"I should have realized you'd be having callers."
"Yeah, people been coming by with food pretty regular, doing chores, helping out. Got more food than I can eat in a year. Some women are over to the house cleaning things up right now. I was going to round up Opal's papers on the Four Mile for you. I had so much company I didn't get around to it." He sighed. "Not sure I can find it all, either. Don't seem to be able to find much of anything anymore. You don't realize how much a person does for you until they're gone."
I felt like a hypocrite. He was trying to help me out when all I wanted was to pump him for information. "I'm sure whatever you can find will be helpful. She mentioned something about a Diamond Dovey. I think she was one of the girls." It wasn't the most brilliant lead-in, but the best I could come up with at the moment.
"Yeah, Opal found her grave-marker out there. I think there's some stuff about her in the scrapbook."
"I'm curious. There are several other places in the area with diamond in their names. Do they ever find diamonds around here?"
"No," he said disparagingly, "those names come from the big diamond hoax back in the old days." He sat hunched over in his chair, staring at his hands while the fingers of one methodically rubbed the swollen knuckles of the other. "While back there was some fool Russians running around the Leucite Hills just west of here, making a fuss about diamonds, but nothing come of it. Nobody ever found a diamond that I heard of."
"How far back?" I asked. "When was it?"
"Oh, early 'eighties, I guess."
I watched him closely and could see no sign of special interest in the subject of diamonds. Surely if he'd known anything about the one missing from his home, or the prospect of a mine in his own backyard, there would have been some flicker of interest.
I didn't want to dwell on the subject, or give it too much emphasis, so took off on another tack. "I saw some men in robes in Garnet Pass this morning. Must have been monks, I guess. Said they were looking for a site for a new abbey. Do you suppose they'll come look at your sleeping dragon?"
"You bet!" He perked right up. Evidently this was a subject he could really get excited about. "I've got some monks out looking at it right now. Got a guy taking them around to several sites. They're looking to build a new abbey out west somewhere. Maybe they're the same ones you saw; there're going to be more in town tomorrow, too, what with the Business Fair and all. And there're some of them yellow-robed ones coming out sometime, too. I bet I'm going to be able to get a real community going out here."
"So, there have been a lot of different groups looking at your property. I suppose they all have different kinds of robes?"
"Well, sure. Yellow, orange, brown, you name it. Some just wear regular clothes."
"Do you let them wander around the place by themselves?"
He shrugged. "Don't bother me none. Nothing out there to steal. But Danny and Ronnie Mae didn't like it. I mean, they've got their little piece of land out there and they don't want anybody on it." He made a soft grunting sound, and wiped a big hand across his face. "They" he said, almost to himself. "I keep saying they. None of this seems real." He scrubbed at his face again with his gnarled hand, shifted his weight and took a deep breath. "So, anyways, I always try to send somebody out with the lookie-loos if I can't go with them myself. Dan went along with the ones who are out there now."
"But I suppose there are back roads." I kept my voice casual. "It must be hard to keep people off your property."
"Folks that are traveling the back roads usually know where they're going and what they're doing. The only ones who bother me are the vandals who like to use anything standing for target practice, and they're more likely to be on the road out here." He gestured toward the front of the store. "They love to take potshots at the garage out there and nose around the Four Mile ruins. Makes me madder than hell. Times have sure changed. Used to be you could leave your doors unlocked and all your valuables in the front yard and nobody would touch them." His voice gained the fire of anger, and he pounded his fist against his thigh. "Now you got nothing but a bunch of killers roamin' around. Nobody's safe!"
"Do you still think that's what happened to Opal?"
"You bet I do. And if the sheriff would spend more time tracing that truck rather than gaddin' around the countryside he might have found Opal's killer by now."
I felt a surge of guilt for not having told Rusty about the truck and shooter we'd seen that afternoon on the Bodie land. Our intentions had been good. But he hadn't been available when Max wanted to report our trespassing excursion, and everything that had happened since had taken on more importance.
"Well, I'm going ahead with my plans for New Sedona," Clyde said. "That's what Opal would have wanted. And I'll get her Four Mile ruins restored, too, you'll see. That sleeping dragon out there is watching over me now. It's all going to happen."
"I'd like to get a close-up look at the dragon myself, Clyde." It was good to see him animated with purpose. "I bought a book on Feng Shui this morning, but haven't had a chance to read it yet."
"Most of those books don't tell you nothing but how to dress up your house fancy, but there might be something in it about land forms. If you really want to know about high energy spots you should read this." He lumbered over to the counter and pulled a dog-eared paperback from a shelf under the cash register.
The book, Power and Mysticism of Sedona, was limp from many readings. I fanned the pages with my thumb. "This looks fascinating. Could I borrow it sometime?"
"Sure, take it now." He eyed me shrewdly. "Maybe you could write a story about it for that magazine." He ducked his head shyly, but couldn't hide his enthusiasm for the idea. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. A nice story in a magazine could draw a lot more people out here."
"I might just do that, Clyde."
"In fact, you could drive out there right now," he said eagerly. "Here, come on. Let me show you what to look for."
I'd been feeling shamelessly manipulative, so wanted to please the old man now; besides, if that was Pussyfoot and the brothers out there, I'd like to know exactly what they were looking at. Was Pussyfoot using the monk tours as a means to snoop around the suspicious dirt works? Maybe Max and I weren't the only ones trying to find out what Dan Lorenzo was up to. And did Dan go with them so he could control where they went and what they saw?
As if reading my mind, Clyde said, "You might see those monks out there, too. I'd kinda like to know myself just where Danny's taking those guys. He don't believe in any of this stuff about electromagnetic fields, or power spots."
"I guess I can run out there for a few minutes. You were going to show me what to look for."
"You can get a good view from the back window." He led the way into the back storage room. It looked much the same as it had the day I was here looking for Opal. Was that only two days ago? I couldn't believe it. Still cluttered, stuff piled everywhere except on the Formica table with the gadget on it. I now knew, thanks to Monty Montgomery, that the gadget was a reloading machine for shotgun shells.
Clyde pointed to the long butte. "It don't look much like this close up. You'll see that the two hills on the far left are separate, and not as close together as they look from here. But the most important power spot is right there at what looks like the curve of the dragon's tail. I swear you can feel the energy pouring from the ground at that spot."
"Really?"
His solemn assurances that it was indeed so were cut short by the sound of more people entering the store. "More visitors," he muttered. He turned too quickly from the window, caught his toe on a stack of newspapers and fell against the table. A couple of empty shotgun shells rolled off the table onto the floor.
"You okay?" I asked, holding out a hand.
He waved my concern away and ambled into the store. I picked up one of the shells and put it on the table. The other had rolled under the heating strip that ran the length of the wall. I slid my hand under it and flicked it out. Along with the empty sho
tgun shell came a bunch of fuzzy-wuzzies, loose sand and dirt. A bright speck of pink caught my eye. A tiny chip of glass, or stone. I picked several more pieces from the dirt, two colorless, one a pale yellow-green. They looked very similar to the small pieces of gem gravel I'd seen at Yvonne's store. What were bits of gem gravel doing on the floor in Clyde's store scattered about in the dirt and debris?
Chapter 19
I put the shell on the table, hesitated a moment then reluctantly dropped the stones beside it. I was tempted to drop them in my own pocket, show them to Max, but decided best not. I'd done that once before with unpleasant results. I scurried after Clyde into the store proper.
Charlotte Metzger and two other women had come in. "We brought over a plate of fresh sandwiches to serve your guests, Clyde," Charlotte said, then she saw me come in from the back room. "Hi Thea, good to see you again." She introduced me to the other women, and patted Clyde on the shoulder. "We got the food pretty much taken care of, Clyde. We put some in the freezer, some in the fridge and one of the casseroles in a slow oven for you and Dan to eat tonight. We straightened up the house a bit, and dusted, so you should be in pretty good shape for awhile. We're going to run on home now, but if there's anything else you need, let me know."
Another car drove up. Charlotte kissed Clyde's cheek, and the other two women said their goodbyes, then we all stood aside as an elderly Jack-Spratish couple helped each other up the steps and through the door.
I figured it was time for me to leave as well. Charlotte took the covered pie tin from the newcomer's hands, offering to take it to the house. I grabbed the plate of withering cold cuts that needed to be tossed and we made our exit.
We accompanied the two women to their car. One of them took a large package of paper cups from the back seat that she'd forgotten to take into the house.
"I'll carry that," I said, tucking it under my arm.
Charlotte sang out her usual cheery thank yous and goodbyes as they drove off, but she looked exhausted. The smile didn't linger, or lift the lines that curved deeply beside her mouth.
"The funeral is going to be day after tomorrow, a joint one for both Ronnie Mae and Opal. Opal would have hated it, but I suppose it's the most practical thing to do."
"Why would she have hated it?" I asked. I headed for the rusted oil barrel that sat halfway between the two mobile homes and looked as if it served as a garbage container. Charlotte trailed after me.
"Well, I think Opal would have wanted her own show, poor dear. Not that she didn't love Ronnie Mae. She's been very good to her, and Danny, too. She always said her brother's child would have a home with her as long as she needed one. But I don't think she liked Ronnie Mae any better than anyone else did."
"What was Ronnie Mae's problem, anyway? I really haven't heard a good word about her."
"Oh, I guess she was just one of those general bad attitude people. Always complaining, thought everybody was out to get her, very aggressive personality. Rusty even had some run-ins with her, and you can't find a more benign person than he is."
Ha! I thought. How little we know the people we love. But I was curious. "What did they fight about?"
"She accused him of trespassing, snooping on her land. Silly stuff. For Pete's sake, he's the sheriff. It's his job to drive around on back roads. Regardless, bad personality or whatever, she didn't deserve to die."
I dumped the cold cuts, paper plate and all, into the barrel. The screen door of Dan's trailer opened and Yvonne stepped out. She wore yellow kitchen rubber gloves and carried a plastic sack filled with debris.
She seemed startled to see me. "Well, hi, Thea. Did you get roped into the cleaning detail, too? I hope you didn't bring any more food," she said, eyeing the dish in Charlotte's hand, "or we'll need to get another refrigerator." She didn't wait for an answer, so I didn't have to confess I'd forgotten all about the customary funeral niceties and this was someone else's offering.
She wiped her sleeve across her forehead. "I put a couple of plates of sandwiches and a casserole in Dan's fridge," she told Charlotte. "And let me tell you, my milk of human kindness is pretty much wrung dry. He had about a week's worth of dirty dishes in there."
She peered into the window of the pickup parked beside the trailer, then opened the door. "What a slob," and began pulling out food wrappers, empty pop cans, and stuffing them in the garbage bag.
I followed Charlotte into Opal and Clyde's house and put the package of Styrofoam cups on the kitchen table.
"Did you see Dan today?" I asked Charlotte.
"No, actually, I didn't," she said, rearranging the refrigerator to fit in the new offering.
"Have you seen him at all, since Opal's death?" Death? Why had I softened it? Why am I being such a wuss? "Murder," I said, with more emphasis than I intended.
Charlotte looked up, surprised. "No, I haven't seen him. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I can't help but wonder, Charlotte. Could you read his aura? Could you tell if he was a murderer?"
"No, of course not," she said too quickly. "I can't do that."
"But if you can look at me and say I couldn't possibly be a murderer, why wouldn't it work the other way?"
She sighed. Her shoulders drooped, and she seemed to pull into herself, hugging her elbows close to her sides, like I'd seen her do before. "It doesn't work that way, Thea, particularly with friends or people I know well. I might be able to see that someone has a troubled aura, but that doesn't mean he's a murderer."
"What does a troubled aura look like?"
"Muddy," she answered instantly. "Dark. No light coming through. It hangs heavy on the bones, but a person's aura can change," she said defensively, as if I had accused her of something. "I have to shut it off sometimes. It's a constant bombardment of confusing information. I don't choose to see my friends' auras, or my family's, unless they ask and sometimes not then. I don't want to know everything about them."
"So, you turn it off?"
"Yes. I've had to learn to live with this, Thea. It's the only way I can survive. It's not just the auras. I see other things, too."
"As you did at my house? What did you see there?"
"I didn't see anything. I felt something. Fear, or... I don't know. It's so hard to explain. I thought it was remnants, old angst that still clung to the walls. After I heard your house had been broken into, I felt that was what I had sensed, but I didn't know it at the time or I would have warned you." There was a note of pleading in her voice, as if she feared I was going to blame her for the unexplainable. "With you—someone new—I usually can't resist reading the aura, and besides, your aura was so bright, full of happiness and caring, that it made me smile. But now, with all this awful stuff going on, I don't want to know." She made a strange brushing movement with her hands, as if pushing aside the air in front of her. "I don't want to know anything."
"What does Rusty think about your..."
"My intuitions, he calls them. He won't touch them with a pole."
It was my turn for a heavy sigh. "I guess I can understand your feelings. I wish this whole nasty business would go away, too." Which I did, but I also knew it wasn't going to. It would have been nice if I could have hauled Charlotte around with me and let her point out guilty people, who I could then shuffle toward the sheriff. I should have known nothing could be that easy.
Charlotte unwrapped the cups and placed them in neat stacks on the counter, and I headed for the door.
"Well, I have to be going. Clyde wants me to go look at his sleeping dragon, so I'll drive a ways out there before I go back to town."
"Good, that will please him."
The bowl of stones was still in place on the table by the door. I ran my fingers through the chunks of polished agates and quartz. No more wrappers or debris.
Outside, I checked my cell phone to be sure the batteries were still strong and called the house, hoping Max would pick up the phone. He wasn't there. I dialed again and punched in the code to hear messages. Nothing. Where was h
e? Had he found some other angle to investigate? Worry began to nag at me again. Maybe I should go back to the house and wait there but I knew that would drive me nuts. At least here I might be able to pick up a few more pieces of information.
It wasn't five o'clock yet. I decided to make a quick run out to Clyde's butte and then go home. If there were still no messages from Max I would call the sheriff and—what? Report him missing? Or at least see if he knew anything about his whereabouts.
I put the cell phone back in my shoulder bag and went out to my car. Yvonne was just dropping her sack of trash in the garbage. "You leaving?" she asked.
"Yes." I knew I'd have to drive right past her to get on the road that led to the sleeping dragon butte, so I told her that Clyde wanted me to drive out there. "I think he's hoping I'll write an article about its mystical properties."
As I drove away I saw her in the rearview mirror, arms akimbo, staring after me.
The dirt road curved close to the large adjacent field where the Rendezvous reenactors were setting up camp. Another time I would have liked to stop and watch the process, but there were too many other things on my mind now. I would drive out far enough to say I'd gotten a good look at the sleeping dragon, but what I was really looking for was Pussyfoot's Jeep. If it was parked I probably wouldn't be able to see it, but if it was moving I should be able to spot its dirt trail. I didn't want to actually meet up with the vehicle, because Dan Lorenzo was with them, too.
Dan was still my chief suspect and I didn't want to be anywhere near him. One attack was enough. And did he still think I had the diamond? Was he willing to kill for it? Kill again? I still found the concept of Dan killing his wife horrifying, and couldn't help remembering how desolate he'd seemed when we spoke briefly about it while he held me hostage after Opal's murder. I'd really thought him grief-stricken at the time. Maybe the two murders weren't as connected as Max and I thought they were. What of my other theory—that Jennifer was involved? Maybe Jennifer had killed Ronnie Mae in a jealous fit of rage. But that wasn't right either, I thought. Ronnie was the one consumed with jealous rage, at least according to the way Jennifer told the story. I was going to have to get Max's version about that little barroom brawl. As much as I would have liked to put Jennifer in the hot seat, my scenario seemed unlikely. At any rate, I'd just as soon not have another confrontation with Dan, though surely I'd be safe enough with the lay brothers present.
Dead in Hog Heaven (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Three) Page 16