Washed Up (A Gracie Andersen Mystery Book 4) (9 page)

“What are they doing now?” Amanda griped, watching law enforcement and CSI techs scurry to haul ropes into the cave.

“They must have found something important.”

She felt the vibration of her phone in her pocket. She had a signal again. Go figure. Jim had sent a text. She quickly opened the message. Just what she didn’t need: another business crisis. Except it wasn’t.

“Please call. I have a question about Haley.”

“Oh, great. What did that dog do now?” she grumbled.

She pressed two on her speed dial.

“What’s up with Haley?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” Jim answered, “but I think she may have eaten about five pounds of cheese.”

“What? How could she do that?”

“That’s a really good question,” Jim said slowly.

“I’d love to know the answer.”

“I thought I’d be nice, and so I took her with me to pick up party supplies for your Mom. There’s a big bridge party next week.”

Gracie sighed. There was no way Theresa Clark would have a major card party without lots of cheese on the menu. She probably had all three of her avocado green fondue pots on the counter. Of course, cheese was Haley’s weakness. She’d pass up a steak in favor of a slice of good sharp cheddar.

“You left her alone with cheese?”

“It was only for a couple of minutes, honest. Your Dad needed help carrying some stuff out of the garage for garbage day. I’m really sorry. Should I take her to the vet?”

“I don’t know. Five pounds? Really? You probably should. She’ll puke her guts out, but I’d say Kelly needs to take a look at her. In fact, I want to take a look at her. FaceTime me back.”

The video connection wasn’t the greatest, but Gracie gave her unusually subdued black Lab a long-distance visual exam. The dog was lying in her parents’ living room, panting and licking her chops. The wincing smile on Haley’s face meant only one thing.

“She’s going to throw up,” Gracie warned. “You might want to get her outside before the blessed event.”

“That’s what I told Jim,” her mother said, sticking her head in front of Haley. “She’s going to blow any second.”

“Here,” Jim handed the phone to Theresa Clark. “I’ll take her.”

“Are you having a good time?” Theresa asked her daughter.

Gracie pasted on a glowing smile. “The best. It’s been so good to get away.”

“It looks like you’re outside. How’s Marc?”

Her mother was making a noble effort to speak casually. The tone gave her away, however. Gracie was certain a slew of questions would soon follow.

“My connection is breaking up, Mom. What? Oh, darn.”

She ended the call with a swipe of a finger. That was close. She looked up to see Marc motioning them to the cave.

Both Gracie’s and Amanda’s jaws dropped when the now-lit extra cavern was revealed.

“Were you aware of the hidden entrance, Mrs. Littlefield?” Agent Miller asked.

“Absolutely not!” Amanda bent to look down into the sloping passage. “This is incredible!”

A string of lights lit the slope, and Gracie saw the small cave they were in was a cover for a much larger one.

The sunset boasted a palette of outrageous pinks, oranges, and purples brushed across the sky in bold strokes. Gracie stood by the casita, enjoying the display. After the day’s events, she needed time to think. Marc was back out looking for someone—he hadn’t told her who. He had less than three weeks of employment left, and he was passionate about making the days count.

Almost all of the casitas were now vacant, except for Alex’s and Justin’s larger abode, Gracie’s, and two others occupied by retired couples, who were traveling together. The air was heavy with the smell of wet earth—the high desert’s monsoon fragrance.

Mistee Olin strolled down the winding path toward her, carrying what appeared to be an armload of rolled-up yoga mats.

“Need some help?” Gracie asked.

“Sure. Thanks.” Mistee maneuvered a half-dozen multi-colored rolls into Gracie’s arms. “The studio isn’t far.”

“Getting ready for tomorrow’s class?”

“Trying to. Amanda let me open the classes to non-guests, and I’m hoping for a good turnout. Are you coming?”

“Uh … Maybe.”

“You should try it. Yoga is total wellness for the mind and body.”

“I’m sure,” Gracie agreed, dubious of her ability to bend into any yoga positions she’d seen. The activity might be a train wreck for the inflexible. “I’m trying to keep my schedule free, since I might be dog-sitting for a little while tomorrow. My boyfriend’s dog was injured in that search for the missing boy, Ricky Fuentes.”

“That’s too bad. Nothing serious, is it?”

“No. A cut on his footpad. It’s healing pretty well.”

“Oh. Good.” She stopped, shifting the mats under one arm and reaching into the pocket of her shorts to pull out a key. “You know, I’d hate to think Ricky killed his foster dad. But he’s pretty messed up with drugs.” Mistee shook her head and frowned. “I went to school with his mom. She got pregnant in high school with Ricky. She’s in jail right now for drugs. Always in trouble.”

She unlocked the hand-carved door to the airy studio. Although small, it had a spacious feel because of the high ceiling and light hardwood floors. Several tall candlesticks, made from gnarled branches, were placed around the room. The scent of patchouli lingered in the air. Gracie helped the willowy Mistee stack the mats near the bank of windows that allowed an unhindered view of the mountains.

“What about Ricky’s dad?” Gracie asked.

“He took off when Ricky was little. Never had a chance, poor kid.”

“That’s a shame. I guess he did some work for the ranch, from what Amanda says.”

Mistee stopped arranging the mats and straightened. “He did. Hank worked with him. He offered Ricky a summer job, but he never showed.”

“That’s really good of Hank to try and help him. I know he was pretty upset, as everyone was when we had to go through those DEA interviews.”

Mistee’s expression changed instantly from friendly to frigid, as though the room’s temperature had dropped twenty degrees. Apparently, Gracie had touched a nerve.

“What a nice setting for your classes,” Gracie said brightly, hoping she hadn’t ruined a potentially informative relationship.

“Superb,” Mistee agreed. She swept her arms upward like a ballerina. “The feng shui is perfect. Cleanses your spirit and frees the mind. You really should have me give you a massage at least. You look so tense, and your aura is dark.”

Gracie couldn’t speak about any auras, but the bags under her eyes were probably screaming her need for sleep.

“I guess the vacation isn’t going quite as I planned. Finding a body and all.”

Mistee nodded, studying Gracie’s face. “That’s why you’re out of balance. Death has been close to you.” Her voice quavered dramatically.

“Well, I’m hoping there isn’t any more contact this trip.” Gracie grimaced, feeling uncomfortable under Mistee’s gaze. “I’d better find my way to bed. It’s been a long day.”

“Namaste,” Mistee murmured, her hands in the prayer pose. She assumed a yoga position, her arms outstretched over her head and legs entwined.

As Gracie strolled back to her casita, she felt grateful for the small solar lights that assisted in her vigilance for snake activity easier. The whole rattlesnake business made her jumpy, although she had yet to see one.

She was about to insert her key into the lock, when Molly, the border collie, appeared from the darkness, with Amanda close behind.

“Anything wrong, Amanda?”

“The DEA agents are right behind me. They have a search warrant for Alex’s and Justin’s casita.”

“Really?”

“Really. They’ve flown the coop. Probably in Rio by now.”

That seemed doubtful, but it would be interesting to see an actual search warrant executed. The bulky agents hustled past Gracie without a word.

The casita had not been vacated, as evidenced by the small piles of clothes scattered throughout the two bedrooms. The bathrooms were stocked with all the usual personal products. Their empty suitcases lay in a heap with no evidence that the occupants intended to pack up.

“Looks like they’re planning on coming back.” Gracie peeped through the doorway, while Amanda stood near the bureau.

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s supposed to look that way,” Amanda said, picking up a yellowed and dog-eared map from the dresser. She let out a low whistle.

“Don’t touch anything, ma’am,” ordered Agent Miller.

Amanda blanched. “Right. No problem. This may be a big help to you, boys. Look at this.”

The traffic on Highway 92 sped by Marc’s unmarked vehicle, which was half-hidden from motorists. He’d parked on King’s Ranch Road, glad of a small dip that camouflaged his presence. Be-on-the-lookout notifications (BOLOs) had been issued for Alex Kramer and Justin Gardener. They had records in California that included DUIs and assault charges. Two fraud-related cases had been dismissed due to lack of evidence. It looked like the boys were back in business in Arizona. How they’d managed to interest a reality TV channel in a show was beyond him, but that was probably a front for what they were really up to.

He hoped Gracie understood the urgency of his job when he’d left her at the B & B. She hadn’t looked happy, and the long afternoon of questions and the discovery of the second cave had taken a toll. The task force was returning early in the morning to explore the cave with more equipment.

He sighed, leaning his head back against the headrest. This case was putting a strain on everyone and everything, including, he sensed, any future relationship he might have with the one woman who made him believe that love was again possible. However, due to circumstances (aided and abetted, he had to admit, by a certain amount of blundering on his part), the romantic strategy he’d devised to make her truly his own had gone seriously awry. If only he could catch a break, any break, in this case, he might with a small amount luck, be able to steer his love life back on course.

A silver pickup sped past, catching Marc’s attention. He recognized it immediately. Hank was on the move. He needed to play out his hunch. Something was happening tonight.

The truck kept to the speed limit, rounding the curve and heading north toward Hereford. The sun was behind the mountains, and the car ahead of Marc turned on its headlights. He allowed a vehicle to pass him, putting more distance between him and Hank. The truck slowed, a left turn signal blinking. Hank was headed up Ash Canyon Road. Marc went past the road, deciding how much slack to allow Hank. He couldn’t screw this up. He pulled into the entrance of Wildhorse Estates and turned around. He tapped his fingers nervously against the steering wheel while several cars kept him from pulling back onto the highway. There were plenty of places for Hank to disappear before he caught up with him.

Ash Canyon Road was empty of traffic in the increasing darkness. No silver pickup. The dirt road went on for quite a distance. There was a limited number of side roads that Hank could have taken. No vehicle dust trails offered help; roads were muddy and puddles abundant.

Passing Muffin Lane, Marc swung the car around. Hank’s quick disappearance might mean he took the first road off Ash Canyon, which was Twin Oaks, and that led to Our Lady of the Sierras Chapel. The road crossed a major wash and then wound up the mountain to the huge statue of the Virgin Mary and a Celtic cross that overlooked the San Pedro Valley. He’d visited the place once at Amanda’s suggestion. The view was incredible, but the sense of peace at the chapel had been the main attraction on that visit.

Entering the parking area for the chapel, Marc easily spotted Hank’s pickup. The gate was closed to the upper parking. Maybe Hank was going to pray. Probably a good idea for him, Marc reckoned. Even if Marc’s gut feeling was wrong about Hank’s involvement in the current case, he was most likely working to outfit cars with hidden compartments to transport drugs. That meant another opportunity to get into deep trouble with the law.

However, the sign indicated the chapel was closed. Hank was nowhere to be seen.

Marc parked the car on the far side of the area next to a retaining wall, well away from Hank’s truck.

He scanned the steps for any sign of Hank. He began the ascent to the chapel, climbing the stone stairway. He flicked on a small flashlight. The air was cool tonight, a relief from the afternoon’s humidity. He counted off the cast bronze plaques that numbered the Stations of the Cross, grabbing the railing at one point. The path was awfully steep. A scuffling sound drew his attention to the immense brown cross towering over the Virgin Mary. He turned off the flashlight, treading carefully.

***

Agents Galvez and Miller pored over the old map in Amanda’s office, while Gracie and Amanda cooled their heels in the reading area of the main house.

“I saw the cave marked plain as day on that map,” Amanda said. “Those boys knew about it, all right.”

“Were they hauling valuables out of there, and Manny stumbled across them?” Gracie conjectured.

“Maybe he took Ricky hiking up to the cave, and they had a run-in with Dumb and Dumber. Ricky may have taken off. I’d be scared too if I’d seen a murder.”

“They may not be as dumb as you think if they’ve located long lost artifacts that they can sell. And then if they’re into drugs too.” Gracie paused. “A lot of money is out there to be made.”

Amanda snorted. “If that’s what happened, why didn’t Ricky go to the police? He took off with a friend and then left him hurt in a canyon. You can’t ever tell with kids. They run from where they’d be safe.”

The agents reappeared, grim looks on their faces.

“Mrs. Littlefield, would you mind if we used your office in the morning to re-interview everyone on the trail maintenance crew?” Agent Miller asked.

“Sure … I guess that’s fine. Why do we need more interviewing? Really, this is too much. We’ve told you everything we know.”

“That might not be true, ma’am. As you recall, you were reluctant to tell us everything only this afternoon,” Agent Miller replied with the slightest touch of sarcasm.

“Okay. Anything to help catch Manny’s killer.” Amanda crossed her arms, a defiant look on her face.

“Thank you.” Agent Galvez refolded the worn paper.

“What about the map?” Amanda demanded.

“Consider it evidence, Mrs. Littlefield. Goodnight.”

***

A low moan caught Marc’s attention. It came from somewhere in the rocks around the huge cross. Hewn rock stairs wound everywhere, and a waterfall splashed on the southern side.

“I gotcha. Come on. We have to make it back to the truck,” a voice urged. More shuffling around came from behind the cross.

“I don’t think I can …” a young male voice gasped.

Two male forms moved slowly down the steps to the front of the cross. Marc rested his hand on the grip of his pistol. He backed into the shelter of the Virgin’s statue, watching the pair descend to the main walkway. The security lights of the chapel afforded enough light to identify both men.

Hank Ramage and Ricky Fuentes.