A Killing in Zion (28 page)

I can't say I was shocked to see a black Model T truck parked inside. Still, my heart skipped a beat with a rush of excitement as I squeezed inside. There was not much room between the truck and the wall, and if I weighed thirty pounds more, I wouldn't have been able to sidle to the front driver's-side door. Block letters appeared on the side of the truck spelling out
COLUMBIA TRANSPORT
, and below that, in a smaller size,
FLAGSTAFF
,
ARIZONA
. I stepped onto the running board and opened the door. I scooted inside, leaned over, and opened the glove box. At first, I found nothing out of the ordinary. Registration, maps, an owner's manual, a parts book, an oil-changing log.
Wait a minute
, I thought, as I came across an item of interest. It was a speeding ticket from the Utah Highway Patrol. The word “VOID” had been written across it. It was issued to the driver of a Model T truck, Arizona 1934 license plate number 3GF5. What caught my attention was the date and time: Tuesday, July 3, 1934, 12:30
A
.
M
. The Model T was stopped on State Route 68, heading north, near the U.S. 40 (North Temple) exit. I pocketed the ticket, loaded everything else back in the glove box, climbed out of the truck, and closed the garage door.

I returned to the front of the house on B Street. I reached down and unlatched the picket fence gate. I went up the porch stairs, made a fist, and gave a light knock. Thanks to an interior curtain, the windows on the door were blocked, preventing me from seeing inside. When no one answered, I delivered a second, louder pounding, but it failed to get a response.

I gave the doorknob a turn. It was unlocked. I slowly eased the door forward a few inches, poking my head into the dimness. I saw no sign of life, but I heard music from a radio located somewhere inside.

“Hello,” I called out. “Anybody here?”

Going from the blinding sun into this cave-like dwelling, my eyes took time to adjust. Every curtain in the house appeared to be closed and every electric light globe was turned off. I closed the door and advanced down the hall, passing through an arched opening into a room with no lights on. With the Venetian blinds shut, I could make out faint shapes of a sofa, chairs, and a table. The only source of light in the room came from a fancy new console radio playing in the corner. I walked softly over to it.
“Oxydol's Own Ma Perkins,”
said an announcer as an organ went into high gear.
“Starring Virginia Payne as America's Mother of the Air…”

I reached down and switched it off. When I turned, a boy's face appeared before me for a split second—wavy brown hair, wide eyes, teeth clenched—and that's when the heavy object struck my head. It all went black.

*   *   *

“He's coming to. Stand back.”

I've been through a lot of pain in my life. At various points, I've been afflicted with polio, influenza, diphtheria, pneumonia, and smallpox—luckily not all at once. There have been times when I thought I would not live to see another day. I have to say, however, that getting hit in the head so hard it knocked me out turned out to be one of the worst forms of pain I've ever experienced. An excruciatingly sore spot on the top of my head, throbbing and sensitive to the lightest touch, sent waves of agony through my body. My vision had gone double. Like Noah readying his ark for the flood, I saw two of everything. My injury-induced optical illusion presented me with doubles of Jared, the woman by his side, and the three boys and the girl peeking into the room from the hallway.

I figured out I was lying on a bed. I attempted to sit up straight, got dizzy, bent, and vomited over the edge. It splattered on the floor and I fell back on my pillow, in no shape to move. Seeing a dark bloodstain on the pillowcase by my head didn't comfort me. My double vision eased up and I got a good look at the woman for the first time. An oval-faced brunette with hair that reached her chest, her straight eyebrows topped a pair of lovely, sunken green eyes that seldom blinked and watched me with an intensity I could not ignore. Her mouth hung open, and I wondered if she was waiting for me to do or say something. Behind her, three boys and a girl—all teenagers—stood shoulder to shoulder, observing my every move.

“Who hit me?”

“Sorry, boss,” said Jared. “One of the boys got antsy.”

I looked around for the boy, thinking I'd catch him among those few kids in the hallway. I didn't.

“He could've killed me,” I said wearily.

“You shouldn't have sneaked in like that,” said the woman. “You scared him.”

“Be sure to apologize to him.” Such sarcasm was not typical for me. Then again, neither was having a lump on my head half as big as a boiled egg. “How long was I out for?”

“Half hour,” she said. She winced when she looked at my head. “You should have it looked at.”

“I will, as soon as I get to the bottom of what I came here for.” I kicked my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, careful to avoid my own vomit. One of the teenage boys arrived with a dripping-wet strip of cloth and a dustpan to scrub up the mess, and I circled around him. Eyeing Jared, I considered confronting him about the cemetery. But with all of those kids around, I opted for a delay.

I looked at the woman and held out my hand. “I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Detective Art Oveson, Salt Lake City Police Department.”

She hesitated, then shook my hand. “Claudia Jeppson.”

“Any relation to Carl Jeppson, the florist?” I asked.

“I'm his daughter.”

“I see,” I said, releasing her hand. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Why don't we all go sit in the kitchen,” suggested Claudia.

“Can I use your telephone first?” I asked, thinking I should let Clara know where I was.

“We don't have one,” said Claudia.

*   *   *

We found spots at a table in the center of a spacious kitchen. Sunlight beamed in through a window above the sink, shining brightly on a black-and-brown checkerboard linoleum floor. At Claudia's insistence, a boy of about fourteen or fifteen presented me with a package of frozen peas. I followed Claudia's advice and placed it on my head. It felt comforting against the throbbing wound. She made tea and let it steep inside of a ceramic pot in the middle of the table. She went over to a glass cupboard and fetched cups and saucers and returned to fill them. The youths watched us through two doorways leading into the kitchen, one from the hall and the other from the living room. I counted eight in total—three girls, five boys. I still didn't see the one who hit me.

“Would you care for some tea, Detective Oveson?”

“I don't drink tea,” I said. “But I'll take a glass of water, please.”

Jared filled a glass with water from the tap and gave it to me, and I gulped it down fast. He refilled it. I polished off the second one faster than the first.

“Want more, boss?”

“Maybe later. Thanks.”

Claudia sat across the table from me, poured a cup of tea, and stirred in a pair of sugar cubes. “Before we begin, I must ask,” she said. “How is Nelpha?”

Her question surprised me. I adjusted the bag of peas, in search of a colder side. “Fine.”

“I understand from Jared that she's staying with you? Is that so?”

“She's doing well.” That was the most Claudia was going to get out of me.

“Why did you come here, Detective Oveson?”

“Why don't you start by telling me what on earth would drive one of those boys to hit me like that?” I asked.

“There've been some prowlers in the neighborhood,” said Claudia.

“Wouldn't you say he overreacted a bit?”

Claudia dodged the question. “What else would you like to know?”

She still appeared slightly blurry in one eye, making me worry about the effect of this blow to my head. “Start by telling me about yourself.”

“Jeppson's my maiden name,” she said. “I was married for a time.”

“What was your husband's name?”

“Alma Covington,” she said. “I take it you know him?”

“I've met him.” I gave her time to sip tea. “You must not be all that partial to him if you gave up his last name.”

She shrugged. “He forced me to marry him when I was thirteen.”

“Must've been awful,” I said.

“It was years ago,” she reflected. “I was only a girl. The night before I was to be sealed to him, I told him I didn't want to be his wife. He didn't care. My father pleaded on my behalf to halt the ceremony, but Uncle Grand refused to stop it. Before that, I always used to think Uncle Grand was a kind man with a good heart. I was naive. I know better now. I don't have any illusions anymore about him.”

“How'd you end up here?” I asked.

“I ran away from Covington's place,” she said.

“The one here in town, over on Third Avenue?” I asked.

“No. He also owns a homestead down around Dixie City. That's where I lived. I couldn't take it anymore. I made my way to St. George, where I jumped a freight heading north. All I had was a bottle of water, and I somehow, miraculously made it here alive. I stayed with Papa the first few months I was here, in one of the back rooms of his flower shop. I knew it was risky. Papa would've gotten in a heap of trouble if he was caught sheltering me. Alma owned the house nearby—still does—on Third Avenue. That's too close for my comfort. Papa found out about this place, on sale for a song. It was run-down back then. Papa knew the fella selling it, and he bought it and let me live here. At some point, I started taking in runaways from the other polygamist families. Kids just like I was. Scared. Confused. Needing a place to stay. Child brides. Banished boys. They help me around the house, in exchange for room and board. By and by, we got it looking pretty nice, I'd say. Don't you think?” She paused to let me nod. “The older ones eventually get on their feet and fly out of the nest, make room for the younger kids.”

“I imagine a place like this costs a lot of money to run,” I said, looking around the spotless kitchen.

“My father helps me.”

“He sounds generous,” I said.

“He's the kindest man I've ever known.”

I nearly said,
I'm sure that ain't saying much.
But I knew to refrain. “What about Nelpha Black?”

“What about her?”

“How do you know her?”

“Runaway. Got here in early June. Can't speak. Writes notes to communicate.”

“So she
can
write?” I said, half asking, half declaring.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I tried a few times to get her to write something. She wouldn't. I figured she didn't know how.”

“Maybe she had her reasons.”

“It's possible,” I said. “These notes you mentioned—what did she say in them?”

“She told me she was planning to meet up with Uncle Grand to tell him something. She asked me if I'd help her find him.”

“Did she tell you what she wanted to talk to him about?” I asked.

“No,” said Claudia.

“You didn't happen to save these notes?”

“I don't know where they are.”

“That's a long way to come to talk to Johnston,” I said. “It must've been important, whatever it was she wanted to tell him.”

“I guess.”

“You didn't ask her what it was about?”

“No.”

“Got any guesses?”

“No.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that Nelpha had a hand in killing him?”

“Not at all.”

I nodded slowly and ran my fingers along the table's pockmarked surface. “Have you ever heard of Boyd Johnston?”

“No,” she said. She said it quickly, almost before I was finished saying his name, which made me wonder if she was telling the truth. “Who is he?”

“He's one of Uncle Grand's sons,” I said. “In the Dixie City branch of his family. Boyd went missing in May. He was only twelve or so. He vanished, along with a few other boys. Nelpha got to be quite close to him. I suspect that's why she wanted to meet with Uncle Grand, to discuss his disappearance. I can't be sure of that, though.”

I turned the bag of peas around and pushed the frozen coldness into the raw area on my skull. It hurt something fierce. I considered Claudia's words, although I had a difficult time collecting my thoughts due to the pain.

“Who set up Nelpha's meeting with Uncle Grand?”

“I asked my father to,” she said.

“Was he at the meeting?”

“No.”

“Were you?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know he wasn't there?”

“I dropped Nelpha off at the Lincoln Street church that night. It's usually quiet there during the week. Uncle Grand told my father it would be an ideal place to meet.”

“Why didn't you stay for the meeting?”

“Uncle Grand wanted time to talk alone with her. He promised to telephone me when Nelpha was ready to be picked up. I didn't have any reason to doubt him. So I went home. I waited a few hours. The telephone call never came. I got nervous. I drove back to Lincoln Street, thinking I'd pick her up.”

“What kind of car do you drive?” I asked.

“A Nash Ajax,” she said. “Nineteen and twenty-six model.”

I recalled the Model T truck I saw the night of the murders, and I thought of the one that I'd just seen inside of her garage. I kept those bits of information to myself. I didn't want to put her on the defensive. For now, I had to keep the focus on the timeline of the murders. “What time did you go back?”

“I can't remember. I didn't look. I got down there and I saw all of those police cars out front. I got nervous. I turned around and came back home. To be honest, I didn't want the police meddling around here and bothering the children.”