The new day’s sun dyed the horizon bright pink and orange over the dark bulk of the Rincon Mountains. Cait and Jack drank coffee on the front patio of her brother’s cottage, listening to wake-up calls from mourning doves and Gambel quail.
Clad in warm sweats, Chris trotted toward them from the road to the visitor’s center. “Ready for breakfast?”
“Sounds great.” Cait turned to Jack, who looked to be in better spirits this morning.
“Ditto.”
“You can get things started while I jump in the shower. I’ll be out in a minute,” Chris said.
“How was your run?” Cait asked. “Coffee’s ready.”
“Thanks. I saw white-tailed Coues deer. They’re smaller than mule deer, beautiful critters,” Chris said.
Inside, Cait and Jack went to work on breakfast. She stirred scrambled eggs and mixed in green onions and shredded cheese while he got out plates and silverware.
“How’s the arm?”
“Better. Almost took a pain pill last night, but I held off. I slept well, considering. I can’t wait to get this cast off. It’s such a pain to deal with.”
“I fell asleep listening to coyotes,” she said. “So mysterious and beautiful. They sounded so near.”
“They were right outside. The park is their home.” Chris entered the living room/kitchen area. “I’m lucky I don’t have to live in the middle of Tucson. It’s no longer a sleepy desert town. Way too much traffic for my taste.”
“So you’re working today?” Cait asked as they sat down to breakfast.
“I have to go in for briefings and to pick up a uniform and supplies,” Chris said. “They’re anxious for me to start patrolling, partly because there’s a problem with someone poaching Gila monsters and damaging cactus.
“Really.” Cait looked up at him. “There’s a market for poisonous lizards?”
“Sure, a big one. They’re exotic enough that some collectors snap them up. Also, their skins bring a lot of money.”
“How does one go about rustling Gila monsters?” Jack asked.
“It’s not easy,” Chris said. “The lizards live underground and come out at night. Sometimes you’ll see them crossing roads in the morning, or find them in the desert. In the winter, they hibernate in burrows. Handling them is tricky. They’re not as quick as rattlers and their bite isn’t as poisonous, but it’s still very painful.”
“Who takes them?” Cait asked.
“Someone willing to kill,” Chris said. “I’m replacing a ranger who investigated poaching in Saguaro National Park and died by Javelina Rocks Overlook. Not far from here.”
“Jeez, and you’re continuing his investigation?” Jake asked.
“Her investigation. Cynthia Worless. She was a law enforcement ranger for ten years at Saguaro National Park, on the west and east sides.”
“And?” Cait pinched herself for being so impatient.
“She died of a broken neck. She was found below the boulders at the overlook, but she didn’t have a skull injury or broken bones, or the bruises and scrapes you’d get from a long fall. The coroner ruled that the death was suspicious. Maybe she saw something she wasn’t supposed to.”
“How valuable are these lizards?” Cait asked. “Who buys them?”
“I’ve heard a poacher can get up to $3000 for one. Maybe more. Collectors all over the world want Gila monsters, which are in demand because of their cool orange and black skin. A common blue belly lizard won’t do it for these people. Poachers go after other species, though. There’s a rumor that someone’s hunting ocelots in the Santa Ritas.” Chris scowled.
“I hope you’re well-armed when you’re out on patrol,” Jack said, “with a partner and access to quick backup.”
“Generally rangers patrol alone,” Chris said. “The people we run into are hikers and sightseers, harmless types. Whatever happened to Cynthia was an isolated incident.”
***
Fern Bush stood at a teller’s window inside a branch of Mesa Trust Credit Union on Speedway Boulevard and swiped her driver’s license in a log-in machine. “I’d like my balance, please.”
“One moment.” The teller clacked away on a key board and handed a receipt to Fern. “Mrs. Bush, you’re not earning any interest in your account for all that money. I can have someone talk to you about a CD or interest-bearing account, where you’ll earn good money each month on your principal.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got other plans.” Fern looked at the receipt; her account was richer by two hundred thousand dollars.
“I need a cashier’s check made out in this amount, to this person.” She pushed a slip of paper toward the teller. At the most, a bank would pay her less than one percent, unlike Rod Stone, who had promised her a rate of between ten and twenty percent.
Fifteen minutes, later, she returned to her car and joined the flow of fast traffic up Swan Road to the foothills of the Catalinas. After crossing the intersection with Sunrise, the road narrowed as it cut through more exclusive territory. A half mile past the driveway for the Ted DeGrazia Gallery compound, she turned onto Via Splendido. Two outsized custom-built homes loomed on either side of the road, properties that had sprung up in the past few years. At the end of Via Splendido, she took the long driveway to her house, set far back from the road.
Fern parked under the carport and listened to the engine of the old Mustang convertible tick as it cooled. The fold-down cover was faded and sported a few tears, and the engine was starting to burn oil. The bright red sports car had been Sam’s baby. She had forced herself to give away all his clothes and tools, but she couldn’t bear to part with the Mustang.
She climbed out and gave the door a gentle pat, as if the car was a sentient being. When her husband was alive and in good health, they went for a leisurely drive every Sunday, Sam behind the wheel and Fern pointing out interesting sights.
“Enough,” she told herself. “Stop dwelling on the past.”
She walked under large palo verde and mesquite trees shading the front of the house and let herself in the door. Making her way to the kitchen, she sat and took the cashier’s check out of her purse. Stared at it. $200,000 was a lot of money.
If only she could talk things over with Sam. She was certain he would reassure her she was doing the right thing. Wouldn’t he? She stuck the check back in her purse, went to the living room and put on CD with a mix of Frank Sinatra, Mel Torme and Tony Bennett, music she and Sam had enjoyed since the early days of their courtship and marriage.
She curled up in a lounge chair and closed her eyes. It had been weeks since she’d had a full night’s sleep, always waking up in the middle of the night, a vague sense of unease eating away at her peace of mind.
There was no one she could talk to. Her longtime neighbors down the street were gone. Bill and Charlene Robison, her best friends in Tucson, had moved to California four years ago to live near their kids and grandkids. Fern had gradually lost touch with them and hadn’t made other friends.
Of course she had her son Clark in New Mexico, but their relationship was distant. He had thrashed his way through life during adolescence, dropped out of high school and ran with kids Fern classed as wild. She refused to admit he had gotten his act together as an adult and built up a successful lapidary business. Neither she nor Sam, when he was alive, had forgiven Clark for the sins of his youth.
When Clark called to ask how she was doing, Fern chose not to confide in him. She still saw him as a rebellious teenager, not as an adult who might be able to help her.
The only person she had socialized with since the Robisons left town was Rod Stone, who she had met last fall at a “Fireflies and Flamenco” evening event at the Tohono Chul Botanical Gardens. She had also met people through volunteering at the county animal shelter, but she hadn’t found anyone who seemed like they wanted to be friends.
At the Tohono Chul event, she and Rod had talked and talked while waiting in a long line for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. To tell the truth, he had initiated things, and, feeling lonely, she had hung on to his every word.
Fern had accepted Rod’s invitation to go on a short hike the next morning. She had let her guard down under the influence of spectacular views of the craggy Catalinas, admitted how isolated she felt in the years since Sam died.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Rod had been solicitous. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, dealing with the passing of a loved one.”
“Thank you.” She had been flooded with emotion. “I don’t mean to unleash on you. It’s nice to be able to talk about it.”
“Any time,” Rod had said. “I’m happy to find someone who likes exploring the trails. How about hiking Seven Falls later this week? We can beat the heat with an early start.”
“I’d love to. But I’m slow.”
“Not a problem,” he’d assured her.
And so it went for a few weeks. When she learned he was an investment advisor, she had already grown to like and trust him. Rod had made some exploratory questions about her financial situation, and she readily admitted she knew nothing about investing.
Over coffee one morning at a Beyond Bread café, he told Fern she might be a good candidate for one of his investment products, which paid a monthly interest rate much higher than she could earn at a bank. And there was no stock market risk involved.
Now Fern blinked the sleep from her eyes. It took her a moment to realize where she was. The music had ended and late afternoon shadows dimmed the room.
She got up and tottered to the kitchen. Standing by the counter, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recollect what else she had planned to do that afternoon. It finally came to her.
After her trip to the bank, she’d forgotten to bring the cashier’s check to Rod Stone’s office. It was as if gremlins had conspired to befuddle her memory.
Sweat glistened on her forehead. Where had she put her keys and purse? She observed the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. Had the backsplash tile behind the stove and sink always been white?
Fatigue engulfed her. Going out again this afternoon was out of the question. Traffic would be heavy now, and she’d have to figure out how to get to the office address on his business card on Broadway Boulevard near Craycroft Road. She’d go tomorrow when she felt better.