Desert Wives (9781615952267) (5 page)

He nodded. “Then take Dusty. That place is too dangerous for a woman alone.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please, not you, too. Besides, I haven't been able to reach Dusty for days. That's why I'll need a special favor from you. You used to live in Utah and you still have contacts up there.”

“Yeah, my parents, for instance.” You don't often get a chance to hear a Pima turn sarcastic on you, but when they do, it can be cutting.

“Then help me find a place to stay near the compound, someplace even closer than the motel. But not Paiute Canyon. I have no way of knowing how much time it'll take me to figure out this mess, and I'll need access to a phone and other modern conveniences. Hell, if you can somehow get me into the compound, that would be ideal.”

He scowled, another Pima rarity.

“Jimmy? If you won't help me, do it for Rebecca. And Esther.”

He picked up the phone.

Chapter 5

Jimmy worked his magic again, and two days later I was on my way back to the Arizona Strip.

The drive up I-17 toward Flagstaff was pleasant, watching the low Sonoran Desert evolve slowly to high chaparral, then miles and miles of sweet-scented Ponderosa pine. But once I turned out of Flagstaff on Route 89 to circumvent the Grand Canyon, the terrain morphed back into high desert. By the time I'd looped around the canyon, took 89A over the mountains, then dropped back down to the Kaibab Indian Reservation, the scenery looked as bleak as the Sonoran on a very bad day.

Then the scenery flipped on me again when I cut north on 389 into Utah and headed up toward Zion National Park and West Wind Guest Ranch. As the Jeep bumped along the long dirt road leading to the ranch, I remembered what I'd read about the area.

Rivaling the nearby Grand Canyon in beauty, Zion National Park had originally been home to the Anasazi Indians. When the Anasazi disappeared, the Paiute moved in, and many remained. Anglo settlement began in the 1850s, when the Mormon pioneer Isaac Behunin saw the area and named it “Zion,” which meant “beautiful resting place.” Old Isaac hadn't been given to hyperbole, either.

Sheer cliffs towered more than three thousand feet above the forested plateau below, where the Virgin River wound its way through red and white sandstone. Lush Ponderosa pine, sycamore, piñon and cottonwood covered the valley, complemented by scarlet plumes of Indian paintbrush and blue columbine.

Although the tourists who flocked to Zion kept West Wind Ranch in business, Jimmy had told me that the ranch, owned by Leo and Virginia Lawler, acquaintances of his adoptive mother, also served as a safe house for polygamists' runaway wives. The women would arrive exhausted from their escape, rest up for a few days, then Virginia would drive them to Zion City, where groups such as Tapestry Against Polygamy helped ease them into mainstream society by finding them apartments and jobs.

After the road took a final dogleg around a massive column of red sandstone, West Wind Guest Ranch came into view. Built entirely of logs, the multi-building complex appeared to have been part of the canyon for more than a hundred years. Jimmy's mother had told me, though, that only the ranch house was an original structure, and even it had undergone extensive renovation. The outbuildings, all new, had been designed to look as old as the house. In the manner of all dude ranches, a few well-fed horses milled around a split-rail corral, their grumpy expressions hinting they didn't much like their prospective riders.

Tourists limped across the grounds, looking spiffy in their new, pressed jeans and expensive cowboy boots. Driving into the yard, I heard a smattering of German, some Japanese. Just like Scottsdale.

I eased the Jeep into the gravel parking lot, weaving through a plethora of BMWs, Mercedes and Lexuses. It takes real money to vacation rough.

A woman dressed in Levis and plaid Western shirt waited for me on the ranch house porch. About forty-five years old, she was a big-boned, comfortable brunette, but as I grew closer I saw that her green eyes belied her sturdy physique. They were shadowed with sorrow.

She glanced at the scar on my face, then said, “Howdy, Lena. I'm Virginia, and I don't let guests tote their own luggage.” Before I could protest, she grabbed my suitcase, but when she reached for the carry-all which secreted my Arizona-only licensed .38, I stepped quickly out of her reach.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, smiling.

She grinned back, dimming the pain in her eyes. “An independent woman. Good. You're gonna need to be.”

The ranch house's interior lived up to the exterior's rustic promise. The walls on either side of the ancient stone fireplace were tapestried with knotty pine and antlers. Bright Navajo rugs lay scattered across the oak plank floor, softening the distance between a series of low, leather couches. Overhead, black beams girded a whitewashed ceiling. The room was empty of tourists.

“A gaggle of guests are out trail riding with Leo,” Virginia explained, leading me up the stairs and down a softly lit corridor. “They'll start drifting in soon with sore butts, whining for martinis.”

She gestured toward the wet bar, her sour expression reminding me that Mormons were non-drinkers. But as many Mormon hoteliers had done during the Salt Lake Olympics, the Lawlers apparently indulged their gin-guzzling guests.

“You want something?” she asked. “Beer? Whiskey? Any other kinda strange brew?”

When I told her I didn't drink, I earned a smile of approval. I didn't tell her, though, that my teetotaling ways had nothing to do with religion or dietary philosophy. Not knowing what kind of genetic load I carried, I never drank anything stronger than Diet Coke. For all I knew, both my vanished parents had been druggies or alcoholics, and I didn't want to risk traveling the Addict Highway. I'd already lived through Hell and didn't feel the need for a return visit.

“I'm gonna put your stuff in Number Eight, but don't bother unpacking,” she said, stopping before a door at the very end of the hall. “You might not stay all that long.”

I frowned. Jimmy's mother had given me the impression I'd be operating out of West Wind for the next couple of weeks, using it as my home base while I interviewed anyone who would talk to me. Had something changed?

“Uh, Virginia, I'd planned…”

“Man proposes and God disposes,” she said vaguely, putting my suitcase down and unlocking the door to Number Eight. When she pushed it open, the afternoon sun streamed in through the window, revealing a pine dresser, armoire, and a bed with a Navajo-print spread. The Bible and the Book of Mormon rested on the night stand next to the phone. Photographs of at least a dozen young women, all wearing old-fashioned clothing, adorned the walls.

“It's very nice,” I said, studying the photographs.

She put my suitcase down on the bed, then answered my unspoken question. “Those are girls we helped after they ran off from Purity.”

“How often has that happened?”

She gave the photographs a cursory look. “Not as often as we'd like. Problem is, Purity's a long way away from everything, even West Wind. A woman's got to walk, what, twenty-something miles down that old dirt road before she makes it to the highway. But some gals have done it. Nobody carrying babies ever has, though.”

I looked at her, puzzled. “Why don't they just call you to pick them up? Surely even Purity has phones.”

She sat down on the bed with a thump, making the springs squeak. “Sorry, but my feet are killing me. Tourists expect us all to wear these Western boots, but I never even rode a horse, so it's kinda silly. Phones. Yeah, Purity's got phones. And electricity, indoor plumbing, and satellite TV, too. But the men keep all that stuff locked up. Every now and then they'll let the women call family in other compounds, but they always listen in to make sure they're not up to funny business.”

Funny business such as what? Talking to divorce attorneys? I felt my blood pressure spike, so I crossed the room and stared out the open window, breathing in the sharp tang of juniper. The call of a canyon wren fluted over a bilingual conversation below then died away as more voices emerged from the stable area. The trail riders had returned.

Over my shoulder, I asked, “If they're so cut off, how do the women find out about this place?”

“Fliers.” A deep male voice.

I turned around to see a lanky man of about sixty standing in the doorway. With his straight black hair and weathered face he could almost have passed for a Native American, but his blue eyes revealed Anglo ancestry. The scent wafting off his faded jeans and brown, snap-front shirt was pure Eau de Horse.

He walked toward me, spurs jingling. “I'm Leo, Virginia's husband.” He held out his hand.

His callused hand enclosed mine gently. “Fliers? How would women back in Purity get their hands on any fliers?”

He let my hand go and grinned, revealing teeth so white they almost looked false, a feature not uncommon among Mormons since they didn't indulge in such teeth-staining substances as coffee, tea or cigarettes. “I leave fliers all over the Zion City grocery stores and other shops. Down by the welfare office, too. The women pick them up when they're driven into town, but they have to grab them pretty fast before their husbands catch on.”

I leaned against the window sill. “Considering how controlled the women are, why are they allowed to go to town in the first place? Surely not to shop. I thought the polygamists were self-sufficient.”

Leo chuckled. “You weren't raised in the country, were you?”

“Mainly Phoenix and Scottsdale.”

“Ah, a big city gal!” He flashed those white teeth at me again. “Well, Lena, not even self-sufficient country folk make their own flour, sugar, and baking soda. But the women have to go into town for more than groceries. Tell you what. You've had a long drive and maybe you'd like to freshen up some. Then why don't you come down to the office and we'll have a nice long talk about lots of things. Forewarned is forearmed, right? Right now I have to go back downstairs and play bartender. I've got me some pretty sore Germans down there.”

With a groan Virginia heaved herself off the bed, explaining that she also needed to get back to work. “Consuelo, that's our maid, she's feelin' sick, so I'm pretty much on my own. I need to finish up some cleaning and after that, I gotta help Leo with the bookkeeping. At least the cook's okay. Don't know what I'd do if Juan turned up sick. I'm not much of a cook, myself. Maybe I'd just draft a stable hand, though I bet the guests would get awful tired of franks and beans.”

She started to leave, then turned around. “Remember, now, don't you unpack. Leo and I, we've got something in the works.” Then she left.

Something in the works?
Virginia's final words worried me. Both the Lawlers seemed nice enough, but their devotion to anti-polygamy activities could pose a problem. If they thought I was up here to become their foot soldier, I'd have to set them straight. I'd already noticed how emotional I became when thinking about Purity. Captain Kryzinski had once warned me that an emotional detective was a sloppy detective, so I needed to remain cool. After all, my purpose here was to find out who killed Prophet Solomon, not obsess about the fate of women I didn't even know.

To keep my mind off the women's troubles, I took my pistol out of the carry-all and checked the closet and the space under the bed. Then I relaxed with a leisurely shower. By the time I changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt, I felt ready to get to work. Leaving my carry-all and gun in the room, I wandered downstairs in search of the office. A few tourists still lingered in the living room sipping drinks and singing little snatches of “Home, Home on the Range” in deeply accented English. A Frenchman, his dark eyes dancing, offered to share his Pernod but when I told him I had business in the office, wherever that was, he pointed helpfully down the hall.

“The office, it is just to the left of the dining room. And then, when you are finished in there, perhaps you would care to join me on that secluded little patio in the back? It is so very pleasant with the afternoon breeze, much more private than in here. My wife, she is hiking in the Zion Park, and will not be back until the evening.”

The Frenchman was cute, but not that cute, so I headed down the hall.

I found the Lawlers seated at a no-frills steel desk, frowning at a computer. While the thing beeped and whirred at them and they muttered back, Leo motioned me to a chair. I looked around in amusement. With its modern office equipment, including a copier and a fax machine, and almost total lack of Western paraphernalia, the office could have belonged to an insurance company.

“I hate that uppity thing,” Virginia growled over her husband's shoulder as he shut down the computer. “We just paid all the bills and now it's tellin' us we're broke!”

Leo managed a wry smile. “You being in business yourself, Lena, I'll bet you know all about that.”

It would be cruel to tell the couple about Albert Grabel's largess, so I just smiled. “Self-employment can be tough, that's for sure. Now, what did you want to talk to me about? Do you have some information about the murder of Solomon Royal?” Hopefully, this pointed question would steer the Lawlers away from the recruitment speech I feared they'd rehearsed. I had no intention of driving to Zion City and handing out anti-polygamy leaflets.

“We've got some ideas about that, but first we want to give you some background on the way things are run at Purity,” Leo said, as the couple moved from the desk to the frayed sofa across from me.

I suppressed a sigh of impatience and settled myself more comfortably into the chair.

“The legal situation is a little convoluted, but here's the short version,” Leo continued. “The polygamists circumvent bigamy laws by divorcing one wife before they marry another. Of course, the relationship with all the other so-called ex-wives remains exactly the same. The guy sleeps with every one of them, but that's not all. Most of the husbands keep a record of each woman's menstrual cycle so that they can ‘catch' her at her most fertile. Making babies is the name of the game, Lena.”

I didn't get it. “You mean they're purposely impregnating all those women? But
why?
”

Leo gave me a wry smile. “Two reasons. One, the official reason, is religious. The polygamists believe that the more children a man has, the higher level of Heaven he'll be sent to when he dies and the more servants he'll have to wait on him.”

He made a face, then continued. “But that's not the real reason, which is that the more babies the women pop out, the more money the compound gets. See, the women are divorced, and that makes them single mothers. In this state, single mothers collect hefty welfare. The more children, the more welfare they collect, so when you figure that there's about three or four hundred single women out there, each of them having an average of a baby a year…” He let his voice trail off.