Desert Wind

by Betty Webb

  Abby argued for a while, insisting she stay up and get the roast started, but she eventually gave in and let him lead her to the bedroom, old Blue trailing behind. “I know I’m letting you down, Gabe,” she said. “Half the time I can’t garden, can’t clean house, can’t even cook. What good am I?”

  As he tucked the bedspread around his hollow-eyed wife, Gabe said, “You don’t never let me down, Abby. Just having you with me is enough. You give the smile to the day.”

  The depression had hit Abby last month, right after her sixth miscarriage ended in a hysterectomy. Now she spent more days in bed than out. To everyone’s surprise, Gabe had stepped up. In addition to his already considerable ranch chores, he’d learned to garden, mop, and wash dishes. Sometimes he even put on Abby’s strawberry-patterned apron and cooked. Hell, making a roast was easy. You rubbed the meat with garlic, sprinkled on the narrow leaves of that green plant Abby grew in what she called her herb garden, and shoved it all into the oven at three hundred-fifty degrees for, say, two hours, more if it was a bigger piece of meat. Wondering how much the roast weighed, Gabe tilted his head toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, Gabe, so much death.”

  The roast could wait. Turning back to Abby, Gabe took her hand. “Your mama’s at peace now, Abby. Remember how bad she was hurting.”

  Abby squeezed his hand. “I remember.”

  Who could forget? It had maddened Gabe, seeing Edna suffer. That tough ranch woman, popping out twelve kids as if it’d been nothing, once even limping through her housework with a leg fresh broke by an ornery horse. Cancer-reduced to a moaning ragbone wreck. Ten days ago, when the pain made her scream, Gabe had knocked down her doctor when he refused to give her more drugs, claiming he didn’t want her to “become an addict.”

  “I’ll addict your ass!” Gabe had yelled, as his fist connected with the doctor’s nose.

  It took two nurses and several orderlies to pull Gabe off him, but the upshot of the deal was that Edna got her morphine. Compared to that, having to spend a couple nights in jail was a bargain. A woman like Edna, she deserved defending. Why, hadn’t she given him his Abby?

  With callused hands, he stroked his wife’s cheek. “You get some sleep, girl. I’ll take care of things around here.”

  When he started to pull his hand away, she hung on.

  “Not just Mama, Gabe. It’s everybody.” She started reciting what Gabe called her Death List, beginning with their own lost babies, moving on to two sisters, a brother—all dead in the past few years. When she started on her dying nieces and nephews, Gabe decided it was time to pull her mind out of the graveyard.

  “Say, girl, maybe over the weekend I’ll drive us up to Silver Ridge to see that new Doris Day movie, Do Not Disturb? I can’t wait to see it, I surely can’t.” Truth be told, the thought of sitting through another Doris Day movie made him want to puke, but Abby loved the actress, had even bleached her sorrel-colored hair blond so she’d look like her.

  Gabe’s plans for the weekend didn’t interest his wife. She started talking about the past, before her mama got so sick. “Remember last winter, when we saw that John Wayne movie?”

  He smoothed her Doris Day hair, wishing she’d go back to natural. But whatever she wanted, he’d accept. His fine girl could do no wrong. “Which movie was that? In Harm’s Way or The Sons of Katie Elder?”

  “In Harm’s Way. Remember what I said then, that in thirty years, you’ll look like him?”

  Gabe chuckled. “Yeah, soon’s I grow four inches and my brown eyes turn blue.”

  She kissed the stump where his left forefinger used to be. “Don’t know why you worship him so, Gabe. You’re the real war hero. Wayne’s just an actor.”

  He pulled a play-frown. “Now don’t go saying anything bad about the Duke, girl, or I’ll write and tell him. You make that man mad and he’ll come out here and mess you up something awful.”

  Abby gave him a smile, the first in a long while. “Oh, I do love you, Gabe, I do.”

  Gabe said nothing. He didn’t have to.

  Chapter Eight

  Before I left the guest ranch, Olmstead called Sunset Canyon Lakes to grease the wheels for me.

  “Katherine Dysart is the leasing agent,” he explained. “She and her husband do business with us, and they’ve offered to help. At the very least, Katherine can steer you in the right direction. But be careful. Other than Mrs. Donohue, the residents tend to be very private people.”

  No surprise there, since that was why they’d bought into a gated community in the first place.

  For most newcomers to Arizona, the idea of living in the desert sounds like a dream come true and the reality isn’t far off. But for others, once the grandeur of the scenery begins to pall, they discover the desert is a vast expanse of rock and cactus, heat and dust. These disgruntled souls then attempt to transmogrify the landscape into something more reminiscent of rural Minnesota. In the case of land developers with unlimited pocketbooks, they often succeed, just as they had with Sunset Canyon Lakes.

  A few miles north of the guest ranch, I spotted a flash of green on the horizon. As I drove toward it, the green gnawed away all those subtle beiges and browns I so loved until the only color left was a spreading landscape of gaudy green. Lording over this unnatural sight was a sign that boasted, SUNSET CANYON LAKES—THE OASIS IN THE DESERT.

  Ah, the miracles of irrigation.

  My eyes were so dazzled by all that greenness I almost failed to notice a smaller sign directing visitors to park their vehicles in the large lot to the west of the main gate. SUNSET CANYON LAKES IS A CAR-LIMITED COMMUNITY. VISITORS MUST PARK THEIR CARS AND WAIT FOR SERVICE, it demanded. Filled with foreboding, I drove up to the gatehouse and asked the security guard for better instructions, then learned why Hank Olmstead had insisted on calling ahead. Getting into a nuclear power plant would have been easier than getting into Sunset Canyon Lakes.

  After showing the guard my ID and answering a series of questions designed to weed out Islamic terrorists and Mexican illegals, I was told that once I parked my car in the visitor’s lot, someone would come by to pick me up. Oh, and did I carry a firearm? Very nice, Miss Jones, but leave it locked in your car. Only uniformed police officers carry in Sunset Canyon Lakes. I grudgingly complied, and five minutes later, I was being chauffeured via golf cart onto the resort’s hallowed grounds.

  “You’ll need a map to find your way around, and you can pick one up at the leasing office, which is where we’re headed,” said my handsome young escort, whose nametag identified him as DEREK. He swung his left arm around in an arc, taking in the scene before us. “The resort is so big newcomers are always getting lost. If that happens to you, simply hop on one of the trolleys. It’ll eventually wind up wherever you need to go. One comes along every five minutes so that even people who live here year round rarely need to use their cars.”

  Derek hadn’t exaggerated the resort’s size. Straight ahead lay the five-hundred-acre Sunset Canyon Lake, upon which windsurfers and kayaks bobbed on the water. To our right flowed the neatly trimmed fairway of an eighteen-hole golf course. Separating these nondesert attractions was a broad stretch of green parkland shaded by lofty eucalyptus and Aleppo pine, theoretically planted to keep the desert sun from zapping the residents with skin cancer.

  Amazed and aghast at the waste of Arizona’s meager water resources, I asked Derek, “Where does all that water come from?”

  “The Virgin River,” he answered. “The lake is actually a reservoir.”

  As we zipped along toward the leasing office, the sun emerged from its cloud cover. I shaded my eyes as we passed several swimming pools, tennis courts, a clubhouse, two restaurants, and a spa. Located in a small complex off the main thoroughfare, boutiques offered tennis rackets, golf clubs, sports attire, evening wear, exotic cheeses and fine wines. The resort’s architecture differed dramatically from that of Walapai Flats. Instead of the town’s self-conscious Old West knockoffs, the buildings here formed a mélange
of concrete and glass with a smattering of wood thrown in to soften the edges. I could see why the place would appeal to city dwellers; they’d feel like they’d never left home.

  Sunset Canyon Lakes was broken into separate neighborhoods, my guide informed me. The Lakes, arcing around the western end of the big lake, were individually owned condos. The Fairways, on the southeastern side of the resort, were timeshares. All were glass-fronted, offering spectacular views of either lake or golf course.

  “No single-family homes?” I wondered aloud.

  “Oh, yes.” Derek waved his hand again, this time toward the golf course. “We can’t see them from here because they’re hidden in the trees on the other side of the golf course. Very exclusive. To get in there, you have to go through another gate.”

  “A gated community within a gated community?”

  “Cool, huh?” He rattled off the names of several film and music stars, some of whom I’d actually heard of. “The celebrities have their own private pools, of course. Private planes, too.”

  By the time we arrived at the leasing office, my desert-dweller eyes had gone into shock from all that green. It was a relief when a thirty-something brunette wearing a nametag identifying her as KATHERINE ushered me into a reception area as sleek as she was. But my eyes continued to be dazzled because the large picture window overlooking the pool area let in harsh sunlight that bounced off the room’s chrome and leather furniture. Scattered here and there were steel sculptures resembling crashed space satellites. A large abstract painted in somber tones of gray and black sneered at me from the wall. The room’s only homey touch came from a silver laptop humming away on a chrome and glass desk.

  “Welcome to Sunset Canyon Lakes, Miss Jones,” Katherine said, her Boston accent modulated into a soft purr. “How do you like our little resort?”

  “Impressive, but I’m here on business.” I handed her my card. “I understand Hank Olmstead called you about my visit?”

  An elegant nod. “Re the matter of Mr. Donohue’s death and the problems Ted subsequently encountered. Very unfortunate. We’re fond of Hank. And of his son, too, of course. My husband and I consider them both friends.” Her face, which had assumed a tragic mask, switched to brisk business mode. “How may I be of help?”

  “A map would be nice.”

  “Certainly. Sunset Canyon Lakes is labyrinthine enough that newcomers frequently get turned around. Most of our units are owned by their occupants, but we always have a few available for lease. As well as the timeshares, of course”

  Her elocution was so superb she made me feel like a hayseed. “On my way here, I didn’t see any children. Is this an age-restricted community?”

  “Correct. Anyone wishing to buy a unit here must be fifty-five or older. You can, however, arrange for a one-time rental of a timeshare, as long as you do not bring children. A nice summer camp is located within driving distance, and most parents are happy for the respite.”

  “She’s one of the timeshare people then?” I pointed out the window toward a bikinied and familiar-looking beauty basking on a chaise by the Olympic sized pool. Mia Tosches, the woman who’d accused Ted of roughing up Ike Donohue, was surrounded by a phalanx of young men who looked as good as she did. “Surely she can’t be more than twenty.”

  This time Katherine’s smile revealed a feline gleam. “Mrs. Tosches is older than she looks.”

  Feigning ignorance, I said, “Really! Then does Mrs. Tosches’ husband fulfill the age requirement to live here?”

  “Most certainly, but his age is irrelevant since he’s the man who developed Sunset Canyon Lakes.”

  As owner of the Black Basin Mine and the developer of a high-roller resort, Roger Tosches had to be quite the moneybags. “Good point,” I conceded. “What about those body-builder types Mrs. Tosches is talking to? They don’t look like senior citizens to me.”

  “They work here,” she said dismissively. “And they’re on their lunch break. Well, a couple of them are timeshare people, and as you noticed, they’re fitness-oriented.” She paused, then added, “Mrs. Tosches does admire fit men.”

  Meow. “The Tosches don’t have their own pool?”

  “Of course they do.”

  “Pardon me if I seem dense, but then why is Mrs. Tosches using this one?”

  “She likes young company. She also likes horseback riding, and spends a great deal of time over at the guest ranch.”

  I wondered why Olmstead hadn’t shared that information with me. “Mr. Tosches doesn’t ride with her, I take it.”

  “With his varied business interests he has little free time, but when he gets the chance, he plays golf with his friends.” She gestured toward the young men talking to Mia. “Her friends see to it that she’s never lonely.”

  Young woman, older husband, possible different sexual interests, and Katherine Dysart wanted me to know all about it. This made me curious about Katherine herself. Given her demeanor, she’d once led a different life than the one she led now: ushering prospective renters around someone else’s money-maker.

  “Where do you live?” I asked her, apropos of nothing other than that Nosy is every PI’s middle name. “In Walapai Flats?”

  The question amused her. “Where my domicile of choice would be either a trailer or tract home? Hardly. My husband Trent, who also isn’t fifty-five, is the recreation director here, and as such, he is required to live on the property. Trent organizes various entertainments—book clubs, wine tastings, trips to Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon, Zion National Park, that sort of thing. For the horsy outings, Ted has been of invaluable help to Trent, and that is only one of the two reasons we want to see him out of that vile jail and back at the ranch. The other reason, well, we simply like him. He’s an honest, straightforward man, and those qualities are in short shrift these days.”

  Leaning over the chrome and glass desk, she picked up several brochures along with the promised map. “Perhaps you could pass these out to your friends? They highlight the ownership portion of the resort and are perfect for those who are more, ah, mature, and no longer have children cluttering up the house. As I’m certain you’ve noticed, Sunset Canyon Lakes is a marvelous place to retire for anyone who wishes to escape from the hustle and bustle of the city.”

  When she glanced down at the business card I handed her in return, her voice took on a wistful tone. “I see you’re from Scottsdale. It used to be so lovely. But now…”

  She didn’t need to finish because we both knew the end of that sentence: “But now it’s just another traffic-clogged city.”

  Because of its car-control philosophy, Sunset Canyon Lakes certainly wasn’t traffic-clogged, not unless you counted the myriad golf carts scooting along its paths or the open-air trolleys shuttling residents back and forth. The resort, Katherine informed me, was not the ecological nightmare it first appeared. Fewer cars meant fewer gas omissions, and the golf carts and trolleys were all electric. The lake, where motor craft were also banned, provided the water for the golf course, trees, and the greenbelts lining every pathway.

  “So you see, Sunset Canyon Lakes is not simply a pretty face,” she finished, smiling at her own witticism. “We’re an eco-friendly community that contributes to the environment, not subtracts.”

  Not quite won over, because most of the irrigation would evaporate into the hot desert air, not settle into the water table, I said, “Hey, if I had the money, I’d buy a unit right now.”

  Her intimidating elegance fell away when she winked. “To purchase, you’d have to scrounge up an older partner, Miss Jones. But we do have some wealthy widowers in residence if you’re in the market.”

  “I’ll give it some thought. Let me ask, do you know the Donohues very well yourself? I’m wondering how Mrs. Donohue is bearing up, and frankly, if she’ll even talk to me.”

  “I had only a passing acquaintance with Mr. Donohue. As for Mrs. Donohue, yesterday, while I was showing a prospective lessee one of our better properties, I saw her and her friends
on their way to the golf course, which leads me to believe she’s bearing up quite well.” That feline gleam again. Katherine didn’t like Nancy Donohue any more than she liked Mia Tosches.

  Having gathered as much information as possible, I headed out, wondering again how a woman like Katherine Dysart had wound up in a leasing office. Her accent was Boston, her demeanor Old Money. But since the recent economic collapse had claimed some surprising victims, I temporarily pushed my curiosity aside.

  Catching a trolley to the Donohue’s condo on the other side of the resort turned out to be easy. All you did was stand at the curb looking lost, and within seconds, one of the things trundled along and scooped you up. I showed the map Katherine had given me to the handsome young driver, who identified the Donohue’s neighborhood as The Lakes, and promised to call out my stop. Feeling less adrift, I walked past several rows of gray-haired seniors and took a seat in the back.

  My comfort proved short-lived. As we bumped along through the ever-present greenery, I found myself growing unsettled again. The whole resort seemed “off.” Too many lined faces, too few young ones. With its perfectly clean streets, perfectly neat condos, and perfectly groomed landscaping, Sunset Canyon Lakes was a childless Disneyland. While I did admire the almost car-less streets, I balked at the childfree yards. In some ways, they seemed even more unnatural than a green desert.

  Don’t get me wrong—I don’t crave kids, and my biological clock has long since forgotten to tick. I’m closing in on forty, have no children, and don’t yearn for any. There’s a reason for that. My own early years had been so miserable that I’ve never been able to equate childhood with anything other than pain. But childless streets? To me, other people’s children were visible proof that despite life’s frequent grotesqueries, most people still had faith in the future. Sunset Canyon Lakes was all about the past, about money already made, marriages accomplished or lost, travels finished, hunters home from the hills and kicking back for their remaining time on Earth.