by Sylvia Nobel
“What do you mean?”
I told her about my meeting with Gretchen from the Yarnell Historical Society and that my publisher had leaned on me heavily to do a story on her efforts to save the building from being razed by developers. I gave her a discerning grin. “You must be the uncooperative tenant she was talking about.”
She moved to a small table, eased into a chair and motioned for me to sit opposite her. “I can sympathize with her desire to save this place,” she said, flicking something from her dark brown slacks, “and I’m sorry she’s unhappy with me, but I don’t feel comfortable having strangers troop through here taking pictures and possibly getting injured.” She gestured to the adjacent workbench piled with cardboard egg cartons, assorted paintbrushes, boxes and a substantial array of bottles. “I work with some pretty strong chemicals.” She explained that she worked with wax heated to eleven hundred degrees, which she used in the ‘lost wax’ process, as well as ferric nitrate to achieve the gold bronze patina on her sculptures and cupric nitrate to create her greens and blues. “I also utilize turpentine and lighter fluid to melt the clay, not to mention that I have dental and other sharp carving tools lying around. It’s really not safe. But they can come in and do whatever they want after I’m gone.”
The undertone of finality in her voice prompted me to ask, “Are you moving?”
“I’ve been looking at smaller studios in Jerome and Sedona. I appreciate the roominess of this place but I can’t get the relatives of the woman I signed my lease with to make any repairs. The roof leaks, the furnace doesn’t work very efficiently, the lock on the back door is broken and the wiring is ancient—” As if to confirm her statement, the lights dimmed and flickered momentarily before brightening again. “See what I mean? That’s why I keep a supply of candles and kerosene lamps on hand,” she said, pointing to a crowded shelf above the table containing both items. She must have noticed my look of concern because she added hastily, “Don’t worry, if the heirs don’t kick me out of here beforehand I plan to stay here until the end of the year. I should have your piece finished well before then.”
“Listen, if it wouldn’t be too intrusive, it would sure help me out to have a tour of the place, if you have time. Gretchen told me that there are parts of an old ammonia ice-making machine in the basement and I’d love to have a couple of pictures for my article.” I flashed her a persuasive smile. “I promise I’ll be careful and not destroy anything.”
She pulled in her lower lip, appearing thoughtful. “I’ll tell you what. Take all the exterior pictures you want, but it’s much too dangerous to go into the cellar. The stairs are all rotted and there’s standing water from seepage, not to mention the rats. I would feel terrible if you got hurt.” She gathered the shawl closer. “It’s dark and damp. I never go down there.”
I masked my disappointment with a slight shrug. “I’ll take whatever I can get. By the way,” I said, reaching into my pocket, “here’s your down payment.”
Nodding, she accepted the money, her expression turning quizzical. She inclined her head towards the kitchen, whispering, “I thought you wanted this to be a surprise for your fiancé?”
“I do.”
“Well then…why did you bring him along?”
I blinked my confusion. “Oh, that’s not Tally. That’s…Grant Jamerson. He’s… an old friend of mine.”
A raised brow. “Oh? I just assumed—”
“I’m sorry, I should have introduced him when we came in.”
“That’s quite all right. Well then, I’ll start on your piece as soon as you bring the posters.”
“Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“And have you decided on a theme for your ice sculpture?”
“Not yet, but I think I’ll leave that to your imagination since it appears to be much more fruitful than mine.”
“How kind of you.” With a puzzled frown, she searched around on the table for something, moving piles of catalogues and papers before rising from her chair. “I must have left my receipt book in my purse. I’ll be right back.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I began, but she waved away my objection. “Because it’s cash, I’d feel better about it.”
“Whatever.” After she left the room, I wandered around admiring more of her amazing sculptures: an eagle, a mountain lion and a peacock, looking startlingly lifelike with its blue, gold and black tail feathers fanned out. The escalating whistle of the wind blowing through an inch- wide space between the second set of double doors opening to the rear of the building alerted me to the fact the storm was gaining momentum. Wet footprints and a pair of muddy boots sitting on the concrete floor nearby indicated that Myra had also been out in the rain recently. I continued my ‘art walk’ and peeked through an open doorway towards the far corner of the room. In a narrow alcove, dimly lit in the glow of one bare bulb, I noticed a long countertop overflowing with at least a hundred of her signature cherub-faced angel figurines. It was amazing to note that the face on each looked identical and yet they did not appear to be mass-produced.
I returned to the table, sat down and picked up a pamphlet entitled Southwestern Show Guide. The booklet listed hundreds of upcoming arts and crafts festivals for cities in most of the states west of the Mississippi. As I leafed through it I wondered what it would be like to constantly travel around the country like Myra did, exhibiting her sculptures, dealing with the weather, meeting thousands of people, eating out and sleeping in different motels. I assumed it was profitable or she wouldn’t do it. Hearing the light tap of her footsteps, I rose and met her in the hallway. She handed me the receipt and we walked together towards the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she inquired politely.
“Thank you, but I think we should get going before we get slammed by this storm. It’ll be dark soon and it was snowing like crazy when we left Prescott.”
We entered the small kitchen, which had to be twenty degrees warmer than her studio, and spotted Grant, cup in hand, sitting with his shoes off, his stocking feet propped up on the hearth in front of the fire. “Oh, yes,” she murmured, “I’d forgotten today was the judge’s funeral. Such a tragedy. Was there a large turnout?”
“Huge,” Grant volunteered in a loud voice, turning to face us, “and we were treated to a bit more drama than your average funeral.”
I eyed the open brandy bottle critically. Like La Donna, I wondered how wise it was for him to mix pain medication with alcohol.
“Grant, meet Myra Colton.”
He rose unsteadily to his feet and said with a lopsided grin, “The pleasure is all mine. Great tea.” He swayed and sat down hard, almost missing the chair.
Myra exchanged a quizzical glance with me before moving to the counter and picking up the teakettle. “What kind of drama?”
Before I could speak, Grant blurted out, “Marissa, the judge’s little girlfriend, was so overcome with emotion she fainted dead away in the snow right in front of the casket. Then Kendall informs us that the poor girl’s knocked up and she’s whisked away in an ambulance,” Grant stated, brushing his hand though the air with great flourish.
“Well, I guess that is kind of dramatic,” Myra remarked, looking mildly interested as she poured hot water into a cup.
“You betcha.” He squinted longingly into his empty cup. “But the best part was later on when Kendall spied a ghostlike figure skulking around the coffin and then whoosh, vanishing into thin air.”
Myra’s lips twitched with amusement. “How intriguing.”
Grant reached for the brandy bottle, which I quickly moved from his grasp. “If it was the murderer,” he went on, blinking as he tried to focus on my face, “whoever it was better watch his ass because ace reporter Kendall O’Dell is on the job. Yep. She’s the best in the business.” Looking pleased with himself he tacked on, “And you can bet your bottom dollar if anybody can catch this person, it’s gonna be her.” He gave me a silly grin and I rolled my eyes.
“Grant, get your shoes on. We’ve got to go.”
Myra dunked a teabag into her cup several times. “Are you referring to the young woman who lives at the Hidden Springs Hotel?” she asked softly. “I think I met her when I delivered that last piece to Mrs. Gibbons a month or so ago.”
“That’s right,” I replied, watching Grant struggling to tie his shoelaces.
“My goodness, what a tangled legacy the man left behind.” She reached into her pocket, tossed a couple of pills into her mouth and washed them down with a gulp of tea.
I hauled Grant to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you home.” Giving Myra a sheepish grin, I said, “I’ll see you on Thursday.”
She leveled me an observant look as I hooked my hand through his elbow. “I have several appointments that day so Friday afternoon would really work better for me.”
“Friday it is.”
There was very little daylight remaining when she showed us outside. Snow was just beginning to come down in earnest. “Be careful going down the hill,” Myra called after us from the doorway, “it can get really icy in spots.”
“We will. Bye now.” We retraced our path along the dirt road and through the sleepy downtown area without incident, but after we’d traveled about halfway down Yarnell Hill, I knew we were in trouble. The freezing rain had created treacherous black ice conditions and made for slow going as strong wind gusts pummeled the truck. I switched into four-wheel drive and felt marginally confident following the taillights of the vehicle in front of us, but then they suddenly disappeared from view as I fought to keep from sliding on a particularly dicey hairpin turn. I grabbed the wheel tighter, straining to see the road as snow began to blow hard against the windshield. Perhaps a half-mile behind me, dim headlights glowed intermittently through the fog. “I hope you’re not depending on me, buddy,” I muttered under my breath. Should I pull over to the side of the road and stop or would that create an even greater danger? I had visions of a chain reaction accident that decision could cause. It would have been nice to have a second pair of eyes to help navigate, but Grant was slumped against the passenger door, his barbiturate and alcohol cocktail having apparently rendered him comatose.
Things swiftly went from bad to worse. Within minutes, near blizzard conditions had reduced visibility to mere feet. I could no longer make out the centerline and anxiously tried to gauge where I was with no highway markings to guide me away from the sheer drop off situated somewhere to my left. I chastised myself severely. Why hadn’t I followed Rulinda’s lead and waited out the storm in a cozy café?
I slowed to a crawl and then became sickeningly aware that the hazy headlights were bearing down on me from behind. Someone was coming at us fast—way too fast. I fumbled for the emergency flashers, shouting, “Grant! Wake up!” As the lights grew brighter, I pictured one of those huge gravel trucks careening out of control and instinct kicked in. The safest course of action would be to pull over to the right and bail out before we were rear-ended. Hollering, “Grant!” at the top of my lungs, I frantically tried to maintain control as I reached over to shake him. “Come on! We’ve got to get out of here! Now!”
He stirred and blinked at me stupefied, his face a surreal mask of light and shadow. He mumbled, “What’s going on?” just as the vehicle slammed us from behind.
“Slow down, you idiot!” I screamed, trying to keep the wheel steady. Fear turned to bone-chilling horror when we were violently bumped a second time. Suddenly, the offending vehicle swerved, accelerated, and began to pass us on the right. It bounced along the narrow shoulder, swerving closer and closer. “Are you insane?” I shrieked. “What the hell are you doing?” Through the blinding snow, I was fairly certain I saw a flash of white just before the vehicle rammed us. My heart raced as we did a one- eighty in the middle of the road, spinning out of control like some nightmarish carnival ride and then, almost as if it were happening to someone else, I watched in helpless disbelief as the blinding headlights came at us, knocking the truck against the guardrail hard enough to deploy the airbags with a loud bang. With sickening alarm, I felt the protection of the guardrail give way and the truck began to slide backwards. Grant’s panicked shouts mingled with my choked screams as we plunged over the edge of the cliff.
22
Powerless, petrified, rational thought suspended, all I could do was hang on to the steering wheel for dear life as we hurtled backwards downhill into the snowy darkness. The pickup hit something solid, lurched sideways and then we started to roll. Totally disoriented, unable to see, not knowing up from down or right from left, my fear was so all consuming, that all I could do was say a last prayer. Time seemed to stop as we performed I don’t know how many revolutions and then incredibly, we landed upright with a mighty bounce, slid across the level, icy surface of the lower road before continuing downward again, jostling over rocks, crashing through brush and trees, everything a tangled whirling blur until we came to a metal-crunching stop that knocked the breath out of me. For long seconds there was no sound except the roar of the wind accompanied by our tortured breathing. I had no idea how far we’d fallen, but guessed by the way the truck was slanted that we were facing uphill at about a forty-five- degree angle. The deflated airbag left behind a powdery haze that burned my eyes and made me cough. Limp from the adrenaline rush, I gingerly moved my neck, arms and legs—whew! Everything was working. It took awhile for my eyes to fully adjust to the gloom and I could just barely make out Grant practicing the same maneuver, flexing his arms and legs.
I reached out and touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” came his dazed response, pushing the airbag away. “Nothing appears to be broken. You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” It was miraculous that we were unhurt and I sent up a thankful prayer that we were both still alive.
Then he startled me by exclaiming, “Amazing. That was like a super chiropractic adjustment. My neck doesn’t hurt anymore. Whoo-hoo! Hell of a ride! Better than Disneyland!”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I responded dryly. “If you were weren’t so zonked on pain killers and brandy, I doubt you’d find this amusing.”
“Just trying to lighten things up. And for your information, I drank just enough to get a nice buzz.” When I didn’t respond, he added softly, “What happened anyway? I thought you said you knew how to handle this truck.”
“I do!”
“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
“This wasn’t my fault! Someone deliberately ran us off the road!”
“Are you shitting me?”
“No, whoever was driving the other vehicle managed to ram us accidentally four times.”
“So, you’re not subscribing to the notion that the driver may have just lost control on the ice?”
I hesitated, suddenly unsure. “It happened awfully fast. I suppose it’s possible.”
“Did you get a look at the vehicle?”
“Not clearly, but I saw a flash of white and based on the height of the headlights I’m betting it was some kind of truck or van.”
“And do any of our suspects drive a white van?”
With growing unease, I pondered his question. “Huh! That’s interesting.”
“What?”
“It didn’t dawn on me until you mentioned it, but they all do. Both Randy and Winston drive white pickups, and Rulinda drives a white van. And someone else was in the driver’s seat when I saw her today at the funeral.”
“You think it was big brother Randy driving?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at the driver.”
Grant fell silent for an extended period. “So, is it your theory that one of them just made an attempt to permanently remove you from the Gibbons story?”
“Looks pretty suspicious, doesn’t it?”
“Yep.” A powerful burst of wind shook the truck. “Well, we’re in a hell of a mess. How far off the road do you think we are?”
It seemed as if we’d slid an
d rolled downhill for miles, but most likely it was only a couple hundred yards. “I have no idea, but we’ve got to get help soon or we’re going to freeze to death.”
“Try the engine,” Grant suggested through chattering teeth. “At least maybe we can run the heat for awhile.”
I tensed and turned the key. The instrument panel lit up, the fan and lights came on, but the engine wouldn’t start. I tried several times to no avail. “Shit.”
“One of the rocks we hit on the way down probably bent the oil pan bad enough so the crankshaft won’t turn,” Grant said with a sigh of resignation.
At least the horn worked. I ran the wipers to clear the snow from the windshield and honked the horn until Grant shouted, “Maybe we shouldn’t run the battery down.”
Numb with anxiety, I unhooked my seat belt and peered out the window. Nothing but blackness. I shoved hard on the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “Can you get yours open?”
He pushed his door repeatedly and it finally opened, allowing the icy wind to rush inside. My heart leaped with expectation only to plummet in disappointment when he grunted, “Damn, it’ll only open a couple of inches. We must be wedged in between some rocks.” He pulled it shut. “Maybe we can climb out the windows.”
I lowered them about half way. The driving snow pelted my face and I shivered all over when the tiny flakes blew down my collar. I reached outside and my fingertips immediately touched a cold, irregular surface. “Can’t get out on this side,” I said dejectedly, closing my window. “What about yours?”
“Nope.”
The knowledge that we were trapped inside the truck set my heart hammering with unreasonable panic, threatening to generate both an asthma and claustrophobic attack. It took every bit of willpower I could summon to maintain calm. I must not become hysterical in front of Grant.
We closed the windows and brushed the snow from our clothes. “Let’s think about this for a minute,” he said. “Even if we could somehow pry my door open, is that something we want to do? Maybe we shouldn’t be doing anything that might dislodge this baby. How do you know the back end of this truck isn’t dangling off the side of this mountain?”