Desert Wind (36 page)

“Sounds like an expensive trip.”

He looked to his left again and muttered something I couldn’t hear, but I could guess who he was talking to. Or thought he was. “Gabe, is John Wayne in this room?”

“Sure is, and he’s hanging onto every word you say. To answer your question, yeah, my trip cost a bit, but I had me money put aside. I don’t go out drinking any more, and Mr. Olmstead pays me a good salary, plus throws in room and board, so the only thing left to spend some money on is Blue. Unlike a lot of people I know around here, Blue’s hale and hearty, thank the stars. I used to own his great-great—forget how many greats-grandpappy.” His eyes unfocused for a moment, as if remembering. “That first Blue, he died way too young. Got sick. Real sick.”

To keep him on track, I said, “Must be hard losing a pet. Still, motel rooms and meals must have cost you quite a bit during your trip. Didn’t you have any relatives you could stay with up in Salt Lake?”

He stopped looking to his left and met my eyes. “My grandniece, she was the last of my family. She was born here in town, moved to Salt Lake when she married. She had better luck than her mother and sister did, made it all the way to fifty-one.”

“They must have died young. What’d your grandniece die of?” I was edging closer to Heber now.

“Breast cancer.”

“Is that what took her mother and sister, too?”

A nod. “Why do you want to know?”

“Does the name Gerald Heber mean anything to you?”

The breath went out of him in such a rush I was surprised it didn’t knock me down.

“Come again, Lena? My hearing’s not so good these days.”

There was nothing wrong with Gabe’s hearing; he just wanted time to formulate his answer. I played along by raising my voice. “Are you familiar with the name Gerald Heber?”

“Why are you asking about Heber?”

“Tell me what you know about him.”

Continuing to ignore the imaginary presence on his left, he lowered his head and seemed to be studying something under the table. I looked down and saw nothing, only that the table was bolted to the floor. So was his chair. While it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for men in lockup to start tossing furniture around, such measures seemed incongruous for a shackled man in his eighties. Then again, what did I really know about him? During my last visit I hadn’t believed his murder confession, but after attending the Downwinder’s meeting, I wasn’t so certain. And he was crazy, no doubt about that.

“Could you please answer my question, Gabe? I’m here to help you.”

When he looked at me again, he was a changed man. His eyes narrowed and his lips pulled tight against his teeth. “Heber? All you need to know about Gerald Heber is that the liar is dead and burning in hell, but it didn’t happen soon enough for me or my wife and my mother-in-law and my best friend and my grandniece and her mother and sister and all them other folks who died in Walapai County. Not to mention the animals. Now I’m through talking, Miss Jones.”

“But Gabe, how can I help you if…?”

He didn’t move or say another word until I signaled the nervy-looking detention officer to lead him and his imaginary friend back to his cell. Gabe delivered a polite goodbye, but he had trouble doing even that.

Gabe Boone had hated Gerald Heber enough to kill him, so now I had more work for Jimmy. When, exactly, did Heber die? And where? My own rough Internet search had found no obit for the man, or any other mention of him after he left Cook & Creighton Tobacco. Had he remained in North Carolina, or did he relocate to the Southwest, like so many retired people were doing in the Seventies? I was so deep in thought I forgot about the deputy at the front desk, but he waved me over as I came back into the lobby. From the open pages on his desk, I saw that he was still hung up on
Urban Living
.

“Does what you wanted to see me about have anything to do with those sirens that work me up this morning?” I asked. “More squabbling over the Black Basin Mine?”

Before he could answer, a detention officer carrying a big box of doughnuts entered the lobby. After handing a glazed to my guy, he continued on toward the sheriff’s side of the complex. Until he was out of sight, the deputy fanned the pages of his magazine, finally landing on a color spread that featured a Manhattan penthouse, all steel and chrome.

“What do you think of this?” he asked.

“It’s okay if you like that sort of thing. Me, I’m not into the industrial look. Who wants to come home from work to an apartment that looks like a factory?”

“People who never had to work in one, probably.” He flipped the pages again. “So sirens roused you from your beauty sleep? I’ll tell the boys to mute them from now on whenever they pass the Covered Wagons.”

“That’s neighborly of you.”

“We here in Walapai Flats pride ourselves on being neighborly.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“It’s not necessarily because we feel warm and fuzzy all the time, but we have to take good care of our tourists or they won’t come back with all their lovely money.”

“I’ve noticed that, too.”

He placed the doughnut carefully in his desk drawer. “As I was saying, Walapai Flats depends on the tourist trade, which is why what happened this morning is such a damned shame. The roadblock on Route 47’s got everyone up in arms. People at the resort, they’re all pissed off, so we’re working on a detour through the desert. The people with four-wheel-drives, they’ll be okay, but I don’t know about the rest. That’s some rugged country out there.”

“Another bad accident?’

“In a manner of speaking. Seems…” He broke off when two much younger deputies walked by, their faces ashen. My guy waited until they disappeared down the corridor toward the sheriff’s office, then he motioned me to lean in closer.

“What?” I whispered.

He looked down at
Urban Living
again. Almost without moving his lips, he muttered, “Don’t tell anyone you heard it from me, but Deputy Stark got shot. He’s laying out there dead in his cruiser, a bullet through his forehead. It happened some time last night, about a mile from the Lakes.”

I felt more satisfaction than I should have. Regardless of his off-hours behavior, Stark was a law officer who’d presumably died in the line of duty. “Has there been an arrest?”

The deputy shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard. He wasn’t the world’s most popular guy.”

I flashed back to Connie Stark’s battered face and the frustration I’d noticed on Sheriff Alcott’s. Monty’s, too. “Why are you telling me all this?”

He closed his copy of
Urban Living
, then tossed it into the waste basket. “Because you tried to help Connie. She’s my granddaughter.”

***

As Blue, tail a-wag as usual, escorted me to the lodge, I saw Dusty helping ranch guests mount up on some bored-looking horses. Keeping my face averted, I was able to make it inside without being spotted. Luck stayed with me as I crossed the deserted reception area, I saw Hank Olmstead walking toward me, Ted in tow. Ted smiled broadly, but the look on Olmstead’s face was less welcoming. He frowned when I requested a few moments alone.

“We’re busy, Miss Jones. Can’t you come back later?”

“If you want to help Gabriel Boone, you’ll answer a few questions.”

Ted clapped Olmstead on the shoulder. “That’s okay, Dad. Dusty and I can handle things.” Without waiting for an answer, he flashed me a big smile and left.

Still frowning, Olmstead turned on his heel and headed toward the office. Without being invited, I followed.

“How crazy is Gabe Boone?” I asked, as soon as we were seated. “Crazy enough for an insanity defense?”

“Mr. Boone is not mentally ill.”

“He talks to a dead man.”

“I talk to God. Does that make me crazy?”

On that one, I kept my opinion to myself. “Gabe says something, John Wayne answers. John Wayne says something, Gabe answers. A regular tête-à-tête. Is he on medication?”

Olmstead sat back in his big leather chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Gabriel Boone is as sane as you or me.”

As far as I was concerned, that cast doubt on us both. “He says he owes you a debt, Mr. Olmstead. Mind telling me what it is? It could be important to his defense.”

For a moment I thought he’d retreat into his usual stodgy non-answers, but he didn’t. “Mr. Boone endured some rough years after his wife died,” he said. “Did you know that the land Sunset Trails sits on used to belong to him, and that our house out back is where he and his wife once lived? This was a cattle spread then, not a particularly successful one, but it did well enough to pay the bills and put a little aside until Abby Boone fell ill.”

“Cancer, by any chance?”

His face became mulish. “The exact nature of her illness isn’t relevant.”

“Actually, it is. I know Abby Boone fell ‘ill’ after the government started testing their nukes in Nevada. And at Silver Ridge last night, I…”

“What were you doing in Silver Ridge?” he interrupted.

“Attending the Downwinders meeting with Olivia Eames. Gabe’s sister-in-law was there, along with several people from Walapai Flats.”

“Don’t tell me you’re hanging out with that reporter!”

“Well, yes.”

“Stay away from her. She’s does nothing but stir up trouble.”

I don’t like people telling me what or what not to do but I kept my tone civil, something I felt increasingly difficult to do around this man. “You know Olivia?”

“Well enough to know that she’s determined to rake up a subject more wisely left alone.”

“Like radioactive ranchland?”

I thought his eyes would pop out of his head in fury, but he grasped the edges of his desk and took a deep breath. “You see? People hear those old stories and jump to conclusions. But let me assure you that the land in and around Walapai Flats is perfectly safe and has been for years, or I would never have moved my family down here from Salt Lake City.”

Hank Olmstead may have been arrogant and stiff-necked, but I believed him, because there was no doubt that he treasured his family above all else. “I hope you didn’t rely on the Atomic Energy Commission’s claim that the land was clean.”

Like so many men of his age and religious beliefs, he didn’t like his pronouncements argued with, and although he’d let go of the desk, his voice still crackled with anger when he replied, “I am not stupid, Miss Jones. After what transpired at Nevada Test Site, no one around here believed a word those folks said. In fact, the AEC’s propensity for telling lies is one of the reasons it was eventually disbanded. To make certain the land was safe, I did exactly what every sensible rancher and homeowner in the quad-state area was doing and bought myself a Geiger counter and tested every square foot of this entire property before entering escrow. This county, along with the rest of Arizona, Nevada, Utah, and Colorado, is now perfectly safe, so I and the other members of the Walapai Flats Chamber of Commerce would appreciate it if you don’t go around blabbing about the problems the area used to have.”

“Because it would be bad for business?”

He grabbed onto the desk again. “Miss Jones, the economy in this part of the state is based on tourism. There is nothing to be gained by alarming people unnecessarily.”

“Speaking of rocks that glow in the dark, how safe do you think the Black Basin Mine will be? Would you feel comfortable having one of your children work there?”

He looked relieved to have the conversation shift away from the bomb tests. “I have faith in Cole Laveen’s leadership. Roger Tosches was all about the money, but Mr. Laveen remembers the human connection.”

In a way, Olmstead had just described himself. A formal, forbidding man, but one with a heart. If he was right about Cole Laveen, workers at the Black Basin would fare better than had the Navajos at Moccasin Peak.

“About Tosches, someone told me…” I stopped, my attention caught by the sound of boots clomping down the hallway toward the office.
Oh, please. Not Dusty. Not now.

The door opened to reveal a pudgy man wearing beat-up Western wear covered by a white apron. “Everything’s clean and put away, Hank. After I take a break, I’ll put together the lunch buffet, then work on dinner. Hope your guests like lasagna.”

“I’m certain they’ll like yours, Mr. Carola. And thank you so much for helping us out like this. You’ve been a Godsend.”

“Always glad to do it for you, Hank. You’ve been mighty generous to me and mine.” He closed the door and clomped away.

“Our substitute cook,” Olmstead explained, unnecessarily. “Until Gabe comes back.”

Dream on, I thought. That old man belonged some place where he couldn’t hurt himself or others, but trying to convince Olmstead was a lost cause. “I’m glad you brought up Tosches,” I said. “Word is, he’d been trying to buy Sunset Trails and you two had a heated argument over it.”

He didn’t bother with a denial. “That ‘someone’ being Leilani, no doubt. I wish my daughter hadn’t been so free with private family information, but at twenty-two, she’s still naive enough to trust everyone, including reporters and private investigators. Since she’s already let the cat out of the bag, yes, Mr. Tosches was trying to buy Sunset Trails, and I’m sure she told you why he thought he could. Our financial difficulties, correct?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “Because of the economy, things were tight for a while, but we survived. During Mr. Tosches’ last visit I thanked him for his offer but requested that he discontinue stopping by, that we here at the ranch needed to concentrate on our guests, not business discussions with him. Perhaps if he’d taken my advice he would still be alive.”