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IRON SPRINGS

R. W. Edie

11 W. La Canoa, Green Valley, Arizona 85614

Addison Cobb is a retired police detective turned private investigator. The setting for the story is in Arizona. A Chicago insurance company wants Addison to find a cat-burglar by the name of Lester Gilbey who has headed west to escape the long arm of the law. The trail leads Addison to the small mining town of Iron Springs where Cynthia Andrews, the granddaughter of an old friend, is teaching school. The town is the scene of the recent murder of a teen-age girl. Addison wonders if the "out-of-towner" being held in jail for the girl's murder could be Lester Gilbey, the cat-burglar he is trying to find.

Cynthia Andrews tells Addison she is involved in a political fight with Sloan Hunter, who controls the town and everything that happens therein Hunter is trying to take away Cynthia's athletic program funding in favor of a music and dance program sponsored by an internationally known instructor who has been crippled by an accident. Sloan Hunter's brother, Eugene is the dance instructor's assistant.

Hunter also seems to control the chief of police, Leon Badilla. Chief-of-Police Badilla will not allow Addison to see his prisoner even though the description of the murderer and the description of Lester Gilbey match. He also warns Addison that he better get out of town. Before Addison can return to Tucson he is harassed by some of Sloan Hunter's construction workers and they eventually try to kill him. Addison decides he needs to clean up the town--the "powers-that-be" seem to have an unreasonable fear of strangers, and everybody else has a reasonable fear of the "powers-that-be".

Addison has a live-in girlfriend named Mokie whose main problem, or attribute, as the case may be, is too much booze and too many men. She sometimes provides Addison with physical and moral support, at other times she provides him with problems and confusion.

CHAPTER ONE

The trouble with murder is that nobody worries about it until after it's been done; then they get excited. Harry Andrews' telephone call had been disturbing--not so much because of the early morning hour, but because he had made the call in the first place. Harry was an old pro, on the force for thirty years, he knew better. Somebody had been killed. Just because his granddaughter lived in the town in which the murder had been committed didn't mean that she was in danger‑‑ especially since the alleged murderer was already sitting in jail. Harry had called from Florida. The murder had been in Arizona.

That had been the first telephone call of the morning. Addison barely had time to put out the bird seed before some executive-type from the Newman Life and Casualty by the name of Donaldson put in a call from Chicago to Addison's office. Addison Cobb's office consisted of a desk in the corner of the master-bedroom in his two-bedroom-ranch-style-sitting-on-two-acres-in-the-Tucson-foothills home. He was retired.

Donaldson had a robbery case in Chicago. It was one of those insurance things. The stolen items were low in monetary value but high in sentimental value--such as Grandpa Arnold's gold-plated railroad watch, valued at two thousand dollars, Aunt Fanny's aquamarine and silver dinner ring--twenty-five hundred dollars, Great-cousin Percy's engraved copper pipe-cleaner holder--three thousand dollars, and so on, to the tune of about a hundred big-ones. The original appraiser, no longer with the company, held a greater degree of sentimentality than appraiser-mentality. Nobody bothered to check his work until after the house had been ripped-off by a cat-burglar. Then somebody checked. Then the insurance company put out the word--get the junk back so we don't have to pay the claim--please.

Addison was having as much trouble with this telephone call as he'd had with the first call, from Harry. What was Donaldson calling him for? The burglar had probably traded the stuff for some dope and was under a railroad bridge someplace in Chicago, stoned out of his skull. That was Chicago‑‑this was Tucson. Even retired, Addison saw no reason to be snippy. He'd been polite to Harry, he decided to be polite to Donaldson, too. "Have you got any leads?"

"Oh, yes. The guy's name is Lester Gilbey. The M.O. is his, and he was positively identified by a pawn broker who is still laughing about him trying to hock some of the junk." Donaldson went on to say that Gilbey, probably using what little money he'd found in the robbery, less than five hundred dollars, bought a one-way airplane ticket out of town. "This turkey's coming your way, so keep an eye out for him," he advised.

"What makes you think he's headed this far west." Addison pushed his beat-up Stetson to the back of his head revealing a shock of steel-gray hair. While he talked he watched two cactus wrens out on the patio knocking feathers off of each other. It must be mating season.

"He got off the airplane in El Paso, then took a bus going west. We know he didn't get off in Phoenix."

"What do the police say?" Addison had worked these insurance deals before, he suspected that he already knew the answer to that question--the police didn't know anything about it.

"Law-enforcement's not involved. We don't want him arrested--we just want that junk back," Donaldson answered. "If you find him, tell him we'll drop all charges if he returns the stuff. I imagine he's still got it--nobody else wants it."

Addison congratulated himself on being right. Insurance companies didn't like to have thieves in jail until after the stolen goods had been returned to their rightful owner so that the company didn't have to pay the claim. "Okay. I'll drive around and see if I can find where he got off the bus. What does he look like?"

"I'll fax you a picture and a description."

"I don't have a fax."

"You don't? You ought to have a fax."

"I'm retired. I only do this sort of thing to keep from wearing out bar stools."

"Okay, I'll Federal Express it to you."

Addison wondered what was wrong with first class mail--it had always served well in the past, and was a damned-site cheaper. But then, it wasn't his dime. "Give me a thumb-nail description to work with until the dossier gets here."

"He's not hard to spot." There was the sound of rustling papers. "He's five-ten, one-hundred and fifty pounds, brown hair, blue eyes, usually wearing a black cowboy hat and boots‑‑‑."

Addison chuckled. "That may not be hard to spot in Chicago, but you just described half the male population of rural Arizona‑‑and probably about a third of the female."

"There's more." Donaldson sounded disgusted. "He has a foot-long queue, two big gold earrings, and he generally wears pink leotards and a mini-skirt."

"What?" Addison forgot about the two battling cactus wrens and directed his full attention to the telephone conversation. "Pink leotards and a mini-skirt with cowboy boots and a hat. Is this guy some sort of a freak?"

"Yeah--he sure is. Oh, and he also has a tattoo on his left arm of an American flag with the inscription 'Queers of the world unite'."

"You've got to be kiddin'."

"No, I'm not. That's why he's been so easy to trail. He does not blend in to well with the crowd." Apparently Donaldson had not been on a university campus recently.

"Is he gay?" Addison didn't know what that had to do with anything, but he asked anyway.

"There's another strange. I don't know whether that's his preference or not--but he's forced to be."

"Forced to be?"

"He's allergic to women."

Addison laughed at that one. "We're all that way at some time in our lives."

"Not like he is. We've got a medical report on him--his allergy is real--not a mental aberration. It got on his record when some lady cop busted him on a D and D one night. He gave her some flack so she got all over him. He was on life support for a week because of shock from an allergy reaction."

"The poor bastard."

"Yeah. Well, see what you can find. Like I say, we don't want him--just the stuff he stole." Donaldson continued to expound on the necessity for Addison to have a fax machine for a while before he hung up.

Addison went back to watching the two battling wrens. He was rooting for the one with the most white on his tail--he was the oldest, but it was starting to look like he was going to lose. Too bad--he was still a good looking bird. However, there were other lady wrens around if he lost this one.

A cowboy hat and boots, pink leotards and a miniskirt‑‑ Lester Gilbey should be about as hard to find as a gorilla in a shower-stall. Strangers come and go through Arizona, but strangers who are that strange usually attract somebody's attention. He pulled out his book of unlisted telephone numbers and dialed one.

On the seventh ring a groggy voice answered, "Hey, haven't you got a watch, man?"

"This is Addison Cobb, Billy. I'm looking for somebody."

"Why don't you wait until he gets up--it'll make him easier to find."

Addison paid no attention to Baghdad Billy's early morning grump. He relayed the description Donaldson had given him.

"Is he the one who sold you whatever it is you've been smokin'? I mean, man, nobody goes around looking like that." Baghdad Billy apparently hadn't been on a university campus recently either. "What's his name?"

"Lester Gilbey. And that's what he looks like."

A gurgling yawn came across the line. "If I hear anything about him I'll call you. Don't call me. Good night." Apparently Lester Gilbey was not in Tucson--Baghdad Billy, who knew every gutter-rat by its first name, would know about it if he was.

Addison searched his memory for any unusual happenings in the last few days. He rummaged through the waste basket for yesterday's paper. There had been something on the second page about the murder in Iron Springs--probably the same report that got Harry Andrews all steamed up. Addison recalled that they had an out-of-towner in jail for doing it. That was only natural--nobody in Arizona ever commits a crime, it's always somebody from out of town. He hadn't paid much attention to the story at the time--Iron Springs Chief-of-Police Leon Badilla said he had an open-and-shut case, so Addison forgot about it until Harry's call from his retirement home in Florida at five a.m. that morning. Harry was worried about his granddaughter, Cynthia, who was teaching school in Iron Springs. Addison had asked him why he was worried now--the guy was in jail, but Harry wanted him to go see if she was all right anyway. Addison had suggested that Harry call her and find out for himself. Harry had already called her but wasn't satisfied that she was all right. Would Addison go check on her? Addison could see where getting old had its disadvantages --like worrying about grandkids and throwing out newspapers you hadn't read yet.

The newspaper wasn't in the basket, it had gone out with the trash last night and into the recycling truck this morning. He could get the story from the newspaper office, but it would be simpler to drive the two hours to Iron Springs, identify the alleged murderer to see if he was Donaldson's cat-burglar, and also visit with Cynthia Andrews to make sure she was all right. He could find out whether or not the murderer and the cat-burglar were the same person and also put Harry's mind at rest about the welfare of his granddaughter. Next time he would read the paper more closely. No, he wouldn't--reading the paper only accomplished one of two things--it either made him mad or aroused his curiosity--either of which ruined what might have otherwise been a good day. Addison wanted some good days --he wanted to enjoy his retirement--he'd chased his share of murderers and robbers, it was somebody else's turn.

The two cactus wrens were still battling-it-out on the patio. The object of their affection was stuffing herself at the bird-seed feeder. Addison could have drawn a human analogy from that, but it would have been depressing, and it was too nice a day to be depressed.

He kicked off his slippers and pulled on his cowboy boots, swearing at the arthritis in his knees. Except for the arthritis and an occasional bout with asthma, he was in fairly good shape for sixty-two--no pot-gut, and no flabby muscles. His rugged good looks had been enhanced by age. After two years in the Old Pueblo, he looked like he belonged there. He felt like it, too.

After washing down what was left of a day old Danish with coffee that had become half-cold while he was talking to Donaldson, That was one thing he needed to change--his eating habits. No, he didn't--cold pizza and day old Danish were totally unpaletable--that helped to hold down his weight. Not that he had trouble with his weight--but he could, if he let himself go. He checked the guest room to make sure there were towels and everything in there. He locked up the house and walked across the patio to his pickup. The two jaded wrens flew off in different directions, having resolved nothing--having nothing left to resolve--the soon-to-be expectant-mother was sitting on an arm of a Saguaro making cow-eyes at an, as yet, unscathed male cactus wren who had not rendered himself dysfunctional by fighting over her. Addison stuck his tongue out at her and kept walking.

There were two main streets in Iron Springs, one going North and South, the other going East and West. At one time there had been a traffic signal at their convergence, but, with the decline of the mining industry and the subsequent loss of population, the signal's usefulness had become purely decorative. Being an expense that the city couldn't afford, it was eventually abandoned in favor of four four-way stop signs. The signal still hung there, swaying in the wind, staring woefully down the normally vacant streets from empty eye-sockets whose once proudly flashing lenses had been shot out by over-exuberant teenagers or drunks.

Addison sat in his pickup at one of the regimenting stop sign, savoring one of his ten-a-day allocated cigarettes while he waited for a funeral procession to pass. The procession was a long one--probably everybody in town. As a Japanese-made mini-pickup crossed in front of him he recognized the driver as Cynthia Andrews. She had been around his house quite a lot when he and Harry had been on the force together and their families had been socially active together. Cynthia Andrews had been a tall, angular, athletic, Amazon type who took her athletics and her athletic ability seriously. She was not pretty and she had never been popular with high-school boys because she was better at what they did than they were. In college she had fared better, with two or three budding romances, but those never grew beyond the rudimentary stages. She had been linked with a couple of pro-football players, but as yet, Cynthia Andrews was still unattached--a fact that her Granddad Harry lamented on every occasion that presented itself.

An old Ford pickup, laboring smokingly along the procession route, made enough of a break to give Addison an opportunity to pull into the line of cars. He had no morbid curiosity about funerals but he knew his mission to Iron Springs would not proceed until after the services were completed--if then. At least he knew where Cynthia Andrews was going, he could talk to her and accomplish that much, putting Harry's mind at rest about Cynthia's safety until something else happened in the Southwest that would make good copy in the Florida newspapers. His other mission was just one necessary step in the investigative process of elimination. It was a long-shot that the stranger in the Iron Springs jail, who allegedly committed murder, would be Donaldson's cat-burglar--two different types of crimes committed by two different types of criminals, but he had learned long ago never to take anything for granted. He didn't want to drive all over the country looking for Lester Gilbey only to find out later that the man was sitting in jail in Iron Springs.

He parked the pickup per the instructions of the Sheriff's Reserve Officer who was directing traffic. Addison's question about the identity of the deceased was answered suspiciously by the officer to the fact that she was the recent murder victim, Laura Ann Young. Addison asked if there were any more developments in the case. The officer asked who the hell he was and why the hell did he want to know. Addison, understanding the paranoia that follows a murder, identified himself, which didn't seem to relieve the man's suspicions any.

After locking the doors, further marking himself as an outsider, he followed along with the rest of the mourners to the gravesite where he stood at the back of the crowd. He had no trouble locating Cynthia, who stood above most of the shorter, predominantly Mexican, gathering. She was standing directly behind the family of the deceased--Addison had no need to be that close. He could wait until after the interment ceremony was finished to make his presence known.

The death of an older person carried with it the feeling of finality--the end of an era, the end of a long and useful life, or the end of a long and unproductive life, depending on the person. The person had done their thing, and, accomplishing that, had passed on, finished. The death of a young person always left a feeling of incompleteness, a life lost before it had run its course, a promise unfulfilled. To add to that was the fact that most young people who die do not die of natural causes--car wrecks, violence, drug overdoses, all take their toll. The result was a feeling of a waste of life, and the unfinished business of what that life should have been had it continued. As a police officer Addison had felt that feeling too many times in the past, he had no need to stand too close to it now.

Unable to hear the priest, he had to assume the services had ended when people started talking and shifting around. He moved into a position to intercept Cynthia but she had already spotted him and started in his direction.

"Uncle Addison." She needed to bend slightly so they could exchange hugs. She had the perpetual stoop-shouldered posture common to most tall women. "I expected you to come up here after granddad’s call." She gave him a solemn grin. "I told him not to worry, I'm all right--but I was hoping to see you anyway." She set a course for the parking area at a pace that was faster than a leisurely stroll. She seemed to be in a hurry to get away from the cemetery.

"Yes, he called me. I had some other business to look into here, also." Addison took her arm and slowed her down to a pace more comfortable for his arthritic knees.

She slowed to accommodate him. "Would you follow me down to my dungeon. I'll make us a cup of coffee and drag out the day-old Danish--I need to talk to somebody." The plea in her eyes did not match her Amazonian stature.

"I'd be happy to--day-old Danish is fresh food around my place." He tried to pick her mood up a little--instead she shot his down. "I imagine. It's too bad about Aunt Agnes."

"No."

She gave him the same strange look he usually received when he used that reference to the departure of his estranged wife. He didn't want to talk about it, and he didn't mind letting people know that he didn't want to talk about it.

Cynthia accepted that. "Just follow me--I'll show you the way," she said, as they split up to go to their vehicles. "It's hard to get lost in this town, unless you're looking for my place--then it's easy."

She had not exaggerated. He followed her through the maze of narrow streets and back alleys of the older part of town until she stopped in front of an adobe house nestled against a cliff. At the door, he could see why she had referred to it her dungeon--the windows were small and narrow, and the walls were at least two feet thick. The building had to be more than two hundred years old, and, as was the custom of those times, had had additions added on wherever an addition was necessary or desired, giving it an appearance of rambling disarray. Inside, she directed him to a leather covered couch while she went to the kitchen alcove to start the coffee.

The walls of the room were hung with pictures and posters of various athletic stars, male and female, both past and present, including some pictures and trophies depicting Cynthia's own fleeting moments of triumph. Cynthia Andrews had decided long ago that she was not championship material--but she was going to do the best she could with what she had to work with. Harry had wanted her to follow in his footsteps and become a police officer. Harry, as usual, was right--she would have made a good one. Harry was right about something else--all was not right with his granddaughter--it was evident in her attitude and her actions. Of course, in a small community, someone being murdered was upsetting to everybody. "Were you acquainted with the girl who was killed?"

"Yes." Her voice carried the same tone he had used when she asked about Agnes‑‑she didn't want to talk about it. He gave her the same consideration and let the subject drop.

The microwave buzzed, announcing that it had successfully nuked the Danish.

"Can I help you any?" asked Addison.

"No, I got it." She came out of the kitchen balancing the two plates and the two cups on one hand and carrying the coffee pot in the other.

"You missed your calling--you should have been a waitress." Addison grinned.

"It's quite possible I may make it yet." she answered, grimly. Addison's second attempt to remove the gloom had gone the way of the first--nowhere.

Cynthia's mood did not abate her appetite--she attacked the Danish with the same vigor that she applied to everything else. "Uncle Addison," she said, around a half‑mouthful of pastry, "I need you to dig up some dirt on somebody."

Addison laughed. "Boyfriend trouble?"

"Lord, no. If I had one of those elusive creatures, I wouldn't care what he'd done." She wiped her hands on one of the paper towels she had put out for napkins. "I'm afraid it's more serious than that--I'm about to lose my job."

Addison gave her a questioning look.

"Not lose my job exactly--they won't can me, but they are going to take away my girl's athletic program funding. I won't teach Home Ec and Typing."

"Who're They?"

"The school board. But, that boils down to one man-- Sloan Hunter."

"Any reason?"

"Did you notice the lady in the wheel-chair?" She knew he had.

"Well dressed, robust, fortyish, she probably has been in a fire or other bad accident that left her scarred because she was wearing heavy gloves and a veil." Addison decided he just as well let her know that his powers of observation had not retired just because he had.

"What happened to her face was it was fell on by the lid of a grand-piano--the same one that fell on rest of her and cost her the use of her legs. There's nothing wrong with her hands‑‑she wears the gloves to protect them any time she is out in the sun.

So much for his powers of observation not retiring. "What about her?"

"Her name is Delfina Weitfle, internationally famous, or she was until the piano fell on her. She is our new music and dance instructor. Sloan Hunter is pulling the funding from my girl's athletics to promote her music and dancing program--that puts me out of a job--or any kind of a job I want to do, anyway."

Addison considered the situation for a while. It didn't make sense. Most schools would fund athletics to beat hell and let fine-arts go to hell. "I've got a couple of questions. Why is a lady of her talent and reputation teaching in a burg like Iron Springs in the first place? And, why all the political support, in the second?"

"Philanthropic reasons. Answer to both questions. She's worked this before--let her come in and teach music and dancing her way--she'll donate the money to build the building to do it in."

"I can see where that might get some support--if it was in an area where fine-arts was popular. This don't look like a fine-arts town."

"It's not. That's where Sloan Hunter comes in."

"Why is he interested in fine-arts?"

"He's not. His brother Eugene is the one who's interested in fine-arts--he's Delfina Weitfle's assistant. Since the accident, he does the dancing. He was the one pushing her wheelchair at the funeral." Cynthia shook her head. "No--Sloan Hunter could care less about music and dancing--except that he's a building contractor, and he owns the ground that surrounds the school where the building would be built."

"He'll build the building on ground he already owns?"

"Probably."

"That's conflict of interest--if he's on the school board."

"I've already tried that one and it won't bounce. It's not public money--it's Delfina Weitfle's--she can hire anybody she wants to build her building."

Addison mulled that over for a while before coming to a summation. "This Weitfle gets to do her thing--the community gets a new school building--and Sloan Hunter gets to build the building at a pretty good profit. It sounds like everybody wins but Cynthia Andrews."

She shook her head. "If it were that simple, I'd slam-dunk this outfit and go find a new game. But, it's not. The girls were runner-up in our division and went to the State Championships in both track and basketball this year. We may not win the State next year, but whoever does win it is going to have to beat us to get there. It's not just me who's losing, it's the girls. And God knows, coming from here, they have little enough to be proud of."

Cynthia had some legitimate concerns. It was hell when kids found themselves in the middle of adult's battles-- especially adult's political battles.

Addison picked up the coffee pot and filled their cups. "Are there any cracks in this that a person might pry something out of?"

"Something is going on with the Hunters. Mrs. Hunter spends two or three nights a week in the bar. Not doing anything that may be considered unfaithful--has a couple or three drinks, spends a couple of hours drinking them, listens to the band, talks to everybody, and goes home alone, virtually sober."

"What's Mr. Hunter doing?"

"Who knows. He's probably out building something or wheeling-and-dealing--he is considered to be the mover-and- shaker in this town, or maybe he's home watching television and she just wants to get out of the house. Nobody asks. Here, everybody minds their own business. That's why I can't go around asking too many questions. Butting into somebody else's business is a worse sin than the sin itself.

"What about Sloan Hunter's brother? Would Hunter be doing this for him?"

Cynthia laughed. "When Sloan Hunter builds the building it will be in spite of Eugene--not for him. They cross the street to keep from speaking to each other. No, there's no involvement there. Eugene Hunter is a dancer. Professional. He did some off-Broadway stuff--very--very far off, and some European tours. He was on stage the night the piano fell on Delfina Weitfle. I guess he lifted it off. They've been together ever since."

"Romance?"

"No way. Most people think he swings the other way--that's the main rub between him and Sloan--because he's a dancer, Sloan thinks he's a queer. But that's not right either. Eugene Hunter is like me--we both know all the right moves, all the right things to do, all the right places to be, but we lack the one little something that it takes to make us great. What's that old saying? People who can, do--people who can't, teach. We can teach--but we can't do. Eugene will never be any more than a teacher."

"One thing I don't quite understand--if Delfina Weitfle is putting up all the money for this, why is Hunter cutting your athletic funds?"

"Uncle Addison--when you find the real answer to that, you will have solved the mystery. He keeps quoting some obscure state law that restricts the amount of time a student can spend on extracurricular activities. Nobody knows what he's talking about--but nobody argues either. I know that Sloan Hunter is a very complex man--he thinks education is a waste, but he's chairman of the school‑‑he hates his brother Eugene because he thinks Eugene is gay, but he's willing to support Delfina's program‑‑he hates Mexicans, but he lives in an area that is predominantly Mexican."

"How does he feel about money?"

"He knows how to make it--and does, but, my existence does not threaten his financial well-being."

"How does he feel about power and control?"

Cynthia thought about it. "Yes, I can see where I might be planting seed that he doesn't want to grow--he has some definite ideas about the female role."

"Was he at the funeral?"

"No--I didn't see him.

Addison could not see where he would be much help--but she was Harry's granddaughter so he needed to try. "I need to go to the police station and take a look at the alleged murderer of this girl--he may be involved in an insurance case I'm working on, then I'll see what I can dig up that you can use. How did they come to catch this murder suspect so fast, anyway? Has he been around town for a while?

Cynthia shook her head. "I guess not. They found Laura Ann, then they found him asleep in an abandoned car."

"What makes them think he's the murderer?"

Cynthia shook her head again. "I don't know. Chief Badilla says he's the murderer. And, right now, nobody's arguing with him, either."

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