A Kendall O'Dell Mystery

Chapter 4-1

CHAPTER

10

Finally out on the open road, I drank in the unfamiliar scenery as the majestic mountains and cactus-decorated vistas of the Sonoran desert opened up before me, filling my senses with the spirit of the Wild West. The longer I lived in this magnificent state, the more I explored its ever-changing beauty, the more I loved it. I stepped hard on the accelerator, relishing the invigorating rush that always gripped me at the dawn of a new assignment, especially one with multiple layers like this one—compelling details of historical significance brought forward and intermingled with a cast of living characters.

I had stayed much longer at the library than planned, and by the time I’d traded my Jeep for Ronda’s dented, scratched, dirt-caked brown one, I was running a full two hours behind my self-imposed schedule. I didn’t regret it, however. The treasure trove of information I had gleaned on the old church, combined with background information on the Higgins family, was well worth the time.

As I’d expected, the Starfire Ranch was choked with dozens of people milling about along with a caravan of pickup trucks hauling horse trailers. While it would have been fun to stop and visit with Tally, I knew he’d be up to his neck in alligators and decided I really only had time to make the switch with Ronda. She had tried to talk me out of it, explaining that the old family Jeep was usually only used to drive around the ranch property. It did not have all the modern bells and whistles like mine, had not been serviced for a long time and the gas gauge was broken. “Better fill it up before you take off,” she had advised me when I handed her my key fob and she dropped a conventional car key in my hand. “I haven’t had it out on the highway for a long time either, so take it easy, okay?”

Being fifteen model years old, it certainly didn’t have the impressive horsepower of my Jeep and the suspension wasn’t all that great, but considering that my destination could conceivably involve me running into Nelson Trotter, it would achieve my objective of staying under the radar far better than driving my neon-lime-green Jeep.

Forceful wind gusts were definitely a factor and as I glanced westward at the ominous-looking thunderheads approaching the ragged spine of the distant Harquahala range, odds were good that I was going to see rain in the next few hours. As a precaution, I tested the windshield wipers. Dry and crumbly, they practically disintegrated, screeching loudly against the glass. I pushed the windshield washer button. Nope, no fluid either. “Good job!” I grumbled, chastising myself for making another impulsive decision, but quickly shrugged it off. I’d just have to deal with it. No turning back now.

Traffic was light as I traveled northwest, thinking about the rest of the tragic stories Clara had shared with me. Even though I’d been half-expecting it, the revelation that Glendine was not Nelson and Wanda’s mother had startled me nonetheless. I learned that after the death of her infant daughter, Glendine had gone a little “haywire” as Clara had phrased it. Hysterical and inconsolable, she had fallen into deep despair, refused to eat or speak to anyone except her sister, and was finally placed under the care of a psychiatrist and medicated. “Nelda said she didn’t pull out of it for a year and when she finally recovered from her loss, she raged about the injustice of the arranged marriage and rebelled.” Clara had gone on to say that Glendine had insisted on separate sleeping arrangements and when she was twenty-one, took a job in town at one of the bars. Nelda knew she was seeing other men behind her husband’s back and cautioned her to stop, go back to church and ask God for forgiveness.

Hudson Foley, distraught and angered by his young wife’s wanton behavior, moved out of the mansion and returned to his ranch where he suffered a fatal stroke a few months later. Glendine’s father, disgusted by his daughter’s activities, stopped communicating with her even though the family ranch home was only two miles from the mansion. As Clara told it, that arrangement was just fine with Glendine who had never forgiven her father for “wrecking her life”. The following year, she took the family surname back.

While all that drama was unfolding, her twin sister, Gwyn, had met and married a geologist named Elvin Trotter and then given birth to Nelson. Less than a year later, Wanda had been born. Because her husband’s job required him to travel to foreign countries for months at a time, Gwyn had moved into the mansion with Glendine, who doted on her babies. She appeared to come to her senses and seemed relatively happy again. Responding to her sister’s ardent requests, she agreed to clean up her act, began accompanying Gwyn to church again and finally seemed content enough with her life to forgive and reconcile with her father.

Tragedy struck again, when Gwyn contracted pancreatic cancer. She died within the year. Per her request, Gwyn’s body was interred close to home beneath the old church. Heartbroken, Glendine struggled mightily with depression again, lamenting that God was punishing her for her sins. Somehow, she managed to keep it together enough to fulfill her promise to Gwyn and care for her sister’s children.

Elvin Trotter arrived home in time for the funeral, but soon realized he was in no position to raise two babies and decided they were better off with Glendine. Barely two years old when Gwyn died, Nelson and Wanda believed Glendine was their biological mother until she finally told them the truth when they reached their early teens. “Nelda said they were both shocked and suffered severe emotional trauma,” Clara had conveyed to me in a somber tone. “And then, a year later, the family learned that Elvin Trotter had been murdered somewhere in Colombia by leftist rebels. A few months after that, Glen Higgins was struck by lightning herding cattle out on the range. He died instantly and so did his horse.” She had shared several obituary clippings and I had the opportunity to study the photos of Gwyn Trotter—who wasn’t nearly as attractive as her sister—as well as her husband and her father, Glen Higgins. And then she shared two photos given to her by her cousin. One pictured Nelda and her daughter Rachel with Wanda and Nelson as small children, but the second photo she set in front of me really caught my interest. It looked like a typical picture of a family dressed in swimwear enjoying a sunlit day at the lake. She pointed out a smiling Glendine along with the sullen-faced Trotter twins, now teenagers, but did not identify the dark-haired man with his arm draped around her shoulders or the unsmiling young blonde boy standing behind them.

“Can you identify these two people?” I asked Clara.

She stared at the photo a long time before commenting, “I don’t recognize the man she’s with. Glendine…dated quite a few as I understood it, but…the boy looks slightly familiar.”

“Really? Do you remember anything about him?”

She looked at me with a faraway sheen glazing her eyes. “To be honest, I don’t. He may have been in one of my classes.”

I tapped the photo. “Tally told me the story of her inviting her abusive boyfriend and his kid to live with her at the ranch. Do you think it’s possible this might be him and his son?”

She adjusted her glasses and studied the photo again. “I’m pretty good at remembering my students, and I’ve kept in touch with many of them, but…it’s been over forty years and I’m afraid I don’t recall this boy’s name. Is it very important to you?” she asked, edging me a questioning look.

I grinned at her. “I find this whole story intriguing. It’s got everything. Family drama, illicit love affairs, infidelity, suicide, attempted murder, pathos, and a ton of unanswered questions, just the kind of thing that rings my bell.”

A broad smile lit her face. “I guess that’s why you do what you do. How about this?” she proposed, folding her hands in front of her. “It may take me several days to locate my collection of yearbooks during that particular time period, but I’ll be happy to go through them and see if I can find him.”

I waved away her offer. “Please don’t go to any extra trouble.”

“I’m delighted to share whatever information I can.”

I thanked her profusely and took a few minutes to record the photos on my phone. She had already given me a lot to absorb, and as I added to my notes, I contemplated the magnitude of the tragedies that had befallen Glendine and her family. No wonder Thena had referred to her ‘poor, suffering soul.’ The grim reaper really did seem to stalk the Higgins family then and now.

Clara was poised to launch into what she remembered of the final chapter—the violent altercation between Glendine and the man who had mutilated her face, the one I was most anxious to hear more specifics about, when several people walked—or rather blew in—the front door. She had excused herself to assist them and minutes later several other patrons struggled inside so I decided it was time to go. I gathered up all my material and we agreed to meet again, but until that time, I decided I’d pick Ginger’s brain at breakfast tomorrow and find out if she could fill in more of the blanks.

The myriad of facts I’d learned was still bouncing around in my head when I realized I was only a few miles away from the Double G. Good thing. The sky was now a quilted river of fast-moving gray clouds with flashes of weak sunlight peering through intermittent patches of blue. My window of opportunity to get any decent photos of Our Lady of the Desert was quickly closing.

Ahead to my left, I noticed an abandoned gas station and close by what looked like the crumbling remains of an old motel. Sections of the dilapidated building’s roof flapped wildly in the incessant wind. Probably because of the childhood fascination with my grandmother’s house, I loved the essence of old houses, old buildings, old cemeteries. Each one had a story to tell about its past and sometimes when photographing them, on some inexplicable level, I could feel a certain aura surrounding them, almost as if they were still imbued with the spirits and memories of their former occupants. Tally always teased me about being fanciful, but I’d been aware of my “sixth” sense from an early age. My wise grandmother urged me to embrace the gift of precognition and heed it. Most of the time I did, but on occasion I’d ignored it, usually to my peril.

I checked my odometer. I’d come twenty-five miles, which meant the church should be around the next curve. Yep. There it was—easily recognizable from Clara’s photos. The graceful, cream-colored structure sat at least a half a mile off the highway, flanked on three sides by tall cypress trees. Lovely setting. But my attention was instantly refocused on the cluster of black, weirdly-shaped, volcanic rock piles rising in sharp contrast to the flat, sage-and-mesquite-covered landscape. Having never seen anything quite like them, I stared in amazement, entranced by the jagged, perpendicular cones. I wondered if the hot springs Thena had mentioned lay hidden from view behind a series of gentle hills peppered with swaying cottonwood trees. It looked like a real desert oasis. I had to admit Thena was right. It was indeed a unique property.