Corbett had died in Vietnam. His was one of the first names on the memorial plaque over by the new high school.
It served him right, Holly Patterson thought, thirty-nine years after that jewel-dear spring after noon.
Whatever Billy Corbett got, it served him right.
There was a knock on the door. Holly jumped, surprised by her own nervousness. She would have to remember to tell Amy how she was feeling and ask her what it meant. Ask her to put her under and calm her, make the bad feelings go away. Maybe, later on, they could go for a ride in Rex Rogers' bright red Cadillac. Maybe Amy would even let Holly drive.
She had read in the paper that Marliss, the old battle-ax who wrote a weekly column for the Bisbee Bee, actually thought the car belonged to Holly. That was a laugh. When she was evicted from her last roach-plagued apartment, Holly Patterson had scarcely anything left to call her own. Amy had helped her salvage the few paltry possessions that remained in storage back in California. And what she had she could keep only so long as she continued to pay the month-to-month storage rental.
The knock came again, and Holly realized she hadn't answered. "Who is it?"
"It's me. Isabel."
"Come in."
Isabel Gonzales, the gardener's wife who served as both cook and housekeeper, bustled into the room. She stopped short when she saw Holly's untouched lunch tray.
"You don't like what I cook for you?"
"I'm not hungry."
Isabel shook her head and ducked her tongue "Not eating is bad for you. It will make you sick." This place is making me sick, Holly thought And it wasn't just Billy Corbett, either, although at first she had thought it was, hoped it was. No it was something else, something much more than that, something about the dump itself, perhaps. Whatever it was, it remained just out of reach beyond the grasp of her conscious mind.
She had felt it the first day, as soon as she had set foot in the house. Of course, it was nice of Paul Enders-Pauli to his friends-to lend his "cabin by the lake" to his friends when he found out they were going to Bisbee on business. Of course, there was no lake anywhere near Bisbee. But for someone who lived in the high-pressure world of Hollywood costume design, it was important to have a hideaway where he could go to let the creative juices flow. Besides, Cosa Viejo had been such a wonderful period-piece bargain that he simply couldn't afford to turn it down.
Paul Enders was only the latest in the long list of Cosa Viejo's would-be rescuers. The exodus of miners in the late seventies along with a real estate glut had left even low-cost rentals sitting empty and in even worse decay. Into that economic slump came an unexpected sum of remodeling money that likely had its source somewhere in Colombia's drug cartel. Cocaine paid the bills for returning Cosa Viejo to a single family residence.
Alleged drug money repaired the dry rot, renewed the plumbing, fixed the wiring, and cleaned up and replanted a few of the gardens.
The job was only partially finished, however, when the feds moved in to take over. That was how Pauli Enders had picked the place up in the late eighties at a bargain-basement price.
Paul Enders said he found Cosa Viejo to be a homey place where he could work on a project and not have his creative bursts interrupted by unexpected visitors. He claimed that working in a room that overlooked that wild brown dump made him feel that he was perched somewhere Just below the rim of the Grand Canyon. But what was good for Pauli was bad for Holly, although why it was bad for her she couldn't quite fathom.
What was it about the dump? Why did it call to her so? Why did its looming nearness keep her from sleeping or eating or thinking?
"Well," Isabel was saying, "are you coming or not?" She sounded impatient, as though she'd said much more than that, only Holly had heard none of it.
"Coming?" Holly repeated stupidly. "Coming where?"
"Downstairs. To see your father. He's waiting to
It served him right, Holly Patterson thought, thirty-nine years after that jewel-dear spring after noon.
Whatever Billy Corbett got, it served him right.
There was a knock on the door. Holly jumped, surprised by her own nervousness. She would have to remember to tell Amy how she was feeling and ask her what it meant. Ask her to put her under and calm her, make the bad feelings go away. Maybe, later on, they could go for a ride in Rex Rogers' bright red Cadillac. Maybe Amy would even let Holly drive.
She had read in the paper that Marliss, the old battle-ax who wrote a weekly column for the Bisbee Bee, actually thought the car belonged to Holly. That was a laugh. When she was evicted from her last roach-plagued apartment, Holly Patterson had scarcely anything left to call her own. Amy had helped her salvage the few paltry possessions that remained in storage back in California. And what she had she could keep only so long as she continued to pay the month-to-month storage rental.
The knock came again, and Holly realized she hadn't answered. "Who is it?"
"It's me. Isabel."
"Come in."
Isabel Gonzales, the gardener's wife who served as both cook and housekeeper, bustled into the room. She stopped short when she saw Holly's untouched lunch tray.
"You don't like what I cook for you?"
"I'm not hungry."
Isabel shook her head and ducked her tongue "Not eating is bad for you. It will make you sick." This place is making me sick, Holly thought And it wasn't just Billy Corbett, either, although at first she had thought it was, hoped it was. No it was something else, something much more than that, something about the dump itself, perhaps. Whatever it was, it remained just out of reach beyond the grasp of her conscious mind.
She had felt it the first day, as soon as she had set foot in the house. Of course, it was nice of Paul Enders-Pauli to his friends-to lend his "cabin by the lake" to his friends when he found out they were going to Bisbee on business. Of course, there was no lake anywhere near Bisbee. But for someone who lived in the high-pressure world of Hollywood costume design, it was important to have a hideaway where he could go to let the creative juices flow. Besides, Cosa Viejo had been such a wonderful period-piece bargain that he simply couldn't afford to turn it down.
Paul Enders was only the latest in the long list of Cosa Viejo's would-be rescuers. The exodus of miners in the late seventies along with a real estate glut had left even low-cost rentals sitting empty and in even worse decay. Into that economic slump came an unexpected sum of remodeling money that likely had its source somewhere in Colombia's drug cartel. Cocaine paid the bills for returning Cosa Viejo to a single family residence.
Alleged drug money repaired the dry rot, renewed the plumbing, fixed the wiring, and cleaned up and replanted a few of the gardens.
The job was only partially finished, however, when the feds moved in to take over. That was how Pauli Enders had picked the place up in the late eighties at a bargain-basement price.
Paul Enders said he found Cosa Viejo to be a homey place where he could work on a project and not have his creative bursts interrupted by unexpected visitors. He claimed that working in a room that overlooked that wild brown dump made him feel that he was perched somewhere Just below the rim of the Grand Canyon. But what was good for Pauli was bad for Holly, although why it was bad for her she couldn't quite fathom.
What was it about the dump? Why did it call to her so? Why did its looming nearness keep her from sleeping or eating or thinking?
"Well," Isabel was saying, "are you coming or not?" She sounded impatient, as though she'd said much more than that, only Holly had heard none of it.
"Coming?" Holly repeated stupidly. "Coming where?"
"Downstairs. To see your father. He's waiting to
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