Murder, Sonoran Style

by Kathy McIntosh

  “I think it’s his burro. No idea, really. But I do know it was written by a kid at Tucson High School in 1936. Name of Bob Nolan, he later formed the Sons of the Pioneers with Roy Rogers.”

  “And that’s why we’re remembering it now. It’s in the Tucson dust.” He hummed the intro to The Twilight Zone. “Call me Rod.”

  “I’ll call you evasive. You don’t want to talk about Kate and Ben, but I have to talk to someone. I don’t trust him.”

  He sighed. Ben Burtoff, another trainee and former rodeo bum, fancied himself the coolest guy around and flirted with every woman he encountered. However, he’d focused his considerable cowboy charm on Kate the previous night. The striking young blonde should be accustomed to such attention and have the skills to handle Ben’s advances. “Or is it that you don’t trust Kate?” If he was going to be Frances’s sounding board, he’d make some of his own sounds.

  They removed their packs and sat on a flat rock, before Frances answered him, her expression wary. “Kate’s young and headstrong. She’s smart but she rushes into things without thinking.”

  “But she’s an adult.” He paused before asking the intrusive question. “I realize you came here with her, but if anyone is to worry about her, shouldn’t it be her parents?”

  Frances eyed him. “We decided to do this together. I didn’t force Kate and she didn’t have to persuade me. It seemed the right thing to do, for both of us.” She took a sip from her Camelback. “As to her parents, they gave up on her when she was a baby. It’s just Kate and me and always has been.”

  “Whoa. Must have been tough.” Things were getting way too personal. “As to Ben, I don’t know him or know much about him. Why don’t you trust him?”

  “He shrugs too much. Never could trust a shrugger.”

  Gabe gaped at Frances. She had to be kidding. If not . . . he knew he’d be paying attention to his own gestures whenever they were together.

  “I know, I know. I’m a basket case. But loads of people study body language and maintain it’s a clue to what a person is thinking or even feeling, sub-consciously.”

  “Ahh. You’ve read up on the subject, and shrugging has a proven significance.”

  “Not exactly. It’s my own observation. And by the time you reach sixty-three, you’ve made a hell of a lot of observations.”

  “If you’re the observant type.”

  “Oh, you are. Don’t put yourself down. I could tell you saw right through Everett Poulsen’s pompous words at Tripp’s party. And I reckon you’ve already learned to take Tripp with a grain of salt.”

  “Tripp’s my business partner. And your boss.”

  Frances guffawed. “As if that kept me from forming an opinion of the wily coyote.”

  Frances’s assessment made Gabe’s skin itch. He ran his hands through his hair. “Back to Ben. You don’t trust him and you don’t want Kate to get involved. Since we’re doing this orienteering independently, shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Frances laughed. “Right.” She checked her watch and Gabe noticed it was a Fitbit. Quite a luxury. “How long was it between our leaving the casita and our meeting here?” she asked. “A few hours?”

  “Wasn’t my idea,” he muttered.

  “We’ll keep it short. I am worried about the two of them. If you see them together, could you stir things up a bit? Remind them of the rules?”

  “Will do. But it won’t stop them, if they’re determined. Besides, what’s the big deal? You worried he’s a gold digger, after your fortune?” He’d heard the rumors about Frances and her wealth.

  Pain flashed across Frances’s face before it her expression returned to bland. He wanted to doubt the pain he saw, but knew it was there. “I don’t want Kate to miss out on the chance for this job simply because of a distraction. She really wants it, and so do I.”

  Ben might not appreciate being considered a distraction. “Ben’s stable enough to finish EMT training and get this job. Shrugs or not, Kate might do worse.” At Frances’s expression, he added, “Still, if I see them hanging out, I’ll give them the stink eye.”

  “Thank you. You having any luck following Tripp’s maps?”

  “Yep, found two caches so far. But it is definitely hotter here in Arizona than this poor Colorado boy is accustomed to.” He wiped his face with his sleeve.

  “There’s a reason the siesta was invented.” She stood, faster and with less struggle than he’d expected. She stretched. “Guess I’ll continue on my way. Places to go, stupid quotes to dig up.”

  He shot her a look. “So I’m not the only one.”

  “Your new partner can be a horse’s patoot. Me, he’s lecturing on the virtues of aging. As if he knows anything about it. And as if I’m not in better shape than he is.” Gabe raised his eyebrows. “I may be a little thick through the middle,” she said, rubbing her arms down the side of her waist, “but I’ve done four senior triathlons and I plan on more. Wisdom, my big fat ass.”

  With that, she strolled off.

  CHAPTER SIX: Lost and Found

  A lone again. For a man who’d spent years on his own, weeks hiking the San Juan Mountains, savoring his isolation, why did Gabe feel a pang as Frances’s form shrank in the distance? Confession: the Sonoran Desert intimidated him. It wasn’t like any other desert he’d trekked. Still he enjoyed it, and the small niggling fear made him cautious. He missed Frances for a simple reason—he liked the woman. He liked her spunk, her willingness to take on new challenges, her sense of humor, even the bite of her sarcasm. “Take care of yourself,” he whispered as she vanished in the distance.

  That was it. No more orienteering scavenger hunts. He and Tripp had to figure out a more reasonable finale to the guide training. Wouldn’t be hard to come up with a sensible and safe way to test the guides’ knowledge. But to bring it up, Gabe had to find his lost moxie. Since joining Adventure Calls, the shadow of his departure from the college had hung above him, dampening his normally outspoken honesty, making him rethink every word he said to his new partner. If only that new cautiousness had slowed his fist this morning back at the casita—but dammit, Everett had chafed his hide back in school and continued to do so when he and his wife arrived at the party the previous night. The same smug smile, the same sense of superiority. Psychologists could say it masked insecurity, but who cared? Everett was still a royal pain in the ass. And the knuckles, today. He flexed his fingers.

  Yeah, he had a number of things to discuss with his new business partner. First Tripp had surprised Gabe by his unexpected welcome of Everett Poulsen as their host for the scavenger hunt and by his words of welcome praising the developer for his enlightened approach. He hadn’t even known Everett lived in Arizona, let alone knew Tripp. Of course, neither did Tripp know of Gabe’s history with Everett. Since Gabe was new to Arizona, perhaps Tripp saw no need to tell him every detail of his plans for the new guide training. But oh Lord, why Everett Poulsen, of all people to run into in Tucson? What had they called him in prep school? Evil Everett? Nah. Everett the Edge. Always trying to get the edge on someone, somehow.

  Then early this morning Tripp had revealed his real mission, stop the Mountain Shadows development and quash Everett’s development plans, a total one-eighty from his words the previous evening. He instructed the new guides to seek out anything to slow or stop the development. The question was, though, did Tripp want to save the desert or harm Everett? His rant that morning seemed personal and vindictive. Activists were trained to hate the act, not the actor, because it helped avoid violent confrontations. He’d guess Tripp hated both act and actor, and he wondered why.

  Of course he himself was worse. Flattening the guy for a few ill-chosen words and a slur of a woman Gabe barely knew. But sure hoped to get to know better.

  He adjusted his backpack so the straps dug into a different part of his shoulders. Time to get back on target. It would remain light until around seven. Plenty of time before dusk to find the next orienteering cache and decide if he’d continue the
hunt into the night, when the ambient temperature slipped down to bearable and below.

  He scrutinized his instructions and the map and realized his next cache was due south, possibly taking him from the comfort zone he’d developed near the mountains and far from Frances, should she be in need of help. Gabe snorted. He was far more likely than Frances to find himself in need of help.

  Okay, new territory, new career, lots of potential for screw-ups. He had a right to be nervous. He also had an obligation to relax, enjoy, and rely on his brains and good sense to make it through this new challenge. He took several deep breaths. “Piece o’ cake.”

  Eastward lay a gap in the mesa wall, a narrow canyon that appeared to lead into the mountains. Since their instructions were to remain in the desert overnight even if they found all the caches on this first day, he had time to explore a little. Exploring was what he did. He’d swear he heard the mountains whispering, “Gabe, we’re here. You’re here. Let’s meet up.” He moved toward the narrow passage that marked the entrance to the canyon. Steep walls shaded the path. He wondered how far he might get. Maybe he’d find Butch Cassidy hiding out. Could easily be the lair of a mountain sheep . . . or a mountain lion. The cliffs made a great place for an ambush. If anyone yelled “boo” from above, he’d have at him—or her—with his skinning knife. His hand went to the sheaf that held his knife and he patted it. Once, twice, again. The leather didn’t resist. Empty.

  “Ah, crap.” Had he left it at Tripp’s home? Not possible. He’d checked his pack when they arrived at the casita to be sure it had everything needed for his overnight adventure. Had it—far worse—fallen out somewhere since he’d left the casita? The knife, its Damascus steel blade honed to perfection, had been given to him by his father when Gabe turned thirteen.

  He wiggled his shoulders. Forget about the knife until he could do something productive about finding it. Otherwise, he’d drive himself nuts.

  What the hell. He couldn’t let the lack of his best—his only—weapon keep him from entering that hidden gorge. He might find something to logjam Everett’s development. No matter his suspicion that Tripp’s vendetta had nothing to do with saving the earth, Mountain Shadows posed a threat to the riparian area to the southeast. Stopping it, or delaying it long enough for folks to realize there was little water table left to be depleted, would be a good thing. Gabe Ramsay was all for good things for Mother Nature.

  He strode toward the canyon. The little side trip wouldn’t take long and could prove more fun than tracking down yet another pithy quote.

  He held his backpack in front of him, to serve as a measuring tape to assure his body could fit through the narrow opening. He entered the gap. It stretched some ten feet high at the entrance, narrowing at the top and shading the passageway. At times forced to turn sideways, he vowed not to feast on any treats in his pack once he gained passage through. He smiled at the image of leaving the passage and finding a broad meadow, with perhaps a few deer, possibly with fawns, romping on the grass. He snorted. Too many Disney films.

  Darker filmmakers would have the passage open onto a garden where bears or cougars awaited the next hapless soul that dared enter their lair. Could be they had lookouts posted and the largest among them were standing at the end of the passage ready to pounce and devour.

  Where had these imaginative and ridiculous fantasies come from? He chuckled. His voice bounced against the stone walls, echoing back.

  Still holding his pack ahead of him, Gabe proceeded up the now dim canyon. The high walls shaded his path, making it claustrophobic.

  Sunlight warmed his head and neck. The eastern wall of the canyon was now bathed in light. His gaze moved to the right, to the shaded side. Just below eye height, something caught his attention. He stopped, backed up a pace.

  “Oh, for hell’s sake. I really have found a petroglyph. This should stir up some major crap for Everett.” No godawful housing development here. At least for a few years. Unless he was on BLM land.

  He took several shots with his cell phone. The images were remarkable, a deer or an antelope, standing beside a spiral and something that looked sort of like a centipede. As he pressed the button on his phone, he speculated on the havoc this find would create. Did the canyon remain in the boundary of Everett’s land? He made a note of the approximate location of the canyon on his map. He tried to mark it with his phone’s GPS, and got a message that there was no cell reception. If only he’d installed the GPS app he’d read about and forgotten until he needed it. He drew a quick sketch of the canyon and its location and stashed it in his pack.

  Sweat dripped down his neck. Time to move on. “Forward. Ever onward.”

  Soon the narrow draw widened into a tiny meadow. Animal scat decorated the earth, proof of the presence of ground squirrels and coyotes, and others he couldn’t identify. Scat identification, something else to learn.

  He stopped to regroup—could one lone man regroup?—in the shade of a blue palo verde. Weird thing to call a tree. Palo means stick in Spanish, verde means green. So why call it a blue palo verde? Had spikes, of course. Was there anything in this desert that didn’t? He kept his distance from the tree’s trunk. He checked the area around a smooth rock for critters and seated himself.

  The little meadow lay quiet except for the varied songs of cactus wrens and woodpeckers and the ubiquitous doves. He took a deep breath. Another. His shoulders lowered. “Ahh.” He recharged in the outdoors. For a moment he imagined himself a desert rat, beard long and scraggly, hair filthy gray strands. “Naah. Not my style.”

  He took a few photos of the meadow, dotted with mounds of dirt. After a while he stood, retrieved his pack and headed toward the gap in the canyon wall. The sun dropped behind the cliffs to the west, leaving him in dusk. It would be murky going through that narrow draw, so he retrieved his head lamp from his pack and exchanged it for his hat.

  He passed the petroglyphs, less visible in the fading light. Did those long-dead artists mean to leave messages for companions or simply to create something beautiful? People today might assume they’d advanced far beyond their ancient predecessors, but the reality was, we all retained those same primordial desires: to live forever and if not, to leave a lasting imprint.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Deserts Can Be Deadly

  W hen Gabe emerged from the canyon, it was full-on dusk, already cooling. The earth emitted a smell of mesquite, creosote and dust. Nighthawks and bats darted through the sky, scooping up a dinner of mosquitoes and other insects. Guided by his headlamp and Tripp’s map, he headed south toward the next cache, his strides long and ground-covering. Once he got there, he’d decide next steps. He wasn’t sure how long the twilight would remain, but saw a sliver of moon rising.

  Nearly an hour passed before he arrived at the next hiding place. He read Tripp’s congratulations along with another apt quote. He had no idea who Robert H. Schuller was, but his words resonated. “Spectacular achievement is always preceded by unspectacular preparation.” He stuffed the slip of paper into his pack.

  The little log book signed and dated, it joined the other contents of his pack. He took out his sweatshirt. This desert cooled quickly after sunset.

  After a couple of miles, only moonlight and the headlamp illuminated the trail ahead. He looked for somewhere to spend the night.

  A few yards ahead, a desert-willow backed up against a rock wall. If he’d brought along a black light, he might have been able to observe a few scorpions in and around the wall, but he’d left it behind to save weight. He set up camp about ten yards from the wall and the tree.

  * * * *

  Gabe looked east, shading his eyes from the rising sun. He wanted to discuss the petroglyphs he’d found with Madrone, and early morning would be a good time to find her alone. She’d help him decide when to tell Tripp. He’d like to know for sure if the hidden draw and the petroglyphs lay within the bounds of Everett’s land before announcing their discovery. No reason to rush.

  But first he had to find the cas
ita. Somehow he taken a wrong turn.

  He pulled his map from his backpack’s side pocket and squatted. No worries. He had plenty of time to reconnoiter. He’d awakened early, when the sky was transforming from black to deep gray and paling toward dawn and the moon was fading from bright white. He’d headed off, sure he knew the route to the casita. Dammit. Why hadn’t he checked the map before he started? Or at least before he’d wandered around and wasted time. He snorted. Arrogant much? Since then, however, he’d skirted ravines and hillocks in his quest to reach the casita and somehow he’d overshot his goal. It couldn’t be more than a few miles away. Less than an hour.

  His stomach growled. One of Madrone’s breakfasts would go down great right now. He pulled out his compass and re-checked the map, memorizing the route.

  He sniffed. Smoke? He stood motionless. Fires weren’t as much a threat here as in Colorado’s forests, with less fuel, but they could still cover ground fast. He pivoted 360 degrees. Was he was closer than he thought to the casita? Or simply near a campsite of one of the other trainees? Maybe they had coffee, something he’d skipped this morning. He sniffed again, his imagination filling in the scent of coffee when reality told him it was only smoke.

  He headed toward the source of the smoke. Talk about following your nose.

  The smell of smoke grew stronger as he neared a small clump of palo verde trees. He made his way through them with caution, avoiding the protruding thorns. Past the trees lay a row of creosote bushes, and beyond the bushes lay a clearing. In the center of the clearing was a small fire pit with a tiny stream of smoke emitting from it. No coffee pot perched in its ashes. No human tended the fire.

  “Hello the camp, anybody there?” No response.

  When he got closer, Gabe jerked to a halt. Took a step back. He tasted bile. Flies and ants crawled over the lifeless body of a man. The man lay on his back, his jeans and shirt front drenched with blood. Gabe covered his mouth with a hand. Too much blood.