R.P. Dahlke - Dead Red 04 - A Dead Red Alibi (6 page)

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Chapter
Nine:

The next day Caleb and I
drove into Wishbone to buy him something to wear that didn’t have orange in it.

The only store
with men’s clothing was a local ranch supply/hardware store. Lucky for Caleb they also had a rack of jeans and a box of odds and ends for clothing. I let him paw through the box and wandered around until I found a carousel of men’s shirts, pulled out several and held them up for his inspection.

“Good God, no.”

“Sorry, the closeout rack is all they have,” I said. “There aren’t even any T-shirts left in your size. Come on Caleb. It’s only until you get home.” His face pinched into an uncomfortable grimace, but he grabbed a powder blue print with white pearl buttons and closed me out of the dressing room. I hung onto the hot pink number with white fringe in case he needed another option. A nice looking denim jacket and a cowboy hat were my next choices. Since we wear the same hat size, I tried it on in front of the full-length mirror, tipped the brim down, cocked a trigger finger and gave the mirror a steely-eyed squint.

That’s when I noticed someone looking at me from across the room. The stranger’s stare bored a path from
a corner in the store to the mirror. I turned to get a better look and he was gone, the entry bell jingled merrily with his retreat.

I shivered in the draft.

All of my earlier playfulness went out of my morning, I charged into the changing room throwing myself onto Caleb’s chest.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, wrapping his arms around me.

“Someone was watching me,” I said, pointing to the empty space between the window and door. “Over there.”

He hugged me to his new pearl button, cornflower blue western shirt and rubbed my back.

“That’s not all that unusual, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

“And aren’t you smart to remember that?” I said with more bravado than I felt. The shirt fit very nicely, and for just a minute
, I thought how much fun it would be to take it off. One yank and all those buttons would pop open. Then the thought of the stranger’s hot stare blew away that idea, I burrowed my face into that comforting space between Caleb’s chin and chest.

He pulled me back into his arms and squeezed.

“Tighter,” I said.

He did, squeezing all the fear and doubt from my heart.

“I’m fine, fine,” I said, pulling out of his embrace. “We should go. Dad is sure Uncle Ed missed a big vein of gold. There’s a real mine on the property, you know.”

We paid for his new clothes and left the store.

Buckling up in the Jeep, Caleb asked, “So how long have you been without electricity?”

“The property manager said he’d have it taken care of but … “

“And when was that?”

“If you count the late afternoon we got here as one, the next two days for cleaning out the
house and mowing the weeds, then yesterday spent looking for Dad, and last but not least, pulling your ass out of the county jail last night, I’d say I’ve been too busy to give it much thought.”

His next words held just a touch of sarcasm. “And did he also offer to sell the place for you?”

“It wouldn’t be much of a push for me to sell, but since we’re stuck here for a few more days, we still need electricity.”

“Where’s the power company—in Wishbone, or Sierra Vista?”

In his powder blue western shirt and brand new Wranglers, he could pass for a local, unless you looked down at his bare toes and wrapped feet peeking out of dirty plastic flip-flops.

“After lunch I’ll look up the electric company in Sierra Vista.”

He wiggled his toes in the sandals. “Boots too, if I can find a good pair.”

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Chapter Ten:

After lunch
, Dad took his Arizona prospector’s guide into his bedroom and closed the door. I pleaded for a nap of my own, so Caleb borrowed the Jeep and went into town.

I yawned, but decided none of us had yet checked out the barn. Maybe there was a tractor or a bicycle in it. Not that either would do much good out here, but in a pinch something for extra transportation would be nice.

I walked outside and a light breeze cooled my warm skin. Drawing in a deep breath of clean, fresh air I wondered if this was how it used to be at my dad’s ranch before the suburbs moved in on us and took with it the quiet
and
the peace.

With hands on my hips, I c
onsidered the big double doors, thick chain, and rusty padlock. I yanked on the lock, but it wouldn’t budge. I leaned on the barn wall and peered between the old wood boards. There must be something good inside, otherwise why the heavy chain and lock? Hadn’t I seen a rack of keys by the kitchen door? I backtracked to the house and rummaged through the lot.

H
ouse keys, a pump-house key, one for the shed, and a Master Lock key was the same as the lock on the barn. I was lifting it off the hook when my dad strolled into the kitchen.

“What’re you looking for?”
he asked.

I held up the key. “I think this is for the barn. I thought I’d take a look
inside.”

“That sounds interesting, I’ll bring a can of oil for the lock.”

Even after a squirt of oil, the lock wouldn’t budge.

“
Wrong key? Or maybe we don’t have one. Now what?”

“We saw it off.”

“Got a saw?”

My dad huffed out a laugh. “First time I’ve been without my own tools in fifty years. Makes me feel
kinda naked.”

“Thanks for that mental image, Dad
. Got any other ideas?”

“I’ll bet there are tools inside we could use for repairs and such. The latrine shovel might do the trick,” he said, and
turned for the house to get it.

While I waited
for him to come back, I looked up at the eastern hills leading to the mountains behind us. All of it covered in a velvet of short, dry grass. The cottonwoods lining the dry creek bed were also turning gold. Though I’d read that Arizona was in a long drought, it was still pretty enough for a painting, which reminded me of the recent homicides—a murdered artist, and a local police chief. The detective hadn’t been willing to share much about the cases, but they had to be related. Especially since someone went to the trouble to come back to the mine pit while my dad was in it, take his jacket and leave it at the art compound.

Still, we would be gone the minute we finished with our appointment with the homicide detective
s. Tomorrow, at the latest.

Dad came back with a recently cleaned latrine shovel in his hand. “The boards may splinter and fly, so stand back,” he said, sticking the shovel be
tween the boards and cracking one off from the wall.

“I wonder what treasures await us?”
I asked, glad to be able to find a diversion from our upcoming interviews with Homicide.

“A generator or tools would do it for me,” he said, ripping off the second board.

We pushed through the opening and stepped inside. Spaces between the roof shingles acted like floodlights for the dust motes. Against one wall was a long workbench. Old, rusty tools and some cans of paint littered the bench, but a can of motor oil and an engine hoist hinted at a tractor or some kind of motorized vehicle hiding under one of the tarps.

Dad went to inspect a wooden trough. “Now, here’s a good thing to have. It’s a sluice box. Nowadays, they use rubber mats
to catch the gold, but back then, they’d run water through the box and the heavier gold would land between these wood slats. You have to have access to water, but I see there’s a motor to run the pump. Too bad the creek’s dried up.”

“When Caleb gets back
, we’ll go find Uncle Ed’s mine.”

I looked forward to anything that would keep me from the puzzle of the police chief and the dead art compound owner. I wandered between some empty crates, stopping at a heavy tarp covering
a machine with wheels and propped up on wood blocks.

“I think I found your tractor, Dad.”

“Too long, too low, and those wheels don’t look right. Here, take a hold of the edge and we’ll pull off this cover.”

Together we pulled back the heavy tarp and draped it over the trunk of a small open vehicle. When the dust settled, there was just enough light to see that it was definitely not a tractor.

“It’s a little open cockpit two-seater,” I said, admiring the sleek shape. “And I think it used to be blue.”

“This isn’t a sports car,
Lalla, it’s a race car,” my dad said, pointing to a dusty smudged number 6 on the side. He went to the bench and came back with an oily rag.

“It’s been here all this time? Why didn’t Great
-Uncle Ed take it with him when he went back to Texas?”

He finished wiping away the dirt covering the white number against the sky blue paint, and plucked at his lower lip. “Don’t know.”

“No wonder the key didn’t work. Something like this must be valuable, right?”

“Depends,” he said working at the leather latches on the hood. “Let me open the hood and see if there’s even a motor in it.”

He raised the hood and released another dust storm, forcing us to back up.

In a hushed tone, I said, “I bet no one’s touched this thing in fifty years.”

He whistled. “That’s an aluminum engine, and this here’s an overhead cam with dual carbs. I’ve never seen one quite like it. I’ll have to look it up on the Internet.”

“Sure you will. As soon as we have electricity and phone service.”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe there’s a generator somewhere in here,” he said, looking around. “At the very least, we could get the well pump going for water.”

I snickered. “What happened to all that pioneering spirit?”

“I’d like to have running water,” he said, wiping his oily hands with the grimy rag.

Running water, my ass. He was excited about his new find and wanted to know more. And to think, until this year I couldn’t talk him into a cell phone, much less a computer. His lady friend cured him of his internet phobia when she show
ed him how it could compare prices and have purchases delivered without ever leaving the house. If there was one thing my dad hated, it was spending too much money and having to interact with salespeople to do it.

“But do you think it’s valuable?” I asked.

“Knowing your great-uncle Ed, it is. He’d already amassed a fortune in oil, land and cattle by the time they bought this property.”

“We should tell Aunt Mae it’s still here. She might want it back.”

My dad looked up and smiled. “Did you read the deed? It said, ‘
The land and all of its contents entailed.’
Why don’t you scoot back to the house and get a flashlight, and let’s see if we can get this baby running again.”

I did as he asked, now excited
about our find. Even if it turned out to be worthless, we’d have another vehicle to drive.

When I returned, he was leaning against the
workbench, trying to read the print of a small book in the dim light. He muttered his thanks for the flashlight and went back to reading.

“Well?” I asked.

“The manual is in Italian, but I can pretty much figure out what’s what. It’s a Bugatti, whatever that is. The engine’s intact, but I’ll have to remove the carburetors. If it’s all gummed up …. and I’ll have to drain the oil. It will need fresh gas and a 6-volt battery, unless we want to use the hand crank. A golf cart battery would work. Where would I get one of those? Didn’t we see a sign for a golf course nearby? We could ask there.”

“When Caleb gets back,
” I said, laughing at my dad’s enthusiasm.

“Sure, sure. In the meantime, let’s get to work on the engine.”

A half-hour later, I heard the Jeep.

“I guess I’d better go tell
him what we’re up to,” I said. “Maybe we can buy a pair of cutters so we can make a more dignified entrance.”

“Huh? Oh yeah,” he said, pulling his head out of the engine compartment. “You do that. I’ll be right here.”

I squeezed through the break in the wall and skipped around to the driver’s side of the Jeep, excited to share our news.

“We found an old Italian race car in the barn,” I said, opening his door. “Dad is inside cleaning it up.”

Caleb laughed. “A what?”

“A race car. Come on,” I said, pulling his arm, “see for yourself.”

Caleb was, to say the least, astounded. “How the hell did a race car get here?”

I laughed. “I don’t know,
but isn’t this fun? We need to pick up some things to get it running.”

“You kids go,” Dad said. “I’m going to look for the tires.”

“We’ll fill up a gas can at the nearest gas station,” Caleb said, reading the shopping list. “Buy the motor oil, and ask where to buy a 6-volt golf cart battery, right?”

I gave the sleek race car one last pat and turned to go with Caleb. “Did you have to arm wrestle the power company?”

“Good thing I did or you’d be still waiting on them,” he said, starting the Jeep. “They never heard of your property manager, and they sure didn’t have an order to come out
here
any time soon.”

“That rat. If I do sell, I’ll find another realtor.”

“I also stopped by the sheriff’s office. Homicide detectives will be out here today.”

“
Today?” I asked, my nerves jumping into my throat. “And then we can go home, after the interview with the homicide detectives, right?”

He let the engine idle for a minute. “It’s more than likely that I will be released. You and
your dad will be required to stay within the county until you’re cleared or a suspect is arrested.”

I looked out the window at the adobe house, the roof that still needed inspection, the rooms to
paint. I had been making pretty plans for us. But of course he would have to go. He still had a job in California. Who was I kidding? I would miss him, especially now that we’d made up. My voice couldn’t seem to control itself when I asked him if he was leaving today or tomorrow.

“What—and leave you and your dad here to deal with a killer? I’m still on vacation, and I can take a leave of absence if I need to. Besides, I can help with the cleanup and painting. I’m staying.”

“Oh, good,” I said. In thanks, I reached up and squeezed the back of his warm neck. “I’m glad. You know, we could use your contacts to match suspects to the case and—”

“I have no jurisdiction here, sweetheart. For better or worse, the locals will handle this case.” He paused, the muscles in his jaw work
ing around his own frustration.

“That homicide detective, Ian Tom
, doesn’t look to be inept or lazy, but there’s still a chance he might try to stick Noah with it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

“I know it and you know it, so let’s hope that your dad’s interview with them will clear up the last of their questions.”

My earlier happy mood dissipated. “Like what?”

“Like why he chose to go down that hole instead of calling 9-1-1 and how his jacket ended up at another crime scene.”

Fear made my voice rise an octave. “I remind him to take his cell phone every day, but he forgets. As for his jacket, he offered the detective a perfectly honest explanation for that.”

“Yes, and it makes sense to us, but I don’t think the detective is counting your dad out of the equation just yet.”

“Can’t you do something?”

“Lalla, believe it or not, I’m itching to butt in where I’m not wanted, but I’m going to give them forty-eight hours to come up with a realistic suspect.”

“And then what will you do?” I asked, holding my breath.

“Forty-eight hours, Lalla. You and I can do that, can’t we?” There was doubt in his voice, and worry too; the grim lines between his eyebrows said so. Did he know something I didn’t—like my dad’s chances really didn’t look so good?

I felt the
lump in my throat form new tears. It was now final. We wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. I crossed my arms and stared blindly out of the window feeling as if we’d been dropped into an old western where the rules leaned toward lynching convenient strangers.