Tattered Legacy (A Nora Abbott Mystery)

by Shannon Baker

  Nora closed her eyes against the glare. “No, sorry. I’m not thinking.”

  “Of course not. We’re on the way.”

  Marlene and Bill Hardy arrived in less than a half hour, long enough for Abigail to calm down. She had pulled out some moistened towelettes and done some sort of magical repair to her face and hair that made her look as though she’d just stepped out of the salon. The sweat drying from her shirt and a quick wipe of one of Abigail’s towlettes constituted enough freshening up for Nora.

  Park rangers and a few curious tourists ventured out, hoping to get the story. Nora explained the brake failure and that help was on the way. Since no one was injured and the damage was limited to the Jeep’s mirrors, the authorities seemed willing to let the incident drop.

  Abigail sat in the Jeep with the doors opened to catch the slight breeze. Abbey stretched out in the shade under the Jeep. Nora paced, going from a three-foot Mormon tea shrub, around two rocks the size of picnic tables, and back again, her boots crunching on a crust of gravel and grit.

  Marlene and Bill arrived in a tow truck that had faded to a colorless gray. Tool boxes lined the heavy truck and an assortment of tools and equipment filled the bed. Marlene spilled out of the passenger side, her red-and-yellow-striped skirt billowing in the breeze. She strode over to Nora and Abigail and stopped to inspect them. “You seem okay.”

  “Barely,” Abigail spewed in a breathless fury. “That Jeep is done for and it nearly took us out with it.”

  Bill Hardy sauntered over. He might have been fifty or eighty, with deep lines etched in his face. He reached out to shake Nora’s hand, his grease-stained paw bearing black half moons under his fingernails. He wore dark blue Oshkosh overalls and a stretched and faded T-shirt. “How do.”

  Nora accepted his quick and crushing handshake. “The brakes went out.”

  “Hmm.” He stepped to the Jeep and popped the hood. He hummed while he surveyed the engine. Nora turned to Marlene. “Thank you so much for coming out here,” she said.

  Abigail gazed up at Marlene, whose Amazonian elegance seemed fitting to the red stone and sand. “You’re an angel. I just don’t know what we would have done without you.”

  Still humming, Bill pulled back from the engine and squatted down to look under the Jeep.

  Marlene watched the mechanic as he got on his hands and knees and reached behind the passenger side front wheel. “You were lucky Bill was in the shop when you called. He’s a big mystery fan and comes in once a month for all the new paperbacks.”

  Bill came out from under the Jeep and put a hand on the fender to help himself up. “Found your problem. It’s an easy fix and you’ll be on your way.” He ambled toward his truck.

  “What happened?” Nora asked.

  He rummaged in the bed of his truck and pulled out a plastic gallon container and held it up. “Out of brake fluid.”

  Abigail crept up behind him. “That’s all?”

  He walked back to the Jeep and addressed Nora. “Have you noticed the brakes getting spongy lately?”

  She nodded.

  “Fluid’s probably been leaking out for a couple of days. When you hit the brakes coming down that slope, it squeezed the last of the fluid out and then you were done. Nice work getting her slowed down and stopped, though.” He picked up his humming again.

  “I’ve never heard of the brakes losing fluid,” Abigail said.

  He interrupted his humming. “I haven’t seen it myself. Not like this.”

  “What do you mean?” Nora asked.

  He twisted the cap of the brake fluid container. “Looked like the bleeder valve somehow worked loose. Then the drive sort of wiggled it even more loose. It leaked out a little at a time, until you hit them hard, then it blew the rest of the fluid out.” He unscrewed a cap in the engine and poured the fluid. “I tightened the bleeder valve and I’ll get this filled up. You’ll be good to go.”

  “How would this have happened?” Nora asked.

  He put the cap back on the jug and puckered his lips in consideration. “I don’t know.”

  Abigail crossed her arms. “It happened because this Jeep is so old it’s literally falling apart. I say we drive it right onto a lot in Moab and get you something decent.”

  Bill sauntered back to his tow truck. “Oh, this beauty has lots of life in her. I wouldn’t go trading her off just yet. Especially now that she’s all fixed up.”

  Nora braced herself. “What do I owe you?”

  He placed the jug into the mess of his truck bed. He squinted his eyes and gazed down the road, calculating. “Let’s see. Mileage out here both ways, plus filling the fluid.” He winked at Nora. “And a little something for my expertise.” Here it comes. Darrell said this guy gouged tourists. “How about twenty bucks?”

  Nora waited. The first twenty for the drive one way, then another twenty for the drive back. Add a hundred or so for his expertise.

  He waited. Frowned. “You think that’s too much?”

  Marlene hit Nora on the arm. “Twenty? For the whole thing?” she stammered.

  He hardened his face. “Any lower and I’d lose money on the gas alone.”

  “No, no. Of course.” Nora trotted back to her Jeep. She dug in her pack for her wallet, extracted a twenty and a ten. Then put the ten back and took another twenty. She hurried to Bill and handed him the cash.

  He took it, then held out one of the bills. “You got a couple of them stuck together.”

  “That’s for you. For your trouble. Buy yourself a few new paperbacks.” He shrugged as though he couldn’t understand her and didn’t really care to. He climbed back into the truck.

  Marlene and Abigail stood chatting by the passenger door to the truck. Nora hurried over. “I hate that you closed the bookstore for this. If I’d been thinking, I would have called the shop where I had it fixed earlier. But I’m really glad I didn’t. Bill’s great.”

  Marlene glanced into the cab and grinned. “And more well-read than you’d expect. Where did you have it worked on before?”

  “A shop Darrell suggested.”

  Marlene tilted her head. “What’s the name of it?”

  Nora tried to remember the logo on the letterhead. “A star or planet or something.”

  Marlene’s eyebrows drew together. “Polaris?”

  That didn’t sound good. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Marlene’s worried eyes didn’t look like it was nothing.

  Abigail put her hand on Marlene’s arm. “You need to tell us.”

  Marlene gazed up at the spires in the distance. She inhaled and looked at Nora. “Polaris is owned by one of the oldest Mormon families in Moab. They kind of keep to themselves and mostly service their own and relatives’ vehicles.”

  “So?” Abigail was clearly running out of patience.

  “Ranching around here is a hard way to make a living. Most ranchers need to supplement their income.”

  “And?” Abigail urged.

  “Lee works for them sometimes.”

  If that hadn’t knocked the air out of Nora, the next words out of Marlene’s mouth would have.

  “They serviced Lisa’s truck.” Marlene paused. “Right before her brakes went out.”

  Twenty-Three

  Warren Evans denied the pain in his bones. The meds his physician prescribed were becoming less effective. He sat upright and plastered an enthusiastic grin on his face. All he needed to do was pull himself together for an hour, then he could return to his house and collapse, alone. He had the strength for that.

  He lowered his head to pray, resisting the urge to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. He wanted to sleep, to lie back in his four-poster bed, surrounded by his children and grandchildren who would weep at the thought of his passing.

  He would promise to see them again in the afterlife, when
he, like his brother Jesus, would command his own planet, populated by his sons and daughters.

  But he didn’t have his own sons and daughters. God had withheld that blessing from him.

  Christine’s sharp voice cut through the silence in the Cadillac. “I don’t know why you insist on putting yourself through this. You obviously don’t feel up to it.”

  Warren pushed himself from the steering wheel to sit oak-tree tall. “We need to help Darrell. It’s our duty.”

  Christine flipped the visor down and studied her face in the mirror. She pulled a tube of lipstick from her purse and twisted it. The red color emerged like the disgusting penis of a dog. Before she applied it, she addressed him. “Why? Because he’s Mormon and you have to stick together?”

  He wanted to slap the lipstick from her hand. God made her the way He wanted her. And yet, never satisfied with His blessings, she’d pulled and tucked, dyed and plucked until she resembled a cartoon of the beauty he’d married so long ago. Maybe there had been the need for subterfuge while they courted investors and built Bourne Enterprises, but his fortune was made. He needed her to be his wife now, his helpmate—not just a cosigner on some of his bank accounts.

  He unbuckled his seat belt. “I want to help him.”

  She ran the lipstick over her mouth, smacked her lips, and puckered for the mirror, then fluffed her raven hair. “You’ve earned your rest. Why would you drag us both to this godforsaken dust bin to campaign for Darrell when we could have stayed in Manhattan so you could recover from chemo?”

  She didn’t fool him. Christine didn’t care if this trip made Warren uncomfortable. She hated Moab, always had. She preferred expensive restaurants and shopping and her work on her charitable committees. She disdained anything that reminded her of Warren’s roots. He’d watched her cringe every time he’d mentioned his Utah upbringing to prospective business associates. Maybe he should have left her in New York.

  But she was his wife, married before God. Not a Temple wedding, because he’d been headstrong and hadn’t chosen in the faith. For that, God had punished him. Maybe she didn’t comfort him and he couldn’t count on her to walk hand in hand with him to the threshold, but she hadn’t shirked her public responsibilities. As far as he knew, she’d been faithful to him. When her time came, he’d call her through the veil. He owed her that much.

  “This is important.” He opened the car door and pulled himself to stand. He’d lost weight, as well as his hair, during the chemo. The well-made toupee camouflaged his bald pate and only the most observant would detect anything out of the ordinary. His tailor had made him a few new suits. He hoped he didn’t look anything worse than tired.

  Warren crossed in front of the Caddy and opened the passenger door for Christine. She climbed from the car with as much grace as an actress stepping onto the red carpet. She smiled up at him, habit from years of playing generous and supportive spouse to a rich man. She never let her cover slip. He should be grateful.

  They walked across the dirt parking lot and up the wooden boardwalk. He held the heavy log door open for her and she entered the restaurant. He followed and let the door close behind him.

  He’d always liked this restaurant. The adobe walls, slick and whitewashed, made him feel clean and cool. The umber tones and the rustic log furniture felt far removed from the pretensions of New York and high finance. He missed this country, his roots. He wouldn’t go back to New York. He had no need to acquire more on this side of the veil. Surely God would grant him peace now.

  But not just yet. He still needed to decide who would carry the banner when he was called home.

  The tables had been moved to the perimeter of the large dining room. Smells of roasting meat and the grease from French fries and onion rings permeated the building. The room buzzed with energy and conversation, knots of people congregating throughout the dining room.

  He spotted Darrell at the far end of the room. Rage squeezed into him, but he banished it in a heartbeat. Not even Christine noticed. He kept his face relaxed as he watched Darrell raise a frosty glass of amber liquid to his mouth.

  Beer! Darrell knew better than to indulge in sin like this. It showed a weakness that troubled Warren deeply.

  Warren and Christine weren’t in the room more than three seconds before Todd Grayson, a local sporting goods store owner, noticed them.

  Todd hurried over, all grins and outstretched hand. “Warren! So good to see you. Darrell didn’t say you’d be here.” Warren returned a firm grip, followed by several more hearty handshakes with others. People swarmed around him as they usually did. Some wanted to bask in his celebrity, some hoped to get close enough he’d do them a favor down the road, some genuinely liked him. He didn’t waste energy trying to figure out which category they landed in. He shook hands, accepted hearty pats on the back, chatted and joked. A crush of admirers swept Christine away. Hers or his fans, he didn’t care.

  The crowd around Warren parted and Darrell stood in front of him, an ear-to-ear grin playing on his face. The boy was good. Even Warren couldn’t discern the authenticity of his smile. He grabbed Warren’s hand and gave it a warm squeeze. “What a great surprise. When did you get to town?”

  “Christine and I got in around two this afternoon.”

  “Good flight?”

  Inane conversation. He had more on his mind than the endlessly uncomfortable flight in his private jet. “Not bad. Looks like you’ve got a great crowd here.” At two hundred dollars a plate, he’d better. Of course, Moab never brought in many campaign dollars. But a vote was a vote and Darrell needed them all.

  Darrell surveyed the room with satisfaction. “We’ve got a lot of good friends here. Thanks to you.”

  Warren kept up his warm tone but lowered his voice a bit. “The polls have you slipping a few points.”

  Darrell’s expression didn’t falter but the light hardened in his eyes. “Nothing to worry about. We have a slump in cash flow right now so we’re holding off for a media push in a couple of weeks.”

  Meaning, if only Warren ponied up cash, all would be well. Darrell so cleverly blamed his declining numbers on Warren.

  A waitress wearing jeans and a too-small T-shirt appeared with two beading glasses of lemonade on a tray. The shirt stretched too tight across her breasts and the jeans rode too low on her hips. Sinful, thought Warren. Darrell took the glasses from her and held one out for Warren. “Thought you might be thirsty.”

  Warren accepted it and watched as Darrell drank nearly half of his glass. He probably hoped the lemon would mask the smell of the beer. His religion allowed no caffeine and definitely no alcohol. These might seem harsh and arbitrary rules, but the kosher restrictions of the Jews were equally as obtuse. God asked; man must comply. “We’ll talk later,” he said to Darrell. “You need to circulate.”

  Warren turned to an aging dowager, who wanted to discuss environmental issues. He did his best to focus on the woman, but nausea threatened and he felt weak. He caught a passing waitress, handed her the lemonade, and asked for ice water instead.

  When he looked up, he caught sight of a black cowboy hat. The hat dangled in Lee’s hands as he stood awkwardly in the back corner of the dining room. His mood brightened. Lee looked so much like Warren’s dear sister Lydia, right down to the perpetually worried expression. It made them appear stern when Warren knew the opposite was true.

  He disregarded the pain in his bones and strode over to Lee, hand extended. The corner of Lee’s mouth ticked up. “Uncle Warren. Thought you might be here.”

  “It’s good to see you supporting Darrell like this.”

  Lee chuckled. “I’m here to see you, not that blowhard.”

  Warren refrained from smiling. “The Lord uses everyone according to their talents.”

  The worry line appeared again in Lee’s forehead. “I know you’ve been called to do great things. And I know the sacrifices you�
�ve made. Me and mine, we’re grateful.”

  The toupee, the new suits, and the effort to appear energetic hadn’t done the trick. Lee had detected his illness. Darrell probably had, too. He took the opportunity to drop into a chair next to a table that had been shoved against the wall. Lee sat down across from him.

  Warren tried to lighten the boy’s mood. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments. And before you start in with your humility and all the proof of God’s plan for you to be a steward of the land, I’m not going to lay any more burdens on you. Today.” Lee looked at him in the same grateful, trusting way he used to when Warren took him fishing or hunting or they worked cattle. “But you said you came here to see me. What about?”

  Lee hesitated. “A lot of people are arriving daily.”

  Warren glanced up to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “Is there a problem?”

  Lee positioned his chair so his back was to the room, trusting Warren to keep watch. “Lisa Taylor was close, Uncle Warren. She figured out what we’re doing. If she hadn’t died, we’d have been exposed.”

  Warren nodded. He couldn’t let anyone know how shaken the incident made him feel.

  Lee focused on Warren’s face. “Rachel said that Trust woman thinks Lisa was murdered.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Lee exhaled in relief. “I hoped you’d handle it this time. With you here, it won’t be as much a problem as it was with Lisa.”

  There. That’s what Warren looked for. “You’re a faithful servant, Lee.”

  The lines in Lee’s forehead deepened. “I’m here to defend God’s plan from the people who wouldn’t understand.”

  Warren offered a gentle smile. “I’ll let you know if I need you. And until then keep doing what you’re doing—living a righteous life, keeping God’s principles, and protecting the lands he gave us.”

  Lee pushed his chair back and stood. He made room for Warren to rise. Despite his effort to appear strong, Warren leaned heavily on the table. He stumbled and Lee grabbed Warren’s elbows. With the strength that told of his days of physical labor, he righted Warren. As soon as Warren felt solid, Lee stepped back, deftly turning them so Warren faced away from the room and Lee looked into the room.