Page 26 of The Girl from Devil’s Lake (Joanna Brady Mysteries #21)
Bisbee, Arizona
Four days after leaving Minnesota, Steve Roper arrived in Bisbee, Arizona, and checked into a motel called the San Jose Lodge.
When he asked the clerk about the establishment’s name, she pointed out through the glass door to where a distant, solitary mountain peak rose up majestically out of an otherwise flat desert landscape.
“That’s San Jose Peak,” she told him. “It’s in Old Mexico.”
Never having heard the term before, Steve was puzzled. “Old Mexico?” he repeated.
The clerk gave him an exasperated look. “This is Arizona,” she explained. “New Mexico is just to the east of us, and Old Mexico is to the south. That’s what we call them around here, old and new.”
“Okay,” Steve said. “I’ll try to remember that.”
His room was a long way from deluxe, with questionable carpeting and a worn, flowered bedspread.
There was an air-conditioning unit under the window, but dry heat or not, the outside temperature was still somewhere in the mid-nineties.
Since the room faced due west, the laboring AC barely made a dent in the hot, still air.
Prior to leaving home, Steve had placed a long-distance call to Bisbee, asking Information for the number of a local real estate office.
As a result of that call, he’d been in touch with a company and had both the name and address of a prospective agent, one Linda Mulligan.
Since he had no idea how to get to the real estate office in question, he went back to the registration office to ask the desk clerk.
“That’s easy,” she said. “Their office is in the lobby of the old Lyric Theater.” Then she gave him a small one-page map, pointing out where he was and showing him how to get to what she called “Upper Bisbee.”
Because he had come to town on Highway 80 via Lordsburg and Rodeo, New Mexico, Steve had approached Bisbee from the east, through terrain that had been relatively flat.
Now he backtracked far enough to reach a grassy traffic circle, went two-thirds of the way around that, and then drove uphill past what appeared to be the back side of a run-down business district.
The local map indicated that neighborhood was called Lowell.
Then he traversed a long flat curve of roadway that appeared to have been carved out of the gray-green innards of a mountain.
According to the map, it was an open-pit mine called Lavender Pit.
After that the twisting road began climbing again, eventually bringing him into the midst of some steep, red shale mountains dotted with low-growing shrubs.
There he entered another business district, this one designated as Upper Bisbee.
The clerk at the hotel had helpfully drawn an X on the map to indicate the exact location of the real estate office.
The marquee overhead indicated the building had once held a movie theater, but now it advertised the name of the real estate company rather than promoting some current offering from Hollywood.
Inside, Steve found a series of four desks scattered around what had once been the theater’s lobby. A middle-aged blond-haired woman was seated at one, which, to Steve’s way of thinking, had most likely been the location of a long-gone popcorn machine.
“May I help you?” the woman asked.
“I’m looking for someone named Linda Mulligan.”
“You’ve come to the right place then,” she said with a smile. “I’m Linda. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Stephen Roper,” he answered.
From that moment on, that’s who he was—who he became. Steve Roper was someone who came from Fertile, Minnesota, and who lived in the past. Stephen Roper was the new guy, the one who would live and thrive in Bisbee.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said. “We’ve talked on the phone, but I’m so glad to meet you in person. I understand you’re one of the new teachers at the high school, and I’ve put together a list of available properties that should be within your price range. When would you like to take a look at them?”
“I’ve just now driven into town, and I’m a little road weary,” he said.
“How about tomorrow then, say one o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Sounds perfect. Is there anywhere to get a decent meal around here?”
Linda gestured to her right. “When you go outside, turn to your right, go past Brewery Gulch and then up Howell Avenue. The Copper Queen Hotel is just up the hill on your right. You can’t go wrong there.
The dining room probably isn’t open right now, but the bar will be, and you’ll be able to order food there. ”
“All right,” he said. “I will, and see you tomorrow.”
His meal at the hotel was early, but it wasn’t half bad, and by the time he got back to San Jose Lodge, his room was blessedly cool. After a long shower, he went to bed and slept like a rock.
The next several days were taken up with house hunting.
Linda showed Stephen several places in town as well as one that was pretty much out in the boonies.
The last one wasn’t in Bisbee itself, but a mile or two south of the city limits and just north of a tiny town called Naco that sat directly on the US/Mexico border.
The property, located on an unnamed dirt road, was a three-acre parcel due north of a golf course.
Having a golf course that close by would have been great for Coach Nielson, but it was of no particular interest to Stephen.
The frame, two-bedroom house wasn’t all that great.
It was about the same age and size as the one he’d owned in Fertile.
It had linoleum floors, which weren’t his first choice, and there was considerable evidence of termite damage to the exterior of the structure.
But Stephen wasn’t all that fussy about the house itself.
He had never been one to entertain, and he didn’t see that changing.
His favorite part of the place was a stand-alone garage that included a spacious workshop.
That was a big improvement. In Fertile he’d always had to park on the street.
Not only that, the price was right. The house had been listed for months with no takers in sight.
When Stephen made a lowball, all-cash offer, the sellers leaped at it.
Wanting to be moved in and settled before school started, Stephen turned to Linda, his only real acquaintance in town.
She helped him locate a contractor who was willing to fix the termite damage and update the kitchen and bathroom, along with ripping out all the linoleum and installing new flooring.
The contractor assured him that the entire job could be completed by the second week in August, which was two weeks before Stephen was scheduled to report for work.
Linda then took him to a local furniture store called Whitehead’s where the in-store designer helped him pick out furniture that would be put aside and available for delivery the moment the house was ready for occupancy.
With that all under control, and more than tired of living in his room at the San Jose Lodge, Stephen decided it was time to treat himself to a road trip.
He told the desk clerk that since he couldn’t move into the house until the contractor finished, he was going to take a drive around Arizona and see what there was to see.
“You mean you aren’t going to stay for the Fourth of July?” she asked incredulously. “It’s going to be a really big deal this year because of the bicentennial. There’ll be coaster races, a parade, the B-Hill climb, and fireworks, as long as the rain doesn’t drown them out.”
“Rain?” Stephen repeated in disbelief. “What rain? I’ve been here for days and haven’t seen a drop.”
“Not to worry,” she said. “Rainy season is coming. It usually starts right in the middle of the Fourth of July fireworks.”
“Sorry,” Stephen told her. “I think I’ll pass. I want to spend some time getting acquainted with Arizona—maybe drop by the Grand Canyon and the Painted Forest. After that maybe I’ll pop over to California and spend some time on the beach.”
“Have fun,” she said. “I wish I could go with you.”
No you don’t , Stephen thought. Having you along wouldn’t be a good idea for either one of us.
The long dormant voices in his head were absolutely overjoyed with the possibility of taking a trip and could hardly wait to hit the road. Stephen didn’t blame them. He was more than ready, too, but first he needed to tend to a couple pieces of business.
One important issue was the distinct scar on the back of his hand.
Over the years it had faded some, but it hadn’t gone away entirely, and that offended him.
It always reminded him of “Reservoir Girl.” The real problem with the scar, however, was that people—even complete strangers—noticed it and asked about it.
If you’re someone who wants to blend in, having any kind of distinguishing mark is a bad idea, so Stephen decided to hide it.
He went to a nearby drugstore and purchased a box of surgical gloves that he stored in the Impala’s glove box, making up his mind that he would wear gloves the entire time he was on the road—in the car and out of it.
And if anyone happened to ask him about them?
He’d explain that he had a terrible case of eczema and that he was wearing gloves on doctors’ orders. Nobody ever questioned those.
The other problem with the scar was that it reminded him of the serious miscalculation he’d made when picking up Reservoir Girl.
Getting someone into his vehicle wasn’t difficult.
The real issue was one of control. If he was still driving when his would-be victims suddenly figured out something wasn’t right and tried to bail, he needed to have some way to secure them until he was able to bring the car to a safe stop in a suitably secluded location.