Red Hot Deadly Peppers

by Paige Shelton

  She’d said, “This is Graham. He’s very good at beading, quick and dexterous.” But her chilly tone had not matched her complimentary words. At the time, I hadn’t been able to label it, but now I realized that what I’d heard in her voice was disgust or maybe disdain or something similar. Whatever the case, I was anxious to get the bag of beads to him. I doubted he’d greet me and immediately spill the reason behind Nera’s unkind attitude, but I was curious to see if my instincts could pick up on anything specific.

  Graham not only strung beads but sold the results, too. As one of the true artists, he manned a smaller turquoise jewelry stall. His creations were authentic and beautiful, stunning, in fact. I’d been thinking about a gift for Allison, and Graham’s intricate designs were currently at the top of my list. As I walked toward his booth at the back of the building, I decided I would use my cool down time to look more closely at his jewelry.

  When I was still a good five stalls away from Graham’s, I saw him clearly. He had his back to the aisle and seemed to be bent over, looking at something. No, maybe not bent over, but sitting on a stool examining something? He appeared to be leaning his forehead on a large ground-to-ceiling pole that was in the middle of his stall. Maybe that’s how he kept his vision steady while he strung the small beads? I knew it would be difficult for me to do such intricate work—I had neither the patience nor the creativity.

  I stopped in front of his glass display case and looked around. A half-filled juice drink was on the corner of the counter, but nothing else covered the clean and clear glass. Graham was most definitely sitting on a stool and leaning his head against the pole. His neck was bent down so far it looked uncomfortable at best, painful at worst. Should I interrupt whatever he was doing, or should I just wait patiently? There weren’t a lot of people around yet, but the few I noticed weren’t close by or looking in this direction.

  A beat later I cleared my throat, but Graham did not turn around to greet me; in fact, he did absolutely nothing at all. This didn’t strike me as rude so much as odd. I looked more closely at his back. His shoulders were slack, his arms hanging down with both wrists unmoving against the insides of his knees. I couldn’t tell for sure if he was working on jewelry, but it didn’t look like it.

  “Graham?” I said. No reaction. “Graham?” Nothing.

  I debated jumping over the glass case but saw an opening to the stall around the side. I hurried over and then hurried in.

  “Graham?” I said as I put my hand on his shoulder. When I didn’t get a reaction this time, I repositioned myself so that I could see his face, which looked oddly swollen and smushed against the pole.

  There was something terribly wrong with the way his mouth hung open, and his eyes were too tightly shut. But it was the stillness that was most disturbing and something I’d unfortunately seen before: lifelessness, though I couldn’t seem to accept that truth. I tried one more time.

  “Graham!” I shook his shoulder.

  With that, his face finally slipped off the pole. I tried to catch his body as it fell to the floor, but he was too big and I was just the right size to be crushed by him. We both went down.

  His body heavy on mine, I was suddenly too scared to scream, but a few moments later I managed to find my breath and belt out “Help!” a few good, loud times.

  Chapter Two

  The next few moments unfolded in surreal fashion. As Graham’s body was being lifted from mine, time seemed to slow to a crawl. But once I was out of his stall and Nera was at my side, the pace quickened dramatically, in a Keystone Kops kind of way. Though I’d seen plenty of police officers in action before, I didn’t quite understand the different uniforms that suddenly appeared. Nera explained that both Arizona State law enforcement officers as well as reservation officers would be involved in investigating Graham’s death.

  All at once, the area in and around the jewelry stall was overrun with people, none of them tourists, and very few of them trading post employees. I was questioned by at least five uniformed officers, two women and three men. The last person to approach me was a man who wasn’t wearing a uniform, but khakis, a denim shirt, and a well-worn cowboy hat. I had my wits enough about me to wonder if he was for real, but Nera assured me that he was, in fact, legitimate.

  “It’s okay to answer his questions, Becca, but find me after you do,” she said.

  “Thanks, Nera,” the man said. They shared a strained smile before she turned and walked away.

  He was probably my father’s age, but the wrinkles around his dark eyes were deeper than Dad’s. The hot Arizona sun had probably been the reason, but the lines weren’t unpleasant. In fact, they made his eyes look like they were in a perpetual smile, though the rest of his expression wasn’t as happy.

  “Becca, my name’s Harry Lindon, but some people around here still call me Talking Trees.”

  “Your Native American name?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was born on the reservation and lived here until I left for college. I don’t live on the reservation any longer. I’m a private citizen and a private detective. Nera and I are friends who both grew up here, but she approached me not long ago with some concerns. She asked me to look into a few things. That’s why I’d like to ask you a couple questions. You okay with that?” Harry said.

  I thought a long moment about whether to answer his questions. Even with Nera’s go-ahead, the logical side of me said I should probably just stick with official officers. I didn’t really know any of these people. But the less logical side of me, the side that resided mostly in my gut, told me Harry was okay. Besides, what answer could I possibly give that would get me into any trouble? I’d found Graham dead; there wasn’t much more to my story.

  “Can I ask what sorts of things were happening that Nera asked you to look into?” I said.

  “Fair enough. She had—has—concerns about money issues at the trading post, and . . . Nera’s uncle was found dead a few months back. There was no investigation into the death. He died on the reservation, and as per tradition he was buried quickly. Nera suspects foul play, but nothing’s been proven.”

  “Do you think that Graham’s death has something to do with Nera’s uncle’s? Do you think he was—they were—murdered?” I asked.

  Harry shrugged. “Don’t have any idea.”

  But I could tell he was holding something back.

  Of course he isn’t telling me everything, I thought. He’s a private investigator. It’s in his job description to be secretive and discrete.

  It was only to be expected that Nera’s slip earlier about Graham “scamming” customers was also banging around in my head, but I decided not to mention it at the moment. I can hold on to a secret, too. I was such a rebel.

  “Okay. Your turn. Ask away,” I said.

  Harry began with how I happened to be the one to find Graham. He asked what made me go into the stall. He wondered why I pushed Graham from his sitting position. I clarified quickly, stating that I was just trying to rouse the man from his state of stillness, and though a part of me might have acknowledged that he was dead, a bigger part of me didn’t realize until his heavy body had pinned mine to the ground that he wasn’t going to respond.

  But then he asked me some questions that I couldn’t answer.

  “Who was around when you found Graham?”

  I remembered noticing that the few people around weren’t paying me any attention, but I hadn’t noticed who wasn’t paying attention.

  “I think there were a couple people in the booth a few down from Graham’s, but I couldn’t tell you who they were.” I looked across the trading post but didn’t see anyone in said booth, and I couldn’t remember who might have been there earlier.

  Harry’s happy eyes pinched momentarily. I could tell he was disappointed in my limited memory.

  “If it comes to you, will you let me know?�
�� he said.

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks. This is a strange question, but did you smell anything when . . . well, when Graham’s body was pinning you? Did he have any sort of scent, unusual or not?”

  I crinkled my nose and thought back. My mother had recently been involved in a murder that was partially solved with the help of an herb scent. The smell was important to breaking the case. Though Harry’s question might be strange, I didn’t think it unreasonable.

  “When I came into the trading post, I smelled something like . . . I think it was jasmine maybe, but there was something else, something . . . watery. Is that possible?”

  “Sure. The entire place is cooled with air conditioners we call swamp coolers. They’d never work in your neck of the woods because of the humidity. Simply, they suck in outside air and cool it by moving it over water. It works in our dry climate. Sometimes the watery scent can break through. But what about on Graham—did you smell anything?”

  “I don’t think so.” I shook my head slowly. “At least, there wasn’t anything that smelled strong enough for me to think it was unusual.”

  “Did you get hurt?”

  “No, not at all. I probably panicked, but I wasn’t physically hurt.”

  “May I ask—what’s this?” Harry reached to my cheek, close to my ear.

  I reached, too, and touched. It was tender, and I suddenly realized that the spot was stinging, or burning.

  I looked around and saw a mirror in the middle of a dream catcher pinned to a post only a couple feet away. I peered into the mirror and examined the red spot. It wasn’t much of anything, so I wasn’t surprised I’d not noticed it before.

  I looked at Harry. “I guess I’m still running on some adrenaline. I didn’t know I got scraped. It’s not a big deal, though.”

  “It might be nothing, maybe not even a scrape. You’ll probably be a little sore all over later. That would be natural.”

  “Probably. I hope I’ll remember who was around, too. I feel fine, but maybe I’m in shock a little.”

  “Maybe.” Harry pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. It said, “Harry Lindon, Talking Trees Investigations.” “Call me later. Do me a favor. Try to put a little vegetable oil on that scrape. Let me know if it clears up.”

  “Okay.” I blinked, but didn’t question his recommendation. He must know something I didn’t about the magical healing properties of vegetable oil.

  “One more thing—did you notice any markings on Graham’s skin?”

  “Markings?”

  “Yes, anything that got your attention or anything unusual? Maybe something like what’s on your face?”

  I shook my head. I tried to put an extra oomph into thinking this time. “His eyes were shut really tightly. That didn’t seem right, but I’m not sure I know why.”

  “Interesting. Anything else?”

  “I really don’t think so.”

  Harry nodded. “Please just let me know if anything comes back to you.”

  “I will.”

  “Thanks, Becca. Call me at any time.” He nodded and then turned to walk away.

  I glanced at his card and then slipped it into my pocket.

  I suddenly wasn’t sure where to go. Nera had said that I should find her, but I didn’t know exactly where to look. No one was where they were supposed to be. I threaded my way out of the trading post and back outside, into the stifling heat, the impact of which was exacerbated by the fact that I’d just spent a good hour and half or so inside where it was as cool as a meat locker.

  I stood on the asphalt and looked around. I couldn’t see the other side of the tent stalls, which might be where Nera had gone. There hadn’t been many customers at the trading post before Graham’s death. And even with the influx of law enforcement vehicles, the parking lot still seemed vast and lonely. I didn’t know how successful—or not—trading post business had been lately, but it had been my experience that murder was morbidly good for business. If Graham had been murdered, sales would probably go up, at least temporarily.

  A pickup was parked to the side of the big building in a small block of shade. Its tailgate was lowered, and I could see two pairs of legs dangling down. I took a couple steps forward and saw that the two teenagers, Cole and Brad, were sitting on the tailgate, and Susan and Nick Rigger were further back in the bed, each of them leaning on a side.

  “Oh, hey, Becca,” Nick Rigger said as I rounded the corner. He sat up straighter and swiped some red bangs off his forehead. He and his wife were both redheads, but her hair was more auburn and her skin wasn’t as fair as her husband’s. When I’d met him the day before, I wondered how his skin hadn’t burnt to a crisp in the Arizona sun. “I heard you were the one to find Graham.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I said. I stepped to the side of the truck so that I was in the shade, too.

  “You okay?” Susan asked. “That must have been quite the shock.”

  I didn’t go into the fact that it wasn’t the first dead body I’d come upon and considering everything, it was probably the least gruesome. “I’ll be all right. I’m sorry about Graham, though.”

  Cole huffed a laugh. His cheek color had normalized, and his eyes, though still slightly red, were no longer watering. Brad elbowed him in the side.

  “Boys,” Nick said. “I’ll apologize for them, Becca. Graham wasn’t as well liked . . . as, well, as he was at one time. Forgive the boys’ behavior. They’re being stupid and rude.”

  I nodded.

  “You boys will be sorry about your attitude if we find out Graham was murdered,” Susan said.

  “Murdered?” Cole said.

  “They’ll investigate his death,” Susan said.

  Brad looked at me. “Was he bleeding? Maybe he’d been stabbed or shot?”

  “Not that I saw,” I said. I wanted to ask them more questions about Graham and how he seemed to be losing lots of popularity contests, but I was distracted by a flash of movement in the parking lot that I thought might have been Nera.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I turned to get a better view of the lot.

  Fortunately, the flash flashed again, between two Arizona State Police cars. It was something dark and quick and silent. I moved again to an even better viewing spot and watched in between the cars, but for a long moment I didn’t see anything at all. And then I saw Nera. She seemed to grow up from the ground, which, of course, meant that she was probably just standing up. But what was she doing on the ground in the first place? Had she fallen and was that the initial flash I’d noticed? The entire scene felt funny and “off” somehow.

  She smoothed her hair and then looked around in what seemed to be a furtive manner. At first she glanced right over me, but then her neck reversed and her gaze met mine. For an instant, her eyes flickered with panic, but they quickly normalized and she smiled and waved.

  What was going on?

  “Becca,” she called. She came out from in between the cars and walked toward me. I met her halfway.

  “How’d it go with Harry?” she asked.

  “Fine. I didn’t have much to tell him.”

  She nodded but failed to hide her disappointment. “That’s okay,” she said. “He’s good at what he does; maybe you helped but you just don’t know yet.”

  I nodded and bit at my bottom lip. “Nera, can I ask what you were doing over by the cars?”

  “Oh. Nothing, just . . .” She looked back toward the cars and mirrored my bottom-lip bite. She sighed, and then she sighed again. I remained quiet. Sometimes silence is the best prompt. It worked this time.

  A few long moments later she turned toward me again. “Becca, I know you don’t know me, but maybe that’s best. Sometimes it’s good to talk to someone you feel like you can trust not to betray you even—well, maybe especially�
��if you don’t know them well. I feel like I can trust you. I hope I’m not wrong about that, but how would you feel about listening to some things, being a sounding board?”

  Surprising even myself, I felt a wave of wariness ride through my chest. This was the kind of stuff I loved putting my nose right in the middle of, but suddenly I wondered if I really needed to make whatever was going on in the hottest place in the universe my business.

  Predictably, the wary went away quickly. And I was suddenly deeply curious.

  “I’d be happy to,” I said.

  “Good. Come on. Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

  Chapter Three

  The restaurant was old, done in red velvet, with a red giant paisley carpet and chandeliers that looked to be made of gold-painted plastic, but it was cool inside and the server left a pitcher of iced tea on the table so that I could refill my glass as much as I wanted.

  Nera asked for the corner booth, which was mostly private except for an elderly couple two tables over. Neither of us thought they’d have any interest in whatever we were going to talk about, though Nera did eye them a couple times just to see if their ears were perked. They weren’t.

  Along with the iced tea, Nera ordered some stuffed mushrooms and onion rings. One of the things I’d looked forward to when I heard I was going to Arizona was some authentic southwestern cuisine. So far I’d only tried a couple mild peppers and drooled at a table of tamales in the trading post; the other few meals I’d eaten were reminiscent of what I dined on at home in South Carolina.

  “I’m so sorry, Becca,” Nera said as she refilled my tea glass for me. “Mostly, I’m sorry about my dramatic behavior, but I’m sorry that you had to find Graham . . . the way you found him. I don’t know what happened, but I’m afraid we’re not measuring up to the hosts I thought we’d be.”

  Nera’s fear or concern or panic or whatever it had been that I’d seen at the trading post had mellowed. I could tell she was still bothered, but she was trying hard to hide it. And I could tell that she was having second thoughts about talking to me. The time and distance from the horrible event had caused her to second-guess her decision that I might be a good person to talk to. I tried to paste a trustworthy look on my face.