Today was Monday, I realized, so I needed to get to the office at some point and catch up on my incoming mail. Other than that, the day was promising to be long and uneventful. I had hoped Drake would be able to get home for the weekend, but he hadn’t and I wasn’t sure when he’d get any time off. Fires don’t quit burning because the firefighters are tired, unfortunately.
I drove to the office about nine, missing most of the rush-hour traffic. By noon I’d finished most of my work and left instructions with Sally for a few projects Tammy should work on during the afternoon. If she finished early, I told Sally to have her switch on the answering machine and lock up. I considered calling a friend and making lunch plans but it was short notice and I ended up just doing a few errands on the way home. The answering machine in the kitchen was blinking when I carried the groceries in.
“Charlie, it’s Randy Buckman again. Give me a call and I’ll fill you in.” Beep. “Charlie, it’s Melanie Ritz. The sheriff just called to tell us that the, uh, man you found wasn’t Grandpa. Can you call me?” Beep. No more messages.
I called Randy Buckman first.
“So the body wasn’t William McBride?” I blurted the instant I had him on the line.
“Did I say that in my message?”
“No,” I admitted, “I had a second call on my machine, from McBride’s granddaughter.” I sat down at the kitchen table. “So where does the investigation go from here?”
“Well,” he said, “our other logical supposition is that this could be Bud Tucker. I’m still trying to find out whether we can get some dental records on him. Coroner didn’t have much luck getting finger prints.”
“And if this isn’t Willie McBride, I guess my case is still open and now I’m looking for a missing person.”
“Wait a second. If the victim turns out to be Tucker, then McBride becomes a suspect. He was the last guy seen with Tucker. Finding him now becomes a police matter.”
“Sophie told me the two men took McBride’s truck and now it’s missing. Locating it might be a good start. And the other day when I went through some things at his house, with his daughter’s permission, I learned that he banked at First Albuquerque Bank. I don’t know if he had an ATM card, but you might want to see if he’s drawn out any money.”
“Well, thank you so much for that little lesson in procedure,” he drawled.
“I’m sorry.” I felt myself blushing. “I didn’t mean to tell you how to do your job. Just thought I’d share a little information.”
“It’s okay. You did save me some time. I’ll see how much I can accomplish before the banks close this afternoon.”
“Would you let me know if you find out anything? I know you don’t have to, but I think it’s in everyone’s best interests to find McBride quickly and maybe I can help.”
He didn’t exactly guarantee anything, but he didn’t refuse either. I hung up after promising to return the plaid shirt. I hadn’t mentioned Keith Randel’s theory about McBride and his gold mine.
I finished putting away my groceries and found myself pacing the kitchen floor, at loose ends. The rest of the week loomed ahead with my office duties caught up, Drake out of town, and my case at a standstill; I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. It was only two o’clock. I could drive down to White Oaks and return the shirt to the sheriff and maybe do a little more exploring on my own. And I might be able to spend a little time with Drake.
Once more I gathered a few provisions for a couple of days out of town. I was just stuffing undies into a duffle bag when the phone rang.
“Charlie, it’s Randy Buckman again.”
“Wow, that was quick.”
“Sometimes the wheels of justice actually move with some precision,” he said. “What you said made sense, about us wanting to find McBride as quickly as possible. So, I’ll share with you if you’ll do the same.”
“Certainly.”
“No sooner had I put an APB out on McBride’s pickup truck than I got a strike. A towing company in Las Cruces has it. It sat in the bus station parking lot for a couple of weeks before somebody decided to have it towed away. They’ve had it over a month now and want their money. We’re having it brought here to Ruidoso for processing.”
“So Willie probably drove to Las Cruces and took the bus somewhere else.”
“Or someone did. It’s more likely some unknown perp found the two old men while they were up at the mining camp. Killed ’em both and took Willie’s vehicle. McBride could be lying in one of those mine shafts or somewhere out in the desert between here and Cruces. If that’s the case, we may never find him. But we’ll work on it as long as we’ve got the manpower.”
That was a possibility I hadn’t considered.
“Right now we’re treating it as a search and rescue mission, getting some folks over here to help us look. At least we can scour the mines and surrounding area. Normally State SAR won’t handle a body retrieval but the local coordinator is a buddy of mine. He’s agreed to pretend that there’s some hope of finding McBride alive.”
“I’m coming down there,” I told him. “I’ll bring back the shirt and maybe I can help with the search.”
He argued a little about my participating in a search since I wasn’t officially on the search team, but didn’t forbid me from coming. I finished my packing. Deciding that having Rusty along with me would be more hassle than help, I called my neighbor, Elsa Higgins, and asked whether she’d mind dogsitting for a couple of days or so. As always, she was incredibly accommodating and I walked the dog over to her house. Thirty minutes later, I’d topped off with gas and was on the road.
I arrived in White Oaks to find the town in a flurry of activity, relatively speaking. The parking area at the café contained five vehicles, including the sheriff’s. I joined them and went inside. Buckman sat at one of the tables along the right wall, along with two other men and a woman. All were dressed in black and wore belts bristling with radios. Randy waved me over.
“Charlie, this is Ron Pitt, the search and rescue coordinator. Charlie is a private investigator hired by McBride’s family.”
Pitt rose slightly and shook my hand. I let the error in my job description slide on by.
“Any news yet?” I asked.
Pitt’s radio squawked and he raised it to his ear. Buckman stood up and steered me toward the counter.
“Nothing around here,” he told me. “But I got a line on McBride’s bank account. He did have an ATM card, which is kind of unusual for a man his age. They don’t usually go for modern technology. We discovered that his card has been used twice—once in Las Cruces and once in Phoenix. I’m waiting for the banks to see if they can get a usable photo of the person using the card and fax it to me.”
“That should tell us a lot, I would think,” I ventured.
“We’ll see. Look, I gotta get up to the mining camp. You stay around here; there’re already too many people milling around up there.” He went outside and got into his patrol car.
The SAR group were busy with their heads together over maps and sketches, their radios constantly buzzing with static and blurry voices. They paid no attention to me. I wandered back to the lunch counter and caught Keith’s eye.
“Hey there, Charlie,” he greeted. “Fix ya somethin’ to eat?”
“Maybe just a Coke for now,” I said.
He filled a red plastic cup from the fizzing dispenser and set it on the counter. I glanced around. There were three other people at the counter, all dressed in hiking gear and boots.
“They been out here all day,” Keith volunteered. “Little groups of ’em come in to get some food, and out they go.”
“Remember that little item you gave me the other day?” I asked, tilting my head toward the cash register.
“Uh-huh,” he nodded.
“You said you knew how to translate it?”
“Sure.” He lowered his normally booming voice. “Get yourself a topo map of the Superstition Mountains and I’ll pinpoint ’er fo
r ya.” He winked.
“One more thing,” I asked. “Tell me how to get to Sophie Tucker’s?”
“I can tell ya, but I’ll also tell ya that she ain’t there right now. She’s over to the schoolhouse.”
“Thanks.” I sipped my Coke in silence and he turned to wait on his other customers. I finished the drink and left a few minutes later.
A sheriff’s department car blocked most of the road leading to the schoolhouse. As I signaled to make the turn, the deputy climbed out of the vehicle. I recognized Montoya.
“Can’t go up to the mining camp,” he said.
“I know. I only want to go as far as the schoolhouse. Is Sophie Tucker still up there?”
He turned and gazed out toward the old building. “Yeah, I think her car is there.”
“I just wanted to see how she’s doing.”
He waved me on through and I noticed in my rearview mirror that he watched until I made the right hand turn at the school. I parked next to Sophie’s little red car and went inside. She answered my shout and I tracked her voice to a classroom at the far end of the long hall. She was busy with a feather duster, attacking stray motes on the desks and books that decorated the room.
“You doing okay?” I asked, taking a seat at one of the student-sized desks.
“Pretty good,” she said, dusting even more furiously. “There’s no official word yet. They won’t let me see the body. Sheriff says I couldn’t tell nothin’ by looking anyway.”
She picked up a few books from the teacher’s desk and formed them into a stack. “Finally rounded up a dentist Pop went to once, but it was twenty or more years back. Guy’s retired now and they aren’t sure if they can dig out any records, but they’re trying. Everybody’s been real nice. I mean, they all know this is pretty hard for me.” A tear slipped down her weathered cheek. “Alls I can do now is keep busy.” An unhappy chuckle escaped her. “My house ain’t never been so clean, I’ll tell you. And I’m about to get this place whipped into shape too.”
I made some sympathetic noises. “Need any help?” I asked.
“Nah. I don’t want to finish it too soon. Wouldn’t have anything to do then but sit around.”
Sensing that she really wanted to be alone, I gave her my cell number and told her to call if I could do anything. I patted her shoulder and left. I’m not very good at hugs and comfort, I guess.
Montoya watched me drive toward him and gave me a small wave as I pulled out onto the highway. Without much of a plan, I headed toward Ruidoso.
The desk clerk at Drake’s hotel didn’t seem too inclined to give me a key to his room and it was only after I’d produced identification that he quit eyeing me as if I were a hooker. I parked near the door to the room and carried my one duffle inside. I washed my hands, switched on the television set, and dialed the number to Drake’s cell phone that rings directly to his headset when he’s flying.
“Hello!” he shouted, the whine of the turbine engine strong in the background.
“Hi, hon, it’s me.” I shouted back.
“I can hear you fine,” he said, lowering his voice. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I won’t keep you. I’m here in your hotel room in Ruidoso. Can you meet me in town for dinner when you’re finished?”
“Sure. I’ll call you when we shut down for the day. It’ll be around dark.”
I hung up and paced the room a couple of times. The TV wasn’t holding my interest, but I remembered an errand I could do in town. Picking up the phone book, I located what I needed and wrote down the address.
The woman in the map store looked like she wasn’t thrilled to have a customer come in at ten minutes to closing, but I assured her I would be quick. I told her which topo map I was looking for and she pulled it from a cabinet of wide, flat drawers. I paid for it and left her to close up and go home, still pretty much on time. With an hour or more to wait for Drake’s call, I leisurely browsed a small gift shop next to the map store before I headed back to the hotel. By the time his call came, I was ravenous.
“They’re calling the fire ninety percent contained,” he told me after we’d loaded our plates at the all-you-can-eat buffet where I’d met him for dinner.
“So, how much longer will you be here?”
“Hard to say. Another couple of days, for sure. Maybe longer. They’ll keep their contract ship on the job because they’re already paying him anyway. The rest of us, call-when-needed ships like mine, they’ll release as soon as they’ve got things under control.”
I filled him in on my progress.
“Guess it’s good news that the body wasn’t your client’s father,” he said, taking a forkful of mashed potatoes.
“The granddaughter was certainly happy about it when she found out,” I said. “The sheriff reminded me, however, that just because we didn’t find Willie it doesn’t mean that he isn’t also out there somewhere. His truck was abandoned in Las Cruces and his ATM card was used twice. They think his body might have been dumped in one of the mine shafts around White Oaks.”
“But you don’t think so,” he said, giving me a long, pointed stare.
“Well . . . remember Keith Randel, the guy who runs the café there? He’s a pretty canny old guy. He said something that makes me think Willie might have wanted to disappear.”
“Leaving his friend dead in a mining shack?”
“Maybe Willie didn’t know Bud was dead. Maybe he left while Bud was still alive. Someone else could have killed Bud.”
“And stolen Willie’s truck?”
“Maybe. Or maybe the killing and the truck are totally unrelated.”
I speared a chunk of lettuce, chewing it fully while my mind whirred around the possibilities. “It’s probably more like the police are saying, that someone else killed both the old men and took the truck to get away.”
But something about that theory nagged at me while Drake went back to the buffet to get dessert. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
“Want some?” He offered his dessert plate, which contained two cookies and a blob of chocolate pudding. I took one of the cookies. My brain felt weary.
“Meanwhile,” he said, “I can’t wait to get back to the room, take a nice hot shower, and jump your bones.”
Twenty minutes later, we were back in the room where he proceeded to do just that.
Chapter 9
Drake was out of the room before daybreak the next morning. I gave him a lingering kiss at the door then scurried back to nestle into the covers again. My body was still languid from last night’s bedtime joys and it was after nine o’clock when I finally gave up the luxury of the warm bed to shower and dress.
I’d switched on the television set, thinking I might catch a newscast, but when I emerged from the shower the station was airing an old rerun of Unsolved Mysteries. I rummaged through my duffle for clean underwear and shirt but came upright when I heard the commentator mention the Lost Dutchman Mine. Backing to the end of the bed, I plopped down in front of the set. A colorful character with a craggy face and white beard, wearing a plaid shirt and suspenders, was being interviewed.
It wasn’t a new story. Legends of the mine have floated around for years. But the man telling his story seemed particularly knowledgeable about the area and the thought jumped into my mind that he might know Willie McBride. I jotted down his name—Rocky Rhodes. It had to be a nickname. Surely no one would really stick a baby with that.
The segment ended and a few minutes later the show was over. I had no idea how long ago it had been filmed. Many of the rerun episodes were at least six or seven years old. It could be that this old man would be long gone by now. But I figured it was worth a shot. I called Information for the Phoenix area and got a listing for R.W. Rhodes in Apache Junction. When I dialed the number it rang at least twelve times with no answer. I gave up and finished dressing.
“Can a person still get some breakfast here?” I asked Keith Randel an hour later as I walked into his café. The place was
clear of searchers and deputies for a change.
“Well, hey there, Charlie girl. You sure can. I’ll fix you anything you want, any hour you want it.” He gave me his wide grin and proceeded to pour coffee into a mug for me.
“Some scrambled eggs, ham, and wheat toast?”
“You bet.” He headed for the kitchen while I took a stool at the counter, setting my purse and the map I’d purchased yesterday afternoon on the seat beside me.
“I got that map you mentioned,” I called toward the kitchen. “Maybe you can show me the spot you were telling me about?”
“Sure thing.”
I glanced around the room again. “So, have the searchers left town?” I asked.
“Naw. They was all here this mornin’ early for breakfast. Ate mite near everythin’ in the place. You just happened to catch a slow time.” His arms worked the grill, stirring the eggs, flipping the ham. He reached for a plate on a shelf above the window and scooped the cooked food onto it.
My mouth was nearly watering by the time he set the plate down in front of me. I unwound a set of flatware from inside its paper napkin and cut the first bite of ham from the thick slice he’d given me. Keith refilled my mug and puttered at the other end of the counter while I sated my initial hunger pangs.
“Let me take a look at that map,” he suggested.
I pulled it off the stool and put it on the counter.
“You got that other little one too?”
I reached into my purse and pulled out the small sketch he’d given me from his cash register.
He spread the large topo map carefully on the counter, unrolling it from the bottom and weighting the corners with salt and pepper shakers and a sugar jar. His jaw worked back and forth as he studied the layout. I spread strawberry jam on my toast as I watched him peruse the map.
Reunions Can Be Murder: The Seventh Charlie Parker Mystery Page 7