Horror on the Ruby X

  Horror on the Ruby X

  A Pat and Jean Abbott Mystery

  Frances Crane

  To Marshall, Kelly and Bill, with love

  Chapter One

  The girl in the rattly prewar Ford sedan whom we had come on six or seven times in the last hundred miles was just ahead of us when we were halfway up the steep hill ten miles north of Santa Maria. The grade slowed her down to a chugging crawl. The yellow line was in the other lane and we could have passed legally but my husband, Patrick Abbott, who had mouthed sweet talk about this girl every time we had seen her, declared it would be discourteous not to trail behind.

  “She’s a visitor from the East,” he crooned. The Ford had a New York license. “It’s our job to show her that the wild West is still gallant and kind.”

  He was about to get a rise out of me, for I was starting to feel jealous. He’s an excellent driver and he likes to move at least as fast as the law allows. But if this kept up it would be dark before we got to Santa Maria.

  “I don’t remember your showing gallantry of this particular kind before, darling.”

  With perverse consistency he said, “She’s a beautiful girl.”

  It was too much.

  “I don’t agree. She’s singular-looking, though. I’ll go that far.”

  As if I’d made no comment he said, “I hope we run into her in Santa Maria.”

  Probably we would. The heart of Santa Maria is a little place even though the town and the places outside spread all over the map. You couldn’t help running into everybody, specially at this time of year, when the summer people had gone and there were very few tourists. Patrick had seldom gone overboard for a girl, like this. Still, he goes for an unusual type, including me with my black hair and yellow eyes, and when you’ve been married a good while and, unfortunately, a lot of girls are fresher and younger, a husband’s sudden intense interest in a female stranger is a disturbing omen.

  At the summit the Ford picked up speed and skittered along blithely till a dirt road turned off to the right. Then the girl pulled out on the right shoulder and waggled her left hand to signal her wish to speak to us.

  “You won’t have to wait till Santa Maria,” I muttered, as Patrick delightedly slid our car to a halt beside hers.

  She said, “I beg your pardon. Do you happen to know if this side road leads to the Mackenzie ranch?”

  Her voice was good, too. Low and clear but not husky, just the kind of voice Patrick most admires. Her hair was very thick, cut short, its color a splendid shining bronze. Her eyes were deep blue. She had a short straight nose and a full-lipped smiling mouth. What with a glowing complexion and a tall, slender figure she had plenty, even though she wasn’t really beautiful. We had seen her once walking about a filling station and Patrick had abruptly stopped to refuel, even though our tank was almost full. She wore no make-up but geranium lipstick and she was dressed in a gray tweed suit, flat pumps, a black cashmere sweater, and immaculate, short white string driving gloves.

  “Right,” Patrick answered her now. Briefly, but with an unnecessarily warm smile.

  “It doesn’t look very good,” she said.

  “It’s a state road and it’s all right in dry weather, like this, Miss …”

  “Brent. Lauren Brent. I’ve come out from New York to be Mrs. Mackenzie’s secretary. It may get dark soon. I don’t want to take the wrong turning.”

  “That’s the road, Miss Brent. A few miles along it drops down to a bridge across the Rio Grande. You climb the hill beyond the bridge and a quarter mile or so along you take a road which angles to the left from the state road. That road is really a lane which leads to the ranch house. You can’t see the house for a mile or two, but you can’t miss it. I think there’s a sign where the lane leaves the state road which points to the Ruby X.”

  “The Ruby X?”

  “That’s the name of the ranch. We’re Jean and Patrick Abbott from San Francisco. Give Alan Mackenzie our best.”

  Her face went radiant. That’s part of her lure, I thought. Her face says too many things. “How nice that you know the Mackenzies!”

  “We know only Alan,” I said, getting a word in.

  “I only know Mrs. Mackenzie.” Her face lit up even more. “I haven’t met either of her sons. Thank you again, and good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” I said. Instantly.

  “Good-bye,” Patrick said, but he looked after her until she was jogging well on along the dirt road. Then he put our car in gear and we moved on and this time he wasn’t merely cruising.

  “For a moment I thought you were going to offer yourself as her personal escort,” I remarked, sweetly. “Personally, I’ve no desire to climb that hill beyond the Rio Grande again.”

  “She won’t need an escort,” Patrick said. “She’s a wonderful girl. She can do anything.”

  I let it pass.

  “Why didn’t you warn her about that hill?”

  “No use to worry her in advance. She’ll have no trouble.”

  “But that car?”

  “Old cars like that may be slow but they always make their hill.”

  “That hill is a terror. It climbs up the canyon wall from the river like a jointed ladder. It would frighten even a goat.”

  “Lauren Brent can do anything,” Patrick reiterated.

  I was completely irritated now, but with superfeminine patience I allowed this to pass.

  “Ruby Mackenzie was killed on that hill, Pat.”

  “People said she was oiled. In fact she was, according to the autopsy. There’s community property in this state and her brothers, remember, came from some place in west Texas and tried to pin murder on Alan so as to latch onto his wife’s half of the ranch. They might have got away with it, too, if Ruby had ever been seen sober. They were already loaded with oil money of their own. The thing stank.”

  Patrick, my strong silent one, was babbling like a brook. How come? Had that girl excited him to the extent that he was going to get gabby? I felt more and more uneasy.

  “How do you happen to remember it so well, dear?”

  “Because I like Alan Mackenzie a lot. He got a bad deal in Ruby. She couldn’t have been much of a wife.”

  “He must have loved Ruby at one time. He named the ranch for her. His brand is RX.”

  “She was a beauty. It wasn’t enough.”

  “I don’t know exactly how I feel about Alan Mackenzie, Pat. He’s too silent. It is an admirable quality, especially when you yourself want to do all the talking. But Alan is too taciturn and inscrutable. He’s dark as gloom.”

  “All Alan needs is a break, Jeanie. That Lauren Brent is the perfect answer. Now there is a girl!”

  I relaxed. I didn’t care to revert to the girl, though it brightened things up to learn that my husband was willing to pass her along to Alan. Love is my department but I dropped the subject willingly and spoke of the view. We were skimming along, up and down the rolling highway a few miles north of Santa Maria. The white-capped Truchas Mountains were thirty miles away but in the clear, scented, rainbow-hued air we seemed about to run into them head-on. The constantly changing colors of the desert and mountains were darkening. This was the most dramatic moment of the day. At any time now all color would go as if some giant wand had whisked it away.

  That moment was on us. The day died. Everything in sight became cruel, bleak, sullen, gray and menacing. I shuddered and pressed close to Patrick. He took a hand off the wheel to pat my cheek.

  “In late fall and winter this happens every time the day ends,” I said. “That’s a shocking hill, Pat. The Spanish-Americans call it La Bojada, which means, as you know, The Descent. Descent is right. It’s better for a toboggan than a car. Maybe those turns are too sharp even for a toboggan. I hope that girl can make it.”

  “She’ll manage,” Patrick said, smugly.

  “You win,” I conceded. The lights of Santa Maria and its surrounding ranches and villages were twinkling in the hasty dusk, as though they had shone out on purpose to relieve the cruel grayness.

  Later on we were to hear more about Lauren Brent’s drive on to the Ruby X. The state road was winding but graded and fair as far as the Rio Grande. There is a confluence of two rivers at this point. The little Rio Hondo rushes down from the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Except in flood time it joins the larger river above the bridge in half a dozen separate streams like a handful of silver ribbons flowing among red rocks.

  The light was fading but still full of color when Lauren stopped for a moment on the bridge. The sparkling Rio Grande flowed swiftly between steep dark purple canyon walls. Suddenly, as if some mighty hangman had dropped a huge cap over them, they turned raven-black.

  Lauren put on the headlights, put the car in low gear and started up the hill. Until she got to the first switchback she’d no premonition of what was ahead. She could barely wangle the turning. The old car ground noisily on up an incredible gradient. On the second switchback she had to back up after she turned, to angle the car into the steep, narrow dirt road. Here and there fallen rocks forced her to skirt the outmost edge. What if she should meet another car? There was no room to pass except on the bends, and precious little there. In the Colorado mountains she had grown used to no guard rails on the hills, but at least those highways were wide and well engineered.

  She was frightened now. Suppose the motor failed? What should she do? Let it roll back to the last bend? She wouldn’t be able to see clearly behind her. So how could she back up?

  Hurry? The old
heap was doing as well as it could. Hurry was out of its line, particularly when it had to climb.

  Another switchback. Another. Then the gradient grew less and the motor, as if alive, purred with success and picked up speed.

  Then she was at the top. Up here there was still afternoon light. She turned off the headlights. What looked like a whole wide wonderful world spread hugely to far mountains. There was rich color in the sky and the desert was flooded with pink. And here was the sign. An arrow pointed to the narrow road which led to the Ruby X.

  What an empty country! There wasn’t a living creature in sight.

  It didn’t matter. Lauren was again glowing with the happiness which had filled her from the time this journey began. The hill was but a moment in time which interrupted briefly her almost-arrived-at and hallowed-in-advance destination. How incredibly kind of Gina to finance her last year at Barnard! It was a fairy tale. Lauren Brent had been selling cosmetics in a Fifth Avenue department store. In came Georgina Mackenzie, tiny and exquisite. She gave a large order. Then she asked Lauren about herself. Lauren, usually reticent, told her on the impulse that her mother had recently died of grief because her father had been sent to prison. Everything they had, had gone to defend him from a crime they were certain he had not committed. Now Lauren was working at whatever she could do in order to finish school.

  Next day Gina came back.

  “I sense unhappiness in people,” she said, her large black eyes compassionate. “I want to help you. Will you let me finance you until you finish school?”

  Lauren said, “You’re not doing this because—because of what I told you about my father?”

  “Certainly not! I have plenty of money and it gives me pleasure to assist young people who attract me and who, I sense, have ability. The cost means nothing to me. I hope you will accept my offer.”

  “But how can I pay you back?”

  “You needn’t.” Gina considered. “If you insist, after graduation you can come to me as my secretary. I spend part of the year in Houston and part on a New Mexican ranch. A trained eastern girl would be very useful.”

  That time had come. Now, with her college degree as well as training in secretarial work, Lauren was off to Gina. How like the generous West! Gina might be tiny but she had a heart as big as all Texas.

  Without warning all color left the earth. Lauren slowed almost to a stop. The glorious landscape had become grim and repellent.

  She put on speed again and the next rise disclosed a sprawling mud-colored house. Four minutes later she parked her crate among handsome cars in a space paved with crushed white rock. No one could have seen her arrive. All front windows were closely curtained and the main door was solid oak. For an instant she thought no one was in the house. Nonsense! All those cars! Her joy again brushed all misgivings away. She flung the door of the car open with a bang, and without taking even her bag, ran up the flagged walk which made a passage through the desert sage and cactus that grew right up to the walls of the house.

  The door was opened before she rang. An Indian man in a white velvet blouse, black pants, and masses of silver and turquoise jewelry held it wide for her to enter.

  The Indian was astonishingly handsome. He had copper skin, sky-blue eyes, delicate aquiline features, short-cropped shining black hair, and exquisitely slender hands and feet. In the instant Lauren stood in the doorway his strange beauty was stamped photographically on her mind.

  “Well, show her in, Tom,” Gina called from the room with the curtained front windows.

  Lauren hurried through a wide doorway, open between fastened-back hinged doors. Tiny, lovely, heart-faced, black-eyed Gina sat in a long chair near a roaring log fire. Her hair was now tinted golden. She wore a white cashmere sweater with black slacks, and turquoise wreathed her neck and wrists. Beaded moccasins encased her little feet. She had a fashion magazine on her lap and she put a finger on her page as Lauren rushed in and stooped to kiss her cheek.

  Gina lifted her cigarette.

  “Don’t do that!” she snapped. “I hate being mauled. So you’re here at last.”

  Lauren moved away as though physically pushed.

  “Did you expect me sooner? I’m sorry. My old car is a snail.”

  “Car? You said you had nothing?”

  Lauren laughed. She couldn’t be yanked out of her high illumination so quickly. People had moods. Gina must be worried about something.

  “Wait till you see it, Gina. It’s an heirloom I couldn’t get rid of. A friend of my father’s stored it for nothing.”

  Gina lifted one tiny shoulder.

  “You won’t need to use it here. We can stick it out of sight, I suppose.” The Indian had remained standing somewhere back of Lauren. “Tom, you may go.” He moved with lithe grace in the direction of two closed doors opposite the one Lauren had entered. Gina called, “And, Tom, tell Fernando to bring in Lauren’s things.” The Indian nodded and went out, silent on his moccasins. “We use first names here, Laurie. The house servants concede me a Missus, but Tom won’t. He calls me Gina. He calls everybody by their first names, even the first time he speaks to them.” Gina stamped out her cigarette and immediately flicked her lighter for another.

  Encouraged by the change in her tone, Lauren said, “What a beautiful creature!”

  “He’s a Navajo. They’re often very handsome. But Tom Smith could take a beauty prize on his own reservation.”

  “His name is really Tom Smith?”

  “Oh, he’s got an Indian name which means Son of Cabbage Patch or something. I really couldn’t be bothered! Look, Laurie, don’t go and make a fool of yourself over Tom Smith. For all I know he has a couple of wives and dozens of papooses. I couldn’t care less. He’s a fine mechanic and a fine chauffeur, which is why he’s here. I’ve seen one silly eastern girl after another lose their minds over such savages. Then they’re stuck with them. Don’t sit down. You’ve only time enough for a bath and change before cocktails and dinner. But having seen how you looked at Tom Smith I must lose no time in telling you something else. Neither of my sons is eligible.”

  Lauren recoiled in spirit and fact. She stepped back and her chin went high as she retorted, “Whoever thought they were?”

  “All girls think so. I am cautioning you for your own good. David, my younger son, is twenty-seven. He’s handsome as a god and he’s a charmer. But he’s a stinker with women. He’ll lead you on but he won’t marry you. I know him like a book and I know even before he does that he’s going to marry a girl from Houston who’s a house guest here now. She’s filthy rich and that’s what David wants. My older son Alan is thirty. He’s a weird character.”

  Lauren did not speak. Her eyes had turned blue-black, which to those who knew her boded a blowup. It mustn’t happen. She held herself in as if with bands of steel.

  “You’re going to live in this house. You are a young woman and you have a look of quality. Mind you remember it. As I said, I’m saying these things for your own good. David will only break your heart. Alan has been married. His wife was killed eighteen months ago on that hill you probably drove up on this side of the Rio Grande.”

  “Oh, how sad!” Lauren said, with quick sympathy.

  Gina fixed her beautiful dark eyes on the girl. They were cold. Yet they were eyes that Lauren remembered as soft, expressive, deeply sympathetic.

  “Alan was accused of damaging his wife Ruby’s car with intent to kill her.”

  “Oh, that couldn’t’ve been true, Gina?”

  Gina moved her shoulders, put out a half-smoked cigarette and lit another before she made answer.

  “I really don’t care to give an opinion. I’ve never understood my son Alan. He’s like his father, who committed suicide and by doing it drove me almost insane. I wouldn’t put it beyond him to have done it on purpose to make trouble for me.” A door opened. “Here comes Fernando with your luggage. Your room is along the hall which leads from the front door. Fernando will show you there. Don’t be late for dinner.” She added, barely above a whisper, “I’ve told nobody about your father, of course. I’d rather no one knew it.”

  She opened her magazine. Lauren was dismissed.

  Stunned, baffled and very angry, Lauren followed the white-coated Spanish-American houseman along a wide hall with no windows. Outside a door set well back he put down some of the bags, opened the door and flicked a switch. He stepped back and bowed for Lauren to enter first.