T he few people in Apache Junction seemed to catch on to the man’s tale with amazing speed and a tiny knot gathered around the stranger in a very short time. Dorothy didn’t know what to do. If she ought to go home or remain as she was–she hadn’t a clue. Artie had forgotten her, she felt sure. The stranger, however, eventually waved at her.
“Look here, miss, isn’t this yours? I’m sure I recognize it.” He waved the bloodied knife again, much like a trophy.
Dorothy could feel her heart pumping in her head, and she felt dizzy.
“What do you say, miss?” She had no idea who in the small crowd asked the question. “Is it yours?”
Artie looked from her to the knife and back.
“I-it looks like my knife.”
The stranger laid the shirt over his other arm, reaching toward Dorothy’s wrist. She sprang back and Artie stepped forward.
“There’s no need to lay hands on her.” His voice still sounded strange, and his words came slow.
The stranger frowned in Dorothy’s direction. “You need to stick around, miss. Until the sheriff arrives.”
Dorothy stiffened. One of the women in the group, Dorothy never caught her name, pulled her to the side, away from any further arguments.
Sheriff Wright looked grim on his arrival. He took charge of the evidence, interviewed the man who found them, and then told the man to be prepared to lead him and a posse back to the area. He interviewed Artie Sinclair, then walked up to Dorothy.
“All right, miss. Your name is Hodges, I’ve been told.”
“Y-yes, sir. Dorothy Hodges is my name.” She held her hands behind her back, her head high.
Dear Father, please grant that I will not stutter.
“All right, Miss Hodges. Is it true that the knife allegedly found at the scene belongs to you?” Sheriff Wright held the knife toward her gingerly.
Dorothy’s heart hammered against her chest at the sight of the long-bladed knife. “Y-yes, sir. It does look like mine. Well, my father’s really, but the one I carried.”
Sheriff Wright placed the knife in a bag he carried over his arm and pushed up his glasses. “You carried it on your person?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Frequently?”
“Whenever I went out. Sometimes at home as well.”
He nodded, pulling out his notebook to make notes. “I don’t see a knife on you at the moment, Miss Hodges. Are you carrying one?”
She took a deep breath. “No, sir. I…I don’t have one on me.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened to your knife, Miss Hodges?”
Dorothy didn’t want to tell him but knew she must. “M-Mr. Sinclair took it from me.”
The sheriff kept writing in the notebook. “Which Mr. Sinclair? There are three. Please try to be specific, Miss Hodges.”
“Charles Sinclair.”
The man nodded. “Why did Charles Sinclair take your knife from you, Miss Hodges?”
“I…” Words fled from her tongue. She could think of nothing to say.
Sheriff Wright looked up from his notebook. “Did you have an altercation with Charles Sinclair, Miss Hodges?”
“Y-yes, I did, but—”
“It was you!” The stranger who had alerted everyone to the alleged murder exclaimed, using a voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear him. He turned toward the staring people. “She just admitted it! The girl had a fight with Charles Sinclair! Then, she went back and killed him because of it. I knew that I recognized that knife!”
Sheriff Wright silenced the man, but Dorothy felt ill. She could feel the stares and hear the whispers. For some reason, the look of pure horror that Artie Sinclair sent in her direction made her want to run.
How she got through the rest of the interview, Dorothy hardly knew. She told about the altercation with Charles Sinclair and her father’s debt, wondering if Sheriff Wright believed her. She couldn’t read his face or his voice. When the man crossed back to Artie, presumably to corroborate anything that he knew, Dorothy sighed wearily.
I’m a suspect. Dear Lord, how did I become a murder suspect?
She’d read Sherlock Holmes. While she had a definite respect for Sheriff Wright’s position, she also clearly recalled that suspects with evidence pointing their direction usually found themselves labeled guilty by the authorities, no matter whether they had actually committed the crime. She watched Sheriff Wright and Artie talk…her fear mounting.
What can he tell him? He’s…a Sinclair. What will he tell him?
A thought at the back of her head warned her that she needed to be more charitable. Artie Sinclair may be his father’s son, but as of yet, she had not seen anything questionable about his personal character. She certainly had no real reason to believe that he would lie to the Sheriff, even if the truth would tell against his father.
The stranger grinned in her direction, and Dorothy shuddered. There is nothing to be happy about. Nothing at all. He accused me of murder a bit ago.
She glanced at the sun, hesitated twice, then made her way to Sheriff Wright hesitantly. He and Artie both turned toward her when she reached them.
“I-I apologize, sheriff…It’s just that…If I don’t begin walking soon, it will be quite dark before I can reach home. D-do you need me for anything else?”
The sheriff peered down at her for a moment through his round glasses, as if he could see through any possible façade she might attempt. At last, he shook his head. “You may go home, Miss Hodges. I know where you live if I need anything else.”
She had no idea how the sheriff knew any such thing, but she didn’t take the time to ask. She thanked him, glanced toward Artie, and began her homeward march.
She heard someone describing plans to gather a posse to go into the mountains to search for the missing body. Someone had arrived in an automobile from the Sinclair house, announcing that Charles Sinclair hadn’t been seen since the night before. Artie could confirm that point only until he left the house.
The voices faded away as Dorothy kept walking.
Lord, where hath my father gone? I haven’t seen him in twelve days. She raised her eyes toward the majestic mountain range. If there has been a murder in the Superstition Mountains… How do I know my father isn’t the one who has been murdered? How do I know that he hasn’t been murdered by Charles Sinclair?