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Gera slept soundly that night. No crying babies, no voices, no loud cars. No bad dreams, held over from the waking hours.
She awoke alone in the apartment, with a breathtaking view and the sunny promise of a new day. A note lay on her pillow, anchored by a Hershey’s kiss.
Call me when you’re awake. I’ll send up breakfast, no matter the time.
His cell number was scrawled beneath the message in a broad, masculine hand.
By the time she went back to her own room to shower, the sun had crawled high in the sky. She had missed her garden meeting with Minnie again, if the old woman even came on weekends. Not for the first time, Gera wondered where her little friend lived. She had said nearby.
Pulling out of the driveway, Gera looked past The Dove, to the rather rickety old house next door. Was that where Minnie lived? It almost looked abandoned, if the darkened windows and sagging porch were any indication. The yard was nothing like she thought Minnie’s might be. Instead of clusters of blossoms, mounds of old dirt lay, hardened and spiked with weeds, as if someone had dug holes all through the yard and not bothered to fill them back in. Gera imagined Minnie’s yard would look much like the tiered garden at The Dove.
But perhaps, she considered, that was the reason the old woman came each day. Tending a garden demanded a certain level of physical fitness. Gera knew this from personal experience, citing memories of her summers with Grams, helping with the orchards. Grams had grown flowers and vegetables, too. Rose bushes with big, robust petals, and a vegetable garden with neat rows of peas, potatoes, and radishes. Gera never cared for radishes—she hadn’t thought to list them, had she, when Jake asked her preferences—but she recalled the new potatoes as particularly delicious. She remembered sitting on her knees and digging in the earth, searching for the edible gems as if they were hidden bits of gold. Digging for potatoes had always been exciting, because she never knew how many she might find beneath the soil. And growing roses was quite the adventure, too. She remembered counting the blooms each day, delighted when a new bud appeared overnight.
Minnie, she knew, would never be able to bend and stoop as much as a garden would require. Her curled fingers were much too stiff to dig into the fertile soil and tug a root free. Gera couldn’t imagine the old woman sinking to her knees and pressing her bare toes into that second layer of soil, the one that was always slightly damp and cool, untouched by the heat of the sun and the dryness of the wind. Plus, if by some chance she did manage to get down onto her knees, poor Minnie would have a terrible time getting up. Even without the orthopedic shoes and heavy support hose, Minnie’s legs didn’t look very nimble.
Perhaps she came to The Dove, Gera decided, where she could enjoy the beauty of the garden without the fuss and bother of growing one herself. And a house that size—and that old—had to be difficult to maintain, particularly when she was alone and had lived the better part of a century.
As she took the road down into town, Gera’s thoughts turned to Ruth Cunningham. Would she have the same troubles? Would the old house prove too much for her? She had children, but they might not live nearby. The sons might know more about building a portfolio than building a porch. The daughters might be afraid of ruining their manicures, or they might be too busy running their own households to worry with hers.
Or maybe none of them would ever have the chance to help, because maybe the bank would take the house away. Heavy creases lined Gera’s forehead. Surely, Grant wouldn’t let that happen. No matter the problem, he would help the widow find a way to keep her home.
Gera made the curve onto Main Street and found, to her surprise, that the sleepy little town had come awake. Cars lined the street, every parking spot occupied. There was even a traffic jam ahead, as a confused motorist couldn’t quite comprehend that half of Main was one-way traffic only. People strolled up and down the slanted sidewalks, ducking into this store or that, and coming out again with colorful bags and lighter wallets. Gera had to make the loop, driving all the way down Main, jack-knifing back onto Hull, and parking in the lot across from the Sliding Jail.
Indeed on Saturdays, it seemed that more than just ghosts roamed the streets of Jerome.
Gera grabbed her camera and started up the steep embankment that was First Avenue. It was the same path she had taken upon her arrival in town, and the one Grant took that very same night, before he came upon Abe’s body. The steep path led her handily up to The Bartlett, now free of its yellow crime tape bindings. That sort of thing would be bad for tourism, she supposed.
She took more photos of the scene, these without the little tented markers that had chronicled the recent crime. According to the leaked COD, Abe had been stabbed to death. Gera hadn’t seen much blood, even that night. She thought maybe she had missed something before, but there were no traces of a deadly spill, no telltale stains on the sun-bleached tiles below. Nor had Grant mentioned the blood. He spoke of the unnatural pose, the blank, open stare, but not a word about the blood.
Was it possible, she wondered, that Abe had been killed elsewhere and his body dumped here for discovery? But how—and when—would someone manage to get his limp, lifeless body inside the empty structure without being seen?
First and foremost, that person would’ve needed a key, and only five people possessed one to the gates surrounding the old hotel. She knew this because she had snapped a photo of the chief’s notes. Lucky for her, the man did, indeed, make lists. And filled them in quite nicely, too, with neat, handwritten notations beside each name.
The first name on the list had surprised her, but then made sense when she realized Grant Young was the president of the Chamber of Commerce. Since there were no notations beside his name, she assumed Miles Anderson had come to the same conclusion she did. Grant was a leader in the community and a stellar citizen, unlikely of committing murder. That was probably why there was also a blank beside his own name, second on the list.
Third was Harriett Nettles. The notes reported she was a retired librarian and currently out of the state. Fourth on the list was the highly esteemed treasurer of the Museum Society. The chief noted that Cora Hill came each month to collect the coins and deposit them into the Restoration Fund at the bank, but that she was currently ill with pneumonia and had a solid alibi for the night of Abe’s death, having been in the hospital that entire week.
The last name on the list, and the only other person with a set of keys to the old structure, was Mayor Howard Strait, often referred to as Pastor Strait. That evening, he had been fulfilling his pastoral duties and visiting Cora in the hospital.
Besides a key, the killer would’ve needed opportunity. That meant a way to access the busy intersection with a dead body in tow, plus the time needed to get it inside.
Maybe she should scrub the idea of him being killed elsewhere. If merely imagining all the details involved were this difficult, pulling it off would’ve been next to impossible.
“Do you want to tell me exactly what is going on here?”
She hadn’t seen Miles Anderson approach, but she definitely heard his snarled words. Gera turned around and saw the chief of police striding angrily across the street. He ignored the people milling around on the sidewalk and marched straight over to Gera, his face as dark as a stormy sky.
Gera played dumb. She looked over his shoulder, to the crowded streets and sidewalks. “I have no idea. The town is certainly busy today, though, isn’t it?”
“I’m not talking about the tourists and you know it!” he barked.
She wasn’t about to volunteer anything. And she had vowed to protect Mike Cooper, at all costs. Gera simply stared at the chief officer, waiting for him to yell at her again.
It took only seconds. “Do you want to explain the meaning of this to me?”
Poor Coop. She hoped he still had a job.
Before she could answer, the chief roared on, “Why the hell is Detective Chao of the Cottonwood Police Department calling to inform me of something that happened in my town? Do you have anything you want to tell me, Miss Stapleton?”
“No.”
“No? That’s all you have to say? I don’t know who you think you are, coming into my town and stirring up a bunch of trouble, but you’d better have something better to say to me than that, little lady!”
She hefted out a sigh. People were looking at them strangely, wondering what she had done to deserve the lawman’s wrath.
“Look, I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, any more than I’m sure you meant to be when you called me little lady.” Even though it was useless, she hit him with her mother’s best smile.
The officer continued to glare.
Gera shrugged, continuing, “I don’t have anything more to say because there is nothing more to tell.”
“Detective Chao told me you went into the Cactus Bar, where Macandie slipped something extra into your drink. You dammed near killed yourself, driving down the mountain, but you refused to press charges because it was already out of your system.”
“See? You already know the whole story. There’s honestly nothing else to tell.”
“Except why he might want to drug you.” His tone held accusation. “What are you doing hanging around a lowlife like Macandie, anyway?”
“I’m not. I went into the bar and ordered a drink. That was the first time I had ever seen the man, and if I’m lucky, it will also be the last.”
“I have to agree with you there,” Miles Anderson said. “Billy Boy Macandie is nothing but trouble. But don’t think I buy your little innocent act. You went into that bar for a reason. The same reason you went to see Chao. Spill it, Miss Stapleton.”
“Okay, so it was the first time I had ever seen Billy Boy, but it wasn’t the first time I heard his name. I know he is a key witness in the recent crime spree plaguing your city.”
“And you know this how?”
“A good reporter never reveals her source.”
He wasn’t impressed with her mother’s smile this time, either. “Stay out of my case,” he growled. “You may not think so, but we’re working each case with thorough precision. No need for you to butt in and try to solve them for us.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do. In fact, I’m working an entirely different angle. Want to hear about it?”
He looked mildly bored. “Sure, why not?”
Gera glanced around, at people walking around them to access the sidewalk. “It’s a little hot out here, standing in the sun. Can we find somewhere to sit?” she suggested.
She thought he would refuse, but curiosity won out. “We can go across the street,” he said.
He led her across the traffic, again treating her like a child. There was a horrible moment when Gera feared they were headed to the police station, where Cooper might unwittingly mention yesterday’s visit. She was so relieved to see they headed right, toward the park, that she forgot to be angry at his high-handed manner.
The chief found a shady section of the wide cement steps and motioned for her to have a seat.
“What are these, anyway?” she asked. “Steps? Bleachers?” Whatever they were, they stretched an entire city block, right in the center of town.
He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Both, I suppose. Steps to reach Upper Park, bleachers to watch parades. Whatever you need.” He adjusted his cowboy hat as he sat down beside her. “So, Miss Stapleton, tell me the angle for your story.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I have a new theory. You see, I think this entire thing has been a setup. I don’t think it was ever about stealing that bike or breaking into that house. I don’t think anyone had a grudge against Megan McCracken or ever intended to steal Ruben Gonzales’s wallet here in the Upper Park. I think it was a setup, right from the beginning.”
“Who, exactly, was being setup?” Despite a tinge of skepticism in his voice, she had snagged his attention. His eyes were thoughtful as he waited to hear the rest of her theory.
“In a way, it was the town.” Her quiet words surprised him, made him draw in a sharp breath as he sat up, his posture now fully erect. She finally had his full attention. “Whoever did this,” she continued, “whoever killed Abe Cunningham, knows the townspeople believe in ghosts. I think the killer used that to his advantage and created this series of minor incidents so that he could throw suspicion on Mac. All it took was a few witnesses to say they saw someone who looked like Mac, someone in a long coat and tall hat. It wouldn’t take much for the rumors to get started. Rumors that Mac had turned on them.”
“You make the townspeople sound a bit gullible, Miss Stapleton.”
She was polite enough not to point out that these were people who believed in ghosts. In her mind, that spoke for itself.
“Is it such a stretch?” she said instead. “When bad things started happening, and when witnesses claimed they saw Mac at the scene, why not suspect him of turning on them? I think the killer counted on that, and it gave him the perfect setup for murder. Kill Abe Cunningham, have everyone blame it on a ghost, and get away scot-free.”
Chief Anderson mulled over her theory. “No way to question a ghost,” he murmured. “No defense argument. But I do see one problem with your theory.”
“What’s that?”
“Me.” He stared at her with the same stony countenance of all sheriffs past and present from her father’s favorite shoot-em-up westerns.
“You may not be so gullible, Chief Anderson,” she acknowledged, “but you answer to the community. If the town’s leaders, even men as influential and powerful as Grant Young, are content to blame a ghost rather than cast accusation upon one of their own, is there really anything you can do about it?”
His snarled reply surprised her. Not because of its venom, but because of its focus. He ignored all but one point she had made. “Grant Young isn’t as powerful as he thinks!”
Gera vaguely remembered the banker’s comment, something about a prom date, back in the day. Had the two men fought over a girl? Did an old rivalry still simmer between them, festering and feeding on bruised egos and scraped hearts?
“Still, I think it’s a pretty good theory,” she insisted. “So now the question becomes why. Why would someone want to kill Abe Cunningham? What would anyone have to gain? This took planning. This took weeks of preparation and manipulation. Why would someone go to such lengths to kill a seventy-five-year-old man?”
“This is your theory. You tell me.”
“I suppose the first and most obvious motive would be a life insurance policy.”
“Would be, but according to Ruth, it’s hardly enough to get him in the ground.”
“Inheritance?”
“Far as I know, all he really owns is that house and the little bit of soil it sits on. If you’re staying at The Dove, you know there’s not a lot of room for soil up there.”
Gera chewed on the inside of her lip, pondering the possibilities. “There’s got to be something else. Something important enough for someone to kill him over.”
“Doubt it was a love affair gone bad,” Miles Anderson offered. “He and Ruth have been happily married for close to fifty years.”
“What about the trouble he had with his taxes?”
“I told you before, I have nothing to say on that matter.”
“Yes, yes, I understand that. I’m not asking for information. I’m just wondering who could benefit from something like that.”
“Theoretically, it would be the State of Arizona. Property can be seized and put up for auction. Any monies collected go toward satisfying unpaid taxes.”
Gera stared down the street at the bank, thinking aloud. “Unless you take out a loan on your property, so that you can pay those taxes. Which is what I understand Abe Cunningham did at the bank. Then it all turned out to be a big mistake, so Abe returned the money. And now for whatever reason, the bank still holds a mortgage on the house.”
“Who told you that?” the lawman asked sharply. “Where did you hear such a crazy thing?”
“From Ruth Cunningham, herself.” Which was true. She just wasn’t speaking to Gera when she said it. Not that the chief needed to know that.
“Damn that Grant Young, this time he’s gone too far!” Anger flooded into the officer’s face, twitching at his handlebar mustache. A curse hissed through his clenched teeth. “That house belongs to Beverly Ruth. Or it will, one day.” When he banged a clenched fist against the concrete steps and never once flinched, Gera realized he could be a strong and dangerous man. He leapt to his feet, his voice like the roll of summer thunder. “He can’t do this!”
He was already two steps down, almost at the bottom, when he remembered Gera. He turned back with a cryptic message. “Your theory has holes, Miss Stapleton. Take care not to fall through them. You might get hurt.”
He whirled around and marched off, striding angrily across the street. Gera stared after him in shock, cringing when a car had to lock up its brakes to avoid hitting him. Miles Anderson yelled at the driver to slow down, but kept to his own hurried pace.
“I have no idea what just happened,” Gera muttered aloud. “But I swear, that last part sounded like a threat.”
