by Sylvia Nobel
Wide-eyed, Audrey turned to me. “Oh, I get it. Whoever came here that night didn’t expect Marta to be home yet.”
The old housekeeper responded to her statement with a canny nod. “The woman does not think I will see her.”
“Tell me something, Marta,” I said, swatting at one of the army of insects now swarming around the light, “Willow Windsong swears she saw someone driving Jesse’s truck up here about eight-thirty or nine. Did you hear anything?”
“That night it was very hot, so I have the air-conditioner on and the windows closed.”
“So, how is it you heard Mr. Morgan shouting?”
The barest hint of annoyance glimmered in her eyes. “That comes from inside the house. And it is very loud. Loud enough to wake the dead,” she intoned ominously, fingering the cross at her throat.
“Could you make out what he was saying?
“His voice, it was not clear.”
“Did it sound like he was arguing with someone?”
“The sheriff asks me this too, but I’m not so sure.”
“Did he make a habit of talking to himself when he was drinking?”
“I told you, the drink it makes him loco sometimes.”
So, she could not really verify anyone had been there when he fell. Realizing I’d come full circle and still had no answers left me vaguely frustrated. “Okay, so you got up, checked Mr. Morgan’s room and he wasn’t there, right?”
An affirmative grunt.
“But, you determined the noise was coming from the old part of the house and you crossed the breezeway?”
“Yes. Anymore I don’t move so good but I go as fast as I can, all the time calling Mr. Morgan’s name. But,” she added in the same breath, “I hear no answer from him.”
“Were there any lights on in that part of the house?”
“No. I turn on the lamps, but there is no one. Then I go up to the second floor.”
“Was that dark too?”
A slow nod. “The lights in the hall I turn on and I look inside each room, but there is nothing. Then I go up to the next floor and that is the strange part.”
“What?” Audrey was leaning forward so far I thought she might tumble off the chair.
Obviously relishing her moment in the spotlight, Marta slowly raised a stubby finger and pointed with theatrical flair. “In that little room, the light is on.”
Following her gaze, I stared up at the round turret outlined against the twilight sky and a delicious thrill shot through me. As horrifying as the possibility was that Grady had been murdered, I couldn’t help but appreciate the spooky setting. But when I turned to judge Audrey’s reaction, it was apparent she didn’t share my zeal. Ashen-faced, she quavered, “Why do you think he was up there?”
Marta hunched her broad shoulders. “There are many books. Maybe he is reading, maybe not. There is no explaining Mr. Morgan. Sometimes he wanders through the house and cries. Sometimes he falls down. It makes for much worry and many times D.J. helps me put him to bed.”
I angled my notebook towards the light, flipping to the next page. “You told us he kept old photographs in a trunk. Do you mean the big one in the tower room?”
“Oh, yes. There are many old things inside. And there are more boxes also in his bedroom.”
“So, it’s possible he was up there looking through the trunk. Was it open or shut?”
She stared unseeing for a moment before mumbling, “I...don’t remember.”
Searching the old trunk suddenly jumped to the top of my list of important things and I realized my original plan of a restful evening and early bedtime was fading as fast as the crimson remains of daylight hugging the horizon. Stars were visible now, twinkling brightly, and a soft breeze sifted through the low-hanging branches of the chestnut tree as I continued my questioning. “Okay then, so when you couldn’t find Mr. Morgan, what prompted you to look behind the house in the ravine?”
“When I come back downstairs, the doors to the balcony are open, so I go out and I see something down there.”
“Were the doors open when you passed them the first time?”
A look of confusion fanned out across her blunt features. “I...I am not sure.”
“Did you hear anything or see anyone on your way down to the first floor?”
“No. Well, there is the cat. When I am on the telephone, she runs very fast from the old kitchen. Her eyes are very big and she spits like maybe there is something making her afraid.”
Audrey exchanged a calculating look with me and I knew we were thinking the same thing. Could Princess be the sole witness to Grady’s nocturnal visitor?
“Did you tell the deputy that?”
“I think so.”
“Now, when you spotted this mysterious woman, which direction was she running?”
She paused briefly, her age-spotted face crumpling into a thoughtful frown. “East, I think.”
“Towards D.J.’s cottage?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Her look of speculation fueled my suspicion that the mysterious phantom was most likely Jesse. Armed with sufficient motive, and being a frequent visitor here, she had to be familiar with the house and grounds. And the fact that D.J. was secretly in her employ reinforced the notion that they may have been working together. But Marta’s account had the woman wearing a long flowing dress. From what I’d seen, that didn’t fit in with Jesse’s wardrobe at all. But what if she was playing the part of a phantom to terrorize Grady Morgan? It could have been prearranged that she’d use the cottage to hide or change clothes afterward.
The crickets had begun their nightly chorus as I scribbled more notes. “Marta, do you know Lamar Toomey?”
One silvery brow edged above the frame of her glasses. “Everyone in this town knows him.”
“He said something curious about D.J., and I thought maybe you could clear it up for me.”
“I will try.”
“I understand you visit relatives in Naco every couple of weeks.”
“Yes. It’s good that D.J. must go there so often. He’s very kind to let me sometimes go with him.”
It took a few seconds for her statement to fully sink in. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that D.J. initiates the trips and you just go along for the ride?”
“Yes.”
Well, wasn’t that fascinating. “I heard he frequently brought back booze for the old man. Is that true?”
“Sometimes. But, you must not think bad of D.J.,” she added quickly. “Mr. Morgan orders him to buy it.”
“I see. But, Lamar says D.J. still goes down there every few weeks like clockwork. Why? Mr. Morgan’s been out of the picture for three months now.”
She made a great pretense of avoiding my eyes and for a few seconds the sizzling hiss of moths hurling themselves against the hot light bulb resonated above the crickets. “D.J. does much good for my family. When I visit my sister’s house, he goes to the Farmacia...”
“What’s that?” Audrey interrupted, tapping my arm.
“Pharmacy,” I answered her. “You know, drugstore. Go ahead, Marta. Why does he go there?”
“He brings medicine for my grandson,” she replied, looking downcast.
“What’s wrong with your grandson?”
Marta cracked the ends off the last bean, threw them in a bag near her feet, and settled deeper into the chair. “His kidneys are very bad. D.J. also brings the pills to make my daughter sleep better.”
“But why drive all the way down there?” Audrey inquired.
Marta’s ample bosom rose in a sigh. “Just like the grocery store and many other places in this town, the Farmacia closes two years ago. There is one in Bisbee, but you must understand that the special medicine costs much money in this country.”
“I’ve heard a lot of people go to Mexico because a doctor’s prescription isn’t always required,” I said, watching her shift around in her chair while she unnecessarily smoothed the hem of her checkered apron.
“This might be tru
e,” she said finally.
I would bet a million dollars she didn’t declare her purchases at the border, but beyond that a wild theory began to germinate. What if D.J. was using Marta as a cover to smuggle illegal drugs into the country? If he needed a distribution network that would certainly go a long way in explaining his peculiar association with the likes of Archie Lawton. And what a perfect place to carry on such an illicit business. Who would suspect anything like that going on in this forgotten little town tucked away in the middle of nowhere? “I’m sorry to hear about your grandson,” I said. “His illness must place a terrible financial burden on your family.”
“Oh, yes. With the mine closed, my son-in-law does not always find steady work. For them it is very hard.”
“And sometimes it’s probably necessary for you to do whatever you can to help them out, isn’t it, Marta?” I asked, carefully gauging her reaction.
“Yes. Sometimes.”
I edged a see that’s-how-it’s-done look at Audrey and watched the realization blossom in her eyes. We now had a motive for theft. Altruistic perhaps, but a strong motive nonetheless. I turned back to Marta. “You say that D.J. often goes to the Farmacia. Why? Is he sick too?”
“He takes something for allergies.”
“What kind of allergies?”
She shrugged. “He also must take a special medicine to make him feel more strong.”
That sounded odd. “Vitamins, or do you mean steroids?”
Again the shrug.
“Does Miles Orcutt prescribe these drugs?”
“I don’t know.”
Audrey, apparently bored with my line of questioning, blurted out, “Ask her about the barrette, Kendall. Tell her...”
My sidelong glance of reproach silenced her next words and I looked back at Marta in time to see something flicker behind her eyes, then vanish.
A deep breath kept my irritation at bay. Nothing like having the element of surprise blown by giving the possible suspect time to think of an alibi. I dug the hair clip from my pocket and held it out in my palm. “Do you know who this belongs to?”
She stared at the cut glass jewels, glowing a dull ruby red in the lamplight. “Where did you find this?”
“In the grass outside my bedroom window.”
The jingle of the phone brought Marta to her feet with a grunt and she shuffled stiffly towards the screen door. When she was safely out of earshot, Audrey whispered, “I’m sorry. I guess I wouldn’t make a very good reporter.”
Inwardly, I agreed, but kept my opinion under wraps. “Don’t worry about it. There are some instances where in-your-face journalism works, but there are also times where subtlety is better. Sometimes a person’s initial reaction can tell you more than the words that come out of their mouths.”
“I don’t know why I said anything.”
“Consider it a learning experience. You’ll notice I didn’t come right out and ask her if she’d been stealing from your father but we got the desired results anyway, didn’t we?”
“Mmmmm. I see. Yes. Uh huh...”
Judging by Audrey’s fixed, glassy-eyed stare and the way her words trailed off, I thought at first she was having one of her absence seizures, but I soon realized she’d abandoned any pretense of listening to me. Instead, she was focused on Marta who finally laid down the receiver and approached the screen door. The look of yearning on Audrey’s face intensified as she half-rose from the chair and said in a barely audible voice, “Who is it?”
“It is Mr. Claypool.”
She let out a strangled squeal and practically squashed Marta against the doorframe as she dashed inside. “She flies without wings,” the older woman muttered with a shake of her head.
Grinning, I asked, “Have you ever seen Duncan Claypool?”
Humor sparked her ebony eyes. “His smile makes a woman’s heart light as the air, yes?”
“Apparently so.”
But her mood changed abruptly when she extended the barrette to me. “I know you try hard to find the truth of that terrible night, Miss O’Dell, but I don’t think this will help you very much.”
“Why not?”
She tapped the barrette now lying in my upturned palm. “Many women wear them. They’re very common and can be bought for next to nothing in my country.”
“Have you ever seen Jesse or Willow wearing anything like this?”
Her level stare held pity. “When D.J. goes to Naco last Christmas, he brings back gifts for everyone.”
“This exact type of jewelry?”
“Oh, yes. He gives one to my daughter and for my granddaughters, he brings pretty bracelets with such stones. For me, he brings a pin to wear here,” she said, patting the flowered material near her heart.
“And your granddaughters come here to visit you?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” Disappointment charged through me as the relevance of the clue fizzled. I should have known that was too easy. While it was still possible the hair clip could have been dropped by Jesse, Willow, or even Marta, the more likely scenario was that one of her granddaughters may have lost it. No doubt Detective Kemp would reach the same conclusion.
My next question, poised on the tip of my tongue, went unasked when Marta re-entered the kitchen, insisting that she had to finish the dishes and pack food for D.J. before he left for his night shift at the mine.
Scratching a profusion of bug bites dotting my bare arms, I followed her inside just as Audrey hung up the wall phone and whirled around. Her cheeks burned with color and her eyes were twin beacons of excitement. “Duncan is flying to Los Angeles tomorrow on business but guess what? He wants to pick me up Friday afternoon around two and show me some of his mine properties near Tucson and after that he’s taking me to dinner.”
I couldn’t help grinning. “Hey, what did I tell you?”
“Can you even believe it? He actually called me. I didn’t think he would. Not in a million trillion years. But he did. He really did. Wheeee!”
When she began to twirl madly around the room, Marta and I traded amused glances. While Audrey’s childish antics were certainly uplifting, a sliver of doubt persisted. What if she was reading too much into his simple dinner invitation? She could be setting herself up for a heart-aching fall.
After several minutes of excited cavorting, she grabbed my arm, insisting we go upstairs immediately so I could help her choose something to wear.
“Okay. But, remember, I still have to see if we can set up a time to visit with Ida Fairfield.”
“Oh, right, I forgot.”
We thanked Marta again for dinner and while I reminded her that we’d be leaving for Bisbee late the following morning, Audrey, who was already pushing through the louvered doors, cried out in pain when they suddenly swung inward.
“Hey, I’m really sorry,” D.J. said, his hands darting out to steady her. “You’re not hurt, are you, Miss...um...Morgan?”
Was I mistaken or had I detected that same deliberate hesitation, that same provocative note of mocking insinuation he’d used when he first addressed her on Monday?
Audrey, appearing shaken but unhurt, pulled from his grasp and rubbed the spot on her forehead that had collided with the door. “I’m fine.”
“Boy, that’s a relief and a half.”
I don’t know why, but for some reason, his ingratiating behavior hit a sour note with me.
“I’m glad you’re here, D.J.,” I said, moving beside Audrey. “I want to talk to you about Grady Morgan.”
Something unreadable behind those shaded eyes streaked by like a shooting star and then was gone. “Can’t right now. I’m already late for my shift.”
“When then?”
“How about tomorrow afternoon?”
Why did I suddenly suspect that he’d been standing on the other side of those doors the whole time, listening? If that was true, it meant he’d clobbered Audrey on purpose. But why would he harbor any malice towards her? “Unfortunately, we won’t be here,”
I replied. “How about first thing in the morning?”
“I’m not gonna get back here till after nine. I gotta catch me some Z’s sometime.”
“Five minutes.”
“I don’t think I can tell you anything you don’t know already,” he said, dismissing me with a flippant shrug. “But, sure. Whatever.” He turned his back to me, sauntered over to the sink where Marta stood loading the dishwasher and lightly smacked her behind. “Hey, old woman. Hope you’re happy I did all your work. You got my food ready?”
She giggled and playfully slapped his hand away. I watched them with interest and it occurred to me that D.J. occupied a uniquely neutral position in this whole affair. Considering the fact Marta’s contempt for Jesse was no secret, these two appeared to share a close camaraderie nonetheless. It was also interesting to note that his relationship with Bitsy inadvertently aligned him with Willow. I would have liked to stay and observe their actions further, but Audrey’s fierce whisper invaded my concentration. “Come on, Kendall, I want to go.”
When she grabbed my hand I had little choice but to follow her as she pulled me along the breezeway, babbling something about Jesse and Haston dropping by in the morning before we left to bring a final proposal from Duncan that he’d instructed her to present to the lawyer.
When we reached her room, she raced to the tall wooden armoire and began holding up various outfits in front of the wavy old mirror before settling on a rose-colored dress. “What do you think of this one?”
“It’s nice, but listen, Audrey, I really need to talk to you about D.J. for a minute.”
“No,” she said, reverting to her petulant mode. “I don’t want to talk about him.” She turned sideways to study her reflection. “Do you think this one will make me look fat?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Mmmmm. What about shoes?” she continued in a distracted tone. “The white ones go best, but the beige ones might be more practical if we do a lot of walking.”
I shrugged my opinion and when the sound of the Suburban’s engine drew me to the window, I watched until the taillights vanished around the bend. Why did I have such a distinct feeling of relief knowing D.J. was gone from the house? Was it because I knew we could talk without being overheard? Or did it spring from a growing discomfort stemming from his unorthodox behavior? It was the perfect time to share the incident with Audrey, but she was off in la-la land talking a hundred miles an hour about Duncan. Oh, well, we’d be alone in the car tomorrow, I’d tell her then.