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I showed him the photograph of the live girl, the picture that had been sent to me from Prescott. He took it in his left hand and identified it as his daughter. Then I gave him the bad news. As is often the case, he first denied it. Must be a mistake. It was no mistake. After a pause, he sagged and began weeping, his bony shoulders heaving. Victoria sat next to him and put her arm around him.
When he could speak, he asked for the details. I gave him a highly sanitized version, and this brought on more sobbing. He reached for a bottle on the side table and uncorked it, taking a deep pull, stifling a belch. Sharlot Hall was correct: he was a juicer.
He held up the bottle. “Want some?”
We declined again.
“I’m not a good man,” he said finally. “I know that. But I tried to do my best for her after her mother died in ’23. That was when I started drinking, though. I thought she’d be better off down in Tempe. She’d be the first in the family with a college degree. Had her whole life ahead of her. Who would want to do this to her?”
“We don’t know yet,” I said. “Did she have any enemies? Anyone who would wish her harm?”
“No! My God, no. She was the sweetest girl. Everybody loved my Carrie.”
“Any boyfriends here?”
“Nothing serious.”
I asked if we could see her room, and he led us down a hall, opening a door.
Unlike the rest of the house, Carrie’s bedroom had bright wallpaper, a well-made bed covered with stuffed animals, neat student desk and chair, a trophy, phonograph, and records. On the walls were pennants for Prescott High and the Arizona State Teachers College Bulldogs.
I leaned to Victoria and whispered, “Diaries, letters, photos, anything that might be useful. Look under the mattress and beneath drawers.”
She nodded, and I steered Ezra Dell back to the mess of a living room.
I told him about the telegram I received from “Ezra Thayer,” asking me to find Carrie.
He simply said, “Oh.”
“What ‘oh’?” I stood close to him, one arm on each side, nowhere for him to go. It was easier for me to breathe through my mouth. I wondered how long since he had a bath.
“I sent it,” he said. “Sent down the picture, too. Thought you were a private detective.”
“Never mind that. Why did you want me looking for her?”
“I was worried. Hadn’t seen her for months, then she stopped writing, stopped wiring Mrs. Carter money to buy me groceries. I understand why she wanted to keep her distance, my drinking and all, but she still wrote. Until she didn’t. That got me scared.”
Any parent would be, but something about his manner made me suspicious. I let my arms fall, and he walked back to the living room and took a swig. I followed.
“Why did you use the name Ezra Thayer?”
“I thought it might get your attention. He’s a somebody, and I’m a nobody.”
He was enough of a somebody to send the hundred-dollar money order.
“That was money Carrie sent me from her summer job. She was worried I’d spend it on booze, but I managed to save it.” He belched. “Well, I forgot about it. So, it was there when I needed to hire you.”
“Ever have any trouble with the police, besides the Volstead Act?”
“No!”
My tone seemed to sober him up.
“What about you and Carrie? How’d you get along?”
“We got along fine. She disapproved of my binges. Hell, it’s not my fault. Life handed me a bum hand. But like I said, I did the best I could for her.”
“Never hit her?”
