A small gasp and a tiny inhale were all the emotions Heather allowed herself. “I’m sure you don’t expect me to mourn him.”
“No more so than we mourn the passing of any fellow human,” Gabe said. And immediately felt like a pompous asshat. “I’ll introduce you to Sheriff Idle.” He steered her toward the hillock that led to the tents.
She shook off his hand. “I can introduce myself. And you should take a shower. Even at the risk of taking all the hot water.”
Maybe a shower would wash away his guilt about pumping Heather for information. Not that he learned anything.
He vowed to do better with the next guide.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: The Sleuth Tries Again
A shower washed away a lot of red dirt and sweat but none of Gabe’s questions. Why had Everett Poulsen been killed? Why had someone left Gabe’s knife at the scene? The fast-cooling water also gave him the clarity to realize that the sheriff or the coroner might be able to deduce the kind of knife that punctured Everett’s chest, leading them directly to Gabe’s skinning knife. Unless someone else in the group had a similar tool, something he figured he’d better find out. If no one did, despite removing his knife from the scene of the killing, Gabe made a perfect suspect.
He put on the same jeans he’d worn during the scavenger hunt along with a wrinkled T-shirt that almost passed the sniff test. His other clothes were at Tripp’s home. Plan was, Tripp would announce who had passed the test, and he and Gabe would give out assignments for the next guided trips. Unless someone returned to camp with absolutely none of the cached quotes Tripp had stashed, everyone would pass muster. They needed new employees to grow the business. Using a map and compass were skills essential to rough country guides, true, but the trips Adventure Calls took generally were to public lands with clearly marked trails.
Gabe’s biggest concern a few days ago was whether or not he’d be able to get past the survival test and then handle his new responsibilities as Tripp’s business partner. Now it was whether or not he’d be arrested for murder. Ironic.
He settled himself into a camp chair. Who next? Ben? Kate? Frances would be frantic if Kate didn’t report in soon. He looked to the sky, where the brilliantly painted balloon twisted as if struggling to escape its tethers. No one could miss that for long.
One of the sheriff’s deputies walked up, toting a cup of Madrone’s coffee and a plate of cookies. “Anyone else comes in, send him right on to the sheriff. No chatting, no telling anyone what’s happened.”
Gabe wanted to greet the guides. He harbored hope that he could tell, just by body language, by a minor slip, who wielded the knife and framed him as a murderer. Yeah, right.
“Will do. They won’t learn anything from me.” He crossed his arms and leaned back, almost collapsing the fragile camp chair. So much for looking stolid and sphynx-like.
In just under an hour, Jesse Leeman strolled into the camp and right up to where Gabe sat. “So why the balloon? What’s going down?”
Gabe stood up and offered his hand to the younger man. Jesse shook Gabe’s hand with a firm but non-competitive grip. In a voice meant to mimic Jesse’s, Gabe said, “‘Hey, Gabe, how ya doin’? Hope the hunt went well for you, too. Some great country out there.’ Pause. ‘So what’s with the balloon? Trouble?’”
Jesse, exceptionally intelligent and with a passion for all things wild, suffered from a lack of social skills. Actually he maintained he didn’t suffer at all. He simply had little patience with the customs of polite society. Such personalities weren’t uncommon in the eco-activist population, but Jesse didn’t claim to be an activist. He grew up in a wealthy family where he might well have learned the niceties of manners but rarely bothered with courtesy or idle chatter. Tripp was convinced he could overcome those shortcomings and that his knowledge of flora, birds and geography would make him a great tour guide. Gabe had his doubts but had promised Tripp he’d work with the young man on human interaction.
Possibly if they paired him with a cordial guide like Madrone, things would work out. Some of the stodgier tourists might object to his body art. Each of his well-muscled arms bore half sleeve tattoos, elaborate and artistic. “Got it. Waste words first. Then to the important stuff.” His lips twitched. “So what’s up with the balloon?” He aped Gabe’s voice perfectly. “Trouble?”
“That’s what it’s for. I’ve been asked not to talk about it, but just send you over to talk to the sheriff.”
“Sheriff?” Jesse’s face, dusty and streaked with sweat, paled. “Jesus help me. Not the sheriff. Walk with me, Gabe. Tell them what a great guy I am. You know my history with law enforcement’s a little murky.”
Gabe knew. Jesse had spent time in juvenile detention and a stint in a high-end detox facility in his teens because of opioid addiction. Tripp and Gabe had been told the young man was clean, and they believed it. His smile meant to reassure Jesse, he joined him for the short walk up the rise. They stopped and looked down toward where several sheriff’s cars and Tripp’s heavy duty diesel truck were parked.
Jesse’s jaw tightened and he gripped Gabe’s forearm. “What’s going down that would bring the sheriff and half his posse with him?”
“Can’t tell you. Sworn to secrecy. And is that really half his posse? You know the other half?”
Jesse shot Gabe a look that might have felled a lesser man. “Ever hear of figures of speech, man? You and Tripp know my encounters with the cops took place in Phoenix.”
Gabe patted his shoulder. “Past history.” He moved to look at Jesse’s face. “Unless you’ve done something recent to concern you?” When Jesse’s expression remained the same, pissed and pale, Gabe continued. “Stop worrying and just tell them the truth. Come back to the casita after you talk to the sheriff. Madrone’s cooking something.”
“I smell pork. And I don’t mean Madrone’s cooking. Just seeing all those five-o’s makes me sweat.”
“Five-o’s?”
“Doh. The cops. Like in that old TV show about Hawaii?”
“If you’re clean, you don’t need to sweat.” Gabe realized he sounded like a fogy, but what else could he say?
Jesse pulled his shoulders back. Yet his eyes looked everywhere but at Gabe. “No one is clean, my man. But I’m good here. You can head back. See you soon.” He headed down the low hill, paused and looked back. “Thanks, Gabe, you’re one of the good ones.”
Gabe walked back to the casita. Jesse’s offhand compliment made him smile to himself. He wanted to be known as one of the good ones. And yet, the blond young man was strong enough to stab Everett, and was outspoken in his dislike of pompous posturing like Poulsen’s at the party. And like all the guides, Jesse hated the thought of the development out here. But did he have some reason to want to frame Gabe?
CHAPTER NINETEEN: The Troops Straggle In
G abe returned to the casita and was sent out by Madrone to collect dead shrubs for firewood. By the time he got back, Jesse had returned, having survived what Jesse termed “a grueling interrogation.” He joined Gabe in another firewood foray. Each trip had to extend further out, because only fallen wood could be collected.
A rustling in the chaparral startled Gabe and he jerked up, almost dropping his armful of sticks.
“Hey, Gabe, don’t drop a load!” called the jeering voice of Ben Burtoff. The young man appeared from behind the bush. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Oh, yes, you did. Ben, the practical joker of the group during training, left no one unscathed from his silly but usually harmless pranks. Ben’s worst so far was replacing the creme in the bag of Oreos with toothpaste. Never again would Gabe approach an Oreo with innocent eagerness.
Redheaded, freckled Ben had also flirted ceaselessly with Kate, much to Frances’s annoyance. Ben flirted with all women under fifty—or perhaps all women with a pulse—but Gabe thought he narrowed his focus on Kate when Frances was around just to rile the older woman. Ben could be a pain, but Gabe liked him.
“Not a chance.”
Ben drew closer. Gabe was surprised he hadn’t smelled him before he heard him. Either hygiene wasn’t a priority or he’d had a close encounter with a javelina. “What’s up with the balloon being raised?” Ben asked.
He could have brushed his teeth, Gabe thought. He steeled himself not to back away. “Tripp and I raised it. There’s been an incident. The sheriff’s investigating it. You need to talk with him.”
Jesse joined them. “Hey, Ben.”
Ben looked startled. “You here too? You gonna fill me in or do I have to live in suspense?”
“I’ve been sworn to secrecy. You’ll have to find out from the sheriff.”
Ben took three deliberate steps backward and stood stock still. He swallowed and Gabe could see his Adam’s apple bob out and up. “Sheriff?” Ben gazed at each of their faces. His voice lowered. “Must be some serious doodoo going down.”
Gabe thought about children ceremoniously zipping their lips locked. What would Ben the smelly prankster think of that?
Jesse might have read Ben’s mind. He put his index finger across his lip and focused his gaze on the distant horizon. “You could say that.” He sighed. He turned back to Ben. “Let’s go. You can pick up any firewood you see on the way. The sheriff can wait a few extra minutes.”
“No way. I already got a heavy pack and been hiking most of the day.” He extended his hand. “Besides, I got injured out there.”
Gabe had noticed in training that Ben never volunteered first, for anything except beer. Still, they needed all the new guides and despite his habit of shirking work, Ben could be charming. “Madrone’s more likely to offer food if you come bearing firewood,” Gabe said. He doubted that, but heck, Ben could handle a few sticks of wood. The younger man did the rodeo circuit as a clown and a bull rider for several years before interviewing for this job. His ubiquitous tight T-shirt displayed muscles most men would kill for. Gabe preferred long and toned to big and bulging, but his opinion might stem from envy of the younger man’s physique.
Ben laughed and waved his hand in the air. “What’s a little cut hand? For Madrone, I’d down and drag an entire mesquite tree, thorns and all. Let’s go.”
Gabe’s gut clenched and his jaw clamped shut when Ben spoke of Madrone. He shook his head to dismiss the jealous pangs. No way could he be getting possessive. Besides, Ben was not Madrone’s type. As if Gabe knew the kind of men Madrone preferred. What he should care about is how Ben cut his hand.
Ben picked up several pieces of fallen wood on the way to the casita. They’d make better kindling than firewood, but why be picky?
He asked Ben how his orienteering scavenger hunt went.
Ben peered at Gabe, as if his question about their shared assignment put him off. “Not bad. The time out there was great. Just me, the desert, the sky and Tripp’s totally lame quotes.”
Jesse laughed so hard he had to clutch at his bundle of firewood so it wouldn’t drop. “And here I thought he’d singled me out for lessons from his brilliance. I was afraid to mention it to you, Gabe.”
Gabe smiled. “Don’t know what you two are talking about. Maybe it’s an age thing.”
Ben smirked at him. “Yeah, like you’re so old you forgot what happened yesterday. Confess. You got ‘em, too.”
“King’s X.” At their blank stares, Gabe shrugged. “Old guy secret code. Hey, for all you know, I helped Tripp find those quotes.”
The two younger men stared at him. Jesse broke eye contact first. “No way. If you’d chosen them, they’d all be about desert insects.”
“Yeah, like which ones are fit for human consumption,” Ben added with an “ick to that” expression. But if you’d named the business, you would have gone for ‘Nature Calls’ instead of Adventure. Tripp has no sense of humor.”
They reached the casita and dumped their wood onto the pile. “Your turn,” Jesse said to Ben. “The waterboarding awaits you.” He pointed toward the hillock. Ben wandered on, looking toward the casita wistfully, and Gabe wondered if hunger, interest in Madrone or desire to evade the sheriff prompted his expression. He’d forgotten to ask Ben about his injury. Maybe it was a defensive wound incurred while fighting Everett Poulsen. Yeah, right. Too easy.
CHAPTER TWENTY: Unwelcome Arrival
G abe and Jesse entered the casita to find Madrone busy prepping some snacks with help from Frances. Frances shot Gabe a questioning look.
“We met Ben while we were gathering firewood. He’s off now to talk to the sheriff.” Frances and Madrone looked at him, obviously hoping for more information. With Jesse beside him, he didn’t want to stir up curiosity about Kate’s whereabouts. If he counted up the list of who’d returned, Kate’s absence would become even more conspicuous.
But of course Jesse had noticed. No male, even reclusive ones like Jesse, missed Kate.
“I wonder where Kate is. The rest of us have reported in,” Jesse said. “I ran into Ben on the first day. After that, it was me and the desert. Just the way I like it.”
Jesse had made it clear in the “get to know each other” sessions in training that he took pleasure from nature, not people. However, ask Jesse how to tell a cactus from a succulent or which ones are palatable, or how a jaguar could migrate to southeastern Arizona from Mexico, and he’d become an eloquent and evocative teacher. Gabe hoped their touring guests would enjoy and absorb his knowledge instead of being offended by his taciturn nature.
Frances spoke from where she’d been arranging veggies on a large tray. “She’ll be here. Like you, sometimes she gets so involved with communing with nature she doesn’t notice her surroundings.”
Madrone rolled her lips together. “She knows to always be alert out there, though. I’m sure she’ll be here soon. It’s time for a snack. Who wants to let the sheriff and Tripp know?”
Tripp spoke from the doorway, startling Gabe, whose back was to it. “Tripp knows.” He moved past Gabe, slapping his shoulder in a collegial way. It irked Gabe, and that annoyance surprised and worried him. Tripp had his quirks, but he’d made a success so far of Adventure Calls and he had good ideas for its future. Get over yourself, Gabe.
“Did you see that Ben came in?” Madrone asked Tripp.
“Yeah.” He paused, looking awkward for a man who often dominated any stage he found himself on. “I had to phone Flicker, let her know what was up.” He cleared his throat. “She’ll be here soon. She’s—naturally, we all are—devastated at the news of Everett’s death.”
“What’s it to her?” Leave it to Frances to ask the blunt questions. Gabe thought it a great one.
“‘No man is an island,’” Madrone quoted. “Any man’s death diminishes each of us.”
Tripp smiled at her. “Flicker’s sensitive that way.”
Frances slammed pickled jalapeños and onions onto a plate with more noise and vigor than it required. “Sensitive my ass,” she muttered. Gabe hid his smile with a hand to his mouth.
Madrone hurried to his side and towed him to the kitchen area by his forearm. “I could use some help here,” she said. She leaned toward him. “This is a chance to get some dirt from Flicker. Show her a little sympathy and she’ll tell you everything,” she whispered. “Not to mention show you everything she’s got.” She reached past him and grabbed a stack of plates from a shelf and handed them to him. “Put these out on the table,” she ordered in a normal voice.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he whispered back. “Flicker’s Tripp’s problem, not mine. I have plenty, thanks. Besides, what would I ask her?” He took the plates and sidled toward the door.
“Think, moron. An upset woman is a woman who wants a shoulder to cry on and an ear to talk into. With Flicker, both are preferably masculine.” She shoved him and he stumbled toward the entry. He glanced back at her, wearing what he knew was a desperate expression. Flicker calm and normal chafed his nerves. Flicker upset? He shuddered and proceeded to the table.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Help Me, Honey
F licke
r stumbled down the path to where Gabe, Tripp, Madrone, Jesse and Frances sat with Deputy Weston. Silence had its own seat at the table, its gray, uncomfortable shroud hovering with more impact on the diners than an inadvertent fart at a bridge game.
Flicker’s red hair was pulled into a pony tail with a scrunchy and she wore a baggy ASU sweatshirt over skin tight jeans. Her shoes, bright red soft leather boots, couldn’t possibly last six weeks in the Sonoran desert. The whole outfit looked contrived to create the impression that Flicker had thrown on the nearest clothes at Tripp’s call and had rushed to be here. But it struck Gabe as false. Perhaps as false as those lush eyelashes.
“Oh, hallelujah. Hurricane Flicker has arrived,” Frances said. “I so don’t need this.” She stood and took her plate inside the casita.
Flicker flung herself into Frances’s abandoned camp chair. It tilted up on two legs before she righted it. “Oh. My. God. What a disaster. A complete tragedy.”
Madrone observed her. “A shame, yes. Maybe not a tragedy.” Her calm, low voice contrasted with Flicker’s high-pitched wail. “Why did you come?”
Gabe shot Madrone a look. Why introduce a hornet in this angry bee’s nest?
Flicker glared at Madrone and for an instant her mask of sorrow fell off, revealing . . . what? He had no clue. Maybe simply that it was a mask? Again, no clue. “How can you all sit here and crunch carrots, when poor Everett is lying dead?”
Before Gabe dared voice it, Jesse said, “I doubt he’s hungry, and we were.” His face remained so deadpan Gabe couldn’t tell if Jesse was trying for humor or simply expressing a fact.
Madrone snorted into her hand. Gabe strove to remain poker-faced. Tripp raised his eyebrows. “We all grieve in our own way. It was an ugly death, for sure, one no one deserves.” His comment was punctuated by another snort from Madrone.
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