R.P. Dahlke - Dead Red 04 - A Dead Red Alibi Read online

  Dad pointed to the thick stand of bright green cottonwoods along a dry creek.

  “Green trees mean there is still water underground,” he said, happily getting out of the Jeep.

  Since we’d be roughing it until the electricity was turned on, we brought jugs of water, groceries, insect spray, mousetraps, and because the property manager said snakes hate them, mothballs. Roughing it delighted my dad and sent me into paroxysms of terror at the thought of an infestation of mice and snakes.

  Using a machete, Dad cut a path through the courtyard weeds, unlocked the door, and we stepped inside. The living space was a pleasant departure from the drab exterior. The single story home had been built to appear larger than it was. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a bar of polished mesquite wood and four artistically wrought iron stools.

  High ceilings bore hand-hewn beams, and though the floors had a layer of dust on them, the ochre and rust colored Mexican tiles had the look of old world craftsmanship.

  To the right, a floor to ceiling rock wall housed a big, well used fireplace with kindling and logs all set for a cozy fire.

  Two old leather sofas, the dark brown hides worn from use, hunkered companionably near the cold and dark fireplace.

  Bookshelves had been inserted into the rock wall and held tattered copies of gold mining periodicals. I was amused by the hunk of quartz with a tiny fleck of gold in the middle.

  I was delighted to see a bank of French doors across the living room, and though the small-paned windows were opalescent with age and dust, I could tell that when opened the morning sun would flood across the old tiles with happy light.

  I suspected the real estate manager might’ve removed any carpets in favor of bare floors for renters, but I made a note to ask him about it. Somehow I doubted he’d admit to removing them, since he seemed to have lulled himself into believing the absent owners were never coming back.

  Dad brought in the sleeping bags and water. “It looked bigger when I was a kid,” he said, lifting a five-gallon water jug onto the kitchen counter.

  I went to the stove and tried the gas. “I guess we need to get propane.”

  He bent over and tapped on the five-gallon tank under the counter. “Empty. We’ll go into town and get it filled.”

  “Even without electricity?”

  “Pressurized gas will do for the day or two until the electrical is turned on. All you need is a match. And, I found that in the shed,” he said, indicating a shovel by the door.

  I heard a coyote howl and shivered. “To fight off the wild animals?”

  “No silly, for latrine duty. Water here is from the well and we’ll need electricity for the pump and the toilets.”

  “Outside? No, no, no! Not doing that! Let’s drive into Wishbone,” I said, grabbing my purse. “We’ll get a couple of rooms and come back when the electricity is on.”

  “If the load is getting easy, you’re going downhill,” he said.

  “Not from where I’m standing. There are wild animals out there. Gimme the Jeep keys, I’ll drive.”

  He had his hands on his hips. “Now Lalla, just remember, People don’t fail, they give up. You knew we were going to have to rough it for a day or two. Where’s your pioneering spirit?”

  I snapped my fingers, signaling my impatience for the keys. “Pioneers yearned for hot baths and clean sheets, too. Now gimme those keys!”

  Then he said the one thing to stuff my nerves back where they belonged. “That would mean cell phone service. Then you’d have to answer your phone messages. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

  He had me there. Stay here and I had the excuse there was no landline or cell service in this remote location. I already had seen enough texts and phone messages from Caleb to know he was alive, but not so many that I was ready to forgive him, either.

  Seeing he’d won the argument, Dad patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. There are wires strung along the main road. It won’t be a problem to get the electric company out here by tomorrow.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Morning light sifted through the dusty window and landed on the makeshift quilt from the sleeping bag I’d unzipped to cover my bare mattress. In that almost awake moment, I had an awful feeling that something was out of sync. I knew what it was—Caleb. I’d stubbornly rejected his attempts to make me understand why he had missed our wedding, though I had enough texts and messages by now to know the details. He’d stopped into a 7-Eleven and interrupted a robbery in progress. The upshot of his vigilante justice was that he was late for his own wedding. Heck, I knew Caleb better than to imagine he would choose to get drunk on our wedding day, but slipping away to avoid the aftermath of our botched wedding seemed like the right thing to do—at least it did at the time.

  But now I missed waking up next to him. My self-imposed loneliness added a bitter taste to an otherwise sweet morning.

  Somewhere outside a bird sang, and as my dad would say, Some folks won’t look up until they’re flat on their backs.

  I rubbed at sleep-filled eyes, sat up, stretched, and decided things could be worse. I wasn’t trespassing on anyone else’s hospitality. I had no one to answer to, no job to go to. Aunt Mae had deeded this house to me, and for the first time in my life, I owned something, a house and a piece of property. With renewed purpose, I opened the window over my bed and breathed in the promise of a new day.

  By noon it would be warm, and by afternoon downright hot, but the thick adobe walls would keep the interior cool. All we needed was electricity for the ceiling fans, lights and the well pump.

  I took my notepad of items we needed into the kitchen in time to see my dad walking out the door.

  “Where‘re you going?” I asked.

  “I’m going out to see if I can find Uncle Ed’s old gold mine. I’ll be back in time for lunch,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  Of course he’d be back in time for lunch. Skinny as he was, my father was never one to miss a meal.

  Now, where was I? I added oil for the gate hinges, a ladder to repair or replace the loose tiles on the roof, and because I didn’t know tiled roofs from horse manure, I wrote roofing contractor and gardener on the list.

  The house could use a coat of paint. Something subtle for the exterior, maybe an earth color that wouldn’t fight with the terrain, and for the rooms, a native plant like sage green or a warm sunflower. I added native plant books and house colors to the list.

  Putting the notebook away, I gathered cleaning supplies and started on the windows.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Five hours later my stomach rumbled. I looked at my watch. Two o’clock already? Didn’t Dad say he’d be back in time for lunch?

  This was Arizona, not California. He took the Jeep to look for Great-Uncle Ed’s gold mine, but that was five hours ago. Did he take his cell phone? I turned around to look for it. Sure enough, there it was on the table by the front door. He could be lying in one of those gullies, bones broken, unable to get out.

  Dread at the worst possible outcome ground down the last of my patience and I power-walked the mile or so to our nearest neighbor’s home, and hopefully a phone.

  “Sorry to bother you,” I said, to the woman who answered. “My dad and I are ….” I leaned on my knees, gasping out the last of my appeal, “here from California and—”

  She took in my dusty boots, the angry scrapes left by passing mesquite, and invited me inside. “You’re at the old Bains’ place, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Got here yesterday and … was cleaning the house and completely lost track of …”

  She pushed me into a chair, filled a tall glass of water to its brim and handed it to me. “Drink it down. All of it. Visitors forget we’re at five-thousand feet. You get dehydrated and wonder why you’re exhausted and delusional.”

  When I wiped the last of the moisture from my lips, she nodded for me to continue.

  “My dad left in his Jeep this morning to look at our property, but h
e hasn’t come back and I’m worried. We don’t have a landline yet. Could you call 9-1-1?”

  Her gaze slipped to a sturdy Blue Heeler on a dog bed, the attention starting a syncopated tail wag.

  “Does he have a cell phone with him?” she asked, still watching the dog.

  I shook my head. “No. I had barely convinced him to buy one, then daily remind him to clip it onto his belt. My dad views this sort of newfangled gizmo less of a convenience and more of an intrusion on his privacy.”

  “How long has he been gone?” she asked, picking up her phone.

  I looked at my watch. “About five hours. Can you call the sheriff or somebody to help me look for him?”

  A smile tweaked at the edge of her generous mouth. “I will, but if you like, my dog and I are trained to track missing people, and the sooner we get started the quicker we’ll find him.”

  I got to my feet, felt dizzy, and just as quickly collapsed into my chair again.

  “You’re still dehydrated,” she said, handing me a bottle of water, and turning away, touched a few numbers on her phone.

  When someone on the other end answered, she held up a wait-for-me finger.

  “Larry? It’s me, Karen Paquette. I have a neighbor with a missing relative. Yeah, looks like it might be this side of the Mule Mountains. I’ll take Matilda, but I want you to know we’ll be starting at the old Bains place. I’ll check in with you in an hour, one way or the other.”

  She shut the phone. “I’ll get my gear.”

  I drank down the last of the water, surprised by how quickly it helped. I gave thanks that I had found this no-nonsense young woman at home.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I come banging on your door and didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Lalla Bains.”

  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?”

  “Some. 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.