Arizona Homecoming (5 page)

He took a long gulp of his water before answering, “Yes, a long time ago I went to church. Why are you asking?”

“It was at church that I found out you were building this house.”

“You mean people were praying for me before I even arrived?”

“No, more like people were talking about you. I heard about it from your mailman.”

“That’s a first. I don’t think I’ve received any mail here.”

“It was added to his route. He mentioned it to me and said he’d driven by this lot after delivering mail nearby. I almost fell out of the pew when he described some builder out at Ancient Trails Road already making decisions about where to put utilities, a septic system and driveway.”

“Still not doing so well with driveways,” Donovan mourned.

“And I am not doing so well in stopping you.” She’d offered God a dozen apologies throughout that day because after what the mailman shared, she’d not heard a word of the sermon.

Emily had lost valuable time. The land had already been sold and paid for, making her protests too little and too late. Donovan Russell had been a brick wall when it came to reason.

She’d always been more of a husky, taking hold and shaking until she got her way. And she hated losing.

“You’ve stopped me now. I still don’t have a full crew and I’ve been advised to leave the area around the grave alone, just in case it’s a crime scene.”

“That’s why I’m here.” She finished her water and stood. “I want to see if there’s anything I missed.”

He stood, too, but didn’t move toward the door. “I don’t think there’s as much as a rock left. They bagged everything.”

“I want to see if I can figure how he got there—”

Donovan finished her sentence. “Vehicle, animal, footprints or shoe marks.”

“Yes,” she said slowly.

“They did all that.”

“What did they decide?”

“That they agreed with your original assessment that the body had been here more than thirty years.”

“I really wish it had been here two hundred and thirty years.”

“Life’s not always fair.”

* * *

Emily wasn’t telling Donovan something he didn’t already know.

He followed her back through the living room and foyer and out to the crime scene. Except for the cordon tape and markers, it was just a hole.

“I’d think it was ready for a hot tub if it wasn’t in the front yard,” Donovan tried to joke.

She, apparently, didn’t think he was funny.

“So, what are we going to do first?” he queried. She didn’t answer, just stood looking down at where the skeleton used to be.

The whole thing spooked Donovan somewhat. He just wished he could, in good conscience, fill the hole back in. Without meaning to, he stepped too close to the edge of the hole so a few kernels of dirt fell back into the grave.

Emily’s eyes grew big.

“What?”

“I can’t help but think of Ecclesiastes and ‘the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.’”

He nodded, thinking she was a whole lot more connected to the earth and to family than he was.

“Just think,” she said softly, “some mother, wife, sister, daughter, might be waiting for the return of a man who no longer lives. He’s been buried in this shallow grave and forgotten.” She never ceased to surprise him. Compassion was a trait he knew he needed to develop.

“The only clue to his identity,” she continued, “a knife that looks identical to one my father owns, down to the initials.”

“A knife your father still has,” Donovan reminded her. It somewhat amazed him that their roles had switched, and now he wanted to stop work and help her. The woman whose job it was to ruin his day, either by producing a five-page petition with the names of Apache Creek residents who didn’t want their view marred by a minimansion, or by going to her knees next to what could have been the ancient bones of a Native American, claiming there might be more and gloating that she’d be here a long time.

He almost wished it had been a Native American skeleton. Then, her father wouldn’t be under suspicion.

“It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” she muttered.

“Hey, I grew up on a dairy farm in Mytal, Nebraska. I know a lot about haystacks. I know which cow needs to maintain her weight, and where to spread the hay, and—” For the past two months, she’d been a thorn in his side always ready to battle. He liked that Emily better. This dejected one was out of character. Still, his attempt to encourage her didn’t seem to be working.

Her expression was so serious that he knew he had to help. It surprised him, the sudden need. “I watched the authorities all last week. I know where they looked and where they didn’t.”

It took her a moment. He watched as she inhaled, a big breath that seemed to fill her. Then she drew herself up to her full height and nodded. “Let’s do it.”

John Westerfield chose that moment to make the mistake of coming outside to see what they were doing. Donovan should have texted him and warned,
Avoid front of house until I call you.

“You can help,” Emily informed John, running to her truck and retrieving trash bags that she quickly handed out.

“She’s always been a bit high maintenance,” John said.

Donovan believed him. For the next two hours, they walked a square mile, what Emily called a grid, slowly. She told them to pick up anything that didn’t belong, anything suspicious. He doubted the old shoe, candy wrappers, beer can or piece of tire he’d stowed in his garbage bag was going to help.

John’s contribution was a page from an old newspaper, ripped in half, and a dozen bullet casings, which he wanted to keep.

Her cache wasn’t much better. She also had candy wrappers, plus ten beer cans, what appeared to be a section of tarp and thirty-five cents.

Still, she looked quite happy.

When she drove away, he realized he’d only seen her smile twice, when she first saw the bones and now leaving with her trash.

He slowly walked back to the Baer house. He understood ceramic tile more than he did women.

* * *

Tuesday morning, Emily got to the museum early. She had a lot to do. At the trustees meeting, she’d been encouraged to plan some kind of activity to get people to the museum, similar to the library’s celebration of its sixtieth birthday this coming Saturday.

She knew for a fact that the library had more funding than she did—maybe because they made money on overdue books.

She also knew that unless she got more private funding, the museum would be in danger of closing down. Her biggest enemy was its location. The Lost Dutchman Museum was part of eighty acres of land and only this tiny portion had been donated to the city. The rest belonged to the Pearl Ranch, and Emily didn’t know the Pearl who still owned the land. He or she didn’t live in Apache Creek, hadn’t in decades.

After walking the museum’s main room and ascertaining that all was well, she sat at her computer and researched other museums in Arizona. Comparatively, she curated at a very small one. Most of the museums that had special events were bigger, and in every case those events called for bringing exhibits from other museums in. The Lost Dutchman Museum was so tiny that lending a small Salado bowl was really something. She’d only be able to ask for something small in return.

That wouldn’t generate visitors.

If she were to have some sort of event, it had to be museum themed.

Unlocking the door, she flipped the sign to Open and wished there were a line waiting.

Back at her computer, she checked emails. Some were from college students who’d been passed her name by their professors. She answered a few questions and for the others, she provided names of people who could help.

Two people queried about job openings.

She managed not to laugh.

The Heard Museum sent her a photo of her Salado bowl. It looked lost among the others being displayed.

At the end of more than three dozen emails came a query that surprised her. In the United States there were very few museums that centered only on Native American artifacts. Her final email was from the curator at the Native American Heritage Museum, asking if she was looking for work and included a job description that advertised a salary three times larger than what she was making in Apache Creek.

Not wanting to be rude, she sent a thank-you.

Not even for three times the money did she intend to move. Apache Creek was in her blood, and her blood lived in Apache Creek.

With that, she looked up and smiled at the museum’s first visitor of the day.

Six hours later, at four, she closed and locked the door. On the computer, she filled in the daily accounts, entering the number of visitors, what souvenirs sold—the Lost Dutchman Gold Map was the top seller, followed by pens shaped like a pickax—and her hours.

Then she headed home.

“You working the floor tonight?” Elise queried her at the front desk. Emily’s whole life she’d walked through a dude ranch front desk and down a hallway to where the family lived. The family was getting smaller, though, with Eva, and soon Elise, moving.

Granted, both weren’t moving far.

“Yes.”

“I rented out two of the cabins as well as one of the rooms. I expect we’ll be a little busier tonight. Did Sam call and say if anything you found yesterday while walking the Baer place was helpful?”

“No, he hasn’t called.”

Elise shook her head. “I spent a long time talking with Cook. He has no clue if he attended the Prescott Rodeo all those years ago. He says they all blur together after a while.”

“Probably for Dad, too. What year would that have been? Did Dad remember?”

“He says nineteen seventy-eight or nine.”

“Sounds about right. Dad would have been in his twenties.” Emily took off down the hallway. On each side were photos. A few were of a twenty-something Jacob. Her favorite showed him on a horse in full gallop heading for the camera. His hat was on, but you could see his longish hair breezing from the sides. He leaned forward slightly. His face was mostly in shadow, but no one could fail to notice its beauty.

She’d said that once to her dad, almost to the very word.

Men aren’t beautiful
, he’d responded.

Mom thought you were beautiful
, Eva had piped up. If Emily remembered, that had been the year Eva went off to the university, driving back and forth every day to Tempe because she couldn’t bear to leave the ranch.

Elise and Emily were a little more willing to spread their wings, but both had flown back.

In a matter of minutes, Emily was out of her museum shirt and khakis and into her blue Lost Dutchman Ranch shirt and jeans with a black apron tried around her waist.

The dining room was at the back of the main house. Picnic tables held guests, visitors and employees. The atmosphere was meant to be fun and relaxed. They did not serve a four-star meal. Tonight’s menu was barbecue pork, beans and potato chips. All homemade by Cook, who’d traveled with Jacob on the rodeo and retired at an early age to work at the Lost Dutchman. His specialty was Mexican food, but actually there wasn’t a food type he couldn’t produce.

Meals were served buffet style with only one server walking around, taking orders, and making sure all the guests had what they needed.

At the back of the restaurant was a game room, mostly a kids’ area, complete with a television for watching movies or playing video games. This late in June, as hot as it was, they didn’t get many kids.

An hour into her shift, Emily’s cell sounded. She took it out and checked the screen: Jane de la Rosa. Looking around, she noted her dad sitting at his favorite table with one of the families who’d checked in today—strangers becoming friends—and Jilly Greenhouse, who lived in the house closest to the Lost Dutchman Ranch. Ducking into the kids’ game room, she answered.

“You’ll never guess! Never,” Jane said.

“Aren’t you working?”

“Yes, though we’re pretty slow tonight.” Jane worked at the Miner’s Lamp, the rustic restaurant in town. It had been around even longer than the Lost Dutchman Ranch.

“What do you want me to guess?”

“I waited on a man tonight. He’s still here. He’s an EPA inspector out of Phoenix—don’t ask me what EPA stands for—who came to check some sort of levels at the Baer house.”

“Okay...” Emily tried to figure why this was news. Since the groundbreaking, Donovan had had one inspector after another at the Baer place.

“Well, I heard this guy on the phone. I guess the levels of something called radon gas were high.”

“And that’s bad?” Emily queried.

“Bad enough that when Donovan called Baer with the news, Baer apparently said to halt construction.”

“For how long?”

“Maybe for good,” Jane said. “The inspector was on the phone with his boss. He sounded a bit surprised. I’m wondering if Baer’s getting fed up. I mean first it’s you protesting, then it’s a skeleton and now this.”

Emily should have felt elated, should have jumped for joy, but all she could picture was the brown-haired man who’d walked in the hot sun for hours picking up an old shoe and plenty of beer cans just because she’d asked him to.

Chapter Five

D
onovan called it a day. Even with the evac cooler, it was too hot to do much more than complain. It annoyed Donovan that he, out of everyone, did most of the complaining about the heat.

The floors were scheduled for next week; he’d call to reschedule. Surely Baer would come to his senses soon. There wasn’t a house in Apache Creek that didn’t have radon levels. The inspector had even taken the phone and spoken to Baer personally.

But George Baer said to wait. And, Donovan heard something in the man’s voice that hadn’t been there before. A subtle annoyance, the slapping of hands, sounding very much like a silent
I’m done
.

Donovan very much wanted to be done. He wanted to get back to the life he’d planned for himself: traveling, building the types of structures he wanted to build, adventure. But the phone call he’d made to Nolan Tate hadn’t changed Donovan’s situation. According to Tate, there was no place to put Donovan, so he could just wait.

Great. Every day he worked for Nolan Tate was one step closer to paying his debt to the man. Being out of work meant no debt eliminated and Donovan working for the man longer than he wanted to.

Turning on the camper’s generator, he stepped inside, shed his clothes and hopped into the tiny shower.

Looking for evidence had been hot and tiring. Emily hadn’t been bothered by the heat at all. She’d managed to look as if being outdoors, slow roasted, was an everyday occurrence. He’d checked the weather in California, the location of his next scheduled job if Tate didn’t change his mind. If everything worked out, Donovan would be there at the end of July, beginning of August, about the time Apache Creek, Arizona, went from slow roast to extreme grill.

And there was nothing else for Donovan to do for over a month until the California project.

He wanted to laugh. It was almost too funny. He’d had to take this job with Baer, had compromised his talent for money and now was stuck in small-town Arizona living in his camper.

He’d need to find an RV park soon, now that he was no longer employed. June in Apache Creek, that shouldn’t be a problem. Snowbirds—those who sojourned in this part of Arizona because of the mild winter weather—didn’t start arriving until late September or early October.

The next few phone calls were hard to make. Donovan could employ John until the end of the week. Tate Luxury Homes didn’t leave a mess behind. Helping with cleanup wasn’t fun, and John didn’t take it well.

Smokey answered on the third ring and said he already had a new job offer for him and his cousins.

All that Donovan had left to do was take care of himself. No way did he want to go weeks without money coming in, and if he wasn’t supervising a job, he wasn’t getting a paycheck.

Donovan hesitated a moment—after all, the man he was about to call had spent part of the previous morning being interrogated by the police. Jacob Hubrecht might not be in the best of moods.

“You calling to find out what happened at the police station?” Jacob said immediately after hello.

“No, Emily was here recently. She kept me informed.”

“Did she tell you that, without knowing the identity of the body and time of death, the only questions asked of me were ‘What else can you tell us about the knife?’ and ‘Were you ever in the vicinity where the body was discovered?’”

“No.”

“Only thing I could tell the cops was that the wife and I often rode horses in the area after we first married.”

“She did tell me a bit about that.”

While they’d walked the Baer property, she’d painted a picture of Jacob and Naomi Hubrecht that sounded too good to be true: young, in love, doing everything together.

Donovan looked from the camper’s window at the almost-complete Baer home and tried to imagine a young couple on horseback, riding the land just because they wanted to.

He’d had a horse up until junior high; Risky Business had been his best friend. Then, about the time Risky developed laminitis, Donovan discovered sports and girls.

Funny, Donovan had locked away the memory of Risky Business, preferring to remember all the things he didn’t like about growing up on a dairy farm. He didn’t particularly want a good memory to surface now.

It didn’t belong in his life today.

“I’m looking for a job,” Donovan said, thinking about the months he might go without a paycheck.

“Emily said something about radon gas levels being high.”

Donovan closed his eyes. Already the whole town knew. “Yes, Baer’s halted construction for a while.” Donovan purposely made it sound like a temporary stoppage. “I’ve a month, maybe a month and a half, to devote to your Tinytown.”

“Good to know. Draw up a contract and let’s get started.”

“Monday soon enough?”

Ending the call, Donovan knew of at least one person besides Jacob who benefitted from Baer’s withdrawal but for a different reason. Emily Hubrecht. Donovan hoped she didn’t gloat too much.

* * *

Emily shook her head at the crowded parking lot. Why couldn’t the museum have a day like this? Just a little after seven in the morning, and the parking lot was full. Gathering up her storyteller bag, she walked two blocks before reaching her destination. It looked as if the library’s sixtieth birthday with a morning full of both indoor and outdoor festivities had drawn a crowd. Emily checked her watch as she strolled up the sidewalk. It was just a quarter after. The festival had started fifteen minutes ago and was already going full steam.

“Hey, Emily!” Eva had left the house early this morning. Her husband, Jesse, had come along to help set up a Native American loom so Eva could put on a live demonstration. She was dressed in a burnt-red manta, a plain cotton dress with a decorative, beaded belt around her protruding belly and moccasins. One of Eva’s blankets was today’s top raffle prize—all proceeds going to the library.

“Hi, Emily!” Jane de la Rosa was in a booth a little ways down from Eva, selling green eggs and ham inspired by Dr. Seuss. This was, after all, a library event. Jane wore a red floppy hat. Not for the first time, Emily wished Jane would find someone, settle down and have a dozen kids. She was a natural-born mother. The line in front of her was ten deep, and the picnic tables were full.

Behind the library, in a vacant lot, Emily’s father drove a tractor hitched to a wagon stocked with just enough hay bales for seats. The town’s librarian, Lydia Hamm, had asked him to dress up like a classic storybook cowboy. She’d been thinking Sheriff Woody from
Toy Story
. He arrived in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Lydia probably forgave him because, along with a red neckerchief, he wore cowboy boots and a dusty Stetson. He’d stay until the crowd waned, then head home because he’d left Elise alone at the ranch.

On the other side of the library, where there were no booths, a scavenger hunt was just beginning. Emily checked her watch. She had thirty minutes before story hour, and she knew exactly what she was going to say. Setting her bag of props on the ground against a tree, she went over to Timmy and said, “You need any help?”

“I’m in second grade,” he answered indignantly. Still, he showed her a list.

1. A Feather—honoring
   The Indian in the Cupboard
   
2. A Bag of Potato Chips—honoring
   The Very Hungry Caterpillar
   
3. Something Round and Orange—honoring
   James and the Giant Peach
   
4. A Mirror—honoring
   Sleeping Beauty
   
5. A Stuffed Beaver—honoring
   The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
   
6. A Wand—honoring
   Harry Potter
   
7. A Packet of Seeds—honoring
   The Secret Garden
   

“I promise, after the scavenger hunt, I’ll come listen to your story.”

“What do you win if you find everything?” a familiar voice asked from behind her.

Emily turned to find Donovan Russell. She hadn’t even heard his approach. Now he leaned over, checking out Timmy’s list.

“I get to pick one of the books,” Timmy announced.

“So,” Donovan queried, “you might get a copy of
The Secret Garden
?”

“No. I want
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
. Eva says I’ll like it.”

“You will,” Donovan agreed.

“You’ve read it?” Emily questioned.

“Yes, but I liked
The Great Divorce
more.”

“I don’t like divorce,” Timmy said, and Emily gave Donovan a look that said
Don’t go there
.

The whistle blew, indicating the start of the hunt. Timmy shot them a look, letting them know they’d delayed him, and then took off running.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Emily said as she went to retrieve her bag.

Donovan didn’t follow. Emily turned and watched as he read the scavenger-hunt list aloud to a little girl too young to decipher the words. When he joined her, he said, “I closed the Baer place yesterday, and I don’t start working for your father until Monday—that is, if he agrees to the contract. I’ve got a free weekend.”

“I’m sorry...” She wasn’t quite sure what to say. She wasn’t sorry the job shut down, but she was sorry that it affected Donovan. If not for where he built and his not respecting why he shouldn’t build there, she could almost like him.

Almost.

“It’s not the first time my plans have changed,” Donovan said.

She nodded, hoping she didn’t look smug about what had happened at the Baer place. Radon gas was not how she wanted to halt building. “Once the mystery surrounding the body is solved, I’m heading out to Ancient Trails Road. I want to poke around a bit, outside the Baer property, to see what I can find.”

“We didn’t find a single artifact,” Donovan reminded her.

“You wouldn’t know an arrowhead if it bit you.”

Donovan laughed. “There were other biting things to worry about.”

She laughed, too, liking the way the sun made his brown hair a tad golden, the way his eyes crinkled and how she had to look up at him. “My dad’s thrilled that you’ll get to work on Tinytown.”

“I’m looking forward to it, too.”

Together, they walked around the last few booths, one for used books and the others for arts and crafts.

“Why don’t you have a booth?” he asked after a few minutes of companionable silence.

“What?”

“Advertising the museum.”

“You mean the museum you’ve never visited?”

“Ouch.” He put a hand over his heart. “In my defense, I’ve been busy. Who’s working it today?”

“I’ll head over there once I’m done here. I’ve a sign on the door telling any tourists—there’s not many in June—that I’ll be back at noon and advising them to come here and enjoy themselves.”

“The curator’s ‘gone fishing’ ploy?”

“You can look at it that way,” she agreed.

“You still didn’t answer my question about why you don’t have a booth.”

“What would I do? The artifacts are too valuable to bundle up and bring over here. I could hand out brochures, but people would just throw them away.”

“What’s in your museum?”

She was a bit annoyed that he didn’t know. “We’ve the traditional arts and crafts, centuries-old artifacts, tools and such. We also have an exhibit on Jacob Waltz, the original Lost Dutchman. We’ve old prospector paraphernalia like spur rowels, drilling steel and one of my favorite pieces, a Spanish crossbow dart.”

Donovan nodded. “So, what you do is set up a gold-panning exhibit. Let the kids pan for fool’s gold. Tell them the history while they’re engaged. Let them keep some of what they pan. Make sure that whatever you store it in has the museum’s name, hours and even a discount coupon to be used during the hottest months.”

Emily bit back her surprise. “What? You have a degree in marketing?”

“A minor. I’m into building and selling homes. You better believe I know how to make a sale. Doesn’t matter if it’s a tangible product or a tourist tr—”

She gave him credit; he’d stopped himself from saying
tourist trap
.

“Or a tourist’s cultural landmark.”

“It’s an idea,” she agreed. “Too bad the library probably won’t celebrate its sixty-first birthday.”

She opened the library’s front door, feeling the air-conditioning and smelling the sweet aroma of books. She’d spent a lot of her childhood here. She’d read all the
Ramona
books, sometimes sitting on one of the beanbag chairs in the children’s section. She would reread the parts featuring Ramona’s mother and dream about her own mother. Those were her favorites. Sometimes she’d go back in time with
Little House on the Prairie
. Ma was a wealth of wisdom. It hadn’t occurred to Emily until she was in high school that none of the books she read had Native American families, Native American mothers.

She’d started writing one but never got past page ten because her imagination always seemed inclined to have the mother die.

She couldn’t write that storyline.

Couldn’t seem to get away from it, either.

So, she started reading Native American textbooks, biographies and history books. She couldn’t create fiction, but she could research fact.

Today she was a hundred pages into her family’s history. Of course, the book had taken a turn and included much of Apache Creek’s history.

Donovan put his hand on her shoulder. “You going to stand here, in the way, or enter?”

“Oh.”

She clutched her bag closer and headed for the bathroom, where she could change. Storytelling was an art form. Her big sister Eva had the loom. Elise had her riding skills. For Emily, it was both the spoken and written word.

When she finally exited the bathroom, attired in a black cotton dress with a yellow beaded belt and yellow boots, the children’s room was full. Timmy was in the front row, his welcoming smile displaying some missing teeth, with three of his best friends surrounding him. Her audience seemed to range from newborns to eighty-year-olds. Didn’t matter. Her plan for today involved toddlers to primary school students. After all, they were in the children’s section.

“Aliksa’i,”
she greeted.

“That means ‘most wonderful,’” Timmy informed the ground. “It also means ‘we’re about to begin.’”