Murder, Sonoran Style

by Kathy McIntosh

  She inhaled. “One of our people?”

  “Not exactly.” Criminy. Stop stalling and bite this bullet. “It was Everett Poulsen.”

  She rocked back on her stool. “Everett? How? Where? What happened?” Her face turned chalky, her cheeks blotched red.

  “You sound like a reporter. Give me a sec.” More than normal curiosity, you ask me. Guess she liked him a lot. Even if he was married? “A few miles south, maybe five. I covered him to keep the . . . pests off.” Pests? From an entomologist? Not the time to specify the kind of beetles and ants he’d seen.

  She inhaled and let out a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth in a big puff. Repeated it. “That’s why you came in here hot and dehydrated. So you think a rattler got him? His heart? As if he had one.” The last sentence came out as a mutter, but he heard it. Madrone whacked her fingers against her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that.”

  “Not a rattler, no.” He wrapped his fingers around hers. “I got the idea from Flicker that you two had something going, at some point.”

  She waved her other hand in the air as if swatting away a gnat. “Oh, Flicker. She’s a born troublemaker, not to mention a bitch.” She looked out the window. “We hooked up for a while before I found out he was married, the liar. Went against my rules.”

  “Rules? Any other time, I’d like to hear more about those. Anyway, I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  “Yes, you would be. You have a good heart. No dancing on a dead developer’s grave for you. Even after the way he treated you the other morning.” She stood up and wandered to the door, leaning into the frame. “I’ll tell Tripp once he phones back.”

  Gabe kept his voice level, but his pulse throbbed in his neck and at his temples. He leaned forward, staring at her back because that’s what she offered. “This wasn’t a natural death. He was stabbed.”

  Madrone spun around. “Holy blue Mariah, Gabe. Trying to break it to me gently? Or do you think I did it? Feeling me out?”

  Gabe moved toward her. “I was trying to go slow, not dump it on you.” And trying to decide if I should trust you.

  “Please. I’m a grown-up. Don’t baby me.”

  “Okay. If that’s how you want it. I saw a number of puncture wounds in his chest and a gouge at his temple.” He paced. Swallowed. He couldn’t imagine Madrone as Everett’s ruthless killer, and he so needed someone to trust and confide in. “I think the wounds came from my skinning knife.”

  Madrone moved across the small room and lowered herself onto the stool. “Well, then, you gonna turn yourself in when the sheriff arrives?”

  “Turn myself in? Are you crazy? I didn’t kill him!”

  She grinned. “Call it gallows humor. I know you wouldn’t do such a thing. But someone wants the sheriff to think so.” Despite her quick denial, Gabe wondered if she had doubts about him. After all, they’d met only a few short weeks ago. Maybe he was wrong, maybe Madrone still harbored anger at Everett and had seized this opportunity to get her revenge. But target him? Not Madrone. No way.

  Madrone squinted. “How do you know it was your knife? Was it there? Beside him? Eww. Still in him?”

  “Stop picturing it. It wasn’t pretty. No, I found the knife in a fire pit nearby. Not hard to find. What I can’t figure is who has it in for me, and of course, for Everett.”

  She jumped up. “First things first. I’ll pack you a huge bag of food and water. Then you make a run for the border.” He sent her a sour look. “Sorry. I’m taking this seriously. Just trying to lighten things up. And,” she shuddered, “avoid thinking about poor Everett.”

  Gabe followed Madrone outside where they sat together on a rock and waited for the arrival of the sheriff and for Tripp to return Madrone’s urgent message. He worried about meeting the sheriff and hiding the fact that he’d tampered with the evidence. No poker for Gabe, unless he was of a mind to lose. “Think I should hide my knife?”

  She looked into the distance. “I’m not sure. If you do, and someone finds it, it’s a sure sign of guilt. I’m thinking they won’t be able to tell which knife did the deed, if it’s no longer at the scene of the crime. Several of the guides have knives. I do too.”

  “Yeah. Well. Maybe I’ll be lucky.” As if finding Everett’s body was good luck. Here he was, Mr. Good Citizen waiting to report a murder. It would take the sheriff here no time at all to discover that Gabe had lost his job in Colorado and almost his freedom when he’d nailed that accounting professor channeling Chuck Connors in his office. Darn his temper. But still . . . No one seemed to remember who swung first.

  Madrone looked over at him. “Sheriff should be here soon. You still sipping?”

  “Yes.” He sipped. “Yes.”

  “Got you in a compliant mood. Would you do whatever I ask?”

  “Always.”

  “Go back inside and lie down again.”

  He waggled his eyebrows at her. Turned his lips up in a leer. Even tried a couple of Elvis swings to his hips, not an easy move when you’re seated.

  Madrone burst out laughing. “You lech. As I told you moments ago, we have to at least wait until after the funeral.” She sobered. “That sounds so unfeeling, I can’t believe I said it.”

  “Not unfeeling. Just overwhelmed with desire for my manly body. Hate to tell you, but it happens all too often.”

  If she only knew. But he got the laugh he’d aimed for and stood, hands in his pockets. “I’m not willing to go inside and pretend to nap. I’m going to have to lead them to the site, so no sense making myself comfortable.” He brushed his hair back. “I’m sweating. Nervous.”

  “You have something to hide? Innocent people don’t get nervous.”

  Had Madrone somehow learned about Gabe’s run-in with the law in Colorado? Open and forthright, Madrone would just spit out her concerns. Maybe Gabe should bring it up, but not now. Later. For now, he wanted to stay calm for the next part of this nightmare. He gave her what he hoped was an innocent look. “Moi? I’m boring. But you’re wrong. We innocents get nervous around the cops. Criminals know how to lie. I don’t. Never have. Just ask one of my demon brothers. I’m not looking forward to this—not to meeting the local constabulary, not to walking back to Everett’s body, not to seeing it again.”

  She stood. Tilted her head like a border collie listening. “Hmm. Tell me another time about your brothers.” She shuffled a few feet up the hill, still listening. “Maybe the cops’ll have an ATV. I should have told them to bring one.”

  “I’ll survive. Thanks to you. Wish you could come. I’m sure you’d see stuff I’ve missed.”

  “Not up to us to be looking.”

  “We’ll wish we had when they arrest me.”

  “They won’t arrest you just because you found the body. If you’d just left him there, it’s unlikely anyone else would have found him for weeks, maybe months. By then, it would be hard even to know who it had been.”

  “Please. You’re trying to make me feel better, right? Not working.”

  “Look. You found your knife. Cleaned it. You’re in the clear.”

  “We all know the person who finds the body is the first one they suspect.”

  She winked. “I think old lovers and wives are the next best suspects. That puts me ahead of you, since his wife isn’t here.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Pretty sure. Guess the sheriff will find out for certain.” She eyed him. “Gabe, don’t worry. They’re not going to suspect you. Lots of other people hated Everett. But if he does, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

  “You’re good to say that. Thank you.”

  She put her hand over his. “You’re welcome. Friends help friends.” She looked right into his eyes with her huge brown ones. “Believe me and remember that.”

  She tilted her head just as Gabe heard the sound of engines. To him it might has well have been a dirge. The funeral of his hopes for a new career?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Enter the Sheriff

  G ab
e and Madrone made their way up the hill to where the Cochise County sheriff’s SUV came to a stop on the gravel road. They waited as two men exited the vehicle, paused to extract their cowboy hats from the rear seat and don them, and strode toward them. Both men tipped their hats to Madrone and nodded at Gabe. Then the taller and broader of the two men spoke. He seemed relaxed, standing at a slight angle to them, hands at his side.

  “I’m Rick Idle, sheriff of Cochise County. Happened to be in Benson this morning, or my deputy here, Wes Weston, would have come alone.” Sheriff Idle nearly topped Gabe’s six feet three inches, and with the hat, he cut a significant figure. He looked to be in his fifties, perhaps early sixties, but in good shape. He smiled but it was short-lived. “I hear you’ve got a dead man off in the desert. One of yours?”

  Gabe and Madrone glanced at each other. Did the sheriff know about their training event? “I’m Gabe Ramsay, co-owner of Adventure Calls Touring with Tripp Chasen. This is one of our experienced guides and our chef, Madrone Hunter.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Uh huh. Heard you were out here on Poulsen’s land on some sort of scavenger hunt. I’ve met Mr. Chasen.”

  Sweat formed on Gabe’s neck. “I’m new to the team. Just bought in a couple of months ago, and this is training for me, as well. Sort of a final exam for our trainees.”

  “And one of them didn’t pass.” The sheriff’s tone and the look on his deputy’s face told Gabe they didn’t approve of the training assignment.

  Gabe shook his head. “No, it wasn’t one of ours. They’re still out in the desert. The dead man is—was—Everett Poulsen.”

  “Oh, hell’s bells.” The sheriff’s expression grew grim. “You sure of that?”

  “I knew Everett in school and we met up again two days ago. It’s him.”

  The deputy, a mid-sized, muscular young man with a face marred by numerous acne scars, spoke for the first time. “That could put a crimp in his development.” His voice had a nasal tone, almost whiny.

  The sheriff glanced at Weston with a look that Gabe interpreted as annoyance. “Development’s not our purview, son. Unexpected deaths, car wrecks, crime, that’s what we deal with. I leave the rest to the politicians.”

  Gabe took out his bandana and wiped his head. Holy crap, this guy’s no fool. He’ll smell the fear on me, see the sweat, decide I’m guilty. “I’ll lead you to where I found him. I think you’re gonna want some crime scene techs with you.”

  The sheriff chuckled. “I can want them. Trouble is, we only have one and he’s stationed in Sierra Vista.” He paused and zeroed in on Gabe’s face. “You have a reason to believe it’s a crime scene? Most deaths in the desert are due to ignorance or pure bad luck. Can’t say as Everett Poulsen counted as ignorant of the desert. He spent a lot of time out here.”

  “I’d say it’s pretty bad luck to get yourself stabbed. And no accident.”

  The sheriff and Weston stilled, stared at Gabe. The sheriff spoke to his deputy. “Your camera charged up?”

  “Always.” He alerted, a pock-marked hunting hound eager for the chase. Weston seemed very young in contrast to his more seasoned boss. Gabe wondered if he had passed legal drinking age.

  “We’ll get our gear and then we can head out,” Idle said. “Any chance you marked down the GPS coordinates?”

  “Yes, but I’d still like to go with you. Explain how I found him.” Gabe swallowed. Did that make him sound guilty?

  Idle shrugged. “Suit yourself. You look a bit peaked. By the way, what happened to your hand?”

  “Burned it making coffee. Nothing much. I’m good to go.” Maybe the sheriff would attribute his flush to overheating, not guilt.

  Idle turned to Madrone. “You have any way of calling in the rest of the trainees?””

  “Yes. We could raise the ‘come-in-now’ balloon. I’d need help. Gabe, want to do it now?”

  Gabe relaxed the fists he’d clenched. He didn’t like all the responsibility he suddenly had to shoulder, when he was still a trainee himself. “We could, but I’d like to wait until I speak to Tripp.” He spoke to the sheriff. “Remember, I’m still new to all this. Madrone’s got a call in to my partner. Could we hold off until after you’ve seen Everett, Sheriff Idle?”

  The sheriff gave Gabe a sympathetic smile, as if he somehow knew how uncomfortable Gabe was in taking charge. Or maybe it was a ploy to gain his trust. “Don’t see that it will hurt one way or another. But aside from telling Tripp what happened, please don’t share any information with others, should they happen to come in,” he said to Madrone. “Sounds like we have a murder out there, unless cougars have taken to using weapons. Or unless our only eye witness so far was mistaken,” he added. When he saw Gabe tense, the sheriff patted him on the back. “Happens to all of us. I’ve seen too many bodies in my quarter of a century in law enforcement, and not one of them was pleasant. Let’s just go take us a look-see.”

  Despite the sheriff’s friendly and almost folksy tone, his eyes reflected intelligence, wariness and experience. Gabe had little doubt this man would pursue Everett’s killer, no matter where the clues led. He shivered, once again grateful that he’d been the one to discover Everett’s body with his own knife at the scene. He didn’t want to be the first on Sheriff Idle’s hit list.

  CHAPTER TWELVE: This Way to the Body

  L ess than a mile into the hike back to Everett Poulsen’s body, Gabe’s own body started complaining about this new trek. It seemed to moan, “I just made it back to the dang casita. If not for Madrone, I might have dried up and blown away. Lord knows you forgot to drink enough water to keep me alive.” He downed a few sips of water in hopes of drowning the complaints. But no. Now his muscles joined in, aching as if he’d run a marathon instead of covering fewer than six miles from death scene to salvation. His calves squealed and his quads howled. He gave them the same lack of respect he’d given them in boot camp. Kept going, stayed silent.

  Deputy “Wes” Weston moved to Gabe’s side from the few paces behind he’d trailed him. He glanced over at him. “You’re not breathing good. Maybe we shoulda left you back there.”

  “I’m good. Still getting used to this desert heat,” Gabe lied. He straightened his back, upped his pace. “Poulsen’s not going anywhere.”

  “Ya never know. There’s a lotta hungry things out here. More than you’d notice.” After a moment he added, “You not from around here, huh?”

  No reason to lie. They’d find out from Tripp and make a quick call to the Breckenridge PD soon enough. “Nope. Born and raised in Colorado. Came down here for the job.” No reason to spill every nasty detail of his departure. This didn’t count as a first date.

  “Oh, hey, no wonder you’re huffing. Just so’s you know, you ain’t seen nothing yet for heat.”

  “So I hear.” He flashed the lawman a phony smile. If only the guy would shut up and let Gabe concentrate. One foot in front of the other.

  “Kinda weird, you finding him like that, in this big piece of land.”

  Gabe cocked his head. Here we go. Best suspect is the guy who found the body. “Not so weird. I saw smoke and went to see if there was a problem.” In Weston’s mind, Gabe was suspect number one, he who discovers the dead body. “Thought somebody might offer me coffee. Maybe even a donut.” He chuckled, although right now he didn’t feel much like laughing.

  “Way I heard it, you were all out in the desert on some sort of secret quest. Were you supposed to be meeting up with the others?”

  Gabe forced another hearty—and oh-so-obviously fake—chuckle. “Tripp, my new partner, set the rules. I was through with my assignment. Besides, I’ve always thought rules were to be broken.” Why the hell did he say that? Shut up and walk.

  “I’ve met Tripp Chasen. Not sure he’d agree with you on that., if the rules were his.” After a pause where they walked side by side, not companionably, Weston asked, “So who else did you meet up with out there?”

  When the cops interviewed Frances, would she tell them the
two of them had met up? Knowing Frances and her activist’s experience with the law, maybe not. But why lie? Safer to stick with the truth as much as possible. “Met a trainee, name of Frances. We talked briefly and went our separate ways.”

  “This seems like a strange training test. Sort of a boot camp?”

  “You said you knew Tripp. He apparently excels at strange. As his new partner, I’m hoping to convince him to make a few changes.”

  Officer Weston dropped back to walk with his boss. Probably to report what he’d learned about Gabe. Weasel.

  They were within a mile and a half of the camp where Gabe discovered Poulsen when someone hailed them. Gabe squinted in that direction. Frances O’Shea. She just kept popping into the scene. Yep. This whole game was like a play, with the cast spread out over miles of desert. If she’d finished her “scavenger hunt” and was heading in to headquarters, she’d missed her cue, gone off course. They stopped and waited for her to join them, Gabe appreciating the enforced rest.

  She approached them. Holy crap. Frances looked years older than—when was it? Yesterday? Yes, only yesterday. During training, everyone remarked on her energy and vitality—even though she scorned them all as ageist. Sure, she’d looked anxious in their conversation about Kate and Ben, but now the deep lines on her face looked as if they’d melted deeper into her skin, and veins he hadn’t noticed before pulsed in her neck and at her temples. Her silver hair, always held back in a bun or pony tail like a master sergeant had ordered it to stay in place, straggled around her face.

  Frances stopped, took two slow steps forward, and peered at the two strangers. That they were cops was obvious by their uniforms and Stetsons. Gabe bit his lip. Should he tell her? Casually introduce Idle? She made his decision by hurtling into his arms like a long-separated lover. He staggered back but held steady. She smelled of sweat, dust, creosote, all with a sour overshadow. Fear? Despair? More likely his active imagination. Or projecting his own emotions on her.

  Frances untucked her chin from his chest. “Have they . . . found her? Is she . . .?”