Persons Missing or Dead Page 13

  “I think you’re right,” I said. “I wish I knew if she learned anything in Santa Fe.”

  “She didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  I asked, “Did she say anything about a woman named Virginia–Virginia Teresa Castillo, or Virginia Kennedy?”

  “Not to me.”

  I was running out of questions. “Do you know if she planned to go back to Santa Fe?”

  Marsha thought a minute and then said, “She said she would go to Cuba on her next weekend. But then she didn’t come to work. I think she didn’t go to Cuba.”

  Cuba! She must have learned about Rosa. I was excited. “Do you know why she wanted to go to Cuba? I asked. “Did she mention a Rosa?”

  “I think she only looked for her sister. Maybe her sister was in Cuba.”

  “Did she have enough money for such a trip? Did she have a passport?”

  “No, no, Mr. Corbin. Not that Cuba. She meant the little town past Bloomfield–up in the mountains.”

  I felt like I'd been kicked in the stomach. How could I be so stupid. I had driven through that Cuba not four months earlier. I had completely forgotten. I had to wonder if Smith understood any better than I had.

  “Maybe I should go to Cuba myself,” I said. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful.” I got up to go.

  Marsha stood up too. She put a hand out like she would take hold of my arm, but she didn't touch me. “Find who did this to her, so her spirit can rest.” She turned and walked out of the room.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said to her back. “Thanks again.”

  When I got to my pickup, I took out my Indian Country map and looked up Cuba. It was about 120 miles from Shiprock, two and a half to three hours away.

  I was excited about the possibilities in Cuba, but my visit to Shiprock had raised still more questions. If Candace Appleton was really Laura Strassburg, why would she be looking for a sister in Santa Fe, or Cuba, or Cortez? Wouldn’t her mother have said something to me if she had another daughter out this way? Did Laura even have a sister? Had Marsha misinterpreted something?

  It seemed more likely that in going to Santa Fe, Laura had been trying to find some trace of Virginia, as I had done. I wondered how she could have had more success than me. The obvious answer was that she had spent a lot more time and was only trying to find the mysterious Rosa. But how could she have known about Rosa?

  The big question now was whether or not Jimmy Smith had found Rosa. He had known about Cuba since Sunday. It was now Wednesday. If Smith found Rosa before I did, my chances were slim to none that I’d even be able to talk to her. I couldn’t reel in the road fast enough.

  It was looking more and more like the first storm of autumn as I sped south out of Bloomfield. It didn’t look like rain now, though. Only overcast and wind.

  When the road climbed into scattered ponderosa pines, I knew Cuba couldn’t be far. I had a vague memory of houses among the trees. I had no idea why the town was called Cuba, or even why it was there. Maybe the early settlers ran sheep, or perhaps there was a mine nearby. Maybe some settlers had come to Mexico by way of Cuba.

  I drove into the town and stopped at a little store which had a small “Post Office” sign sticking straight out from one front corner. This seemed like as good a place as any to begin my search. I went inside and asked the lady behind the counter if she knew of anyone in town that had worked for people named Kennedy in Santa Fe. At first I got nowhere, but after I explained who I was, and why I wanted to find a woman named Rosa, she sent me to see Rosa Cisneros.

  I was so proud of myself that I could hardly keep from jumping up and clicking my heels together. Only the knowledge that I’d probably fall on my butt and re-break my leg kept me earthbound. This could not be coincidence. Rosa Cisneros. It had to be the same Rosa. Best of all, I must have found her before Smith did. Cuba was so small everyone in town would have known if something happened to her.

  I found the house and knocked on the door. A little round woman with nearly white hair and black snapping eyes answered my knock.

  “Rosa Cisneros?”

  “Si.”

  “My name is Daniel Corbin. I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to find Maria Dolores Gil. Her mother is Virginia Kennedy.”

  “How did you come to me?”

  “Didn’t you work for Virginia?”

  Rosa stepped back and said, “You didn’t answer my question, Mister Corbin.”

  “Sorry. About six months ago, a woman named Laura Strassburg was also looking for Virginia Kennedy. I learned this morning that she was planning to come to Cuba.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A friend of hers, where she worked, in Shiprock.”

  Rosa looked at me for a few seconds and then asked, “Why didn’t this Laura person come herself?”

  “She’s dead. Someone killed her. Maybe because she was trying to find Virginia and Maria Dolores.”

  “Maybe you are that someone who killed her, no?”

  Why did everyone I talked to think I was the bad guy? Maybe it was because conventional wisdom said: You can’t trust an Indian with blue eyes. I said, “No, I assure you I am not the one who killed her. I didn’t know she was dead until her body was found a few days ago.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “You could telephone Sheriff Miller at the Dolores County, Colorado Sheriff’s office. He knows I didn’t kill her.”

  Rosa changed the subject. “Why would I know where this Virginia Kennedy is?”

  “Ricardo Valenzuela told me you would know where Virginia is. I need your help. She is in great danger.”

  Rosa looked at me for a minute. Then she said, “Why is she in danger? Why are you wanting to find Virginia?”

  “Her daughter’s real grandfather is a very rich man. He wants to find her before he dies. Another man knows of his search. He would kidnap the girl and hold her for ransom.”

  “You are a liar, gringo. Virginia’s father is dead. Alfredo Gil had no money, and his father too is dead.”

  I said, “You know Virginia is not the girl’s real mother. You know she adopted her. The lady, Laura Strassburg, who was coming to see you? She was a friend of the girl’s mother, Mary McLaughlin. Mary is the real mother. It is her father, Arthur McLaughlin, who wishes to find the girl.”

  “You lie. I have known Virginia Teresa since she was la niña. She is the child’s mother. I don’t know where she is anyway. Go away.” She slammed the door and left me standing on the step.

  I couldn’t leave without telling her the danger she was in. I knocked on her door. There was no sound, so I knocked again. She shouted, “Go away, or I call the police.”

  “I wish you would call them, Rosa. Listen to me. You are in danger, too. There is a man who would kill you to find Virginia. He has already hurt Ricardo Valenzuela and his wife.”

  Through the door I heard, “Then he will have to hurt me too. I don’t know where she is. Now go away.”

  “Please, Rosa.”

  “Go away, or I call the police.”

  “Call them. Be sure and tell them what I said.”

  “I don’t believe you. You are the one who would hurt Virginia. Now go.”

  I went back to the Post Office and asked if there was a policeman in town.

  “Why do you want a policeman?”

  “I’d like to talk to one. Rosa Cisneros is in danger. She won’t listen to me.”

  “Don’t worry about Rosa, gringo. We will look after her.”

  Sure you will, I thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was about a two-hour drive back to Durango. I used the drive to think about all the threads I’d found. I had run out of time. School was about to start, and I still had no idea where to find Cherish McLaughlin, or Maria Dolores Gil, or Maria Dolores Kennedy, or whatever other name she might be going by. It seemed entirely possible that Virginia would marry again after her split with Kennedy. And in spite of what Rosa Cisne
ros said, I suspected she did know something about Virginia’s whereabouts. Still, what could I do if she refused to talk to me? I could hardly stake her over an ant hill.

  I was certain that James W. Smith and Laura Strassburg had conspired to sell Mary McLaughlin’s baby. I couldn’t see Smith going back for the child unless he knew he had a sale. How did Virginia Teresa Kennedy fit into the picture? How did Smith know she wanted a baby? How did he even know her?

  Then I had a glimmer of an idea. Alfred Hill said he thought Virginia was going to college in Ohio. Mary McLaughlin was attending Miami of Ohio until she got pregnant. If I assumed Virginia was also at Miami of Ohio, then it was possible Virginia knew Mary and knew about the baby. Was there some reason she might want that particular orphaned child?

  I pictured in my mind the car sliding off the road and rolling down hill, the scramble to get the baby out, and the car bursting into flames. The news article had said nothing of injuries to Jimmy Smith or to the baby. Why was Mary unable to free herself from the wreckage? Then I thought about Carter’s theory that Smith had killed his partner and used the body to fake his own death. What if . . . ?

  Then I thought about the woman who called herself Laura Strassburg looking for a sister. What sort of sister would she lose track of? Maybe a sorority sister? Could it be Mary McLaughlin and Virginia Teresa were in a sorority together? The more I thought about the idea the more logical it seemed. If they were sorority sisters, it was possible that Mary had been in contact with Virginia after she met Jimmy Smith. Maybe Jimmy took Mary back to Oxford to show off her baby.

  Sorority sisters. That was something Mrs. McLaughlin would know about. Then another idea hit me. If there was a sorority, that was a lifetime thing. The sorority should have a current address for their alumni members. I was excited now.

  As soon as I got in the house, I called Mrs. Strassburg.

  When she answered, I identified myself and asked, “Mrs. Strassburg, do you have a good picture of Laura you could scan and email to me? I’d like a full length picture if you have one.”

  “I have a picture, but I don’t know anything about email–whatever that is. It’s her high-school graduation picture. I can mail you one; we had extras made.”

  “I would very much appreciate it. It would help to determine if the remains we found are really of your daughter. Back to an earlier question. Are you sure your daughter had no ambitions toward dancing, like in stage shows or musicals?”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure. Laura was very shy. She had no musical talent, and she wasn’t what you might call glamorous.”

  It had suddenly occurred to me that I’d be in trouble if I asked Mrs Strassburg to send the picture to my home address. “Never mind about the picture,” I said.“I don’t think we’ll need it.”

  I hung up the phone and thought, So, that’s how they did it. I didn’t know what to do with the skunk in my chicken coop. I didn’t think either the McLaughlins or Mrs. Strassburg would want to know, and worst of all, my knowing wouldn’t help find Cherish. The sorority angle might help, though, so I called McLaughlin’s home number. It was after six, o’clock my time, and Arthur answered. I should have known better than to talk to him. When I asked him if his daughter had been in a sorority he went ballistic.

  “You idiot, Corbin, I know what my daughter did. I'm not paying out good money, so you can find out too. Now, stop messing about with ancient history, either find my granddaughter, or I’ll hire someone who can.”

  I was tired, I was worried, and I was ticked. I no longer had the patience to put up with Arthur’s tirades. “If you don’t like the way I’m handling this case, you know what you can do about it.”

  “Well, I don’t like it.”

  “Fine, I’ll send you a statement tomorrow. I’m out of time anyway. The fall trimester starts Monday.”

  After I hung up, I listened to my phone messages. One was from Sergeant Collins. I remembered who he was, but I didn’t call him. The last thing I needed at the moment was fielding questions from a cop dumb enough to keep hounding Shelly about her missing husband. The only way she could know anything was if she really had hired a hit man.

  I was still in a foul mood the next morning, but I prepared an honest statement of the days I had worked, and the travels I’d made. I kept telling myself that if I was going to do investigative work for the public, I had to put up with whatever garbage my clients handed out.

  I wanted badly to shove what I knew about Candy Appleton right down A.A. McLaughlin’s throat. He thought he knew what his daughter had done. He didn’t know the half of it. He could have no idea she was at least an accessory to murder, and that she’d spent the last sixteen years of her life as a Nevada showgirl, with all the implications of that occupation.

  I decided it would do no good to burn bridges behind me, but at the same time I didn’t need to tell McLaughlin anything new I’d learned, or share with him the documents from the trailer. Maybe he’d discover he needed me after all. Besides, I still wanted the bonus he’d promised. That would take a big chunk out of my new truck debt.

  I was supposed to attend a meeting at the school at two o’clock, so after lunch I dusted off the Model-A coupe and drove over to the campus in it. I enjoyed driving that little old car. I drove it whenever I had an excuse, but only if the weather was decent.

  My left leg was still stiff, but I could manage the clutch–barely. I had half-forgotten how confined the little coupe was. I’d heard Henry Ford was about five-ten and 160 pounds. If I was Henry’s size instead of six-two and 195 pounds, and if my feet were a little smaller I’d fit the car better. I guess Henry didn’t think he needed to accommodate anyone bigger than himself.

  It was nearly four o’clock when the meeting let out. I was steamed. Bloody Mary had given me two dumbbell night classes and nothing from our upper division list.

  I cornered her and asked why. It was not a smart thing to do. I really didn't need another confrontation after dealing with McLaughlin.

  Bloody Mary said, “The person we brought in to replace you last summer is only on a part-time contract. We had to do something to compensate her for that. Besides, we’d like to see how she’ll do with an upper division class.”

  “You’d do better to see how she does with remedial math. That’s the real challenge.”

  “Are you questioning the way I run the department?”

  “Why is she even here, Mary? Didn’t she have a full-time contract at Carbon College?”

  “That’s a junior college, Mr. Corbin. She wants to move up to a four-year school. Besides, we need her here. Affirmative Action and all. It’s hard to find qualified women and minorities in our field.”

  “Look,” I said, “I know I caused you some problems, but two remedial math classes at night. I don’t deserve that.”

  Bloody Mary looked at me with a victorious smile and said, “Mr. Corbin, it’s my responsibility to assign classes to fit the needs of the college and the students. If you don’t like what I’ve given you, take it up with the grievance committee.” Bloody Mary knew she’d hit a sore spot this time. Was it my ego, or the inconvenience of night classes?

  After McLaughlin and Bloody Mary, you can imagine I was in no mood to talk to Sergeant Collins, but his Cortez City Police Department cruiser was parked in front of my house when I drove the Model-A into the carport.

  I didn’t know it was Collins waiting in the car. I’d never met him, but I guessed right. Collins was about fifty–bareheaded with curly graying hair. He’d kept himself trim, but he walked up the driveway like his feet hurt.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Allen Collins with the Cortez Police Department. Are you Daniel Corbin?”

  “That would be me. I got your message, but I’ve been busy.”

  I noticed him eyeing my Model-A Coupe as if wondering how busy I could be cruising around in an antique car. “I teach math at the college here,” I said. “I’ve come from a meeting. Classes start Monday.”

  Collins contin
ued to look at my old Ford, and he didn’t look comfortable. I motioned to a couple of plastic chairs and a small table in the shade of an apple tree behind the house. “Come sit down,” I said. “You look like your feet hurt.”

  “Stupid ingrown toenails,” he said and followed me to the chairs.

  “What year is your car?” he asked after he was settled.

  “1930.”

  “Stock?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Collins looked back at the car and said, “I had a Model-A when I was in high school. I painted it with a brush. Good car. I wish I’d kept it.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was trying hard to be civil for Shelly’s sake–and so this wouldn’t take too long. I wanted to get the interview over, so I could drive the coupe around to visit with some of the Model-A guys in town. I needed to do something to get Rosa Cisneros, A. A. McLaughlin, Bloody Mary, this interview, and two dumbbell night classes off my mind.

  After a couple of minutes of silence, Collins shifted in his chair and asked, “What do you know about Barry Quintana’s disappearance?”

  “Does Corporal Brown know you’re interviewing me?”

  “I know a little about your run-ins with Brown, but he pretty much does his thing, and I do mine. Now, tell me about Barry Quintana.”

  “I only know what Shelly told me.”

  “How long have you known the lady?”

  “Maybe a couple of weeks.”

  “How’d you meet her?”

  Was this really any of his business? “You know Ezzy Miller?” I asked.

  “You mean the deputy over in Dove Creek? The one who’s acting sheriff now?”

  “Shelly is Ezzy’s wife’s cousin. Ezzy’s wife lined us up.”

  Collins looked at me for a minute. I could see him fitting the pieces together. “Wait a minute. Daniel Corbin. You’re the guy that solved that killing down in Squaw Canyon last spring. I didn’t know you lived in Colorado. I’m confused. You say you’re a math teacher? I thought you were a private eye from Utah or Arizona.”