Desert Shadows (9781615952250) (24 page)

Chapter 27

First thing the next morning, I called Kryzinski.

“I found a gun in the alley last night,” I told him. “Want me to bring it in?”

His voice was cautious, probably because he knew me so well. “Since when do you hang around in alleys, Lena?”

“Oh, I thought I heard something back there, so I went out to check. That's when I found it. Big .50 caliber Desert Eagle.”

Kryzinski whistled. “Serial number intact?”

“Filed off.” Not that it made any difference. A good ballistics expert could probably raise the number and trace the gun's point of origin. Which would result in good news for some lucky gun collector out there, because most black market guns, especially the higher-priced models like the Desert Eagle, came from burglaries.

“Yeah, bring it in,” Kryzinski said. “I'm anxious to take a look, not that I'll ever be able to afford one of them babies. Not on my salary.”

“Be there in a few minutes.”

The gun was a ruse. When I arrived at Scottsdale North, I turned the Desert Eagle over, and after Kryzinski had fondled it for a while, I got down to business.

“You still think Owen looks good for the Alden-Taylor killing?” We sat in his glass-walled office with the door closed. A couple of detectives looked up from their paperwork and waved at me. One blew a kiss. I reciprocated. Satisfied, he went back to work.

“Owen's the DA's problem now, not mine.” His eyes had trouble meeting mine.

I refused to let him off the hook. “How carefully did you question the other people at the banquet, the people who actually saw Gloriana die?”

“We talked to everyone, Lena. Other than those people on the hike, most didn't know her personally. And since we didn't have enough leads to keep them in town, we let them all go back home.”

I knew that the witnesses were now scattered all the way from Dallas to Lodi, but in the end, it would make little difference. “How hard did you run at Gloriana's grandson?”

Kryzinski gave me a cagey look. “Considering that he's the primary heir, we looked at him pretty carefully, regardless of what you might think.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Zachary Alden-Taylor went on the hike, but during the day's last seminar and during the banquet itself, he was always within sight of someone. And I'm not even counting his wife, because wives do tend to lie for their husbands. Lena, he
didn't
do it.”

I remembered the ashes at Patriot's Blood Press, the rise of Zach's dreams. “Zach really hated his grandmother's products, Captain.”

Kryzinski snorted. “I hate working for a living, too, but I do it anyway.”

Talking to Kryzinski was like talking to a stone. He didn't hear what he didn't want to hear, so I left him there, still fondling Joanne's Desert Eagle.

***

I didn't look forward to my next stop, but there was no choice. The rain had stopped and I would have made good time over to the Arcadia District, except for the usual out-of-state RVs dogging the speed limit. Frustrated by the traffic tie-up, I found myself sympathizing with the bumper sticker I saw on a passing delivery van:
SO MANY SNOWBIRDS, SO LITTLE FREEZER SPACE.

The twins let me in without a word. A quick look at Lavelle revealed that although the bruise on her face had faded, new bruises the size of fingertips darkened her arms. Time to call Adult Protective Services.

Leila's cranky voice interrupted my thoughts. “The detective returns, all crippled up.” She didn't offer me a seat.

Bracing myself on my crutches, I tried to keep the distaste out of my voice. “Yes, all crippled up and back again with more questions. When I was here before, you led me to believe that Sandra inherited little under the terms of Gloriana's will. Since then, I've discovered she received enough to buy a house.”

Lavelle frowned and rubbed her sore arms. “Compared to Gloriana's fortune, it's nothing. She should have inherited everything.”

“Why?” After all I had seen and learned the past couple of weeks, I suspected the answer, but needed confirmation.

Leila pushed her aside, none too gently. “Don't pay any attention to my sister. She doesn't know what she's talking about.”

But for once, Lavelle showed some spirit. “Oh, yes, I do.”

This brought a snarl from Leila. “Keep your mouth shut about your slutty daughter and don't cause any more trouble.”

I stepped between them before Leila could add more bruises to Lavelle's collection.
Any more trouble?
During my previous visit, they had mentioned warning Gloriana about something.

I directed my next question to Leila. “Gloriana came by a few days before she was murdered, right?”

Leila nodded. “Yes, Miss Rich Pants honored us with one of her once-in-a-blue-moons. So what?”

Lavelle gave me a pleading look. “It's not relevant, Miss Jones. Just a family matter.”

But Alden-Taylor family matters were looming larger and larger in my mind these days. “Zach told me there was some talk about moving you two into an assisted living facility, that he'd discussed it with Gloriana.”

Alarm flashed in Lavelle's eyes. “Sandra would never have allowed that!”

But maybe Sandra also suspected what was going on in this house. Assisted living would provide her mother some protection.

“Shut up, Sissy,” Leila hissed. “This detective already knows too much of our business. Why complicate things?”

The timing of Gloriana's last visit intrigued me. She'd shown up, possibly to urge the sisters to move, and soon afterward had been poisoned. Yet there was no way the sisters could have committed a murder. I doubted if they had enough money to contract a hired killer even if they'd been able to find one.

“Were there any harsh words between you and Gloriana when she came by?” Harsh words, such as “I'm calling my attorney.”

Leila offered a mean smile. “Gloriana was sorry she came out and bothered us, I'll tell you that. We fixed her.”

“Sissy, don't,” Lavelle begged.

Fixed? In what way,
fixed?

Lavelle's plea meant nothing to Leila, who had already worked up a full load of venom. “We took her down a few notches, we did. Her and that so-called grandson of hers.”

“Oh, no,” Lavelle muttered.

So-called grandson?
Leaving Lavelle looking more distressed than ever, I said to Leila, “Zach wasn't really Gloriana's grandson, was he? That's why she came by, not to talk about moving you into assisted living.”

She crossed her arms in front of her sagging breasts. “You're a regular Perry Mason, aren't you?”

“Sissy, please!” Lavelle reached out a hand to her sister, but Leila slapped it away.

I began to put it together. “Gloriana had been trying to prove a connection to Thomas Jefferson, so she had all the family members swabbed. The DNA testing proved that Zach wasn't related to any of you, didn't it?”

“Sissy and I suspected it all along,” Leila said. “Zach didn't really look like any of us. His mother was my maid's daughter, for God's sake! Nothing but a tart! The girl was pregnant when she married Big Zach, but sly minx that she was, she told him the baby was his. That's what happens when you let the help get too friendly. They take advantage.”

Lavelle bit her lip. “We were always afraid that if Gloriana found out, she'd blame us. And cut us out of the will. Then what would we do?”

Leila punched her arm before I could intervene. “Nonsense! Gloriana would never disinherit her own flesh and blood. It was a joke for us, that's all, watching Miss Rich Pants make a fool of herself over the little bastard. We'd…Well,
I'd
always planned to tell her the truth, and I was getting close to doing it, too, when she started that silly Thomas Jefferson business. So I decided not to spoil the fun, to let her find out the truth on her own. But, Lord, was it ever rich when Sissy let it slip who Zach's daddy really was! That's just what Gloriana deserved, chasing after old Jefferson as if we Alden-Taylors weren't quality people on our own. We didn't need
him!
”

Overwhelmed by her combination of arrogance and malice, I hurried the next few questions. “What did Gloriana say she was going to do about the situation? Did she plan to change her will? Cut Zach out?”

Lavelle, whose forearm was beginning to redden from Leila's punch, finally spoke up. “Of course she was! Why let Zach inherit everything when my daughter was her true blood relative?”

And the real carrier of those oh-so-magnificent Alden-Taylor genes. Only one question left. Not that it mattered, anymore, but I was curious. “By the way, the supposed Thomas Jefferson connection. How did that turn out?”

Leila smirked. “Inconclusive.”

***

Once I settled myself back into the Neon, I dug the cell phone out of my carry-all and placed a call to Adult Protective Services. The harassed-sounding social worker who answered took my info and told me she'd send someone out, but I doubted it would happen anytime soon. I thanked her anyway, then called Kryzinski. As I waited to be put through, fat black clouds scuttled across the sky, threatening more rain. The few people strolling along the tree-lined Arcadia street wore no raincoats nor carried umbrellas. Arizonans didn't believe in rain, not even when they were standing in it, which is why every winter so many of the damn fools drove their cars into streets-turned-rivers and had to be lifted out by helicopter.

Kryzinski finally came on the line. “What now, Lena? I only have a minute.” I could hear the police chief in the background, telling everyone to take their seats. Another damned meeting. One more reason I was glad not to be a cop anymore.

“Then I'll be quick. Did you talk to Gloriana's attorney about her will?” The police chief was now telling everyone to turn their cell phones and beepers off.

“Hiram Johns? Sure. He told us that almost everything goes to Gloriana's grandson, except for a couple hundred thou to her niece, and half that to her sisters. But none of them did it, Lena. It was Owen. Now I've gotta go.” He disconnected before I could ask another question.

I decided to get the answer straight from the horse's mouth. I punched in the number for Information and got Hiram Johns office address, which turned out to be in Old Town Scottsdale, not far from my office. The rain began to fall in torrents as soon as I pulled into the office building parking lot. By the time I'd crutched my way from the Neon to the entrance, I was a sopping mess—not necessarily a bad thing. There was always the chance, albeit a slim one, that a rain-washed blonde on crutches might stir even an attorney's hard heart to pity.

But not, as it turned out, the attorney's receptionist.

The dour crone sitting at the front desk as I hobbled in informed me that no one saw Hiram Johns without an appointment, and sorry, he was full up today and tomorrow. Full up next week, too. “This is a busy office, Miss Jones,” she said, her voice firm. “You can't just drop in here and expect to see someone. Especially Mr. Johns. By the way, you're dripping on the Persian.”

I moved off the Persian—a carpet, not a cat—and shifted strategies. “I completely understand, Miss…Miss.…”

“Maxwell. And it's
Mrs.
Maxwell.”

Belatedly I noticed the wedding ring. “Of course, of course, and I'm sure you're both very happy. But I have a question only Mr. Johns can answer, about Gloriana Alden-Taylor's will.”

She sniffed, but appeared mollified. “Mr. Johns won't tell you anything about a client, especially about the contents of a will. Surely you know that.”

“I already know what's in the will. I just need to know if Mrs. Alden-Taylor made an appointment with Mr. Johns sometime in the last two weeks.”

Another sniff. Then her face scrunched into an even bigger frown. “Wait a minute. Aren't you that woman who pulled poor Sandra Alden-Taylor out of that fire?”

Hot diggedy dog. “Yes, ma'am, I am.” I shifted my weight from foot to foot and grimaced, as if they both hurt. Which they did.

“How brave of you!”

Looking good. I ducked my head and tried to look modest. “It was nothing. The doctor says I might be able to walk without crutches some day.” Next week, actually.

She spun around and tapped a few keystrokes into her computer. “Mrs. Alden-Taylor made an appointment to see Mr. Johns nine days ago.”

Gotcha, Zach. “Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell. Thank you so much.”

I clunked around and headed for the door, only to stop when she added, “But the day before Mrs. Alden-Taylor died, she called back and canceled.”

“Canceled?”

Mrs. Maxwell nodded. “She sounded strange.” Then she lowered her voice. “If I hadn't known her better, I'd swear she was crying.”

Chapter 28

The rain stopped as soon as I reached the Neon, yet I drove up the road to the Hacienda slowly, dreading the misery I would soon cause there. But a murderer was a murderer, regardless of how pleasant he might be. Not that Zach had been all that pleasant during my last visit. Even though he was apparently no Alden-Taylor, he had begun to exhibit signs of that family's obsessiveness. Maybe there was something to be said for nurture versus nature, after all.

The more I learned about the Alden-Taylors the more they baffled me. For all their passions—their Fevers—they were essentially a cold family. Even Zach. Although married to a warm woman who needed him, he cared only for his vision of a new Patriot's Blood Press. The twins had their dysfunctional relationship; Sappho, her cameras; Sandra, her gambling and promiscuity.

And Gloriana?

Gloriana remained an enigma to me. Her lust for Owen appeared to be simply that—mere lust, with no real affection or human concern. She just wanted what she wanted when she wanted it. The only thing she seemed truly to care for—besides her raging hormones and bloodline—was the Hacienda. Even Patriot's Blood Press existed merely to service that crumbling house. And as long as the money rolled in for repairs, why should she care how much misery her books and games caused the world?

A house.

Dead ancestors.

Bound pages.

Surely there had to be something more to the woman.

Why had Gloriana canceled her appointment at the attorney's office? What had made such a glacial woman cry?

There was something missing.

***

This time when I arrived at the Hacienda, there were no animals in the stable yard, and only two battered pickup trucks. Where was everyone? Curious, I tapped the Neon's horn twice, and after a minute, the gate opened. When Rosa met me at the door, Casey at her heels, the meows and barks behind her proved that Megan's menagerie was still in residence. At least Zach hadn't packed them off to the pound. Yet.

“Hey, Rosa. Any other humans around?”

She gave me a pained smile as a kitten tried to climb up her stockinged leg. It looked like one of the pair she had been bottle-feeding the other day. “The children are here, and Miss Megan, but Mr. Zach is away.”

I did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved. I still needed to ask him a few questions before I took my theory to Captain Kryzinski. For instance, why had Zach burned down Patriot's Blood? With Gloriana already dead and the company willed to him, what would be the point? I wouldn't ask him directly, of course; I'd make a few vague inquiries about insurance and see what happened.

As Rosa bent down—to swat the kitten away, I thought—I asked, “Could I see Miss Megan, then?”

Rosa didn't swat the kitten. She picked it up, a fond look on her face. Maybe this rescue business was catching.

“Miss Megan out in the back, fixing someone.” Still holding the kitten, Rosa led me through a furry tide until we reached the large French doors that opened onto the property's rear acreage. I could see that one of the outbuildings had recently been painted white. Milling around outside the building were Emma and the rest of Megan's herd, which now included a limping llama.

When I gestured questioningly toward the building, Rosa said, “Her new animal hospital. She pick up a couple of dogs yesterday, some cats. And Juan.”

“Juan?”

“That thing.” She pointed to the llama. “She say the owner beat him.”

Suddenly I did not feel so triumphant. What would happen to the animals when Kryzinski arrested Zach? To Megan and the baby? But Owen had a family, too. What would happen to them if I did not prove him innocent? Leaving Rosa behind with her kitten, I hobbled across the rugged ground to the outbuilding.

“Hi, Lena,” Megan said, as I walked through the door. “Give me a moment here.” She looked terrible. Since I had last seen her, the skin around her eyes had purpled, and her cheeks looked sunken.

Next to her, an elderly woman bent over a table, studying a thin black dog which had only three legs.

A wave of nausea hit me. Clutching my stomach, I stepped outside again. After gulping air for a few seconds, I managed to close my mind to everything but the investigation. Then I went back inside.

“We'll never find a home for this guy,” Megan was saying.

“Want me to put him down?” The woman's voice held the brisk, vaguely compassionate tone common to the medical profession. Probably a vet.

Megan sighed and the dog's tail thumped against her in answer. “Dr. Weitz, I don't need any more animals.”

“Then I'll prepare a syringe.”

Megan, obviously undergoing a change of heart, stayed her with a hand. “No. Other than the leg, he appears to be healthy. All he needs are a few meals and a bath. I'll keep him.”

“You sure?”

Megan sighed again. “Yeah, I'm sure. Oh, lord, Zach's going to kill me.”

I winced at her turn of phrase, even though I doubted if Megan was in danger from her husband. He would gain nothing from killing his wife and baby.

Or would he?

Dr. Weitz gave Megan a wintry smile. “Want me to fit Stumpy here with a prosthesis, then?”

For a moment Megan appeared to take the question at face value and even seemed to be considering it. “How much…?”

“It was a joke, dear, a joke.” Dr. Weitz patted her on the back, then reached down to the table and did the same for the dog. “Plenty of three-legged dogs around.”

The vet lifted the dog off the examining table and put him down carefully on the ground, where he sat and gazed at Megan with adoration. Ignoring him, Dr. Weitz threw a few items into a big leather bag and snapped it shut.

“How much do I owe you?” Megan asked.

“I'll send you a bill.” With a wave, Dr. Weitz shouldered her bag and left.

Megan finished tidying up the room, which was—truth be told—now neater than the Hacienda. “She never does, you know.”

“Never does what?”

“Send a bill. Dr. Weitz has worked pro bono ever since I started all this. She's more or less retired, but still…I think I'm her only non-paying customer.”

As we left the building, Stumpy hopped along with us, never once taking his eyes off Megan. The sky had cleared and the sun beamed through. The scent of damp earth and sage drifted toward us from Mummy Mountain. “Another foundling?”

“What? Oh, the dog. One of our volunteers picked him up in the desert. He'd been dumped.”

I wondered what kind of person would dump an animal in Arizona's desert and leave it to fend for itself. In our harsh landscape, mountain lions and even coyotes could die of hunger. Domesticated dogs had no chance at all. Especially three-legged dogs.

My stomach heaved again and I gulped more air. When we entered the Hacienda with Stumpy at our heels, the other animals ran to greet us, Casey in front. A little Yorkie I hadn't noticed before knocked into my crutch and almost sent me sprawling.

“Bad Peppy,” Megan said. “Sit. Sit.”

Bad Peppy sat. So did Stumpy, Casey and several other members of the fur herd. Someone had once loved them enough to train them.

“Megan, how many dogs do you have now?” I asked.

She thought for a moment. “Twelve. And fourteen cats. Three rabbits. A pig. A llama. But like I told Zach, it's not as bad as it sounds. We've already found homes for six of the dogs and a few of the cats. I might be stuck with Emma, though.”

“How about the llama?”

“Juan? Already promised to a farm near Buckeye. So you see? I'm not totally irresponsible.”

Her quick use of the word intrigued me. Someone had obviously called her that, and recently. Zach, probably. Whatever he thought of his wife, though, didn't make any difference now. When I'd done what I needed to do, putting up with Megan's animals would be the least of his problems.

“Listen, Megan, I came up here to talk to Zach, but since he's not here, maybe I could ask you a few questions.”

“Of course. Let's go…oh!” A strange look crossed her face. “He's moving!”

“Moving?”

She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her stomach. To my astonishment, I could feel a large lump sliding horizontally across her large belly. Every now and then it slowed, poked outward briefly, then continued on its path.

“That's his foot,” she said, her face rapturous, her hand still on mine.

Zach's baby. Oh, Jesus, what was I going to do? Half sick with guilt, I pulled my hand away. “Wonderful, Megan. You must be excited.”

Her glow came back, almost erasing the shadows underneath her eyes. “I'm living a miracle.”

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I just smiled my Judas smile.

When the baby finally stopped playing kickball or whatever it was doing, she led me into the den, where I settled with relief onto a catless chair. There was something to be said for big houses and lots of furniture; they provided room for everyone, even humans. Megan sat across from me, Stumpy at her feet. With his broad, squared-off snout and three gangly legs, he looked like an unholy cross between a St. Bernard and a Great Dane. I had to agree with her earlier statement. She would never find a home for the ugly thing.

“You sure made a friend there,” I said, pointing out the obvious.

She nodded. “He took to me so fast he must have belonged to a woman.”

I couldn't imagine a woman dumping a three-legged dog to die in the desert. Maybe something had happened to her. Maybe her body was still out there, waiting to be found.

As if reading my mind, Megan said, “The off-roaders who found him looked all over the place for his owner, but they couldn't find anyone. They said they didn't see any buzzards.”

I shuddered. Arizona's Sonoran desert had long been the repository for the bodies of lost hikers, not to mention a favorite dumping ground for murder victims. And dogs who had outgrown their welcome.

No time to worry about that now, though. “Megan, when will your husband be back?”

She gave me a wry smile. “Tomorrow. He flew to Iowa to talk to a couple of students attending the writers' workshop. Their instructor thinks they've written publishable manuscripts.”

“Literary stuff, right?”

The shadows underneath her eyes returned, and she shrugged. “Yes. But there's always the chance that he'll get lucky and one of the students will turn out to be the new Michael Cunningham. You know, the man who wrote
The Hours
, won the Pulitzer Prize, and made all that money on the movie.”

I'd seen the movie, but hadn't finished the book. “That would be nice.”

She winced. “Nice. And maybe someday Stumpy will grow his leg back.” It was the first time I'd ever heard an edge in her voice, but it disappeared almost as soon as it emerged. She gave a little laugh, then leaned over with great difficulty and petted Stumpy on the head. He rewarded her with a gaze of unconditional love.

Whoever had dumped that dog was a fool.

Before Megan could say anything else, Sandra's two children came running into the room. “Aunt Megan, can we go see Mommy at the hospital tonight?” John-John asked.

Megan shook her head. “I'm sorry, but with everything that's going on, I can't manage it. Uncle Zach will be back tomorrow, we'll go then. For now, why don't you take our new dog and give him a bath?”

The disappointment on the children's faces vanished. “Can we wash him in the fountain?” Caroline.

“Sure.” Megan nudged the big dog toward the children, and after an initial hesitation, he hobbled after them.

Megan sat back and sighed. “The doctors say Sandra might be able to come home next week. With all these animals and her kids.…” She didn't finish the sentence, but added, “Thank God for Rosa.”

Megan looked like she was about to collapse from stress. I wondered if she was worried about the possible loss of her dreamed-of animal shelter, or if she was beginning to suspect that her husband had killed Gloriana.

In an odd way, I found myself more disgusted with Zach for abandoning Megan in her frail condition than for murdering his grandmother. How could some miserable manuscript mean more to a man than his pregnant wife? But that was the Alden-Taylors for you. Once an obsession took hold….

I reminded myself that Zach was no Alden-Taylor, merely a cuckoo in the nest. Still, he had been raised by Gloriana, and apparently her predisposition to Fevers had infected him, too. One had driven him to murder.

“Megan, have you tried, I mean
really
tried to talk to him about Patriot's Blood and the new editorial direction?”

She nodded glumly. “Oh, yes. We've had several long talks, well, arguments really. He won't budge. He keeps saying that he left his job at ASU believing that he'd be developing an experimental literature imprint, and now that Gloriana's dead, he can finally do what he set out to do. He wouldn't listen to my suggestion that it might be a good idea to have at least one Patriot's Blood imprint operating in the black, that the income generated from mysteries or thrillers could help support his, uh, more experimental stuff.”

She sounded every bit as enthralled with his dreams as Zach did with hers. The difference was, he had the wherewithal to fulfill his. All she had were pleas. Once again I congratulated myself on staying single. “What exactly did Zach say?”

The shadows around her eyes grew darker. “He made fun of everything I suggested. He even said that it was time I grew up.” Then those beautiful eyes welled up. “Oh, Lena, I don't know what's happened to him!”

Money's what happened to him, Megan. But I didn't say it.

She sighed. “Zach used to be such a reasonable man. All you ever had to do was present a good case for something, and he'd listen. Like Save Our Friends. When I first came up with the idea of starting a rescue organization, I told him what I thought it would entail, jotted down a cost estimate, and he said to go ahead, that somehow we'd find the money. Now you can't tell him anything. He's…he's
driven.
”