by Betty Webb
At the mention of Jimmy, Chelsea’s face lost its own smile. “Boyfriend? Love is a trap. It makes you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do.”
Such as give up drugs, like Harold insisted? I didn’t express the thought, because to a certain extent, she was right. Too many women had fallen into the drug life because of a man. But it could work the other way, and men could be fools for love, too.
Gabrielle flashed Chelsea a sympathetic look, then steered the conversation to a happier subject: food.
She and Chelsea were discussing which was the ideal flaming dessert—Cherries Jubilee or Bananas Foster—when I noticed a stir at the other end of the big room. A tall, blond man in his late forties had entered, flanked by two other men wearing headbands so loaded with muli-colored beads they looked top heavy. The blond man wore none; his handsome looks and the stunning Navajo blanket he was wrapped in lent him all the majesty he needed, although he was gaunt to the point of frailty.
The people around us stood up and burst into applause, followed by the chant, “Adam! Adam! Adam!”
Not being one for fawning over authority figures, I remained seated.
Adam raised one arm, the hand palm-up in a receiving gesture. For a moment, his piercing blue eyes met mine. Widened. Then he returned his attention to his flock.
“Dear friends, your good wishes sustain me.” His mellifluous voice had no trouble making it all the way to our table at the opposite end of the room. Obviously a practiced orator, he had a slight French accent. “May they continue to do so.”
With that, he gave a little bow, then left, still flanked by his top-heavy companions.
“Adam! Adam! Adam!”
The chant kept up long enough to become annoying. So much for Chelsea’s comment about love being a trap; if she wasn’t in love with the blond man, my name wasn’t Lena Jones. As she continued to chant—along with Gabrielle, who I’d earlier believed had more business sense than to be caught up in idol worship—I began to worry. Had Chelsea given up one addiction for another?
It was only when I was driving up the gravel road to Jimmy’s Airstream that I realized something. I’d met Adam Arneault before.
I just couldn’t remember where.
Or when.
Chapter Eighteen
I was alone in the desert, walking toward a whirlwind. Overhead, buzzards circled, and I wondered if they were waiting for me.
“You won’t get me yet,” I told them, as I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. “I’m not ready to die.”
One step.
Two.
Three.
The whirlwind grew closer, towering from the ground all the way to the sky. The suction from its maw was so strong that even the tallest saguaros leaned toward it, as if eager to join its dance across the desert. But I wasn’t. No matter what I had to do, I would not let that whirlwind take me, would close my ears to its siren song.
Instead of growling or hissing, as whirlwinds are wont to do, this one was singing a high, sharp dirge.
Words?
Forgetting my determination not to listen, I cocked my head. Walked closer. Felt its pull. Leaned toward it like the saguaros.
“I’m lost,” the whirlwind sang, its voice the sweet soprano of songbirds.
“How can you be lost?” I called back. “This is your home.”
“So lost.”
As I neared it, the whirlwind shrank and solidified from its former funnel shape to something vaguely woman-like. Whatever—whoever—it was, she wore a blue dress.
“Help me,” she sang, reaching out a writhing hand.
“Here!” I held out my own. Took hers. Recognized her.
Reservation Woman.
Now we were both lost.
I didn’t stop screaming until Jimmy reached over and took me in his arms.
“Shhh, sweetheart. It was just a dream.”
But I knew it wasn’t.
Chapter Nineteen
Unable able to get Reservation Woman’s face out of my head, the next morning I called Pete Ventarro at the Medical Examiner’s office.
“Did you ever get an ID on that Caucasian woman I found on the Pima Rez?”
“Nope, she’s still tagged as an Unknown.” He sounded out of breath. “And I can’t talk right now.”
Ignoring him, I said, “I’m thinking I might have a lead on who she is. Could you—”
“Stop right there, Lena. I take it you haven’t been watching the news this morning.”
“I’ve been busy. Why?”
“Fire on an overturned bus on I-10. I’m sitting here with twenty-something crispy critters needing IDs, so I can’t do a damned thing for you.” Pete hung up, leaving me staring at the receiver and thinking how easily life can be snuffed out.
No matter how carefully you live your life, you’re still going to die. Sometimes sooner, sometimes later. You can obey all the rules, mind your own business, stop at each stop sign, exercise regularly, and eat a balanced diet—but the Grim Reaper will find you wherever you are, even while sitting in a bus seat. Taking a deep breath, I went back to the business at hand—Googling the possible names Sunflower had given me for Ford Laumenthal’s wife.
An hour later I’d worked my way through Eileen Laumenthal, Arlene Laumenthal, Alene Laumenthal, and was working on Doreen Laumenthal—the other possible names for Reservation Woman. There were three Doreens. The Doreen from Casper, Wyoming, held my interest for a while since Ford had once lived there, but when I found a picture of her on the obituary page and discovered that she’d died at ninety-six years of age, I kept going. The Doreen in Pontiac, Michigan, didn’t work out, either: she was six, and was pictured receiving a Hero Award for helping rescue a kitten from a tree. For a short while I got excited over the Tallahassee, Florida, Doreen who was twenty-four and had five years earlier won the Florida State Lottery; my excitement died when I saw her picture. That Doreen Laumenthal was African American.
Then I remembered that Laumenthal would have been Doreen’s married name.
“What’s wrong?” Jimmy asked, startling me.
Brought back to the here and now, I looked at him over my shoulder. He had a spread sheet up on his computer, doing who-knows-what with it. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re muttering under your breath again,” he told me.
“I wasn’t muttering under my breath.”
“Then who’s Doreen Laumenthal and what did she do to make you so upset?”
“I’m not upset.”
“If you’re not upset, Lena, I’m Miss Mary Twinkletoes of the Moscow Ballet. Tell you what, how about I get you another cup of coffee since you’ve only had a pot and a half this morning?”
“Stop being cute and just let me concentrate over here, okay? I’m trying to figure something out.”
Even Jimmy’s sighs were melodic. “I’ll do better than that. See you in another hour. I’m headed to the gym.” With that, he grabbed his gym bag and headed out the door before I could apologize for my snappishness.
Why he puts up with me I’ll never know, but I guess it had something to do with love. Not having time for that right now, I pulled my smartphone out of my tote and brought up Reservation Woman’s picture again. Light-colored hair, not quite blond. Probable blue eyes, although when I found her, they’d been filmy in death. Blue dress that appeared to be three sizes too big. Barefoot. Thin arms flung outward in a crucifixion pose.
“Tell me who you are,” I whispered.
I started at her death-emptied face until something new occurred to me. The Doreen Laumenthal in Wyoming who had died peacefully at age ninety-six may have been too old to be Ford’s wife or even his mother, but maybe, just maybe, the Doreen in question had married the elder Doreen’s grandson or great-grandson. So I tried again, going over the elderly Doreen’s obituary, taking spec
ial note of her “survived bys.” Unfortunately, the woman had twelve grandchildren, eighteen great-grandchildren, and nineteen great-great-grandchildren.
Once I’d finished muttering every curse word I ever knew, I grabbed the office phone and called the Casper Police Department.
After several transfers, I wound up with Sergeant Dewayne Kaplan, who sounded sympathetic. He told me he’d do what he could, so after sending him Reservation Woman’s photograph, I hung up and returned to my Googling feeling more hopeful. But five minutes later, Kaplan called back and said she didn’t look like any of their MisPers. He’d keep checking, though. Grateful, I gave him my personal cell number and email, then followed up that call with two more, one to Pontiac, the other to Tallahassee, getting the same results from both. Now I had three police departments who wanted to help, but for now, none of them recognized Reservation Woman’s picture.
“You sure her first name was Doreen?” the cop in Pontiac asked.
“Not even sure of that. It could have been Eileen or even Alene.”
“Then I wish you the best, but don’t hold your breath.”
“I’m not,” I told him, but that was a lie. I knew I’d never have a good night’s sleep again if Reservation Woman was buried without a name.
I was still running “Doreen” and “Laumenthal” through Google when Jimmy returned from the gym. He smelled wonderful, and to make up for my earlier churlish behavior, I lured him into the conference room and had my way with him.
I was in the middle of getting dressed when I heard Howlin’ Wolf’s “Smokestack Lightning” playing on my cell. It was either Juliana again, still frantic about her missing daughter, or one of the cops I’d recently talked to.
Tee-shirt and jeans back on but still barefoot, I grabbed the cell. “Lena Jones here.”
“Found something that might work for you,” said Sergeant Kaplan, in Casper, Wyoming. “I just emailed it. If it’s a hit, get back to me, okay? I’m kinda interested in what happened to that gal. She has people up here who haven’t given up hope. Her mother, God, I hate to even think about that poor woman. She goes to my church, and this is going to hit her hard.”
Promising Kaplan I’d let him know, I woke up my computer and checked my emails. In addition to several Nigerian princes wanting to let me in on a great stock buy, there was one from Casper PD. It had an attachment.
I opened it, only to be disappointed.
Alene Chambers, who went missing six years earlier when she’d been seventeen, had light brown hair and blue eyes, but she looked nothing like Reservation Woman. The Chambers woman had been severely overweight, and her double chin effectively disguised her jawline.
Since nothing about her looked like my “Doreen,” I held off notifying Kaplan.
“Jimmy, could you do me a favor?” I called. He was still in the conference room getting his clothes back on.
“Anything in the world you want: diamonds, yachts, rare tropical plants,” he replied. “But right this minute I’m having trouble moving.”
“When you recover, could you use that new program you installed and run a cross-check on an Alene Chambers and Ford J. Laumenthal?”
A few minutes later he did.
Three years earlier, in Norcross, Georgia, Alene Chambers, of Casper, Wyoming, had married Ford J. Laumenthal, also from Casper. In their wedding picture she was wearing a white dress so large it could have been a muumuu. But the bride was still more slender than the groom.
Unable to bear looking at her in a happier time, I closed my eyes.
“Hello, Alene,” I whispered.
Chapter Twenty
My arrival at EarthWay that afternoon was not greeted with glee by the few who were left. The day was a beautiful one—fleecy clouds tracking across a pure blue sky, a soft breeze, birds singing pretty songs in the trees—but from the expression on people’s faces, you’d think they inhabited Hell.
Quilter Sara Jenks, a.k.a. “Sunflower,” looked as if she’d rather spit on me than talk, but after considerable coaxing on my part as we stood by the boarded-up well, she relented. But not by much.
“You better not let Mother Eve see you coming round here again.”
“She’s back?”
“No thanks to you. You’ve not only destroyed everything we’ve built here, but two families’ve had their children taken away. And now we’re having to drink that awful bottled water. It’s full of chemicals!”
Sunflower only knew half the story, whereas I had been in touch with Sheriff Stu Rizzo, who had told me that the children who had been “taken away” were actually in the Hopi County Hospital being treated for E.coli infections. When I tried to explain the dangers of the compound’s water supply, Sunflower shook her head.
“I don’t believe you. There’s nothing wrong with our water, but there’s plenty wrong with forcing people to drink water that’s been chemically treated. Our water is pure, but thanks to you again, the well’s closed! Do you realize what a monster you are?”
While I had no patience with her ignorance of basic science, I did feel sorry for the pain she was enduring. However, the part of me that cared about the red-headed baby nursing at her breast knew that the child’s health was more important than Sunflower’s feelings. But I decided to throw her a bone. “Okay, I’ll cop to being a monster and admit there’s a chance those hospitalized kids might be suffering from psychosomatic diarrhea as long as you tell me more about the Laumenthal couple. The wife’s name is Alene.”
Ducking her head, she muttered, “I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“Who did the Laumenthals spend the most time with while they were here?”
Before she could answer, three long-dressed women wandered by carrying gallon jugs of water. In a nasty counterpoint to the pretty birdsongs floating through the air, they told me what I could do with myself.
When Sunflower seconded their anatomically-difficult suggestion, I thought the conversation was over, but she surprised me. Looking me straight in the eyes, she said, “Alene was friendly with everyone, but Ford, not so much. He was the kind of guy who found it easier to make enemies. Snotty. Arrogant. That kind of thing doesn’t do well around here, and in the end he got so many people’s backs up that Mother Eve told Alene she was welcome to stay, but that her husband better start making other plans.”
“Mother Eve was throwing him out?”
“It never came to that, because one morning neither of them showed up for breakfast—he was supposed to be one of the dishwashers that day. Mother Eve and I went looking for him, but they’d packed up and left.”
“Okay, I can see he wasn’t a popular guy, but surely he had to interact with people sometime. This is a commune, right? You guys all do this and that together, dishwashing, gardening, whatever.”
“He wasn’t into gardening and couldn’t tell a carrot from a radish. But come to think of it, I did see him talking to Jeremiah Blue Sky a couple of times. Jeremiah could get along with the Devil himself.” She managed a faint smile.
I looked over at the closed produce stand. “Where would I find Jeremiah today?”
“Dunno. He might of cleared out last night with the rest of them.” Finished with me, she walked away, her back stiff with rekindled anger.
The EarthWay General Store was still open, and with Mother Eve yet to be in evidence, I felt secure enough to lengthen my visit. After all, what could the woman do—shoot me?
When I entered the store, I found Sally White Flower packing her wares in cartons labeled SUNFLOWER, MARFA LIGHT, KRAFTWERK, NANNETTE, and even JEREMIAH BLUE SKY.
Pointing to Jeremiah’s carton, I said, “He’s still here?”
In the store’s half-light, Sally’s fifty-something face appeared careworn, and her schoolmarm bun had collapsed into tendrils. Recognizing me, her eyes lit up with hatred. “I’m surprised you have the gall to come
back here after everything you’ve done.”
I handed her the pictures I’d printed off my cell phone. “Alene and Ford Laumenthal. They’re both dead. Ford’s body was dumped not far from here, but Alene’s was found further away, on the Pima Reservation. I hear Ford hung out with Jeremiah, and I want to know....”
“Who’re you accusing me of murdering?” A male voice.
I spun around to see Jeremiah Blue Sky towering over me. For such a large man, he had entered the store so quietly I hadn’t heard his approach. Today his ruddy face was even redder than the last time I’d seen him, and his blond dreads swung back and forth in agitation. Sandwiched between him and Sally White Flower, I realized what a precarious position I’d put myself in. The General Store was dark. Half the commune had left during the night, and the few people still hanging around blamed me for destroying their Eden-esque way of life. I doubted any of them would mind if I ended up dead on the side of the road, just as long as it was far, far away from EarthWay.
“No, I’m not accusing you of murder,” I answered Jeremiah. “I just want you to look at these.” I thrust the photographs at him.
He looked down.
“Ah, shit, that’s Ford and his wife.” Raising his eyes to me, he asked, “What the hell happened to them?”
“I think they were murdered, but I don’t know how or by whom. Please tell me anything you know about either one of them. It might help.”
He shot a look at Sally, who shrugged and went back to putting the compound’s handmade wares into the appropriate cartons. Maybe she was leaving, too. Despite everything I knew about water-borne illnesses, I did feel guilty. At least these people had tried to create a decent life.
Motioning me to follow, Jeremiah headed to the small bistro table by the open window and hauled his lofty frame into one of the spindly chairs. I sat across from him, waiting, as the chickens outside clucked cheerfully.
“Ford flat-out hated Mother Eve,” he stated.