The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16)

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The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16) Page 9

by Frank W. Butterfield


  I grinned, walked over, and sat on it. From what I remembered, Mike's had been firm and solid but Carter's was thick and roped with muscle. It was like sitting on a horse.

  He put his arm around me and pulled me in for a long kiss. After a moment, he sat back and looked at me. Faster than I would have thought possible, he used his right arm to push me down across his lap. Holding my head in place against the bed with his left hand, he slapped my ass hard twice with his right hand, and then pulled me back up by the scuff of the neck.

  My eyes wide with surprise, I asked, "What the hell was that for?"

  "Two things. First, for being a thief, a liar, and the kind of kid who blames colored boys for what he did. Second, for teasing me with a story like that."

  "I thought it was a sweet love story."

  He nodded. "It was. But I was hoping to finally hear about the kind of sex you and Mike used to have. I have my theories—"

  I put my hand on his mouth. "I never kiss and tell. You know that. And, weren't you the one who didn't want to hear Mike's pillow talk?"

  His green eyes dancing with mischief, Carter tried to bite the palm of my hand. I pulled it back before he could. I tried to stand but he held me in place. "What?" I asked.

  "I don't wanna hear Mike's pillow talk. But I wouldn't mind knowing how you know about and how you're able to..." As he began to detail a few things we'd done over the years, I started to laugh and laugh, as if he were tickling me, until finally we made our way into bed and began to get busy doing some of those very same things. I thought I was getting better and better at a couple of them. Carter, based on the noises he was making, appeared to agree. Of course, the answer to his question had more to do with the Navy than Mike, but I didn't want to spoil Carter's slightly perverse fantasies.

  Chapter 10

  The Condor's Nest

  Sunday, November 13, 1955

  Just before noon

  We'd slept in and had a late breakfast at a diner in Monterey where no one recognized us or, if they did, they didn't seem to care. We then decided to head back to the house. Neither of us was sure what we would find there, but we had nothing better to do until Monday, when we would need to do some clothes shopping or go back to San Francisco.

  As we drove up to the house, I could see Deputy Forrester's car parked behind the red truck. The deputy was nailing a sign to the front door about the place being a crime scene.

  As we got out and walked up, I asked, "Any news?"

  The deputy turned and shook his head. "We're looking for Bobby Reynolds. He's disappeared. His momma is worried about him. She hasn't seen him since Friday night. Said he got home from delivering firewood over here, took a shower, got dressed, and headed up to Monterey. She didn't know where he was going or who he was supposed to meet."

  By that time, Carter and I were standing on the stone porch.

  Carter said, "If he was goin' on a date, I'm pretty sure it was to meet some guy, not a gal."

  The deputy winced a little and nodded. "Yeah. I've always just assumed that. In fact..." He rubbed his face with his free hand, the other still holding the hammer, and sighed. "Well, I guess I can say it to you two. I assumed that he and Carl Mackey were an item." He blushed as he spoke.

  Carter crossed his arms and looked thoughtful.

  I said, "Could be but that wasn't how it read on Friday. My guess would be that Carl knew about Bobby but tried to ignore it and not mention it. How long have they been friends?"

  The deputy shrugged. "For as long as I can remember. Everyone knows everyone around here, particularly those of us who grew up on the Sur. But they've always been friends and palled around together."

  Carter said, "I can see that. Do you really think that Bobby put the shears in his friend's back?"

  The deputy shrugged. "I can't make heads nor tails out of this. I need to find Bobby."

  "Is there anything we can do to help?" I asked.

  He nodded thoughtfully. "Both of you have a P.I. license?"

  "Yeah."

  "If you wanna give Mrs. Reynolds a visit, that might help. I had a feeling she was holding out on me. Don't know about what."

  "Is there a Mr. Reynolds?" asked Carter.

  The deputy shook his head with a slight grimace. "No. He died in the South Pacific during the war."

  I tried to figure the man's age. If Bobby was born in '37 or so, that would make his father around 25, maybe older, at the end of '41. I looked at the deputy. "Was he drafted?" It really wasn't any of my business.

  "No. He volunteered right after Pearl Harbor. His dad was still around and kinda pushed him into it. They had a big ranch just south of here. Michelle, that's Bobby's momma, she sold the ranch after Big John Reynolds passed on in '49. Lotta bad blood there." He pushed up his hat. "She teaches at the high school in Carmel and, rumor is, she's got a big pile of cash stashed away somewhere inside the house. She kept the ranch house and about ten acres. That's where she lives."

  "Who bought the rest?" asked Carter.

  "No one knows. County records show a company name. Whoever it was, came in and sold off all the cattle. Someone's built a big house up on the ridge, about ten miles inland. People come and go but no one knows who they are or what they're doing up there. They keep the property nice and the fences are all taken care of."

  "We'll head down there. How do we find it?"

  Deputy Forrester gave us the directions. "And, tonight, my sister, Ellen, wants to meet both of you. Would you mind coming over for dinner?"

  Carter smiled. "Sure. We'd be honored to."

  The deputy smiled. "Ellen and Dick, that's her husband, they have a couple of girls. Both cute as buttons. Monica, she's the oldest, she got polio back in the summer of '52, when she was 5." Looking at me, he said, "Your foundation took care of all the medical bills. She got treatment and braces and you wouldn't know now. She runs and jumps like any 8-year-old. They'd both like to meet you and get a chance to, well, you know..." He blushed again.

  I nodded. "That sounds good. What time is dinner?"

  "Say half past 6."

  Carter piped up and asked, "You know of anyone who runs a men's shop in Carmel or Monterey who might be willing to open on a Sunday and let us pick up a few things?"

  Forrester laughed. "Sure." He gave us the name of a store in Monterey and promised he would call the owner. We said we could be there at 4.

  . . .

  "Yes?" The woman who opened the door looked to be about 40. Her blonde hair had streaks of gray in it. She was wearing a simple blue gingham dress with an apron covering it.

  Carter, using his famous Southern charm, said, "Hello, ma'am. I'm Carter Jones and this here—"

  "I know who you are from the papers." She sighed. "I suppose this is about Bobby. Come on in."

  We followed her into the house. After walking down a narrow hallway, we passed into a big living room that looked at the green hills behind the house. I could see a stone patio with some metal furniture scattered around. Behind that was a green lawn that appeared to be regularly mowed. I could see the lines the lawnmower had made. A border of shrubs and flowers surrounded it and marked the edge of the pasture behind.

  A barn was visible to the right, along with a fenced-off area. A trio of horses were grazing up on the hill in a larger enclosure above the barn. A Ford truck, a few years older than the one Bobby had driven, was parked near the enclosure and had a horse trailer hitched up to it. A '53 Studebaker station wagon was parked closer to the house.

  The living room was large and rambling. The furniture was mismatched but looked comfortable. A large quilt covered the sofa. Jo Stafford was singing about autumn in New York from a record player that stood on its own table in the corner.

  Walking into the kitchen, Mrs. Reynolds asked, "Can I get you two anything to drink? I have a couple of cans of Lucky beer. Or there's fresh coffee in the percolator."

  Neither of us could abide the taste of Lucky, so I said, "Coffee is fine."

  Carter adde
d. "Coffee, please, ma'am. One with sugar and one black."

  "You two make yourselves at home. Don't mind the sewing mess." I could hear the clank of a spoon hitting the side of a coffee cup. "When I'm anxious, I sew. It's what I do."

  Carter took a seat in a sturdy-looking wooden chair. I sat in a smaller chair that was overstuffed and not that comfortable. The "sewing mess" was just a stool in front of a sewing machine table. Several pieces of fabric were scattered on the rug nearby and what looked like a dress was bound into the machine itself.

  Mrs. Reynolds emerged from the kitchen with a small tray holding three mismatched cups. Carter and I both stood and met her in the middle of the room. "The one with sugar is the brown cup. The other two are black."

  I picked up the brown cup, which had a small chip on the rim near the handle, and made my way back to the overstuffed chair. Once we were all seated, she looked over at me and asked, "So, Mr. Williams, other than being a homosexual like my son, what're you doing here today?"

  I tried not to look surprised but she caught me, nonetheless.

  Waving her hand at me, she said, "I've known about Bobby since he was about three. Back when we had ranch hands, he would follow them around and try to get them to take him for piggy-back rides. I noticed he got upset when they would be gone over the weekends to visit their girls in town. I don't think he knew why he was upset and it didn't really make sense to me at the time but when I caught him and that Carl Mackey doing something in the barn two summers ago, and I don't know what it was and don't care to find out, I suddenly realized what was what." She blew on her coffee and then took a sip.

  "Does he know that you know?" asked Carter.

  "No, sir. I figured I'd let him talk to me about it when he's ready. He's more like his father than he knows. Kind of keeps to himself. Like his grandfather, my father, too. He certainly looks like his daddy, that's for sure." She sighed.

  "Where do you think he is?" I asked. Normally, I wouldn't have been that direct, but it was obvious Mrs. Reynolds was direct too. There was no use wasting her time or ours.

  "I really don't know. He's not at any of his usual places. I keep hoping the phone will ring but it hasn't." She sat there for a moment. I had a feeling she didn't like for other people to see her cry. After taking a sip of coffee, she said, "But..." She looked outside for another long moment. "I keep wondering about that place up on the hill." Her voice was very small and far away.

  I asked, "Do you mean the place owned by the people who bought your father-in-law's ranch?"

  That seemed to snap her back. "My ranch, Mr. Williams. I was the one who sold it. I was surprised that Big John, himself—he was my husband's father—didn't rise from his grave when I finally signed all the papers. He would always say that a family's land is more important than anything else, the old jackass."

  "What do you know about the people who bought the land?"

  She shook her head. "Not much. I only ever met their lawyer. Some dude from San Francisco who showed up. We met at the courthouse in Salinas and signed everything. Whoever is managing the property has kept it in good shape. I was afraid they would let the fences go when they sold the cattle. But, there's a couple of dudes who ride the lines from time to time and keep things in good shape."

  "How do we get up there?" asked Carter.

  "Well, you can't take the blue car you got. I saw you two cruising down the Roosevelt Highway yesterday." She laughed. "You looked like something out of a cartoon. If you're going up there, you'll need to go back and get your papa's red truck."

  I burst into laughter as she said that last sentence. Carter snickered.

  "What?" she asked in amusement.

  "Have you met my father?"

  "No. I've seen him and your mother driving around in that big Cadillac of his. But we've never been introduced."

  I smiled. "I don't think anyone has ever called Dr. Parnell Williams a 'papa' in his life. But I plan to do so the next time I see him."

  She grinned as Carter added, "And that's actually Nick's stepmother, Leticia. Everyone calls her Lettie. I think you might like her." He was right. I was pretty sure the two would be like two peas in a pod.

  Taking another sip of coffee, she nodded. "I'm pretty easy to get along with. Unless you don't turn in your homework on time." She clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Then I can be something awful."

  . . .

  The Studebaker truck didn't start the first couple of times Carter turned over the engine. On the third try, after he pushed in the choke and we waited for a couple of minutes in order to make sure the engine didn't flood, it came to life. It ran rough for about five minutes but then seemed to get into its stride. The transmission was a three-speed on the floor and it took Carter a few tries to find the slot for reverse. Once he did, we were off and going.

  The drive up to the house on the ridge was just past the entrance to the Reynolds's house on the highway. Carter made the left and we began to climb up through a narrow valley. After five miles or so, the road rose from the valley and up to the ridge line. As we moved along the twists and turns, we would get a view of the ocean every now and then. It was another crystal clear day and the view was as far as the eye could go out across the sparkling blue water of the Pacific.

  After ten minutes of following the bumpy and twisting road, we came to a gate with a sign that announced the entrance to The Parker Institute. There was an insignia above the word Parker that looked like three circles intersecting with a triangle.

  Carter stopped the truck in front of the gate. There was a telephone box to the left. I jumped out and walked over to it. Opening it up, I found a receiver. I picked it up and waited as I heard a buzzing sound. After about twenty seconds, a male voice asked, "May I help you?" It had an oddly clipped accent that I didn't recognize.

  "My name is Nick Williams. I'm wondering—"

  I heard a clicking sound. As I watched the gate opened, swinging inward. The male voice said, "Just follow the road, Mr. Williams. John will be waiting for you at the front of the house." The line went dead so I replaced the receiver and walked back to the truck.

  . . .

  The man was lean, of medium height and average looks. He was blond with light brown eyes. He wore a gray suit with a light blue tie. He smiled blandly as we walked up to the small front porch in front of the house.

  We had parked in a small lot marked for visitors. There were about ten cars, mostly newer Chryslers and Cadillacs, parked in the lot. As we crossed the perfectly manicured green lawn, I could see the ocean in the distance. Walking towards where the man stood, the very large house gave the illusion of being at the top of the world.

  Offering his hand, he said, "My name is John."

  I shook. "Nick Williams."

  He nodded slowly and then offered his hand to Carter, who said, "Carter Jones."

  "Yes. Won't you come inside? Mr. Parker is looking forward to meeting you both."

  He turned and pushed the front door open. We walked into a very large room with windows that took advantage of the view. The room was about fifty feet deep and fifty feet wide. The ceiling was at least ten feet high. About fifteen men were sitting on the floor, legs crossed, and facing the windows. No one was making a sound. A man who might have been from India sat in the far corner and was playing a long-necked instrument I'd never seen or heard before. The melody was simple and had an odd rhythm to it.

  Following John, we made a left and followed a long hallway before turning right into a much smaller room. It was a library. The three walls not facing the ocean had shelves to the ceiling. They were crammed with books. As I took it all in, I noticed the book titles weren't all in English. Some were in either Japanese or Chinese, I didn't know the difference. And some were in a kind of alphabet I'd never seen before.

  An older man, who had been sitting at a desk with his back to us and writing with a quill pen, something I'd never seen in real life, carefully cleaned off the quill and laid it down on the blotter. Then he
stood and made his way to where we stood with John.

  He was about six feet, very trim, and dressed in a suit whose coat seemed to reach to his knees. He wore no tie and the collar of his shirt reminded me of a priest although it was slightly different.

  Offering his hand to me, he smiled and said, "Mr. Williams. What a true pleasure it is to meet you. I am James Parker." I realized his was the voice I'd heard over the phone by the gate.

  We shook. I was feeling overwhelmed by the whole setup and didn't say anything.

  Turning to Carter, Parker said, "And Mr. Jones. What an honor."

  Carter nodded and didn't say anything either.

  "Gentlemen, how may I help you?"

  As if I was coming out of a deep sleep, I said, "Mr. Parker, we're trying to find Bobby Reynolds. His mother sold you this land. He's been missing since Friday night and we thought we would see if he might be here with you."

  Parker, who had watched me talk without blinking, seemed to be confused about something. He tilted his head to the right and then to the left and then to the right again. After a moment, he said, "I don't know that I can help you, Mr. Williams. Is young Reynolds in any trouble?"

  "The sheriff is looking for him. His best friend was murdered."

  Nodding, Parker sighed. "Life is transient, is it not?"

  I waited. I had no idea what he meant.

  "You, yourself, have seen much violence in these last two years, have you not?"

  I nodded but didn't say anything.

  Smiling at me, he continued, "I see you know the novice trick of simply listening. Very wise for the novice but how does the adept go about furthering his purpose?"

  I still had no idea what he meant.

  Turning towards the windows and walking over to the side of his desk, Parker folded his hands behind his back and parted his legs slightly. "When I am with one of my adepts, one of my students, I find it helpful to remind them that the parlor tricks taught by the spiritualists and practitioners of mesmerism are now easily recognized by most of the general public. To influence another man's mind in these modern times, it is helpful to pay attention to where the fluidity of a conversation or an interaction is leading."

 

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