by Cindy Brown
“Ha ha, very nice. Here’s the girl—”
“Ivy,” I said.
“—that Arnie hired for the melodrama. Some sort of actress.”
Hello? I was standing right next to him.
“And she’s supposed to give a tour or something. Hey, do you think we could give her a short costume, show off those legs?”
“No.” Josh and I both said together. I smiled at his back.
“I know all about it,” said Josh. “I was ready for you, ma’am, but one of the horses threw a shoe. Thought I’d have time to get one ready before you showed up. My apologies.”
“Speaking of horses,” said Nathan. “You thought any more about my proposition?”
“You want to discuss that now?” Josh nodded toward me.
“She’s just an actress,” Nathan said.
Funny how you could be pissed off and thankful to be underestimated at the same time.
Josh took the molten horseshoe over to an anvil. He picked up a big hammer-type tool, held the shoe with the tongs over the anvil, and started to pound on the shoe, which glowed orange in the semi-darkness of the room.
“So?” Nathan said. “What do you think?”
“If I take over the horseback rides, I get Mongo’s cut, is that it?” His hammer beat out a steady rhythm.
“That’s the deal.”
With each strike of the hammer, the orange horseshoe sloughed off small sheets of darkened metal, like a snake shedding its skin. “Do I get the horses too? And the land the corral’s on?”
“What, are you crazy?” Nathan looked like he regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. “We’ll have to wait for Mongo’s will before we know anything about that,” he backpedaled.
“He didn’t have a will.” Josh turned the horseshoe on the anvil. His rhythm never let up. “Thought he’d live forever. I want the horses.”
“Like I said, we’ll have to wait—”
“I want the horses. And the land. If he did leave them to someone, make them an offer. Then sell them to me.”
“Oh. Well…” Nathan actually rubbed his hands together like a greedy cartoon character.
“For five bucks.”
“What?”
“All right, ten. The horses aren’t worth much, and you of all people know that the land isn’t either.” Josh slipped the shoe into a vat of water and a cloud of hissing steam obscured his face.
“This is ridiculous. Like I couldn’t find some cowboy with a few horses to take the tourists on rides.”
“Sure, you could. Lots of cowboys out there. ’Course they’d need to know the terrain, where the rattlesnakes like to sun themselves, where the ground squirrels dig holes that can break a horse’s leg. You’d need to make sure they were polite and friendly—”
“Like you?” Nathan grumbled.
“That they treated their horses well. That their horses were trained to let jittery tourist types ride them.” Josh took the horseshoe out of the water and examined it.
“I see your point, but—”
“And that they don’t come to work drunk. Actually, that they show up at all.”
“You got me over a barrel. Okay, but not for five dollars. Five hundred.”
“Fifty.” Josh kept his eyes on the horseshoe.
“Two fifty.”
“One hundred.” Josh still didn’t look at Nathan.
“All right already.” Nathan threw up his hands. “One hundred. Can we offer rides this weekend?”
“Sure.” Josh turned toward us for the first time. He pushed his plastic safety glasses up onto his head, and smiled. “I’m all yours.”
Chapter 14
After Nathan left grumbling about highway robbery, Josh took a few minutes to clean up, and I took a few minutes to check him out. He appeared to be around forty, though it was hard to tell. His blue shirt, damp with sweat, clung to the powerful muscles in his arms and chest—a physique a twenty-year-old would envy. But he’d spent enough time outdoors that his face was lined, with deep crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes from squinting into the sun. I reminded myself to wear sunglasses.
He wiped off his hands with a towel, though it didn’t seem to do much good. They stayed charcoal gray, with black lines etched in the calluses. I felt gritty too. Just standing near the forge had left me covered with itchy grains of black dust.
“Ready, ma’am?”
“Yep.” I swiped at my face and followed him out the door and into the street.
He stood and looked toward the saloon and other renovated buildings, then turned and looked the other way at the ramshackle structures that lined the rest of the road.
“Not sure what it is exactly you want to know, ma’am.”
“Please, it’s Ivy. And I don’t know either. Let’s just start at the beginning.”
“All right.” He eyed the sun, which was almost directly overhead. “I might paraphrase a little.” He cleared his throat. “In the beginning, God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. He saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.” He looked at me sideways, a half smile on his thin lips.
“I don’t think we have to go that far back.”
“All right. How about separating the gold from the earth?”
“That’ll do.”
“In the beginning, my great-great-granddad said, ‘Let there be cattle.’ He was a cowboy who’d saved himself some money and bought a ranch over there.” Josh pointed to a spot that looked just like the rest of the desert. I could barely make out the outline of what used to be a building. An old house, maybe?
“He, and later some of his kids, built up the ranch ’til it became one of the biggest in Arizona. We had water from Gold Bug Creek.” Josh nodded toward the stand of cottonwoods I’d noticed on my last trip. “Pretty much a treasure in these parts. But my great-granddad inherited the ranch when his dad died, and the water and the cattle and the ranch weren’t treasure enough for him. He had gold fever, big time. And when he discovered gold on this land, that was it. The family was done for.” Josh stared into the near distance. I followed his gaze to a falling-down structure, a sort of cross between a fire tower and an oil rig. The dark shape I saw when I first came to town. The mine.
“I thought the gold mine was what built the town up.”
“Built the town up, tore the land down. Messed up the pastureland we had, so we couldn’t run as many cows. And the gold brought in a bunch of people, transient types who didn’t care about anything except getting rich quick. Then when the mine played out, everyone left.
“At its height, Gold Bug Gulch had a school, a church, and a jail. It also had four saloons, three whorehouses—’scuse me, bordellos—and a hanging tree.” Josh pointed at an enormous half-dead cottonwood. On cue, the wind rattled the tree’s barren limbs, which clutched at the sky like a dying man.
“Gold Bug had a population of over five thousand people back then. But from what Grandpa told me, the town died in just five years. It took my family a little longer.” Josh’s nostrils flared. Huh. I would’ve expected sadness rather than anger. I remembered what Earl at the bar had said about Josh’s temper.
“The mine dried up right about the same time as a big drought. It could’ve been that that killed off most of our remaining herd. It could’ve been something in the ground—they used cyanide to separate gold from dirt, you know. Or it could have been the Carvers.” Another nostril flare.
“Carver? Wasn’t that Mongo’s last name?”
Josh’s expression didn’t change, but a tendon in his neck jumped. “How do you know that?”
I didn’t want him to know I’d been snooping, so I said, “I read it in the paper.”
Luckily Josh didn’t know about the reading habits of my generation, so he bought the lie. “You read about the sho
oting?”
“Yeah. I’m really sorry about Mongo.”
Josh didn’t say anything.
“I was even here right afterward.” I saw the body again, the wind tugging at the sheet that covered it. “I’m a friend of Arnie’s.”
“Terrible accident,” said Josh. “But at least Billie’ll be safe now.”
Chapter 15
I wanted to ask. Oh, I wanted to ask. But I also had the feeling that Josh wanted me to ask, and that didn’t feel right. Instead I stayed silent—until I could call my uncle.
After leaving Josh at his blacksmith shop, I walked to the saloon and stood on its porch out of the wind and where I could see anyone who might be coming. “PI question,” I said when Uncle Bob picked up the phone. “If someone does that thing where they say something leading so you ask a question about it, should you?”
“Could you rephrase that?”
“You know, that thing where somebody wants you to ask a question—do you?”
“Have you eaten today?’
Uncle Bob was really telling me that I sounded a bit scattered. I sometimes got that way from not eating. “I had a breakfast sandwich this morning.” At six. And nothing since. “Oops, I think you may be right. But still, this guy said something about Mongo’s death keeping Billie safe, and then paused like he wanted me to ask why.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he wanted me to. Seemed like he was trying to lead me to some conclusion.”
Uncle Bob sighed. “You can always ask later. But think about it, what would you have learned if you asked?”
“Um, why he thought Billie was safe. Or Mongo was dangerous.”
“And how would that info hurt your investigation?”
“It…wouldn’t. I feel sort of stupid.” I heard a growl. Bobcats? No, this time it was my stomach.
“Sheesh, was that you?” said Uncle Bob. “Don’t worry about it and go find something to eat.”
Easier said than done.
I walked back to the saloon. Maybe I could get something to eat, maybe even sneak a look into Nathan’s office wastebasket and grab a used Kleenex or something.
The door was locked, but voices floated out through an open window. A woman said, “We’re even then. This is all I owe you.”
“For now.” Nathan’s voice, I realized belatedly as I knocked. Also realized too late that this may have been a conversation I wanted to hear. Yep, still pretty green, PI-wise.
The voices ceased. I knocked again. “Just hoping to make a sandwich or something,” I called, but no one answered. I peered through the window just in time to see a door marked “Office” close.
My stomach rumbled again. Dang. I only had a half hour until rehearsal, and Wickenburg—the closest town—was about twenty minutes away. I couldn’t make it into town and back in time, and I was feeling spacey from hunger. I went back to my truck, scrounged around, and found a half-eaten bag of old peanuts in the glove compartment. At least it was protein.
I scarfed down the peanuts. They didn’t make me less hungry, just thirsty. I dug into my duffel bag, found my water bottle, and drank all of the ickily warm water it contained. I felt better. Maybe I could fill up on water until I got back to Phoenix after rehearsal.
I grabbed my duffel and headed back into “town.” The Arnold Opera House stood next to the saloon. From the front, it looked like most of the other buildings, two-story with a square false front, but without any windows on the second story. I stepped onto the wooden sidewalk that connected the saloon, opera house, and reptile house. Reptile house? Oh yeah. Marge had mentioned something about that. Probably was a big draw for families with kids. Not so much for me. The theater was my place. I opened one of the double doors to the opera house and stepped inside.
The Arnold Opera House was designed to reflect the opulent European opera houses of the era but on a much smaller scale. The orchestra level held about fifty seats. There was also a balcony tier so small that only one row of seats fit, and those had so little legroom that I didn’t think anyone over five-seven could possibly be comfortable in them.
But what the theater lacked in space, it made up for in decor. An ornately carved railing ringed the balcony. Gold-tasseled red velvet drapes swathed the stage. Hurricane lamps with electric candles lined the walls. It looked a little like the theater on a Dickens-themed cruise ship I sailed on a few months prior, but in miniature and without all the money. In short, it looked like a Victorian theater with a Napoleon complex.
The two people I’d seen in the saloon after the shooting sat in the first row, their backs to me. I didn’t think they’d noticed my arrival. The young man, the one who had shot Mongo, kept leaning into the woman, who twisted away. Even though I couldn’t hear what they said, the tension in the air was palpable, like the air before a thunderstorm.
I walked silently down the aisle, hoping to hear a bit of their conversation.
“But now you can,” said the guy, who wore a black cowboy hat. Was he in costume?
“It doesn’t work that way,” the woman replied, her voice low and emotionless. Was she the one I’d heard talking to Nathan? Could have been. The saloon was right next door to the theater.
“Why not?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mongo hasn’t been dead a week and—”
A board in the wooden floor squeaked under me. Damn authentic building techniques.
“Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m Ivy Meadows, here to report for duty.” I gave a little salute, hoping that it and a bit of ditziness would make them forget I’d overheard their conversation. Also I still felt a little spacey from lack of food. “This is sooooo cool. I’ve never opened a theater before, you know, done the first show? Maybe we’ll get our names on plaques or something.”
The ditz role seemed to have taken over, but what the heck. I’d only worked undercover once before but found it tough, since I basically had to lie to the people I worked with. Maybe playing a role was a good way to get around that ethical dilemma. Besides, it was kind of fun. “OMG.” Yes, I said the letters. “Is this the cutest theater, or what?”
The pair of them stared at me open-mouthed, like silent film actors directed to look surprised.
“So you must be Chance and Billie. Arnie told me. He said you’re like, sooooo good.”
I flopped down in a seat next to the guy, who studiously avoided my eyes. He had a broad, even-featured face and close-cropped blond hair, from what I could see under his hat.
My stomach growled again. “Oops. Hey, can I get some water somewhere?” Maybe more water would quiet my stomach. And maybe Billie and Chance would continue their conversation.
“There’s a water dispenser in the lobby.” Billie pointed toward the back of the theater. She wore her wavy strawberry blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. I couldn’t tell how old she was, mostly because she wore heavy makeup: thick foundation, purplish eyeshadow, and lots of mascara.
I scooted up the aisle, filled my water bottle from an old-fashioned-type water cooler on a stand (the kind with a jug and a spigot), and put my ear to the theater doors. No conversation. I got back to my seat within two minutes. It was a very small theater.
I plopped down in my seat, continuing to play the ditz role. “I only got my script this morning, so I don’t have it memorized yet, but I will. I’m a quick study.” Doubt wrinkled Billie’s forehead. “One question: Arnie said it’ll just be me and Chance onstage, but the play has four characters, two men and two women.”
“Chance plays all the male roles and you play all the female ones,” said Billie.
“Cool!” I gushed. “I mean, I’ve played floozies and ingénues before, but never in the same play.” Billie’s forehead wrinkle deepened. I felt slightly mean, worrying her this way, so I dug in my duffel bag and handed her my
headshot and résumé. “Oh, here you go, just in case Arnie didn’t send it.”
Billie’s worry lines relaxed as she read. I was still building up my résumé, but it was decent enough.
I turned to the guy, who was fixedly staring at the stage—in defeat it seemed. “So, Chance, are you an actor or a cowboy?” Arnie had said he was both, but it was an unlikely combination. Chance didn’t say anything. Great, a strong, silent type.
“Chance grew up on a ranch in Montana, but acted in college,” Billie said. “He’s multi-talented.”
Chance looked at Billie with gratitude…and something else. Affection? Pride?
“Let’s get this show on the road.” Billie stood up. She had an amazing figure, the voluptuous type that’s out of style in magazines and in style with men. Her Marilyn Monroe-ish bust strained at her white t-shirt, and her Wranglers defined a derrière that looked high and firm, especially for a woman in her…forties? Like Josh, her face was a bit at odds with her figure, tanned and lined, but still attractive. All the makeup she wore actually aged her. Maybe she thought she was covering the sun and wind damage that came from years spent outside in the desert sun. But…no. It wasn’t her skin or makeup that made her look older: it was the touch of sadness that dusted her face like powder. Oh.
“I’m so sorry about the other actor, the one who died?” I toned down the ditz a bit. “It must have been awful for you. I mean, there are just a few of you out here, so you must have been a pretty tight group, right?”
“Yeah.” Billie ducked her head. “But we don’t really want to talk about it. Giddyup and get onstage.”
I’d never heard anyone actually say giddyup before, but it sounded right coming from Billie.
The one-act we rehearsed was about thirty minutes long, a basic melodrama script. I played Rose the ingénue, the daughter of a rich man who died and left his fortune (and her) in the clutches of an evil older man, Neville Blackheart. I also played Fannie the saloon girl, who worked for Blackheart and who tried to distract the hero (Ernest, a clean-cut cowboy) from saving me. Billie directed, but she was also going to be at the performances. Someone had to hold up the signs for the audiences, which said things like, “The next day, at Neville Blackheart’s mansion,” and “Meanwhile…” and of course, “Boo!”