disgruntled customers. It’s not uncommon for planes carrying drugs from south of the border to land at isolated airstrips; desert rats and prospectors and cults with bizarre beliefs hole up in nearly inaccessible canons. I’d have no shortage of potential suspects here.
Too bad my visit to the bristlecone pine under which Darya Adams died hadn’t offered a blinding flash of inspiration.
The red sun over the mountains told me the day was going to be hot. I dressed accordingly, in shorts and a tank top, with a loose-weave shirt for protection against the sun. After a big breakfast at a nearby cafe-best to fortify myself since I didn’t know when the next opportunity to eat would present itself-I set off for the offices of Ace Realty, a block off the main street.
According to my background checks, Jeb Barkley, the agent who had handled the sale of the cabin near Chelsea last year, was an old friend of Tom Worthington’s, had played football with him at Fresno State. A big man with a round, balding head that looked too small for his body, he was at his desk when I arrived. The other desks were unoccupied and dust-covered; business must not be good.
Barkley greeted me, brought coffee, then sat in his chair, leaning forward, hands clasped on the desktop, a frown furrowing his otherwise baby-smooth brow. “I sure hope you can do something to help Tom, Miz McCone,” he said.
“I’m going to try. Did you see him on his last visit?”
“Oh, no. He and Darya…they liked their privacy.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Couple of months ago. He came alone, to go fishing, and, when he got to the cabin, he discovered he didn’t have his keys. So he called me and I drove out to let him in with the spare we keep on file here.”
That would support Worthington’s claim that he’d misplaced the keys that had been found near Adams’s body. “How did he seem?”
“Seem? Oh…” Barkley considered, the furrows in his brow deepening. “I’d say he was just Tom. Cheerful. Glad to be there. He asked if I’d like to go fishing with him, but I couldn’t get away.”
“Mister Barkley, when Tom Worthington bought the cabin, was it clear to you that he was buying it for Darya Adams?”
“From the beginning. I mean, they looked at a number of properties together. And the offer and final papers were drawn up in her name, as a single woman.”
“As an old friend of Tom’s, how did you feel about the transaction?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Tom Worthington was cheating on his wife. Buying property for another woman. How did that make you feel?”
He hesitated, looking down at his clasped hands. “Miz McCone,” he said after a moment, “Tom has had a lot of trouble with his wife. A lot of trouble with those kids of his, too. Darya was a nice woman, and I figured he deserved a little happiness in his life. It wasn’t as if he was just fooling around, either. They were serious about each other.”
“Serious enough that he would leave his family for her?”
“He said he was thinking of it.”
“But so far he hadn’t taken any steps toward a divorce?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Let me ask you this, Mister Barkley. Are you convinced of Tom Worthington’s innocence?”
“I am.”
“Any ideas about who might have killed Darya Adams?”
“I’ve given that some thought. There’re a lot of weird characters hanging out in the hills around Chelsea. Screamin’ Mike, for one.”
“Who’s he?”
“Head case, kind of a hermit. Has a shack not too far from Tom and Darya’s cabin. Comes to town once a month when his disability check arrives at general delivery. Cashes it at Gilley’s Saloon, gets drunk, and then he starts screaming nonsense at the top of his voice. How he got his name.”
“Is he dangerous to others?”
“Not so far. Ed Gilley runs him off. He goes back to his shack and sobers up. But you never know.”
I made a note about Screamin’ Mike. “Anyone else you can think of?”
“There’s a cult up one of the canons…Children of the Perpetual Life. Some of their members’ve had run-ins with the sheriff, and a couple of years ago one of their women disappeared, was never found. Maybe Ed Gilley could help you. Running a saloon, he’s hooked in with the local gossip.”
I noted the cult’s and Gilley’s names. “Well, thank you, Mister Barkley,” I said. “When I spoke with your local sheriff’s deputy yesterday, he told me they have no objection to my examining the cabin, and I have Mister Worthington’s permission as well. Has he contacted you about giving me the keys?”
“Yes. But why do you want to go there? If the sheriff’s department didn’t find anything…”
“Even so, there may be something that will give me a lead.”
He rose, then hesitated. “The cabin…it’s kind of hard to find. How about I drive you there, let you in myself?”
At first I balked at the idea, but I sensed a reserve in Jeb Barkley; he might volunteer something useful in a less structured situation. “OK,” I said. “I’d appreciate it.”
We went outside to a parking area behind the real-estate office, and Barkley unlocked the doors of a blue Subaru Outback whose left side was badly scratched. He saw me looking at it and said: “Damn’ kids. Keyed it while the wife and I were at the movies last week.”
“I guess kids in small towns aren’t any different from those in big cities.” I slid into the passenger seat, wincing as the hot vinyl burned the back of my thighs.
“Makes me glad I never had any.” Barkley eased his big body behind the wheel.
“You mentioned that Tom Worthington had trouble with his children.”
“Yeah. Jeannie, the older one, got into drugs in high school. Tom had her in and out of schools for troubled teens, but it didn’t do any good. She’s out on her own now, only shows up when she wants money. The boy, Kent, has…I guess they call them anger-management problems. Did jail time for beating up his girlfriend. He’s in college now and doing well, but Tom says he’s still an angry young man.”
I made a mental note to find out more about Worthington’s troubled offspring. “And his wife…what kind of trouble did he have with her?”
“…I’m not sure I should be talking about that.”
“You’ll save me from having to ask him.”
“Well, OK, then. Betsy, that’s the wife’s name, she drinks. It’s gotten so that she doesn’t go out of the house, just drinks from morning till night. Wine after breakfast, the hard stuff in the afternoon, more wine during and after dinner. And then she passes out. They don’t have much of a life together.”
“Do you think she knew about Darya Adams?”
“Doubt the woman knows much about anything. I mean, when you’re in the bag all the time…”
“I hear you.”
Barkley drove north on the highway for about three miles, then looped off onto a secondary road that twisted and branched, twisted again, and began climbing into the hills between rocky outcroppings to which pines and sage and manzanita stubbornly clung. The road flattened briefly, and a scattering of buildings appeared-grocery store, propane firm, diner, and several small private homes.
“Chelsea,” Barkley said, and turned into a side road.
“Not much to it.”
“Nope. Of course, it suited Tom and Darya. As I said, they liked their privacy.”
“Why here, though? Why didn’t they buy a place nearer to Mammoth Lakes, where she had her shop?”
“Darya wasn’t comfortable with that. She’s…she was a prominent businesswoman, active in civic organizations and charities. Until Tom could see his way clear to divorcing Betsy, Darya preferred to keep their relationship secret.”
“Exactly why couldn’t he see his way clear?”
Barkley glanced at me, lips twisting wryly. “Money…what else? Community-property state, lots of assets at
