“I’m not. It’s a business matter.”
“They’re not here,” he said.
“So I gathered. Can you tell—”
“Hawaii,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“They’re in Hawaii. Another vacation.”
“When did they leave?”
“Last week. They go to places like that three or four times a year — stay a month. Must be nice to have money.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said.
“Neither would I.”
There was something in his tone that indicated he didn’t like his employers much. Maybe because Darrow was rich; maybe for some other reason. Which was probably why he was so willing to tell a stranger — who might be Raffles, the international jewel thief, for all he knew — that the Darrows were away in Hawaii on an extended visit.
I asked him, “Did you happen to be working here yesterday? I’m also trying to find a young woman who might have stopped by...”
“Nope,” he said. “Wednesdays and Saturdays are my days.”
“I see.”
“Ask Mrs. Flowers.”
“Who would she be?”
“Housekeeper. Lives in. She knows everything.” He didn’t like Mrs. Flowers much either.
“She’s not here now,” I said.
“No. Went shopping or something.”
“Any idea when she’ll be back?”
“Nope. Maybe she took the day off.”
“When the cats are away,” I said.
“Huh?” he said.
I left him and went back to the rental car and sat there for a time. So the Darrows were in Hawaii and had been for a week; if McCone had come here yesterday, she’d probably have discovered the same thing. So then what would she have done? Hung around to check out that club angle, probably. But what club? Not the country club over there, or the other one in town; she’d seemed to think the club Beddoes and the Darrows belonged to was some kind of health spa. Only there wasn’t a health club in Borrego Springs, according to the gas station attendant...
I kept sitting there, looking at the house. And pretty soon I realized why it wasn’t what I’d expected: those photographs I’d found in Jim Lauterbach’s office, in his file on Elaine Picard. An odd-looking house in the desert, at least semi-isolated, with an old spur track and the remains of a water tower and a loading dock not far away. When Darrow’s name came up, along with the fact that he lived in Borrego Springs, I had made the same kind of false assumption I’d made about Nancy Pollard being Timmy’s mother — that the house in the photos must be Darrow’s house.
All right, it wasn’t. Then whose was it?
I got out of the car again and went back through the front gate to where the gardener was. He wasn’t happy to see me back; but then he wasn’t unhappy either. He looked blank when I asked him about the place in the photos — until I mentioned the spur track and the ruins nearby. Then he rubbed at his creased face and began to nod.
“You must mean the old Matthews place,” he said. “Funny-looking house, looks like a big toadstool grew up out of the ground after a rain?”
“Something like that. You say somebody named Matthews owns it?”
“Not anymore. Leonard Matthews built it back in the thirties. Crazy as a coot. Owned the Matthews Gypsum Mine not far away, up in the foothills; built the spur track, too, to get his ore to Plaster City — it used to connect with the old Gypsum Mining Railroad that runs down there. Mine petered out after the war, but Matthews stayed on until he died. Must have been thirty years ago, about.”
“Who owns the house now?”
“Nobody, far as I know. Sits up in the middle of nowhere, looks like a toadstool. Who’d want it? Not many people as crazy as old Matthews was, even these days.”
“Where is it, exactly?”
“You know where the U.S. Gypsum Mine is?”
“No.”
“How about Split Mountain Road?”
“No.”
“Well, you can’t miss Split Mountain; it’s smack in the middle of Ocotillo Wells. You know where that is?”
“Not far from here on Highway 78, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. You take Split Mountain past the Elephant Tree Ranger Station, almost to where it ends at the U.S. Gypsum Mine. There’s a dirt road branches off it to the south, up into the foothills. Follow that about seven miles and you’ll be at the old Matthews place.”
“Thanks.”
“You planning to go out there this time of day?” he asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Better take some water with you, just in case,” he said. “That’s empty desert up around there and hotter’n the hinges of hell. Something happens and you get caught without water, you might not come back alive.”
41: McCone
I was lying on my right side, arm folded under me. Sharp objects poked into my flesh. My arm tingled painfully. I moved off it, moaning with the effort, and opened my eyes.
My cheek was pressed against the sandy ground. I was staring at the roots of a low green shrub that had a whitish sheen, as if it had been dusted with flour. I tried to push myself up and found my arm was nearly numb. Rolling over on my back, I looked up through tree branches at the sky. It was clear blue, and little patterns of sunlight shone through the dark tracery. Sunlight that slanted from the left.
My lips were badly cracked and dry. I opened my mouth and tried to lick them, but my tongue was even dryer. It was very hot, and I hurt all over. What had happened?
Images flickered in my mind. Sand... a rocky wash... a high outcropping... hills... trees in the distance...
The desert. I had run across the desert in the blazing heat. And got lost.
Something rustled in the dry shrubbery near me. A rattlesnake? Alarmed, I sat up, my body aching, and looked around. I was lying at the edge of a dry water hole in the shade of a clump of stunted desert willows. Their branches were gray and brittle-looking, because there was no water...
My thirst came back full force, along with a dull pounding in my head. My eyes ached as I studied my surroundings.
I was at the bottom of a shallow wash filled with dormant vegetation. The water hole’s bottom was sun-cracked, without even a trickle of moisture. It was very hot, but nothing like what I’d experienced running through the sand. The slight drop in temperature and the shade from the trees had probably saved my life, slowing the rate of my dehydration so I’d regained consciousness.
From the angle of the sun’s rays, I could tell it was sinking. The desert would cool off after dark. Perhaps then I could cross the wastes once more and find my way to civilization.
But there was not much chance of that. For one thing, I knew I couldn’t travel any farther without water. For another, when it was dark I would run the risk of becoming even more disoriented. I knew nothing about the moon or constellations that would help me chart my course. My only real chance was to get to high ground now, while it was still light, to see if I could spot the water tower and the road. That was what I should have done before, but fear, exhaustion, and thirst had clouded my thinking.
Shakily I got to my feet and moved up the slope to the rim of the wash. About a hundred yards off to the west was a rocky outcropping. If I could get to the top of it and pinpoint the old water tower or the utility lines along Split Mountain Road, I could move in the straightest line to Elephant Tree Ranger Station.
A sudden wave of dizziness swept over me. I closed my eyes, waiting for it to pass. And knew beyond a doubt that I’d never get to those rocks if I didn’t have water.
When I opened my eyes, I began looking at the plants around me, trying to remember my high-school biology field trips. This vegetation might look dead, but in actuality it was only dormant, waiting for the return of the life-giving moisture. Many plants stored water. But did any of these? No.