Hiding Gladys (A Cleo Cooper Mystery) Page 5

  Therefore, the granite—if it existed—would lie somewhat deeper here. I felt the panic rising and reminded myself of the basics I already knew.

  Mule and Stick set about leveling the rig with four enormous hydraulic pads that dropped down from the undercarriage. After the bit dropped through the sandy soil like a straw through a Wendy’s shake, Stick started handing Mule the corkscrew auger flights, which were pinned together, one after another, to push the bit deeper and deeper into the ground, until it hit something too hard to drill through.

  We zipped through the first thirty feet. Sweat had already begun to bead on my upper lip, and it wasn’t from my hard hat holding in heat. Forty feet. Forty-five, and the bit made a few little chirps. At fifty-eight feet, it made a screeching noise as the bit’s teeth ground into an impenetrable layer. The flights bucked, vibrating the drill apparatus that towered above us.

  “Top of the rock!” Mule shouted to me over the throbbing of the big diesel engine. I gave him a thumbs up and watched as he flipped the reverse switch to bring the flights above ground. Dirt spiraled off them, creating what looked like a huge ant hill around the hole. As each flight came up, the crew stopped, knocked out the auger pin, unhooked the flight, then placed it back on the rig.

  “Maybe it’ll get better,” Wink muttered to me. He marked the depth to the top of rock on his field map in red ink.

  I nodded and said, “Better is a relative word. It all depends on what kind of rock you’re looking for.” For example, removing fifty-eight feet of overburden isn’t cost-effective if you’re mining a band of limestone thirty feet thick. If, however, after fifty-eight feet you hit hard, valuable rock hundreds of feet thick, then it becomes profitable.

  Wink looked at me curiously. “We’re looking for limestone, aren’t we? The Castle Hayne Formation?”

  I didn’t want to show my hand yet. Might as well just wait and let the evidence speak for itself after the first core—if there was to be one.

  I moved away from the rig and Wink followed. “I’ll be in the woods, flagging,” I told him. “Meet you guys at twelve and we’ll go into town for lunch.”

  “Okay. See you then,” Wink said and headed back to the rig. The crew was still stacking the auger flights in preparation to move on to drill hole number two.

  I drove across the field, pulled out of the gate, and turned left, as if pulled by some magnetic force. At the old house by the well I gave an involuntary shudder at the sight of all the yellow crime scene tape, and not just in memory of what I’d found in the well.

  The tape presented two problems: one involved the length of time the area would be cordoned off—we’d need access to the water in the well when we started drilling core samples; second, I didn’t know why the house had been marked out of bounds too. I got out of the Jeep for a look-see. At the tree where the tape was wrapped and tied in a knot, I noticed a gap of about twenty feet before it started again. I looked at the end of the tape, which was dangling there. Obviously, the cops had run out and simply not bothered to close the gap.

  To me, it resembled a welcoming entrance. Who’d know if I just walked around a little? After all, I was the one who discovered the crime scene in the first place.

  I quickly covered the distance to the old house and stepped onto the sagging porch. I had to duck to pass through the front door. People must have been shorter back then. Once inside, it was apparent the place still served a useful purpose. Each room was filled with freshly cut bales of Coastal Bermuda hay—it gave off a rich, comforting aroma that reminded me of childhood summers and the hum of my dad’s lawn mower.

  Dim light filtered through cracks in the walls. No insulation, no sheetrock. Life was tough in the good old days. Back out on the porch some squeaking under it—mice I guessed—made me look down. At my feet was a large black ashy spot circled with white chalk. Luckily, I hadn’t stepped on it. Maybe it meant something to someone at the Sheriff’s Department. And someone had snubbed out several cigarettes here, though there were no butts.

  I squatted and sniffed but didn’t detect the odor of ordinary cigarettes. Instead, the aroma was more pungent, like a cigarillo or a Swisher Sweet. Leaning over the porch edge, I saw that ashes had fallen through the cracks and … Well, well, what have we here?

  I carefully picked up a tiny scrap of brown paper and sat back on my heels. Someone had definitely stood at the corner of the porch and smoked a cigarillo. Then came a revelation: This was the perfect place to watch the well and remain unseen.

  Had someone been watching me? Get a grip, I scolded myself. You’ve got a big job to do. Brushing the ashes from my fingers, I left the creepy rundown shack and headed back to flag drill holes in the woods.

  SEVEN

  After about four hours of hacking my way through stubbornly resistant underbrush, I sheathed my machete and made a quick check for ticks. Back on the road where I’d parked, I opened the Jeep’s cargo door and felt a pang of loneliness for Tulip.

  Though she’d miraculously not been seriously hurt in the hunting mishap, she needed at least a week to heal before returning to her hard-charging life as my field buddy. Henri had agreed to keep her at her house until I got home Friday. I sure did miss that hound.

  Funny how just knowing you’re responsible for the safety of someone else made you feel safer too. Worked for me anyway.

  As I slugged down a bottle of spring water, I heard a truck approaching. Turning, I saw Robert Earle Walton’s black Escalade slowly bumping over the cut hay field. Nice ride. Expensive too.

  Gladys had told me that both kids had received modest trust funds when their father died, which kicked in when they turned twenty-one. She’d explained the funds as both a curse and a blessing. The blessing being that Robert Earle and Shirley could never get at the principle; the curse, that the income was just enough so that neither of them had ever tried to stay gainfully employed for very long. They knew they had enough to get by.

  I leaned against the back of the Jeep, my arms crossed. Trying to appear even more nonchalant, I propped one boot behind me on the back bumper.

  Robert Earle hopped out of the SUV. “Hi! How are you today, Miz Cooper?” he said, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. What was wrong with this picture?

  “Huh. Fine, Robert Earle. How’re things with you?”

  “Doing just fine too. How’s that testing going?”

  “Not much to say yet. Just got started. Have you heard from your mother?”

  “Say, I brought some soft drinks for you and your crew. Think they’d want one? Got ’em all iced down ’n everything.”

  So now he was concerned about my hydration? I said, “I take that to mean you still haven’t heard from her. What about Sheriff Evans? Has he updated you about whose body that was in your well?”

  “No, he hasn’t been back in touch … Pretty awful, huh? Why, people in town can’t talk of another thing.” He sounded as if he was trying out for the part of the gossipy old maid in a community theater play. He retrieved a Styrofoam cooler from his backseat and carried it to my Jeep.

  “Well, thanks, Robert Earle. I’m sure the crew’ll appreciate all those cold drinks.” I looked up at the parting clouds and patches of blue in the sky. “Especially now that the sun’s coming out.”

  “Glad to do it,” Robert Earle said as he hefted the cooler into the cargo area.

  “What about your cousin Irene? Is she back yet?”

  Robert Earle’s jolly mask momentarily slipped as anger flamed in his eyes, but he blinked it away in an instant. He reminded me of a cuttlefish I’d seen on the Discovery Channel, flashing different colors with each change of emotions.

  “Those two,” he said with a fake little laugh. “I swear, they’ve got everybody worked up over nothing. They’ll be back when they’re good and ready. You’ll see.”

  “So you’re saying you think your mother and Irene are togeth
er?”

  “Sure. Besides, Mom’s done this before and it only makes sense that Irene’s with her. Where else would she be?”

  Good question. “I don’t understand. Gladys has done this before? When and for how long?”

  Again the flame followed by the fake smile and phony chuckle. “Oh, she’s been doing this on and off for years now. Shirley and I worry sick about her at times, but we’ve learned to live with it. Besides, as Mom gets older, we have to think of her well-being.”

  “What does that mean? Her well-being?”

  “You know. Keeping her safe, of course.”

  “I see.” I looked at my watch. My crew would be wanting to go to lunch and I wanted to ditch this clown. Plus, I was anxious to see the drilling report about how far down the guys had drilled before reaching rock at the other flags. “Thanks for the sodas. I’m meeting the crew for lunch and I’ll see they get them then.”

  “Let me know how those test results look,” he called after me as I drove away.

  Right, Robert Earle. And you let me know the very moment they find Elvis.

  The crew followed me down Belgrade Swansboro Road to Highway 24, also known as Freedom Way because it leads to Camp Lejeune Marine base. We pulled in at Minnie’s Luncheonette at the edge of the greater Jacksonville area. Over a meal of chicken and pastry, baby limas, and cornbread, we discussed the results from the two dozen holes Statewide had drilled while I was being entertained by the delightful Robert Earle.

  Turns out they were much the same as hole number one, all fitting the visual image I had of my granite mountain. I was pleased with Wink, Mule, and Stick and told them so. Just as the waitress brought our banana pudding, included with today’s special, I excused myself from the table. On my way to the ladies’ room, I thought I glimpsed a familiar face. Stepping into a hallway that led to the restrooms, I casually glanced back. Sure enough, it was the other half of the Walton brood.

  The rabbity-looking guy with her was familiar too, I just couldn’t place him, though I was sure I’d seen him fairly recently. The prominent nose, small mouth, and top teeth sticking out. By the time I’d washed my hands, I’d made an executive decision. I was going to stop by Shirley’s table and see if she was feeling as friendly as her brother this morning.

  “Hi, Shirley,” I said. “How are you today?”

  “Well, I’ll be darned. So nice to see you,” Shirley fawned. “Robert Earle said he’d been over to your testing site and you and your crew were working like a bunch of ants. Just drilling and drilling.”

  Imagine that. Drill crews, just drilling and drilling. I bit back the sarcastic comment. “They’re busy, that’s for sure,” I said and looked at her friend. He had a tattoo on the bottom side of his forearm—a pair of angel wings sprouting from a small plane. Now I remembered—he was the pilot who’d flown me over Gladys’s farm.

  Similar thoughts were obviously forming themselves in his mind. He snapped his fingers. “Cleo. Cleo Cooper, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “You’ve got a good memory. Better than mine, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” Shirley said. “Where are my manners? This is Ivan Thorpe … my boyfriend.” She scrunched up her plain face—which didn’t help it one bit—and grinned at Ivan. He returned her gaze and they clasped hands, mooning at each other across the table.

  Suppressing an involuntary gag reflex, I smiled and said, “It’s nice to see you again.” Then, turning to Shirley, I added, “When I talked to Robert Earle this morning, he said you guys aren’t too worried about your mom … He says she does this kind of thing all the time?”

  “That’s right. She’ll be back when she’s ready.”

  “What about Irene?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’re together. In fact, Ivan saw them not long before Mom left.”

  I looked at him.

  “Yeah, right,” he said. “I saw them in the Red and White over on Second Street. I believe it was around noon.”

  “When was that?”

  “I can’t remember exactly. Heck, it could’ve been the day they left. Might’ve been getting road snacks. You know, come to think of it, I believe it must have been Monday, because I went in there to pick up bottled water right before I flew out to pick up clients in Greensboro.”

  “Monday, like last Monday?”

  “No. The Monday before that.”

  “So, two weeks ago?”

  He shrugged. “I guess that’s about right.” Jiggling Shirley’s hand, he said, “We need to go now, sugar, if we’re going to have time to go by the jewelry story before I head back to the airport.”

  Shirley blushed. I could tell she was bursting with pride. She looked up and said, “Ivan and I are getting engaged.”

  Just then I noticed my crew was headed for the cashier, so I gave the lucky couple my very sincere best wishes and left.

  On the sidewalk in front of the diner, I said, “Wink, you know, I’d just as soon keep all our test results confidential. Very confidential.”

  “You’re the one paying for the information. That means you’re the only one privy to the results.”

  “Just so we’re all on the same page. You might need to remind Mule and Stick to keep it buttoned too.”

  “Gotcha,” he said, in a way I felt I could trust.

  EIGHT

  Friday arrived and a whole week of testing was drawing to an uneventful close—uneventful only in the sense that I hadn’t found any bodies, been threatened or shot at, or encountered a dangerous wild animal. It was, however, certainly true that my granite mountain was taking shape, and that was all the eventful I wanted. Connecting the dots of data on my field map, I could almost see that mountain, and I could hardly wait until I had all the data. Then, when fed into a computer program, it would create a three-dimensional image that anyone could marvel at.

  Fortunately for me, my son, William, a year older than Henri, was handling that part of my project. We’d already set a tentative date, based on when I thought I’d have enough data, for him to come up for a visit and show me the images. I would do it myself except I’ve discovered that spending prolonged periods of time on a computer stir feelings in me of violence, mayhem, and murder. Better to let Will do it. Besides, the kid was fresh out of school.

  At twenty-four, he’d already received his masters in marketing and economics from the Calloway School of Business at Wake Forest University last year, and he’d started his own search engine optimization company. Despite the fact that he would forget more about computers before lunch than I could hope to know in two lifetimes, starting a business was tough to do even in normal times. In a recession, it was damn near impossible. I had no doubt his massive intellect and boyish charm would take him to the top of his game, but giving him a leg up and helping myself at the same time … no-brainer.

  This last morning of our first week of testing looked to be a red-letter day for me. We’d moved out of the field Tuesday afternoon and been in the woods for the past three days. Wink had brought in a bulldozer to push trails for the rig and we’d finally cut our way to the creek, where there was sufficient water to take our first core sample of the rock underneath all that dirt.

  As I trekked along the raw trail the crew had made—mangled underbrush, small, downed trees—my thoughts went again to Gladys. Yes, I was a little worried but I also missed her. She’d been so excited about “our project” as she called it. I wished I’d taken more time with her when we were together, but I had always been in a rush to get somewhere or do something. Stopping briefly to bend a willowy limb off the trail, I wondered why it is that humans never seem to learn to appreciate the people in their lives until they’re gone.

  I, for one, never appreciated my own mother until I lost her at the tender age of nineteen, during college and right before I got married. One day she was there, seemingly healthy and vibrant, and the
next she’d departed the planet by way of a heart attack. That was more than twenty-five years ago.

  The trail broke into a Y-intersection, and I stopped and listened. The sound of clanging metal told me the crew was replacing the standard drilling bit, the one we used to drill through overburden, with the rotary core bit. Tungsten steel inserts or industrial diamonds make it possible for a rotary bit to cut a circle through solid rock.

  Continuing on my way, my thoughts went back to my mom. If I’d known I’d be privy to her marvelous wit and wisdom for only such a short time, I would have paid more attention. Maybe that’s why I was so bummed by the disappearance of Gladys Walton, who was about the age my mother would be now.

  From the first minute I’d met her, most everything about Gladys reminded me of Mom. I’d looked forward so much to being able to share with her the test results. Remembering some of our conversations, I wondered now if what I took for excitement at the possibility of receiving such a large sum of money was, in reality, relief at finding a way out of a bad situation. Maybe the farm and taking care of two grown children—ones who had the money but not the motivation to take care of themselves—had gotten to be too much for her. Maybe she saw the sale of the land as a way to exit gracefully. To, in effect, kick the kiddos out of the nest by selling said nest to me.

  Rounding a curve, I saw Wink’s pickup. Then a roar like a monster outboard motor filled the air. Mule had started the pump that would pull water from the creek to cool the rotary coring bit as it ground through the granite, creating a cylinder of rock about two inches in diameter and pushing it up into a five-foot long hollow pipe, the core barrel. The thrill of discovery made me lose my boss-lady cool and I ran the rest of the way to the site.

  Wink handed me a hard hat and said, “Did you see that guy … Robert Earle? He was looking for you.”

  “No. Must have just missed him,” I said, failing to mention that this morning I’d hidden my Jeep in the woods for the express purpose of avoiding another of his friendly visits—his fourth this week. I had no intention of encouraging him.