him, then.”

“I s’pose. He didn’t come into town much, though. And never by hisself. Only when Alastair needed help carrying supplies or some such.”

“Did he have many friends?”

“None that I knew of.” Ronnie leaned back far enough that Stieger wondered if he’d fall off his bar stool. “We townsfolk are pretty set in our ways, especially old timers like me. We’re superstitious and don’t take much to outsiders. It’s what the young people these days call cloakish.”

Stieger thought Ronnie probably meant cliquish, but didn’t correct him. “You seem friendly enough.”

Ronnie tried to take another swig of beer, but missed his mouth. He wiped it, but succeeded only in smearing foam all over his goatee. “Ah, but I’m the only one you’ve found who’s willing to talk, aren’t I?”

Stieger grinned. That was true enough. He’d been shut down by people all over town. No one wanted to answer questions about Alastair Landes. They just looked at him suspiciously and shut their doors. He suspected the only reason Ronnie was being so liberal-tongued had more to do with the drink he was nursing than with his being a friendly guy, but he didn’t say so.

“You know your neighbors well, Mr. Martin.”

Ronnie lifted his bottle in a toast. “I ought to. ’Ve lived here most o’ my life.”

“So no one liked him, this transient?”

“He was a strange sort—loner, kept mostly to hisself. I don’t know. Don’t think he actually did anything bad, just sort of rubbed everyone the wrong way, you know?”

The scraping of a bar stool on his other side brought Stieger’s head around. The middle-aged woman from down the bar had taken the stool next to him.

Stieger smiled politely. “Ma’am.”

“Why were you asking if Jonathin died as a child?” Her eyes were bloodshot, her mouth screwed up in a scowl.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, ma’am. I was searching county records. I had a birth certificate for Jonathin, but nothing after that, so I wondered if he’d died young. Ronnie, here, tells me my theory was wrong. Jonathin left town.”

“He told you we don’t know if Jonathin left,” she said sharply. “Lots o’ folks think he never made it out of town.”

“Yeah, but he still wasn’t a child, Janie,” Ronnie put in.

“Seventeen isn’t a grown man,” Janie snapped. Her voice softened. “Anyway, if he did die young, he wouldn’t be the first.” Her eyes focused on Stieger and she gave him a sad, faraway smile. “Children die in Mt. Dessicate all the time, Mr. Stieger. The graveyard in the desert wasn’t really shocking to anyone.” With that, she spun on her stool, hopped off it, and marched out of the bar.

Stieger gaped after her a few moments before turning to let his gaze shift between Ronnie and the bartender.

“Ronnie,” he said when he’d found his voice. “What was that about?”

Ronnie waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, don’t mind her. That’s just Crazy Janie.”

“Ronnie.” The bartender’s voice had a warning in it. “Be nice. Janie’s not crazy.” He came forward to stand in front of Stieger and stuck out his hand. “I’m Blaine Mr. . . . Stieger, is it?”

“That’s right.” Stieger shook his hand.

“Janie isn’t crazy. She just never got over her daughter’s death.”

Stieger leaned back. This town was more interesting by the minute. “When was that?”

“Long time ago. More than twenty years.”

“How’d the girl die? Could she be among the dead out in the desert?”

“Aw, no,” Ronnie piped up. “Nothing like that. Janie’s daughter drowned.”

“Drowned? Out here? In the desert?” Stieger asked.

“About five miles north of here there’s a river,” Blaine said. “And by river, I mean a meandering little creek. It’s not much to look at most of the time. Women let their toddlers wade in it without worrying. But that year, as the story goes, there’d been an unusually large amount of rain and snow. When the spring runoff came, that stream became a full-blown river. It was probably the most excitement Mt. Dessicate had seen for some time. Janie’s daughter—what was her name, Ronnie? Julie? Julia?”

Ronnie shrugged and took another swig of his draft.

“Anyway, she was twelve and playing with two friends by the river.”

“She fell in?” Stieger asked.

“Yeah.”

Stieger glanced over his shoulder. Janie could be seen walking crookedly down the hill. At least she had the good sense not to drive. “Poor woman.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agreed. “She never got over it, probably because she never got closure.”

“Why’s that?”

“They never found a body.”

Stieger
’s eyes narrowed. “How’s that? I thought you said she drowned.”

Blaine saw Stieger’s expression and smiled, leaning his forearms on the bar. “Please understand, Mr. Stieger. It was a dangerous spring. No one was used to having a large, rushing body of water around. As you said, we’re desert folk. Four children went in to the river that year. I know because one of them was my kid brother. Luckily, they fished him out in time. He had a mild concussion from hitting his head on a rock, but that was it. Another of the victims was his best friend, who went into the river at the same time he did. His friend drowned. Now, they were able to revive him with CPR on the bank, but his brain had been deprived of oxygen long enough that he was mentally handicapped for the rest of his life.”

“How old were you when that happened?”

“Twelve. Janie’s daughter was the third victim. A fourth was a boy I didn’t know. They found his body, but only because it snagged between two boulders.” He shrugged. “Janie’s daughter weighed less than him. The current must have just kept on carrying her. After two deaths and two near-deaths, people smartened up, kept their kids away until the water levels went down. The river’s never been that high again.”

“But, if they never found the body, how do they
know
the girl went into the river?”

“She was with two playmates. They said she was standing on the bank. They heard her scream. She was there and then she was gone. There was nowhere for her to go but into the river. They found her cardigan and one of her shoes tangled in riverside brush an hour later, forty miles downstream. The only way she could have gotten so far so fast is on the currents. A child couldn’t have hoofed that.”

Stieger nodded.

“It wasn’t rocket science. Don’t read too much into what Janie says.” Blaine picked up his polishing towel again. “She’s not crazy; she’s just had it hard. She did okay until her husband passed a few years ago. Since then, let’s just say she’s been a much more loyal customer of mine.”

“Or she’s just gone crazy.” Ronnie let out a wheezing laugh at his own joke and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes while Stieger and Blaine looked on.

“Well”—Stieger addressed the bartender again—“I’d like to find out all I can about Alastair, and possibly this transient he employed. Any suggestions?”

“I don’t know about the transient.” Blaine said. “I was only a kid when Alastair passed, but when you were talking about county records and Alastair’s land earlier, I thought of Neil Griffith. He’s retired now, but he used to be a lawyer. If anyone handled Alastair’s legal affairs, it was probably him.”

“You know his phone number?”

“No. I’m not well-acquainted with him, but I can write down his address for you.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Just then the door to the bar opened. An elderly woman with a thick white braid lying over one shoulder shuffled in.

“Evening, Colleen,” Blaine said.

“Hi, Blaine. I came to pick up those parcels for John.”

Blaine nodded. “I’ll get them.” He disappeared into the back room.

Ronnie tried to stand up, but he fell off his stool and barely kept his feet. “Colleen,” he called to the woman, “you should come over and meet my friend, uh . . . uh . . .” He scratched his head.

“Lars,” Stieger supplied.

“Yeah, Lars.” Ronnie turned to him and dropped his voice. “If you wanna know more about Alastair,” he whispered, “you should ask Colleen. She’s lived here longer than
I
have.”

Colleen came up beside them, a reserved smile on her face. “Hello, Ronnie.”

Stieger stood and held his hand out. “Lars Stieger, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. What brings you to Mt. Dessicate?”

“He’s asking about ol’ Alastair Landes,” Ronnie chimed in. “Wants to know about that transient that worked for him. Remember, Colleen?”

The instant Alastair’s name was out of Ronnie’s mouth, Colleen’s expression went from warm and inquisitive to utterly still. Stieger watched her closely, gauging the reaction. He’d been a PI long enough to recognize when a person had something to say, but desperately wanted
not
to say it.

The next moment, Colleen realized he was watching her. She pasted another smile on her face, though it never touched her eyes. Just then, Blaine brought two large boxes from his back room for her.

“Well, isn’t that nice?” she said. “Could you bring those to my car for me, Blaine?”

“Sure, Colleen.”

“You gentlemen have a nice evening. Nice to meet you Mr. Stieger.”

She was out the door before Stieger could react. He turned back to Ronnie. “Did she know Alastair or his family, or the transient very well?”

“Dunno.”

“Will you excuse me, Ronnie? I’d like to catch her before she leaves.”

“’Course.”

Stieger hurried toward the parking lot, nearly colliding with Blaine at the door, coming back in. He ran out to where a late nineties model geo metro was just pulling away. He waved his hands for Colleen to stop. He could swear the old woman looked at him in her rearview mirror before putting her eyes forward and disappearing in a shower of dust and pea gravel.