by Sylvia Nobel
Tally and I exchanged a pointed look. Grant would be blown away by my answer. What would he think when I told him that the eager young reporter who’d latched onto her mentor like a scorpion to its prey to hungrily absorb his techniques for top-rate investigative journalism, was not? “Umm, actually I’ve got someone else assigned to this story.” Reacting to his quizzical stare I hurriedly added, “Just so you know, that old guy, as you call him, was Tally’s uncle.” Even to me the excuse sounded lame but I think Grant was perceptive enough to get my drift.
He flicked a momentary look at Tally as if to affirm his suspicions before saying, “No kidding? Well…um, sorry about that.” He hesitated ever so slightly. “But, because of that, I’m sure you’re in close communication with the authorities regarding the case’s progress.”
I knew Grant well enough to know he was on a fishing expedition and it was obvious by Tally’s taciturn expression that he had no interest in taking the bait, on or off the record. “Yep,” was his only response. He caught my eye and tapped his watch to signal the time.
“Grant, I hate to hurry you along but we both have appointments this morning,” I said, rising to pile the dishes in the sink.
“Oh, right.” He popped the last bite of toast into his mouth. “I don’t suppose you know of someplace close around here I could stay a couple of nights since Hotel O’Dell isn’t available?”
His little joke fell flat and Tally fixed him with an arctic look that effectively closed the door on any thoughts he might have of spending a second night.
I said, “There are a couple of B&B’s in town and one in Yarnell.”
“Yarnell? How far is that?”
“About twenty-five miles from here.”
“I’ll check ’em out.” Then he paused and frowned. “Say, um, I read a couple of pieces about the judge’s death on your paper’s website before I left Philly and one of them mentioned that he’d bought a place called Hidden Springs. Is that far from here?”
Again, I felt like a total doofus on the outside looking in. “Well, to be honest I don’t know. I’ve…never been there.”
“Really? Now that’s surprising.”
I didn’t miss his mild sarcasm. In his eyes I was falling down on the job. The slight twitching at the corners of his mouth made it hard to resist making a face at him.
Tally grabbed his hat and coat from the rack. “Why do you want to know?”
Grant gave an innocent shrug. “Welllll…I’m here to cover the man’s funeral and I’m curious to learn something about his life and maybe his death.”
“We’re both in a hurry,” Tally said, bristling, “and neither of us has time for chitchat.”
Grant’s expression turned infuriatingly earnest. “Oh, sorry. Hey, I really appreciate your hospitality.” I didn’t miss the “thanks for nothing” inference in his voice and I’m sure Tally didn’t either. The two men were staring at each other in defiance when the phone rang. Glad for any distraction I glanced at the caller ID, recognized Ginger’s cell number and grabbed up the receiver.
“Well, good mornin’, sunshine,” she chirped in my ear.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“I don’t suppose you could do me a little bitty favor?”
I could tell by Tally’s scowl that he was itching to go but had no intention of leaving me alone with Grant. “What do you need?”
“Dummy me, I went off an’ left the moneybag with all the change we’re gonna need for the show in my desk. I’d sure appreciate it if you could stop by an’ pick it up before comin’ over?”
“Okay, but it’s going make me a little later getting to the fairgrounds. Is that going to work?”
“Well, there ain’t a whole lot of choice since I’m already here gittin’ ready to set up.”
“Where’s the moneybag?”
“In the top right hand drawer.”
I glanced over at Tally standing with his hand on the doorknob twirling his hat with obvious impatience. “Ginger, I have to go now. What’s your space number again?”
“C-11.” She giggled. “You won’t have much trouble finding us. Just follow the heehawin’.”
“The what?”
“Heehawin’. We ain’t but a stone’s throw from the corral where they’ll be holdin’ the BLM wild burro auction later on this afternoon.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “All right, I’ll see you there.” I hung up, tossed the palm-sized camera into my purse and shouldered it before following Tally and Grant out the door.
A light wind from the northwest was spreading gauzy white clouds across the normally pristine blue sky. Tally and I climbed into our respective pickups while Grant yelled, “Thanks again,” as he unlocked his white compact rental car. I couldn’t shake the sinking sensation that had settled in my chest. The whole weird state of affairs still had a dreamlike feel, as if everything were happening to someone else. Our three vehicles caravanned along Lost Canyon Road and at the intersection to the paved road, Tally saluted me with two fingers and turned north. Grant and I headed south. Traffic seemed unusually heavy and I attributed that to the Hanson House dedication and the craft show. I glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed that Grant was talking on his cell phone. We’d just passed through the only stoplight in town when I signaled a turn and swung onto Mariposa Lane. Grant sounded the horn and waved farewell. I waved back, glad to be disconnected from the uncomfortable situation, but intuitive enough to know that it was probably far from over.
With great difficultly, I shoved the current state of affairs to the back of my mind in an effort to concentrate on the task at hand. Both sides of the narrow street were already lined with cars, so I was forced to park several blocks away and hike back to the Hanson House, a stately turn-of-the-century Victorian, and one of six such structures of its type remaining in Castle Valley. Festivities were already underway as I strolled along the walkway beneath a colorful banner that snapped in the uneven wind. Among the populace already assembled, I spotted Thena Rodenborn, prominent town socialite and publisher of the Sun, standing on the spacious wrap-around porch chatting with another woman. Serving as the president of the local historical society, she looked every bit the part of a nineteenth century dowager replete in a navy-blue high-collared gown, all but a few tendrils of her white hair gathered beneath an ornate hat festooned with silk flowers—a picture of grace and panache. She was also shrewd enough to recognize a good photo op since she would be officiating the ribbon-cutting ceremony due to begin in half an hour. She caught my eye and gestured for me to join her. Poised, effervescent, and intelligent, this exceptional lady never ceased to impress me. She appeared to have taken a real liking to me, which was extraordinary considering that a tragic and unintended consequence of completing my first assignment last spring had been my involvement in the inadvertent death of her only son.
“Kendall, how lovely to see you this morning.” She reached out to grasp one of my hands as I came up the final stair. “This is a truly significant event for Castle Valley. I trust you brought your camera,” she inquired, a benevolent smile highlighting her refined features.
I patted my purse. “Got my new digital one thanks to your generosity.”
“Oh my dear, it’s hardly worth mentioning.”
But her philanthropic efforts were worth mentioning. Besides spearheading a host of fundraising events that benefited many of the charitable organizations in town, she had stepped forward and single handedly rescued the newspaper from oblivion. The infusion of funds had paid for the major remodeling project and purchased all new state of the art computer equipment enabling us to modernize and streamline production, including notebook computers and camera phones that made life easier for all of us.
“Kendall, meet Gretchen Hutchinson. She’s the new president of the Yarnell Historical Society. And this fine young woman,” she said to the other woman, laying a gentle hand on my arm, “is Kendall O’Dell, our star reporter for the Castle Valley Sun. Gretchen is in the proce
ss of trying to save the old Ice House from the wrecking ball.”
Smiling, I shook hands with the stocky, flaxen-haired woman with blunt facial features. I had a real soft spot in my heart for the tiny town of Yarnell because it was at the top of Yarnell Hill the previous April that I had first met Tally. “What’s the Ice House?”
Her eyes brightened with interest. “Ohhh! It’s a magnificent old building built around 1880. Over the years there have been a number of businesses housed there, a beanery, a candle making operation, a welding shop,” she recited, counting on her fingers, “but the locals still refer to the place as the Ice House because in its heyday in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s it was used to store ice for delivery via narrow gauge railroad to many of the surrounding copper mines to be used in the smelters in places like Wagoner, Fort Misery and Congress.” I could tell she was really into the subject because her cheeks glowed with color. “Records show that the basement, which was used to store the ice, has insulation at least four inches thick made from pressed animal hair and sawdust and the floor above it is at least twenty inches thick. At one time, there was an ammonia ice making machine operating down there and supposedly there are some parts of it remaining which we’d like to preserve.”
“Who’s trying to demolish the building?”
Her nostrils flared with a derisive sniff. “The usual suspects. As I’m sure you know, out of state developers are devouring every square inch of vacant land here in Arizona and now a syndicate of California doctors has filed an application to rezone the property for a housing development. We’ve been working to get historic designation for almost five years now plus working with the owner to try and keep her from selling out. But,” she continued with a defeated sigh, “the lady has just gone into a nursing home, poor dear. Her relatives are clamoring for her to give them power of attorney so they can file the papers for condemnation.” She made eye contact with Thena. “It’s been such a long battle and right now, it’s not looking too good that we’ll be successful in saving it.”
Thena placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Have faith, dear. There were many dark days when I could have just torn out what’s left of my hair over this place, but look at the results of my efforts. I finally prevailed and now this grand old house belongs once and for all to the people of Castle Valley.” She turned back to me. “Kendall, do you remember that series you did last summer? I sincerely believe that your articles greatly influenced the heirs to change their minds about selling Hanson House. Perhaps you could do the same for Gretchen.”
Reacting to her hopeful expression, I said, “I can certainly give it a shot. Give me your phone number and e-mail address and we can set something up. Next time I’m in Yarnell, I’ll get some exterior shots and maybe a few interiors to accompany the piece.”
Gretchen’s brows dipped in uncertainty. “I don’t know about photographing the inside. Right now, it’s being rented on a month-to-month basis and the tenant didn’t seem too keen about the idea of having us intrude. Perhaps you’ll have more luck than I did.”
“I’ll do my best.” It was almost time for the dedication ceremony so after shooting a series of photos I wandered among the balloon-toting citizens, jotting down quotes from various civic leaders, concluding with several shots of the ribbon cutting ceremony that was followed immediately by an inside tour showing off the newly refurbished rooms and antique furnishings.
I stayed longer than I should have, and it was a quarter to ten when I left the old house and joined the long line of departing cars. Since the office and fairgrounds were at opposite ends of town the wait to get onto the main street chewed up another ten minutes. Feeling the pinch of time I hurried to the office, retrieved Ginger’s moneybag and then sped towards the fairgrounds taking note of the smoky-gray clouds gathering above the northern mountains. Would the impending storm hold off until the craft show ended?
Any hope I had of making up for lost time evaporated when I reached the main entrance. The choke of traffic slowed from a crawl to a complete stop. Oh man. Ginger was probably having a gigantic freckled cow by now. I plucked the phone from my purse and dialed her cell number. It rang repeatedly before going to voicemail. Oh well, I’d tried. Drumming my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel I sat watching the bustle of activity in the vendor parking lot. Crafters and artisans were still in the process of unloading racks of clothing, jewelry, paintings, pottery and woodwork items from a variety of trucks and trailers before piling their wares onto handcarts and heading towards the colorful sea of canopies ringing the rodeo stands.
Suddenly the discordant roar of Harley-Davidson motorcycles drowned out all other sounds. A flash of irritation coursed through me as ten bikes rolled past the long line of waiting cars just because they could. My patience was near an end by the time I found a parking spot. Now closing in on ten-thirty I trotted towards the front gate and entered the fairgrounds in a crush of chattering teens, slow-moving seniors and young mothers pushing toddlers in strollers. The overwhelming blend of diverse aromas—cotton candy, burgers, French fries, Mexican and Chinese food—made my stomach churn with hunger. As I passed by the multitude of tents I made a mental note of some of the crafts being displayed to feature in my article. Amid the blare of country music and shrieking kids from the carnival rides came the distinct braying of wild burros. Sure enough I spotted Ginger’s canopy. She was busy depositing items into a plastic bag while her wheelchair-bound grandmother, Nona, conversed with two other elderly women. There were at least a half a dozen people gathered around her booth perusing and picking through the handmade items. I ducked beneath the tent and moved to her side. “Sorry, traffic was a bear. I tried to call but got your voicemail.”
She swung around and fixed me with a look of wide-eyed relief. “Land sakes, girl, I wuz about to send the sheriff’s posse out lookin’ for ya!” She grabbed the moneybag, rifled through it and turned to a generously built woman holding a gigantic flower arrangement. “Okay, darlin’, I can change that hundred for ya now.” As the woman waddled away with her purchase Ginger rolled her eyes, sighing, “I’ve been busier than a cat trying to cover poop on concrete!”
Giggling at her hilarious colloquialism, I turned to Nona and bent down to kiss her withered but brightly rouged cheek. “How’re you doing today?” For a woman well into her eighties she was still sharp as a tack mentally.
Dressed flamboyantly in purple, including a wide-brimmed hat clustered with lavender flowers, she smiled up at me, her faded eyes sparkling with good humor. “Well, if it ain’t, Miss Candy O’Donnell? Missy, I’m fit as a fiddle and ornery as an old goat.”
I marveled at the ongoing game she played, striving to come up with yet another skewed nickname for me each time we met. She hadn’t repeated herself yet.
“Did you have fun at your friend Oscar’s 100th birthday party last night?”
She crooked her finger for me to bend closer. “I had a ball. After everybody helped him blow out all the candles I told him if he was just a few years older I could really go for him.”
I laughed at her quick wit. “Nona, you’re one of a kind.”
“You got that right, honey.”
Ginger grabbed my elbow and pulled me aside. “Okay, let’s have it. What happened last night? Did Ruth have a coronary when y’all spilled the beans?”
“Yes and no.”
Ginger’s eyes widened. “What’s that mean?”
At that moment we were deluged with customers. “It’s too long to go into now. I’ll tell you later.” The three of us worked nonstop for the next hour selling and bagging the handmade items for scores of enthusiastic buyers. Ginger whooped with excitement after we sold the last of Nona’s hand-embossed pillows.
“The other gals at church ain’t gonna believe this!” she crowed, clapping her hands in glee. “If this keeps up, we’re goin’ to sell out everything in one day!”
“I had no idea this was going to be such a big deal,” I marveled, eyeing the noisy crus
h of humanity moving past the canopy.
“People come from all ’round these parts to attend this show.” She paused momentarily. “Oh yeah, that reminds me. She’s here!”
“Who’s here?”
“The ice lady.”
“Who?”
“Remember the gal I wuz tellin’ you about at lunch the other day?” Responding to my blank look she added peevishly, “You know. Myra Colton. The one who does the fancy ice sculptures?”
“Oh. Right.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “What’s goin’ on? You seem a tad distracted today.”
“You could say that.”
“It’s gotta have somethin’ to do with last night.” Her eyes blazed with interest. “Did Ruth have an atomic hissy fit?”
“That and other…circumstances too complicated to go into now.”
“Oh, I hate it when you do that! Just give me the short version.”
How much to tell her? “Okay, Ruth wasn’t exactly thrilled with our announcement but grudgingly gave us her blessing.”
Ginger looked properly stunned. “Well, slap me silly, that’s mighty unexpected, but pretty dang good news.”
“Yes, and even better than that was Tally’s surprise engagement present to me.” I knew mention of that would derail further questions about Ruth.
“Come on, sugar, I’m waiting!”
“He presented me with my very own beautiful horse.”
“A horse!” Pretending to swoon, she pressed a hand to her heart. “What a prize that man is! Did I not tell you from day one that he was the catch of the century?”
“That he is. But now I’m really under pressure to come up with something equally as great for him. And I don’t have a clue. Any ideas?”
Her answer was a blank stare. “I’m gonna have to think on that one for a spell.”
“Me too and I don’t have a lot of time.” I switched gears. “Okay, so where is this lady’s booth?” I really couldn’t have cared less about having an ice sculpture but didn’t have the heart to disappoint her.