Desert Shadows (9781615952250) (6 page)

I wondered if Tinsley had conveyed Gloriana's literary criticism to Chaps. Given the politico's evident malice, the odds were that she had. “Was Gloriana the only publisher you approached for him?”

“Oh, I talked to David Zhang, what little good that did.”

Somehow I couldn't see Arizona Trails printing odes to steers, but that was neither here nor there. “Ms. Tinsley, as a state lawmaker, surely you're familiar with the laws that protect plants on government lands. Why did you disobey Owen's orders on that hike? He told me you picked several plants.”

Her shrug made the pink ruffles flutter up and down her suspiciously prominent bosom. “I'm not a botanist. I thought I was simply picking flowers, certainly nothing protected.”

“Hell, as far as that goes, I picked a bunch of stuff, too,” Ott piped up. “Not that I was allowed to keep it. That bossy Indian made me hand everything over. So if you're thinking that either Lynn or I sprinkled a little hemlock on Gloriana's salad, you can think again. Neither of us had any problems with the woman. She was my publisher, and I owe my considerable success to her. Now, if you'll excuse us, we're going over to the kettle corn booth to get a decent lunch cooked by decent White people.”

Judging from the look on Tinsley's face, I thought she might be more interested in the nearby Bar-B-Que Bison booth run by a couple of Sioux. Still, she followed Ott closely enough, her spike heels sinking deeper and deeper into the grass with each step. By the time they reached the kettle corn, she'd sunk almost to his level.

Ain't love grand?

Chapter 5

Even though Captain Kryzinski had asked the SOBOP attendees to remain in town for the next few days, I worried that some of them might defy his request and return home. I decided to drive up to Desert Shadows Resort and interview whomever I could find, starting with Myra Gordon, the librarian from Wyatt's Landing. Besides, after the confrontation with the National Alliance and my interview with Tinsley and Ott, the drive would calm my nerves.

But first things first. I pulled my cell phone out of my carry-all and called the office. Jimmy picked up immediately.

“I've got some names for you, all people who were on the hike with Owen,” I told him. “Check them out.”

I could hear his keyboard click as he copied them down. “Lena, do you think any of these guys might have done it?”

“Hard to say,” I told him. “I've only interviewed a few people yet, but I'm on my way up to the resort now. I can tell you this, though. Zhang and Ramos both despised Gloriana. Tinsley and Ott are creepy enough to do just about anything.”

“That's
Representative
Tinsley you're talking about?” His voice sounded doubtful, as if he had trouble believing a politician would do anything naughty.

I made a mental memo to urge him to get his nose out of those Internet magazines of his and start reading the newspaper. Especially the political section. “Yeah, that Tinsley. There's something about her that seems off, so I'd like you to dig around in her past, see if there are any gaps in her resumé.” Whatever was going on with Tinsley, Jimmy would uncover it. No one could hack into sealed records and forbidden databases like my partner.

I'd just hung up and was heading toward the exit, when yet another despicable person crossed my path.

“Look, Lena, you can't ignore me.” Was it my imagination, or were Dusty's eyes redder than earlier?

“Sorry, cowboy. I've got places to go, people to see.”

He planted himself in front of me, digging the heels of his roping boots deep into the soil. The immovable object. I tried to go around him, but the crowd was so thick that I, the irresistible force, felt effectively cornered.

“You might as well talk to me. I won't leave you alone until you do.”

I thought for a tantalizing moment of the .38 nestled snugly in my carry-all. If I popped him one, surely any reasonable judge would consider the deed justifiable homicide. Any reasonable female judge, that is. With my luck, the case would probably draw some crusty old buzzard who believed in equal killin' rights for everyone but females.

“Okay, Dusty. We'll talk. There's no point to it, though. You not only screwed around on me, but if my information is correct, you actually married the woman! You know me well enough to know that I don't fool around with married men, so it's over. I need someone with a little less baggage. If you think I'm carrying a torch for you, you are sadly mistaken.”

I am so full of crap.

My eyes must have given me away, because he reached out and grasped my hand gently. “Honey, I'm sorry.”

“You are one sorry son of a bitch, that's for sure,” I muttered, as he led me into the shade of an acacia tree. It was all I could do to keep from bawling.

Dusty hadn't been my only man—I went through a brief period of promiscuity during my teens—but he'd been the only one I ever loved. But so what? If you can fall into love, surely you can fall out of it. And then maybe, if the gods are with you, fall into it again with someone more appropriate.

“She meant nothing to me, Lena.”

It hurt too much to laugh. “Right. That's why you married her.”

“The marriage wasn't legal.” He rubbed his eyes as if they hurt. “It was just one of those Vegas things. Like Britney Spears and what's-his-name.”

“With Elvis administering the vows? Last time I checked, cowboy, even Vegas marriages were legal.”

“We didn't apply for a marriage license. And the guy wasn't really a minister, just an Elvis impersonator we met at one of the casinos.”

“So why bother with Elvis? Why not just have your dirty little weekend, or whatever it was, and leave it at that?”

“Aw, Lena. I was drunk, that's why. I'd been drunk for a week, and you know what that can do to a person.”

As a matter of fact, I didn't know. I don't drink. Never did. Not knowing my parentage, I feared my DNA might be loaded with any number of addictive genes, so I had long ago bypassed possible problems by drinking nothing stronger than Tab. In my personal habits, at least, I was as squeaky clean as a Temple-qualified Mormon.

“Dusty, what the hell were you doing drinking for an entire week?”

His bloodshot eyes met mine. “Lena, in some ways you are so naive. Haven't you figured out yet that I'm a recovering alcoholic?”

The Overland Stage came rumbling by again, making enough noise to render further speech pointless, but it gave me time to think. I cast my memory back over the four years I'd known Dusty. Since we lived at opposite ends of the county and had wildly conflicting schedules, we seldom got together as often as we would have liked. When we did, our dates usually consisted of Mexican dinners and action movies at the local cineplex. Then we would return to my apartment upstairs from Desert Investigations for a little love-making, and in between bouts, sip on Tabs. I had never seen Dusty drunk.

I did remember one particularly stressful night when he showed up at my place with a shopping bag full of Pete's Wicked Ale. I hadn't thought too much of it at the time, not even when—after the night was over—he took the remainders back to the ranch with him.

In light of his confession, everything came together. Our off-again, on-again relationship. His frequent disappearances, his mysterious returns. Maybe the average woman would have challenged this behavior, but I'm not the average woman. I was used to strange behavior from men, and so I had accepted our oddly distant, if passionate, relationship. Oh, well, live and learn.

Once the Overland Stage rumbled away, I snapped, “You sure as hell don't look all that recovering to me, cowboy. Or did you pick up those red eyes on a trail ride? Surely you don't believe I'm stupid enough to excuse your behavior with that redhead just because you were drunk!”

“It's not about excusing, honey. It's about understanding.”

“I'm not in the mood for understanding.” With that, I pushed him aside and stalked up the hill, hoping I'd run into the National Alliance goons. I was spoiling for a fight.

***

The drive from WestWorld to Desert Shadows passed quickly, but not before I had time to lament the ruin of Scottsdale Road. Only a few years earlier, this had been one of the prettiest drives in Scottsdale, with unmarred desert reaching all the way to the McDowell Mountains. The Rev used to bring us kids here almost every weekend, pointing out bright clumps of Mexican gold poppy, upthrust stalks of burgundy lupine, the towering saguaro and ocotillo. At one point, a nature club had installed discreet signage along the road, giving each plant's Latin and common names, but those friendly little nature lessons were gone now. Everything disappeared when the developers moved in, dragging tract homes and shopping centers in their wake. Like Joni Mitchell once complained, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot.

Desert Shadows Resort, however, had seen the bulldozers of progress headed their way, so the Japanese consortium which owned the place hurriedly bought up the surrounding acreage. Located several hundred yards from the highway, secluded in a shallow valley ringed with massive boulders, it could still project the illusion that it was miles from civilization.

The resort was internationally famous for its breathtaking golf course and rock-rimmed swimming pool complete with waterfall, as well as its luxurious suites and spas. Most of SOBOP's publishers must be doing well, I figured, to afford to stay here. Or maybe they'd wrangled one hell of a group discount.

After parking the Jeep next to a fleet of Mercedes and Beemers, I headed toward the lobby and its acres of glass, marble and palm fronds, where the concierge informed me that Mrs. Myra Gordon was not in her room. No problem, though, he said. Since she was one of the SOBOP people, she was probably attending some seminar or other. Would I like him to send a bellhop in search of her?

I declined the offer and, taking a map of the resort's various meeting rooms, set off to find her myself. After a brief stop at SOBOP's seminar sign-in table, I learned she was in Meeting Room 307, attending “The Bright Future of Minority Publishing.” The seminar was due to finish any minute.

“She's wearing an emerald green silk shantung dress and carrying one of those cute little lunchbox handbags,” said the blond woman at the table. Her own handbag resembled a mid-sized suitcase.

As I started toward the hallway that led to the meeting rooms, the blonde called after me, “Oh, and she's African-American. Gray hair.”

I positioned myself outside Room 307 and waited until the double doors opened. Sure enough, here came Myra Gordon in an emerald dress and handbag emblazoned with a cartoon of a sly-looking poodle dressed in a pink poodle skirt. She started to walk by me.

“Mrs. Gordon?”

“Why, yes?” She stopped and offered me a smile. Approximately fifty, her skin, the color of gently creamed coffee, was sprinkled with freckles. Her eyes were a startling topaz. “What can I do for you?”

I showed her my I.D. and asked if we could go someplace quiet.

Her face closed down. “I've already talked to the police. And unless I am incorrect in my interpretation of Arizona law, Miss Jones, private detectives have no legal standing in murder cases.”

Librarians. They know everything.

“I'm just trying to keep an innocent man out of prison,” I said. “The accused is a friend of mine.”

“Then I am very sorry for you and your friend.” With that, she opened her poodle-purse and pulled out a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Dabbing her forehead, she added, “I've been so busy that I must admit I haven't kept track of things. I'd heard that someone was arrested last night, but.…” She shrugged. “I didn't pay much attention.”

“His name is Owen Sisiwan.”

Her hand froze. “That sweet man who took us to Oak Creek Canyon?”

I know when to keep my mouth shut, to let someone's conscience do the work, so I just nodded.

She stood there for a moment, letting the stream of SOBOP folks pass us by. Then, tucking the handkerchief back into her handbag, she said, “Let's go to my room.”

I followed her down the corridor, across the marble lobby, and into the residential wing of the resort, where we passed enough paintings and sculpture to furnish a small museum.

“Nice,” I commented, as we walked along.

“A little pretentious, if you ask me,” she said over her shoulder. “But who am I to criticize anyone's taste, me with my poodle-purse?”

“I like poodles in skirts.”

She stopped in front of a door and inserted a card key into the lock. As the door opened, she said, “So do I.”

The large room, which overlooked the resort's swimming pool, was furnished in Pima Modern, an ironic theme since the resort was built on land snatched from the tribe during the late 1800s. The sandstone-colored duvet on the king-size bed was decorated with replications of Pima pictographs, and the creamy, textured walls were covered with several signed lithographs of Kokopelli, the mythic Native American flute-player. The room must be costing Gordon a small fortune.

Seeing me check it out, she volunteered, “The SOBOP discount is the only way I can afford to stay here on my librarian's salary. Still, I'll probably be eating beans for a month when I get back to Wyatt's Landing.”

“The library isn't picking up the cost?”

“No, I'm doing this on my own. Seeing a book described in a catalog isn't the same as leafing through its pages. And I do want to make certain our library carries a full selection of Southwestern books.” She threw her handbag on the bed, so I followed suit with my carry-all. But I placed it carefully, so my .38 wouldn't clunk.

“Let's sit over here,” she said, gesturing to a book-covered oak table surrounded by plush chairs. “Would you like a drink? The mini-bar's stocked with liquor, juice, and Evian.”

Mini-bar water could cost up to eight dollars a bottle in Scottsdale, so I ignored my thirst and declined. I hoped she didn't hear my stomach rumble, because I doubted I'd be able to turn down twenty-dollar pretzels. That half-order of fry bread I'd eaten at WestWorld had only tweaked my appetite.

“Mrs. Gordon, I don't want to interfere with your schedule any more than necessary, so I'll be quick.” I settled into the chair nearest the big picture window. “Did you see Owen pocket the water hemlock?”

She sat across from me and looked out toward the pool, where pale-skinned tourists splashed happily. Then she nodded, not taking their eyes off them. “Yes, I'm afraid I did. Some of the others on the hike were behaving foolishly, and Mr. Sisiwan did what he had to do. But I don't believe for a moment that he is responsible for Gloriana Alden-Taylor's death. He impressed me as a gentle man.”

She knew nothing about the Taliban Owen had killed in Afghanistan, and there was no point in disillusioning her. “I had a look at the banquet seating chart. You sat right next to Gloriana, didn't you?”

“I wonder if they're wearing sun block,” she said, still watching the pool action. “Those UV rays are dangerous. Are you aware of the number of melanoma cases in Arizona every year?”

I ask about banquet seating, I get a lecture on UV rays. Interesting. “Mrs. Gordon, could you answer my question?”

She finally looked at me. “Sorry, I wasn't paying attention. What was it you asked?”

“Weren't you sitting next to Gloriana at the banquet?”

She inclined her head. “Of course. Considering the types of books Patriot's Blood publishes, I thought the seating rather amusing. Or at least I did until the poor woman became ill.”