by Cliff Black
Then I called Vital Records at the Kentucky State Capitol. They were not inclined to help me over the phone, but I explained what I had and finally elicited the information that they had a record of Cherish McLaughlin’s birth–nothing for Eileen Smith.
Did that mean the Smith certificate was a forgery? And so what if it was? Maybe the marriage certificate was phony too. So what? Why should I care? Yes, I could use the practice, and yes, I’d like to find what happened to Candace Appleton, but was there a connection? It was time to visit the trailer park manager. I picked up the lawn chair I’d borrowed and crutched to the office.
The manager was an older guy who I discovered had been in the job just two and a half months. He and his wife searched their files and found the California license number for Candace Appleton’s red 1976 Cadillac. It was a start.
I got absolutely nowhere with the California Department of Motor Vehicles, so I called Ezzy again. I shouldn’t have. I caught him in his office, but not in a good mood.
“Did you get those film strips to the cops over there, Geronimo?”
“I did. It didn’t make Corporal Brown happy.”
“So, what’s on your mind now?”
“I thought if I could find out how long Candace Appleton had this trailer, and who she got it from I’d have an idea if the film strips are a clue to her disappearance. Trouble is, the California DMV doesn’t feel the need to help a private eye.”
“Why do I feel like you’re reeling me in, Geronimo? Maybe I should just put you on the payroll here, or better yet, you should put me on your payroll.”
I could tell Ezzy didn’t want to be bothered, so I said, “Forget I called. Maybe this investigation isn’t such a good idea after all.”
“Yeah, maybe it isn’t.” He hung up.
I spent the next half an hour drumming my fingers on the table and glaring out the window. The truth was, I didn’t know how to proceed. Neither my four years working undercover for the Las Cruces, New Mexico police department, nor my seventeen years with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations had prepared me for a missing person case, and it was becoming glaringly obvious that a private investigator had no official clout. Then my phone rang.
“Sorry for my short temper, Geronimo, I had to discipline our new man. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.”
“No problem. I shouldn’t expect you to do my research for me.”
“True, but give me that license plate number. Since one of our very own para-military and suspected drug dealer types is known to have contacts in that trailer court, and since there are only three ways out of Cortez–one being right through Dove Creek–I can stretch a point and say Dolores County has a vested interest in finding Candace Appleton.”
“Thanks, Ezzy. I’ll try not to impose. I read the license number to him and then asked, “Who’s your low-life?”
“Currently calls himself Bart Lowder. Rumor has it he carries an Uzzi on his midnight forays”
I felt my skin crawl and my hackles rise. “I feel like someone just walked across my grave. I hope he wasn’t the guy that came in my trailer.”
“Not likely. He’s on the run. I think he’s either dead or in South America. I’ll be in touch.”
I no sooner ended that call than Natasha called me.
“I looked up A.A. McLaughlin, Dad. The only thing I learned is he has something to do with McLaughlin Enterprises–whatever that amounts to. They’re into computer software, and they have a web site with a button to contact them. If you want, I can send an email. Maybe it will get to Mr. McLaughlin.”
“Let’s do it. Have you got a pen?” We worked on a message together and came up with:
Message for A. A. Mclaughlin.
I’m a private investigator in Cortez Colorado. I discovered some information regarding your daughter and granddaughter. If this information is of interest to you, call me, Daniel Corbin at [cell phone number.]
Nothing much happened the next three days, but then my cell phone rang, and a strange new chapter in my life began. When I answered the phone, a hesitant female voice said, “Daniel Corbin?”
“That would be me,” I said, wondering what woman had my cell number.
“Ezzy said I should call you Geronimo. Is that some kind of a joke?”
“Only to Ezzy. Who am I speaking to?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Shelly Grafton.” She paused then continued with a rush. “Evelyn and Ezzy seem to think the two of us should meet. I’m going to a movie at the Fiesta tonight. Care to come with me?”
I had forgotten about Evelyn’s cousin. I wasn’t overly anxious to meet her–or to go to a movie–but saying so didn’t seem polite. “I need twenty minutes to get presentable,” I said. “Can I pick you up?”
“I’ll pick you up,” she said. “This is my date. Where do you live?”
“I live in Durango, but--”
“Durango! I thought you were here in Cortez.”
“I am. I’m staying in the Sundance RV park on East Main right now.”
“Sorry again. I’m nervous. I’m not used to calling strange men for a date. When I get nervous, I say dumb things.”
“I may be strange, but I’m nothing to get nervous about.” I said. “Why don’t I meet you out at the park entrance? It will save you wandering around through the court looking for my trailer. What time will you be here?”
We settled on a time. She told me she’d be driving a white Jaguar sedan, and we rang off.
A white Jaguar sedan? Hot dang! Things were definitely looking up. At the time, the car seemed far more interesting than Shelly or a movie. My mistake. I underestimated Michelle Grafton.
I had forty-five minutes to get ready for my first real date in nearly twenty years. The voice on the phone hadn’t been intimidating or sophisticated. She sounded more nervous than anything. What was she like? Ezzy described her as a looker and classy. What did that mean to a part Navajo policeman who grew up in Blanding and now lived in Dove Creek? Maybe all it meant was she didn’t drool much, and her knuckles didn’t drag on the ground. But she was Evelyn’s cousin. How much alike were they? Evelyn had reddish blonde hair, a few freckles, and wore steel-rimmed glasses. She was well built and had good features, but she was more wholesome than alluring–more country girl than sophisticated. How should I dress?
I didn’t have a lot of choice. I could wear sweat shorts, jeans with a seam ripped open, or I could wear khaki slacks and a golf shirt–the clothing I’d worn to run some errands and for the drive back from Durango this morning.
I jumped in the shower, put my best clothes back on, and tried to do something with my hair. I habitually wore a crew cut, but the barber that came to the convalescent center said she didn’t know how to do a crew-cut, so the hair on top of my head was about two or three inches long–and mostly unmanageable. I didn’t bother to shave. The Native American genes that made my hair black and straight also gave me a light beard. I could go a day without shaving.
It was a little too far from my trailer space to the park entrance to walk with a cane, or at least my doctor thought it was, so I used my crutches. Still, knowing what a pain the crutches would be to get in and out of a car, and that they’d be an even larger pain in a theater, I hooked my cane over my collar in back and took it along. When I got to the entrance, I stashed my crutches between the fence and a bush and leaned on my cane while I waited.
The sun was down, the twilight fading, a half-moon sailing overhead, a gentle breeze sighing, a perfect night for romance. I felt my stomach knot at the thought.
Chapter Six
Shelly arrived right on time. I reached for the door and heard the lock operate. I opened the door, sat down, and swiveled into place with my cane held vertically between my knees. I smelled new leather and some exotic perfume. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Daniel Corbin, and I presume you’re Michelle. Nice wheels.”
“I like Shelly,” she said and smiled. She had a very nice smile in a face as flawless as I’d see
n in a long time. She wore black pants and a black sweater with a small gold chain around her neck. Her hair was short and blonde, done in a casual flip. “Ezzy told me you were on crutches. Your leg must be getting better.”
“I lost the cast day before yesterday. I’m supposed to use crutches for another week or so, but I’m cheating a little. I’ll be okay as long as I don’t have to walk too far.”
“You’re at my mercy then.” She laughed. “You can’t get out and walk home.”
“I’ll chance it,” I said. “If you get too fresh, I can always call my daughter to come get me.”
Shelly gave me an odd look, put the car in gear, and slammed me back in the seat as she accelerated. “No point in having all those horses under the hood if you can’t let them run,” she said.
She drove aggressively but well. She seemed totally confident in both her own and the car’s ability to negotiate the town’s traffic–not that there’s that much of it. It was only a couple of miles to the Fiesta Theater. She let me out in front even though I protested.
There was no room in the small parking lot. She had to find a place on the street. After about two minutes, I saw her coming toward me, walking as aggressively as she drove. She was more muscular than I expected. It looked good on her, including the low heeled shoes.
All I remember about the movie was sitting beside a very lovely and confident lady who held my hand or my arm and whispered witty comments at the more inane scenes. When the movie was over, I insisted on walking with her to the Jag.
“Would you like to go somewhere for a drink?” she asked.
“Frankly, I’d prefer not to,” I said. “I try to avoid alcohol in any form.”
“You have anything against ice cream?” she asked.
“Heck no. I don’t even try to avoid ice cream, though maybe I should.” I patted my small paunch–evidence of my forced inactivity.
“Oh, my daisies and bluebells,” she said. “Evelyn was right. I think I’ve found Nirvana. For two cents I’d take us to the Baskin-Robbins in Durango.” Before I had a chance to say anything, she said, “No, I can’t do that. I have work tomorrow and a game tomorrow night. I need my rest. The Dairy Queen in the big city of Cortez will have to do for this time.”
That sounded like she was agreeable to a second date. I liked the idea myself.
She drove east on Main Street to the Dairy Queen. We went inside and ordered sundaes. While we were waiting for our orders she said, “I never thought I’d meet a man who preferred ice-cream to alcohol. What do you have against alcohol?”
“Alcohol destroyed my grandparents. My mom drilled that into me from the time I was very small. I promised her I’d never drink, and I haven’t found any reason to break my promise. Besides, I like ice-cream,” I said and took a spoonful of quite excellent soft ice-cream.
“I don’t particularly care for alcohol either,” she said, “but my mom seemed to think the only way to find a man was to go bar hopping. She said booze helped get rid of her inhibitions. She didn’t tell me what alcohol does to some men.”
“Inhibitions aren't all bad.” I said.
“How did you meet your wife?”
I was surprised by the question. “High School,” I said. “We got married right after graduation. Some would say that's too young, but it worked for us.”
“She died, didn’t she?”
“A year ago last April.”
“You miss her, don’t you?” It was more a statement than a question.
I liked the way she talked about my loss. No syrupy sympathy, no trying to avoid the reality. It was refreshing.
“It’s not too bad if I keep busy,” I said.
“Were you kidding when you said you have a daughter?”
“No. Camille and I wanted three or four kids, but Natasha was all we were blessed with. She’s almost eighteen. She’ll be a sophomore at Ft. Lewis College.”
“She’s seventeen? I hadn’t guessed you were that old. Don’t you need to be home to keep an eye on her?”
“I trust her. We like to think she’s an old seventeen.”
“She must be smart to be a sophomore already. What’s her major?”
“Math and computer science. Her smarts are getting scary.” I changed the subject. “What sort of a game are you involved in tomorrow?”
Shelly concentrated on her ice cream for a longish pause before she answered, “Softball. I pitch for the Cortez women’s team.”
“Where is the game?”
Again Shelly took her time before she said, “Here. We play home games on the park down the street.”
“Mind if I come watch?”
She took a spoonful of her sundae then looked out the window for what seemed too long. Finally she said, “I guess it will be all right. We play at seven.”
I could tell something had changed. Something wasn’t all right. I thought about what I’d said. I couldn’t think what might have upset her. We finished our ice cream, mostly in silence. When we got back into her car, I said. “What is it about the game? I don’t need to come if you’d rather I didn’t.”
She was silent until we pulled up in front of the trailer court. Then she shut off the engine, turned to me, and said, “I’ve been married twice, Daniel. I imagine Ezzy told you that. Neither of my husbands could accept the idea that I was a better ball player than they were. It may sound like bragging, but the truth is I’m good, I love playing, and I’m not about to give up softball for any man.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“You are different,” she said, and paused for half a minute. I was about to ask what kind of work she did, when she said, “Yes, I think I do want to talk about it. Half of the women on the team are divorced or have never married. It comes with the territory. My first husband walked out on me after watching one game. It wasn’t only about softball, but that was the last straw. We’d only been married two months.
My last husband didn’t want me playing ball at all. I was supposed to be an ornament, his trophy wife, the finishing touch to his big house, an enticement for his swimming pool, a rose for his buttonhole, an accessory for his car. The egotistical blow hard.”
“So, did you not play while you were married to him?”
“No way. Maybe he wouldn’t have run out on me if I’d tried to do what he wanted, but softball is in my blood. It's who I am.”
I wondered where this was going. I turned to face her in the luxurious leather seat and asked, “So, what happened?”
She raised her chin, looked out the window, then turned back and said, “We argued. He said it wasn’t ladylike. What he meant, was it didn’t fit his picture of what the wife of big-shot lawyer Barry Quintana was supposed to be. He didn’t like me working, and he didn’t want me to ride my bike or play ball. What was I supposed to do, lay around the swimming pool all day?” She looked daggers at me then went on. “I kept telling him the team needed me, and he kept not hearing. Finally, he told me I couldn’t be all that great, so I bet him he couldn’t hit off me. I shouldn’t have done that. His ego was too big to back down from the challenge.”
I waited, wondering again where this was going, and why she needed to dump on me. After a minute of silence, she said. “Barry was nearly fifty, but he worked out at the gym, played a lot of golf, and kept in decent shape. He said it was important to look good in front of a jury–not that he had that many jury trials. He played football and some baseball in high school and college–until he got into law school and decided team sports were beneath his dignity. Golf was the gentleman’s game.
“Anyway, we picked up my catcher, went to the field, and I let him warm up. I pitched him some easy ones, to let him get used to seeing the ball come underhand. After he’d hit a couple of long balls, I said, ‘Are you ready to get serious?’ He said he was more than ready, ‘Three strikes and you’re out,’ I said, and proceeded to blow him away on three pitches.”
“I take it he didn’t like that.”
“He threw down
the bat, stomped off the field, and left me and my catcher to walk home. It was the beginning of the end. We were married for another year before he left, but things were never the same.”
I probably should have let it go at that, but my ever-present curiosity couldn't let it rest. “What did he say when you got home?” I asked.
“He wasn’t home when I got there. I thought maybe he was gone for good, but he came back about midnight. He was drunk–mean drunk. He jerked me out of bed and proceeded to use me for a punching bag. That was his second big mistake.”
“Did you call the cops?” I wasn't sure I wanted to know any more.
“No. I grabbed his keys and took off in his fancy four-wheel-drive pickup truck. I knew he wouldn’t hurt his truck, even mean drunk. He jumped in his Caddy like he was going to chase me down, but I don’t think he ever left the garage.”
“Where did you go?”
“I drove to Farmington, went to the hospital, and had them patch up my face.” She paused. “Then I came back.”
“You came back home? That night? Wasn’t that dangerous?”
“I had a plan. I wasn’t about to let him get away with whaling on me. I grew up with brothers and cousins. There are ways to get even. When I got where I could see the house, I sat in his truck for about two hours while I figured out what to do. I’ll bet you can’t even guess.”
I was afraid to guess, so I asked, “Did you sue him?”
“No way! I wasn’t about to give him a home field advantage,” She answered. “About daylight, I parked in the driveway and crept inside. He was still in bed, which was what I hoped. I waited until he began to rouse from his drunken stupor. I hollered at him until his eyes opened and then bashed the pillow right by his head with my ball bat. He dang near messed his pants. I told him if he ever laid a hand on me again, I’d split his skull like a ripe watermelon. Then I went back out and locked myself in his truck. He came out in about an hour. He said he was sorry, and that he’d lost his head, and that he’d never do it again.