Desert Wind (27 page)
A cook who talked to John Wayne. “Sounds creepy.”
She shrugged. “Being in the tourist business like we are, we see creepier things than that.”
Up ahead, a man and woman emerged from their room. Among their other Western accoutrements, the man’s leather chaps most likely had never brushed against a horse, and the woman sparkled in rhinestone-studded designer jeans that would dig into her fanny if she ever saddled up.
“Howdy, pardners,” Leilani chirped, giving them a cheery wave.
The guests howdied back.
When they were out of earshot, I asked, “Who’ll cook for you now?”
“Salvador Carola, the same guy who subbed for Gabe when he was in Salt Lake City. Sal used to run a small restaurant in Walapai Flats. He’s okay, but nowhere near Gabe’s level. Gabe’s cooking is special. He once told me his wife taught him, and that she’d been the best cook in Walapai County.”
Boone’s room was Spartan, fitted with a narrow bed, a night table, a rocking chair, and chest of drawers. A small VCR player rested on top of the chest, surrounded by stacks of old VHS tapes, each one a John Wayne film. The only other personal effects were the fading picture of a young woman—a pretty blonde, photographed holding a pale-eyed puppy—and an old publicity shot of the actor on the wall over the bed.
“Nice picture,” I said politely. “The inscription’s nice, too. ‘To my good friend, Gabe Boone. Ride ’em, cowboy! An admiring John Wayne.
’
Impressive. They actually met?”
“Gabe was one of the wranglers on the set of
The Conqueror
. I tried watching it once, and it was awful. I mean, John Wayne as Genghis Khan? Give me a break.”
“Never saw it.”
Men have been known to retract their confessions. If word of Olmstead’s argument with Tosches leaked out and Olmstead fell under suspicion, knowing how many firearms Gabe Boone owned and where he kept them would be more important than movie trivia. And I’d seldom seen a rural Arizonan who didn’t have his personal arsenal.
“Leilani, as long as we’re already in here, would you mind if I poked around a bit?”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt. But don’t mess up his things.”
Given how few items were in the room, I saw little chance of that. A brief look in the small closet revealed that the cook held the same Spartan attitude toward clothing as he did in decor. His entire wardrobe consisted of one thick jacket, two pairs of jeans, three shirts, an old apron with a faded strawberry print, and a pair of boots ancient enough to have been worn by John Wayne himself. Only one drawer in the chest was in use, and it contained several pairs of bleached-thin boxer shorts and mismatched socks. I saw no photo albums, no letters. Leilani had mentioned that Gabe was getting on in years, which made the lack of personal items unusual. Most elderly people were weighed down with mementos, some almost to the hoarding stage. Nearing the end of their days, they wanted reminders of how much they had lived.
I squatted to look under the bed. Nothing there, not even John Wayne’s ghost. “Not much on keepsakes, was he?”
“The only things Gabe owned were what you see here, plus his dog and pickup truck.”
“Where’s it parked?” I’d found no firearms in the room, no ammo, and no gun cleaning supplies, so it was possible he kept his armaments in his truck. In deference to the cops, I wouldn’t touch, but I wanted to see.
“His truck’s in back of the bunkhouse, where the wranglers keep their vehicles. You can’t miss it. Sixty-seven Ford. It’s red, or used to be. Probably hasn’t been painted since it rolled off the assembly line.”
“Does Boone have family nearby?”
“As far as I know, only that grandniece up in Salt Lake, the one who died of breast cancer. He and his wife never had any kids.”
Supposedly, the cook had shot Donohue last Thursday night, left for the funeral the next morning, and didn’t return until late last night. That was a full seven days, a long time to take off work.
When I pointed that out, Leilani said, “Traveling’s rough on Gabe. He’s eighty if he’s a day. He drives into town, and sometimes around in the desert, but mainly he stays here on the ranch with his dog. That trip to Salt Lake, him driving that far—I’ve never seen him do it before. But he was really fond of his grandniece, talked about her almost as if she was his daughter. Maybe it’s because he didn’t have any kids of his own.” Her eyes grew teary again. “I hope they’re treating him right at the jail. I’m going to organize my schedule so I can visit him every day until I go back to school.”
“That would be nice,” I said. Even killers deserved visitors. I didn’t relish the idea of an octogenarian in prison, but I knew all too well that anyone who’s killed could kill again. Once you broke that ultimate barrier…“Leilani, do you know of any motive Boone would have for killing Donohue?”
“No, but whatever it was would have to be a pretty big reason, don’t you think?”
“Not necessarily. In Phoenix awhile back, a ninety-three-year-old man living at a nursing home bashed in his roommate’s head because he thought the guy’s serving of apple sauce was bigger than his.”
She looked appalled. “Not Gabe! He never argued with anyone. Just the opposite. He didn’t talk much, so it was kind of hard to tell what he was thinking. After all these years I’m still not sure how he felt about working here because…” She shrugged. “Never mind. I guess it doesn’t matter if he confessed.”
Barring something unforeseen, the Donohue case was a closed book. The Tosches case, however, that was a different story. I’d stay in town until I was certain Olmstead was in the clear, but then I’d shake the Walapai Flats dust off my Reeboks and head home. I’d grown to dislike this town. Too many people with too many secrets, a town where even the cops and cooks were criminals. I was about to thank Leilani for her kindness in showing me around when a squawk of hip-hop seeped from the pocket in her denim skirt. Ludacris rapped “My Chick Bad” while she fished out her cell phone. Olmstead allowed his daughter to listen to that stuff? Maybe he was more broad-minded than I thought. Ludacris shut up when Leilani answered the phone.
As she listened to the person on the other end, the young girl disappeared, leaving in her place a competent businesswoman who wasn’t afraid to make decisions. “Okay,” she said briskly. “Certainly. We’d better get it over with, then, hadn’t we? Send them to the office. I’m on my way there as we speak.” After ending the call and tucking the phone into her pocket, she gave me a brisk smile. “That was our head wrangler telling me the police are here. They want to interview the entire staff about Mr. Tosches. They want to interview the guests, too. Looks like it’s my turn to pour oil over troubled waters, so if you don’t mind…”
In other words, we were done talking. I asked if it would be all right if I walked over to the house where the Olmstead family lived, since there was a possibility one of the aunts had seen something.
Still the firm young businesswoman, she shook her head. “That’s impossible, I’m afraid. The Down syndrome kids—well, they’re not really kids as far as their ages are concerned—they’re not comfortable around strangers, so I’m going to keep the police away from them.” She smiled. “You, too. Sorry.””
I told her I understood and made my escape before she turned into her father.
The parking area for the wranglers’ vehicles was large and some of the newer pickups had horse trailers attached to their bumpers. A gust of wind bearing the scent of horse manure blew over from the Virgin River as I wove my way through the Chevys, Nissans, and Toyotas to reach Boone’s desiccated Ford. How the pickup had held together for a round trip to Salt Lake was a mystery, but its poor condition could explain why the cook had been gone for so long. Odds were, the truck had broken down, making him wait until the proper parts were shipped in. Looking the vehicle over, I noted that unlike most of the other vehicles in the lot, it didn’t have a gun rack. When I peered through the driver’s side window I saw no firearms on the floor, although a handgun could have been shoved under the seat or stowed in the glove compartment.
As I stood there thinking, another gust of wind, stronger this time, blew the sound of laughter to me. I looked toward the lodge, then at the rise that hid the Olmstead residence from view. The few wranglers gathered around the corral were too engrossed in what they were doing to notice me. Ignoring Leilani’s wishes, I walked up the rise.
When I reached the top I saw below me a ranch house surrounded by tall cottonwoods. Only the middle section appeared original. It was no more than thirty feet long and built of desert-colored adobe brick. Shaded by a veranda, it looked like one of those starter homes advertised in the real estate sections of the newspaper. To accommodate the Olmsteads’ large brood, a newer wing had been added on each side, resulting in a not-unattractive U-shape. But the house, while pleasant enough, wasn’t the property’s main feature. The yard was.
In the Arizona badlands where properties are listed by the acreage, yards are seldom fenced. This one, which looked to be well over an acre in size, was completely enclosed by a chain link fence. It must have cost a small fortune, but I could see why the expense had been necessary. The Virgin River swept by less than five hundred yards away, and few Down syndrome people can swim.
I counted five of them playing on the most elaborate playground equipment I’d ever seen outside of a city park. Among the various toys were a swing set, two slides, some monkey bars, a foot-driven carousel, a couple of plastic wading pools, and a sandbox big enough to bury a horse in. Supervising the laughing brood were two jolly-looking women wearing jeans and tee shirts. Their faces bore a strong resemblance to Hank Olmstead’s. The aunts.
As I watched, one of them jumped up and ran with arms outstretched to a young woman with an elfin face. Within seconds, everyone else joined her and began to sing and dance.
“Ring-around the rosie…”
The words of the centuries-old nursery rhyme floated to me on the river breeze. Regardless of their off-key rendition, the song lifted my heart.
Not only had Jeanette and Hank Olmstead adopted children who were too frequently passed over for adoption, they had created a veritable paradise for them. When Jeanette died, Olmstead took care their paradise didn’t die with her.
As I returned to the Trailblazer, I decided it was time to reevaluate my opinion of Hank Olmstead.
Gabe had stayed in worse jails than the one in Walapai Flats. There’d been the jail over in Nevada, a building so old he could have kicked down his cell wall and walked away. He hadn’t, though, because what difference would that make? In jail or out, he was still stuck in the same place.
Grieving for his Abby.
In his mind, she’d died only yesterday, snuggled up against him, her breath slowing, slowing, slowing, until it stopped altogether. He’d known then that his life was just as finished, even thought about going back to the ranch, picking up his rifle and sticking it in his mouth. Then he got to thinking about what John Wayne would say about that.
“A man who can’t face livin’ with hard times don’t deserve to call himself a man,” probably.
The Duke would have been right, too. Grief was something a man had to bear, no different than bearing what you were or weren’t born with, just like them folks living on his and Abby’s old ranch. They used to be called Mongoloids, but today the name for their condition was Down syndrome. Whatever they was called, he liked them. Hurt brains, big hearts. Funny how that worked. Sometimes the more hurt you were, the easier it was to be nice.
Looking back over all those years after Abby’s death, Gabe knew he’d been the exception, because hurt as he was, he’d not been nice. Hell, he’d been downright mean there for a while, knocking over this man and that in whatever bar he happened to be drinking. Treatin’ people like they was dirt. Except for women, of course, especially women who reminded him of his own sweet girl. Didn’t ever do to treat a woman mean, no matter how drunk or hurt you were.
Then one day the meanness vanished. After almost twenty years of wrangling for other folks and being a guest of jails in Black Mesa, Sparks, Henderson, Hurricane, Tuba City, and God knows whereall, he and Blue Six had looped back to Walapai Flats for a visit with Abby. She lay sleeping beneath a coverlet of purple owl clover, serenaded by sparrows. Birds had always sung their sweetest around her.
That magic day he’d sat cross-legged at the foot of her grave for a couple of hours, telling her how much he missed her, saying that nothing seemed worth doing anymore without her around. He left out the part about Vegas and what he’d done there, left out the drinks and the fights and the jails because he didn’t want to disappoint her, didn’t want her to know how much he’d let his sweet girl down. Maybe she knew anyways. Some folks believed the dead looked down from Heaven, if there was such a place, and watched over those they left behind. The Heaven idea he liked, but not so much the watching business. It wouldn’t a done for Abby to see the nasty drunk he’d become. Even most ranchers, and a tough crowd they tended to be, were scared to hire him.
After telling Abby for the ten-thousandth time how much he loved her and always would, he’d stood up to go back to his truck and the ever-patient Blue, but right then the Duke showed up for the very first time. The big man was ambling toward him up the graveyard path, wearing that red double-breasted shirt of his, trail-dirty jeans, and a hat that had seen an awful lot of bad weather.
