Skeletons Among Us: Legends of Treasure Book 2

by Lois D. Brown

  It was time to turn the tables on whoever was doing this.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In 1870 [Walz] formed a partnership with a man named Jacob Weiser. Like everyone else, they had heard tales of the Peralta mine and Dr. Thorne’s half-mad quest. [Walz and Weiser] knew just about everything there was to know about the primitive 19th century art of searching for gold in unlikely places … Into the Superstitions they went. For one of them it was the best decision he ever made. For the other, it was the worst.

  —“Mysteries & Miracles of Arizona” by Jack Kutz. Rhombus Publishing Company, 1992, page 26.

  THE VERBAL EXPRESSION OF hugs and kisses over the phone between Beth and her kids was sweet enough to melt even the hardest of hearts. From her kitchen chair, Maria listened—more like eavesdropped—as Beth, who was in the living room, told her youngest that she loved him to “infinity and beyond.”

  “Seriously, that has got to be the cutest thing,” commented Amy, who was sitting at the ornate marble kitchen counter with a cup of tea in front of her, “Makes me wish I’d had a few.”

  “Kids?” asked Maria.

  “Yeah, kids.”

  “You still could. You’re still in your thirties, right?” Maria turned to face her hostess.

  Amy shook her head. “It wouldn’t be a good idea. I’m big on not messing up a kid’s life before it even begins. Brian and I aren’t … well, our relationship isn’t ready for kids. We have some things we need to work through.”

  Maybe it was the sound of desperation in Amy’s voice, or the undertones of defeat, but whatever it was, something made Maria take a closer look at the woman sitting across from her. The tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation marked Amy’s face. Puffy bags under her eyes. Droopy eyelids. Bloodshot eyes.

  The image of Brian’s early morning goodbye kiss in the car in front of his house with another woman came to Maria’s mind. Well, at least Amy wasn’t naïve.

  “I’m … I’m sorry.” Maria wasn’t any good at this counseling thing.

  “Oh please …” Amy swatted at her eyes, holding back tears. “Don’t apologize. I made my own bed. I deserve what I get.”

  Maria could only think of one thing. What would Dr. Roberts say? Before she could convince herself not to, she opened up. “Having trust in someone is a hard thing.” She paused. “I mean, look at me. I’m ex-CIA and a sheriff and my boyfriend’s in jail for the alleged murder of his ex-wife. Some people would say I’m an idiot because I haven’t dropped him and left town already.”

  A depressed laugh escaped Amy’s throat. “Yeah, and I’m a marriage counselor who’s being cheated on by her newlywed husband who I used to counsel. I’m sure everyone thinks the joke’s on me.”

  Maria squirmed. The morning she’d seen Brian kissing the other woman, had she thought that about Amy? Maybe. She couldn’t remember.

  “But here’s the thing,” said Amy. “We do what we think is right, and then we live with the consequences.”

  “True,” answered Maria.

  “The problem is, I’ve quit doing anything. I’ve quit confronting him or asking him questions. Once in a while I hide his liquor. At least that’s something, I guess.”

  “Definitely.” Maria was certain she was the least qualified person to give advice to a marriage counselor.

  As if recounting a victorious battle scene, Amy continued, “Sunday night I lied straight to his face and told him he’d already drank the whole bottle of his expensive Scotch and there was none left.” She shook her head. “I’m pathetic. I should have told him he’s an alcoholic. But I don’t dare.”

  “I’m sure you’ve told hundreds of people how to have hard conversations with their spouse. What did you tell them?” Maria realized she really was sounding like Dr. Robert. He would never let Amy get away with saying it was too hard to have a heart-to-heart with her husband.

  “Sure, I can tell clients what to do,” Amy said, “But this …” She waved her hand around the fancy kitchen. “… this is too personal.”

  Dr. Robert’s words to Maria from less than an hour ago came to her mind. “You need to take a step back. Push through the shock and disappointment. Then reach deep. Find your logic center.”

  “My logic center, huh?” Amy dropped her eyes and stared at her teacup on the counter.

  “Yep. Find the therapist Amy inside of you. She knows the answers.”

  Amy raised the tea to her lips and sipped. “Interesting,” she said at last. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Maria!” Beth shouted from the living room, interrupting the makeshift therapy session. “Come here. Quickly!”

  Amy and Maria jumped up and ran through the doorway into the plush-carpeted, leather-everything living room.

  Beth stood four feet from the large-screen TV, intently pushing buttons on a black remote in her hand.

  “What’s going on?” asked Amy, glancing around.

  “The volume,” panted Beth. “How do I turn up the sound on this stupid—”

  All of a sudden a man’s voice boomed through the surround-sound speakers. “…in the same mountains where the Mexican Peralta clan was slaughtered by the Apache Indians more than one hundred and fifty years ago, another Peralta has been found murdered. It was in this very spot where six years ago Rod Thorton allegedly killed his wife, Dakota Peralta. As if that wasn’t enough, he decapitated her and left her body to rot in the sun.”

  A visual of the barren Superstition landscape flickered on the screen.

  “I didn’t know Dakota’s maiden name was Peralta,” said Maria. She was about to tell Beth the story about the Peralta’s from Mexico that Derrick had told her, but the man on the television started talking again.

  “Tonight we’ll explore the question we’re all asking ourselves. Why? Why would a wealthy, educated man kill his poor but beautiful immigrant wife of three months? An unwanted baby? Blackmail perhaps? A crime of passion?”

  The blood drained from Maria’s face. “Turn it off. Now!” She didn’t mean to shout, but her voice came out unusually loud.

  “Sorry.” Beth fumbled again with the remote.

  “Wait!” Maria knew she was being unreasonable and short-sighted. If she wanted to solve this murder, she needed to know all the theories. But it was so hard to hear people who didn’t know Rod talk about him that way. “Sorry, Beth. Leave it on. I’ve been avoiding it, but I need to familiarize myself with the case. This is as good a place as any to start.”

  Beth saddled up right next to Maria. “We’ll watch it together.”

  Despite the fact the living room was replete with oversized, cushioned, expensive couches, the three women stood five feet from the large-screen television and didn’t make an effort to sit down. It was almost as if watching something painful should simply not be done in comfort.

  The television show was a pseudo investigative news report, created to sensationalize the situation in order to attract viewers and boost ratings, not to inform the public or track down a killer. Regardless, they had facts, photos, and some video footage.

  The segment began with a large number of pictures of Rod—he was at Disneyland as a child, fly fishing in Alaska with his father, sitting in a fancy sports car as a member of the Utah Ferrari Owners Club, dressed in his Search and Rescue uniform. The last image was of him at Arizona State University, surrounded by a much younger-looking group of friends.

  On the other hand, Dakota remained an elusive figure as always. There was a photo of her at her cousin’s quinceañera, taken the same year she’d moved to the United States from Mexico. Two dark haired, beautiful brown-skinned young women, their arms around each other, smiling into the camera. They looked so happy. Young and carefree.

  There was only one other picture of Dakota. She was in a group of friends at a high school dance—Sunset High School in California. From the quality of the picture, one of the pseudo journalists probably grabbed the photo off of a social media site.

  “Unlike Rod Thorton, Dakota Peralta wa
s a loner,” said the slightly graying, distinguished-looking man pretending to be a news anchor. “Immigration records show Dakota came to the United States as a minor, without her parents, as part of a California school exchange program sponsored in the early 2000s. After her disappearance six years ago, none of her immediate family ever reported her missing—except for her American-born husband. Only a lone aunt and uncle in Mexico initiated any kind of private investigation that yielded nothing.”

  The man on the television looked upset, concerned, distraught even. He was a decent actor. Not Broadway level, but if Maria hadn’t known any better, she would have thought he cared. But it was all fake, a way to pull at the heartstrings of the viewer. To vilify Rod. The thing was, Rod had reported her missing. He had cared. So why did it make him look so guilty?

  Out loud, Maria commented, “I wish I knew more about how Rod and Dakota met.”

  As if he’d heard Maria’s question, the man on the screen explained, “Rod and Dakota were an unlikely couple. They met and eloped all within months, getting married at the bottom of Havasu Falls in the Grand Canyon—with only the priest as their witness. The whirlwind romance begs the question, why so much secrecy? What was Rod Thorton hiding?”

  The screen flickered, and the program cut to a commercial. Maria looked at Beth. “Did you know any of this?”

  Beth nodded. “Some. But they’re making it sound so much more devious than it really was. Rod is rich, and like any rich kid, his parents were always on the lookout for freeloaders. They’d accused a few of Rod’s former girlfriends of trying to get a piece of the pie, and Rod didn’t want them to do that with Dakota. So the two of them got married without anyone else there. They didn’t do the usual reception, wedding photographer, big dress and ring. It was simple. Outdoors. Quiet. More like …”

  “More like Rod.” Maria finished Beth’s sentence. It made sense. She couldn’t imagine the Rod she knew having a huge wedding. It would be something simple, except for the car he’d drive to the honeymoon destination. That would be over the top.

  Amy brought Maria and Beth some bottled water, and the three of them waited for the show to resume. The next segment was shot on site of the Superstitions. The sparsely vegetated, violently cragged lava rock made the place look like the perfect spot for the evil Rod Thorton to kill his wife. The script was leading—it would have never passed in a court of law. But this was a court constructed by Hollywood, where the T.V. commentator was prosecutor, judge, and jury.

  Thankfully, however, there was no mention of Dakota’s journal. When that evidence became public, Rod wouldn’t have a fighting chance.

  The show moved to the ranger station at Superstition State Park. Troy Ferlund’s weathered face filled the screen. It was a close-up, one that made the small-boned, ancient looking man look larger than life. He spoke in halting tones, trying his best to cover up his unique accent.

  “We recommend visitors to the Superstition Mountains stick to the park’s trail system. The terrain deeper into the mountains is truly inhospitable to humans. Only experienced hikers should attempt it, and even then we suggest they check in at the station to let people know their charted course in case something happens.”

  “But what about all those treasure hunters? Isn’t the Dutchman’s Goldmine believed to be hidden in the Superstitions?” asked the onsite reporter.

  Ranger Ferlund’s face soured. “Those kind of people need to stay away. I personally have pulled too many dead bodies of treasure hunters out of these hills. It’s a lethal game they’re playing.”

  The program returned to the plush studio. The anchor sat behind the news desk, his posture too perfect and the part in his hair too straight. “Could that have been the motive for murder? Was Rod Thorton really looking for treasure and his wife beat him to it?”

  “Stupid,” muttered Maria. “If Rod was so rich, why would he have cared about the Dutchman’s goldmine? The guy is an idiot. I’ve heard enough.”

  Beth pushed the off button on the TV remote. “Agreed.”

  Maria gulped down the last bit of water in her bottle and turned to Amy. “Thanks again for letting us stay here. We really appreciate it. I wanted to let you know, Beth and I are going to be out late tonight—don’t wait up for us.”

  A wave of curious concern flashed in Amy’s eyes. “Sure. Okay. Anything I can help you with?”

  Maria shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not tonight, anyway.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  No one knows how long it took them to find the old Peralta mine, but apparently through skill or blind luck [Walz and Weiser] did. One day they showed up in the fledgling town of Phoenix leading two mules loaded with pouches filled with gold. They simply bought more provisions, a couple of extra mules, and rode out of town.

  —“Mysteries & Miracles of Arizona” by Jack Kutz. Rhombus Publishing Company, 1992, page 26.

  IT TOOK MARIA AND Beth several hours and a visit to a hardware store, survivalist supply shop, and pharmacy to round up the supplies Maria felt she needed to execute their plans for that night. Breaking and entering was illegal, even if it was into the downtrodden headquarters of some crazy fanatical group called the Keepers. Maria had no desire to get caught. And even though the “lodge,” as Derrick had called it, looked about as secure as a hamster cage, looks could always be deceiving.

  The drive to Apache Junction was quiet. Beth snoozed in the passenger side of the car, while Maria’s mind stewed on the strange visit she’d had with Rod earlier that day. What had been wrong with him? And why hadn’t Melissa been answering any of Maria’s texts?

  Around midnight, Maria parked Beth’s car in a secluded spot about a block away from the Keepers’ lodge. Dressed in black, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, preparing to sneak up on some dilapidated house built fifty years ago, Maria felt like the star of some cheesy 1970s detective show.

  Except it was real. And risky. And dangerous.

  And above all, Maria felt horribly guilty about involving Beth at all, but her friend wouldn’t leave her side. She’d insisted on coming. So here they were together.

  “Do you think the old Mexican woman we met the other day at the lodge actually lives there?” asked Beth in a hushed tone. The two were walking, arms interlocked, in the dark through an abandoned lot Maria had seen online while she was mapping out her plan. By cutting through the field, they would end up next to the backyard of the lodge.

  “I hope she doesn’t,” answered Maria. “But if she does, it will be like the time we sneaked into Trevor Miller’s house the summer before our junior year. Remember?”

  Beth snorted. “Oh my gosh, that was so long ago. I had completely forgotten about it. Why did we do that, anyway?”

  To Maria, the memory was as clear as day. It was probably one of her favorite things she did during her summer stays in Kanab. “You thought Trevor was two-timing you with Alisha Cox, but you wanted proof before confronting him. I told you we needed to get into his bedroom and look for incriminating notes. I pretty much had to talk you into doing it. It took me a solid week.”

  “I was such an idiot.” Beth held Maria’s arm tighter. “I mean Trevor Miller? What was I thinking? Do you know he now lives on the outskirts of town and works as a plumber? Nothing against plumbers, but he used to brag how he was going to move away from Kanab, become a brain surgeon, and never set foot in a small town again.”

  “Yeah, he had an attitude.” Maria laughed softy. “Do you remember sneaking into the house and going up the stairs to his bedroom while he and his family watched Touched by an Angel in the living room?”

  Beth shuddered. “Kind of. I mostly remember I peed my pants.”

  “Oh.” Maria stopped walking. “You’re right. I’d forgotten that. By chance, have you used the bathroom recently?”

  Beth slugged her. “I’m fine. Besides, I only wet myself because we were giggling so much. I think we’re going to be acting a little more mature than that tonight.”

  In
the moonlight, the metal doorknob to the back door of the lodge glimmered. Maria breathed in deeply. The calm of an impending stressful situation settled into her bones. Deep into her gut. She never felt better than right before she was about to do something dangerous.

  “Yes, we will be more mature tonight. But, if memory serves me, besides your wet underpants, our last illegal breakin was actually quite successful. We found enough evidence to prove Trevor was actually playing four girls at once.”

  “And,” Beth added, “don’t forget that we slathered the inside of his slippers with mayonnaise.”

  “Yes. That was a brilliant, strategic move on your part.” Maria grinned. “I’m positive things are going to go equally as well tonight. Let’s keep our eyes out for any paperwork that mentions any of Rod’s old friends. Or anything that looks illegal. Or even if something looks iffy, take a picture of it with your camera”

  “Will do.” Beth saluted her.

  Maria rolled her eyes. “If we can get anything suspicious, at the very least we can use it to leverage more information out of them later. Ready to get this done?” She motioned to the house.

  “O-kay.” Beth’s voice wobbled a little. “I’m ready.”

  While it wasn’t exactly Fort Knox, two shiny deadbolts decorated the back door of the decrepit old home. Beth looked at them warily. “I’m assuming you have a plan for those?”

  “Of course,” said Maria. She slipped the backpack off of her shoulders and held it in front of her. It was a sleek design and had about twenty different pockets to stash stuff inside. Instinctively, Maria opened one of the pockets on the side and slipped out her lock pick set stored in a leather pouch with multiple slots for each individual tool.

  “What’s that?” Beth asked.

  Maria rolled open the bundle in her left hand. Beth stared at the collection of picks. “Those look like something you’d see in the dentist office.” ’

  “Close. I use them to break into locks.”

  “I didn’t see you buy them tonight.”

  “Nope.” Maria combed her finger through the various metal instruments. “You wouldn’t have because I brought them with me from Kanab.”