Seeds of Vengeance

by Sylvia Nobel

  I spotted Ronda and Ruth huddled together in the front row of chairs as I approached the gravesite. Ronda raised a hand in greeting and when I waved back, I didn’t miss her speculative glance at Grant. How could she even know who he was since she’d never met him? Oh. Of course. Lucinda had given her a head to toe description of him after she’d finished tattling about me. I was all set to step forward and introduce him when my attention strayed to Ruth. Clad completely in black, she stared straight ahead at the coffin, her grief-stricken profile as pale as the snow settling on her headscarf. She must have sensed me watching her because she turned her head slightly. For a brief interlude our eyes connected. In those few seconds, we shared an intimate, uneasy bond. Out of all the people present that day to pay their final respects, including her daughter, I was the only one who shared her dark secret and understood the true magnitude of her torment.

  Her gaze slid back to the coffin and as the wind rose to a whistle, I noticed two coal black ravens perched on the swaying limb of a nearby pine tree. The irony of the moment was not lost on me. From what I now knew about Riley Gibbons’s penchant for the mysterious, I think he would have been pleased by the foreboding ambiance nature had provided for his final farewell. And then in another odd quirk of fate, Winston Pendahl appeared, dusted the snow off a chair directly behind Ruth and offered it to Marissa. Wow. There they were—two women from different generations unaware of each other’s significance—one having produced the desired offspring Riley had always yearned for yet could not acknowledge, while the other carried a child he would have cherished but would now never know.

  “Guess I’ll go do my thing,” Grant said, plucking his digital camera from his pocket. “I’ll see if I can harvest a couple of interviews to please my boss.”

  “Wait a minute—” Before I could stop him, he turned and melted into the crowd. Just as well. His absence granted me a reprieve from explaining to Ronda why we were together. I kicked around the thought of joining the two of them for the services and then just as quickly dismissed the idea, opting to give myself the freedom to roam about and gather material for my own piece. As I strolled among the milling throng, I estimated that there were about two hundred people present. Impressive.

  The full brunt of the storm arrived, and the snow came down hard and fast, snuffing out the silhouettes of Thumb Butte and Granite Mountain to the west. I wondered how anyone was going to hear the pastor, who had just arrived and was shaking hands with various people gathered near the casket, including a tall, refined-looking woman with short cropped white hair who appeared to be in her early sixties. Because she bore such a striking resemblance to Riley Gibbons, I deduced she must be his sister, Charlotte. I snapped several pictures of the governor giving her a comforting hug. Also paying respects was a host of state senators, representatives, uniformed members of law enforcement and two U.S. Senators—certainly demonstrative proof that Judge Riley C. Gibbons had been held in high esteem by his peers.

  By the time the services ended, at least an inch of fresh snow had fallen and near whiteout conditions stripped the color from the surroundings, reducing everything to varying shades of gray. One by one mourners approached the casket. Many bowed their heads and mouthed prayers while others touched, kissed, or laid flowers on the polished lid. Marissa, her chin touching her chest, tissues pressed to her nose, wept audibly. Winston appeared to be supporting her full weight as she placed a bouquet of yellow daisies on the casket and then, with no warning, she collapsed to the ground. I rushed forward as the crowd surged around, murmuring concern. Winston dropped to his knees, cradled her head under his arm and tried to shield her from the blowing snow. Grant appeared from somewhere and we both knelt by her side. “What’s happening?” he asked with obvious concern.

  “She fainted. I think maybe I better take her back home,” Winston said, attempting to lift her inert body.

  “Hold it,” I cautioned, staring with growing unease at her bloodless lips, “considering her condition, I think you’d better call an ambulance.”

  “What condition?” he asked, his forehead puckered in puzzlement.

  “She’s pregnant,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  Judging by his stunned expression, it was obvious she hadn’t revealed her secret to him. “Pregnant?” he yelped loudly enough for those around us to hear clearly. “Are you sure? She never said nuthin’ to me about that.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” I rose to my feet shouting, “Is there a doctor here?”

  “Coming through,” came a call from somewhere in the crowd as a middle-aged man pushed to the front. After that everything moved swiftly. Someone fetched a blanket from somewhere, cell phones were whipped out and within ten minutes paramedics arrived on the scene, lights flashing, sirens blaring. While everyone’s attention was focused on Marissa being loaded into the ambulance, I realized I’d lost track of Ruth and Ronda. I looked around for them and happened to glance back towards the gravesite, which was now almost completely obscured in fog, just in time to notice an indistinct silhouette appear from behind the small grove of trees and swiftly approach the coffin. Because of the poor visibility, I could not tell whether the person was male or female. The wraith-like figure, shrouded in black, tossed something onto the coffin lid and then as if I’d imagined the entire thing, vanished into the mist.

  “You ready to go?” Grant asked, massaging his neck and shoulder, his face contorted with pain. “I gotta take a couple of my magic pills pretty quick or I’m going to have to crawl into that ambulance with Marissa.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I answered in a distracted tone, digging in my coat pocket for the keys. “Take these. I’ll be along in a minute.” I trotted back down the hill to the canopy and ducked beneath it, listening to the steady patter of snow granules falling on the canvas as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. At first I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, however my pulse spiked when I spotted something unusual nestled among the flower arrangements. I blinked the snow from my eyelashes and looked closer. Was that a black rose? Mystified, I reached out a gloved hand and plucked it from the coffin. Curious. Of course, the first name that came to mind was Rulinda, who possessed the materials and expertise to have created such an item. But, how did I know that Randy hadn’t been the driver? There was also the possibility that it could have been Winston. I’d not seen him since the ambulance left. Had he followed Marissa to the hospital or doubled back here?

  As I twirled the flower slowly in my hand, I noticed that a small piece of paper, painted the same color as the stem, had been wound tightly around it. I hesitated for a few seconds, wondering what to do. Did I have any right to read this private message specifically meant to be buried with the deceased for eternity? Well, if I didn’t, it would be lost forever. Carefully, I peeled the paper away from the stem and rolled it open. As I read the inscription, icy shivers skated along the back of my neck. HATE HAS TURNED MY DAYS AND NIGHTS INTO HELLISH TURMOIL.

  21

  I looked up, searching the fog, firmly convinced that I’d just caught a glimpse of Riley’s murderer. Above all the quotes I’d read thus far, this one exemplified the heated depths of this individual’s rage and infinite anguish over some actual or perceived wrongdoing. Cognizant of the fact that I might have a vital clue, it was imperative that it be preserved for forensic examination, since there might very well be fingerprints or other identifying material on the flower or delicate onionskin paper. I rewrapped the paper around the stem, tucked the rose beneath my coat and hurried to the truck, wondering whether it would be better to contact Sheriff Turnbull and Duane Potts, or perhaps Detective Lansing in Phoenix. Either way the rose would have to be sent to the crime lab for analysis. Could I expedite things faster if I delivered it personally to Fritzy tomorrow?

  There were only a few cars still parked along the steep road as I tromped downward, slipping several times on the icy surface, fighting the bitter wind. When I finally made it to the parking lot, I grew more suspicious when I noticed that
the Posey Patch Florist van was nowhere to be seen.

  Grant had the engine running and the heater blasting by the time I climbed into the truck cab. His eyes widened in amazement as I showed him my find and shared my suspicions as to which person on our list of suspects it might have been.

  Grant pondered the information before stating, “That was a pretty gutsy, in-your-face action, if you ask me. Apparently, our killer has graduated from sending anonymous messages to making a personal appearance. Kind of a ‘catch me if you can,’ kind of thing.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Right. We’ve both talked to enough homicide detectives to know that the criminal’s ego is usually their downfall. The fact that they either can’t keep their mouths shut, or for whatever reason find it necessary to begin dropping clues to prove just how clever they are.”

  I put the truck in gear, and as I waited for traffic to clear, Grant pointed across the street. “Hey, you mind if we stop by that convenience store over there?” He extended his palm to reveal two white pills. “I’m supposed to take these with food, so I gotta get some munchies and I could use a hot drink.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll pick up a bag to secure the rose.” Moments later, armed with our provisions, the flower secured in a brown paper bag, I backtracked through the snow-covered streets, headed out of town and retraced our path down the steep mountain pass. As we descended in elevation, the snow dissolved into sleet and I estimated that if we didn’t run into any road problems, we should make it to Myra’s place by four.

  I savored the warmth of the hot chocolate while Grant downed the pain pills along with a sandwich and coffee. The medicine must have been potent because he was sound asleep by the time we reached Yarnell, his head lolling gently with the sway of the truck. I smiled wryly to myself. Phyllis had been right. It would have been a grave mistake for him to drive while taking those pills.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror at the charcoal clouds closing in behind us. We’d outrun the storm temporarily, but if the temperature dropped much further, the sleet would soon turn to snow. Again, I wondered what Tally was doing. Not knowing where he was or if he was safe re-ignited a feeling of hollow anxiety. If he’d made it back to the ranch, why hadn’t he called me? I fished my cell phone out and sighed in annoyance at the NO SIGNAL announcement flashing at me. Well, that answered that. It was disheartening to notice the low battery warning also. Great. I could have kicked myself for not recharging it before I’d left.

  I turned the phone off to preserve power and tossed it back into my purse, deciding to skip my planned visit to research the Ice House until my next visit. Best get started back to town before the weather got much worse. Downtown Peeple’s Valley was mostly devoid of traffic, but that made it easy to spot the Posey Patch Florist van parked in front of the Saddletramp Saloon as I coasted by. Rulinda must have stopped for a hot toddy and who could blame her?

  I turned onto the poorly maintained road and drove west towards the boulder-covered mountains dodging gigantic potholes brimming with rainwater. Sure enough after a half a mile or so, the pavement ended and I maneuvered along a secluded dirt road listening to the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers. When I came to the first fork, I angled right and perhaps a half a mile later, steered to the left. Positive that I’d already traveled two miles, I was beginning to think I’d taken a wrong turn when out of the mist loomed a two-story building of blackened brick. I gawked at the unexpected sight of finding such an odd-looking structure sitting out in the middle of basically nowhere. Barely visible, perhaps a mile further to the west, a smokestack from what had probably been an old smelter, jutted into the swirling gray mist.

  I bumped along an uneven weed infested driveway and rolled to a stop in front of scratched double doors. Uncertain, I stared up at three rows of high domed windows, some bricked shut. Just above the rooftop, dark storm clouds loomed, creating an atmosphere that was downright creepy. I reached over and tapped Grant on the shoulder. “We’re here.” When he didn’t respond, I poked him again and he finally stirred and cracked his eyes open. Totally spaced out, he squinted in stupefaction at the building. Rain poured like a waterfall off one side of the roof where it looked like the gutter had long ago corroded. Judging by the architecture, it appeared to have been built somewhere around the turn of the last century. Doubt jabbed me. Why would anyone, especially a woman, choose to live in such an out of the way spot in what looked like a deserted old factory?

  Mirroring my thoughts, Grant remarked, “What a weird looking place. Where the hell are we?”

  “We’re supposed to be at Myra Colton’s house.”

  “Hmmm. There seem to be an abundance of these ramshackle places here in Arizona,” he remarked with a wide yawn.

  He was right. The building did look as though it had been built around the same time as the hotel at Hidden Springs, but I turned to him with an amused frown. “Ramshackle? Who even knows what that word means anymore?”

  He chuckled. “Okay, how about dilapidated? And why are we here again?”

  “She’s an artist I met recently who’s going to create something for me.” He didn’t need to know the details of my engagement gift.

  “Looks like a set for a horror movie,” he quipped. “Think it’s haunted too?”

  I arched a brow at him. “Now who’s being fanciful?” I shut the engine off and glanced down at the directions. “According to what’s written here, this has got to be it, but I guess there’s only one way to find out.” We made a dash through the pelting rain and the metal door echoed like a kettledrum as I pounded on it. After a minute or so, it swung inward to reveal Myra Colton clutching a shawl around her thin shoulders, her complexion so pale it looked almost bluish. “Oh, hi,” I said with a relieved smile. “I wasn’t sure this was the right place.”

  “Come in, come in,” she urged, standing aside to allow us entry.

  Grant and I stepped into the foyer. As we stood there on the cloth rug dripping like two wet dogs, I caught her slanting him an odd look while he brushed raindrops from his jacket.

  “Miss O’Dell, if you’d like to step into my studio, we can talk.” Addressing Grant, she suggested, “I’ve got a fire going in the kitchen, hot water for tea is on the stove and there’s a bottle of brandy on the table if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks.” He favored her with one of his charismatic grins and the slightest touch of color tinted her high cheekbones. Oh brother. It appeared that no female on earth, regardless of age, was immune to his charms. He flicked me a smug look that indicated that he was aware of his affect on women and I wrinkled my nose at him as he headed towards the crackling fire. I turned my attention to Myra.

  “Please call me Kendall.”

  “And you must call me Myra.” She beckoned me to follow her along a narrow, drafty hallway dimly lit by ancient wrought iron light fixtures. I reached out my hand and touched the cold exposed brick walls.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I asked, moving to her side, “why are you living in a…in this—”

  “Rundown old building?” she finished, sliding me a discerning look. “The short answer is that it was available, private, the rent is very reasonable and even though it’s a bit damp and cold, it’s ideal for my purposes.” Underscoring her words, she ushered me through a door into an enormous room with a high vaulted ceiling where at least a dozen globe lamps hung suspended on long black chains. Gracefully arched windows spanning two walls offered a spectacular view of the Weaver Mountains looming in the distance, but the fast-approaching storm clouds would soon obscure the irregular peaks. On a normal day, sunlight would blaze through the expanse of glass, brightening the gloomy interior considerably.

  Outside, backed up to a second set of high double doors, sat a white panel truck. Beyond it, tucked beneath a dark canopy of trees, a garage fashioned from the same aged brick as the building sheltered an older model silver Honda and a white trailer inscribed with faded lettering that read: CREATIVE ICE SCULPTURES.


  “I see what you mean about this place being perfect for the type of work you do.” I paused to admire several of her exquisite creations while other pieces, apparently not ready for viewing, stood draped beneath bolts of material.

  “Do you attend a lot of festivals like the one last weekend in Castle Valley?” I asked her.

  “Oh, yes. For quite a few years now, I’ve traveled to shows all over the southwest and a few on the East Coast.”

  “How do you pack and unpack all this paraphernalia by yourself?”

  “I don’t. There’s a very nice gentleman in town who helps me load the truck and then I have to hire someone at the other end to help me unload and set up my canopy.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you living out here in the sticks by yourself?”

  Smiling reflectively, she slanted her head towards the lifelike depictions of Native Americans, rugged cowboys and young girls frolicking in various poses with bunnies, kittens and puppies. “I’m not really alone.”

  I smiled. “I meant, don’t you have any family around?”

  Similar to the first time we’d met, a flicker of sorrow passed behind her serene gaze. “Not anymore. They’re all gone now.”

  My cheeks burned. Open big mouth, insert size nine shoes. “I’m sorry. Force of habit. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t concern yourself,” she said benignly. “It was a long time ago. What’s that old axiom, ‘waste not fresh tears on old griefs’ or something to that effect? Life goes on.” With that she quickly switched the subject to her work.

  We conversed for about fifteen minutes about what kind of pose I had in mind for Tally’s sculpture and when we finished I looked around the cavernous room again murmuring, “What was this building originally, do you know?”

  “I understand it was used to store ice for the mines.”

  My mouth fell open. “No way! This is the Ice House?” My mind zoomed back to the conversation I’d had with Gretchen Hutchinson on Saturday. “Talk about dumb luck. I can accomplish two things at the same time.”