HOUSE WITH THE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

THE HOUSE WITH THE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

Herb Gardner stared out the wavy pane of a tall, leaded-glass window on the second floor of the old red-brick YMCA building, two doors east of the Copper Queen Hotel. He gazed through binoculars at the small wooden structure just beyond the empty asphalt courtyard of Central School. It was one of two identical company houses squatting side by side on Opera Street, which climbed the hill steeply toward the right. They were tiny buildings, lost among the surrounding red brick giants. He was interested in the one on the right. It was old and narrow and brown with a rusting tin roof and broken gable trim. A string of Christmas lights looped haphazardly over the door and across the single window in the front. A narrow porch with a wooden railing disappeared around the left side.

He wondered again if the Christmas lights were for real. Or for camouflage. Or just a joke of the idiosyncratic owner, whom he suspected he would never meet.

Herb set the binoculars on the window ledge. The refurbished loft suite was like an apartment. A gridwork of plastered walls, which did not quite reach the towering ceiling, divided the space into a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom and a bedroom. Ten tall restored windows opened out on the center of Bisbee, Arizona, and the mountains beyond. It had been a pleasant space for him and Annie.

The town had that quaint antique feel of an old world city. Weathered stone buildings. Narrow canyon streets. Steep sidewalks climbing every which way. More pedestrians than automobiles. A mile-high city oddly misplaced in the Southern Arizona desert, nestled in the hills and valleys of the Mule Mountains just across the border from Naco, Sonora, Mexico.

Miners founded the town in 1890. By the early 1900s, Bisbee was the largest city between St. Louis and San Francisco. Hard to imagine as Herb and Annie had strolled through the winding streets past crumbling rock foundation walls, climbed the ubiquitous concrete stairways, and skirted the precipitous crater of the abandoned open-pit mine. The Lavender Pit had gobbled up much of the original town before falling copper prices had closed it in 1974.

They had walked the streets, he and Annie, rediscovering the joy of being alone with each other. The first morning up Brewery Gulch to climb the long, steep stairs to OK Street. In the evening down Subway Street, a haven for dirt-poor local artists, and through the old-world canyon of downtown. Up Tombstone Canyon past the City Hall and into the neighborhoods of small residences, some relocated before the spreading maw of the open-pit mine.

Alone now, Herb spent a lot of time looking out those tall windows. Gazing as the lights of town emerged from the growing blackness below. Watching the morning sunlight crawl down the face of the hills. Following the local residents as they climbed the steep streets and walkways, strolled to and from work, and jogged in the cool of the morning. Watching the little house with the Christmas lights. And waiting for something to happen.

Annie had gone back to New York in a huff more than two weeks ago. "You're obsessed by this . . . this . . . thing," she had accused him as she stomped out the door with her carry-on suitcase in one hand and shoulder bag slung over her other arm. And Herb had known she was right. He was obsessed. He was dead sure of that. But he just couldn't tear himself away.

She had driven back to Tucson in the rental car. He was on foot now, but in Bisbee, that didn't seem to matter much. Twice he had renewed the weekly rental on the suite, each time thinking it would be the last time. His law practice in the Big Apple was completely ignored. So far his partners had covered for him, but they were starting to grumble. They were no longer supportive. They wanted to know what was so damned important to keep him down in Bisbee for so long. And Herb, of course, hadn't been able to tell them the truth. Not about "this thing." Partly because they weren't going to believe him. Nobody would. But mainly because he no longer knew what the truth really was.

Maybe I am going insane, Herb thought for the thousandth time, burying his face in his hands. How could it be otherwise? But then he would gaze across at the little house with the Christmas lights. Something very odd was going on there.

It had started the night before they were first scheduled to leave. They had eaten dinner at the restaurant in the Copper Queen Hotel. The special had been crab cakes. Over cocktails and a bottle of wine they had talked of Annie moving in with him in his condo in the big city. After dinner they picked up a room rate card at the front desk, joking about the "Ghost Hunts available to Hotel Guests every Thursday" advertised on the back.

In the crisp darkness of that late December evening, they took a stroll through the old downtown, looking in the windows of the closed shops and galleries, then circling back through Subway Street, with its scary dark shadows and curious doorways, sinister and at the same time fascinating. No one else was on the street as they climbed the short block of Shearer Street back toward their suite.

They entered the plaza of the old Central School, lit by the yellow gleam of antique street lights. Ahead they could see the lights of their suite on the second floor of the three-story brick YMCA building. Herb happened to glance to his left and had seen an Indian climbing the porch of the little house, beneath the Christmas tree lights. A flash of white war paint. A long bow over his shoulder. It was strange to see the tall, wiry, nearly naked figure on such a crisp evening, and from Herb's vantage point he almost seemed to pass through the front door of the dwelling, without opening and closing the door at all. By the time he called Annie's attention to the Indian, he was already gone.

"You didn't see him then?" Herb had asked.

"See what?"

"That Indian."

"What Indian?"

"The one who just went into that little house with the Christmas lights."

Annie knew him well enough to see that Herb was growing agitated. "What are you talking about?" she asked calmly. "Tell me exactly what it is you just saw."

And so Herb told her.

"Probably just some . . . Christmas decoration deal or something. Oh! I know. Maybe it was one of the actors from that theater company production at the school, don't you think?"

"But that's some English detective play . . . some Agatha Christie play . . ."

"And Then There Were None," Annie replied. "That's what the lady said."

Herb nodded. They had talked to a woman who was spray-painting chairs for the production out on the school parking lot earlier that day.

Annie thought about it for a moment, then smiled, "Well, there you have it."

"What?"

"That play was originally called ‘Ten Little Indians'."

Herb did not think he had seen an actor, but he was beginning to feel foolish. Though he shook his head, he admitted, "Maybe you're right. I was just seeing things."

That night he had tossed restlessly, unable to fall asleep. In his mind's eye Herb kept seeing that damned Indian disappear through the door of the little house with the Christmas lights. To keep from waking Annie, he climbed out of bed and sat in the living room gazing out at the house. For a very long time Herb sat there, perhaps dozing, before he saw the shadowy figure of an old hard-rock miner, leading his scrawny, heavily-laden burro, climb out of the mouth of the dark cross street to his left and up Opera Street. He shouldn't have been there. Herb knew that. And he also knew what was going to happen. The miner turned in toward the little house, led his balking burro up the wooden steps, and disappeared through the front door. Burro and all. Just like the Indian had.

In the morning light Herb couldn't bring himself to tell Annie about the miner and his burro. He wanted to, but just couldn't. Instead, at his insistence, they had agreed to stay another night. Herb had wanted two more nights, or even three, but Annie had to be back at work at her advertising firm. She had an important client scheduled on Tuesday. They compromised on one more night. Rescheduling their flight reservations had been no trouble at all. That was a major benefit of flying first-class, after all.

Herb set down his birding binoculars and adjusted the Venetian blinds, opening them just right to allow viewing outside without being obvious in the changing light. He rechecked the connection between the video camera and the USB port of his laptop. Tested the cable to the portable memory drive he had picked up at the Radio Shack in Douglas the day before Annie left. When she was still curious about the Indian. His little project. This thing. When she still believed there would be a simple explanation, ripe for the plucking. She had even volunteered to go over and talk to the community theater group at the old school. There were no Indians in the cast.

The ache in his heart swelled, and Herb felt faint with despair. He missed Annie. Had missed her from the moment she stormed out and he had been too stubborn, too hurt by her abandonment, to utter a kind valediction. She had phoned him twice. When are you coming home? He didn't know. Though she had tried her best to understand, both conversations had ended brusquely. Then she had stopped calling. And he was unable to pick up the phone himself.

The video recordings had proved nothing. The night was too dark. The light too feeble. The distance too great. The recordings came out grainy. Blurred. Once he thought he had seen the image of a woman, a ragged Pioneer woman carrying her daughter in her arms, climb the steps and pass through the front door. But he could never find that clip again. Odd. Perhaps he had captured something. Perhaps not. Perhaps he had captured only shadows of the tree branches dancing across the little door. How many times he had reviewed the recordings, he could no longer remember.

Herb had googled Bisbee. To find out if Indians had inhabited this territory. Or hard rock miners. And of course they had. But they were all gone now. The original gold and silver miners and prospectors disappeared once copper held sway. Apaches from the Sulphur Springs Valley and up from Mexico were relocated north to the San Carlos reservation. The Tohono O'odham, or People of the Desert, were now confined to the vast reservation to the west. And Herb learned about the pioneers who had first homesteaded there. And the striking mine workers, rounded up, loaded into stock cars, and run out of town at gunpoint by vigilantes supported by the mine owners and city fathers in 1917. A rich and colorful historic broth from which to brew the specters he had seen.

The articles were all familiar. He vaguely remembered skimming and forgetting their contents months before, in New York, when he and Annie were still planning their trip. Now he wondered if what he was seeing were phantasms conjured from the id, with no substance or reality. As in delusion, he thought. As in madness.

With Annie gone and time on his hands, Herb perused the records of the Cochise County assessor and recorder. The little house with the Christmas lights stood in the name of one Axel Mathiews, recently deceased. Herb walked over to the Cochise County Courthouse on Quality Hill, above the Iron Man statue, and checked the probate records. Sure enough, a probate was pending. Herb examined the file. The decedent had been 77 years old. He left one heir, a brother named Jason, whose address was a nursing home in Omaha. The Mercy Senior Care Home. Brother Jason had been appointed executor of the will. The inventory listed the real property as the principal asset of the estate. A private probate sale had been made for the sum of $87,000, which was the full amount of the referee's appraisal. The sale included miscellaneous furniture and furnishings valued at $50.00. A confirmation hearing was calendared for Friday morning, four days hence. The attorney for the estate was Kyle B. Felson. Herb jotted down his name, address, and phone number.

A sign carved into a board above a glass doorway on Main Street proclaimed the law office of Kyle "Boomer" Felson. A linoleum-clad stairway led straight up to the second floor. Felson's office was on the left at the top of the stairs. The wooden door said "Enter,"so Herb stepped inside. A bell tinkled above the door. The front office was drab and smelled of strong coffee. An old, thin, gray-speckled carpet showed threadbare pathways of long use. A plump, middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks sat behind a black steel desk.

"May I help you?" she asked.

Herb explained that he had telephoned that morning for an appointment with Mr. Felson. He gave his name.

"Please be seated," she smiled, gesturing to an ancient, well-worn sofa behind a coffee table. "I'll let Boomer know you're here." She started for the half-open door behind her, then turned and smiled again. "Would you care for a cup of coffee, Mr. Gardner?"

"No, I'm fine," he replied, waving a hand.

Boomer kept him waiting. Of course he did. It was part of an attorney's obligation. Herb looked around at the rustic setting, comparing it to his offices in New York, with the plush brown pile carpet, coordinated teakwood desks and furniture, subtle recessed lighting, modern art wall hangings, and corridors lined with bookcases. There was no comparison. I wish our overhead were this low, he thought. I wonder what this guy's hourly rate is?

Finally Kyle "Boomer" Felson appeared in the doorway. He was a huge man in cowboy boots, maybe six-five, 300 pounds, but gone soft, with a big sagging belly that bounced against the restraining tug of his red suspenders. His white shirt had perspiration stains under the arms. His tousled blond hair was not yet graying. Herb took him to be in his late thirties or early forties. His face wore a broad, boyish, endearing smile. "Mr. Gardner, I'm Kyle Felson." He stuck out a meaty hand. "My friends call me ‘Boomer.'" He was obviously a people person.

They shook hands, then Boomer turned back into his sanctuary. "C'mon back and tell me what I can do for you."

Boomer's office was much larger than the receptionist's, with windows overlooking the bustle of Main Street directly below. Two antelope heads adorned the maple walls. An old oak captain's desk and adjoining oak table were piled with a disarray of files, letters, papers, and open books. Boomer eased himself behind his desk and gestured to an oak captain's chair, where Herb sat down.

They studied each other for a few moments, before Boomer said, "So how're you enjoying your vacation here in Bisbee?"

"Very much. An interesting city you have here."

"And your home is . . . where?"

"New York."

"I guess you'll be heading on back after the holidays?"

"Perhaps," Herb replied. "Perhaps not."

Boomer nodded. Considered. "Erma tells me you have an interest in the Mathiews estate. Were you a friend of Axel's?"

"No. Never met him. I assume you knew him?"

"Oh hell yes," Boomer said. "Axel and me go way back. My father represented him over the years. Before he retired and left the practice t'me. I did Axel's current will, and now I'm handling the estate. What's your interest in all this?"

"Well . . . I'm interested in the real property. I thought you might be able to tell me a little about it. Its background. History."

"That old rat trap? Pretty run down. It's not worth much. Take a bucket o'money t'fix it up. We were lucky to make a sale of it at all. For, what was it, $90,000."

"Actually, $87,000," Herb corrected.

Boomer's eyes narrowed a bit. "Yeah, I think your're right. It was $87,000. Got an appraisal on it. That was all it was worth. We were lucky to get that."

"Who did the probate appraisal?"

"Ernie Diggens is the probate referee."

"Friend of yours?"

Boomer's eyes narrowed even more.

"Just asking," Herb added. "Trying to get oriented here."

"Yeah, I've known Ernie since we were in grade school." He did not add, "So what?", but it was implied.

"And Ernie based his appraisal on a formal real estate appraisal?"

"That's right."

"And who did that one?"

"Byron Thurmon. He's local and familiar with Bisbee properties. Did a historical review of the property and a comparable sales report. Took some pictures. Standard appraisal. Very thorough."

"Another friend of yours?"

"We're all friends here in the Bisbee business community, Mr. Gardner."

"And the buyer? He a friend too?"

"I know him." Boomer's voice had grown cautious. His eyes were now a squint. His smile gone. A patch of red spread across the bridge of his nose into his cheeks.

"Can I get a copy of Mr. Thurmon's appraisal?"

"Now why would you want that?" Boomer asked, leaning forward onto the desk as far as his belly would allow.

"Because I might be interested in bidding on the property," Herb responded.

"On that old trash heap? You'd just be throwing your good money after bad, Mr. Gardner. I'd advise you against wasting your money." Then he added, "An' besides, its already been sold."

"For $87,000."

"Yeah. For $87,000. Cash."

"But the probate court will entertain overbids at the confirmation hearing. Or am I mistaken?"

That seemed to catch Boomer by surprise. He thought about it, examining Herb cautiously. Finally he asked, "Who are you, Mr. Gardner?"

"Just a potential buyer interested in increasing the sales proceeds for the benefit of the probate estate. As attorney for the estate, you would like to increase the sales proceeds, wouldn't you, Mr. Felson?"

"You're an attorney?"

"I'm just representing myself here."

"What're you offerin'?"

"I haven't decided yet," Herb said. "I need to review Mr. Thurmon's appraisal first."

Boomer said nothing.

"Can I get a copy of the appraisal from you?"

Boomer was not smiling. "I'll have Erma make you a copy."

"And a preliminary title report? I assume you have one."

"Erma'll make a copy o'that, too."

"Good. Good." Herb stood, stretched, turned to leave. Turned back. "I'd also like to have a look at the inside of the place. When can I do that?"

"Sorry," Boomer said, also rising. "Can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Don't have the keys." Boomer smiled. "Let me know if you're plannin' on bidding at the hearing. Will you?"

"I'll see. Thanks for your time, Mr. Felson."

"Boomer," he corrected, automatically, without heart.

Back at the hotel, Herb reviewed the title report and the appraisal. Title was free and clear. The appraisal seemed low, however. Very low, compared to the asking price of other properties he had seen in the window of a realtor's office. The comparables were not really comparable. None were located downtown in Old Bisbee. But the big question was the integrity of the structure itself. As Herb had suspected, the little house and its neighbor, together with a third house adjoining to the north, but turned ninety-degrees to the others, were company houses that had been relocated from the rim of the open pit mile when copper was booming. Axel Mathiews had lived in his for more than forty years.

Herb drew a deep breath and let it out. There was no time for a structural inspection. No termite report. Do they even have termites in Arizona? If he was going to wing this, he might as well wing it all the way. It wasn't about the investment anyway, was it?

He reached for his cell phone and punched the button for Will Epstein. Will was his investment advisor and manager. Actually, he was much more than that. He was his friend. Probably his closest friend. Since college, they had spent a lot of time together backpacking the Appalachian Trail. Through rain and snow and bugs and heat and cold, they had practically hiked the whole damned thing.

"Meyers and Epstein," an energetic female voice answered.

"This is Herb Gardner calling for Will Epstein."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Gardner, I'll see if he's available."

Herb waited.

"Herb? Glad y'called. Where the hell are you?"

"Still in Bisbee."

"Still? Annie called me a coupla days ago. She's worried about you."

Herb nodded his head. Sighed. "I'm worried about myself, Will."

"Why? What's going on?"

"I'm thinking of buying a house."

"I thought you already had a house."

"A condo, actually."

A pause. "Well . . . that's not so bad." His voice sounded relieved. "Your portfolio's a little light on real estate anyway. Did y'find yourself a killer deal, Dawg?"

"It's not like that. Maybe it's a good deal. Maybe not. I don't know."

"You sound a little tentative. You sure you want to do this? Want me to review it?"

"No. My mind's pretty well made up."

"What do you want from me?"

"Money."

"How much?"

"I'm thinking maybe $120,000. Cash. I'll be bidding at a probate sale. I might need more. Can I get it by Friday morning?"

"Well let's see." Herb could hear the clacking of a keyboard as Will pulled up his account. "Doesn't look like a problem. I can advance that much from your brokerage account. You were thinking of selling some of the Vanguard TIPS anyway, weren't you? We just don't want to tap into the 401(k) though."

"That would be fine. Whatever you think is best, Will."

"Your sound a little down, Herb."

"I'm just tired."

More keyboard clacking. "That oughta do it. Where do you want me to wire the money?"

Herb gave him the number of his new account at the Bisbee branch of the Bank of America.

"Can I spare this?" Herb asked.

"Oh hell yeah. No problem. You've been pretty damned successful over the past, what, fifteen years. You're in great shape."

"I made a lot of money."

"More than ‘a lot'."

"The inheritance helped."

"That it did. The ex-wives couldn't touch the inheritance money. You came out well."

"I haven't done so well in love though, have I? Two wives come and gone. Two divorces. Not much to show for all that."

"But you've got Annie now. She's a keeper."

Herb drew a breath. "I'm tired, Will."

"You've been down before. Vacations do that. You'll bounce back. You always do. Once you get back to work."

Herb was silent for a long time before he asked, "Will?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"How much is enough?"

The night before the probate hearing he dreamed he was looking out the window at an endless line of vague, scruffy men being led through the front door of the little house with the Christmas lights. They were the striking miners of 1917, so drab and ghostly that Herb thought he could see right through them. They and a few wives and children and other union sympathizers from the town were being herded by armed men into the little house, like cattle into a stock car. The house could not possibly hold so many. But it did. And the line kept coming. There was nothing insubstantial about the armed guards. They glistened brightly in the yellow glow of the street lights. Boomer Felson stood beside the front door, impossibly tall and menacing, with a hunting rifle at port arms across his chest, grinning and calling mean insults to the disheartened souls that filed past him.

"All rise," barked the bailiff the next morning. The Honorable Jerome Deetz entered and seated himself at the bench. "Be seated," said the Bailiff.

"I'll call the probate calendar," Judge Deetz announced. The first several cases were petitions for probate, which were summarily granted. Then came several conservatorship petitions, with the public defender and deputy district attorney reciting their usual dialogue. Then a perfunctory settling of two or three petitions for final distribution. The attorneys all looked bored.

Herb sat in the front row, a little nervous, and watched the judge as he worked. He appeared to be no older than his mid-thirties. His hair was dark. His weathered face rugged and handsome. His wit was obviously sharp. Herb wondered how such a young man had gotten himself appointed, or elected, or however it was done in Arizona. It seemed to defy the good-ol'-boy network that he presided over, that Boomer was a part of. Herb decided he liked this judge.

At last Judge Deetz announced, "On the probate sale calendar, we have a return of sale in the estate of Axel Mathiews."

Herb remained seated as Boomer squirmed out of a full row and led a thin, gray scarecrow of a man through the bar gate. For court Boomer wore a tight-fitting, pale blue sports coat and a black sting tie with a copper clasp that read "Bisbee." He smiled up at the judge. "G'mornin', Judge. Boomer Felson for the petitioner. And this here, as y'know, is Rylan Fletcher, the proposed buyer. The sale is for $87,000 cash, the full amount of the appraisal. The private sale was authorized in the will an' was fairly conducted an' we're askin' the court t'confirm it in the best interests of the estate." He glanced over at Herb.

The judge followed his gaze with some curiosity, but when Herb said nothing and remained seated, he looked down at the file. "All right, this matter is on for confirmation of sale, on the terms Boomer said. The minimum first overbid is" . . . he turned the file upside down to look at the back of the petition . . . "$93,950. Is there anyone in the audience who would like to make a bid on the property?" He looked up at Herb.

Herb stood up stiffly and cleared his throat. His heart was pounding and his palms were moist. "Yes, your Honor. I'd like to make a bid on the property."

The courtroom became silent. Boredom evaporated as all eyes turned to Herb. Nothing like a little spirited bidding to brighten an otherwise dull morning of paper shuffling.

"Will you state your name for the record, sir."

"Herbert Hoover Gardner."

There were the usual titters that his formal name evoked.

"Spell your last name."

Herb did so.

The judge made notes in the file. "And your address?"

Herb told him.

"Well, Mr. Gardner, we are not often honored by the presence of a big time New York attorney in this humble probate court."

Herb had not told anyone he was an attorney. Boomer had obviously done some research. And the word had spread through the good-old-boy network. So much for Judge Deetz' independence. "I am only representing myself, your honor. As a private party."

The judge nodded. "What is your bid?"

"$94,000."

"This is a cash offer?"

"Yes, your honor."

"And you understand that you will need to tender a cash deposit of ten per cent of your bid this morning?"

"I'm prepared to do that. I have a cashier's check that will cover it." Herb took a check out of his coat pocket.

"Local bank?"

"Yes, your honor. Bank of America, Bisbee."

The judge turned to Boomer, who stood uncharacteristically subdued beside the scrawny buyer. This wasn't the way things were supposed to be going. The two reminded Herb of nursery rhyme characters. Jack Sprat and his corpulent wife. "You were aware of this offer, Boomer?"

"I talked to Mr. Gardner just yesterday, judge. Wasn't sure he'd be makin' a bid or not."

"Any problems with Mr. Gardner's tender?"

"No, judge."

"Fine. Then does Mr. Fletcher intend to increase the bid?"

All eyes turned to the skinny old man in the cowboy shirt. "Yes, sir," Fletcher piped up. "I'm gonna bid $94,100."

The judge made a note in the file. "Mr. Gardner, over to you."

"$95,000."

"Mr. Fletcher?"

"$95,100."

"Mr. Gardner?"

"$96,000."

"Mr. Fletcher?"

"$96,100."

"Mr. Gardner?"

"$97,000."

"Mr. Fletcher?"

Fletcher paused just a second before he mumbled, "$97,100," and Herb knew that he had him. Electricity tingled the air.

"$98,000," Herb offered, without waiting for the judge to ask.

"Mr. Fletcher?"

The courtroom held its breath, all eyes on the scarecrow of a man, who gazed down at a scrap of paper in his bony fingers. His shoulders seemed to melt.

"Mr. Fletcher?" the judge prodded gently. "Do you intend to increase your bid?"

Fletcher hung his head. Shook it slowly. It was all over. A chair squeaked. Someone coughed. The murmur of low voices resumed as the courtroom returned to life. Herb waited for applause, which never came. It was all over.

"Anyone else wish to bid?" the judge asked the audience.

The room was silent.

"Is this offer acceptable to your client?" the judge asked Boomer.

"I'm sure it will be. I'll have to call him up and confirm. But, yeah, he'll accept it."

"Then I am going to confirm the sale to Mr. Gardner for $98,000. Subject to confirmation by your client. When will you know."

"Later this mornin'."

"Fine. You'll prepare the paperwork, Mr. Felson? And the order?"

"Yeah, judge."

On the way out Boomer asked Herb if he could meet him at his office at one that afternoon to sign the paperwork and transfer the funds. "Should have it ready by then."

"I'll be there."

They shook hands cordially.

When Herb arrived at his office, Boomer was in fine spirits. He presented Herb with a short probate sale agreement, a draft of the deed, and a certified copy of Order of Sale.

"The judge signed it already? That was fast."

"It was a done deal. Now if y'don't mind signin' the sales agreement, we can walk down to the bank and across the street to the title company to take care of the financing. Unless y‘wanna take a look inside the house first."

"I would like to look inside."

"Before or after?"

"After's fine. I already bought the place."

Herb skimmed the sale agreement, then scrawled his signature. They walked down the street to the Bank of America, where he surrendered his cashier's check for one in the full amount of the purchase price payable to the estate. The rest went to his account. He deposited the check into escrow at the title company and they both signed escrow instructions. As soon as the deed could be shipped to Omaha for signature and back, he would own the little house with the Christmas lights.

"Y'ready t'go take a look at it?" Boomer asked as they headed west on Main Street. He opened his cell phone, punched in a number, and said, "Ophelia, we're on our way." A pause. "Estamos llegando."

"Who's Ophelia?" Herb asked.

"Ophelia Ruiz. An old Mexican gal Axel had coming in for years t'clean the place. A coupla times a week, I think. I kept her on to keep the place up. Estate expense. Only once a week, though. She and her husband boxed up Axel's personal things. His clothes. Knick-knacks. Still got'em in storage. Estate expense. Tossed out the food. I let'er take a few things. The old tv. A couple of old chairs and a table. Some bedding. Towels. Junk mostly. Nothing you'd want."

On the short, steep block of Shearer Street Boomer had to stop twice and hang onto a lamp post to catch his breath. "Outa shape," he puffed. The light breeze tousled his blond cowlick.

"Maybe we should of driven."

"Naw. Doc says I need t'get out an' walk. . . . Lose some weight. . . . Watch my diet."

"I hope Mr. Fletcher isn't too sore that I outbid him this morning."

"He should thank ya. . . . Probably saved him . . . a whole lot of aggravation. . . . Fletcher'd picked up an option . . . on the place next door. . . . Had a notion o'buyin' . . . the third one too . . . tearin'em all down an' buildin' a brand new hotel."

"Just like in Monopoly."

"I guess. But he didn't have the capital . . . for that kind of project. Nowhere near. The economy's not right . . . for a new downtown hotel. Not with all the other conversions scrambling to stay afloat. Not with what's goin' on across the border in Mexico."

They started walking, but Boomer again had to stop. "Can I ask y'somethin'?"

"Shoot," Herb said, enjoying Boomer's company.

"You really plannin to . . . move into that place? . . . Quit your practice . . . in New York?"

"Kind of crazy, huh?"

"I've heard crazier, I reckon."

Ophelia met them at the front door. She was an elderly woman, small and wiry with a nice smile. Her English was not so good. "Bienvenidos," she said.

The house was surprisingly clean and neat, though the air smelled a bit stale. In the front room sat a naugahyde recliner, two end tables, and an electric space heater plugged into the wall. The beige carpet was worn, but vacuumed. A pale square in the carpet showed where the old console tv had sat. There was no clutter. No knick-knacks. Beyond the living room was a small, spare, bright kitchen. A sink. An old refrigerator chugging away. A linoleum-topped counter and a small breakfast nook with an old wooden trestle table. A small bathroom was behind the kitchen. The floor was covered with worn, but still serviceable red Mexican tile. Dripping water had scoured away a line of porcelain in the pedestal sink. A clawfoot bathtub had a shower head on a tall pipe and a wraparound curtain. It all looked clean. A small room with an antique washer and dryer was next.

The bedroom was at the back of the house. A cheap knock-off of a Navajo rug covered the original hardwood floor, now painted brown. An unfinished wooden dresser stood in the corner. A bare double mattress sat on a low iron frame. Herb stared down at the mattress. It looked clean enough, but . . . . "Boomer?"

"Yeah?" Boomer ducked his head through the doorway.

"Where . . . er . . . where did Axel die?"

Boomer followed his gaze to the mattress, then grinned. "Not here. Axel died in the hospital in Douglas. Quietly. Nothin' t'worry about. He had a stroke raking leaves, and the ambulance carted him straight off to the hospital. He never made it back home."

"Is there any bedding?"

"Probably some blankets in one or another of the cupboards. Or Ophelia can bring y'some back, if she took ‘em all." He turned to the housekeeper and spoke slowly. "Ophelia. Are there any bed sheets?"

She stared at him blankly.

"Hay sabana?"

"No, senior. No hay."

"How about pillowcases? Hay fundas?"

"No hay."

"How about blankets? Hay mantas?"

"Si, hay," Her face brightened. "Alli." She produced a heavy wool blanket and a thin cotton one from the side cupboard. They had both been washed. She placed them neatly on the mattress.

And so it went as they peeled back the layers of a dead man's life. They inspected the washer and dryer. Ophelia showed them where there was a half-empty box of Tide. Cups and saucers. Plates. Rudimentary silverware. A tea kettle. Pots and pans. A dead man's possessions. Now a new owner's treasures.

"You're probably gonna want fresh sheets anyway," Boomer said as they walked back toward the front of the house. "And a new mattress pad, if you're thinking of spending the night."

"I was thinkin' just that. Might as well try her out. Of course, I'll need a copy of Ophelia's key."

"Here. Take mine. Y'already paid for it." Boomer handed him a door key. "Same key works both doors."

"Thanks."

At the front door, Herb turned to Ophelia. Bent down so their eyes were level. "Ever see any ghosts here, Ophelia?"

She stared at him.

"Hay espiritu?"

Her eyes widened as she crossed herself. "Aqui?"

"Si. Aqui. Hay fantasmas?"

"No senior. No hay nada."

As they descended the steps, Boomer asked, "What was that all about?"

"Oh, nothing," Herb replied. "Just thinking about the ghost tours up at the Copper Queen."

"Oh, that. Anything t'make a buck I guess."

Herb changed the subject. "Where would I get new linens for the bed around here?"

"Down at the Alco Discount Store on the Naco Highway. Or the Family Dollar. Unless y'want something fancy, an' then you're gonna have to go all the way over t'Sierra Vista."

"How far is the Alco?"

"C'mon, I'll give ya a lift down there. I need t'pick up a few things myself."

That night, as Herb sat on the edge of his crisp new sheets, it all seemed clear to him. He knew what he needed to do. He tried to script the call he would make to Annie in the morning. It seemed an impossible task, but he needed to try. It was important to try. His law partners could wait. To them he would use the word "sabbatical," though he doubted he would ever go back. But time would tell.

Yes, he would call Annie first thing in the morning. Tell her what had happened. Tell her what this had all been about. Tell her how he had bought the house at probate sale. She would laugh. Tell her that he needed her to come back.

He had just laid his head on the new pillow when he thought he heard something at the front of the house. Herb sat up, curious. But not alarmed. Not any more. It was more likely Ophelia returning something, or the refrigerator cycling off, than the ghost of a dead Indian. There was no Indian. Not really. No miner. No burro. He knew that now, and all was well. They had arisen from the spirit of Bisbee, which his unconscious had channeled to convince him to do that which his reasoning mind would never have entertained.

Herb slipped on his robe and padded to the front door. Past the now-silent refrigerator. He opened the door a crack. Felt the draft of cold air. There was no one there. Of course not. The Indian had not been real. He knew that. But Annie would be real when she came back. He could picture her standing there in the warm glow of the Christmas lights. She looked beautiful. Smiling and fresh in spite of her long flight. Her carry-on bag on the porch beside her as she held her thin jacket wrapped against the evening chill.

"Well . . . ya gonna invite me in, cowboy?" she would say.

And, smiling, he would open the door wide.

But what if she wouldn't come back? He felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach. The dark bile began to rise. He didn't want to think about that. He put the thought out of his mind. Why wouldn't she come back? She would understand, once he explained it all to her.

Herb closed the door. Padded back to bed. Laid his head on the new pillow. First thing in the morning he would call Annie.