“Wait.” Maria held up her hand. “I’m fine to call myself his girlfriend. But that does not mean you can call Rod my boyfriend. That’s a whole different situation. And, if I remember correctly, Melissa used the term ‘Thorton Empire’ to describe his wealth.”
“Empire? Well that’s a bit overkill. But … it’s pretty close.” Beth stared ahead, paying attention to the road as she spoke. “But if someone wanted Rod’s money, why bring Dakota’s death into it? I keep thinking the timing of all of this must be a clue.”
“You’re right.” Maria tapped her pen on the notepad. “What’s going on right now in Rod’s life that would make someone want to dredge up Dakota’s death? What’s changed from, say, half a year ago?”
The minute she said it, she already knew the answer.
It was her.
She was what was different. There had been no Maria Branson in Rod’s life six months ago.
“It’s got to be you.” Beth tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. “You’re what’s different. You’re with Rod. And he likes you. A lot. More than he tells you.”
“How do you know?” Maria sat up straighter.
“Because,” Beth said matter-of-factly, “Rod comes to me for advice. And haircuts. Have you noticed how short his hair is all the time?”
“What has he told you?” asked Maria. “And why have you been holding out on me?”
“Because Rod knows you and he doesn’t want to freak you out. I don’t want to freak you out either. He’s the best thing that has ever happened to you, and I’m pretty sure you’ll both find some way to completely mess it up unless I … help you two out. I told Rod the slower he moves the better. You won’t get jumpy that way.”
“Jumpy? What’s that supposed to mean?” Maria’s cheeks flushed slightly.
“Oh come on. Don’t make me spell it out for you. You have issues. If Rod started to bring up the ‘M-word’ you’d be out of Kanab in an instant.”
M-word?
A bowling ball dropped into Maria’s gut.
Marriage.
“When did he talk to you about m-mar-r-riage?” Maria stumbled on the last few syllables.
“A week or two ago. He’s not ready, don’t worry. But he’s thinking about it … or at least he was thinking about it. He said he’d never felt so excited. So adventurous. So … at peace than when he was with you.”
Maria’s shoulders slumped. “Don’t.” She gnawed at her lower lip. “Don’t say anything else. It feels like a funeral service—all the things that could never be. At least not if Rod doesn’t get better, and not if I can’t figure out what really happened to Dakota.”
The two friends sat in silence as Beth navigated the city streets in Phoenix. At last she spoke. “I’m going to call Mrs. Tuttle at the Kanab library. I’ll let her know what’s going on. Maybe she could find something out about Dakota, or any of Rod’s classmates. Even Rep Lankin for that matter.”
Maria blew her nose—a distraction technique so Beth wouldn’t know that she’d been on the brink of crying. “That’s perfect. I’ll do some leg work here as well.”
“Agreed.” Beth’s voice was so reassuring.
What would Maria have done if her friend hadn’t come? “Beth?” she asked quietly, “do you think someone’s trying to kill Rod? Do you think they’ve made him sick on purpose? What if he doesn’t make it?”
The phone in Maria’s lap vibrated. She stared at it, almost not wanting to answer. The number came up “Unknown.”
What if it was bad news?
Beth pulled into the long driveway at Brian’s house. Maria took a deep breath and answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Maria, Dr. Roberts here.”
Maria exhaled. “Oh, hey doctor.” She couldn’t hide the strain in her voice.
“I’m glad I caught you. Is everything okay?” Dr. Roberts asked.
“Not really. I … have so much to explain. I don’t know where to start.” For some reason, talking to him made Maria want to cry all over again. What was her problem? She was acting like a little girl.
Beth stopped the car and engaged the parking brake. She kept the car running so the air conditioner still blew cold air. She sat quietly in the driver’s seat while Maria started at the beginning, more or less, and told Dr. Roberts what was going on. Beth didn’t make a noise but on occasion rubbed Maria’s shoulders when her emotions got hard to control.
Steady. Loyal. Reliable Beth. Maria couldn’t think of anyone else she’d rather have to get her through this.
“I don’t know what to think,” concluded Maria. “I really feel Rod’s not guilty. I think he’s being framed, but am I being naïve?”
Dr. Roberts cleared his throat. “I don’t know about Rod. I’ve never met the guy. But what I do know is that I’m rather amazed you haven’t already used this as an excuse to escape from the relationship. I think most people would have dropped him flat—including those without a fear of intimacy. I’m proud of you.”
“Well, it’s taken a few days and some encouragement from my friend.” Maria glanced at Beth and smiled. “But Rod’s not a killer. I know that. His friends, on the other hand, might be. At least I think so. I’m going to start investigating them. Do you have any insights about what I should look for in their backgrounds? Traits of a killer?”
“Maria,” Dr. Roberts said, “why are you asking me something you already know? Did you forget that I know your background? You know more about criminology than I do. You’ve investigated plenty of killers. What’s going on?”
“Because . . .” Maria trailed off. Why was she acting so helpless? “Because it’s Rod. It’s personal. I … I don’t know if I can trust myself.”
“You need to. This is what you do. I want you to think past the shock and reach deep. Find your logic center. Take a deep breath.”
Maria inhaled until her lungs about burst.
“Feeling grounded?” Dr. Roberts asked.
Maria released the air with a sigh. “A little bit.”
“Good.” Dr. Roberts gave a short cough. “Now, you tell me what you should look for.”
Dr. Robert’s confidence was like a shot of powerful neuro-stimulant. Maria’s sluggish mind shifted into gear, thoughts revving into action. “Typically,” she began, “there are two types of killers. The power junky, manipulating kind, or the surprising ‘Average Joe’ who lives a ‘wanna be life’ of importance. Among Rod’s friends are both kinds.”
“Excellent.” Dr. Roberts’ energy flowed through the phone. “What else?”
Maria words came more quickly, “Well, this kind of premeditated murder—and ensuing framing of Rod, would call for someone in the normal to bright range. Statistics show he or she would come from an unstable or dysfunctional family.” Maria hardly stopped to take a breath. “Of course, there’s the cliché ‘controlling mother theory,’ but I’ve never ascribed to that one much.”
Dr. Roberts grunted. “Me neither. I think that would make everyone a murder suspect.”
“I’m guessing the person has an issue with outbursts of anger and poor judgement, though I’ve never really considered that a trait either. Seems pretty obvious—you kill someone, you have bad judgement.”
Beth snickered and then bowed her head repentantly.
“I am positive the person involved with this can’t take criticism. He or she has delusions of grandeur, but then falls into self-degradation. You know the kind.”
“I hate to point out the obvious,” said Beth, “but you could have described any of Rod’s friends.”
Maria nodded. “True, but I’m going to watch more closely. Egotistical bragging or self-degradation—both are red flags. My biggest tip off will be when I can pinpoint motive. That will shed light on the situation.”
“I completely agree,” Dr. Roberts said. “Maria, you’ve got this. It doesn’t matter that it’s personal. This is what you do. This is your specialty. Don’t wait for the police to do something—you’ve
never been one to sit around. If you do, the anxiety will drive you mad. Take this case head on and own it. I’m proud of you. Keep me posted.”
“I will.” Maria hung up the phone, and Beth turned off the car.
“That didn’t take long. I wish all therapists worked that quickly.” Beth reached for her purse on the car floor.
“Yeah, well, he’s not paid from the CIA by the hour. It’s by the session. We tend to have fast ‘breakthroughs.’” Maria opened the passenger side door and was enveloped by a sumo-sized blanket of desert heat.
“So,” asked Beth as she got out of the car on the other side, “what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to start with the only lead we’ve got. Derrick and the Keepers. They didn’t want us in the mountains. It’s possible they sent someone to kill us for trespassing on the Superstitions. They don’t own the mountains, but they think they do. Maybe Dakota went against their ‘directives’ as well six years ago.”
“Good idea,” said Beth. “Give me a half hour to check in with my kids and see how they’re doing. Then, let’s make a plan.”
Make a plan. That had been her favorite phrase as a kid. Her dad always teased her that the world would stop turning if she didn’t have a plan. Something was always going on in her mind. He said it was what kept “balance” in the universe.
If there was one thing she needed, it was a little balance. She was sick of having things feel helter-skelter, which they had since the minute she’d arrived in Arizona.
It was time to turn the tables on whoever was doing this.
In 1870 [Walz] formed a partnership with a man named Jacob Weiser. Like everyone else, they had heard tales of the Peralta mine and Dr. Thorne’s half-mad quest. [Walz and Weiser] knew just about everything there was to know about the primitive 19th century art of searching for gold in unlikely places … Into the Superstitions they went. For one of them it was the best decision he ever made. For the other, it was the worst.
—“Mysteries & Miracles of Arizona” by Jack Kutz. Rhombus Publishing Company, 1992, page 26.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In 1870 [Walz] formed a partnership with a man named Jacob Weiser. Like everyone else, they had heard tales of the Peralta mine and Dr. Thorne’s half-mad quest. [Walz and Weiser] knew just about everything there was to know about the primitive 19th century art of searching for gold in unlikely places … Into the Superstitions they went. For one of them it was the best decision he ever made. For the other, it was the worst.
“MYSTERIES & MIRACLES OF ARIZONA” BY JACK KUTZ. RHOMBUS PUBLISHING COMPANY, 1992, PAGE 26.
The verbal expression of hugs and kisses over the phone between Beth and her kids was sweet enough to melt even the hardest of hearts. From her kitchen chair, Maria listened—more like eavesdropped—as Beth, who was in the living room, told her youngest that she loved him to “infinity and beyond.”
“Seriously, that has got to be the cutest thing,” commented Amy, who was sitting at the ornate marble kitchen counter with a cup of tea in front of her, “Makes me wish I’d had a few.”
“Kids?” asked Maria.
“Yeah, kids.”
“You still could. You’re still in your thirties, right?” Maria turned to face her hostess.
Amy shook her head. “It wouldn’t be a good idea. I’m big on not messing up a kid’s life before it even begins. Brian and I aren’t … well, our relationship isn’t ready for kids. We have some things we need to work through.”
Maybe it was the sound of desperation in Amy’s voice, or the undertones of defeat, but whatever it was, something made Maria take a closer look at the woman sitting across from her. The tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation marked Amy’s face. Puffy bags under her eyes. Droopy eyelids. Bloodshot eyes.
The image of Brian’s early morning goodbye kiss in the car in front of his house with another woman came to Maria’s mind. Well, at least Amy wasn’t naïve.
“I’m … I’m sorry.” Maria wasn’t any good at this counseling thing.
“Oh please …” Amy swatted at her eyes, holding back tears. “Don’t apologize. I made my own bed. I deserve what I get.”
Maria could only think of one thing. What would Dr. Roberts say? Before she could convince herself not to, she opened up. “Having trust in someone is a hard thing.” She paused. “I mean, look at me. I’m ex-CIA and a sheriff and my boyfriend’s in jail for the alleged murder of his ex-wife. Some people would say I’m an idiot because I haven’t dropped him and left town already.”
A depressed laugh escaped Amy’s throat. “Yeah, and I’m a marriage counselor who’s being cheated on by her newlywed husband who I used to counsel. I’m sure everyone thinks the joke’s on me.”
Maria squirmed. The morning she’d seen Brian kissing the other woman, had she thought that about Amy? Maybe. She couldn’t remember.
“But here’s the thing,” said Amy. “We do what we think is right, and then we live with the consequences.”
“True,” answered Maria.
“The problem is, I’ve quit doing anything. I’ve quit confronting him or asking him questions. Once in a while I hide his liquor. At least that’s something, I guess.”
“Definitely.” Maria was certain she was the least qualified person to give advice to a marriage counselor.
As if recounting a victorious battle scene, Amy continued, “Sunday night I lied straight to his face and told him he’d already drank the whole bottle of his expensive Scotch and there was none left.” She shook her head. “I’m pathetic. I should have told him he’s an alcoholic. But I don’t dare.”
“I’m sure you’ve told hundreds of people how to have hard conversations with their spouse. What did you tell them?” Maria realized she really was sounding like Dr. Robert. He would never let Amy get away with saying it was too hard to have a heart-to-heart with her husband.
“Sure, I can tell clients what to do,” Amy said, “But this …” She waved her hand around the fancy kitchen. "… this is too personal.”
Dr. Robert’s words to Maria from less than an hour ago came to her mind. “You need to take a step back. Push through the shock and disappointment. Then reach deep. Find your logic center.”
“My logic center, huh?” Amy dropped her eyes and stared at her teacup on the counter.
“Yep. Find the therapist Amy inside of you. She knows the answers.”
Amy raised the tea to her lips and sipped. “Interesting,” she said at last. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Maria!” Beth shouted from the living room, interrupting the makeshift therapy session. “Come here. Quickly!”
Amy and Maria jumped up and ran through the doorway into the plush-carpeted, leather-everything living room.
Beth stood four feet from the large-screen TV, intently pushing buttons on a black remote in her hand.
“What’s going on?” asked Amy, glancing around.
“The volume,” panted Beth. “How do I turn up the sound on this stupid—”
All of a sudden a man’s voice boomed through the surround-sound speakers. “. . .in the same mountains where the Mexican Peralta clan was slaughtered by the Apache Indians more than one hundred and fifty years ago, another Peralta has been found murdered. It was in this very spot where six years ago Rod Thorton allegedly killed his wife, Dakota Peralta. As if that wasn’t enough, he decapitated her and left her body to rot in the sun.”
A visual of the barren Superstition landscape flickered on the screen.
“I didn’t know Dakota’s maiden name was Peralta,” said Maria. She was about to tell Beth the story about the Peralta’s from Mexico that Derrick had told her, but the man on the television started talking again.
“Tonight we’ll explore the question we’re all asking ourselves. Why? Why would a wealthy, educated man kill his poor but beautiful immigrant wife of three months? An unwanted baby? Blackmail perhaps? A crime of passion?”
The blood drained from Maria’s face. “Turn it off. Now!”
She didn’t mean to shout, but her voice came out unusually loud.
“Sorry.” Beth fumbled again with the remote.
“Wait!” Maria knew she was being unreasonable and short-sighted. If she wanted to solve this murder, she needed to know all the theories. But it was so hard to hear people who didn’t know Rod talk about him that way. “Sorry, Beth. Leave it on. I’ve been avoiding it, but I need to familiarize myself with the case. This is as good a place as any to start.”
Beth saddled up right next to Maria. “We’ll watch it together.”
Despite the fact the living room was replete with oversized, cushioned, expensive couches, the three women stood five feet from the large-screen television and didn’t make an effort to sit down. It was almost as if watching something painful should simply not be done in comfort.
The television show was a pseudo investigative news report, created to sensationalize the situation in order to attract viewers and boost ratings, not to inform the public or track down a killer. Regardless, they had facts, photos, and some video footage.
The segment began with a large number of pictures of Rod—he was at Disneyland as a child, fly fishing in Alaska with his father, sitting in a fancy sports car as a member of the Utah Ferrari Owners Club, dressed in his Search and Rescue uniform. The last image was of him at Arizona State University, surrounded by a much younger-looking group of friends.
On the other hand, Dakota remained an elusive figure as always. There was a photo of her at her cousin’s quinceañera, taken the same year she’d moved to the United States from Mexico. Two dark haired, beautiful brown-skinned young women, their arms around each other, smiling into the camera. They looked so happy. Young and carefree.
There was only one other picture of Dakota. She was in a group of friends at a high school dance—Sunset High School in California. From the quality of the picture, one of the pseudo journalists probably grabbed the photo off of a social media site.
“Unlike Rod Thorton, Dakota Peralta was a loner,” said the slightly graying, distinguished-looking man pretending to be a news anchor. “Immigration records show Dakota came to the United States as a minor, without her parents, as part of a California school exchange program sponsored in the early 2000s. After her disappearance six years ago, none of her immediate family ever reported her missing—except for her American-born husband. Only a lone aunt and uncle in Mexico initiated any kind of private investigation that yielded nothing.”
Paranormal Mystery Boxset Books 1-3: Legends of Treasure Page 39