Desert Wind

by Betty Webb

  Not wanting to show up at the ranch unannounced, I drove until the mitten-shaped mesa lay two miles behind me, then pulled over to the side of the road and checked my cell phone for bars. Three. I was back in business.

  “Sunset Tails Guest Ranch, Leilani speaking.” Jimmy’s sister.

  After identifying myself, I asked if it would be all right if I dropped by to speak to her father.

  “Oh, Lena, this isn’t a good time because one of our guests was thrown from a horse and we’re waiting for the ambulance and Dad’s beside himself and he’s…” She stopped and took a deep breath. “…snapping at everyone.”

  “Are the injuries serious?”

  “A broken leg, for sure. We’re worried about a couple of ribs, too.” Leilani lowered her voice. “Mr. Arden, that’s the guest, he’s been a bit of a problem ever since he got here, and, well, he demanded a better horse than he was given yesterday. So for some crazy reason Dusty let him ride Cisco. Well! Mr. Arden didn’t last five minutes. Not that Cisco is difficult, he’s not, but he used to be a cutting horse and can turn pretty fast. Apparently that’s what happened. They were all out on the trail and a rabbit ran right in front of Cisco so he swerved. Mr. Arden didn’t swerve with him, went right over the side. Not only that, but he got his foot tangled up in the stirrup. He’s lucky the horse didn’t bolt with him hanging upside down like that. I can’t imagine Dusty putting him on that Cisco.”

  A not uncommon riding accident, but Leilani was right. Dusty had wrangled at guest ranches for two decades and should have known better. Dudes, especially the testosterone-fueled male version, often exaggerated their riding skills. Why hadn’t Dusty seen through the man’s lies? Maybe he had something on his mind. Or someone. Mia Tosches, perhaps? That cowboy had always liked the ladies, something which had caused no end of trouble between us.

  “Lena, you there?” Leilani’s voice interrupted my train of thought.

  “Uh, sorry. What were you saying?”

  “I was saying that tomorrow would be a better day for you to come out. Dad should have settled down by then, along with the rest of us. Ten o’clock, say?”

  I agreed, then rang off. Next, I called Anderson Behar’s office and asked his secretary to email me a copy of Ike Donohue’s autopsy report as soon as it came in. But there I hit a wall.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Jones, but the only person of record allowed to receive information like that is James Sisiwan,” she told me.

  “He’s my partner at Desert Investigations,” I argued.

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  If she was sorry, why did she sound so damn happy? Biting back the snarky comment I wanted to make, I told her as politely as possible to email the autopsy report to Jimmy and gave her his email address.

  “I can only do that with Mr. Sisiwan’s permission,” she said.

  Bitch! “Then I’ll tell him to call you.” I hung up before I totally lost my temper, certain that when the world finally ended, it would be because some officious secretary refused to push the SAVE OUR ASSES button until she received permission from her boss.

  It took me a few minutes to calm down, but when I did, I fished Olivia Eames’ card out of my carry-all and placed another call. The reporter picked up right away. Not wanting to keep the air conditioner running while we talked, I opened the Trailblazer’s windows to let in fresh air. At this particular bend in the road, I was close enough to the Virgin River to smell water.

  “Lena Jones here, Olivia. Hey, what do you know about Mia Tosches?”

  She began to laugh. “Girl, you just provided a bright spot in a shitty day! I love to gossip about that woman. What do you want to know? Who she and her turd of a husband have been sleeping with?”

  “They both fool around?”

  “Separately and together. The Thoroughly Modern Tosches, as they’re known in Walapai Flats.”

  “She hit on me last night at the mixer.”

  “Don’t brag. She hit on me, too. So’d he, as a matter of fact, but ewww!”

  “Other than that, do you know anything that might tie either of them to Kimama Olmstead’s death? Or Ike Donohue’s?”

  The laughter disappeared from her voice. “Only suspicions, Lena. And you know what they say, suspicions and a dollar won’t even buy you a cup of coffee.”

  It occurred to me that if she did know something, she wouldn’t share, at least not until she broke the story. So I asked her about something else that had been bothering me. “Last night you mentioned that Katherine Dysart acted as a source for one of your stories at the Boston Globe,” I asked. “Which story would that be?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Now she sounded cautious.

  “It might be important. If you don’t tell me, my partner will find out anyway.” I kept my voice light.

  The caution vanished from her voice. “That big Sisiwan guy? Long black hair? Tribal tat on his temple? A real cutie?”

  Oh, lord, not her, too. “Yeah, the cutie.”

  “I hear he’s Ted’s brother. That’s an interesting family, isn’t it, all those adopted kids. Tell me what you thought of Hank.”

  Olivia was a pro, leading me down the garden path while ignoring my question. But I knew how to play the game, too. “Hank Olmstead? I couldn’t get a fix on him, other than that he’s worried enough about Ted to hire an attorney, however limited that attorney’s skills may prove to be. Nice segue, by the way, Olivia. Answer my question about Katherine.”

  She chuckled, but still played it coy. “Katherine was an unnamed source in the story, and no matter how good your partner is, he can’t find what’s not in print.”

  “I thought newspapers like the Boston Globe frowned on using unnamed sources.”

  “It’s verboten if they’re the only source in the story, but I used six other sources and named each one. Katherine gave me some useful background info, that’s all. And you don’t segue so bad yourself.”

  “Was the article about women whose husbands were imprisoned?”

  The silence was so long that I began to think the call had been dropped. Before I punched in her number again, she said, “That’s one hell of a wild guess, Lena.”

  “Not so wild. I spotted one of those home-made prison tattoos on Trent’s neck. A pretty unusual accessory for an Ivy Leaguer. Nothing like walking around with your rap sheet hanging out for God and the whole world to see.”

  “He’s in the process of having it removed.”

  “But in the meantime, there it is. If Dysart is his real last name, and even if it isn’t, Jimmy will find out all about him.”

  She sighed. “You’re right. And since it’s all on record anyway, I might as well give you the sordid details. Yes, Trent served time. He and Katherine were at the Brae Burn Country Club one afternoon and for some reason, maybe he’d had too many celebratory cocktails after coming in two under par, he wound up in an argument with one of the Kennedy cousins. It got physical. Long story short, Trent socked him one, and on the way down the guy’s head slammed into the corner of a table. He never regained consciousness. Trent was contrite, but that didn’t count for much during his trial. He was convicted of second-degree manslaughter and was sentenced to ten years in a medium-security prison. Turns out, there wasn’t much medium about it. The place was so rough that he had to join a prison gang just to survive; hence the tattoo.”

  “Ten years? He must have been released early on good behavior.”

  “That and over-crowding. But Boston being Boston, and with neither of their families speaking to them, Katherine convinced him that it might be best to start all over someplace else. Not easy to do with a prison record, so when a job search turned up dual openings at Sunset Canyon Lakes, they jumped at it. Satisfied now?”

  “Roger Tosches didn’t mind hiring an ex-con?”

  “Roger Tosches believes the only good Kennedy is a dead Kennedy.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jimmy and I arrivedat the same time at the jail, where a friendly but fir
m deputy told us that visiting hours were cancelled. Drugs had been found in one of the inmate’s cells, and the jail was on lock-down for the next twenty-four hours. And sorry, the sheriff was even busier today than yesterday, but I was welcome to call back later in the day when things calmed down. The sheriff was aware of my need to discuss the Ted Olmstead case, and yes, but for now I had to be patient.

  “Lunch at Ma’s Kitchen, then?” I asked Jimmy, as we walked down the steps in disappointment.

  He looked glum. “Might as well.”

  Ma’s being so close, we left our vehicles in the county lot and walked over. We were early enough that the restaurant wasn’t yet crowded yet, so we had our choice of booths. The scent of garlic in the air announced that pasta was on the menu again. Once Jimmy’s little friend Tara took our orders—we both chose the linguini in clam sauce special—I lowered my voice and told him what had happened that morning.

  Alarm leapt into his eyes. “You need to stop driving around alone in the desert.”

  “Hard to do, since this is Arizona.”

  “You know what I mean, Lena. There’s a lot of hostility floating around this little town. Remember that riot you ran into yesterday?”

  “Who could forget?” The vision of the elderly woman and her smashed wheelchair would remain with me for a long time. Jimmy was right. For all its homey charm, Walapai Flats played house with a surprising streak of meanness, but if I’d been the timid sort, I wouldn’t have driven up from Scottsdale in the first place. Hell, I’d never leave my office at all, just remain anchored to my desk, merely answering phones. Private investigation was a dangerous business, because you never knew what kind of violence lurked around the corner. And God help me, I loved the game.

  To get Jimmy off the subject of my safety, I told him about last night’s mixer and my conversations with Mia Tosches and Olivia Eames. “According to Olivia, Tosches doesn’t mind his wife’s extracurricular activities.”

  Jimmy grunted. “Maybe, like that guy in the movie, he likes to watch.”

  “Being There, with Peter Sellers.”

  “Totally overrated, too,” he said with a sour look. “Give me a good Western any time as long as it’s the Indians who win.”

  “That keeps your movie selection down to a bare minimum.”

  He smiled. “Apparently you didn’t see my DVD collection when you broke into my trailer.”

  Time to change the subject. “I almost forgot to tell you. Trent Dysart, Katherine’s husband? He’s an ex-con.”

  “Based on your female intuition?”

  “Don’t be sexist.” I described Trent’s prison tat and my conversation with Olivia Eames. “Look into him and see what other kinds of dirt you can dig up. Prison can make a man violent, even if he wasn’t violent before. And since Trent actually did kill that guy, supposedly by accident, I’m curious. He and Donohue both lived in Sunset Canyon Lakes. Who knows what kind of confrontation they might have had.”

  “Sounds promising. I’ll check out Katherine, too.”

  “That mixer, by the way…”

  I was interrupted by Tara delivering our linguini, which looked and smelled delicious. She served Jimmy with great flair; me, perfunctorily. “Pie comes with the special,” she told Jimmy, batting her long lashes. “We’ll be getting busy in a couple of minutes, so I suggest you make your choice now. I’ll keep an eye on your booth and when you’re about finished with your entree, I’ll bring it over. So what do you prefer, apple, peach, lemon meringue, or banana cream?”

  Jimmy gave her a gentle smile. “Surprise me, Tara. I trust your judgment.”

  She flushed with pleasure then turned to me. “You?”

  My own smile had no effect on her. “Apple. With a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”

  After she walked away, I said to Jimmy, “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “That thing you have with women.”

  He gave me a long look. “I like people, even women. Or more accurately, especially women. Unlike men, most women take the time to delve beneath a person’s surface and aren’t blinded by an artificial exterior.”

  If I hadn’t known Jimmy better, I might have interpreted his comment as a dig at my own track record. Warren, the sophisticated film director; Dusty, the handsome wrangler. Had I looked beyond their slick surfaces when I met them? I tried to convince myself that my attractions ran deeper than that, but a small voice inside me whispered, Liar!

  We busied ourselves with our linguini. After finishing the last oily morsel, I said, “Just so you know, on my way back into town I called Ted’s attorney’s office and asked his secretary to email you a copy of Donohue’s autopsy report. She said she won’t do it without vocal confirmation from you, so call the bitch.”

  “Language. We’re in public.” Jimmy pushed his plate away. “He was shot to death. We already know that.”

  “But him calling around, apologizing for past behavior, that sounds like Twelve Step work to me. I want to know more about that. Now are you going to call or not, dammit?”

  “I’ll call her if you stop cursing.”

  “Deal. And Donohue…”

  Cutting me off, Tara arrived at the table bearing two huge slices of pie; banana cream for Jimmy, apple à la mode for me.

  “I’ve always admired a woman who’s not afraid of food,” Jimmy said a few minutes later, as I attacked my dessert. “But back to Ike Donohue. So you think some Twelve Step program might have played into his death?”

  “I can’t think of another reason for those ‘I’m sorry’ phone calls, especially since he took the time to tell the granddaughter of an old friend to stop smoking. Considering the fact he used to do PR for a tobacco company, that sounds like an ‘amend.’”

  “Maybe we should have looked for a drug connection in the very beginning. The lockdown at the jail proves there’s a problem in this town.”

  “There’s a drug problem in every town.”

  “On every reservation, too.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. Jimmy had lost cousins to overdoses; I’d lost friends. The drug epidemic in America had become so widespread that few families remained untouched.

  Then I remembered something I’d meant to ask earlier. “By any chance have you run across Donohue’s insurance policies? I’ve been wondering how much his wife will get.”

  “Donohue left his wife a million and a half. These days, that wouldn’t be considered astronomical, but we’ve run into plenty of people who would kill for much less.”

  “Nancy needs new furniture.”

  He grinned. “Well, there you go.”

  As soon as I finished my apple pie, I glanced over at Jimmy’s banana cream. “Boy, that looks good. I reached over and helped myself to a forkful. “Mmmm. It’s as good as it looks.”

  “Say, did you call the Board of Health about that rabid coyote?”

  “Even before I called Anderson Behar’s insufferable secretary.” I gestured with my fork toward his pie. “Do you want the rest of that? If not, I’m eating it.”

  He shoved it toward me. “Knock yourself out.”

  ***

  I left Jimmy to flirt with Tara, but instead of returning to my car, took a stroll through town. A good PI can glean information in the unlikeliest of places.

  Although the day was too hot to be pleasurable, the overhangs that shaded the raised wooden sidewalks kept the temperature tolerable. Tourists were out in full force, strolling along John Wayne Boulevard, peeking into shop windows offering John Wayne tee shirts, John Wayne key chains, John Wayne DVDs. Each store sported a sticker on its door proclaiming the proprietor was a proud member of the Walapai Flats Chamber of Commerce. Spotting a familiar face inside Big Hoss’ Western Emporium—also a proud member of the Walapai Flats Chamber of Commerce—I walked in. The prosperous-looking gentleman who’d handed me a 10 percent off coupon at the demonstration yesterday was building a small pyramid of John Wayne coffee mugs on a table.

 
; I pulled the coupon out of my carry-all and said, “I’ll take the mug that says, ‘Don’t say it’s a fine morning or I’ll shoot ya.’” On that issue, Wayne and I were in accordance; mornings weren’t my favorite time of day, either.

  “Excellent choice,” the man said. “The quote’s from McLintock. We carry the film in DVD or VHS, whichever you prefer.”

  “Was the movie made around here?”

  “Nope, down by Tucson.” He reeled off a list of movies filmed in Walapai County and then tried to get me to buy one. Or two. Or three. When I declined, he walked over to a nearby shelf and brought back an obviously phony Indian headdress no real Indian would be caught dead in. “How about this? The green feathers match your eyes perfectly.”

  “Just the mug, thanks.”

  Recognizing that I wasn’t in a shopping spree mood, he led me to the counter, where I handed him my American Express card and 10 percent off coupon. As he picked up my card, I said, “Say, didn’t I see you at the demonstration?”

  A furrow appeared between his eyebrows. “That was a very rare and unfortunate situation. We Walapai Flatians are actually very peaceful people.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday, too. But if a little thing like a demonstration can get those peaceful people riled up enough to whack each other with baseball bats, what’s the problem with uranium mining? Is it radioactive or something?”

  “Of course not!” Toning it down, he added, “Uranium mining is a perfectly safe enterprise when it’s handled responsibly. Those demonstrators you saw are nothing but radical environmentalists. If they had their way, we’d be back burning candles for light and riding bicycles to work.”