Pecos Valley Diamond

by Alice Duncan

  We munched in silence for a while. Not even Libby broke the atmosphere with a caustic comment on my lack of moral fiber, laziness, frivolous nature, or uppity attitude.

  Again it was Mr. Burgess who spoke first, and his words made no sense at first.

  “Found that little gal,” said he.

  We all looked at him, puzzled. He fidgeted slightly and looked as if he wished he were in more intelligent company so he wouldn’t have to elaborate.

  “That little gal,” he repeated. He jerked his head in my direction. “One ‘at disappeared.”

  Enlightenment struck–me, at least. “Julia Gilbert?” My voice was a little loud, I guess, because Phil flinched.

  Minnie sat up as if she’d been struck by lightning. “That girl!” She shot me a glance of total triumph. “I told you she was behind all this, didn’t I?”

  She’d told me that, all right, but I still didn’t believe Julia had caused any of our recent troubles. “Where is she, Mr. Burgess?”

  “Cave.”

  “She’s in the cave?” We were all shocked and incredulous, and it passed through my mind that he meant Julia had been living in that cave like a hermit for six long years.

  Mr. Burgess heaved a sigh. “Bones’re in that cave, should’ve said.”

  “Good Lord.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  Fortunately, Phil wasn’t similarly afflicted. “You mean she died in there?”

  Minnie nodded her head energetically.

  Mr. Burgess shrugged. “Doubt it. ‘Spect she drownded in the lake and the current carried her out here. Underground rivers,” he added by way of explanation.

  I guess I looked thunderstruck. I sure felt thunderstruck.

  “Well, I’ll be a cross-eyed mule,” Phil muttered. He turned his head and gazed at me, all hint of smugness vanished. I gazed back.

  “Um . . .” I swallowed. “What’s that buried in your back yard, Mr. Burgess? Under the rock that says ‘Little Girl’?”

  His one eye gleamed at me. “You thought it was that little gal, didn’t you? I knowed it.”

  I hung my head. “I’m sorry.”

  “That there grave’s where I put my old dog Lucy, child.”

  “Annabelle Blue, do you mean to tell me you honestly believe Mr. Burgess had buried the Gilbert girl in that grave?” Libby. Nasty.

  I didn’t answer her. “Gee, I guess maybe we’d better call the sheriff again.”

  “Ain’t that the darnedest thing?” Libby again–and she didn’t even sound mad at anything.

  “I knew it,” said Minnie.

  But she hadn’t known it. None of us had. Well, except for Mr. Burgess.

  “When did you find her, Mr. Burgess?” I asked.

  “Week or so ago,” he said. “Didn’t rightly know what to do ‘bout it.”

  “Well, I’ll call the sheriff. Um . . . how’d you know it was Julia?”

  “Name tag sewed on the inside of a shoe. Nothin’ else left ‘cept bones.”

  Poor Julia. And her poor parents. Although, I acknowledged, It must be better to know what had happened to her than to wonder for the rest of their lives.

  I went to the kitchen, cranked the handle, and asked Olive Mercer to connect me with Sheriff Greene. He wasn’t altogether overjoyed to hear my voice, but his attitude changed when I gave him the news.

  “I’ll be damned.” I guess he forgot who he was talking to. I’d never heard him use a bad word before.

  “I guess she’s been there ever since she died. Mr. Burgess found her.” I didn’t tell him when Mr. Burgess had done so.

  “Thanks, Annabelle. We’ll collect the bones when we go out to confiscate the liquor.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  “Reckon I’d best call the Gilberts, too.” His voice conveyed his reluctance.

  “I reckon. At least now they’ll know what happened to her.”

  He sighed gustily. “Yeah. That’s true.”

  I was just walking back to the table when a knocking came at the front door, so I veered off and went to answer it.

  You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw Mr. O’Dell, a smile a mile wide on his hound-dog’s face, and a wriggly brown-and-white puppy in his arms.

  So there was another funeral in Rosedale. Naturally, we’d already had one for Julia Gilbert some six years earlier, but now everybody, including her parents and siblings, had something to put in the coffin they buried.

  Mr. Burgess didn’t attend, although I know for a fact that Mrs. Gilbert asked him to come. She also thanked him for finally putting an end to the mystery of her daughter’s disappearance. Poor old guy. I guess he still didn’t want to be seen in town unless it was absolutely necessary, and unless it’s your own, I don’t suppose appearances at funerals are required.

  Julia’s was a sad funeral, certainly sadder than Mr. Copeland’s. But this one wasn’t nearly so sad as the one we’d all attended years earlier, before anyone knew what had become of her.

  Besides, there was a lot of new stuff to talk about at the gathering afterwards. The whole town was buzzing about Mrs. Copeland and Mrs. Longstreet.

  “I always knew there was something wrong with that woman,” claimed Maudie Clark, referring to Mrs. Copeland.

  “I thought you were her best friend,” I said, surprised.

  “Annabelle.” That was Phil, who was, as usual, monitoring my behavior. I swear, if it wasn’t Libby, it was Phil.

  “Well, I only wondered,” I said in my own defense.

  “I thought we were friends, too,” said Maudie Clark. She sniffed significantly. “Obviously, I didn’t know her at all. And I always did think there was something wrong with her, even when I thought we were best friends.”

  “Amen,” said Libby, glaring fiercely at me. She would.

  “I always thought Mrs. Longstreet was an odd duck,” I said, daring reproof from Libby. I didn’t get any.

  “She certainly was,” said Maudie with vigor. “The woman was a pernicious snob.”

  Everyone standing with us nodded, except Phil, who was too busy eating.

  “And she always wore clothes that would have looked better during the winter time in New York City than during the summer in Rosedale,” I said.

  Again, there was a general nodding of heads.

  “What’s Dr. Longstreet going to do now?” I asked.

  “That’s none of your business, young lady,” snapped Libby.

  I gave her the evil eye, and Maudie answered my question.

  “He’s decided to file for divorce,” she spoke in a whisper, the word divorce being one that people didn’t bandy about in those days. It was kind of like saying hell or damn, which were both very shocking, especially on the lips of a female.

  “I wonder if he’ll stay here,” I mused.

  “You’re too nosy for your own good, Annabelle Blue,” said Libby.

  I rolled my eyes. Phil swallowed and grinned.

  But, thank the good Lord, I didn’t have to put up with Libby any longer. Well, not unless people in town kept dying and we went to funerals. By the time Julia’s second funeral rolled around, I’d been home for several days, and I was so happy, I was even nice to my brother Jack–for the first day or two, anyhow. I was also a good deal more popular than I had been at the beginning of summer, because I’d been in the thick of a mystery that had involved not one, but two murders, and had even helped solve it. Sort of.

  At any rate, my friends flocked to the store to talk to me, and I enjoyed the company. It was a whole lot nicer than being stuck out in the country with two old ladies, one of whom was slightly nuts, and the other of whom was as venomous as a rattlesnake and a black widow spider and a scorpion all rolled into one.

  That didn’t stop Minnie. She showed up in the store once a week or so, and I had to deal with her unless I saw her coming before Jack did. She still claims that it was the ghost of Julia Gilbert who was behind all the chaos that had reigned at her house for those few weeks.


  “But, Aunt Minnie, Julie didn’t have anything to do with the bootlegging stuff,” I pointed out one day, striving to instill a ray of sanity into my aunt’s brain.

  It didn’t work. She looked at me as if I were out of my mind, instead of the other way around. “Well, of course, she didn’t, Annabelle Blue. But she was the one who pointed the way.”

  Oh. “But I thought you said she was evil.”

  She gave me a witheringly condescending look. “Not her. The circumstances were evil.”

  Oh, boy, I wish somebody had invented a sound system so I could have recorded what she’d actually told me. I’d have played it back to her. She’d probably have told me the spirits had altered the recording. “Um . . .”

  “Don’t you see that yet?”

  Actually, I didn’t.

  “If it hadn’t been for her restless spirit, no one would have ever learned about those two evil women and their gang of bootlegging friends.”

  “Um . . . I didn’t know that.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Annabelle Blue! It’s as clear as the nose on your face!”

  I gave up. “Whatever you say, Aunt Minnie.”

  “Hmph.”

  “How’s Joe doing?”

  Minnie brightened. “Oh, he’s much happier now that the Gilbert girl’s bones have been laid to rest. There’s no more interference.”

  “Good. That’s good, Minnie.”

  And she left the store, completely ignoring Mr. Pullen’s Model T, which screeched to a halt and stalled out; or the high school principal, who tipped his hat at her; or Jesse Lee Wilson, who didn’t drop his newspapers this time. Good old Minnie.

  A Look At: Pecos Valley Revival (Pecos Valley 2)

  It’s October 1923, and three interesting things are going on in the generally dull town of Rosedale: the fall cattle drive, the fall rodeo, and a tent revival.

  Annabelle Blue is excited about the first two events. The tent revival might be okay if it weren’t for Esther, whose ethereal loveliness has captivated all the men in town, including Annabelle’s long-time beau, Phil Gunderson. In spite of this, Annabelle pitches in and helps prepare for the rodeo.

  Although Phil seems to hang around with Esther a lot more than Annabelle deems proper, she enjoys the rodeo with her best friend, Myrtle Howell—until one of the stars of the rodeo, Kenny Sawyer, falls ill and later dies.

  Shocked to learn that Kenny was poisoned, Annabelle begins to do some snooping. There is a plethora of suspects to choose from, but when another person is killed, life in Rosedale becomes downright frightening.

  Alice Duncan delivers the second novel in the fun, fast-paced Pecos Valley series.

  About the Author

  Alice Duncan has written many novels under her own name. She’s also written as Emma Craig, Rachel Wilson, Anne Robins, and twice as Jon Sharpe (the fictitious author of the “Trailsman” series).

  She was born and reared in Pasadena, California. When she was three months old, the family moved to a farm between Kezar Falls and Cornish, Maine. The only thing Alice remembers from her life back east is her mother telling her never to eat yellow snow.

  When she lived in California, Alice loved writing books set in the Old West. Now that she lives in New Mexico, she wishes she could return to California. Unfortunately, California is still too expensive for her. Because her two daughters remain there, Alice visits California as often as she can.

  When she’s not writing, Alice Duncan rescues wiener dogs. She used to sing, but bronchitis put an end to her singing career in 2018. Kind of like Julie Andrews, only a couple of octaves lower.