Ghost Bandits of Sonora (Elizabeth Crowne)

by Robert Isenberg

  “We had to air it out,” the Deputy murmured. He hung his head in a funereal way. “There were the bodies, of course. The maggots got to them long before we could. Hell of a stench.” He paused. “Hell of a sight, too. You see some people every day. Edna. Beth-Anne. Danny McGinnis was the one who ran the place. All good people. You just can’t think of them a-looking like—like they did.”

  “But the mist,” said Elizabeth. “You had to clear out the mist.”

  “That’s right. You can still feel it, can’t you?”

  Elizabeth could, in every part of her body. Her eyes leaked; a thin trail of tears seeped down her face. She sniffed, and her sinuses ached. Mucus loosened inside her nostrils and flooded her lip.

  “We oughta step outside,” said Robins. “Still can’t stay here too long. Unless there’s something else you’re fixing to see.”

  “The vault,” said Elizabeth. “Shall we take a look at it?”

  The Deputy raised a contemplative finger. “Let’s you and me get some air, and I’ll tell you about that.”

  They moved outside, and for the first time the arid atmosphere felt refreshing in her lungs. Maude went to Elizabeth and placed a worried hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Maude,” said Elizabeth, squeezing her assistant’s fingers. “I’ll be fine. But maybe the Deputy will enlighten us about the vault?”

  “See, here’s what don’t sit right," said Robins. “The vault is still locked up.”

  “It’s what?”

  “Anybody who knew the combination was gunned down where they stood. Nobody’s been able to open it since the morning of the robbery.”

  “But—” Elizabeth adjusted her hat. “What did they steal, then?”

  “Whatever the tellers had in their stalls, I wager. A bagful of money. Maybe a few hundred smackers, if the bastards was lucky. But they never touched the safe. Our town ain’t rich, but the mother lode’s still in there.” He spat into the dust. “Which is why I reckon they’ll be back.”

  “But…” Elizabeth looked up and down the street. A few pedestrians were scattered down the way, but the town seemed to be on siesta. “You knew these people. This Danny fellow, the one who managed the bank. If they had held a gun to his head, was he the heroic type? Would he have kept that combination secret? Even if it meant they’d massacre the others?”

  “That’s what’s nagging me, Miss Crowne,” said Robins. “He wasn’t. Not because he wasn’t brave. He just knew there was more to life than money. He’d’ve handed over them numbers the second he could, if only to save the women-folk. It all happened so fast, I doubt they bothered to say, ‘Hands up.’”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Elizabeth mused. “Their plan was so perfect. They knew exactly what they were doing. But then they stopped themselves. Why murder so many innocents for a sack of bank notes?”

  “If I knew,” said Robins, “believe me, I wouldn’t be a-wasting your time.”

  “Did you find anything else?”

  The Deputy grinned. “I’m glad you asked.” He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small jar. He gazed at it in his hand; the glass shimmered with light. “When the cloud settled, the floor had a light red dust. We swept it up and sealed it in these here bottles. We have a few more samples back at the jail, but this should do the trick.” He handed the jar to Elizabeth and added, “You would know what to do with it better than me.”

  Elizabeth examined the small heap of powder at the bottom of the jar. It was dull red and looked as fine as talc. As she rotated the container in her hands, the substance crumbled and reshaped itself. It seemed so strange, that a little pile of particles could cause so much suffering.

  “Was there a scent?” Elizabeth asked. “From the mist, I mean?”

  The Deputy nodded vaguely. “I thought about that. Mostly just smelled like burning. But there was something about it. It was earthy.”

  “Earthy?”

  “I can’t explain it. Reminded me of wet soil. Like after a rain.” He paused. “There’s something else.”

  When Elizabeth looked up, Robins was holding out a hand. He unclasped his fingers, and a stone glinted in the sun. It was a chunk of quartz, unpolished but smooth. The crystalline surfaces were nearly transparent, except for the galaxy of bubbles trapped inside. The stone looked about three inches in length, with the girth of Robins’ own thumb.

  “Now this may be nothing,” said Robins soberly, “but I found this here rock on the floor of the bank. And I’ll be damned if that wasn’t an odd place for a piece of quartz.”

  “I’ll second that motion,” said Elizabeth, accepting the stone. “I’ll take a look at this later. Maude, take this little gem back to the hotel, will you?”

  “Of course,” said Maude. “But where are you going?"

  “I have a theory,” said Elizabeth. “It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a look.”

  Chapter 3

  A bell tinkled as Elizabeth stepped through the apothecary door. The floorboards creaked beneath her boots, and Elizabeth crinkled her nose in the musky air. The long counter was cluttered with bottles and boxes, stacks of paper and strange ledgers. Wall shelves supported sacks and mason jars. Yet the register was unmanned. Elizabeth looked about the room for signs of life.

  A man pushed through the double doors, adjusting his visor as he came. He was small and mustached, and he said “Hello” so quietly that Elizabeth could barely hear him. He struggled to tie his apron in the back, and then he stood at the counter, smiling and silent.

  “Hello, there,” said Elizabeth, clearing her throat. “I have an unusual request for you. Would you happen to have a…” She bit the top of her lip, sensing the futility of her impending question. “I’m looking for a copper flame test lantern.”

  The man blinked, raised a finger, and said, “Let me just check the stockroom.”

  Elizabeth sustained her smile. “Of course.”

  The pharmacist retreated through the swinging doors, and Elizabeth waited. After a time, she cupped an ear and listened for sounds from the other room. But nothing came, not even the scuff of shoes.

  The doors opened suddenly, and the man nodded to Elizabeth. She straightened, trying not to appear as nosy as she was.

  “We don’t have—one of those,” said the pharmacist. “But we might have a… er…”

  He paused, closed his eyes, and pressed a finger against his temple. He thought for a moment, and then it came to him. “We might have some iodine pendihyde.”

  “Pentoxide,” Elizabeth countered.

  The man blinked again. “Pardon?”

  “I believe you mean iodine pentoxide.”

  The man considered this, scratching the back of his neck.

  “Or maybe,” said Elizabeth, “I should skip the middleman and talk with whoever’s back there.”

  The pharmacist hummed to himself nervously, thinking of a reply. But before the man could speak, a voice came through the double doors.

  “It’s all right, Edward. Let her in.”

  The man sighed with relief. He sidestepped down the counter and lifted its drawbridge. Elizabeth maneuvered past Edward and pushed her way into the back room. The pharmacist didn’t follow.

  Before her stood two rows of shelving units. Bottles and jars were arrayed haphazardly across the shelves, along with scattered papers and books. The stockroom was dusty and cluttered, but it was roughly what she expected of a small-town pharmacy. Yet the scenery didn’t interest her; Elizabeth trained her eyes on a table, standing at the back of the room. There, a man was seated.

  The man leaned over a microscope. As Elizabeth approached, he lumbered to his feet, and she realized how tall and muscular he was. He had the shoulders and arms of a wrestler, and he barely fit into his striped shirt and black vest. He wore a tie, and his hair was smartly slicked back, all the way into a bound ponytail. He cleaned a pince-nez with a handkerchief and pinched it over his Patrician nose. Then he raised his oaken eyes to Elizabeth and folded
his hands on the table.

  “How may I help you?” he said.

  In all her travels, Elizabeth had never met an Indian before, and certainly none like this.

  “I have a suspicion you already know how you can help me,” said Elizabeth, folding her arms.

  “Well,” said the man, “if you’re looking for a copper flame test lantern, I assume you’re testing for mustard gas.”

  Elizabeth smirked. “But you don’t have one. Which is why you recommended iodine pentoxide, the next best thing.”

  The man smiled inwardly. He straightened his vest and lifted a jacket from his chair back. As he inserted his arms in the sleeves, he said, “If you’re testing for mustard gas, I’m guessing you’re investigating the bank heist last month?”

  “You can guess that, yes.”

  “And if you have something to test, you must have made friends with the Sheriff?”

  “Deputy,” corrected Elizabeth. “The Sheriff and I aren’t yet acquainted.”

  “Of course. I forget he’s—on the mend.” The man patted his pockets and drew a prim cigar. He lifted it to his nose and gave the dark tobacco a cursory sniff. “Do you have the sample with you?”

  “I do.”

  “Why don’t you bring it with us.”

  Elizabeth cocked her head sideways. “With us?”

  “Well, it’s nearly noontime,” said the man. “And you’re new in town. I hope I can treat a lady to some lunch. The name’s Kele, by the way. But folks call me Sparrow.”

  Sparrow turned down the blinds and flipped the sign to “Closed.” He patted Edward on the back and sent the little man on his way. The moment Edward tipped his hat and headed out the door, Elizabeth said, “Does he actually know anything about medicine?”

  Sparrow lifted a satchel over his shoulder, but his face remained impassive.

  “Not much,” said Sparrow. “But customers like him well enough. Now, Miss Crowne, I suggest you walk across the street. You’ll find a cantina over there, kitty-cornered to this place. I’ll join you in five minutes.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Don’t tell me you’re tidying up now. Your office looks almost as messy as mine.”

  “A cluttered workshop is a monument to a great mind,” quipped Sparrow, who had clearly used the line before. “But this has nothing to do with housekeeping, Miss Crowne. If you’re serious about investigating the robbery, you’d better not be seen fraternizing with me. At least not in public.”

  Before she could digest these words, Elizabeth found herself getting ushered outside. The door closed behind her, and Sparrow smiled before turning away.

  Suddenly, Elizabeth felt hollow. She moved into the street, hiding her eyes beneath the shade of her brim. She hated that she was walking alone, and for no decent reason. Would the locals really judge her for walking fifty feet with a chestnut-skinned man? Would anyone even notice?

  But her indignity passed. As she reached the middle of the street, Elizabeth spotted a truck parked a block away. A dozen men gathered around it, wearing dark coveralls and rubber boots. Their helmets were topped with heavy carbide lamps; picks and shovels rested against their shoulders. Their faces were already smudged, their dense clothes matted in dry mud. One by one, they climbed the sides of the truck and bunched together in its flatbed. The engine roared to life, and the miners jolted in unison. As the truck crawled into the street and passed Elizabeth, the men looked downcast. Their faces were ruddy and hard. Backbreaking toil and years of disappointment had aged them beyond their years. After a lifetime in Pittsburgh, Elizabeth knew this type of laborer well—kind enough to give away his last potato to a well-fed stranger, yet wouldn’t lift a finger to save a drowning Negro. These were not men who would take kindly to an Indian and a white woman walking side by side. Whatever her distaste, Elizabeth knew that Sparrow was right.

  The cantina was a two-story building made of dry wood. The clapboard surface has once been colored a jaunty red, but the old paint had been thoroughly worn away. An outdoor counter was stationed in front, and a fabric sign was stretched across the bottom, reading, “Breakfast/Desayuno.” The counter was empty, so Elizabeth stepped through the swinging doors, into a dark dining room.

  The many tables were vacant, except for two men playing cards against the far wall and another man asleep in the corner booth, his face cradled in his arms. A cheap chandelier dangled from the ceiling, its arms lopsided, the candles unlit.

  Elizabeth seated herself at a center table. A waitress scurried out of the kitchen. She was a young creature, prim and shy, and she clasped her hands nervously over her floral skirt.

  “Ma-dahm,” she said. “Wood choo lick ah fuhd?”

  Elizabeth gently smiled at this, then said, “Me encantaría tomar un vaso con agua y un poco de almuerzo cuando llege mi compañero.”

  The girl’s eyes widened incredulously. She looked around, then whispered, “Señora—usted es Castellana?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said, still in Spanish. “But I learned your language in Spain, so you’ll have to forgive my haughty accent.”

  The girl snorted, which made her redden with embarrassment. “Con permiso,” she murmured, and retreated to the kitchen.

  “Spain, eh?”

  The voice startled Elizabeth, and she turned to see Sparrow looming over her. She marveled that such a large man could slip into a room unnoticed, but she hid her surprise. Sunlight blazed through the open windows, and Elizabeth could barely see his face.

  “Spain,” she said. “Ever been?”

  “Only in my dreams.” Sparrow descended into a chair, which squealed its protest.

  “Anything you recommend here?”

  “Yes,” said Sparrow. “Let me handle this.”

  The waitress returned, and Sparrow fired off an order in fast and garbled Spanish. When he finished, he looked at the waitress meaningfully and said, “Comprende?”

  “Está cierto, Señor?”

  “Indeed,” Sparrow declared. “Go ahead.”

  The waitress bowed and slinked away. Elizabeth examined her glass of cloudy water, frowned, and knocked it back.

  “Confidentially,” said Sparrow, “Sheriff MacAuley has a fondness for Rosita.”

  “Who?”

  “The muchacha.”

  Elizabeth jutted a thumb toward the kitchen. “The waitress? How do you know?”

  “Oh, everybody knows,” said Sparrow. “That’s small-town living for you.”

  “Do they know the local apothecary is owned by an Indian?”

  “Yes and no,” said Sparrow, nonplussed. “No, because I don’t own it. Edward does. That is, he signed the paperwork. And he’s the only face they ever see.”

  “But do they know you’re in the back? That you’re the real pharmacist?”

  Sparrow shrugged. “Some do, I’m sure. But if there’s anything I’ve learned, folks don’t care much about the truth as long as they don’t have to see it.”

  “And Edward is—?”

  “My brother.” Sparrow rubbed his chin pensively. “Not by blood, of course.”

  Elizabeth was about to respond, but then a copper cup appeared before her. The cup was simple and dented, and when she peered over its lip, she saw creamy white liquid.

  Elizabeth screwed up her face. “Tell me that’s not milk.”

  Sparrow smirked privately at this, but he offered no comment.

  Rosita returned with a pair of terracotta plates and set them on the table. A mound of brown rice stood on one side, while a tamale occupied the other. Elizabeth realized that she had never seen a tamale in real life, only in pictures. She peeled back a stiff husk to reveal the yellowish mass within. She poked at the tamale with her fork, then sliced through the hardened cornmeal. Steam puffed away from her incision, and Elizabeth felt her eyes water. Before she took a single bite, she could already detect the spice.

  “Edward’s a good fellow,” Sparrow resumed. “Not very bright. Never was. But we’ve always gotten along. When his father—th
at is, our father—passed away, he was a little bit lost. I wanted to settle down somewhere and start a shop, so I invited him down to Ezra.”

  “You’re not from here?”

  “Oh, no. I’m from quite a ways up north. It’s likely my mother was Hopi, although we’ll never know for sure.”

  As she listened, Elizabeth took a forkful of the tamale into her mouth. She instantly regretted it—the moment the chilies touched her tongue, a deluge of pain blasted down her gullet. Her cheeks puffed out. Her nostrils were suffused with phlegm. It was like a nestful of wasps was suddenly writhing through her face, stinging her gums and palate all at once. The burning seeped between her teeth, inflamed her sinuses. Tears burst from her eyes, and her nose ran freely toward her lips. She shot back in her chair, threw her face toward the ceiling, and gasped for air.

  “How do you like our Southwestern cuisine?” Sparrow said.

  Through watery eyes, Elizabeth glimpsed the upward curl of the pharmacist’s lips. His voice was neutral, his eyes were aimed at his plate, but Sparrow couldn’t hide his amusement.

  Elizabeth lunged for the glass of water and guzzled it desperately. Rivulets ran down her cheeks and splashed along her neckline. But the water offered no relief. The spice scalded her as ferociously as ever.

  “That won’t help you,” said Sparrow. “However…” His head turned sideways, and just as Elizabeth was about to surrender to panic, she spotted the cup of milk.

  She snatched the cup and tossed back its lukewarm liquid. Like a doused campfire, the spice started to dwindle, and she wheezed frantically through her gulps. White bubbles popped over her teeth, and she sensed the milk dribbling back to her ears. When she finally blinked her eyes clear, Elizabeth was staring upward, her spine arced over the chair.

  Sparrow cleared his throat. “That, Miss Crowne, is a habanero pepper.” He scooped up more of his own tamale and chewed dispassionately. “You get used to it.”

  Elizabeth heaved. “I… will never… get used… to that…”