by Betty Webb
“Enjoying the mixer?”
The abrupt change of subject threw me. “I’m not a fan of theme parties. They kill every bit of spontaneity the human animal has left in its over-regimented soul. Nice outfit you’re wearing, though.”
“Like you, I’m partial to black.” She fell silent again, watching the dancers. As soon as the music clomped to a halt, the fiddle-player told them to form up for “Turkey In the Straw.” Obediently, they gave it a try, and after a few missteps and collisions, managed a passable square dance.
“They’re sure having a good time,” Olivia said.
Her wistful tone made me ask, “Aren’t you?”
“Too much work to do.”
I decided not to mention seeing her at the demonstration earlier. “I take it you’re not here on vacation.”
“Can’t put anything over on a detective, can I? If I were vacationing, it certainly wouldn’t be here. It would be someplace less crowded, like the Arctic Circle. I’m here to cover the reopening of the Black Basin Mine.”
“Why does the New York Times care about an Arizona uranium mine?”
“‘Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee,’ John Donne wrote,” she said. “That’s something the EPA, OSHA, and the U.S. House and Senate should take more seriously. Pollution, especially the radioactive kind, has a nasty way of not staying put. It blows where the wind blows, and in this part of the country, that means from the west to the east. Particulates in Arizona air become particulates in Nebraska, Pennsylvania, and even New York. Ergo, the environmental bell tolls for us all. Besides, even New Yorkers admire the Grand Canyon.”
Well, she was the journalist, not me. “But I was under the impression that uranium mines themselves aren’t radioactive enough to bother anyone. Isn’t the real problem the runoff from the mine tailings? I hear it contains arsenic, radon, and other crap, which is why environmental folks are raising so much hell.”
Her face shut down. “You’re only partially correct. Arsenic does show up in the mine tailings, which pollutes anyone or anything living downstream. But while raw uranium may not be all that dangerous in and of itself, the first step of processing, which is done right at the mine, intensifies the radioactivity by turning the ore into something called yellow cake. When the workers breathe the yellow cake dust, their lungs rot. Those Navajos that worked on the Moccasin Peak Mine have a lung cancer rate that’s five times higher than the Navajos that didn’t work there. Their bones and kidneys aren’t doing so well, either.”
I remembered one of the picket signs that puzzled me at the demonstration: YELLOW CAKE = DEATH. Now I understood. “Considering that you’re writing about all this, Olivia, I’m surprised Roger Tosches let you lease a time share.”
“He doesn’t keep tabs on who’s living at this abortion he calls a resort. Katherine took care of the lease. We’re old friends.”
I should have made the connection before. “Ah, from the days you worked at the Boston Globe.”
“You’ve done your homework. Yes, I met her when we worked on a couple of stories together.”
“She was a journalist?”
“A source. Listen, I’ve already done all the background work I need on the Black Basin and nothing much will be shaking in that area until the opening ceremonies on Sunday. If you’re still in town day after tomorrow, I’m driving over Silver Ridge to finish up some research on a story that’s even more interesting than the mine. It’s another environmental issue that impacts—or, more correctly, impacted—Arizona and points east. Want to come along?”
Intriguing though it sounded, I explained that I was here to help Ted, not tour old mining towns.
She pulled a business card from her pocket. “Here’s my cell number. We’d only be gone about three hours. If you get a break in your schedule, give me a call.”
As I took the card from her, I saw a small spot of blood on her lower lip. I pointed. “Your mouth is bleeding.”
She wiped the blood away with a black-painted fingernail. “Damned cold sores are driving me nuts. Look, I’ve pretty much had it with this party and its damned Western music, so I’m going back to the timeshare. Like I said, give me a call if you change your mind. I promise the trip will be illuminating, and who knows? You might even find another case to work on. Maybe several.”
On that mysterious note, she left.
As I stood there pondering the unlikely coincidence of Olivia and Katherine knowing each other in Boston, someone bumped into me from behind.
“Oops, guess I’d better look where I’m going.” Mia Tosches, on her way to the drinks table.
I gave her my best smile. “It’s crowded in here, isn’t it? But it’s a nice party.”
Mia halted her progress and looked me up and down, noting my jeans, tee shirt, and scuffed Reeboks. “You’re not in costume, but my, my, you still look good. Did anyone ever tell you you’re a very striking woman?”
She moved closer to me, close enough that I suspected sexual interest on her part. Up until this moment, I’d been under the impression that she confined her extramarital activities to the male gender. Live and learn, right?
“Thanks for the compliment. I’m only a guest this evening and didn’t have a costume handy,” I explained. “But I’m thinking about buying one of the condos. Sunset Canyon Lakes is such a beautiful place, and the no-children rule is brilliant. Speaking of brilliant, I love your saloon girl outfit. You look pretty good, yourself.” You can never stroke a narcissist too much.
“My husband said the same thing. He’s Roger Tosches, the man who built Sunset Canyon Lakes.”
“A man of rare taste.” As the extended version of “Turkey In the Straw” ended and “Tumbling Tumbleweeds” began, the dancers slowed their dosey-doeing into a waltz. Using her sexual interest in me—all’s fair in love, war, and criminal investigation—I continued my raves about Sunset Canyon Lakes. After the butter-up, I zeroed in. “Yes, the way the streets are laid out, the electric shuttles instead of gassy traffic jams, looks to me like your husband’s built the perfect community. Well, except for that business about the murder.”
The gleam in her eye disappeared. “The Indian who did it’s already in jail, so you don’t have anything to worry about.”
Big of her to consider my peace of mind. “He works over at Sunset Trails Guest Ranch, doesn’t he?”
“Wrangler or something. Say, would you like to go out some time? My husband doesn’t mind. You and I, I think we have chemistry.”
“How flattering.” I moved slightly away from her. “Do you know the guy? Ted, I think his name is.”
“I took a couple of riding lessons from him, is all. Why do you care?”
Sometimes honesty really is the best policy, but this wasn’t it. Every good detective knows that the best way to interview reluctant people is to start with something they’re interested in, and by a good stroke of fortune, Katherine had provided me with that information.
“Ever since I started watching Law & Order, I’ve been interested in the whole crime and punishment thing.”
Her eyes lit up. “You like Law & Order too? Too bad you didn’t attend the Mystery Night mixer last week. One of the groundsmen volunteered to be murdered, and we were supposed to figure out who did it, with what weapon, and why. I won.”
“Really?”
“Really. Roger hadn’t wanted me to take part, but I insisted. I’ve always been good at that kind of game, even used to play Clue with my mother and her friends. I beat her every time.”
Oh, yes, the mother who’d lost her home paying her thieving daughter’s attorney’s fees. “Well, then, since you’re so good at mystery games, why don’t we try one now?”
“Can’t. It’s only you and me. Or do you want to rope in a few more players? The Book Bitches might be interested. Especially Nancy. She has a devious mind.”
“Just us. Here’s how we can do it. We can pretend that Ted isn’t the guy who murdered Ike Donohue and that we’ve decided to
solve the case ourselves.” Remembering her collection of Agatha Christies, I added, “You know, like Hercule Poirot and his friend Hastings. You can be Poirot. Who among the people here tonight would you choose as the killer? And why’d he or she do it?”
“But I told you, that ranch hand…”
“Have some fun with it, Mia. Pretend the case isn’t solved.”
The slight glazing across Mia’s eyes hinted that I hadn’t yet hooked her. Like most criminals, she had been gifted with cunning, but little true curiosity. I needed to put the focus back on her Achilles heel: her ego. “I guess you got lucky last week when you solved the ‘pretend’ case. Not so easy in real life, is it?”
The direct challenge worked. “I can win any game when I put my mind to it.”
Was it my imagination, or had she decreased the distance between us again? “Then prove it, Poirot. They say the spouse is always the first suspect. What do you think?”
“Game on. If we’re basing this game on real people, then you’re talking about Nancy Donohue.”
“I hear she’s good with a gun.”
“A regular Annie Oakley. And from all the nasty things she’s said about her husband, I don’t think she liked him much. As for motive, she’s probably up for a big life insurance payout. Everyone’s insured for at least a mill these days, aren’t they?”
“Oh, at least.” I nodded sagely. “You are good at this. You’ve already come up with a suspect and a motive. Who else might have done it? For pretend, of course.”
“How about that Two Horses guy who runs the Gas-N-Go? Yeah, I know, he’s not here in the room, but everybody’s always talking about what friends he and that ranch hand were, which I’ll bet’s a bunch of crap, seeing as how they’re from different tribes. Ted’s a Paiute and the gas station guy, Earl, is half Navajo. Navajos were, what’s the phrase, the Paiute’s hereditary enemies.”
Who would have thought that Mia Tosches could tell the difference from one tribe and the other, let alone be knowledgeable about ancient tribal grudges. Maybe at some point in her life, she’d had an Indian friend. Or an Indian lover. That possibility might bear looking into.
“Sounds good, Mia, if the Gas-N-Go guy had killed the ranch hand, but aren’t you losing track of something here? Ike Donohue was the person who was murdered, not Ted.”
With a chuckle, she said, “I didn’t lose track. The way I see it is this: Two Horses killed Ike Donohue so Ted, his ancient enemy, would be blamed. You know the old saying, revenge is a dish best served cold.”
It would never do to underestimate Mia Tosches, because she was smarter and more well read than she appeared. “That’s pretty Machiavellian.”
She preened. “It is, isn’t it?”
Since she hadn’t asked what ‘Machiavellian’ meant, it was quite possible that she kept an underlined copy of The Prince tucked underneath her pillow. Well, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Like most larceny-minded folk, Mia probably spent much of her day accumulating information that might prove useful in the future.
As if to prove my point, she continued her recital of possible suspects. “See that man my husband’s talking to? Roger’s the one in the cute Wyatt Earp outfit.”
Standing next to Tosches was a bland-faced man whose only outstanding physical attribute was his Bozo the Clown hairstyle, a ruffed orange-ish ridge that not only ringed his bald pate but perfectly matched his orange cowboy shirt.
“That’s Cole Laveen, my husband’s new partner in the Black Basin Mine,” Mia said. “He could have killed Donohue. Awhile back, when that Kimama woman managed to halt the mine’s opening, Roger let him buy in. Since Laveen wasn’t connected to the problems Roger had at the mine on the Navajo rez, he got this bright idea that someone with a clean history looked better for the regulatory agencies, and God knows old Laveen has a clean history. Regardless of how comical he looks, he’s the dullest human being who ever walked the face of the earth. But appearances always lie in those detective shows, don’t they? He could have killed Kimama to get the mine started up again, then turned around and killed Donohue because Donohue was blackmailing him.”
“Mia, that’s amazing.” I meant it, too.
She winked. “Or, we can say Roger did it.”
“Your husband?”
“Men like that don’t make a fortune without doing an evil deed here and there.”
For a moment, I pitied Roger Tosches, who slept every night with a scorpion in his bed. One day she’d turn around and sting him. “Money’s always a prime motive, so I can see why he’d kill Kimama Olmstead, but what would be his motive for killing Donohue?”
“The same reason the Laveen couple might kill him. Blackmail. It would be even more understandable in Roger’s case, because Donohue worked for him and knew where all the bodies were buried.”
I pretended ignorance again. “Donohue only did public relations work for your husband. He wouldn’t have access to any dangerous information like that.”
“That’s what PR people are for, to cover up scandal. But if you don’t like blackmail as a motive, then how about this? The murder could have been a simple case of jealousy. Donohue wanted me and Roger got jealous.”
Despite myself, I began to laugh.
Mia did, too. “Motives don’t always have to be subtle, Lena.” Her arm brushed mine, not accidentally.
I stepped back again. “Ah, but they have to be believable, and from what I’ve heard, your husband is very open-minded.”
She gave me a look so intent it spooked me. “For someone who doesn’t even live in Sunset Canyon Lakes, you sure know a lot. But you’re right about that open-minded bit. That’s something Roger and I agreed on before we got married. I mean, girls will be girls, right?” She closed the distance between us again.
And boys will be boys, I thought, remembering Warren and Dusty. After silently reaffirming my vow to stay away from anything that smacked of romance, I asked one final question. “How about you, Mia? We can’t count you out, either, because you’re part of this mystery game. What would be your motive for killing Ike Donohue?”
With an evil smile, she leaned forward and patted my rump. “I’d do it just for the thrill.”
Chapter Thirteen
November 1979: Northwestern Arizona
That was it, then.
Gabe walked into his ranch house for the last time, went into the cold kitchen, and slipped Abby’s strawberry-patterned apron off its hook. He pressed his nose against it, smelled her Evening in Paris perfume and the lingering scents of thousands of meals. Then he folded it carefully and tucked it into his saddlebag. Memories safely stowed, he went back into the living room and saluted the autographed picture of John Wayne. He started to walk away, then changed his mind and put the picture into his saddlebag, right next to Abby’s apron.
“Nothing to stay here for no more.”
Blue Four, standing sentinel by his left heel, cocked his head quizzically.
“Now that Abby’s dead, the bank can have it all and we don’t care, do we, Blue?”
Hearing his name, the dog grinned.
Abby had had such a hard time dying that only the guard catching Gabe trying to sneak his rifle into the hospital had kept him from putting her down like he’d do to any grievously suffering animal. And she was his wife, for God’s sake, his one dear thing in all this world. Later that day, after he’d promised not to do anything stupid, he pushed the IV stand aside and crawled into the bed with her despite the guard’s disapproving glare.
“That’s my good girl,” he’d murmured, not caring what the man, any man, thought. Abby’s skin felt like paper, her bones like matchsticks. Her Evening in Paris had long since faded; now she smelled like death. He bundled her to him. “You go to sleep now.”
She’d managed a smile, breathed out hard. Then her eyes went dull.
It was over.
It was over for so many of them. Abby’s mother, father, sisters, nieces and nephews.
Not only family.
Friends.
Curly. Karlene Hafen. Sheldon Nisson. Lenn McKenney. John Crabtree. Delsa Bradshaw. Geraldine Thompson. Arthur Bruhn. Irma Wilson. Daisy Lou Prince. Donna Jean Berry.
Over, too, for half the people he’d met on that lifetime-ago movie: John Wayne, Susan Hayward, Agnes Moorehead, Dick Powell, Pedro Armendariz, the Paiute extras, the wranglers…
And the animals. Oh, Lord, the deer, the sheep, the cattle, the horses, Blue One, Blue Two, Blue Three—even Star. All dead too soon because of the disease the wind blew through the desert, like that Middle Ages thing Abby had raved about when she was hopped up on morphine. Only this wasn’t no Black Plague, this was American Plague, and the dying wasn’t as merciful.
Gabe looked down at his dog, into the face of its great-great-grandfather. “You about set, Blue?”
Blue Four wagged his tail.
“Then let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Chapter Fourteen
As soon as the sun rose the next morning, I left the motel and drove back to the area where I’d shot the coyote. Everything looks different in the daytime, especially in the early morning when shadows are long. Although I’d placed a rock cairn over her body it took several passes along the blacktop to locate the right spot. During the fourth pass, I found her.
She had picked a peaceful place to die. Near the cairn, a jackrabbit—more fortunate than the road kill last night—hopped through a miniature forest of cholla cacti. On the west side of the road, silver-green cottonwoods trembled in the breeze that whispered along the Virgin River. Not far away, a mitten-shaped mesa glowed red and purple in the new light, a brilliant contrast against the softer lavender hues of its sister mesas that stretched for miles behind it. Providing a soundtrack to this otherworldly scene, a flock of sparrows sang as they darted through the pink-streaked sky.
When a less musical sound, a cross between a sneeze and a cough, caught my attention, I looked toward the river and glimpsed something increasingly rare in Arizona: a small band of pronghorn antelope grazing in the brush. Hunters had decimated the animals in the southern part of the state, but in these wild northern badlands they were making a comeback. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have watched their slow progress along the riverbank, but I wasn’t here to sightsee.