“We can’t stop now,” Sara said firmly.
“We’re stalled and not making any progress.”
“Listen to yourself. Let’s declare defeat and slink home, tail between our legs.”
Kerney groaned. “That’s not what I’m saying. Come home for now.”
“I’m not coming home yet. We’ll see this through. I love you, Kerney, but I have to go. Give Patrick a kiss for me.”
She disconnected and went looking for Dalquist and Clayton. They were downstairs in the guest cottage kitchen, sitting at the table. Both men looked at her with concerned expressions. The stove clock read ten-fifteen. She poured a cup of coffee and joined them.
“Sorry I slept so late,” she said.
“Are you okay?” Clayton asked.
“I’m coming around.” She took a sip. The coffee was perfect.
“Perhaps you should go home for a while,” Dalquist advised.
Sara smiled. “Kerney said the same thing, and as much as I appreciate your advice, I’m staying.”
“I didn’t mean to sound paternalistic.”
“You didn’t.” She took another sip. “Let’s stay on mission. Apparently, Earl and Jack Page are not survivalists tucked away in a remote area of the national forest. So, where are they?”
“Clayton raised an interesting point last night,” Dalquist replied. “Jack Page lied to his buddy at the veterans center about Earl’s identity. He well could have lied about the ranch.”
“Describing it as inaccessible could mean a lot of things,” Clayton added.
“Such as?” Sara asked.
“I talked to a man yesterday whose father knew Jack Page when he ranched in Duncan, Arizona. The guy owns a salvage yard that Earl and Jack occasionally patronized. He swore he knew nothing about them, other than who they were. He knew zero about the ranch, where it is, or who works there, except for a guy he hasn’t seen in a couple of years who may have known the Pages.”
Sara’s expression brightened. “We’ve been thinking small, when we should have been thinking big, both in terms of who and what we’re looking for.”
Dalquist nodded. “Our best strategy might be concentrating on large properties on both sides of the New Mexico—Arizona line. Focusing on those property owners—individual, corporate, full-time, part-time, absentee, or otherwise—who value their privacy.”
“Other than the salvage yard operator, nobody admits to knowing Jack or Earl,” Clayton added. “I suspect some of those I talked to were lying. What if Page has confidentiality agreements with employees, suppliers, contractors, and anyone who visits the ranch?”
“A common thing among celebrities and the very rich,” Dalquist noted.
“Maybe we’ve been thinking small in terms of Page’s current net worth, as well,” Sara replied. “What’s next?”
Clayton consulted his notepad. “We’ve been doing Internet research. Duncan is a tiny village with not much to it. Seven, eight hundred citizens; rural folks who tend to stay put. We start there and if necessary move on to the closest town, Stafford, about forty miles west. Somebody has got to know something.”
“I’ll keep researching large private landholdings between here and Stafford,” Dalquist proposed. “So far we’ve identified two across the state line we hadn’t considered before.”
“Let’s do it. But first, I desperately need food.”
Dalquist rose. “I’m considered a fair cook. Would soft-scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast do?”
“Perfect,” Sara replied.
CHAPTER 27
After finding his truck burglarized and stripped near the mouth of Barranco Canyon, Clayton had canceled his appointment to interview Lucille Trimble a second time.
On their way out the door to Duncan, he told Sara that he’d arranged a late morning meeting with Trimble at an assisted living facility in Hurley, where she had been temporarily placed.
“Louise Fowler, her court-appointed guardian, will meet us there,” he added.
“Is it worth the effort?” Sara asked.
“Trimble was basically incomprehensible when I spoke to her. But she was traumatized by the shoot-out and Marks’s death, so we might have better luck this time. We can go together, if you like.”
Sara climbed into the passenger seat of Clayton’s SUV. “Did you learn anything of value from her the first time around?”
“Just what you already know. She has a nasty mouth, and seems to think she was married to Marks, which is delusional and more than a little weird. There was no marriage certificate among the legal documents I found at the double-wide, and according to Steve Campos, the SO doesn’t have it in evidence.”
Clayton wheeled the SUV off the secluded grounds of the B&B and onto the pavement. “Talking to a woman might be less stressful for her,” he said. “Want to take a crack at it?”
“Definitely.” Sara had grown accustomed to the ugly strip of commercial and retail clutter along the highway leading out of town and now barely noticed it. “She wasn’t totally incoherent?”
“No, she knew her ABCs,” Clayton replied with a grin. “At least some of them.”
“That’s a start.”
Clayton’s phone buzzed. It was Dalquist. The Grant County Sheriff’s Office had just booked two drug addicts into jail on vandalism and burglary charges. They’d been caught with items from the Barranco Canyon double-wide. That tidied up a loose end. Clayton gave Sara the news.
Hurley, a working-class mining village, bleeding jobs and losing population, hugged the east side of the highway to Deming. The family-owned assisted living facility sat on a side street across from a vacant lot. Originally a sprawling ranch-style family dwelling, it had been transformed by a second-story addition that loomed over a front yard of freshly cut grass, an old, carefully pruned ash tree, and two flower beds filled with yellow marigolds that bordered the walkway to the front porch.
The proprietors, a middle-aged couple named Onita and Angus McFarland, greeted them in a large, modern kitchen that had been tacked onto the rear of the original house. Beyond, through a sliding glass patio door, a tall concrete-block wall enclosed a rear yard with benches, picnic tables, and several large shade trees.
Louise Fowler had yet to arrive.
With a rosy red nose and lopsided smile, Angus McFarland loomed over his petite, brown-skinned wife, who was busy wiping down the stainless-steel sink.
“Lucille has been no trouble at all,” Angus said reassuringly, as he gestured for Clayton and Sara to sit at the long, rectangular dining table. On the wall next to the kitchen door, a state license to operate the facility was prominently displayed along with a health department food inspection certificate.
Sara eased into a chair. “That’s good to know.” Pots and pans hung on a rack above the sink. A nearby footstool allowed Onita to reach them.
Onita turned away from the sink, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Louise said to wait for her before you see Lucille.”
“Of course,” Clayton said. “Has Lucille been talking at all?”
“Oh, yes,” Onita said. “But not to make any sense or have a real conversation. She refuses to leave her room. We sit with her regularly.”
“She does keep asking for Todd,” Angus added, as he served mugs of coffee to Clayton and Sara. “From what we know happened, it’s very sad.”
“Indeed, it is,” Sara replied.
While they waited for Fowler, the McFarlands told them about their facility. They lived on the premises in a second-floor apartment, and served a maximum of ten residents, whom they referred to as “guests,” each with their own private room.
Because Lucille would be with them for only a short time, she’d been given a furnished room specifically used for short-term placements. At Fowler’s request, a deputy had fetched some of Lucille’s clothing and a few personal items that had been taken into evidence from the double-wide.
“Most of our guests keep family mementos in their rooms,” Onita explained. “In
Lucille’s case, there wasn’t much to bring.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Clayton said. “What personal items did the deputy bring?”
“I have it right here.” Angus said. He reached for a three-hole binder on a shelf behind the table. “We do an inventory for each guest.”
He paged through the binder, found the inventory, and passed it to Clayton. Sara scooted closer to get a better look.
In addition to an accounting of all of Lucille’s clothing, the list included toiletries, a purse containing a wallet, a framed photograph of a young sailor in uniform, and a black leather pocket prayer book.
“Where are these items now?” Sara asked.
“In her room,” Angus answered.
Just as Sara was about to ask for permission to meet with Trimble, Fowler arrived.
“Sorry to be late,” Fowler said, smiling apologetically, explaining she’d been delayed by a phone call from a judge.
Sara got to her feet and shook Fowler’s hand. “No problem. I’m Sara Brannon.”
Fowler smiled and put her purse on the table. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you as well.” Sara replied. “I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but can we proceed?”
Fowler glanced from Sara to Clayton. “Is there a rush?”
“Lucille has some items in her room we’d like to look at,” Clayton answered. “It might be helpful.”
“I see.” Fowler glanced at Onita and Angus McFarland. “I’ll escort them. We won’t be long.”
She ushered them through a communal living room where two old ladies at a card table were busy working on a large puzzle, and down a long hallway where open bedroom doors gave glimpses into the small rooms, some filled with treasured furniture and objects, others sparsely decorated. In one room, an old man sat in a rocking chair, eyes closed, snoring softly.
The door to Trimble’s room at the end of the hall was open. She sat stiff and unmoving at the foot of her bed staring out a window that gave a view of the front yard and brought sunlight into an otherwise tidy but bleak room.
The photograph of a sailor sat on top of a chest of drawers next to a candlestick bedroom lamp. Her purse was on the bedside table, but the wallet and prayer book were nowhere in sight. A small padded armchair positioned in a corner near the closet was the only other furniture in the room.
Fowler’s cheery greeting went unnoticed. To get Lucille’s attention, she gently tapped her on the shoulder. Lucille remained unresponsive.
“Except for asking about Todd, she’s only spoken gibberish and curse words since she left the hospital,” Fowler explained.
Sara knelt in front of Trimble and said, “Lucille, we’d like to look around your room if that’s all right with you.”
Lucille’s eyes fluttered open.
“Would it bother you if I took the photograph out of the frame?”
Her eyes fluttered shut.
“Would you like to talk to me about Todd?”
Lucille shook her head.
“Do we have your permission to search?” Clayton asked Fowler.
“Go ahead.” She stepped into the open doorway to watch.
The sailor in the black-and-white photograph was very young, yet somehow familiar-looking to Sara. He wore a traditional navy jumper with two stripes on the left sleeve denoting a very junior rating as a seaman apprentice.
Sara carefully removed the photograph from the frame. Handwriting on the back read: “Jack home on leave, 1951.”
She looked more closely at the young man’s face. Was it Jack Page? Stamped on the back was the name of the photographer who’d taken the portrait: “Charles Stedman, Hotel Cochran, Main Street, Duncan, AZ.”
It had to be Jack Page. She turned to tell Clayton, who held up the pocket prayer book he’d found tucked between the mattress and box spring of the bed.
“Listen to this entry from the back of the book,” he said. “ ‘Maureen Trimble married Elliot Page in 1927. They had two children, Jack, born in 1929, and Lucille, born in 1932. Lucille had Kim born in 1949, father unlisted. Jack had two children with Jann, Louis born in 1948, and Loretta in ’51. Trimble was her mother’s maiden name.’ ”
Sara handed Clayton the photograph. “Here’s Jack, before he shipped out during the Korean War. Jack Page was Kim’s uncle.”
“And Loretta her first cousin,” Clayton added.
Sara shook her head. “One night in Deming, Kerney suggested everybody we were looking for was somehow connected. Kim’s murder, her mother gone missing. Todd the same. All tied to Jack and Earl. Throw in Loretta, and the picture is complete. What was in her purse?”
“A wallet, some facial tissues, three pennies, and a lipstick. There are some old snapshots of a young boy and girl on horseback in front of a ranch house, inscribed ‘Jack and Lucille’ on the back.”
Clayton handed Sara the faded, hand-trimmed prints. “That’s it. I don’t think Lucille and Todd were married. The first time I spoke to her, she showed me the wedding band she’s wearing. It belonged to Kim.”
“How did she get that?” Sara asked.
Clayton shrugged. “Maybe Todd took it off Kim’s body.” He turned to Fowler. “I saw a printer-copier in the kitchen. Do you think the McFarlands would mind if we use it?”
“I’m sure they won’t.”
Sara knelt in front of Lucille, who hadn’t moved an inch since the single shake of her head. “You’ll get everything right back, I promise.”
Lucille’s eyes fluttered open.
“Would you like to tell me about Todd?” Sara gently urged. “Is there something about him you’d like to say?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Lucille replied.
CHAPTER 28
Oliver Muniz got nothing useful from White Sands Missile Range or the Border Patrol about Sara Brannon’s reconnaissance flight over the Gila National Forest. He left Glenwood hoping for a solid lead in Duncan, Arizona.
Never a fan of small-town America, Muniz didn’t find much to like in Duncan, although he had to give the town credit for trying to stay alive. It was situated along the Gila River with a highway and a railroad running through it. Many of the old buildings that fronted the road, occupied or vacant, had been given a fresh coat of paint. Recently installed replicas of old-fashioned lampposts lined the street, and an inviting town park sat near one of the village restaurants.
Duncan boasted two celebrities in its past, retired Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, whose family had ranched nearby, and Charles Stedman, a photographer who chronicled the community until his death in 1960. Justice O’Connor had a memorial walkway along the highway near the high school, and a dozen of Stedman’s most iconic regional photographs commanded a wall in the town hall.
Three hotels, all early twentieth century brick buildings, served tourists and travelers, including the Hotel Cochran on Main Street. Muniz had booked himself into the spacious Charles Stedman Suite, complete with a private bath. Owned by Stedman’s grandson, the hotel featured framed landscapes by the locally renowned photographer, copies of which could be purchased in the lobby.
The tourist season hadn’t started, and Muniz was the only guest for the night. He signed the hotel register as a civilian.
The Cochran sat directly across from a hotel that had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast catering to vegetarians. A meat-and-potatoes man, Muniz had thankfully discovered a local steakhouse within walking distance on the highway.
The address Earl had listed on his DEA beneficiaries form was on High Street, a dirt road a few hundred yards away from the hotel at the base of a small hill with a Veterans Park at the summit. A decommissioned Air Force F-100 Super Sabre jet mounted on a pedestal, poised as if on takeoff, crowned the top of the hill. On the road to the park, the local American Legion post occupied a single-story former schoolhouse with peeling pale stucco.
The High Street address took Muniz to a weedy lot filled with concrete rubble and badly charred roof timbers scattered around the crumblin
g remains of a fireplace and chimney. Next door, a small travel trailer, minus tires and wheels, sat on a concrete pad with a handicapped ramp leading to the door. A boxy faded green Subaru station wagon parked near the ramp sported an Arizona disability license plate.
The young, overweight woman who answered his knock eyed him suspiciously, until he showed his DEA credentials.
“You’re not from the welfare checking on my mom? She’s asleep right now.”
“No, I’m interested in knowing what happened to the house next door.”
The woman shrugged, and her double chin jiggled. “It’s been that way since we moved in.”
“How long is that?” Muniz asked.
“Three years, but I heard the place burned down a long time ago.”
“Do you have neighbors who might be able to tell me more?”
“We keep to ourselves. Did something bad happen there?”
Muniz shrugged. “I don’t know. Thanks for your time.”
At his vehicle, he debated if a door-to-door canvass during working hours would be worth the effort. Dilapidated cottages and neglected single-wide trailers on concrete blocks along the street were obviously lived in, but an absence of vehicles suggested few, if any, people were home.
Jack Page’s dossier included a summary of his service during the Korean War. Perhaps Page had been a member of the American Legion. But as Muniz expected, there was no one to answer his knock at the door.
Surely, in a town of eight hundred, somebody knew something about Jack Page and the burned-down cottage. Muniz decided to start with his innkeeper. Charles Stedman lived in the building adjacent to the Hotel Cochran, which, according to the plaque outside, had once been Mendelsohn’s Mercantile Store. Stedman was more than willing to answer Muniz’s innocent questions about Duncan.
Settled into an easy chair in the front living room, the walls filled with gold-tone portraits of early Duncan pioneers taken by his host’s grandfather, Muniz learned about the big flood in the seventies that had almost destroyed the town, the birders who came to wander the riverside walking trail with binoculars in hand, and, of course, the personal history of Grandfather Stedman, who’d set up his photography studio in the early twentieth century.
Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Page 28