by J. C. Eaton
My throat was parched and I desperately needed something cold to drink. No sooner did I grab bottled water from the fridge when the phone rang again. I figured Marshall had forgotten to tell me something, so I quickly picked up the receiver.
“Phee! It’s your Aunt Ina. I’m so upset I could spit. I simply had to talk with someone, so I figured it might as well be you.”
“Um, sure.”
“Your mother has become as obstinate as a stone wall when it comes to book club selections. She won’t consider anything that remotely stretches the imagination. At this rate, we’ll all be stuck reading Nancy Drew’s The Secret of the Old Clock. And she’s not the only one, mind you. Shirley doesn’t want to read anything upsetting, Lucinda refuses to read anything where there’s blood, Louise said—”
“I understand, Aunt Ina, I really do, but I don’t think I’m going to be much help.”
“Oh, I don’t want any help. I just wanted to get that off my chest. But speaking of help, did you get anywhere with those pottery numbers?”
“Not really. In fact, it may be something completely different. The secretary in our office thinks they may be coordinates.”
“Like GPS? Longitude and latitude? I haven’t thought about that since grade school.”
“It’s probably nothing.”
“If I know you, you’ve already tracked a location for those numbers. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Um, well, yeah.”
“Where’s the location? Someplace exotic?”
“Not unless you consider an old Arizona mine enticing. And I’m not sure it really leads to one, although there are lots of them in that area.”
“What area?”
“The Tonto National Forest, near Roosevelt Dam.”
“That’s about two hours from here. Phee, I have a marvelous idea.”
Anytime anyone had ever told me they had a marvelous idea, it ended in disaster. I tried to change the subject, but it was no use. Aunt Ina was going to shove her marvelous idea down my throat, no matter what.
“Louis is going to be in Prescott all day tomorrow. Playing at a bar mitzvah. The saxophone player for the band came down with the flu and called Louis. Those musicians all seem to know each other. Anyway, Louis wouldn’t let anyone down. I don’t expect him back till late in the evening.”
Oh dear God, no. Here it comes.
“Let’s drive to that location of yours and see where it is. Unless, of course, the roads aren’t paved. It’s bad enough this state doesn’t believe in guardrails. I hate to think of what horror we’d come across on a dirt road. So, are the roads paved?”
“The main ones are. Yes.”
“Then it’s settled. We’ll take a nice scenic drive tomorrow and see if those coordinates of yours can tell us if that Quentin Dussler was up to some nefarious business.”
“Huh? I think all we’re going to be looking at are rocks.” Oh my God! I accidentally told her we’ll be going.
“Pick me up at nine thirty. We can get a bite to eat on the way.”
“Um, Aunt Ina, I don’t think this is such a great idea.”
“Nonsense. We’ll be fine.” Of course we will. I’ll have to bring enough water for an army and a fully stocked first-aid kit.
I couldn’t believe what I had just agreed to, and I certainly wasn’t about to tell anyone. Especially Marshall. Not yet, anyway. Lots of people took scenic drives to Roosevelt Dam. And technically, it wasn’t the real hot summer yet. But lots of people weren’t going with their loony aunt.
Chapter 15
As things turned out, Marshall was so exhausted by the end of the day that he called to beg my forgiveness and went home to crash in his own bed. He said Nate was equally wiped out. Unfortunately, both of them had no choice but to return the next morning to the Lillian, even though it was Sunday.
“If I’m not too pooped, maybe we can get a bite Sunday night,” he said.
“Sure. Call me when you get out of there. Even if you’re crawling.”
* * *
Aunt Ina must have heard my car pull up because the front door was wide open. For a moment, I wondered if she had understood we were taking a drive and not climbing the Austrian Alps. Her outfit stood out, even for my eccentric aunt. She was decked completely in Tyrolean attire, and I didn’t mean one of those cute dirndl dresses. Oh no. She was sporting black lederhosen with white knee-high socks. If that wasn’t frightening enough, it was offset by a white blouse with billowy sleeves. The last time I saw anyone wearing a shirt like that, it was Johnny Depp in one of those pirate movies. At least she wasn’t wearing open-toed shoes. And no matter what, those heavy hiking boots of hers were bound to protect her in the off chance she decided to get out of the car to “scope out the desert.” She shouted to me, “Can you give me a hand with the cooler? Louis dragged it as far as the door. He left a little while ago to meet up with the other musicians in Prescott for a rehearsal.”
The cooler? What did she need a cooler for? I had picked up a half-dozen bottled waters and made sure my car’s first-aid kit was fully stocked. I also remembered to charge my phone.
“My God, Aunt Ina. That cooler’s the size of a small house. I’ve got water and we’re stopping for breakfast. You can leave it at home.”
“I’ve packed all sorts of provisions in case we need something between the West Valley and Roosevelt Dam.”
“We’re taking Route Sixty to Mesa and then Eighty-Seven North. A major highway and a state road. They’ll have convenience stores at every exit.”
“I don’t want to take any chances.”
Ten minutes later I had hoisted the giant cooler into the hatchback of my car and took off. We were on Grand Avenue (aka Route 60) in a matter of minutes when I realized something. While my aunt knew about the Dussler murder, she had no idea the lady who owned the clay jar was killed as well. Come to think of it, my mother didn’t call to tell me she had seen it on the news. Maybe the sheriff’s department was holding off until they had more information. Or, most likely, until they found Sharon Smyth’s next of kin.
As far as anyone was concerned, there was an unexplained death at the Lillian. Unexplained didn’t necessarily add up to suspicious. Still, I felt compelled to say something about it to my aunt. Especially since it was Sharon’s jar sending us on this little trek.
I cleared my throat and gave her a quick glance as I drove. “The coordinates we’re tracking down were etched on the bottom of a Quentin Dussler jar.”
“I know. You don’t have to remind me. I’m not going senile.”
“Um, there’s more to it. The jar belonged to a lady at the Lillian and it was stolen from her residence a few weeks ago.”
“Not from Quentin’s place?”
“No.”
“Ah-hah. Maybe someone was in her apartment, saw that jar, and realized exactly what they were looking at.”
“Which is?”
“Well, one of two possibilities—a very valuable signed jar with a remarque, or secret coordinates to some scandalous thing Quentin Dussler was up to. Goodness, Phee, this is better than any of the books we’ve been reading. Why, I’m beginning to feel like Baroness Orczy.”
“Who the heck is that?”
“Hungarian mystery author. She wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel.”
Of course she did. “Um, about that lady from the Lillian. . . it’s kind of complicated, but she was murdered. Someone from housekeeping services found her in an upstairs laundry room.”
“Murdered? So I was right. It was a robbery gone bad. How long was the body sitting in that laundry room?”
“The body wasn’t exactly sitting. And it happened yesterday. It couldn’t have been a robbery. Like I said before, the clay jar was stolen weeks ago. And who would carry a clay jar into a laundry room?”
My aunt made little clicking sounds with her tongue. “True. True. Too much of a coincidence, I’d say. It has to do with that other murder. Funny, but there was no mention of it on the news.”
> “You know how those things are. Notifying next of kin and all.”
“I suppose. What was that lady’s name anyway?”
“Sharon Smyth. With a Y.”
“Nope. Didn’t know her. She had to be pretty long in the tooth if she was living at the Lillian.”
Long in the tooth? By God, she sounds more like my mother each day. “Her husband was quite a bit older. He passed away, but she continued to live there.”
“I don’t blame her. When you get a taste of luxury, there’s no turning back.”
I continued to drive down Route 60 through central Phoenix while my aunt dozed on and off. The traffic was steady but not as bad as on weekdays.
“Did you have any preference where you’d like to get a bite to eat?” I said as we approached Mesa.
“Pick a well-known quantity like Cracker Barrel or Panera Bread. It’s hard to ruin eggs.”
We settled on a Panera Bread a few miles south of Route 87 so we could be in and out of the place without wasting a whole lot of time. And while I considered my aunt’s clothing to be outlandish, apparently no one else seemed to bat an eye. That was one of the things I liked about Arizona. Anything went as far as one’s wardrobe was concerned.
Breakfast was the last relaxing interlude I had before getting on the road again. State Route 87, also known as the Beeline Highway, was a serpentine that wound around a number of canyons.
With each curve, my aunt became more and more agitated. “Slow down, Phee.” Gasp. “Stay away from the edge.” Gasp. “Watch for rocks.”
“It’s fine, Aunt Ina. We’re only going forty-five.” And that’s because it’s an uphill climb.
If I thought my aunt was nervous with the uphill portion of the drive, it was nothing compared to her reaction when I crossed over to Route 188 and headed south.
“Louis and I haven’t finalized our wills. If we go off a cliff, they’ll never find our bodies in that canyon.”
“Don’t worry. The state has helicopters.”
“That’s not funny. Use your brakes! Use your brakes!”
“I am using the brakes. But I can’t slam them on. There are cars behind us.”
The road continued to curve dramatically, culminating with a hairpin turn right before our Punkin Center exit. Fortunately, my aunt had closed her eyes and was busy reciting some sort of mantra.
“You can open your eyes now, Aunt Ina. This is where we get off the road.”
Punkin Center was an unincorporated community in Gila County, which was a nice way of saying it was an out-of-the-way place in the boondocks where no one in their right mind would spend the day. With the exception of a small grocery store and a bar, there was nothing there. Not even pavement. It was as if someone had plunked down those buildings in the middle of the high desert. Off in the distance were two mountain ranges—the Mazatzal and the Sierra Ancha. In between were miles of scrub brush, rock, and saguaro cacti.
If there was an old mine, the locals would probably know where it was. I drove a few yards past the buildings and parked the car. Other than an old Jeep, ours was the only vehicle near the storefronts. I figured both places must have parking out back for the employees.
The rush of cool air felt absolutely glorious as I stepped out of the car. Less than a two-hour drive from Greater Phoenix and we were in another climate zone. I leaned my neck back and inhaled the fresh air.
“I suppose someone in the grocery store or that bar might know if we are near a mine or something out of the ordinary, but we don’t want to call attention to what we’re doing.”
“Then go into the bar. People who’re drinking don’t care.”
My aunt was right. No one even noticed we had walked in. Maybe because it was so dark in there.
“Listen,” I whispered, “let’s order a couple of Cokes and take it from there, all right?” My eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness.
Two people were sitting at a table in back and an older man with a scruffy beard sat at the end of the long wooden bar. An antique mirror spanned the length of the bar and served as the backdrop for all sorts of postcards and old photos. I motioned for my aunt to take a seat at the bar.
Within seconds, a slender woman with a long strawberry-blond ponytail came out from the back and headed our way. She appeared to be my age—forties. A few wisps of blond curls framed her forehead. “What can I get you?”
“We’re driving, so make it two colas,” I said.
It was impossible not to notice my aunt’s garb, even in semidarkness. The bartender smiled slightly and began pouring our drinks. “We don’t get many tourists out this way, only off-roaders and dirt bikers. You two don’t seem to fit that category.”
She placed the glasses in front of us and I picked mine up. “Yeah, we figured as much. We’ve seen the usual tourist places in Arizona and thought we’d take a drive to someplace more remote.”
The bartender laughed. “This is about as remote as it gets. In the summer we get campers who have cabins around here, but in early spring, there’s not much going on. Except, of course, the dirt bikers and four-wheelers.”
“Are there any points of interest around here?” I tried to sound casual.
Before the woman could respond, my aunt chimed in. “Like maybe an old mine or a secret burial ground?”
The woman shrugged. “There are lots of old abandoned mines in these hills, but I wouldn’t go near them on a bet. Some might have toxic waste and all of them are probably teeming with desert critters.”
“See, Aunt Ina,” I said, “let’s just snap some photos of the terrain and continue on.”
The bartender walked to the table in back, pulled up a chair, and chatted with the two people seated there. A man and a woman. In the semidarkness all I could really see were their silhouettes. My aunt got up to use the restroom, and as I watched her walk across the room, I noticed the bartender taking a cell phone from her pocket and texting someone. The man and woman looked on.
When my aunt returned, I left some money on the bar, thanked the bartender, and walked out with my aunt.
“There are no nail salons around here,” she said.
“What? Please don’t tell me you want to get your nails done.”
“Don’t be silly. I had them done a few days ago. But that bartender . . . did you notice her nails?”
“Um, no. Why?”
“Because she had to have them done in a more cosmopolitan place than Punkin Center. Her nails were done in that new iridescent holographic glitter coat. Very specialized. Not like the everyday French manicure you’ve got going.”
I held my hands up in front of me and looked at my nails. They seemed perfect to me. “What are you getting at?”
“That woman’s not from around here.”
“I doubt many of the employees are. This place is only about an hour to Payson and that’s a pretty large city.”
“Well, someone’s mother certainly got around.”
“What do you mean?”
“She sent a postcard of the Grote Markt van Antwerpen. Scrawled ‘Mom’ all over it. It was tacked to the wall next to the other postcards of rattlesnakes, elk, and coyotes. The Grote Markt. Imagine that. It’s a famous square in Antwerp. Louis and I were there on our first European visit.”
I couldn’t believe my aunt was so observant. “Well, maybe whoever she was, she took a tour and sent a postcard back to one of her kids. Maybe they tended bar or something.”
“If I had to live around here, I’d drink myself to death. They should’ve gone to Europe with their mother. So many wonderful things to see in Europe . . .”
My aunt’s reminiscing came to an abrupt halt when I unlocked the car and ushered her in.
“I should really reenter the coordinates on that app I installed, just to be sure.”
Surprisingly, the app worked beautifully, unlike some of the others that sent me into tailspins.
“We’ll have to drive about a quarter of a mile and walk,” I said. “But only i
f there’s a marked path. Otherwise, we’ll take a look from a safe distance. No toxic waste or rattlers for me. If there’s an old mine, maybe we’ll spot it.”
We didn’t.
“Check those coordinates again, Phee.”
I stared at the small screen on my iPhone before shutting it down. No sense wasting the battery. “According to this map, the spot we’re looking for is off to the left.”
My aunt reached in her bag and pulled out a folded canvas hat. As she pulled the brim over her forehead, I heard a faint noise in the distance.
“What’s that buzzing noise?” she shouted. “They don’t have crop dusters out here, do they? It’s getting louder. Sounds like cars that have lost their mufflers.”
“Four-wheelers. See for yourself. They’re bouncing all over those hills. There are at least four or five of them.”
“What kind of crazy sport is that?”
“Off-roading.”
“We pay all kinds of highway taxes for asphalt. You’d think they could just drive on a road. So, did you figure out where we’re going?”
“Looks like it should be that way.” I glanced at the four-wheelers in the distance. “According to our location and the numbers on the bottom of that jar, we’re less than an eighth of a mile from the location.”
“Where? Where? I don’t see a road. I don’t see maps.”
“I think it’s ahead on that footpath. It’s definitely a footpath. The car will never be out of our sight. We’ll grab some bottled water and start walking.”
“If it’s so close, why do we need bottled water?”
My aunt had a point. Still, every time I pulled up the news, someone was always in trouble in the desert because they ran out of water.
“Desert protocol.”
It was as good an answer as any. As I started on the path, something else came to mind. Snakes. The desert was known for all sorts of them. Rattlesnakes. King snakes. Coral snakes. Not to mention the other possibilities—scorpions and lizards. Last thing I needed was for something to happen to my aunt.