Tortoise Soup (20 page)

“What about Garrett?” I asked. “Were you able to get any more information on him?”

Lizzie licked bits of Ring Ding off her fingers. “Sure did. Seems he’s been on Alpha’s board for the last four years. But that’s not all. He’s got company.”

Lizzie paused and waited. Digging through my purse, I pulled out a packet of Yankee Doodles and threw them her way.

“Good going, Rach. Okay. Two of our other upstanding commissioners are also on Alpha’s board. Jim Borden and Mike Sears. What is it they say? Scum travels in packs?”

Obviously what was good for Alpha Development was also good for half the members of the county commission. It certainly gave Alpha a foothold for any federal land that might be released.

“By the way, how did the date go last night? Did you score?” Lizzie asked, grinning provocatively.

“Yeah. I landed myself a snake.” And I didn’t just mean the rattler I’d won. “Take a look at this.” I dredged through my bag and pulled out Annie’s quit claim deed.

Lizzie took the paper and read it over. “Yeah, so what’s the big deal? It’s a transfer of mining claims.”

“The deal is that Brian told me Golden Shaft had never approached Annie McCarthy. He made a point of telling me that her claims were worthless,” I informed her.

“Well, obviously this deed never went through. You can see that she didn’t sign,” Lizzie pointed out.

“That’s what I want to check out. Do you think you can tap into the Recorder’s computer system for me?” I asked.

Lizzie wiggled her fingers. “Not to worry. These little gems can find whatever you need to know. But listen, don’t jump to conclusions so fast. There’s probably some good explanation. After all, you like the guy, right?”

“What excuse can there be? That it happened to slip his mind?”

“Maybe he felt it wasn’t important since it didn’t go through.” Lizzie thought a moment. “Or maybe somebody else John Hancocked his name.”

I shot her a skeptical glance. The problem was, I wanted to believe her.

“It could happen. Suppose someone outside the mine wanted to impress Golden Shaft by getting the old woman to sign away her claims? Brian’s signature could have been forged on the deed to make it look official.” Lizzie gave a smug smile. “Case solved.”

“Anyway, complications have arisen,” I said, wanting to move off the subject. “Santou called. He’s flying in tomorrow.”

“Ooh! This is so hot.” Lizzie gave a quick shimmy. “A love triangle. Wear the black dress again.”

That dress had already gotten me in enough trouble.

“By the way, I need one more favor.” I pulled out the turkey sandwich I’d brought for her lunch.

“What? No soda?” she pouted.

I produced a can of Coke from the bottom of my bag. “I need to get someone’s home address.”

“So why don’t you just call them and ask for it?” Lizzie opened the sandwich and sniffed at the meat. “Ooh, real turkey breast!”

“I’m afraid that if I call, she’ll recognize my voice,” I explained. “And she may not want to give it to me.”

Lizzie nodded understandingly. “No problem. Just give me the name and number.”

I did so, and she picked up the phone and dialed Golden Shaft. “Is this Dee Salvano? Hi, I’m with Publishers Clearing House. I’m just checking to make sure you’re the Salvano we’re looking for. Did you happen to send in an entry a while ago? Great. One more question. I need to verify that you are the correct person. Could you state your address for me, please.”

Lizzie wrote it down and gave me a thumbs up. “Thanks, Dee. You’re one of our three finalists. We’ll be in touch if you’re the lucky winner.

“Ta dah!” Hanging up the phone, Lizzie handed me the address with a flourish.

“I’m impressed.” The girl deserved to be a star. “But wasn’t that a bit risky? After all, how do you know that she even bothers to open junk mail, let alone answer it?”

Lizzie took a bite of her turkey sandwich. “Get real, Rach. This is gambling country. Who’s gonna live here and not bet on winning a cool million?”

Lizzie had a point. My bungalow was chock-full of magazines I’d ordered from entering contests and then never bothered to read. I picked up my bag and headed for the door.

“Thanks for the help, Lizzie,” I said, waving good-bye.

“Make it tuna next time,” she called after me.

The conservation center seemed to be the next logical place to hit, after learning about Bill Holmes’s high and mighty connections. But Holmes was nowhere to be found. If any of the staff knew where he was, they weren’t talking. I cornered a portly guy in baggy jeans with ragged cuffs for a quick interrogation.

I hit him with a right. “Does Holmes usually take days off unannounced?”

“I don’t know,” the young biologist ducked.

I hit him with a left. “Did he call in sick?”

“Can’t say,” the scientist swerved.

I countered with a jab. “Is he at home now?”

“I’m with the Smithsonian. I don’t know where he lives,” my opponent blocked.

I moved in for the kill. “Then he
is
at home!”

“It didn’t come from me!” The biologist quickly turned and walked away.

Uppercut and knockout.

I jumped in the Blazer and pulled Holmes’s list of addresses out of the glove compartment. I also dragged out a map, hoping to decipher my way. Then I stepped on the gas and made a beeline for one of Vegas’s newer subdivisions.

Holmes’s street address was in the middle of a ritzy development. I double-checked his list to make sure I hadn’t gotten it wrong; but there were no two ways about it. Holmes was living among the
crème de la crème
. Either he was quite a nifty saver or something else was supplementing his income.

I pulled into his driveway and let Pilot out as I headed for the front door. The doorbell chimed a few classical notes, but no one was home. That made it the perfect time to snoop around. I peered through the front windows and saw that Holmes was sorely lacking in the decor department. A purple bean-bag chair sat plopped in the middle of the living room, positioned in front of a thirty-five-inch-screen TV. Above it hung a black velvet portrait of Elvis decked out in enough sequins to have made Liberace drool. There was no other furniture in sight.

I moved around to the back of the house as Pilot occupied himself marking the only bush on the grounds. Rounding a corner, I nearly tripped over a makeshift cactus garden badly in need of water. Next to it stood a small plastic pool that was bare. I pulled an empty bucket up to the back window and turned it upside down to stand on top, catching a glimpse of Holmes’s kitchen. This room appeared to be a little more lived in, with a yellow Formica table and four green plastic yard chairs. A clock with dice in place of the hours hung above his stove. On the floor was a plastic mat with a water bowl and a dish full of food that looked crusty and old. I leaned in closer, pressing my face against the glass to get a better view, when something jumped up, startling me badly. A tabby cat rubbed its body against the window and then turned to hiss at me, warning away an unwanted intruder.

I retraced my tracks to the front of the house in time to catch Pilot uprooting the lawn. Fortunately none of the neighbors had appeared to scream at us yet. I decided to press my luck. Heading for the double garage, I jimmied the door, pulled it open, and walked inside.

A flashy red Miata sports car sat ready to rock and roll. I supposed that if you were going to live in a neighborhood like this, you had to at least give the impression you belonged here.

I looked around his garage. It was obvious that Holmes was no handyman; there were no tools in sight—only a large garden hose that lay rolled up in the corner like a sleeping boa. For a moment, I seriously thought about giving his cactus a spritz. I walked over and tapped the hose with my foot, and saw a can of spray paint nestled among the coils. Leaning down, I picked it up, curious as to what Holmes could be decorating. The color of the paint was a bright neon-green.

Like the stenciled tortoise I’d seen at the Center and the one in Annie’s bathroom. My mind began to race. It seemed possible that an arrogant little twit like Holmes would have the audacity to steal tortoises right out from under the county’s nose—and it would help to explain his influx of extra cash. But I couldn’t see him as a coldblooded killer. Still, how many people kept cans of neon-green spray paint hanging around?

I put the can back and left the garage, closing the double door. Pilot sulked as I dragged him away from his work in progress, refusing to get back in the Blazer until I gave him a rawhide bone. At this point, a can of neon green spray paint would only prove that Holmes had bad taste. I needed something more solid to go on. I pondered the problem as Pilot proceeded to decimate his toy, but nothing came to mind.

I pulled out my cellular phone and checked the machine at work in order to kill some time. To my surprise, Harley’s voice came at me loud and clear.

“Listen, Porter. I’m calling about the other day. We better talk. You’re a newcomer to the West and have to understand how things work out here. So I’m gonna give you a second chance. Head on out this way again and it’ll be one-on-one this time. Just come alone and you’ll be fine.”

Interesting that both Monty Harris and Harley found it necessary to teach me how things work in their West. Though it was like learning ethics from Machiavelli, I’d be a fool to turn down his invitation. But, if Harley thought I planned to set foot out there without Pilot, he was sorely mistaken.

I was still thinking about Harley when my cell phone rang. As far as I knew, only Sam had my number, and I seriously doubted that he’d interrupt his downtime to jingle me for a chat. I fumbled with the phone, finally answering on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” I half expected the call to be a wrong number.

“Back off, Porter,” a mechanically distorted voice hissed in my ear.

I glanced around, as if someone might be there. But not a soul was in sight.

“Who is this?” I demanded.

“You value your health? ’Cause you’re about to lose it,” the diabolical whisper threatened.

God, I hated anonymous threats. “Yeah, that’s what my personal trainer keeps telling me. You wanna give me a clue here, buddy?” I asked belligerently.

“This is your only warning,” the metallic voice continued. “Either stay out of the way, or we’ll blow your fucking head off.”

“It’s thoughtful of you to call, but how can I stay out of your way if I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

My question was answered with a click as the line went dead. I had no doubt that the voice meant every word it had said. The problem was that the message could have come from anyone and been about anything. And I’d be damned if I’d wind up the subject of some hackneyed obituary without knowing why.

I thought about my anonymous phone call on the way out to Harley’s. I wondered if Holmes had spotted me at his house and was trying to scare me off. It could also have been either Randall or Deloyd, frustrated that I had walked away the other day. Let alone anyone connected with the tortoises, Annie, or the mine. But none of that explained how someone had managed to get hold of my cell phone number.

As before, Harley knew I had arrived by the time I reached the top of his drive. Dressed in the same plain shirt and worn-out jeans, he sat motionless on his horse, appearing to view me with much the same interest he would an itinerant piece of tumbleweed. I got out of the Blazer as he silently eyed Pilot. Then he slowly raised his focus to me.

“I see you brought your dog again,” Harley commented in a flat drawl.

A large chaw of tobacco was pushed into one side of his cheek, making me think of a squirrel storing food for the winter. Harley turned his head and spat out a dark stream of tobacco juice, staining the dry desert floor.

“He goes where I go,” was all I said.

Harley pulled at the brim of his hat. “You know, I’d have shot you by now if it wasn’t for the fact you’re a woman.”

He was clearly a dyed-in-the-wool sexist, but whatever kept me from being gun bait was okay by me.

“Hell, you might as well come on up to the house. No sense in us facing off here in the middle of the road.”

I got back in the Blazer and followed him over the rocky dirt path that I assumed was his driveway. By the time we reached his ranch house, a large covey of miniature Harleys had gathered to greet us.

“These are my kids,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

He tied up his horse as Pilot and I got out of the car. I counted fourteen children in all, ranging from about two years of age to eighteen. Each had a mop of unruly blond hair and distrustful blue eyes, with a mouth that turned down as though they’d been regularly force-fed spoonfuls of cod liver oil. His wife was nowhere in sight. I figured she was probably too tired to venture outside.

I was wrong. I heard a crash inside the house and a scraggly cat the color of orange marmalade came flying out through the front door spread-eagled, and landed at my feet. The feline pulled itself up, took one startled look at Pilot, and the hair on its head flew up as straight as a porcupine’s quills. Pilot let out a roar and started to lunge. I grabbed onto his collar and dug my feet into the ground, but the cat wasn’t sticking around. Emitting a bloodcurdling shriek, it took off around the back of the house. A similar screech arose from inside the ranch.

“Stay the hell out of this goddamn house, you miserable critter, before I cook your skinny ass and serve it for dinner!” a woman’s voice threatened.

Another crash added emphasis to her statement. Except for the part about the skinny ass, I hoped she wasn’t talking about me. I ducked as a pie tin flew over my head, scattering the children in all directions. Then Harley’s wife came into view.

“This here is LuAnn.” Harley nodded toward her, keeping his eyes carefully aimed at the ground. LuAnn’s frame filled the doorway. After bearing fourteen children, she had apparently lost all interest in her appearance. Or maybe it was in order to keep Harley away. Part of her hair was pinned on top of her head; the rest hung in ragtag strings down to her shoulders. A faded cotton housedress, held together in front by a series of safety pins, was splattered with the remnants of eggs and oatmeal from that morning’s breakfast. While the kids had inherited Harley’s eyes, there was no mistaking the fact that each had her mouth. Deep creases at both corners of her lips split the bottom half of her face lengthwise. Her eyes, small though they were, appeared even tinier, lost in a sea of flesh, while her nose had the width of an animal’s snout, all adding up to a slightly piggish appearance. She clenched a sharp paring knife in a hand as pink and round as a ham while she sized me up as though taking my measurements for that evening’s dinner.