by Jackie Ivie
“You’re kidding me, right? You’re smoking hot. Dad isn’t the only one that says so. I sure wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers.”
“Oh, stop it already! You are like, not a lesbian!” Sharon exclaimed.
“I said bi, you idiot! There’s a difference.”
“Liar!”
“Oh, shut up. You’re just ticked because you’re my sister, and therefore you can’t have me.”
Marielle rolled her eyes and then tipped her head back and forth. She was getting a little stiff, anyway. The platform creaked and swayed for a few moments after her move. She watched the shadow from her huge-brimmed straw hat quiver and then still. Then, she answered.
“Thanks for the compliment, Susan. But I think I’m twice your age. Probably more.”
“Perfect!” the girl replied.
Marielle pulled in a deep breath. It didn’t change anything. The air was bone dry. The sun was baking everything. Her platform was two stories above ground, facing a weather-beaten wooden sign. And two young girls were bugging her.
“So. Hey. Did you have to practice a lot to paint that well?”
“Or was it just like...there? You know...like - were you born with it?”
Susan Stimson might be trying to shock everyone, but everything Sharon said was peppered liberally with the word ‘like’. That was even more annoying. Marielle didn’t have to look to know which girl was speaking.
“The answer to all your questions is yes. Yes. And yes.”
Marielle answered it while checking over her paint selection on her palette. The burnt sienna had a skim of dry paint on the surface. She touched her brush into the thinner and put a drop onto the color and then started working with it.
“So going to college was a waste of time?” Susan continued.
“Not really. It looks good on a resume.”
“That must suck if you think about it.”
“Yeah. Like. Totally,” Sharon echoed.
“Why is that?”
“The best you can do with an art degree is to get a job restoring old signs?”
Marielle killed the instant ire. That was exactly what she’d meant with her first comment only it sounded worse now. She actually defended it. “I am being paid a lot, Susan.”
“Really? I wonder why.”
Marielle clenched her fingers on the paintbrush and went back to the letters in front of her. NUMBER EIGHT. She could always pretend it was a fairy’s wing. Or a dragon’s tail. Maybe a vampire’s cape. She could have used latex paint, too. Done this quick. Easy. But something made her take her time. She was using all sorts of color combinations, sequencing her work with the gaps in the aged wood. There were several reasons why. She wanted it to look authentic as all get-out. Since – as the twins kept pointing out – that must be what an art degree was good for. It was also because she was being paid a lot for an easy job. But mainly it was due to the fact that she refused Mister Stimson’s other offer. The one the twins didn’t even know about.
“You ladies want to fetch me some red ocher?” she called down.
“Sure...uh. Wait. I don’t see that in your paint box.”
Marielle snickered at Susan’s answer. Of course not. She had the tube in a chest pocket of her loose-fit overalls. It was the primary color she was using today. If Susan knew paint names and colors, she’d have guessed it.
“Well. Heck. I guess you’ll have to get one of your guys to run you into town and get me some.”
“What? Again?”
Marielle ignored the dismayed tone. Susan and Sharon Stimson were shadowing her. Supposedly they’d been sent out here to oversee the restoration project. What a farce. The girls were fifteen. Barely. Supercharged with adrenaline and everything else that got on everybody’s nerves. They were in everyone’s way. They needed a lot more than the five men constantly accompanying them. If their birth mother excelled at anything other than shopping, her attention might have worked.
So. Watching the girls must be an unofficial part of Marielle’s job. She was being paid a lot because it included babysitting the spoiled children of a very rich man. One, who owned a casino or two.
Or eight.
What did it matter how many money-making enterprises Mister Stimson owned? He was beyond rich. That meant he thought he owned everyone and everything, and that included Marielle. That’s why he’d sent the girls out here. The kids hadn’t been sent to supervise anything. They actually made very good spies. And they didn’t even know it.
The sign called to her again. Marielle regarded it. It needed work, but she didn’t want to do a patch-up job. She wanted perfection. The more she painted the better it looked, too. Marielle had just mixed the exact color she needed for the inner edges of the letters. Vivid enough to look like it had escaped the ravages of nature. All she had to do was get rid of the junior Stimsons so she could dab color into the sign’s crevasses.
“You know...ladies? You are standing in an authentic western ghost town.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, why aren’t you exploring?”
“Why bother?”
“Yeah. Like...we already found something and like nobody cared.”
“Really? What was it?”
Susan replied with more enthusiasm than she’d shown all afternoon.
“There’s a hollow-sounding spot in the Number Eight Saloon. Back in the corner! Behind the bar. I think it’s a bar. I don’t know what it’s made of, though. Stone? It weighs a ton. We couldn’t get it to move.”
“You tried to move it?”
“Well. Yeah. We might have found a secret room! Maybe a vault. Or a tomb! Wouldn’t that be cool?”
“A...tomb?” Sharon didn’t sound enthused.
Marielle touched her brush hairs onto the shadowy section. She’d known it would be the perfect color. But then Sharon grabbed for one of the ladder supports, rattling the entire structure. Marielle watched a slash of dark red paint go across the front of the letter ‘N’ as her paintbrush got jostled. She grabbed her paint rag, and started swiping with a motion she’d rather use on the girls’ backsides. Either girl. Or both.
“Please say it can’t be a tomb, Marielle! Like...please? I’m begging here!”
There. The new paint was rubbed away from the front. It had taken some of the outer layer with it, though. She regarded it for a few moments while debating the merits of staying on the job or quitting without notice.
“Marielle?” Sharon asked. “You, like, okay up there?”
“She’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh. She’s very fine.”
Susan answered for her with a snicker to the words. Marielle waited another moment before picking up her brush again. And then she spoke.
“There isn’t any mention of underground structures around here. Or...perhaps you already knew that because you checked out the history of Dobbin Creek like I suggested earlier?”
“Oh. Oops. That was the next thing on our list. Get your phone out, Sharon. Search Dobbin Creek.”
“How do you spell it?”
“Dobbin. Not Dobb. Dobbin. You are so slow. Let me do it.”
“No. Maybe you like, shouldn’t have lost your phone.”
“Oh, yeah? Well. I can always beat my sister up for hers. Right? Oh, come on. Search faster. Nothing, huh? Well...keep searching.”
“You lost your phone, Susan?” Marielle asked. This had potential. “Maybe you should search for it. Your sister could call. Or is it dead?”
“I didn’t lose anything. I had it confiscated. Um. For a span. Of about a week. Okay?”
“I see.” Marielle replied without a hint of emotion.
“Not that it’s your business, but there’s this really cute guy in class. And I gave him my number, and. Well. The goons are complete and total asshole snitches.”
“I like, knew you weren’t a lesbian!”
“I said bi! Geez, Sharon! Get it right. Still nothing on Dobbin Creek? That
’s weird. Call Dad again.”
Their father knew Old West history? Odd. He didn’t look or act the type.
“He already refused to like, get his goons to help us. Like, move the bar. Look. My call just went to auto-message.”
“Great. That’s just great. Dad isn’t taking your calls now, either? This really sucks.”
Marielle kept the amusement inside. It wasn’t easy. “Well...maybe his permit doesn’t include chopping up floors and damaging interiors. Perhaps you could explore the assayer office? How about the jail? Or the barber shop?”
“Been there. Seen them. Oh. Hey. Keep your cowboy boots on everyone. This looks interesting. I mean, look. It’s the cops.”
Marielle looked over her shoulder and then narrowed her eyes. She’d taken off her sunglasses to see the colors better. And it was bright out here. If the lights on the police cruiser were flashing, they didn’t even show.
“All right, Sharon. What have you done?” Susan asked in what sounded like a theatrical tone.
“Me? I didn’t do like...anything! I’ve been here the whole time. Marielle? You like, saw me, didn’t you?”
She didn’t have time to answer before Susan took pity on her sister.
“Oh, you are such a baby. I was just kidding. Look! They’re heading over to that big fancy place. Looks official. I wonder what they want.”
“Why don’t you two go check?” Marielle suggested.
“Oh! Good plan. Come on.”
Susan grabbed her sister’s hand and took off at a jog. Three men accompanied them at the same speed. The other two trailed behind. Marielle turned back to the sign. She wasn’t curious. She didn’t want to know. Strange thing about the law. And crime in general. If she didn’t read about it or check on it, then it didn’t affect anything. As an artist, all kinds of things could seep in and alter her talent. She didn’t want that. Not with this job. She wanted to get this signage perfect. So she could add it to her resume. And maybe get a real job without a lot of undercurrents that made it feel akin to walking a tight-rope over a snake pit.
The day was really nice. For early summer in Nevada. They’d waited until the midday heat passed before driving over here. Marielle hadn’t minded. She’d had a meeting with Mister Jedidiah Stimson. With lots of visuals and information about the ghost town project. He hadn’t paid attention to her presentation, and she’d dressed in a plain navy-colored pants suit. Had her hair pulled back. Worn minimal makeup. It didn’t seem to alter where he’d placed his attention. Nor his offer. Susan’s dad wanted Marielle O’Donnall on his arm. He’d even offered marriage. More than once. She could be Susan and Sharon’s sixth step-mother.
Great.
She had been born with a talent that got gasps and rave reviews; she’d spent a lot of time in school; a lot more of it practicing, painting, and submitting samples to print companies; she’d even done a foray into self-publishing and marketing of her own prints...and for what? So she could live at the edge of starvation while fielding offers to be a rich man’s arm candy? That sure hadn’t been in the cards. It hadn’t even been on her horizon.
All because Mister Stimson liked tall, slender, raven-haired, exotic-looking women...and she didn’t know how to look different.
His daughter, Susan appeared to share her father’s tastes, but the younger Stimson was easier to deal with. Especially if she had her sister for company. Because when the girls were present, Daddy Dearest wasn’t.
Marielle had finished the morning meeting, re-dressed in the baggiest, most worn overalls she owned. Re-fastened her hair more securely before stuffing the hat atop it. Sketched a bit in her notebook as she waited for the girls to get out of private school. Then she’d grabbed up her paints, joined the group in the fancy Special Order van, and driven out here.
Maybe she should reconsider things.
All of the ex-Missus’ Stimsons seemed to have a lot of time and money after the divorce. She would, too. Why...she’d have enough to open her own art studio. Where she could paint and exhibit all day, every day. His first offer had been a week ago. It had included a huge diamond on a platinum band, alongside a long legal-looking prenuptial agreement he wanted her to sign. The latest offer had an even bigger rock and an offer to forego the prenup. He’d received the same answer every time. It was getting easier. The first time, Marielle had been in shock or something. She couldn’t remember how, but she’d escaped his office in the casino, made it to her apartment, done up every lock, bundled up in a blanket, and sat in the center of the living room, shivering for what felt like hours. And if she had any other source of income she’d have disappeared.
The answer was always going to be no. She shuddered. The platform beneath her swayed and creaked again. Mister Stimson was short, pot-bellied, mostly bald, well past sixty... She stopped her mental listing. It wouldn’t matter what he looked like, if only they had some connection. Anything. They didn’t seem to have any common interests at all. She couldn’t marry him. Having sex with him was out of the question. Even with the lights off and her eyes closed.
Wow.
She could sure use a break in her life about now.
And right on cue, she got one.
One of the ladders holding her platform buckled. Marielle held the palette high with one hand and grabbed for a building support beam with her other hand. She missed. She bent, riding the board as the world tipped and swayed. The entire thing resembled a long-legged creature settling onto its belly as it collapsed; one side first, then the other. And then it jettisoned her right through the saloon’s permanently open door as if she was atop a surfboard.
It probably looked pretty cool. It didn’t feel it. She grabbed for the boot rail along the bottom of the bar with her free hand, and rolled off the plank. It continued on without her, smacking into a far wall and sounding pretty painful for anyone still aboard. That noise was instantly followed by the strangest whisper. It was accompanied by a slight shimmying sensation of the floor. A sound that resembled a long sigh. And then she could swear she caught the vaguest impression of gears moving.
Marielle peeked around the bar. There was a dark hole in the floor, shadowed and hidden by the bar. She watched it finish assembling into a set of really small, narrow steps. Going down. Explaining Susan’s correct guess of a hollow sound.
Marielle was very aware of things that couldn’t be seen or touched. Her mother had called her ‘fey’. Said it came with the territory of being part Irish. It accompanied her looks. She was one of the ‘black Irish’. Blessed with raven-hair. Pale, porcelain-skin. Vivid blue eyes. Lush dark lashes. And a sixth sense that meant a black hole should be avoided.
That isn’t what happened.
This dark gap intrigued and fascinated. Beckoned. Drew. Almost like it had known she was coming and opened just for her. She set the palette onto the floor with a glance. This was pretty unbelievable. She’d just escaped a major fall without injury...and she hadn’t upset her paint palette? She even had the brush although it had rolled through the paint dabs and was multi-hued now. Upon standing, she smacked at the dust coating her overalls. Coughed. Approached the steps. She wasn’t even hesitating here. That should have raised all kinds of goose bumps.
But before she reached it, the access gears started up again from somewhere deep inside. The space closed. The steps flattened one-after-the-other until it once again settled into place, looking just like a two-by-three foot section of plank flooring. Marielle stood at the edge of what had been a precipice, her work boots touching a seam she could barely identify amidst all the others. Only because she knew where it was.
And she wasn’t telling a soul.
CHAPTER THREE
“Isn’t it like, the coolest thing ever!”
“They didn’t find much, Sharon.”
“Oh yeah? You think you’re so smart. Why did they like, put crime tape stuff all over the front door then?”
“Because the lock had been jimmied. That’s why we had to leave, remember?”
“So?”
“You hear...but you never listen. Isn’t that right, Marielle?”
Marielle turned from contemplation of the desert outside the window. Five miles had never seemed to take this long while the twins hadn’t ceased discussing the possible murder at the old Harris Mansion. She now knew the name of the structure. And more. Because that’s all the girls talked of since they’d returned to the Number Eight Saloon. They were still debating it in their van.
The back of the vehicle was walled off from the three bench seats in front. Back here, the windows were covered over with privacy film. The captain-style seats were large and comfy. They rocked, swiveled, and reclined. There was a small table that could be compacted down, a mini-kitchen complete with cooking surface and small refrigerator along the wall behind her. A sound system and television monitor covered the opposite wall. It was all kinds of plush, and beyond luxurious. The entire place probably turned into a sleeping area if needed. It was more proof that the twins got everything they could possibly want. Except attention. They were spoiled. And they were self-absorbed to an amazing degree.
Neither twin had seemed to notice that Marielle was at ground level when they’d returned from the Harris Mansion. Nor that the scaffolding had collapsed. They hadn’t even asked of her welfare.
“I’m sorry,” she replied finally. “What was the question again?”
“Geez. You’d think like, a murder would get your attention.”
“I thought you said they didn’t find anything,” Marielle answered. She wasn’t truly listening. It felt like she’d stepped through a portal of some kind. Things had been altered. Everything was muted. Off-kilter. Slightly out of focus. Everything except the image of that opening in the floor back there in the Number Eight Saloon. The one leading to all kinds of mystery.
She’d never felt so odd in her life.
“We said there wasn’t like, any blood. But they did find a bullet hole in the wall. Doesn’t that count?”
“And don’t forget, there was an anonymous tip that came in.”
“My. Police procedure has certainly changed. Or it wasn’t what I thought,” Marielle commented.