by Betty Webb
As for the possible despoiling of the Grand Canyon, he never brought it up.
In a lengthy interview on the front page of the Walapai Flats Journal-Gazette a week before Kimama’s death, Donohue was vicious in his portrayal of Kimama Olmstead, decrying what he called her “insensitivity” to the local economy, reliant for decades on the mining of various minerals, including silver, gold, and copper—as well as uranium.
“Mrs. Olmstead and the other hysterics in V.U.M. don’t care about the common working man,” Donohue sniped in the article. “Mrs. Olmstead’s own lucrative business won’t be affected, because Fluffy will always need a vet, and barring tort reform, V.U.M.’s high-roller attorneys will continue to chase ambulances. The people who will be hurt if the Black Basin doesn’t open are the honest, hard-working miners who need those jobs to feed their families.”
With that quote, Donohue had managed to hint that not only were Kimama and V.U.M. hypocritical, but lazy, too. His work for Cook & Creighton Tobacco had taught him well: don’t address the argument, smear the other guys. The problem with smears, though, is that they so often rebound on the person who created them. Had someone killed Donohue because of his work on behalf of the Black Basin Uranium Mine?
Not that I’d ever find out. For some reason, Jimmy had decided that the case wasn’t my problem. It stung, I’ll admit. I’d helped members of Jimmy’s Pima family out of trouble before, and he’d always been grateful. In this case, though, I had no choice other than to respect his autonomy.
Heaving a sigh of relief, I gave in to Google’s siren call and spent the next half-hour surfing the web. Eventually I landed on a Southwestern gardening site that informed me that, yes, cigarettes will most definitely rot your lungs, but on the upside, they make a dandy pesticide. The hyperlink under that sentence sent me to another site devoted to the eradication of sewer roaches.
Huh! A few days ago, after finding and squashing one of those two-inch-long monsters in the office’s rest room, I’d briefly considered calling in the exterminators, then backed off because of the strong chemicals they sometimes used. Nicotine, though…Apparently, all you did was stir a cup of loose tobacco into a gallon of warm water, add one tablespoon of dishwashing liquid, then cover and let the mess brew overnight. The next day you poured the brownish liquid into a sprayer, then spritzed any remaining roaches back into the hell from whence they came.
Too bad I hadn’t known about tobacco’s one redeeming quality while breaking into Jimmy’s trailer. Because of the lack of Federal tax, the price of tobacco in all its forms remained low on the rez. I decided to drive out there again for lunch, enjoy a nice bowl of mutton stew at Peg’s Pima Cafe, and on my way back, purchase a month’s supply of the killer weed at Chief Lloyd’s Peace Pipe.
Thinking about Jimmy again sent me off on another Google hunt. To find out if he had any luck yet in getting Ted out of jail, I logged onto the Walapai Flats Journal-Gazette home page to see if anything further was mentioned about Donohue’s murder.
What I found canceled my cockroach-killing plans.
“Arrest Made In Donohue Case,” screamed the headline.
WALAPAI FLATS, ARIZONA—Sunday afternoon sheriff’s deputies arrested James Sisiwan, brother of Theodore Olmstead, who is being held as a material witness in the murder of Ike Donohue.
Tipped off by a local resident who claimed that Sisiwan, a resident of the Salt River Pima/Maricopa Indian Reservation near Phoenix, was suborning perjury, the arrest was made at the Desert View Motel, where Sisiwan was staying.
“You know how it is, these Indians all stick up for one another,” a source, who asked not to be identified, told reporters. “This Sisiwan guy was driving all over, telling people they’d better think twice before they linked his brother to Mr. Donohue’s murder.”
When asked if Sisiwan had behaved in a threatening manner, the source said, “He was too smart for that. He just hinted.”
The sheriff’s office had no comment.
Sisiwan has been booked into the Walapai County Jail pending formal charges.
Autonomy be damned. Jimmy needed my help.
I shut down the computer, locked the office, and ran upstairs to pack.
Chapter Three
Walapai Flats was easy to find on a map, but hard to get to. A few miles north of Flagstaff, the highway dwindled into a two-lane blacktop that ran along the edge of the Navajo Reservation, and after that, my rented Chevy Trailblazer had to slow for sheep, wild horses, and the errant coyote.
Once I left Navajoland, my trip got truly hinky. Because the Grand Canyon was in the way, I had to veer miles around it and drive all the way into Utah before cutting west again on Route 9. Still in Utah, I hooked over to I-15, which hustled me south through the mountains that lined the massive Virgin River Gorge, and ultimately, back into Arizona. Having made a massive half-loop around the Grand Canyon, I exited the freeway at the picturesque old mining town of Silver Ridge and drove a few more miles east to Walapai Flats.
More than six hours to travel a lousy two hundred as-the-crow-flies miles.
But as I had discovered earlier that morning, the once-a-day commuter hop from Phoenix Sky Harbor into the Walapai County Airport was booked for the next three days. God only knows what would happened to Jimmy by then.
I finally rolled into Walapai Flats as the sun was setting. Situated along a long narrow plain but surrounded by high red-and-orange mesas, the area was spectacular. Because of the town’s geographic isolation, it had remained populated only by Paiute Indians and miners until Hollywood discovered it in the Fifties. A couple of decades later, the land developers began cashing in. Now retirement communities and lavish resorts were sprinkled across the high desert.
When I turned onto John Wayne Boulevard, I was met by two billboards. One proclaimed, WELCOME TO WALAPAI FLATS—JOHN WAYNE LOVED IT AND YOU WILL TOO! The other announced, JOIN GOVERNOR EVELYN HASKER AND LOCAL DIGNITARIES TO CELEBRATE THE OPENING OF THE BLACK BASIN URANIUM MINE. 8 A.M. SUNDAY. FREE HOT DOGS & POPCORN! From atop the billboard, red, white and blue balloons waved in the breeze.
As I drove along, streetlights shaped like nineteenth-century gas lamps began to flicker on, casting a seductive golden glow over what at first looked like a town untouched by time. From the information I’d pulled down from the Internet before leaving Scottsdale, I’d learned that the town was originally little more than a general store and a gas station. Thanks to the real estate boom and the new airport, its amenities now included an RV park, two motels, a supermarket, several restaurants, an espresso café, a bookstore, and a sprinkling of gift shops and the usual small businesses. Everything, even the entrance to the RV park, mimicked the Old West architecture made famous by oater films and television shows. Raised wooden sidewalks covered by deep overhangs. False storefronts with the proprietors’ names emblazoned in gilt lettering. Watering troughs for horses. The town’s 1880’s disguise worked so well that the herd of Escalades and Hummers parked in front of the Walapai Flats Saloon came as a shock.
Since I wasn’t here to sightsee, I ignored the town’s picturesque charms and headed straight for the county government offices across the street from the city park.
To the average person, the modern concrete-and-steel construction of the Walapai County government complex might contrast oddly with its ersatz Old West neighbors, but for an ex-Scottsdale cop like myself, it was the same old, same old. Facilities like this were meant to be secure, not cute. Pushing open the heavy exterior door, I found myself in a large lobby lined with metal benches. Straight ahead stood a set of double doors labeled COURTROOMS; to my left the sign above a long hallways said SHERIFF’S OFFICES; to my right was a narrower door, flanked on one side by a metal detector and on the other side, a bulked-up detention officer. The sign above that door said COUNTY JAIL ANNEX.
Talk about one-stop shopping.
A bored-looking deputy just south of retirement age manned the desk at the far end of the lobby.
“I’d like to
see James Sisiwan,” I told him, eyeing the metal detector, thankful I’d locked my snub-nose .38 up in the Trailblazer’s glove compartment.
“You can’t see him because his father bonded him out this morning.” The deputy didn’t bother looking up from the magazine he was reading.
Jimmy and his adoptive father had been estranged for years, partially because Jimmy had taken back his tribal name, but while a family crisis doesn’t necessarily heal old wounds, it often numbed the pain. Could Jimmy now be staying at his father’s guest ranch, standing hand in hand with the rest of the Olmstead clan, singing “Kumbaya?”
“I drove all the way up here from Scottsdale, officer, so how about letting me see Ted Olmstead?”
Wrong thing to say. Scottsdale had a reputation for snobbery, which the rest of the state found less than endearing, and from the sour expression on the deputy’s face, he was no exception.
“Visiting hours are over,” he said, slowly turning the pages of his magazine. I craned my neck forward and saw it was Better Homes & Gardens.
“Already?” I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes to eight.
“Yep.”
This was no time to make a fuss. “Does Ted have an attorney yet?”
“I have no clue.” He pretended to study a two-page spread on decorating a Soho loft.
Defeated, I said in my most polite voice, “Well, thank you for your time, officer.”
“No problem.”
I turned on my heel and headed for the door. Before I got there, he called out, “Visiting hours start at nine tomorrow. Better be here early. It’s always a mob scene.”
I waved my thanks and stepped out onto the still-warm pavement.
What to do now? The GPS unit in my Trailblazer showed the location of Sunset Trails Guest Ranch, but it was almost dark and the idea of getting lost in the Arizona badlands spooked me. Instead, I decided to check into the motel I’d spotted on my drive through town. It had a decent-looking restaurant attached, and my stomach was rumbling.
When I entered the reception area of the Covered Wagons Inn, I would have sworn I’d entered a particularly lush ranch house. Faux Navajo blankets draped casually across leather sofas. Cowhide rugs hunkered down on the saltillo tile floor. An old wagon wheel pretended to be a chandelier. And a life-sized cardboard cutout of John Wayne—the kind you used to see in theater lobbies—stood guard over it all. The actor was wearing an old-fashioned red, double-breasted shirt.
Yippy-ki-yay, pardner.
The cowboy-clad man at the counter welcomed me with a hearty “Howdy, ma’am,” and explained he only had one room left. “A single king, I hope that’ll work for you.”
After I assured him it was fine and filled out the necessary paperwork, he handed me the key card to my room, adding, “You missed the complementary hors d’oeuvres and wine-tasting in the Duke’s Saloon, but we’re still serving dinner in the Stagecoach. The special tonight is tournedos of beef simmered slowly in a merlot reduction sauce with potatoes Lyonnais as side. Our vegetarian selection is penne pasta served in a Romano sauce sprinkled with fresh basil from our very own herb garden.”
Nothing like good ol’ chuck wagon fare to make a cowgirl feel like ropin’ a few steers.
My room was pretty much what I expected. Wild West Redux—setting aside the Internet hookup, wide-screen TV, digital radio/alarm clock, Sleep Number mattress, hair dryer, botanical bath products and all the other accoutrements that went along with indoor plumbing. Cozy, too, with ankle-deep carpeting, distressed pine furniture, a down comforter dyed the colors of the Grand Canyon, and café au lait walls decorated with historic photographs of cowhands, miners, and Indians. Studying the prints more closely, I determined that the Indians were Paiutes, whose reservation was situated nearby.
After showering, I walked over to the Stagecoach Restaurant and took a seat at a deuce that offered an unobstructed view of the room. The room was decorated to remind patrons they were in the West, in case they’d forgotten. Lariats and branding irons hung on weathered wood paneling that looked like it had been stripped off a barn. However, the aroma of mesquite-grilled beef made my mouth water. A good meal would ease my mind. Jimmy might have bonded out, but if he was mixed up in a murder case, he was still in trouble.
The gray-haired waitress acted disappointed when I ordered a hamburger instead of the tournedos of beef, and iced tea instead of the suggested burgundy, but she recovered enough to serve the burger with a smile. As I ate, I studied the other diners. Among them were an unusual number of May/December match-ups, the men averaging twice the age of the women. Sitting at the table not far from mine was a particularly interesting couple. The man, a prosperous-looking sixty-something, seemed entranced by his dining partner, a deeply tanned blonde wearing a diamond solitaire so massive that it was a wonder she could lift her manicured hand.
When the waitress refilled my iced tea, I asked, “Do you get a lot of business from the resorts?”
She smiled, revealing a mouth full of silver inlays. “All the resorts have their own restaurants, but the Angus beef we serve here is locally raised on our owner’s ranch. His son’s our chef. Eric graduated last year from the Scottsdale Culinary Institute and was offered a job at one of the Vegas casinos, but he turned it down to work for his father.”
I motioned toward the couple across the way. “Are they regulars?”
Here voice held a reverential note when she answered. “Every Monday. That’s Mr. and Mrs. Tosches. He owns the Black Basin Mine and Mrs. Tosches adores our tournedos.”
The article I’d read about Donohue’s murder had mentioned Mia Tosches as a witness to the dispute between Ted Olmstead and the murder victim. Risking another question, I asked, “Did Ike Donohue eat here? The man who, er, got killed?” The word “murder” seemed too rough for such a nice restaurant.
“Mr. Donohue worked for Mr. Tosches.” With that, her chattiness ended and after asking me if I wanted dessert, either crème brûlée or strawberry crêpes, to which I answered no, she handed me my check and walked away.
Once I returned to my room, I took a leisurely soak in the tub, then threw on an oversized tee shirt and started work. I plugged my laptop into the Internet jack and Googled Donohue+Tosches. After a few false hits due to my error-prone typing of last names, a couple of interesting items popped up. From an article in the Arizona Business Journal I learned that Roger Tosches not only owned the Black Basin Mine, but was the lone developer of Sunset Canyon Lakes Resort, too. The resort appeared to be his only solo business effort, though, because a man named Cole Laveen was named as partner in his current mine holdings. No mention was made of Tosches’ wife, Mia, but I did find an article about Ike Donohue’s widow. A photograph in Arizona Gamesman showed Nancy Donohue in full hunting regalia standing over a dead elk, her foot on its bloody side, triumph on her face.
Call me a cynic, since I couldn’t help but wonder how much she inherited upon her husband’s death.
Two more hours of surfing turned up little else. This was where Jimmy’s expertise would have come in handy. He knew how to hack into sites that mere mortals couldn’t access. Irritated by my limited computer skills, I snapped the laptop shut and went to bed.
I’d brought along a Sue Grafton novel to get me through the lonely nights, but somewhere in the middle of the fourth chapter, I fell into a dream-plagued sleep.
***
I stood at the entrance to a mine. A wooden barrier had been erected in front of the dark opening, with a sign saying, DANGER! NO ADMITTANCE! I started knocking back the slats with a large rock when Jimmy emerged from the moon’s shadows and pushed me away.
“Don’t go in there, Lena.”
“But there’s something I need to find out!”
“What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Jimmy, so step aside.”
He didn’t move, but the moment I raised my hands to push him out of my way, he vanished.
I stepped over the remainin
g wooden slats and entered the mine.
Deeper shadows now surrounded me, but for some reason, I could still see the moon above. As I stared in amazement, I realized that I was no longer in the mine, but in a forest. Enveloping rock walls had transformed themselves into tall pine trees, their hanging branches creating a tunnel-like pathway. Fearless, I walked along, listening to the sounds of crickets, nightbirds…
Gunshots.
Children screaming.
In the magical way of dreams, my long-lost mother appeared beside me. Frightened, I took her hand. “I want to go home,” I whispered.
“It’s too late,” she said.
Other children gathered around us. One, a girl of around six, whimpered. “Don’t let them catch us, Auntie Helen.”
“You’ll be safe with me,” my mother answered, but I knew she was lying, that our pursuers were only yards behind.
It was our turn to die.
When I screamed myself awake, I had to wipe away tears from my face. Nightmares are worse when they’re not dreams—they’re memories.
Chapter Four
July, 1959: Northwestern Arizona
As Abby watched from atop the fence rail, Gabe eased the saddle onto the young gelding so gently it didn’t even flinch. He tightened the cinch slowly, like he’d been doing all week to get the horse used to it.
“Yeah, that’s it, Star,” he whispered. “We’re pals, always gonna be pals. Just gotta get this first ride over with.”
Star, a rangy sorrel with a quarter-size splash of white on its forehead, twitched its ears, but its eyes remained calm. Only a couple of months before Curly died, the old wrangler had trailered the animal over to Gabe’s spread. With Curly’s wife dead the year before, there was no one else to leave it to.