Murder in Pueblo del Mar - A Bailey Crane Mystery - Bk.4: Bailey Crane Mystery Series - Books 1-6, #4

By Billy Ray Chitwood

FICTION INSPIRED BY TRUE CRIME

An Arizona wife and mother is murdered while on holiday in Mexico. Bailey Crane is an auxiliary cop with the Phoenix PD and is obliquely involved in the case until he visits close friends in Pueblo del Mar. The local police chief seeks Bailey's help in this most unusual caper about a philandering husband and a transsexual lover.

There are of course the ever-loving musings of our southern Sherlock, an encounter with a mysterious mystic seer of 'Time and Place,' and just about all the emotions in the human heart and soul.

Bailey gets banged around and challenged at the highest level of his endurance. When family and friends are caught in the ugly web of corruption, drugs, and sex, our hero's Cherokee blood hits the boiling point.

The brutally devastating climax comes in a 'Whale Shack' on the scrub brush and sand near the Sea of Cortez.

This tale was inspired by an actual murder some years ago, and it's one you won't want to miss.

"Murder In Pueblo Del Mar - A Bailey Crane Mystery" is Book 4 in the 6-Book 'Bailey Crane Mystery Series.' Each Bailey Crane book can be read independently of the other. Each succeeding book in the series shows the natural progression of the central character (aging, loves, experiences).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Billy Ray Chitwood
• Release date: Nov 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781468116809

Billy Ray Chitwood

About Me  ​I'm a young man in an old man's body, trying to catch up to myself, trying to find pieces of me I left back in a disconnected youth and the early years of manhood. I'm a stereotype of many in my generation who can play the 'blame game', yell 'foul', and 'let's start over'. But, we are what we are, the sum of all the scary kid-emotions we experienced, the gin mills and piano bars that became our sandboxes of pleasure - lotus eaters of the best (or, worst) kind, the love affairs that did not quite settle us down, the sad poetry and songs written in bars and motels along the way... A Dreamer! A Wanderlust! The world needs such fools as we to write our books, our poetry, our songs, to offset the madness that plagues the soul. ​ Most important among the searching, I found Julie Anne - she's there in the picture with me.​ I've written fourteen books, over three hundred blog posts, in search of those pieces left somewhere in many parts of the globe. You can preview my books on the next page. There's even a Blog page...all my posts are not showing on this recently created blog page, but, if you want to read more, go to my official blog site and check out the archives: http://www.brchitwood.com ​ Or: ​http://www.thefinalcurtain1.wordpress.com                           BOOKS OF MYSTERY - SUSPENSE - ACTION ​- CRIME - THRILLER - ROMANCE - MEMOIRS       FICTION (SOME INSPIRED BY TRUE CRIME CASES & EVENTS!) - NON-FICTION - QUALITY READING

Book preview

MURDER IN

PUEBLO DEL MAR

A Bailey Crane Mystery

by

Billy Ray Chitwood

CInc

Cinc

3200 Lebanon Road

Springfield, KY 40069

This is a work of fiction . While some place names are actual, all locations, names, characters, events, situations are coincidental and solely the invention of the author's imagination. Other than 'author notes' comments, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is also coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Billy Ray Chitwood

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, electronic or otherwise. For information as to acquiring film and adaptive rights of any kind, address queries to CInc at above address.

This E-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This E-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Murder in Pueblo Del Mar by Billy Ray Chitwood

Book cover design by JAC at Cinc.

Manufactured in the United States of America.

ISBN-13: 978-1468116809

ISBN-10: 1468116800

To memory of Robert Gehrandt, my 'Papason' and my friend...

Save me a seat at the Bridge Table.

Other books by Billy Ray Chitwood

*An Arizona Tragedy – A Bailey Crane Mystery Book #1

*Satan's Song – A Bailey Crane Mystery #2

*The Brutus Gate – A Bailey Crane Mystery #3

*Murder at Pueblo del Mar – A Bailey Crane Mystery #4

*A Soul Defiled – A Bailey Crane Mystery #5

*A Common Evil – A Bailey Crane Mystery #6

*The Cracked Mirror – Reflections of an Appalachian Son

*Phoenix Fire – (A Love Story with Suspense)

*Mama's Madness (Fiction Inspired by True Crime)

*Stranger Abduction (Fiction Inspired by True AZ Crime)

*The Reluctant Savage (Romance and Suspense)

*Cloud Dancer (Beautiful Love Story with Crossing Genres)

*What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale (Non-Fiction Memoir

NOTE: Many of these books are inspired by true events!

The author’s books are available at many book stores and BUY sites (Electronic & Paperback)

-  SEE THE BUY SITES HERE ON D2D -

Visit the Author’s Website:

https://billyrayrchitwood.com

Visit the Author’s Blog:

https://brchitwood.com

Follow the author on:

https://twitter.com/brchitwood

MURDER IN

PUEBLO DEL MAR

By

Billy Ray Chitwood

By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; Second, by imitation, which is easiest; and Third, by experience, which is bitterest.

Confucius

PROLOGUE

February 20, 1991 

The beach along the southern edge of Las Conchas is not an ideal area for sun worshipers. It is more a coast line for the shell seekers and those who fancy tide pool ecology. The long east-west sandy stretch is littered mostly with all manner of shells, large and small, but there are also half buried broken bottles, ugly clumps of sea anemone, and dead smelly fish. Despite the litter it is a lovely span of sand and shell.

It is a Mexican beach whose long southern rim helps to frame the Sea of Cortez, known also as The Gulf of California. The sea is a large body of water separating the Baja California Peninsula from the Mexican mainland. It is bordered by the states of Baja California, Baja California Sur, Sonora, and Sinaloa. The sea funnels eventually into the Pacific Ocean to its south.

Las Conchas is a community of upscale real estate owned mostly by citizens of the United States and is part of the little fishing village of Pueblo Del Mar. More accurately, the real estate is uniquely owned by citizens of other countries in long-term renewable trusts, with generally the same rights and privileges as home owners in the United States.

Pueblo Del Mar is a poor man's Acapulco. Yet, few poor people own the beautiful white stucco and red clay roofed houses that comprise Las Conchas. The large, small, Mediterranean style Spanish villas, some posh and elegant, some modest and without frills, are set at water's edge or atop the grainy desert bluffs. The speckled array of red clay roofs and white stucco present a dazzling pattern of lovely sameness and charm.

The dusty caliche roads twist and turn past the somnolent houses and offer glorious views of the deep turquoise waters of the sea. The white cap chop gives up brilliant splinters of silver light in the afternoon sun.

The remoteness of Las Conchas is part of its lure to the gringos who own the villas. Here, telephones do not ring and newspapers are not delivered to the front doors. Time and events are put on hold. The lazy day routine is broken with sounds of surf and the growling drones of off-road all terrain vehicles, spewing dust clouds behind them. There are the shouts of old Mexican men and women hawking their wares of fresh blue shrimp and serapes among the grand seaside villas. There are strains of plaintive Mexican ballads from a distant sound system. There are the sometime horn wails of shrimp boat clusters off shore some three or five miles. There are, too, the sounds of children at play.

Mostly, it is the stillness that brings magic to the moments in Las Conchas. It is the shared knowledge of its citizens that nothing, not commerce, not agendas or itineraries, can break the special spell that is Las Conchas. It is not so much a geographical place as it is a soulful sublimity. The sky and the sun join the land and the sea in a way that bring the senses to their keenest edge. The smell of the sea air, barbecues, re-fried beans and cooking fat, all join to make the uniqueness of Las Conchas.

ONE MAN DISCOVERED the magic of Las Conchas when he was still young enough to declare it his own. Robert Geraint had spent much of his adult life in the sleepy fishing village of Pueblo Del Mar. He had first come as a young father and husband some fifty years ago. In some magical way the land, sea, and its people formed the special bonding that would last his lifetime. Though Phoenix, Arizona would be his domicile of citizenship, he adopted Pueblo Del Mar as his domicile of soul.

His love for Pueblo Del Mar became more than a weekend aberration from his accounting business. With the tragic, soul scarring, and untimely death of his daughter, Niki, the village became a refuge of sorts, a place that could not bring forgetfulness but could diminish the sharp edge of grief.

When the entrepreneurial efforts of a few people brought Las Conchas to reality, Bob Geraint built one of the first villas along the strand of sea that would be called the 'first estuary.' His villa was designed and built by a local Mexican architect of some celebrity and would be subtly copied by many who came later. The house would be copied to some extent but never duplicated.

The house Robert and his beloved Deena erected was to become a landmark in the community. Because of her love for butterflies and the lonesome peal of ship bells, Deena called the villa "La Casa de las Campanas y Mariposas,' the house of Bells and Butterflies.

The lovely and distinctive villa was built with three connecting sections with tower-like centers. The main section in the middle of the dwelling was the great room. It was built around the focal point, the high round turret, heavy beamed, opening in the ceiling. The floors were of white octagonal shaped Mexican tile with blue bell patterns. The kitchen counters, back-splash, bath counters, and shower wall tiles were specially made of white high gloss tile pieces with randomly placed blue bells and butterflies. On the western end of the house was the master bedroom, on the same level as the great room, with another center tower in the roof. On the elevated eastern end were two guest bedrooms, again, with the tower projections in the roof. All rooms had beehives fireplaces surrounded by the white tile, blue bell, butterfly patterns.

A wide sweeping tiled veranda ran the entire back length of the house, with stairs leading down at the center to a built-in barbeque and on, ultimately, down to the sea. Off the eastern side of the veranda, there were stairs leading up to a separate private terrace area for the guest bedrooms. All around the house in the sandy soil Deena had planted and nurtured her ice plants and sundry hedge and flowers, creating a profusion of rich green and vivid colors

It was a showcase home and it immediately became a point of delineation in giving directions to visitors of the area: A common directive was, 'It's near the house of Bells and Butterflies.'

Robert Geraint had seen through the years the first estuary section developed to its predicted and permitted numbers until the second and third estuary sections had opened to satisfy the continuing hot demands for housing. Still, with all the growth, Las Conchas maintained its distinctive aura, its special 'sublimity.'

Robert and Deena Geraint had recently retired full time to 'La Casa de las Campanas y Mariposas' and had become active members in the Las Conchas Homeowners Association. A manned security gate into the community was approved and started up the same year Robert and Deena arrived as full time residents. Assessments rose steadily to keep up with the varied needs and growing necessities. Property values continued upward and Las Conchas thrived and prospered.

Robert Geraint became the man to whom the citizens of the community turned when there were problems and when advice was sought on any conceivable matter. His was the quiet and thoughtful mind that people trusted in counsel. His was the strength of body and hard muscle when someone needed a hand in moving something big, like, a car stuck in the desert sand. His was the humble personality and genuine demeanor that drew people to him, that brought him the unsought praise and reputation that embarrassed him. Robert knew his community, its good and its bad elements. Like all communities there were plenty of both.

In the early evening on Friday a terrible series of screams filled the peaceful landscape of Las Conchas. Bob Geraint was at the barbeque turning his steaks when the first scream broke his placid mood, broke the musical spell of a Placido Domingo aria coming from the tape system in the great room. Scurry, Bob's faithful golden retriever, rose from his spot near the barbecue and looked anxiously at his master. The dog's tail was tucked between his legs, and a soft whine turned into a low growl.

There was something about the scream that tore into Bob's consciousness. It was like a door slamming shut from a harsh gust of wind. The scream was a reverberant and dissonant acknowledgment of some awful event, not so much a startled response as it was a total black acquiescence to something evil and ordained. It was a scream unlike many others Bob Geraint had heard in all his years, a scream that would remain forever in his memory.

Then, there came a second and third scream, startling successions of the first, horribly quaking things, tinged with a demonic terror, a madness, that conveyed hideous truths.

Deena appeared at the screen of the great room door. What was that? she asked incredulously.

Don't know, Bob answered with a worried brow.

Without saying more they stood and listened.

Moments later the quietness returned to Las Conchas. A dog barked somewhere down the dusty road. Scurry returned the bark with one of his own. A soft zephyr caressed the wild brush out on the expansive sand beyond the barbeque. The bright orange sun lay low on the Sea of Cortez over towards Baja California Norte. Placido Domingo still sang a plaintive song in the great room of 'Bells and Butterflies,' muted by distance but still evocative and vaguely compelling.

Bob Geraint stood unsettled and wary by the barbeque, steak tongs hanging loosely from his right hand. He looked eastward toward the area from whence the screams had come. His faithful Scurry brushed nervously against his master's leg, waiting. A few moments had passed since the last scream. There came a sound of a car engine, revving, moving. Bob placed the tongs on the tile sidebar of the barbeque and moved tentatively toward the road in front of his villa.

Where are you going? Deena asked, the question necessitated by a vague fear.

Gotta take a look. Sounded like someone in trouble. Scurry, you stay here with mom.

The dog whined but obeyed.

Bob! Be careful! Deena yelled after him.

Bob walked north along the eastern side of the villa, Deena's beautiful bougainvillea and ice plant lining the entire stretch of white stucco. At the ATV shed off the front of the house Bob turned and walked east down the road. He walked slowly, scanning carefully both sides of the road. He passed other villas along the road but he detected no movements or lights. He thought idly that his neighbors were perhaps not coming down from Phoenix this weekend. The road was now in the final pale phase of sunlight and further east, some five hundred feet, Bob could see the small sand dune park area where kids raced their ATVs around a use-worn track. The area now looked remotely eerie in its mauve and dark contrast from the dissipating sun. The brush was wind-blown bare, and the sand dunes looked like soft smooth scoops of chocolate ice cream.

At a bend the road turned easily north and east again. Here, on the northern edge of the road, there were large and small villas that were mostly furnished rentals, villas trust-owned by absentee landlords in Phoenix and Tucson. Bob now walked anxiously and warily along this row of villas. He suspected that this had been the area of the screams. No lights shone in any of the houses and no cars were parked out front.

Bob remembered the car noise minutes before and now looked off to the north, east, and south, to see if there were any vehicles traveling the dirt lanes leading into and out of Las Conchas. He saw no movement on the roads but he did see a dust flow along the road back to the west, toward the marine museum and the old whale bone skeleton near its entrance.

Then Bob noticed that a front door was ajar at one of the smaller villas along the north side of the road. It was the villa being rented as a vacation house by the Blalocks. He stopped, cocked his ears in a concentrated effort to hear sounds, debated within himself his next course of action, and cautiously moved left from the road down a stone edged walkway toward the open door.

Bob was a big man with a ruggedly handsome, angular, face. He was deeply tanned by the Sonoran sun and his grayish white hair lay in tight distinguished neatness. He was six foot two, two hundred thirty pounds, with huge arms and hands. One of those hard and calloused hands now reached uncertainly toward the open door of the quiet villa.

Before touching the door knob, he called out, Is anyone here? Hello! Anybody home?

Then, louder, Hello! Hello! Anybody home?

He held the knob of the front door with his left hand and banged its center with his right fist.

After several raps and more calling out, he pushed the front door inward and warily entered, his body coiled and ready for any sudden surprises.

The flooring of the inside entry area was a high polished rust-red Mexican tile. The tile extended left into a living room area that was small and at the moment cluttered with overturned furniture.

The overturned furniture caused him pause. Again, he called out, Anybody here? Hello! Hello!

There was no response.

He tentatively passed through a small kitchen where cabinet doors were opened and broken dishes littered the floor. He moved slowly, on down a dark hallway, hesitated at a doorway, flicked a switch, and peered into a bathroom. He sensed the aroma of soap on the air and noticed a damp limpid towel on a wall hook. Water beads lay on the tiled floor of the shower and in the beige basin bowl below a mirrored medicine cabinet.

Growing more wary he turned off the bathroom light and moved further down the hallway. He called out again but there was no response.

Two doors on the right of the hallway opened onto small guest bedrooms. In both bedrooms Bob found the beds in disarray and some children clothing hung on round wooden poles in open closet niches. More clothes were strewn along the floor, and opened luggage sat before each of the open closets. Drawers had been pulled from the small bed tables and lay upended in the corner of the room.

The door on the left side of the hallway led to the master bedroom. Like the front entry, this door also stood ajar.

Again, he called out. There was no response.

Bob listened for a moment at the partially opened door. Then he thought he heard the low meowing sound of a cat coming from the room, muffled but distinguishable.

Then, an odor he had only peripherally noticed upon entering now settled pungently upon the air. It was a familiar smell and he knew that it was coming from the room before him.

His mind began to play out possible scenarios. He thought he recognized the odor. He had smelled before its somber septic essence. A truth suddenly hit him, a truth as inexorable as any truth he had ever known.

Mentally alert, not touching the door handle with his fingers, Bob reached for the upper center of the wood and pushed inwardly with his knuckles. As the door opened the odor became nauseatingly strong. He covered his mouth and nose with his large left hand and walked all the way into the room.

Although he had an ominous expectation of what he would find, he could not have prepared himself for the scene in front of him, six feet from the door.

Bob Geraint tightly closed his eyes but he could still see the woman sprawled sideways across the king size bed, deep bloody indentations along her hairline, her right-hand palm upward as though pitifully pleading for a mercy denied her. The left arm and hand, at an odd limp angle, rested on a naked breast. The chest was punctured savagely, oozing the dark red viscid juices that had been her life.

Bob opened his eyes and forced himself to view more specifics of the scene.

The woman's right temple had a deep puncture slit, blood still flowing slowly from its opening. The throat was slashed and laid open by numerous thrusts from something keenly edged and maniacally wielded. Her mouth was a sad gaping rictus, and the white of her eyes were visible through partially closed lids. The terrycloth bathrobe she had been wearing was open at the front, soaked in blood, splayed out in wild angles all around her mutilated body. Blood splatters were on the ivory semigloss wall at the head of the bed, over the tiled floor, and as far away as the glass sliding doors leading to a small outside patio.

Bob Geraint gagged, fought back a wave of nausea, and tightened the grip of his hand over his nose and mouth. For a long moment he could not blink or close his eyes. They remained wide and fixed on the dead woman in front of him.

Finally he lowered his head and saw that he was standing near several globules of bright red blood.

He noticed a sudden movement to his left. In a low, slow moving crouch, a lovely slate blue cat moved from beneath the big bed. At the door, the cat swiftly disappeared down the dark hallway.

Bob Geraint hurried, too, from the death scene and from the dark house. Outside he retched and hungrily sought the cool air from the now dark Sea of Cortez. He saw through the thin beginning veil of night Deena and Scurry approaching. When Deena saw him bent over by the roadside she rushed to his side.

After a time they walked home, got in their car and drove quickly to the security gate some three miles away. Bob informed Antonio Aguilar of the grisly discovery. Antonio called the police. Bob took Deena and Scurry home and returned to meet Antonio at the Blalock house.

As Antonio and Bob stood talking out front, awaiting the police, Al Blalock and his three children pulled up in the family car. The man and his kids wore worried expressions, and Antonio tried to prevent them from entering the house. Al Blalock pulled from Antonio's grasp and dashed into the house, the kids running after him.

Then, there came more screams, sad and pitiful from the children, mixed with astonished anguish and involuntary gasps for breath. Blalock and the kids soon emerged from the death house and huddled alongside Bob and Antonio.

The siren sounds came loudly, announcing the arrival of the police. There were questions of Bob and Antonio, of Al Blalock, and the police finally entered the house to examine the murder scene.

The police were still in the house gathering what evidence might be available to them long after Bob walked back to 'Bells and Butterflies.' Outside his front arched entrance, Bob decided he needed more walking.

He slowly strolled along the dry dusty lanes for a time, trying to rid his mind of the thoughts churning there. At some point he thought of Deena. She would be worried, and, as he considered this thought, he found himself again at his arched entry way. He was momentarily stunned with the simple fact that he had returned to 'Bells and Butterflies' and did not recall the routes he had taken or the duration of his walk.

Inside the house, he and Deena nibbled at some food, made small talk, but could not talk about the screams and the brutal murder just a few doors away. They tried to watch a movie tape but could not stay interested. Finally, with a tacit acknowledgment, they went to bed.

In bed, thoughts came that he most feared. There had been another death many years ago, the death of his daughter, Niki. A mindless drunk driver had smashed into the family car and into every succeeding day and night of his life. Bob had been the one driving the family car, on an errand that could have waited. Niki had gone along for the ride, to be with her daddy.

His was an accountant's mind, but he could not post on his ledgers the brutal reality of what he had just seen, the screams he had heard earlier. He could not turn off the many emotions he was feeling, of the Blalock woman -—of Niki and her brief terrified scream just before the drunk driver would end her life and change her father's life forever.

Deep into the night, Bob Geraint lay sleepless next to Deena on his king size waterbed, afraid of sleep, more afraid of thought. Neither could he void the horrible screams of the Blalock woman, nor could he divorce those from his own child's last soulful wail before death took her from him.

The brutal death of Kathleen Blalock, all the blood, had brought back the memories, memories he wanted not to face.

Bob Geraint lay there in a sleepless, suffocating void, familiar tears falling down his timeworn and craggy face. Familiar inner demons were at their work.

Scurry lay on the floor next to the bed, a soft whine emanating from deep within his throat, feeling the agony that griped his master's soul.

CHAPTER ONE

Monday, March 23

It had been just over a month since an American citizen and a Phoenix resident had been slain while on vacation with her family in the little fishing village of Pueblo Del Mar, Mexico. There had been no closure, and the natives were getting restless.

The Kathleen Blalock homicide investigation was going forward but part of it was lost in Mexican and United States bureaucracy. That was one angle the newspapers in Phoenix were reporting. Certainly, there was no reason to doubt the veracity of the two fine newspapers in the desert metropolis. Of course, the dailies were hungry for more meat. They wanted a banner headline, something solid, a suspect arrested and jailed. They wanted to be done with theorizing and administrative posturing.

Actually, in the case of the brutal slaying in Pueblo Del Mar, both the Arizona Republic and the Phoenix Gazette had the facts essentially accurate. Mexico had arrested a national in connection with the homicide, but the reported facts were skimpy and contradictory. It appeared a near certainty that the Mexican suspect was only part of the story, and, while it was a juicy news bit, the Phoenix papers were beginning

Reviews for Murder in Pueblo del Mar - A Bailey Crane Mystery - Bk.4

[bettesbooks · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

An Arizona wife and mother is murdered while on holiday in Pueblo Del Mar, Mexico. While visiting his friends the Geraint’s in Pueblo Del Mar, Bailey is asked by his host Bob, to meet with the local sheriff about the murder. The husband of the victim had returned to Phoenix where Bailey is a part-time detective in the PPD.Weird formatting or writing style the word “I” is commonly left out of the sentence, so I would have to reread the sentence to be sure I understood who was talking. Too much philosophizing in center of book, I just about didn’t finish. The mystery was hard to follow. The rules of law between the US and Mexico are different which left me unsure of what the facts and what the crime would be.