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I STEPPED OFF THE BUS and into hell. Hot didn’t adequately describe it. It wasn’t swamp steamy like Sinful, but it wasn’t even noon yet and the outdoor thermometer in the bus terminal topped 105. The inside of my rental car was even worse. The car had been sitting out in the hot sun all morning and my butt would never forgive me. Or my hands. I grabbed at the scalding steering wheel and let out a string of curse words.
The drive to Superstition City took a little over an hour and included a stop at a store to pick up a sandwich and a few other provisions, most notably, beer. I’d been gone from Sinful for about 36 hours. By now, Ida Belle and Gertie would be worried sick. They would have hounded Carter about my whereabouts. He didn’t know, of course, and wasn’t supposed to tell them anything about seeing me leave. I hoped he did. I didn’t want them to worry, but I knew they would.
By now one of them would have taken Merlin. Neither Ida Belle nor Gertie were cat ladies, and Carter and Marie had dogs. Maybe Ally would take him. She seemed to love him when she was living with me.
Ally. I felt sick to my stomach. Ally never knew I was a CIA assassin-in-hiding. She never even knew my real name. What was she going to think? That I just up and left? She’d be hounding Carter as well, demanding an explanation into my disappearance. I didn’t envy him. He hated lying.
I was so lost in thought I almost missed the turnoff to the Desert Acres Mobile Home Park and Resort. I hit the brakes and swung to the right, my tires sliding on the loose dirt road. I stopped and let the dust settle before driving forward another quarter mile.
Desert Acres was a 55-plus mobile home park, announced one sign. Another sign directed me to cut my speed to 20 mph, while a large billboard featured the smiling faces of a group of seniors and touted all the amenities: a bowling alley, two heated pools, shuffleboard, and pickleball courts.
I cruised past one of the pools. Not a soul around. Too hot to even swim.
Clubhouse A showed some life, attracting several older women in shorts who shuffled past the sign announcing today’s movie before disappearing inside.
After picking up the key from the front office, I drove to “Aunt Olive’s” mobile home, a pale-blue double-wide with a fake grass lawn out front. It was hellish inside, so I cranked up the air conditioner and put away my groceries.
Invading another person’s space, particularly one who has died, is always an uncomfortable feeling. I remembered feeling the same way when I had first slept in Marge’s guest bed, ate at her dining table and showered in her bathroom; it felt like such a violation.
A People magazine from last month sat on Olive’s coffee table. I wondered if she had read it all before her sudden death. A stack of mail was piled on the dining-room table, next to a section of newspaper containing the daily crossword puzzle. Dated the day she died. Olive had filled in half of the squares.
I entered her bedroom. According to Harrison, Olive had died in her sleep. Neighbors had come in after that and cleaned, making sure there were clean sheets, fresh towels and everything pretty much tidied up. On the nightstand was a novel, as well as a CPAP machine, indicating Olive had had sleep apnea. I picked up the book and noticed that she only had about 25 pages left. Maybe I’d get around to finishing it in honor of Olive.
On my way back through the hallway I heard the toilet begin to run. After a few jiggles of the handle, it stopped. I wondered how many times the toilet had gone through its fill-up, leak, fill-up cycle since Olive’s death. And did she hear it running while she was dying? A weird thought, I know, but I’d always been fascinated that a house can suddenly have its life taken from it, but the house noises live on. The toilet runs. The phone rings and a message is recorded. The icemaker in the freezer dumps a load of ice in the bin. The clocks still keep the time. There’s just no one there to see or hear it anymore.
After unpacking and eating my sandwich, I opened the laptop and connected to the internet.
Dear Joe, I began my message to Harrison, using the new email account he had set up earlier. I didn’t think there was a need to use a coded message but knew if I didn’t he’d flip out. Well, I made it. Thanks for taking me to the bus stop. Sitting next to a crying baby for 24 hours has given me new thoughts about increasing my voice-over repertoire. I don’t know how to return the favor. But I’m certainly thinking of ways. Yours, Delilah.
I then opened Facebook and accessed the account of one Smitty Ketchum, something I had never shared with Harrison. A phony account I had set up with Ida Belle and Gertie back in Sinful, just in case I ever had to leave suddenly. For several weeks now, I’d packed it with phony posts of dog videos and car shows in case there were prying eyes, though I doubted there ever would be. I had built the character of an older man and his wife, Cleo, leading a most ordinary life. Nothing would stick out to anyone. I even had over a hundred “friends,” people I had found on an RVers Facebook page who had accepted my friend requests. By all outside appearances, I looked like any other senior out there. Ida Belle and Gertie were among my “friends.” They knew if they ever received a private message from Smitty over Facebook that I had been relocated. They’d probably been hunched over their computers for the past day waiting for me to message them.
Hello, Miss Ida Belle, I wrote in my Smitty persona. Well, we’re on the road again and staying at a senior trailer park outside Phoenix. Cleo insisted we leave Louisiana because of rumors of a monster hurricane in the Gulf. I told her to stop getting weather information from The National Enquirer, but, you know Cleo. Haha. Caution is her middle name. Hoping to return home soon once Cleo realizes the storm has failed to materialize. Poor thing’s getting paranoid in her old age, I’m afraid. I’m enclosing my address should you wish to visit while we’re here.
I gave her the address and clicked send, then went to Gertie’s Facebook page and scrolled through her photos. I could feel my throat constricting as I choked back my emotions. A batch of pictures had been shared since my arrival in Sinful. I wasn’t in any of them, Gertie was careful about that. I’d always thought this whole Facebook thing of sharing photos of your life with people was a bit self-indulgent. Now I was grateful she had. I smiled as the memories flashed by: Celia taking a tumble, her granny panties on full display; Marie delivering her election speech; Gertie and her inflatable alligator. I scrolled through photos of the July 4th festivities: Sheriff Lee asleep on his horse; Walter; and Carter. I touched his face on the screen and sighed.
A knock at the front door brought me out of my reminiscing. I opened the door to two older women as a blast of hot air assaulted my face.
Both mid- to late-sixties. One with short, red hair, the other shoulder-length gray hair. Red was five-three, Gray was taller, about five-seven. Both wore shorts and sleeveless tops. Threat-level: Low.
“Howdy,” Red said. “My name is Bucky Schmidt.”
“And I’m Rosa Gonzales,” Gray said.
“Welcome to Desert Acres!” they both said together.
“You must be Olive’s niece, Delilah,” Bucky said.
“Yes I am, though most of my friends call me Fortune.”
“Fortune?” Bucky looked taken aback. “Well, isn’t that an interesting nickname. You’ll have to tell us all about that.”
Rosa nudged her way inside the trailer and into the living room. “We heard you were coming to take care of your aunt’s things in the fall. If we knew you were coming early, we’d have brought food.”
Bucky followed then looked back at the door. “Well, don’t waste your cool air on the desert, close the door.”
I did and joined the two women as they stood in the middle of the living room.
“I hope you don’t mind, but Bucky, our friend Shelby and I came over and straightened up after your aunt passed,” Rosa said. “Not that she was a messy lady. Of course, not that she was Martha Stewart, either. But who is, except Martha? I’m sure if Olive had an inkling she’d be gone the next day, she would have straightened up herself.” Rosa sighed and wiped at some tears spilling from her eyes. “We’re going to miss the old broad.”
“She was the life of the trailer park,” Bucky said, choking back emotion.
I felt awkward as I touched Rosa’s shoulder. “Well, thanks for straightening up. I’m sure Aunt Olive would have appreciated it.”
“We cleaned out stuff from the fridge that would spoil,” Bucky said, “but did leave items that would last, and kept a lot of stuff in the freezer. Just in case a family member came early to tend to Olive’s trailer.” Bucky swept her gaze around the living room and sighed. “It’s been a month since I’ve been inside her place. Such a shame. She was only sixty-five.”
Bucky touched my shoulder. “She spoke so highly of you.”
Rosa nodded. “Always bragging about your Hollywood career. When you played that dead prostitute on CSI, a bunch of us came over the night it was on. You were very lifelike.” Rosa stopped and thought a moment. “I mean, deathlike.” She laughed and then stopped. “I’m sorry. That was crass, considering...” She looked at Bucky. “Remember when we came over and watched Delilah on the morgue table?”
Bucky nodded. “If you ask me, the actor playing the medical examiner put his hand a little too close to your crotch.”
“He was pointing out the bullet hole near her bellybutton,” Rosa said. “His hand needed to be there.”
“Still. I think I would have smacked him.”
“You also imitate crying babies, don’t you?” Rosa asked. “You did the voice of that crying baby in an episode of Modern Family. We all came over for that, too.”
Before I could answer, she asked me if I could cry once for her.
Bucky waved her hand at Rosa. “For heaven’s sake, Rosa, let the girl catch her breath. Besides, she’s a professional. She gets paid to cry like that. You wouldn’t ask a heart surgeon to cut you open and demonstrate, would you? They probably have union rules against that sort of thing.”
“You know,” I said, faking a yawn, “I’m a little tired.”
Bucky patted my arm. “Of course you are. We just wanted to welcome you to the ’hood.” She laughed, then sobered. “And to tell you we were so sorry about your aunt. She was one of my best friends here and I’m still feeling the loss. We all are.”
Rosa nodded. “I knew her for ten years. Shame. Just a shame.”
Neither made a movement to leave.
“Thank you,” I said, walking toward the door to give them the hint.
“Oh... well...” Bucky said, following me before suddenly stopping. “Oh, I just remembered. We’re having a potluck tonight in Clubhouse B. Why don’t you stop by? Everyone would love to meet you.”
“I thought I’d just go out and pick something up at this restaurant I saw not far from here.”
Bucky ignored me. “Nonsense. I’ll pick you up at 6:30. I hope you don’t mind sitting through a little debate beforehand.”
“Debate?” I asked.
“For the resident association elections,” Bucky said. “Your aunt was running for association president. She would have been a shoo-in. Now it’s between Martha Bodkin and George Boze.” Bucky rolled her eyes. “What George lacks in brain power he makes up for in absolutely nothing. And Martha is a control freak. Head of the security patrol. Always leaves nasty notes when you break any of the rules.”
“She was always telling your aunt to turn down her TV, the bitch,” Rosa said. “Excuse my language, but you work in Hollywood, so I bet you’ve heard worse.”
“Yes, I have. Well, it was nice meeting you two.” I opened the door and Bucky stepped outside.
Rosa followed her. Before leaving the trailer, though, she stopped, turned and faced me. “Will you be staying nearby?”
“I’ll be staying here for a while.”
Rosa’s face blanched. “Here? In the trailer?”
“Anything wrong with that?” I asked.
“Well, maybe it’s just us, dear,” Bucky said. “Your aunt died in this trailer. In her bed.”
Rosa’s eyes widened. “Died? Olive didn’t just die in her bed. She was murdered there.”
“Rosa!” Bucky said. “She wasn’t murdered. She died in her sleep.”
“Yeah. Helped by a mysterious killer,” Rosa blurted out. “Remember, Shelby said she saw Olive’s light on around two that morning. And a shadow on the curtains. Shelby told the police, but they thought she was mistaken about the time. They didn’t believe her because she’s a senior. They never believe us. They said there was no evidence Olive was murdered. But she was. And I bet it was someone from our metal detecting club.”
“Honestly,” Bucky said to me. “Rosa has a very active imagination.”
“You’ve thought of it too and you know it,” Rosa said. She looked at me. “It was all because of the map she found. The one to the Lost Dutchman Mine.”
“Let the girl get her bearings before we bombard her with all of this.” Bucky gently ushered Rosa out the door and turned to me. “Just forget about the murder part and have a pleasant stay.”
“It was murder,” Rosa called out.
Bucky rolled her eyes. “Let Olive rest in peace.”
Rosa stuck her head inside. “That map was bad news. No one who ever found it had a peaceful life afterward. And Olive’s not resting in peace, because she was murdered.” Rosa turned and stormed off.
Bucky smiled. “Rosa can go a little mental at times. Personally, I think she’s stuck in menopause.”
“What’s this about a map?”
“We’ll tell you all about it later. No sense getting you all worried.” Her brows pushed together. “Although if Olive did hold onto the map and it’s here in the trailer, you might be in danger.” She brightened. “Well, enough of this doom and gloom. Enjoy your stay at Desert Acres. If you need anything, my trailer is just across the street, the one with the little gnome family out front.”
She closed the door.
Murdered?
Harrison hadn’t told me anything about his mother’s cousin being murdered. However, if the police did discount the word of a senior witness, which I’d learned over the past seven weeks is more common than I’d ever thought, the police probably wouldn’t have informed the family.
I heard a ping from my laptop I had left open on the kitchen table. I rushed back and sat down. Ida Belle had answered.
So glad to hear you made it to Arizona safely, Smitty. You tell Cleo all is peaceful and calm here. No hurricane. The only news from here is that Ally has a new cat. He’s doing fine. How is it at your new trailer park?
I placed my hands on the keys. I could just imagine Gertie standing over Ida Belle’s shoulder, crying.
Fine, I typed in the message box. They have a pickleball court, so I’m thrilled.
I shook my head. I had no idea what pickleball even was. My gaze fell upon a photo of Rosa and Bucky on the refrigerator, their arms around a white-haired woman whom I assumed was Olive. A group selfie. I tried to imagine someone murdering her in her sleep.
Don’t do it, Fortune. Don’t get involved.
But who would want to murder her? And doesn’t she deserve someone to stick up for her? If this were Sinful, Ida Belle, Gertie and I certainly would try to find out the truth.
I stared at the message I had typed. If Olive really were my aunt, I’d leave no stone unturned if I thought she’d been murdered.
I erased my message and retyped: Looks like we stepped into something mysterious here. We found out the lady who is renting the trailer to us was murdered. The police have discounted the word of a senior who saw someone’s shadow in her room. A travesty, I tell you. In your words, dear friend, Ida Belle, a real shitstorm.
I didn’t have to wait long for a reply.
You’re in luck, Smitty, she wrote. Shitstorms are our specialty. We need a vacation and have lots of miles. We’re on our way.