by Lyssa Layne
He shrugged. “Don’t be. I’m fine.”
She didn’t think he was, but she didn’t want to argue about it. Leaning a hip against the stainless steel counter, she asked, “You said you chatted with Skeeter sometimes, right?”
“Yeah.” He took on a guarded look. “So?”
“I was just wondering if he ever talked about the resort before it was a resort.” She reached around him and took a pop out of the fridge then backed up again.
He frowned as he capped his used syringe and stuck it in his pocket. “I guess.”
“Can you remember what he said?” She tried for subtle so as not to scare him off.
“Not offhand.” He buttoned his shirt.
Darn. She was going to have to be direct. “Like, for instance, did he ever say anything about gold being buried on this ranch or the surrounding area?”
Brent sniffed. “You’re buying into that theory, too?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean your old man wasted his life on this wild goose chase. So, apparently, did the guy who was whacked over the head. Now you’re asking about it. It stands to reason gold fever’s biting your butt, too.” He grinned but it wasn’t a friendly look.
“I’m just curious,” she denied. “I’m not my father and I have no interest in gold other than the fillings in my teeth.”
“Everyone has an interest in gold,” Brent corrected. “Ever heard of the La Paz gold rush in 1862? Every miner in the country went there looking for gold, but all they found was sand and cactus.”
“No, I’m not familiar with it,” she said.
“Funny,” he said, not looking amused, “Skeeter was. He told me all about it.”
“Did he talk about any other strikes closer to here?” Mallory knew enough Arizona geography to know where Brent spoke of. It was on the other side of Phoenix, near Wickenburg.
“Not that I recall. But he wasn’t really interested in mines. He was more interested in lost treasure.” Brent leaned his elbows on the counter across from her.
“They go hand in hand, don’t they? People believe the Lost Dutchman gold was hauled out from a mine in the area,” she told him.
“Yes, but we’re not strictly talking about the same thing, are we?” He made patterns in the mirror-like surface of the counter.
“Not strictly,” she said. “But close enough.”
“Skeeter played his cards close to his chest. If he knew anything about the treasure, he never breathed a word to me.”
“Was he close to anyone on the ranch?” she asked. “Was there anyone who he might’ve confided in?”
“I was the most likely,” Brent said. “But when we met up we didn’t talk about treasure hunting. We discussed the weather, the desert. Just chit-chat. Once in awhile, when I had some time, he’d tell me stories about the area. But, no, before you ask, nothing important.”
She wanted to groan with frustration.
“You might look up an old dude named Gentleman Jim Weeks. He was the head wrangler out here for a long time. Now he lives at one of the old folks’ homes in Mesa. I don’t know which one, but his daughter would. Her name is Sandra Weeks and she lives in Phoenix. She’ll be in the phone book. If Gentleman Jim is still coherent, he’ll know about any gold around this ranch. Maybe Skeeter told him something. I don’t know.”
“Thanks. I’ll call Sandra tomorrow.” She waited a beat. “Why are you helping me?”
He looked up. “I guess I feel bad because you got the short end of the stick where your old man was concerned. If following his trail and asking questions makes you feel better, then go to it.” Before she could ask him why he had changed his mind, he walked to the door. “Got to get some rest.”
She watched his shadow move down the hall and out of sight. Had he told her the truth? Or was everything that came out of his mouth a lie? No way to know. In the morning she’d call Sandra and see if her father felt like company.
~*~
Mike lay on his couch, watching the late news, trying to keep from hurling something at the screen. The local TV reporters had somehow found out about Wendell Wallace. No matter which local channel he flipped to, they all showed the shallow grave, the ambulance pulling out with the body and The Cholla’s front gates. Just as he feared, every single channel brought up the SRPL. More than one perky reporter hinted at a connection between the body and the injunction. The name hadn’t been released, so the fact that he was a treasure hunter wasn’t mentioned in any piece.
It would take a miracle to get the ranch back on its feet again.
He rubbed his aching neck.
Today had been rotten in so many ways. He kept thinking he’d go to bed, wake up, and the nightmare would be over. The ranch would be full of happy guests, his staff would be busy and earning their wages, and he would be doing what he loved.
If all that were the case he wouldn’t have met Mallory.
Like it mattered. He’d convinced her to stay for dinner only to have his friends accuse her of making up the whole loose horse incident. He didn’t know what to think. She was so sincere. But on the other hand, his friends wouldn’t lie to him. Dianna had been genuinely shocked that he thought she had lured Mallory away so he could rifle her room. But if she hadn’t done it, who had?
One by one, he listed them.
Shelby.
Wouldn’t hurt a flea.
Alan.
Kind of gruff, but harmless.
Brent.
Too ill to be conniving.
Dianna.
Motive and...what did the cops say? Motive and opportunity.
She had both.
Was she a good enough actress to feign so much surprise and hurt? He didn’t think so. He’d never seen her be anything but straight up. In fact, she was too much in your face with her opinions sometimes.
Alan suggested Mallory had made a dumb choice, gone outside for a walk, and wound up lost. And then, too ashamed to admit it, had fabricated the whole horse story.
Mike didn’t buy it for a minute.
He didn’t know Mallory that well, but he couldn’t feature her lying about anything. From the minute he’d met her, she’d been straightforward and honest. If she hadn’t made up a story, and none of his friends had tried to get her out of the lodge, then who had done it? No one else was here.
His buddy up the river at River Adventures had his rafts slashed one night. Ryan couldn’t prove it, but he suspected the SRPL. They had shut him down, too. A little more aggressive than Mike, he had a fist fight with one of their more vocal supporters. Later, his rafts had been ripped to shreds with knives and hatchets.
The incident had scared Mike’s other neighbors enough they kept their mouths shut and their heads down. He wasn’t afraid, but he didn’t antagonize them either. Had one of them snuck in at night and knocked on Mallory’s door, thinking it was his? The possibility sent a shiver down his back. If so, the group had gone beyond trouble. They were now endangering lives.
And maybe not for the first time.
Had one of them found Wendell Wallace digging up the desert and hit him? The SRPL was rabid in their desire to protect the river and the land surrounding it. Wallace might not have known about them or that he wasn’t supposed to be on that area of public land until the matter was solved. The possibility was a long shot, but there might be enough merit to it that Mike made a mental note to talk to Sheriff Bodine about it in the morning.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mallory rose early and found Sandra Weeks in the phone book. She dialed and waited for several rings before a woman with a light, sweet voice answered. “Hello?”
“Uh, hi.” Now that she had the woman on the phone, Mallory couldn’t think of what to say. “Sandra Weeks?”
“Yes, dear. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Mallory James and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions. Actually, I’m wondering if I could meet your father. I think he may have known my father and I would like to meet h
im.” Mallory twisted a pen in her hand.
“Oh, dear. My papa passed away last year. But I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”
“What? What did you say?” Mallory took the phone from her ear and shook it, then placed it next to her ear again. “I think I heard you wrong. You said you’ve been waiting to speak to me.”
“That’s right, dear. My papa told me you’d be calling when Skeeter died. Oh, dear. This call means he died, doesn’t it?” Her quiet voice sounded sad.
“Yes,” Mallory managed. “Skeeter died a few days ago. How did you know? I don’t understand.”
“I prefer not to talk over the phone, dear,” Sandra said. “Come to four-o-nine Cactus Court in Phoenix at promptly ten a.m. We’ll have brunch and I’ll answer all your questions then.”
The line went dead.
Mallory pinched her leg to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. “Ouch.”
She looked at the clock. 8:00 A.M. Not a lot of time to get ready and find her way to Sandra’s house. She jumped up and showered. A few minutes later she threw on a pair of jeans and a dark brown silk top she liked and ran a brush through her hair. She ran down the hall and knocked on Mike’s door.
He opened in a flash. Like her, he had just showered. The ends of his blond hair shimmered in the light and she had a sudden wish to touch them. “Can I borrow a car? I have to meet someone in an hour.”
To her surprise he shook his head. “Not covered by insurance. I had to cancel most of the policies. But I can take you wherever it is you want to go.”
The last thing she wanted was to go anywhere with him, but whatever Sandra had to say outweighed her reservations. “I need to be in Phoenix in an hour and a half for brunch.”
He reached on the table near the door and grabbed his keys. “Let’s go.”
Mallory told Mike where they were going and why as they drove into Phoenix. He didn’t make much comment, only listened.
~*~
At exactly 10:00 a.m. they stood in front of a Spanish-style bungalow. Palm and oleander trees shaded the red gravel walk. Mallory rang the doorbell and waited.
Soon, someone tiny with dark eyes peered through a window set within the door. “Miss James?”
“Yes. And this is—”
“Mikey. Yes, I know.” The peephole closed and a tiny, hunchbacked lady opened the main door. “Come in.”
Mallory glanced at Mike. He shook his head and lifted his hands palms up in a who knows gesture. Together, they stepped inside. For a minute Mallory thought she’d entered another realm. Or at least another country. The house looked like something a Spanish aristocrat might own with lots of red velvet and brocade everywhere.
“Miss Weeks?” Mallory asked. The woman wore a mid-calf black lace dress and a mantilla folded over the back of her steel gray hair. Her shoes were two-inch spike heels that brought her almost up to Mike’s chest.
“Yes, dear. You don’t look a thing like your father.” She tipped her head much like a small rodent might and studied Mike. “And this is Mikey. I see you don’t remember me. My dear papa was the head horse wrangler at The Jumping Cholla when your parents first bought it. I used to spend time there with my Papa. You were always so sweet the way you’d go trekking off through the desert. You were about ten or so. Many years ago.”
He smiled at her. “I remember now.”
“Yes, dear.” She waved a hand toward the back. “Let’s sit on the patio and catch up. I can tell Miss James is anxious to hear about her father.” She turned and led the way through an immaculate, but overdone house to a fenced-in backyard. A fountain bubbled in a corner near the wall. On a table there were cereal, bananas, and a carton of milk. Alongside them was an expensive looking silver tea set and china bowls, tea cups, and saucers. “I hope this will do. I just don’t have company these days.”
“It’s perfect,” Mallory assured her.
Mike waited until she and Sandra were seated, then pushed them in and sat. They waited for Sandra to shake out a lace napkin and serve herself before they helped themselves to cereal. She sliced a banana on top of hers with surgical precession. Finally, she took a bite.
“How is your father?” Mike asked.
Sandra set her spoon aside. “He passed last year, sweet old dear.”
“I’m sorry,” Mike said. “I didn’t know.”
“Yes, he lost touch with most of his old friends.” She shook her head sadly. “Poor Papa didn’t have many friends. But Skeeter stuck around.”
“My father stayed in touch with your papa when he was in the nursing home?” Mallory toyed with her cereal. “They were that good of friends?”
Sandra’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh no, dear. They weren’t close. Skeeter didn’t have friends. He had acquaintances that he might or might not speak to. He liked to talk to Papa because he thought Papa might know something about lost treasure. Skeeter never quit hounding my poor papa about those damn myths until the day he died.”
Her appetite gone, Mallory whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize...”
“Of course you didn’t, dear. Your father abandoned you when you were a little girl. You can’t be held responsible for his obsession.” Sandra clicked her tongue against her teeth.
“How did you know that?” Mallory’s throat felt like she’d swallowed something sharp, as if cut glass scraped across her tonsils.
“Because your father talked freely about you and your mother. He dreamed of finding a big strike and going home to the hero’s welcome.” Sandra took a bite of cereal and chewed. “But if you’re here, that tells me that didn’t happen.”
“No. He died with nothing,” Mike said. “Well, nothing but a burro and a map.”
“Then the map was worthless,” Sandra said. “My papa told him so, but Skeeter wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Mallory stared at her. “What map, Miss Weeks?”
Sandra swallowed. “Many, many years ago my dear papa found a map in one of the saddlebags of an old unused saddle at The Jumping Cholla. He thought it might be a treasure map of sorts and he used to search a little on his free time. But he never found a thing.”
“How did Skeeter know about it?” Mike sat on the edge of his seat.
“I can’t say for sure,” Sandra said. “All I know is when Papa finally gave in and handed it over, Skeeter never came back again. Papa told me you’d be next to come when Skeeter died, asking questions, too.”
“I’m nothing like my father.” Mallory’s temper flared a little. “Are you like yours?”
“Of course, dear. The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.” She waved her spoon and cackled. “See this house? My dear papa didn’t find anything, but I did.”
“Are you saying you found the gold your own father and Skeeter couldn’t?” Mallory gaped at her.
“Why do you look so surprised?” She smiled. “I wasn’t always an old woman and I learned well.”
“Your father gave Skeeter a worthless piece of paper because you’d already found the loot?” Mike sounded as skeptical as Mallory felt.
She chuckled again. “Why would my dear papa give away the only thing he ever had to Skeeter? What was he to him? Nothing but a pest who hung around wanting something that wasn’t his.”
“Technically, the map wasn’t your father’s either,” Mike reminded with a hint of a bite in his voice. “It was ranch property.”
“Papa found the map long before your family ever came to The Cholla,” Sandra said. “And I guess the previous owners can sue me if they like.”
“Did your father ever talk about the map with anyone else?” Mallory asked. “Did he promise it to any other person besides my father?”
Sandra frowned. “My dear papa had the heart of a king, but the pockets of a pauper. He promised many things to many people.”
“So, in other words, he did tell others they could have the map,” Mallory said. “Do you know who?”
“I couldn’t say,” Sandra said. “Papa talked a l
ot when he was sick. But by that time it didn’t matter. I had beat them all.”
Sandra looked very satisfied with herself. Maybe Skeeter deserved what he got, but all Mallory felt was an overwhelming sadness. Her father had spent half of his life chasing a dream that someone else found first. She pushed her chair back. “I think I’ve heard enough, Miss Weeks. Thank you for your time.”
“Wait a minute.” Mike looked at Sandra. “I would like to know where you found this treasure. And why didn’t you tell the press? Half of Arizona has been tearing up the desert looking for the Lost Dutchman. If you found it, as you say, why didn’t you take the glory?”
She smiled. “Who said I found the Lost Dutchman? Did I say anything about that old fable? There is more than one lost treasure in the desert. And where it was is for me to know and nobody else to find out. I don’t need fame when I have the money.”
Mallory stood. “Enjoy the money, Miss Weeks. Thank you for your time.”
“Any time, Miss, any time. And Mikey. Always a pleasure.” She took another bite of cereal. “You don’t mind showing yourselves out, do you?”
Mallory waited until she was in the car until she said, “Do you believe one word of that?”
Mike started the Durango. “I don’t know. She lives well enough. Wranglers, even head wranglers, don’t make that much money. I don’t think Gentleman Jim ever had much more than a saddle and an old pickup.”
Fighting tears, she asked, “Was Skeeter really like that? Willing to harass an old man on his deathbed?”
Mike didn’t answer for a minute. She watched him through misty eyes as he struggled to answer her. “I didn’t see him that way. He was just an old man who had a dream and he followed it.”
“At any cost.” Mallory couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Home, family, friends. Nothing mattered but Skeeter.”
“You heard Sandra,” Mike said. “She said Skeeter talked about you and your mother and how he wanted to find the big strike to come home to you with something to show for his trouble. That’s not someone who doesn’t care at all.”