R.P. Dahlke - Dead Red 04 - A Dead Red Alibi (3 page)

She took my outstretched hand while hoisting the backpack onto her shoulder. “Karen Paquette. Let’s go.”

With no more than a lift of her finger, the dog eagerly bounded out the door and into the back of an old Ford Bronco.

I sat in the passenger seat, twisting my hands together as if I could calm my rapidly mounting fear. “My dad is sixty-eight but he’s fit for his age. Should I be worried about rattlesnakes? He …
he didn’t wear his boots.”

“Was the tank full when he left?”

“I—don’t know. He’s always scolding me about filling up, like all the gas stations between Modesto and Stockton will suddenly run dry while I’m on the road.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “What color is the Jeep?”

“Red. Bright Red. It’s a brand new Wrangler Rubicon with thirty-five inch tires, lockers, a winch on the front, and a roll cage, just in case … I’m so worried. He could be ….”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. He’s got some experience
with it, right?”

“Som
e. We drove it from California. I just hope he wasn’t trying to climb rocks and rolled the damn thing,” I said, glancing at the scratches on my arms. “Do these plants always reach out and bite when people walk by?”

Karen
tsked at the bloody scratches on my arms. “Mesquite can be just plain awful. Remind me later and I’ll give you one of my aloe vera plants. That usually takes care of the sting. We have plenty of things here in Arizona that will sting or bite if you get too close: rattlesnakes of course, scorpions, poisonous toads, Africanized bees, bears, coyotes, cougars, skunks, javelinas and emus.”

“Emus—aren’t they—?”

“Yep. Big, flightless birds, and if one happens to get loose and run out onto the highway, which happens more than you would think, well, you’ll get more than a mouthful of feathers, that’s for sure.”

“And I was worried about rattlesnakes. I didn’t know emus were native to Arizona.”

She chuckled again. “No more than camels and cattle, but folks continue to bring in all sorts of critters to our state. I love emu oil. It’s good for everything from cracked dry skin to arthritis.”

“Okay, so I’ll add emus, snakes, and poisonous toads to the list.”

“On the bright side, we don’t shovel snow, and we don’t have earthquakes, hurricanes, or tornados. So as long as you mind where you put your hands and feet, you’re good to go.”

We parked at my
Aunt Mae’s old house, and I was pleased that our first guest wouldn’t see the small adobe structure as a derelict. The windows now reflected a cheerful light and the weeds had been mowed, thanks to a gas-operated weed-whacker we’d found in the shed.

I hopped out to get one of my dad’s shirts. Unwashed, of course, since we had yet to get the electricity promised by the property manager.

Matilda whined and wagged her tail, eager to begin the chase. Karen gave a command and we were soon following a zigzag pattern as the dog started her search for my dad.

Karen did a good job of directing Matilda while interjecting anecdotal stories about Arizona.
I’m sure it was part of her training to keep the anxious relative from hyperventilating. Her questions were friendly and generic, the sort that accepted my privacy, but still got a bead on who I was and why I was here. Yet, I was glad when she didn’t ask who went with the diamond solitaire on my left hand.

“This area is a birder’s paradise,” she said, pointing to the line of green cutting a path through the valley. “The San Pedro River starts our riparian corridor. It shelters hundreds of migrating birds, and every summer we see as
many as twelve different species of hummingbirds.”

After
another twenty minutes of the dog’s haphazard journey, I asked, “Why doesn’t she go in a straight line?”

“She’s making sure she has it right. The scent drifts on the air like smoke, and lucky us
, there’s a breeze coming our way.”

“So this is her job—finding people?”

“To Matilda, and dogs like her, yes. It’s both a job and a game. Her reward is the find and lots of praise. “

“You trained her, or did she come this way?
”

“I trained her and two dogs before her. For an air scent tracker, she’s in her prime, but they do wear out.”

Karen broke off talking and whistled encouragement to Matilda.

An
hour later, we found the Jeep.

I took it all in, the clear blue sky over our heads, the sound of a donkey braying, the musical
notes of a distant cowbell, mesquite pods rattling dryly in the hot breeze, and the Red Rubicon Wrangler sitting forlorn and alone next to a deep hole.

In spite of
Karen’s warning to stay close, I took off running, Karen and the dog following after me.

.

Chapter Four:

“Mr.
Bains?” Karen leaned close to the open mine pit. “I’m Karen Paquette with Cochise County Search and Rescue. Are you hurt, Sir?”

“What about a rope, Karen?” I asked.

“You can forget the rope,” my Dad said, his voice a tinny echo bouncing off the cavernous walls of the pit. “The rocks sawed right through the last one.”

Rope? I wondered why he would choose a rope over a perfectly good winch and cable on the front of his Jeep.

Karen touched my shoulder. “I didn’t bring the Aztec. A cable and winch will make this a lot quicker. Lemme see if the keys are in the ignition.”

“We’ll be with you in a minute, Dad!”

I ignored his grunted reply and followed Karen to the Jeep.

“Locked,” she said, peering inside the windows. “He must have the keys with him.”

“That hole is pretty deep.”

“Not so much. Maybe twenty feet or so. At one time, Wishbone was the largest mining site in the west. Miners came from all over the world to look for gold and silver, leaving this part of the state looking like giant prairie dogs
had been at it. I’ll go down and check him for injuries. If he’s okay to recover, I’ll get his Jeep keys and we’ll use the winch to get him out.”

She squatted down and started pulling out her equipment; a harness,
cleats, and a coiled nylon rope.

I put out a hand to stop her. “You heard what my dad said; rocks sawed right through the last one.”

She held up the end of a thick, braided nylon rope. “This isn’t what your dad used. It won’t break.”

“Okay, but how will you get out again?”

“I’ll attach one end to the Jeep’s bumper and use an ascender. See?” she said demonstrating the gear. “My foot goes in one end and I ratchet myself up and out. It won’t take but a few minutes.”

I went back to the hole and pulled off the remaining boards. “Lucky for us, Karen and her dog are volunteer trackers. She’s going to come down for the Jeep keys, okay?”

“Sure. But hurry up, will you? It’s kinda close in here with the two of us.”

I sucked in a quick breath. “There’s someone down there with you?”

Dad coughed. “Was. He’s gone now.”

“See what I mean?” Karen said. “That’s the dehydration talking. It happens even quicker with old people. Just humor him
for a few minutes.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, Karen. My dad’s a pretty tough old coot. If he says—”

“I can hear you, you know!”

I shouted back, “You’d think after six hours in a dark hole, you’d be a bit more grateful for the help!”

His response was less than grateful. “Are you really trying to piss me off?”

Karen laughed.
“Keep him talking,” she said, and giving my shoulder a reassuring pat, tossed her coiled nylon rope on the ground, trailed one end over to the Jeep, tucked the rope through the bumper and then deftly turned a knot.
She tugged on it to be sure of its strength then put on leather work gloves, shrugged into her harness, and secured the line with a cleat.

“This is Karen again, Mr.
Bains. Do you have room to move out of the way?”

“Yes, but—well, I guess.”

She nodded, slipped a bottle of water into her tool belt and tested the nylon line. “I’m coming down now, Mr. Bains.”

Just before her head disappeared into the hole, she poked her hand up and gave
me a nice thumbs-up. I shivered. Somehow the gesture felt more ominous than reassuring.

When the rope went slack
, I held my breath and listened. Their conversation was muted by the rock walls, but her calm voice was all I needed to know that she was satisfied with his condition. We’d get him out and I’d take him home. He was exhausted, and I’m sure he was hungry, since he missed out on lunch.

While I waited, I did some of the deep breathing exercises Karen said would help me adjust to the altitude, reminding myself to look around for snakes, coyotes, and any stray emus. There was nothing to mar the clear blue sky but a red-tailed hawk circling overhead, his broad tail flicking while it caught another rung on the ladder in the rising thermals.

Arizona was so different from California, yet in many ways familiar. With the Dragoons and the Huachuca Mountains on the east and west, the valley pointed north almost to Tucson. I did expect to see cactus, but there were none of the grand saguaros from the pages of Arizona calendars and tourist maps. There were plenty of ocotillo, the spindly spiked plants were everywhere, which only went to prove, Dad said, that gold filled quartz veins were right under our feet.

It was also quiet. Even though our ranch near Modesto, California was officially in the county, suburbia had been eating up all the vacant land until my dad’s place was the odd bit in a sea of houses, traffic and shopping centers. All he had to do now was put up a
For Sale
sign and his property would disappear under the weight of progress.

I was jerked back to the present when I heard my name called. Unclipping the two-way radio from my belt
, I answered.

“He’s all right,
Lalla,” Karen said. “I’m coming up with the keys.”

With the keys in hand, I moved the Jeep closer to the hole, and using the winch remote, I lowered Karen down into the pit again to retrieve my da
d.

“Bring him up now,” she said. “Slow and steady.”

I put my finger on the remote control and the cable started to roll onto the winch. There was a quick shudder when the Jeep gripped the extra weight, but then Dad’s gray head popped out of the hole. I stopped the remote and he scrambled over the ledge, rolling out onto the ground.

Karen’s radio piped up again. “
Lalla? How’re you doing?”

“Let me get him out of the harness and I’ll send the cable for you.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

I handed my dad a bottle of water. “You okay for a minute while I get Karen out?”

“Sure. She tell you about the other thing?”

“What other thing?”

“Never mind. Get her out and we’ll talk.” My dad upended the water bottle, effectively shutting off any further questions.

While the winch lowered the cable down to Karen I noticed a dusty whirlwind coming our
way. As it came closer, the maelstrom became two county sheriff’s patrol cars. One of them peeled out of formation and stopped. A deputy got out and, thumbs in his belt, strolled over to where my dad was slouched on the ground.

Slope-shouldered with eyes so deeply set that I couldn’t quite decide if there was intelligence in there
, or not, said, “This is private property. What’re y’all doing here?”

My dad mumbled something
and the deputy scratched at his cheek in a way that made me think,
rookie.
Then he
ambled over to where I waited, controller and remote in hand.

Without speaking to me, he peered down in
to the hole, cursed, and backed away, keeping his hands clasped behind his back.

I
decided to ignore him and called to Karen on the two-way. “A sheriff’s deputy is here.”

“Yeah, I see him. Who is this clown anyway?”

“I have no idea. Are you ready?”

“
Yes I am. Hoist away.”

The deputy caught Karen under her arms and yanked her clear of the hole. When she brushed his hands away, I
saw a blush rise under his soft round face.

“Why didn’t the other deputy stop?” Karen asked.

The deputy stiffened under the apparent criticism. “We got a 9-1-1 call for a break-in at the art compound.”

“It’s okay, Karen,” I sai
d, “my dad’s fine.”

“Wait,” Karen said. “There’s another thing.”

I flicked a quick glance at my dad. He shrugged, letting Karen explain.

She squinted at the hand printed name taped on his pocket. “Deputy…?”

“It’s Abel. Deputy Abel,” he said, slapping a hand over the nametag.

Karen’s lips twitched. “You’re new in the Sheriff’s department?”

“Not that new. I lost my name tag is all.”

“Okay. I called the sheriff’s department
and told dispatch I would be out here tracking this gentleman at the request of his daughter. He’s okay, but we also found human remains below.”

“
Ancient burial ground?” I asked looking from Karen to Dad.

The deputy’s face went one shade redder
. “Probably another damn mule.”

At my perplexed look, Karen said,
“I’ll explain the term later, Lalla. You need to know, Deputy, that it’s not a Mexican down there, it’s Wishbone’s police chief.”

I gasped.
“You mean to tell me there’s a real body down there?”

The young deputy’s notebook slipped out of his hand and dropped to the ground. “Are-are you sure?”

“How’d the police chief get…?”

“I’m sorry,
Lalla. I decided it best to wait until I got your dad out of the pit to tell you. As for your question, Deputy, I’ve met him several times before; the most recent was at a fundraiser for the K-9 troop, so yes, I’m sure.”

Deputy Abel retrieved the notebook and smacked it against his trouser leg. “He’s supposed to be on a fishing trip in Wyoming. How the hell
did he get down there?”

H
e turned and glared at my dad. “I told you this was private property. What was the old guy here doing down there with him?”

I’d had enough. “Now, wait a minute, Deputy. I own this property, and my dad drove out to look around and—”

“I can speak for myself, thank you very much,” Dad said. “I saw a truck parked here. It sped off when I got closer, so I thought I’d take a look. I saw the body below and went down to see if he was still alive.”

The deputy stuck his thumbs in his gun-belt and squinted suspiciously at my dad. “
Uh-huh. Can you describe the truck, sir?”

My dad’s jaw twitched—I knew what he was thinking because I was thinking it myself—
damn whippersnapper
. “It was white. A truck. Too far away to tell the make or model.”

The deputy mouth puckered in disgust. “Old people.”

Karen put her hand on my dad’s arm to stop the retort on his lips.

“What the deputy means is,” Karen said, “because of the sun, most cars
and trucks in Arizona are white.”

“How was I to know it was going to be important?” Dad said. “It took off. I went down, the rope broke on me, and there I stayed until my daughter and this lady found me.”

I shook my head. “The rope didn’t break, Dad, the knot came untied. Why didn’t you use the winch? The remote and controller was coiled up on the back seat.”

A blush rose under his dirt-smudged face. “I—I couldn’t figure out how to use the damn thing.”

The deputy looked at my dad’s fancy new Jeep and snickered. “Like I said—old people.”

I heard teeth grinding.
I think it was Karen, tempted to give the deputy a piece of her mind. Instead, she turned her attention to my dad.

“You did the right thing, Mr.
Bains,” she said.

Deputy Abel lifted his notebook to read his notes. “Mm-mm. Since this appears to be a potential homicide, I’m going to have to, ah, secure the scene
and get everyone’s names.”

His
radio bleated and he jerked like he’d been shot, then lifted it off his belt and held it to his ear. “Oh, yeah? That so. Okay, I’ll be right there.”

The
deputy fastened the radio back onto his belt. “Looks like we have another homicide.”

“At the art compound?” I asked, looking uphill at a distant line of trees anchored to a hillside. “Who?”

“It’s under investigation and that’s all you need to know.”

He stuffed the notebook back into his shirt pocket. “I have to get up there now, secure the area for Homicide and the M.E.”

He turned to leave, then circled back to us, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dang it! What was I thinking? How am I supposed to secure a murder scene in another place when any of you might be suspects in this one?”

Visibly bristling at the insult, Karen said, “I can vouch for Miss
Bains and her dad, Deputy, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

He squinted at her. “But who’s going to vouch for
you
?”

“Dumb-ass,” Dad mumbled under his breath.

Karen, who had clearly been in charge of her temper a minute ago, now lost it. “Who the hell you think you’re talking to? I’ve been working with the sheriff’s department longer than you’ve been shaving.”

I wanted to high-five Karen.
Whippersnapper, indeed.