The Mummy Case
Chapter 15-16
Chapter Fifteen
I stepped out of the saloon and onto the surface of Venus. Or close to it. Hell, I felt myself mummifying on the spot, and almost turned around for more beer.
I passed a leather shop, general store, and glass blowing shop, and soon came upon a smallish adobe building set back from the boardwalk. The sign out front read: Rawhide Museum, Free Admission.
Now we're talking.
I paused, listening. From somewhere nearby I heard the sharp report of rifle shots. From my research, I knew there was a shooting range just outside of town.
Praying for air conditioning, I entered the museum.
* * *
My prayers were answered. Maybe I should be a priest.
Cool air blasted my face the moment I stepped into the small museum, itself nothing more than a converted frontier house, filled to overflowing with antique mining equipment. Hardhats, lanterns, pick axes, carts, stuff I didn't recognize, stuff I did but didn't know the names of. I had the general sense that mining in the days of yore took a lot of muscle, and probably a lot of nerve. Not to mention light. In one corner, a display let children pan for fool's gold. Along the walls, dozens of black and white photographs showed the town in various stages of growth and decline. Many featured hardened men sporting thick handlebar mustaches.
A door was open to my right, leading into what might have once been a bedroom, but now was an office. Inside, a smallish young man with wire rim glasses and a goatee was working furiously on a computer, pounding the keyboard with a vengeance, oblivious to me. I studied him briefly, and concluded he would have looked better with a handlebar mustache.
I knocked on the door frame, and he jumped about six inches out of his seat, gasping, clutching his heart. He snapped his head around, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses.
Jumpy little fellow.
"Oops," I said. "Of course, I could say I should have knocked, but that's just what I did."
"Oh, it's not you," he said, settling back in his chair, letting out a long stream of air. The brass nameplate on his desk read: Jarred Booker, Town Historian. "Just lost in my writing, you know."
"Oh, I know."
"Oh, do you write?"
"No, I was just trying to be agreeable."
"I see," he said, frowning. "Anyway, I haven't had anyone step in here for...oh, a few days."
"Maybe the price scares them away," I said.
"Any freer, and I would have to pay them."
"It's an idea."
"Are you here for a tour?" he asked.
"Not exactly."
I opened my wallet and showed him my license to detect, complete with my happy mug. A small grin, no teeth. Eyes bright, but hard. The picture was worth a thousand words, and one of them was roguish.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Knighthorse?"
I told him I was hired to investigate the death of Willie Clarke and that I was here to ask a few questions. Jarred stared at me for a moment, then got up and crossed the room and closed the door and went back and sat behind his desk again.
He said, "I was told not to talk to anyone about Willie Clarke."
"Told by who?"
Jarred leaned back in his chair and studied me. The glow from his monitor reflected off his glasses. So nice it reflected twice.
"Tafford Barron?" I asked. Shot in the dark.
He looked a little surprised. "Yes."
"Any idea why he doesn't want you talking to me?"
"None that I can speculate on. Besides, I've already told the police everything I know."
"Sure," I said. "I'd like to hire you to take me to the same place you took Willie Clarke."
"In the desert?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Part of the investigation. Scene of the crime."
"According to the police, there's been no crime. It was an accident."
"Sure," I said. "Which is why Tafford wants to keep you from talking to me."
Jarred shrugged. "He doesn't want any more bad publicity for the town."
"Bad publicity for the town, or for his campaign?"
"I wouldn't know anything about that."
At that moment a back door to the office opened and bright sunshine flooded the narrow room. A pretty blond girl in her mid-twenties entered through the door, shut it quietly behind her, and stood blinking, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. She wore jeans, a red cowboy shirt and boots, the Rawhide dress code. She was also holding a rifle. She didn't know I was there, at least not until her eyes adjusted.
"Best day yet, Jarred," she said. "I couldn't miss. Oh, hello."
"Howdy, ma'am." I tipped my hat. I was getting better at that.
She grinned. "Howdy."
"I'm sorry I can't help you, Mr. Knighthorse," said Jarred loudly, drawing my attention back to him. "My hands are tied."
"Tied about what?" said the girl.
"I'll tell you later," said Jarred.
"I'm investigating Willie Clarke's death," I said. I looked at Jarred. "I prefer to tell her now."
"Oh," she said, frowning. "Willie Clarke."
"You must be Patricia McGovern." I remembered her from the police report. She and Jarred had escorted Willie out into the desert together. She was the other person I wanted to talk to.
She nodded. "Yes, I'm Patricia. I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
I gave her my most winning smile. "I'm Jim Knighthorse, detective extraordinaire."
Her eyes widened. "A detective?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good day, Mr. Knighthorse," said Jarred, standing. "We have nothing further to add to your investigation."
I was watching Patricia. Mostly, I was observing her reaction to Jarred's unfriendliness towards me. She didn't like it. She seemed about to say something, but then bit her lip. Maybe she didn't want to lose her job, either.
So I left, but first I handed them each a business card. Patricia looked at it as if I had handed her a two-dollar bill. Jarred tried to hand his back. Instead, I left his on his desk.
I tipped my ballcap toward Patricia. She smiled tightly, and I left the office.
And Rawhide altogether.
Chapter Sixteen
The next day I was sitting in Detective Hansen's office on the third floor of the Huntington Beach Police Station. Today Hansen was wearing dark blue slacks, a powder blue Polo shirt with a shoulder holster, and loafers with no socks. I knew this because his feet were up on the desk, ankles crossed. His perfect hair was parted down the middle. Fit and tan, he was the quintessential Huntington Beach cop.
I motioned toward his clothing. "Items A & B, page one twenty three of the Nordstrom's men catalog?"
"Close," he said. "Ordered from Macy's. Wife picked them out. Thought I should set the standards for hip and cool for Huntington Beach PD."
"Which, itself, sets the standards for hip and cool for police departments everywhere."
"Sure."
"So, if you follow that train of logic, you are the hippest and coolest cop this side of the Mississippi. Perhaps ever."
"Gimme a break, Knighthorse."
Something caught my eye. Actually two somethings. Hansen's office overlooked a big alabaster fountain. The fountain was of mostly of a nude sea nymph. A buxomly sea nymph.
"Distracting, huh?" said Hansen.
"The sea nymph?"
"Whatever the fuck it is," he said. "Why the hell did they have to make her tits so goddamn big?"
"Because they could."
"So what can I do for you, Knighthorse?"
I told him about my mother, the picture, and why I was there. As I spoke, his eyes never wavered from mine. I finished the story. Hansen continued looking at me and then started shaking his head. His perfect hair never moved.
"Shit, Knighthorse, I never knew."
"Few do."
"The case is closed?"
I nodded. "I'm re-opening it. Unofficially."
A corner of his lip raised in a sort of half smile. "Of course. And you have a picture of the perp, or the presumed perp?"
"Yes."
"And the picture's twenty years old?"
"Yes."
He sat back in his chair, ran his fingers through his hair. His fingers, amazingly, were tan. And his hair, amazingly, never moved. Only grudgingly made some space for the fingers. Otherwise held its ground. I waited. Hansen thought some more.
"Maybe we can ID him," he said.
"Mugshots?"
"We have them that far back, of course. Sound good?"
I nodded. "Sounds good."
Ten minutes later we took an elevator down to the basement. He left me alone in a dusty backroom and, surrounded by outdated computers and boxes of old case files, I looked at the faces of hundreds, perhaps even thousands of Orange County's most hardened criminals of yesteryear.
But not the face I was looking for. And as I took the elevator back up from the basement, I was looking forward to crossing paths with the buxomly sea nymph.
I stepped out of the saloon and onto the surface of Venus. Or close to it. Hell, I felt myself mummifying on the spot, and almost turned around for more beer.
I passed a leather shop, general store, and glass blowing shop, and soon came upon a smallish adobe building set back from the boardwalk. The sign out front read: Rawhide Museum, Free Admission.
Now we're talking.
I paused, listening. From somewhere nearby I heard the sharp report of rifle shots. From my research, I knew there was a shooting range just outside of town.
Praying for air conditioning, I entered the museum.
* * *
My prayers were answered. Maybe I should be a priest.
Cool air blasted my face the moment I stepped into the small museum, itself nothing more than a converted frontier house, filled to overflowing with antique mining equipment. Hardhats, lanterns, pick axes, carts, stuff I didn't recognize, stuff I did but didn't know the names of. I had the general sense that mining in the days of yore took a lot of muscle, and probably a lot of nerve. Not to mention light. In one corner, a display let children pan for fool's gold. Along the walls, dozens of black and white photographs showed the town in various stages of growth and decline. Many featured hardened men sporting thick handlebar mustaches.
A door was open to my right, leading into what might have once been a bedroom, but now was an office. Inside, a smallish young man with wire rim glasses and a goatee was working furiously on a computer, pounding the keyboard with a vengeance, oblivious to me. I studied him briefly, and concluded he would have looked better with a handlebar mustache.
I knocked on the door frame, and he jumped about six inches out of his seat, gasping, clutching his heart. He snapped his head around, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses.
Jumpy little fellow.
"Oops," I said. "Of course, I could say I should have knocked, but that's just what I did."
"Oh, it's not you," he said, settling back in his chair, letting out a long stream of air. The brass nameplate on his desk read: Jarred Booker, Town Historian. "Just lost in my writing, you know."
"Oh, I know."
"Oh, do you write?"
"No, I was just trying to be agreeable."
"I see," he said, frowning. "Anyway, I haven't had anyone step in here for...oh, a few days."
"Maybe the price scares them away," I said.
"Any freer, and I would have to pay them."
"It's an idea."
"Are you here for a tour?" he asked.
"Not exactly."
I opened my wallet and showed him my license to detect, complete with my happy mug. A small grin, no teeth. Eyes bright, but hard. The picture was worth a thousand words, and one of them was roguish.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Knighthorse?"
I told him I was hired to investigate the death of Willie Clarke and that I was here to ask a few questions. Jarred stared at me for a moment, then got up and crossed the room and closed the door and went back and sat behind his desk again.
He said, "I was told not to talk to anyone about Willie Clarke."
"Told by who?"
Jarred leaned back in his chair and studied me. The glow from his monitor reflected off his glasses. So nice it reflected twice.
"Tafford Barron?" I asked. Shot in the dark.
He looked a little surprised. "Yes."
"Any idea why he doesn't want you talking to me?"
"None that I can speculate on. Besides, I've already told the police everything I know."
"Sure," I said. "I'd like to hire you to take me to the same place you took Willie Clarke."
"In the desert?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Part of the investigation. Scene of the crime."
"According to the police, there's been no crime. It was an accident."
"Sure," I said. "Which is why Tafford wants to keep you from talking to me."
Jarred shrugged. "He doesn't want any more bad publicity for the town."
"Bad publicity for the town, or for his campaign?"
"I wouldn't know anything about that."
At that moment a back door to the office opened and bright sunshine flooded the narrow room. A pretty blond girl in her mid-twenties entered through the door, shut it quietly behind her, and stood blinking, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. She wore jeans, a red cowboy shirt and boots, the Rawhide dress code. She was also holding a rifle. She didn't know I was there, at least not until her eyes adjusted.
"Best day yet, Jarred," she said. "I couldn't miss. Oh, hello."
"Howdy, ma'am." I tipped my hat. I was getting better at that.
She grinned. "Howdy."
"I'm sorry I can't help you, Mr. Knighthorse," said Jarred loudly, drawing my attention back to him. "My hands are tied."
"Tied about what?" said the girl.
"I'll tell you later," said Jarred.
"I'm investigating Willie Clarke's death," I said. I looked at Jarred. "I prefer to tell her now."
"Oh," she said, frowning. "Willie Clarke."
"You must be Patricia McGovern." I remembered her from the police report. She and Jarred had escorted Willie out into the desert together. She was the other person I wanted to talk to.
She nodded. "Yes, I'm Patricia. I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
I gave her my most winning smile. "I'm Jim Knighthorse, detective extraordinaire."
Her eyes widened. "A detective?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good day, Mr. Knighthorse," said Jarred, standing. "We have nothing further to add to your investigation."
I was watching Patricia. Mostly, I was observing her reaction to Jarred's unfriendliness towards me. She didn't like it. She seemed about to say something, but then bit her lip. Maybe she didn't want to lose her job, either.
So I left, but first I handed them each a business card. Patricia looked at it as if I had handed her a two-dollar bill. Jarred tried to hand his back. Instead, I left his on his desk.
I tipped my ballcap toward Patricia. She smiled tightly, and I left the office.
And Rawhide altogether.
Chapter Sixteen
The next day I was sitting in Detective Hansen's office on the third floor of the Huntington Beach Police Station. Today Hansen was wearing dark blue slacks, a powder blue Polo shirt with a shoulder holster, and loafers with no socks. I knew this because his feet were up on the desk, ankles crossed. His perfect hair was parted down the middle. Fit and tan, he was the quintessential Huntington Beach cop.
I motioned toward his clothing. "Items A & B, page one twenty three of the Nordstrom's men catalog?"
"Close," he said. "Ordered from Macy's. Wife picked them out. Thought I should set the standards for hip and cool for Huntington Beach PD."
"Which, itself, sets the standards for hip and cool for police departments everywhere."
"Sure."
"So, if you follow that train of logic, you are the hippest and coolest cop this side of the Mississippi. Perhaps ever."
"Gimme a break, Knighthorse."
Something caught my eye. Actually two somethings. Hansen's office overlooked a big alabaster fountain. The fountain was of mostly of a nude sea nymph. A buxomly sea nymph.
"Distracting, huh?" said Hansen.
"The sea nymph?"
"Whatever the fuck it is," he said. "Why the hell did they have to make her tits so goddamn big?"
"Because they could."
"So what can I do for you, Knighthorse?"
I told him about my mother, the picture, and why I was there. As I spoke, his eyes never wavered from mine. I finished the story. Hansen continued looking at me and then started shaking his head. His perfect hair never moved.
"Shit, Knighthorse, I never knew."
"Few do."
"The case is closed?"
I nodded. "I'm re-opening it. Unofficially."
A corner of his lip raised in a sort of half smile. "Of course. And you have a picture of the perp, or the presumed perp?"
"Yes."
"And the picture's twenty years old?"
"Yes."
He sat back in his chair, ran his fingers through his hair. His fingers, amazingly, were tan. And his hair, amazingly, never moved. Only grudgingly made some space for the fingers. Otherwise held its ground. I waited. Hansen thought some more.
"Maybe we can ID him," he said.
"Mugshots?"
"We have them that far back, of course. Sound good?"
I nodded. "Sounds good."
Ten minutes later we took an elevator down to the basement. He left me alone in a dusty backroom and, surrounded by outdated computers and boxes of old case files, I looked at the faces of hundreds, perhaps even thousands of Orange County's most hardened criminals of yesteryear.
But not the face I was looking for. And as I took the elevator back up from the basement, I was looking forward to crossing paths with the buxomly sea nymph.
