The Devil's Cradle

by Sylvia Nobel

  Eyes narrowed, he viewed me with quiet appraisal for a few seconds. “Seeing how we agreed on being partners and all, I’m kind of surprised I haven’t heard from you till now.”

  “I probably should have called you sooner.” I watched his deeply lined face gather in a critical frown as I relayed the sickening incident with the rabbit.

  “Thought you were going to let me know right away if anything out of the ordinary happened.”

  “I probably should have but because of the bloody bird sign already tacked on the front gate I thought it was another prank initiated by the animal rights people. Now I’m not so sure.” I also filled him in on the disturbing call to Audrey along with my theory of the staticky pay phone at Toomey’s garage.

  His eyes were mere slits now. “And your reason for not reporting that was...”

  His tone of mild disapproval was unsettling and I was sure my excuse would sound lame. “It was late and Miss Morgan didn’t want to cause a stir because she thinks it was Jesse trying to scare her.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ve got a couple of theories cooking that I’d like to discuss with you, but first I wanted to find out what you know about those crank calls to Grady Morgan.”

  He pulled a pipe from his shirt pocket and fingered it longingly. “Damn new county rules say I can’t smoke in here anymore,” he grumbled, peering into his empty coffee cup and then rising to his feet. “Tell you what. I’m gonna step outside a couple of minutes. In the meantime, you can take a gander at that.” He pointed to the file in my lap. “We’ll talk after.”

  It seemed like a reasonable suggestion, so as soon as he vanished around the corner I opened the folder.

  The first complaint dated back almost a year, and after that, there’d been three more formal reports of threatening calls. It bothered me though that when quizzed, Grady Morgan refused to be specific as to the nature of the threats. That, coupled with his vague, unsubstantiated accounts of a mysterious intruder that no one else had ever seen, came across as little more than the demented ranting of a drunken old man.

  I set the first group of papers aside and picked up the theft reports, hopeful that perhaps these would contain some juicy new tidbit, some incriminating piece of evidence. Over the course of several months, Grady had charged that small amounts of household cash were missing from a desk drawer in his office. Several valuable paintings stored in one of the unused rooms had also vanished, as had a lock box containing personal family items such as photos, jewelry and collector coins. Various other art pieces, including a Hummel collection and several hand-painted vases, also could not be accounted for.

  Interesting. All easy items to hock. And once again, it seemed to point the ugly finger of blame at Marta, especially now that I was aware of her ailing grandson and the family’s constant need for infusions of cash. And when I thought about the affectionate display in the kitchen last night between her and D.J., it brought forth a troubling scenario that sent my stomach plunging in a downward spiral.

  What if they’d been working together with a wink and a nod quietly looting the place right under Grady’s nose each for their own separate gain? If one of them had been caught in the act, would they cover for each other? But then, where did the harassing phone calls fit in? Were they connected to the suspected thefts?

  I set the second group of reports aside and sifted through the desk report on Grady’s fall plus the medical report issued by Dr. Orcutt. It was dry, factual, and there was nothing to indicate that it had been anything other than an unfortunate accident. It was enlightening to note that his blood-alcohol level, which was high enough to kill a horse, appeared to confirm D.J.’s assertion that the old man had indeed been drinking heavily that night.

  To date, the only clue to go on was the rambling statement by Marta who was considered to be an unreliable witness due to her eyesight. Nevertheless, all the entrances to the house had been dusted for fingerprints. There were no conclusive results.

  As far as alibis went, Willow Windsong swore up and down she was at home arranging placards for another protest, Haston vouched for Jesse’s company and D.J. maintained he’d been at the Muleskinner. Again, that left only poor Marta without an alibi. But there was one intriguing side note. Several patrons at the saloon remembered that D.J. had gone outside for awhile to work on Archie Lawton’s truck. Some witnesses reported that he’d been gone less than half an hour, others insisted it was closer to one hour. But all agreed that he’d been there the bulk of the evening.

  My high expectations began to fizzle. The witness statements accounted for all my suspects with the exception of Bitsy Bigelow. Where had she been that night?

  I heard footsteps in the hallway and looked up as Orville strode through the doorway accompanied by the aromatic scent of pipe smoke. “You want coffee?” he asked, thumbing over his shoulder.

  “No thanks.”

  He set his replenished cup on his desk and sank back into his chair with a satisfied sigh. “So. You still got questions?”

  I looked him right in the eye. “Why don’t you have this listed as a homicide?”

  During the protracted moment of reflection, it wasn’t difficult to interpret his look of pained resignation. ‘Who does this young upstart reporter think she is breezing in here from out of town to dispute a career law man who’d been solving cases since before she was born?’

  He cocked his head to one side. “I guess that would suit you a lot better.”

  “Suit me?”

  “Yep. A murder would sell more papers than just a chance fall, wouldn’t it?”

  “Granted. But that’s not why I’m asking. Considering the players and acrimonious atmosphere surrounding this case, are you really convinced that it was just an accident?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. Right now, I don’t have any hard evidence to the contrary. Got some thoughts?”

  “I have a couple of hunches.”

  “Me too, but that’s not enough to get an arrest warrant. You found out something else I ought to know about?”

  I took the challenge. “Maybe.”

  His probing gaze deepened and then looked at the wall clock. “I’ve got about twenty minutes before the staff meeting. Convince me that Grady Morgan’s death wasn’t accidental.”

  “All right. Starting with the crank calls. Don’t you think it’s rather odd that he would lodge a complaint and then be unable to remember anything this mysterious woman said to him or even offer a clue as to who it might be?”

  “He sounded pretty irrational both times I talked to him.”

  “So I’ve heard. But what if he really did know? Audrey understood the woman perfectly and if Jesse Pickrell’s telling the truth, it might be the very same person who claims to have known Audrey’s mother from way back when. I think this is key since Morgan’s Folly seems to be saturated with people who’ve suddenly shown up out of the blue the past few years.”

  “Go on.”

  “Okay. What do you know about Bitsy Bigelow?”

  “Who?”

  “D.J. Morrison’s girl friend.”

  “I don’t know anything about her. Why?”

  I hunched forward in the chair. “Remember Marta Nuñez’s story about someone running by the window that night? Well, it’s possible it may have been this woman.”

  His silver eyebrows edged a little higher. “Based on...?”

  “This.” I dug the barrette from my purse and dropped it in his outstretched hand. “I found it in the front yard of the Morgan place yesterday and when I met Bitsy this morning she had one just like it in her hair.”

  “Do tell.”

  Of course I was bound to divulge the fact that D.J. had purchased more than one of them as gifts and given them to several people. But I drove home the point of Bitsy’s recent and coincidental reappearance in town as well as the fact that she’d apparently been acquainted with the Morgan family in the past.

  Lips pursed in thought, he turned it
over in his hand a few times. “Mind if I hold onto this for a bit?”

  “Keep it.”

  He set the barrette down and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Got a motive?”

  He had me there. “No, I don’t, except for the fact that she’s linked to Willow Windsong who certainly had a compelling motive for murder. And she’s also tied to Jesse Pickrell through D.J. who’s buddy-buddy with Marta who just happens to be in dire need of cash to cover medical bills for her grandson.”

  “It’s pretty complicated all right,” he acknowledged with a rueful grin. “I’ll see what I can find out about this woman.”

  “Thanks, and before I forget, what do you make of Grady Morgan’s last words to Marta? Something about the angel of death?”

  Skepticism seeped back into his eyes. “Oh, yes, the visiting spook,” he muttered, thumbing through pages until he found what he wanted. “Okay. She claims the old man was mumbling incoherently, but she thinks he said something to the effect of “the day is here. Justice is done.” We stared at the question marks in each other’s eyes for a few seconds before I said, “If we accept the fact that Marta quoted him correctly, it sounds to me like he believed that his impending death would somehow atone for a past injustice.”

  “Could be.”

  “I have another idea, too.” I ventured my theory about D.J. and Archie Lawton fencing stolen goods to buy drugs and smuggle them across the border. “What can you tell me about D.J. Morrison?”

  “Not a whole lot, I’m afraid. We ran a check on him but can’t find any criminal record.”

  “What about Archie Lawton? What was he in prison for?”

  His lips twisted in disdain. “Which time? He’s got a rap sheet as long as my left leg.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yep. Archie and his older brother Vincent followed along in their old man’s footsteps. He spent most of his life in and out of the pen and poor Mrs. Lawton couldn’t control those two boys. They’ve been in trouble since they were in diapers. Started with petty thefts and shoplifting and went on from there to burglary and attempted murder.”

  “Wonderful. And the family’s always lived there in Morgan’s Folly?”

  “Yep.”

  “What was Archie sent up for last time?”

  He turned to the file drawer again, and pulled out a thick folder. The wall clock ticked softly as he thumbed through it and finally chose a sheet of paper. “Auto theft.”

  Hold the presses! I sat bolt upright as the memory of my first visit to Grady’s garage pushed to the front of my mind. “Did Mr. Morgan ever report having one of his cars stolen?”

  “Not technically.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He pulled yet another folder from the cabinet. “It says here that a red Mercedes-Benz Coupe was reported stolen about a month later while Grady was still in the coma.”

  “Why isn’t that in his file?”

  “Because it wasn’t stolen from the Morgan place. The car was locked up at Toomey’s shop being restored. He’s the one who reported it missing.”

  Well, well. That affirmed my suspicion that there should have been a tenth car sitting in the vacant spot in Grady’s garage and why there were only nine sets of keys on the ring. Now I understood Toomey’s forlorn expression this morning. “Have you been able to connect Archie Lawton with the theft?”

  “Not yet.”

  My pulse accelerated. This added an interesting new dimension to my hypothesis. D.J. would certainly have known the car was at Toomey’s and with Grady safely tucked away in a Phoenix hospital, it would have been easy enough to spirit it across the border.

  “Hey, Orville,” came a female voice from behind me, “if I have to sit through this boring meeting, you do too.”

  He rose to his feet. “Keep your britches on, Greta.” I turned to see a petite, blonde woman in uniform return his smile of easy familiarity.

  “Sorry, Ms. O’Dell. It appears my esteemed presence is required.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, rising to follow him out the door. “I appreciate the time and the information.”

  I’d only gotten a few steps away when he hailed me. Pausing, I appraised his shrewd expression. “I expect you’ll try a little harder to keep me informed this time, right, partner?”

  I grinned and nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  On the drive into town, I tried to coalesce my topsy-turvy thoughts into some semblance of order, but the endless possibilities lined up before me like mathematical equations.

  The villains in this deadly soap opera could possibly be Jesse and D.J. It could also be Marta and D.J., or it might be Bitsy and Willow. What about a combination of Archie, D.J. and Bitsy? Or...

  A new thought hit me in the stomach like a closed fist. Where was Duncan Claypool in this crazy mix? The hatred between the two families was well documented and who else stood to gain more? Being aware of the Pickrell’s financial plight, he could have easily masterminded the plot to drive the old man over the edge—maybe in more ways than one.

  Audrey’s unexpected appearance may have thrown a monkey wrench into his plans and made it necessary to initiate the imposter rumor designed to discredit her. Had the near miss on Boneyard Pass been devised merely to frighten us or had something more sinister been planned? And since that and the threatening call had apparently failed to send her scurrying out of town, would he still attain his goal of ownership by romancing this guileless young woman?

  This new hypothesis sounded so frightening logical it gave me one of those full body shivers. What should I do now? Wait until I could unearth some good solid evidence, or broach the subject with Audrey based solely on unfounded suspicions prompted by my wild imagination?

  That would probably be a mistake. Knowing how she felt about him, she’d surely reject it out-of-hand as preposterous. No. For the time being, I would keep it to myself.

  Chapter 20

  When I didn’t see Audrey waiting outside the building entrance I parked the car under a shade tree a few doors down. I was in the process of scribbling some notes when I realized a small throng of people had gathered around, abuzz in open admiration for the Packard, of course.

  One elderly man engaged me in conversation, saying he’d once owned a car just like it, and as the minutes stretched on, I also learned more about modern-day Bisbee, especially the burgeoning crime problem associated with drug running and ‘border bandits’.

  “These people are pretty darn slick,” he said, hooking his fingers through red suspenders. “A bunch of them broke into old Miss Tinsdale’s house last week—in broad daylight, no less—tied her up and snatched everything that wasn’t nailed down. They were back across the border in about six minutes flat.”

  Several other residents chimed in with their own stories and by the time Audrey finally emerged from the building, the late afternoon sun had dipped behind the rusty, cone-shaped hills, leaving Bisbee to bask in the reflective amber glow of early dusk.

  She waved a friendly greeting and I could tell immediately that something was different. A bold spring in her step had replaced her usual slump-shouldered posture and as she drew closer, her eyes glittered with a look of contained excitement I’d never seen before.

  Clutching a bulky accordion file, she slid into the seat next to me while the small crowd of car enthusiasts began to disperse. “I hope you didn’t have to wait too long,” she said with a slight catch in her voice.

  “Not very.”

  “Did you find out anything new from Detective Kemp?”

  I turned the ignition key. “A little. But let’s hear your news first. I gather things went well?”

  Instead of answering, she stared straight ahead, her lips compressed in a cagey little smile. I was puzzled by her silence and when we pulled away from the curb, I’m sure she caught my inquisitive glances as we rolled along a narrow street lined with neat shops. Curiosity was burning a hole in my tongue when she finally burst out, “Kendall, you’re not gonna
believe how rich I am. I still can’t quite believe it myself.”

  “So your father didn’t squander the family fortune after all?”

  “Well, he did. Sort of. The accountant said he went through a ton of it. But there’s still a lot more stuff. I mean, there aren’t piles of just plain cash sitting around in banks, but listen to this...”

  “Wait a minute,” I cautioned her. “I can’t wait to hear everything, but can all this be on the record?”

  “I guess so.” Her words tumbled over each other as she breathlessly reeled off a list of assets that included all but a few pieces of real estate in Morgan’s Folly, the mine property, equipment and all mineral rights. On top of that, there was an impressive portfolio of utility stocks and Treasury bonds Grady’s father Jeb had wisely tucked away in an interest-bearing trust so that his errant son couldn’t get his hands on the principal. “I think that’s everything,” she concluded in a trembling voice.

  “Don’t forget the car collection,” I reminded her, patting the steering wheel. “And what about the house and all the furnishings?”

  “That too. Oh, Kendall, this is all so unreal. I mean, I’m like...a real millionaire.”

  While I was very happy for her, the news validating her substantial wealth left me vaguely uneasy. Three days ago it appeared she was to be mistress of a dying town, but the reality that she was literally sitting on top of a gold mine reinforced just how much was at stake. It’s no mystery that people will do strange things for money. Especially when there’s a lot of it. Little wonder that Audrey’s untimely arrival had generated such discord.

  I grinned. “Now see, you were all in a tizzy over nothing and I’ll lay odds your lawyer didn’t doubt your identity for a minute.”

  “He didn’t. In fact, he told me I looked like a clone of my father.”

  “So what do you want to do now?” I asked, slowing to allow a group of camera-laden Japanese tourists to cross the street. “Head home?”