I stopped at the Mosey On Inn and stumbled inside for my morning transfusion of coffee along with directions as to where the group of wacko scientists were holed up. I also gave Ruby the news about Annie. Ruby took it in stride.
“These things happen,” she casually informed me.
“Being shot in a bathtub?” I asked, surprised by her response.
Ruby adjusted her chest as she put on a new pot to brew. “Darlin’, there are lots of bodies buried in holes out in the desert. The trick is to make sure you don’t trip and fall in with them.”
The words sounded like good advice through my tequila haze. I grabbed another cup of coffee and a bag of Doritos to go, but Ruby pulled the chips out of my hands, foisting a bran muffin on me in its place.
“You gotta eat healthy!” she called as I headed out the door.
The heat was already a sweltering ninety-eight degrees by seven in the morning and about as dry as a sponge held under a running faucet. I turned onto a dirt road and headed toward the mountains, passing sun-bleached bones along the way. I only hoped they weren’t human. The wind had begun to pick up, singing a mournful dirge through the needles of large barrel cactus as shadows of clouds tripped across the mountain face. I’d heard that with time you can learn to take the desert’s pulse. This morning it was vibrating with life, even though none could be seen.
Shifting into four-wheel drive, I worked my way up and down switchbacks and over rocks, following Ruby’s directions. After about twenty minutes of this, I began to think that she’d been wrong. It seemed inconceivable that anyone would want to live out here.
Then I heard the sound of gunshots. I turned off what Ruby had called a road and blindly followed the sound, but nothing came into view. Not wanting to risk losing my way, I was about to turn back when sunlight reflected off an object in the distance. I headed in its direction.
The closer I got, the less I trusted my eyes. There appeared to be a large wooden ark sitting in the middle of the desert. Unless I had just solved a biblical mystery, this was the home of the group of scientists I had been told about.
Then I caught sight of my welcoming committee. Ensconced in a beach chair was a bare-chested, middle-aged man with stringy blond hair. His sunburned beer belly hung like a worn-out tire over cutoff denim shorts. Cowboy boots covered his feet. He was bleary-eyed, with a fifth of Jack Daniel’s stuck between his legs. He looked like he should have been on a beach, waiting for a wave to roll in, instead of working on his skin cancer in the middle of the Mojave Desert.
He waited for me to get out of the Blazer. “How ya doin’?”
“Hi. I’m Rachel Porter, with Fish and Wildlife,” I said.
“So you’re the new oinker, huh?” he commented, squinting up at me.
Somehow it didn’t sound like scientific jargon to me. He gave a wide grin as he brought the bottle of Jack Daniel’s to his lips and took a swig.
“Name’s Noah Gorfine. Welcome to my ark.” Noah motioned behind him without bothering to get out of his chair.
After Cammo Dude I thought I’d met all the loony tunes around, but Noah was coming up number one on my hit parade. If there was one thing I hadn’t expected to find, it was an ark sitting out in the middle of the desert. But then again, I should have known better. In Nevada, nothing is what you expect it to be.
“Why the ark?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“In case it rains,” Noah deadpanned.
“So where are all the animals?” I questioned.
Another gunshot rang out. Noah looked off in the distance and chuckled. “Don’t worry. They’re coming.”
In the Bible, two of each kind were taken onboard the ark. Heading our way was a twist on the story. A pack of small, unkempt dogs began yapping their lungs out upon catching sight of me. Breaking into a mad dash, the motley brood lunged en masse, looking like out-of-control mops as they nipped at my legs.
“Down!” A new voice issued the command.
The dogs immediately fell back in a ragtag semblance of order. I’d been so busy swatting the little beasts away that I hadn’t noticed the woman who now stood before me. A busty bleached blonde, she was dressed in a midriff shirt cut to emphasize her abundant cleavage, a small roll of fat squeezed out of the top of her hip-hugger jeans. She’d taken the time to apply full makeup to her slightly bloated face, and large gold hoop earrings finished off the ensemble.
Noah introduced us. “This is my number one mama, Georgia Peach.”
Georgia Peach looked like she had reached the summit of ripeness long ago and was now careening down the other side of the hill without her brakes on.
“So you’re the new kid on the block, huh?” Deep and gravelly, her voice sounded as if it had been run through a meat grinder and then lightly sanded until it held a distinctive growl. “Guess they aren’t going for perky tits and a tight ass these days.”
I refused to take offense at a woman who resembled an over-the-hill biker chick. Still, I made sure to stand up straight, push out my chest, pull in my stomach, and clench my butt.
“It sounds as if you don’t like the Fish and Wildlife Service very much.”
“I sure as hell don’t,” Georgia growled.
“Any particular reason why?” I was curious to see if the desert tortoise came up on her list.
“Yeah, I used to work for them as a wildlife biologist. That’s reason enough for me.”
I couldn’t have been more surprised if Noah had handed me an umbrella and correctly predicted an instantaneous flood. “What happened?”
“I wanted to be a Playboy centerfold. Can’t you tell?” Georgia pulled a pint bottle of peppermint schnapps from her back pocket and carefully wiped off the top before bringing it to her lips.
“What are you doing now?”
Georgia pointed to the gang of oversized hair balls, which had begun to chase a panicky lizard. “I breed Lhasa Apsos and sell them in Vegas.”
With the way they looked, I found it hard to believe she could give the mutts away.
A movement caught my attention and I glanced at the ark, but the figure that had appeared quickly pulled back. Noah followed my gaze.
“That’s my number two mama there. Suzie Q, get on out here. It don’t look like this one’s gonna bite.”
The woman came out from behind the ark and stopped a few feet away from me. Standing six foot two with eyes of blue, Suzie Q lived up to her name. A mane of dark hair framed an elongated face. Her clothes hung loose on a stick-thin body as though they were dangling from a wire. Munching on a Twinkie, she stood and stared at me in silence. But my eyes were glued to what was sitting on her shoulder.
Noah glanced at me and chuckled. “That’s Suzie Q’s pet, Frank Sinatra. Want to say hello?”
What I wanted to do was get back in the Blazer and leave, but my feet were frozen in place. A large tarantula the size of a man’s hand, Frank Sinatra could easily have replaced the star of Arachnophobia. Suzie Q kept munching away at her Twinkie, never taking her eyes off me.
Georgia’s voiced jarred me back to reality. “So let’s see what Fish and Wildlife has gone and hired themselves these days. Got a gun?”
My hand immediately went for the revolver stuck in the back of my jeans. “Why do you ask?”
Georgia licked her lips and smiled. “Just want to see if they hired someone who can shoot straight. How about we go a couple rounds?”
I followed Georgia, giving Suzie Q a wide berth as we headed toward the back of the ark. Strung out on a clothesline between two tall Joshua trees hung photos of Playboy centerfolds from the last twelve months. Noah handed Georgia a .38 Smith & Wesson.
“Got a favorite bimbo you’d like to take out?” Georgia inquired.
I pulled out my newly issued 9mm SIG-Sauer. Besides being rusty on target practice, I was still getting used to the gun. But it held ten more rounds than my old .38, and the Service was a stickler for rules.
“I don’t shoot at women.” I tried to make that a rul
e, even if they did have better bodies than me. “How about some cans?”
Georgia looked at me a moment and then grinned. “Sure. I don’t shoot at them either, unless they’re screwing up my day. Noah just likes to hang them there so he can pretend it’s his harem. Let’s go over here.”
We walked to where a black pickup sat. Plastered on its rear bumper were two ancient stickers declaring “Nevada Will Be Cattle-Free By ’93” and “No Moo By ’92.” Looking back at Suzie Q, I suddenly realized she was the woman I had chased in the desert.
Noah lined up three cans and Georgia took aim, easily knocking each one off its perch.
Twirling the gun around her finger, she moved away. “Your turn, Porter.”
Noah sat the cans back up as I took careful aim, knowing I was being tested. I blew the first can off its roost and felt my confidence soar. I aimed at the second. Lining it up perfectly in my sight, I squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. The SIG-Sauer had jammed.
Georgia broke out in a roar. “Don’t you know that gun is for shit, Porter? That’s how good the Service is. They’ve got you using a weapon that jams whenever it damn well feels like it. Hell, it’s one way to cut back on retirement pay. Here—try this.”
Georgia tossed me her .38, and I fired off two rounds in quick succession, knocking the cans to the ground and then hitting them again so that they danced across the desert floor. In some ways, shooting is a lot like playing darts, my all-time favorite sport. You just aim as if your life depended on it and pray for the best.
“Not bad for a government employee.” Georgia pulled out her pint of peppermint schnapps and took a swig. Then she offered it to me. “Here. Have a swig. It beats the hell out of Lifesavers.”
I took a drink and turned to Noah. “Aren’t you going to shoot?”
Noah raised his hands in mock horror. “Hell, no. I’m a lover, not a gunslinger. I won’t go near those things.”
I decided now was as good a time as any to begin a bit of interrogation. “You may not be a gunslinger, but word has it you’re a scientist. Any truth to that?”
Noah pulled a pair of mirrored sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. “That was in my past life.”
I tried to get a read on his expression, but it had now become impossible to see his eyes. “Did you work for the government?”
For a moment, as the silence of the desert closed in on us, I thought Noah wasn’t going to answer.
“Yeah, I worked for the government and I got fired for my trouble,” he finally responded.
It was obvious that I was treading on sensitive ground. “Why were you fired?”
Noah faced the sun. “They didn’t like my personality. Can you imagine that?”
I pressed on. “What area of the government did you work for?”
“Bzzzzzz!” He sounded like the buzzer on a game show when the answer is wrong. “You just hit your limit for today, Porter. Time for my nap.”
But I wasn’t through with him yet. “Before you turn in for the day, did you know that a neighbor of yours was just found dead?”
Noah turned and gave me a cold stare. “Shit happens. Anyone I know?”
“Annie McCarthy.”
Noah kicked the ground. “Son of a bitch. I knew it.”
“Knew what?” I was back on the quiz show and going for the gold.
“Knew that ornery old witch would kick the bucket some day,” he said without any remorse.
“You didn’t like her?”
Noah took off his glasses and glared. “I didn’t like the fact that she was staking every claim on the land out here and that she could sell all her rights to some big fucking mining company some day. There ain’t nothing to like about that.”
I wanted to keep him on a roll. “What’s wrong with big mining companies?”
Georgia Peach walked away as Noah continued his tirade. “You tell me what’s right about them! Look at those jerks on the other side of the mountain with their damn cyanide. They’re poisoning the land and every creature in sight. You want to do some good? You should be hauling their asses in for killing birds who stop to drink from their poisoned ponds and for running over every tortoise that gets in their way.”
He’d piqued my interest. “What mining company are you talking about?”
“The Golden Shaft. Their name says it all.” Taking out a bandanna, Noah wiped his face, which had turned beet-red in anger. “You can carry your little tin badge and your gun, but unless you put your ass on the line, Porter, you ain’t doing shit.”
I bristled at his assumption. “Listen, Noah, you’re sitting out in the middle of nowhere griping about what’s wrong. Have you ever put yourself on the line to make a change?”
Noah looked at me a moment. “How the hell do you think I ended up here?”
Turning on his heels, he climbed up the ladder that led into the ark and disappeared from sight. I was left facing Suzie Q, who stared at me in silence. Two down and one to go. There was nothing to lose in questioning her as well.
“That was quite a chase you led me on the other morning in your pickup,” I began.
Suzie Q leisurely tore the cellophane off another Twinkie as I watched Frank Sinatra—who, I imagined, was watching me as well.
She slowly took a bite and then licked her fingers. “It must have been someone else. I rehearse in the mornings.”
I had to ask. “What were you rehearsing?”
Suzie Q put a finger on Frank and stroked his back. “My club act, of course.”
Of course. “What club do you play at?”
Suzie Q’s finger lingered in one spot as Frank arched his back. “Any club that will have me.”
I imagined that knocked the number down considerably.
“I hear Annie McCarthy was involved in the reptile trade. Ever have any dealings with her?” I asked, trying my best to ignore the fur ball with eight giant legs.
Suzie Q finished her Twinkie and held her hand up in front of Frank to let him gather the crumbs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I was beginning to wonder if Suzie Q and Annie might have been competitors in the trade. It could have been reason enough for Suzie Q to have knocked the old woman off.
“She collected lots of things to sell—like lizards and snakes, and that thing sitting on your shoulder,” I said, pointing.
I could have sworn that Frank Sinatra reared up on his hind legs and hissed at me as Suzie Q left, too. I’d have to watch what I said from now on.
My boss Sam Morrell, senior resident agent and cowboy extraordinaire, sat poised at his easel, wire-rimmed glasses balanced low on his nose and a paint brush held high in the air. He was dressed in his usual outfit of neatly pressed jeans and down-home plaid shirt. His full head of white hair had been carefully combed, matching an impeccably trimmed mustache as soft and white as a lamb’s tail. All in all, the man could have just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I stuck my head inside his office door. Without turning around, Sam knew I was there.
“What do you think?” His voice, soft and melodious, wafted across the room, settling on me as light as a blanket of down.
I walked in and glanced over his shoulder at yet another portrait of a cow. “Looks good.”
All of his paintings looked exactly the same, but I knew better than to ever say so.
On a countdown to retirement, Sam lived for the day when he could move to his cattle ranch in southern Idaho. His wife was already living there along with his son, who ran the place. It was obvious that the ranch was never far from Sam’s thoughts. His office walls were covered with his paintings, each one a meticulous portrait of a different cow from his herd. A small plaque nailed to the bottom of each frame identified its subject by name. It was the only way I could tell them apart.
“This one is Maizie. Ain’t she a beaut?” Sam asked, beaming proudly at his newest creation.
We had a basic understanding where my job was concerned. Sam didn’t much care what I
did so long as I didn’t make any waves that might jeopardize his retirement. I filled him in on Annie McCarthy’s death, but it was already old news to him.
“Brady called me last night. Understand it was a suicide.” Sam looked at me with an expression I had come to know. He arched his eyebrows and tilted his head as if he knew to expect trouble.
“That’s how Brady chose to read the scene. I believe it was murder,” I stated matter-of-factly.
Sam continued to paint without saying a word. I was used to my old boss Charlie Hickok’s ways: he’d rake me over the coals whenever I said something he didn’t agree with. I could live with that. I enjoyed duking it out and arguing to get my way. It was the silent treatment that killed me. And Sam was a master at it. I had become determined to outwit him at his own game, staying silent as long as he did. My cool lasted all of two seconds until I crumbled.
“Did you know that Annie was illegally dealing in reptiles?” I demanded in a rush.
Sam carefully shifted his weight back in his chair and slowly studied the painting in front of him before bothering to answer. “Sure did. Never could catch her, though.”
It was a common problem. The reptile trade tends to be fast and furious, with both critters and people in and out quicker than you can snag poachers in the act. At one time, I had suggested that we set up a stakeout, anxious to make my mark and nab a few bad guys. But Sam had nixed the idea, claiming, “We don’t have enough bodies to carry it out. Besides, nobody gives a damn anyway.”
I offered another idea on Annie’s demise. “Could it be that she got knocked off by a competitor in the trade?”
Sam chewed on that for all of a moment. “Nah. Don’t sound right to me.”
Sam clearly didn’t want any uncalled-for investigations on my part. He considered himself a realist where wildlife crime was concerned and had more than once voiced the opinion, “I just try to do the right thing and forget about the fact that it’s hopeless.”
I still wasn’t willing to buy in on hopeless as an option. Charlie Hickok had taught me to be a one-woman kamikaze hit team, to set my target straight for the jugular and not let go.
Tortoise Soup (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 5