Ivy Get Your Gun

by Cindy Brown

  “Did Billie play?”

  “I don’t think so. She was…” Arnie shook his head. “God rest her soul, Billie was what you call ‘the brush.’ Collected and paid out the money.”

  I remembered one of the investors calling Billie by name. “Do you think Nathan’s friends from Philly might’ve played?” I wanted to ask about Nathan too, but decided against it.

  “I think Nathan did say something about it. But, listen, you want to know more about the game, you should talk to Josh about it.”

  “Josh? Is he part of the game?”

  “No, but his dad was. Word is that’s how he lost the family ranch.”

  Chapter 40

  I drove back into town, parked on the street, and climbed the stairs to Duda Detectives. I was dragging from lack of sleep and the emotional wallop of Billie’s death, until I opened the office door. Ah, liverwurst and onions—the smell of a happy Uncle Bob. I inhaled deeply.

  My uncle sat at his desk, flattening a white paper bag. “Got you a roast beef with horseradish.” He gestured toward a paper-wrapped sandwich on my desk. As we unwrapped our sandwiches, we commiserated about Billie’s death.

  “You hear any more about Chance?” he asked.

  “Arnie said no one has seen him yet. I wonder why he took off. Guilt or grief?”

  “Could be either. Or both. Maybe he felt responsible somehow. Or maybe he didn’t understand exactly what the cyanide would do.” Uncle Bob grimaced. “That was a pretty horrible way to go.”

  “Yeah, it was.” The medical examiner had arrived last night right before I left the Gulch. He was pretty sure it was cyanide, something about Billie’s skin looking flushed. He also said cyanide was a quick but incredibly painful death. I didn’t like to think about it. “There are a couple different ways to look at it. Billie’s love life was complicated—that could be a motive. It seems more likely that the poison wasn’t intended for Billie—she was just the unlucky one to die. After all, I smelled cyanide in my water too.”

  “About that,” said Uncle Bob. “This whole thing is beginning to smell. I’m not sure—”

  “That’s just your liverwurst.”

  “Olive.”

  “I’ll be careful. Cross my heart.” I needed to distract my uncle or he would try to make me quit the investigation, and I really wanted to find out what happened to Billie and Mongo. “There’s another interesting motive, but I can’t quite figure out how it works.” I told Uncle Bob about the game.

  “Forty years,” he said. “Too bad it wasn’t continuous. Would’ve given the one at The Birdcage a run for its money.”

  Uncle Bob was launching into a story. Good. That meant my distraction worked, and I’d have time to start eating that roast beef sandwich. “The Birdcage?” I said, just to edge him into full trivia geek mode.

  “The Birdcage was a saloon and theater in Tombstone. Still is, but it’s sort of a tourist attraction now. And it’s the home of the longest continual poker game in history.”

  “How did that work?” I took a bite of my sandwich. It was perfect. Sourdough bread, spread with a little cream cheese and horseradish, a few thin slices of cucumber, and mounds of rare roast beef. I had a brief moment of survivor’s guilt, enjoying a sandwich like that.

  “The game was played 24/7 for eight years, five months, and three days. Doc Holliday was one of the players, Diamond Jim Brady, and Bat Masterson too. They all lost boatloads of money.”

  “But somebody must’ve won.” I took another bite of my sandwich. Whoever realized that roast beef and horseradish went together was a genius.

  “Sure. Somebody must have. But the biggest winner was the house. It kept ten percent.”

  I put down my perfect sandwich and took out my cell phone. “Arnie,” I said when he picked up. “You know that poker game we were talking about yesterday? Do you know if Billie made any money as the bank?”

  “You bet.” Arnie chortled. “Get it? You bet?”

  “Uh-huh. Was it very much?”

  “Ten percent,” he said. “She got to keep ten percent for herself.”

  I hung up. “Billie got ten percent too. Seems like she would’ve made good money. But she didn’t wear expensive clothes, drove an old Ford pickup, and lived in a doublewide. If she had money, she sure didn’t spend it.”

  “So where did all her money go?” My uncle put down his liverwurst sandwich. He loved a puzzle.

  “Maybe she was a gambler too?”

  “Could be. Have to be a pretty bad one to lose all that money. Let’s see if maybe she put it somewhere else. Let’s look for companies, trusts, that sort of thing.” Uncle Bob told me which database to use, and he logged into another one. For twenty minutes there was no sound but the tapping of fingers on keyboards and the occasional chew and swallow.

  “Got it!” Uncle Bob said. “There’s a nonprofit. Billie was the only director and signer. It’s called The Golden Girls.”

  “A non-profit…” I tossed my empty sandwich wrapper in the trash and Googled the foundation. “Huh. No website—that’s unusual. Do you think she was hiding her money there?”

  Uncle Bob chewed the last of his sandwich thoughtfully. I could tell he was thinking because liverwurst doesn’t require much chewing. “Wouldn’t be the best place to do it. The IRS is pretty sticky about nonprofits. In fact…” He tapped at his keyboard.

  “The Golden Girls…” I mused out loud. “Huh. The Golden Girls. You know, I still haven’t found out who’s behind Acme Arizona, the corporation that owns the mineral rights to the gold mine. Could Josh’s dad have lost the deed to Billie in a poker game? I mean, that’s how he lost the town to Mongo’s dad.”

  “Ah!” Uncle Bob peered at his computer screen. “Love the internet. So, The Golden Girls have over five hundred thousand dollars in assets…”

  “Any chance mineral rights are one of those assets?”

  “Can’t tell.”

  “Hmm. Nonprofits have to have a mission, right? What’s theirs?”

  “‘We will strive to collaboratively morph feminine mindshare into economically viable opportunities.’”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Is there any contact info?” I jumped up and went over to Uncle Bob’s desk.

  “Billie’s listed as the contact again.”

  I looked over his shoulder at his computer screen. “Yeah, that’s her address and phone number too. Oh well…Wait. Go back to that screen you were just on.”

  “The one that lists donors?”

  “Yeah.”

  He clicked back to the previous screen. “Scroll down…Stop.” I leaned in for a better look. There it was. Josh, who was so broke he had to sell his family’s home, contributed $10,000 a year for the past three years—ever since his dad’s death—to The Golden Girls.

  Chapter 41

  “You think it could be blackmail?” I asked my uncle.

  “Maybe. It could also be that he likes the organization.”

  “But Josh has no money, and besides, he doesn’t seem like the type to donate to an organization whose mission is feminine mindshare…”

  “He could be an ally. You shouldn’t make assumptions.”

  My phone buzzed. Marge. I picked up. “Hi. Hey, we may have found something. You ever hear of The Golden Girls?”

  “TV show with all the old broads, though they’re not lookin’ that old to me now.”

  “Is that you, Arnie?”

  “Haven’t replaced my cell phone yet, so I’m using Marge’s. Why you asking about a TV show?”

  “It’s also a non-profit founded by Billie.”

  “Never heard of it. Hey, I’m calling you on this phone for a reason. Nathan left a message when I was in the shower. Wants me to call. I thought about taking notes when I talked to him, but then I remembered how you put Bob on
speakerphone sometimes. How ’bout I do that with Nathan so you can hear the whole conversation? I already got you on speaker on this line, and I can call him on the landline. Neat, huh?”

  “Sounds good.”

  I listened to Arnie dial. “Hi there,” he said to Nathan. “Sorry I missed you earlier…What’s that? Can you speak up?”

  I suspected Arnie said that for my benefit. I listened hard, but still couldn’t hear Nathan. Probably because Arnie forgot to put him on speaker. Oh well. At least I could hear Arnie’s side of the conversation.

  “That’s bad…Yeah…He hasn’t been to his apartment?…How ’bout the bars?…You know, Ivy could look for him…Why her? Uh, they’re close…Sure…Yeah, love you too.”

  I surmised three things from Arnie’s end of the conversation:

  1. I was going to look for someone, probably Chance.

  2. I was now supposedly “close” to this someone.

  3. Nathan must have said “I love you” to Arnie.

  Though none of the three pieces of information were expected, it was the last one that threw me. Nathan didn’t seem like an “I love you” kind of guy.

  But maybe, I thought as I drove to Gold Bug to—yep—look for Chance, maybe my general bad feeling about Nathan was actually jealousy. I loved hearing the joy in Arnie’s voice when he talked to his son. It also made my heart ache. I didn’t hear it in my parents’ voices. My dad had floored me when he said, “I love you” this past summer after years of no affection. And though he was beginning to show his love in small ways, Dad hadn’t said the words again, as much as I’d wished for them. It was no use even thinking about my mom.

  I rolled down my window and let the wind blow those thoughts away. I needed to find Chance. He’d been missing since last night and his truck was still in the Gulch’s parking lot. Nathan had called around to Chance’s usual haunts (and I suspected the police had too), but no one had seen him. Since Chance hadn’t taken his truck, he was probably on foot somewhere in the vicinity of Gold Bug. That’s where I’d look.

  I needed another caffeine hit, so I grabbed a Frappuccino at a drive-through on the edge of town, then hit the highway. I pulled into the Gulch’s parking lot about a half hour later. Chance’s pickup was still there. I scrambled out of my truck, slapped on some sunscreen, and slung a water bottle over my shoulder (it had a strap). Carrying my half-empty Frappuccino, I walked down the town’s road, which seemed doubly empty in the bright sunlight. By the time I saw Josh’s smithy, I was already regretting my choice of footwear. Sketchers were great for bopping around town, not so much for hiking down a dirt road. Wouldn’t be great in the cholla-filled desert either. So when I saw that Toby was tied to a post in front of Josh’s shop, saddled up and everything, I took it as a sign from God.

  “Josh!” I yelled. No response. The iron gate was still drawn across the forge’s open door and locked. “Josh!” I yelled again. No way he would ride Toby, I told myself. Josh was way too tall. So it wasn’t like I was borrowing his mode of transport. More like taking his pet for a walk.

  Still, I should leave a note. I patted my pockets. No pen or paper. Hmm. I found a stick on the side of the road. “Back soon - Ivy,” I scratched in the dirt in front of the forge. Toby stuck his tongue out at me. I wondered if it was a comment on my choice of writing paper. No. He was licking up the last of my Frappuccino, which I had set on the ground.

  “That’s okay.” I patted him on his fuzzy head. “Everyone needs a treat now and then.”

  I decided to saddle up from the ground. After all, Toby was short, and I was a strong flexible dancer. Nope. I tried mounting from the other side. Nope again. Toby looked at me with his kind eyes (and a little Frappuccino on his whiskery mouth), then looked back over his shoulder at the porch on a building across the street. A three-foot-high porch.

  “Are you a mind reader or just really, really nice?” I said to Toby. “Come on, you donkey-angel or whatever you are.” I led him to the spot he’d shown me and used the porch to mount.

  “All right, Toby,” I whispered into his soft ear. “Since you’re obviously more than just a donkey, maybe you can help find me Chance. Let’s giddyup.”

  Chapter 42

  I was glad I’d chosen Toby as my form of transportation on this particular trip. Walking in the desert looks easy from the road. It’s pretty flat and you can see far into the distance. But once you’re actually in it, you have to watch for cactus, snake holes, and the slithery creatures themselves, who occasionally sun themselves on rocks. But with Toby carefully picking his way through the desert, I was able to scan the horizon for any sign of Chance.

  The night Billie died, Chance had worn a white thermal-underwear type of shirt and a red kerchief, so he should have been pretty easy to spot. But no. Nothing. Toby the angel-donkey and I kept at it until sunset, then I turned him home. It was easy to recognize the Gulch, even in the dying light—the cottonwoods that lined the creek beckoned like a green heaven. When Toby saw we were going home, he picked up his pace. He also panted a little.

  “Sorry, boy.” I stroked his soft ears. “You’re probably thirsty. We’ll stop at the creek for you.”

  The sun had just set, so the desert wasn’t dark yet. Then we reached the trees.

  What was I thinking? I pulled on the reins as the canopy closed over us. “Let’s go back to the road.” I tugged on Toby’s reins, but he must have smelled water, because he was having none of it. I could smell it too, that peculiar mix of damp soil and greenery that gladdens a desert dweller’s heart. What the heck—we must be pretty close to the creek, and Toby knew the way to go.

  But something moved—jumped?—in the grass near us. Toby stopped. The something jumped again. I couldn’t tell what it was, too dark, but I heard the shush of the tall grass and glimpsed the movement. I nudged Toby in his ribs. “Let’s get out of here,” I said as the grass on both sides of us rustled with movement.

  But Toby wouldn’t move. Not forward or backward. I slid off his back, grabbed him by the halter, and tried to turn him around. I couldn’t even get him to turn his head. Finally he took a step toward the glimmer of water in the near distance. Okay then. We could cross the creek and go up the hill on the other side to Gold Bug.

  We had just taken a few steps when the grass near us exploded with movement. Toby didn’t have to be nudged. He took off running. I couldn’t keep up. The reins slipped out of my hands. I ran after him. Who knew donkeys could run so fast? I almost got hold of him when he slowed down near the creek, but at the last moment he veered left past an old snag and—

  “Stop!” A man’s voice came out of the darkness. “Don’t take another step.”

  “Or you’ll shoot?”

  “You’ve been watching too many Westerns,” said the voice I now recognized as Josh’s. Toby must have heard his master’s voice, because he trotted up behind me. I could feel his breath on my arm.

  I took a step toward Josh. I could see him now—him and two other men—standing at the edge of another grassy area on the other side of the creek.

  “Don’t! I mean it. You’re about to step in quicksand.”

  “Right, quicksand in the desert.” Why didn’t Josh want me to come nearer? And who were those two men with him? I took another step toward him.

  “Goddammit. What did I tell you?”

  He had told me the truth—there was quicksand in the desert. My left foot was now stuck tight in it. “Is this like the stuff in the movies?” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “That swallows you whole and suffocates you to death?”

  “No. This doesn’t suffocate you. Just grabs your leg so you can’t move. You die of exposure while waiting for help.”

  I kicked at the sandy mud.

  “Stop.” Josh had put on a calm voice, but it didn’t fool me. It was the sort of voice people use when they tell you you’re all right when you can see the blood s
purting from the deep gash in your arm. Still, I stopped what I was doing.

  “Now, relax.”

  Yeah, right.

  “What shoes are you wearing?”

  “Um, Sketchers. The slip-on kind.”

  “Good. Reach back and hold onto Toby. Don’t let him get any closer, but grab him around the neck.”

  I did. His donkey warmth made me feel a little better. A little.

  “Your other foot isn’t stuck?”

  “Right.” I picked it up.

  “No,” Josh said. “Put it back down exactly where it was.”

  “Okay.” I did.

  “Use Toby to steady yourself. Now, staying relaxed, wiggle your foot—the one that’s stuck—out of your shoe. Wait. Stop.” Josh must have been able to see pretty well in the dark. “Move your stuck foot and leg as little as possible. Just small circles. Use your good leg to do all the locomotion.”

  I held onto Toby’s warm neck, bent my knee, and pushed against the ground. Then relaxed. And moved my leg in little circles. And pushed. And did it all over again. And again. After several hours (okay, probably minutes, but looong ones), there was a schluup sound, and my foot was free of the mud. And my shoe.

  “Now push against Toby so he backs up.”

  I did, but Toby wouldn’t budge. “C’mon, Toby,” I pleaded.

  “Dammit,” Josh said. Toby moved.

  “Wish I’d known the secret word,” I said as Toby and I backed away from the stream.

  “Now you do. But after you get Toby back where he belongs, you better not use the secret word—or him—again. They used to hang folks for rustling, you know.”

  “What were you doing out there anyway?” Josh caught up with me in the parking lot after Toby was safely back in his corral. The two shadowy men were not with him.

  “Looking for Chance.”

  “Any sign of him?’

  “No. What were you doing there? Who were those men?”