Desert Wind

by Betty Webb

  Failing with Laveen, I tried easier prey and was immediately rewarded with more colorful information on Nancy Donohue. At the age of nineteen she’d been ticketed for shooting her first husband, Dwight Bob Gleason, on the opening day of Deer Hunting Season, outside Billings, Montana. Her hunting partner survived, and a month later was granted an uncontested divorce. Exploring her new freedom, Nancy shot her way eastward, eventually winding up in Halifax County, North Carolina, where she bagged a final deer. Hunting season finished, she moved to Durham and took a job in the bookkeeping department of the Cook & Creighton Tobacco Company. Her next appearance on the Internet came in 1969 when she was named as co-respondent in an ugly divorce case between Ike Donohue and Evelyn Woodruff Donohue. Her civic and philanthropic activities were limited to membership in the National Rifle Association.

  A crick in my neck hinted that I’d been hunched over the laptop for too long, so deciding I’d done enough research for one day, I stood up and stretched. Then I walked over to the window, opened the blinds, and looked out over the pool. Nothing but a gaggle of tourists wearing ill-advised bathing suits. I closed the blinds. I picked up the Sue Grafton novel, opened it. I read three paragraphs. I put the book down. I stretched again.

  God, I was bored.

  Not knowing what else to do, I turned on the television and flipped through the channels. TCM was running a John Wayne marathon, but after my poking around in Gabriel Boone’s room, I was sick of the actor, so I kept flipping. For the next half hour, CNN’s talking heads informed me about the collapse of the Euro, riots in the Middle East, reports of more radiation sickness in Japan, and the collapse of another Royal marriage. After a report about acid being thrown into little girls’ faces in Afghanistan to punish them for attending school, I returned to Nickelodeon to watch cartoon penguins build a time machine. The penguins were cute, but I grew bored again, so I flipped back to the John Wayne marathon. With no TV guide in the room to tell me the name of the currently-running film, I had to guess. True Grit? Yeah, he was wearing an eye patch. I remembered hearing he’d received an Oscar for his performance, so deciding it couldn’t be too bad, settled into watch.

  Wayne was trading insults with a smart-mouthed teenage girl when my cell phone rang. Caller ID flashed the number of Sunset Trails Guest Ranch. Expecting Jimmy, I muted the TV and answered, eager to tell him what I’d learned about the price of uranium. Instead, it was Hank Olmstead with a proposition for me.

  “Miss Jones, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for us, and now I’d like to hire you—at Desert Investigations’ standard rate, of course—to help Gabriel Boone. He did not, I repeat, did not kill Ike Donohue.”

  Confused, I said, “But he confessed.”

  “It was a false confession, of that I’m certain, and he only confessed after he learned that Theodore had been arrested.”

  “Ted was being held as material witness,” I corrected. “Not arrested.”

  “Amounts to the same thing as far as I’m concerned. Look, Miss Jones, I’m convinced that Gabriel confessed merely to get Theodore released. If you can find out who really killed Ike Donohue, we can end all this foolishness and Mr. Boone can come back to the ranch where he belongs. Now, I’m not saying that he doesn’t have it in him to shoot someone, and he just might if he caught them abusing a woman, a dog, or a horse, but he wouldn’t do it in the dead of night and he wouldn’t let someone else take the blame. Gabriel Boone is a man of utmost integrity.”

  It must be nice to trust another human being so implicitly. Foolish, though. “Mr. Olmstead, I’ve known a couple of killers who could be described that way, but it’s a moot point. Boone said he did the deed and as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it. While I appreciate your generous offer—I’m sure Jimmy has filled you in on our price structure—I’ve been out of my office too long.”

  “James told me how much you charge but he also told me that business was slow during August and that you’re having someone else cover for you. So why don’t we handle it this way. It’s Thursday, right? Stay through the weekend, and if you haven’t come up with anything to help Mr. Boone by Monday noon, I won’t try to talk you out of driving back to Scottsdale. In effect, you would only be staying one more business day.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’m well aware that you charge double for weekend work, and I have no trouble with that. If need be, I’ll pay you in advance.”

  My opinion of Olmstead rose again. He might be stuffy and stubborn, but he sure valued his friends.

  And he’d raised Jimmy.

  Softening, I said, “Tell you what, Mr. Olmstead. I need to make a couple of calls to check on some things. After that, I’ll get back to you. What do you say?”

  “I’ll be waiting by the phone.” He rang off.

  Before I called Jean Begay back in Phoenix, I did some thinking. Leilani had told me about Sunset Trails’ money troubles, which is why Tosches had smelled blood in the water. Those money troubles would now increase, because a murder on ranch grounds was bound to scare off tourists. Yet Olmstead was ready to shell out thousands to defend an admittedly guilty man.

  Nevertheless, I punched in Jean Begay’s Phoenix number. After she told me everything was copacetic and that she’d taken care of the few calls that had come in from Desert Investigations’ clients, we bid amiable goodbyes. Then I called my favorite foster mother, my ninth, and asked if she’d stop by the Desert Investigations office during her weekly trip into Scottsdale.

  “I just want to make certain everything’s okay,” I explained. “No vandals, no taggers, no homeless encampments in the parking lot.”

  “Happy to do it for you, sweetie,” Madeline said. “I’m driving over to Arizona Art Supply tomorrow and I’ll swing by your office on the way. Want me to dust, clean, scrub the toilet?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  She laughed. “I knew you’d say that, it’s the only reason I offered. You know I’d rather be dead and stuffed in a taxidermy museum.”

  I spent the next few minutes listening to her as she discussed the critics’ reaction to her recent one-man show. Mostly, she said, the reviews had been positive, but according to two critics, her allegiance to abstract expressionism—as well as to painting itself—was passé.

  When I commiserated, she said, “They’re the same nincompoops who raved over that fool who had a camera lens implanted in the back of his head and was streaming the images live over the Internet. To them, stunts are art. But what the hell. My show’s almost completely sold out, and you know what they say—living well is the best revenge. Looks like I’ll clear enough to buy that new hybrid car I’ve been eying. Well, gotta go, sweetie. When you called I was cleaning brushes and I’d better finish before they stiffen up. Give me a call as soon as you get back and we’ll go out for lunch. I’ve found a scrumptious Indian vegetarian restaurant on Scottsdale Road, and it’ll be my treat.”

  “American Indian or India Indian?”

  “India Indian, and hotter than hell. It’ll turn your blond hair red.”

  Thank God for Madeline. No matter how stressed I felt, she always soothed me. “How does Tuesday sound? I’ll surely be back by then.”

  She agreed and we rang off.

  Keeping my promise, I called Olmstead. “I’m yours, but only until noon Monday. Have Jimmy draw up the contract.”

  “He already did, Miss Jones.”

  Sometimes I suspect Jimmy knows me better than I know myself.

  ***

  As I was about to submit to the jail’s metal detector so I could visit Gabriel Boone, someone called my name. Turning around, I saw Sheriff Alcott hurrying toward me through the lobby.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  He gestured toward the hallway that led to his office. “We need to talk.”

  Once his office door closed behind us, he rifled through the papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for, and jerked it out of the stack. Even from across his desk, I could see the W
alapai County Crime Lab header.

  After clearing his throat, he said, “I’m not going to try and cushion this, so here it is. The ballistics lab just faxed over the results on that slug you dug out of the desert. It matches the bullet that killed Kimama Olmstead.”

  Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. “But Kimama’s murder happened months ago, and from what I’ve been told, most people believe it was connected to her activities in Victims of Uranium Mining. Why would her killer target me?”

  He waggled a finger at me, like I was a dog that’d piddled on his rug. “Don’t be too certain the shooter is the same. Yes, we now know that the same carbine was used for both you and Kimama Olmstead, but firearms can change hands, and frequently do. To prove my point, we matched the striations on the bullet in Donohue’s killing to one taken from a four-year-old girl wounded fifteen years ago in a home invasion in Detroit.”

  Which meant that the pistol that fired the fatal Donohue bullet had either changed hands or its owner liked to travel. “Was anyone from Walapai Flats in Detroit during that time?”

  “We’re checking. As for the common belief that Mrs. Olmstead’s killing was connected to that anti-mining group, that’s mere conjecture. For all we know, the killing might have been a domestic.”

  “A domestic? What the hell are you getting at? Ted wouldn’t dream of…”

  “I said could have been, not was.” Up to that point, he’d remained standing, but now he sat down and took a deep breath. “Let’s talk about the timeline. Last Friday, Ike Donohue is murdered—by a different firearm, by the way—and we pick up Ted Olmstead as a material witness. This action brings his brother James riding to the rescue all the way from Scottsdale. Fine, no problem, I’m all for brotherly love. But no sooner does Mr. Sisiwan arrive than he starts questioning the good citizens of Walapai Flats and scaring the bejesus out of them, so we’re forced to pick him up, too. Now we’ve got two Olmsteads in jail, which doesn’t go over great with their father, who, before this happened, I was proud to call my friend. A couple of days later, you show up. Being a trained investigator, you ask many of the same questions Mr. Sisiwan asked, but with considerably more finesse. What happens then? Someone with access to the Kimama Olmstead murder weapon starts shooting at you. Before the dust settles, there’s another murder, only this time the victim isn’t a political activist; it’s Roger Tosches, the richest man in the county. There you have it. In the space of one year, we have four shootings, three of them fatals, from two different weapons. Are you following me?”

  I nodded.

  “Miss Jones, my advice to you and your partner is to reacquaint yourself with the lovely town of Scottsdale.”

  “In other words, get out of Dodge.”

  He gave me a thin smile. “There’s nothing to be gained by staying here. Whether we have one shooter or two or even three, the Walapai Flats County Sheriff’s office is better equipped to handle an investigation like this. You and your partner are only muddying the waters, and God knows they’re already muddy enough.”

  My smile was no more genuine than his. “While I always like to cooperate with law enforcement officials, there’s a problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “Hank Olmstead hired me to work on behalf of Gabriel Boone. In fact, I was on my way to talk to him when you flagged me down.”

  “You’re in way over your head, Miss Jones.”

  I stood up to leave. “It won’t be the first time.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Gabe couldn’t understand why the detention officer had brought him back to the interview room. He’d already given his statement to the detectives; he’d talked and talked to that pudgy attorney Hank Olmstead sent along, so what now? He was tired of talking. He’d said what he’d said and that was the end of it. He didn’t much like the shackles they put on him every time they shuffled him out of his cell, either. What did they think a broken-down old cook was gonna do with those arthritic hands of his, twist off some kid deputy’s head?

  Baffled by the craziness of it all, he leaned back in his chair and began counting the fly specks on the ceiling. He’d reached fifty-seven when the door opened and a tall woman entered. She looked wrong in here, kinda reminded him of that line in Stagecoach, the movie that made the Duke a star: “She’s like an angel in the jungle.”

  “Watch yourself with this one, Gabe,” the Duke said, suddenly appearing behind her. He was still wearing that red double-breasted shirt. They didn’t change clothes on the Other Side?

  “I’m not worried,” Gabe replied.

  The woman looked confused for a moment, then said, “Well, I’m glad you’re not worried, Mr. Boone.” Her voice was a mixture of songbird and steel. “My name’s Lena Jones and I’m a private investigator. Hank Olmstead hired me to help you.”

  He started to laugh, but the Duke cautioned him that would be rude, and it didn’t do to be rude to a woman. Besides, Gabe thought, this Jones girl was a pretty thing, with green eyes and long yellow hair almost the same color as his Abby’s back in the days when she was trying to look like Doris Day. He struggled to his feet. Shackled or not, he always stood when a lady entered the room. “Mighty pleased to meet you, Miss Jones, but you’re wasting your time. Like I told them detectives, I surely did kill that man.”

  Her sad smile tore at his heart. Oh, yes, she was good-looking, all right. But no one, not even this Jones girl, could be as pure pretty as Abby.

  “Sit back down, Mr. Boone. We need to talk.”

  Tough girl. Good breeding there. With horses, dogs, and women. “I’m always happy to talk to a lovely lady like yourself, Miss Jones.”

  The Duke nodded his approval. “You’ve got that spot on, Gabe. Blood always tells, and this filly is proof of that.”

  Miss Jones reached down into a backpack-sized purse and pulled out a notebook and pen. When she looked back up at him, her pretty smile was gone. “While I’m well aware that you’ve confessed to killing Ike Donohue, I want you to tell me how you did it and why. Give me as many details as you can remember.”

  Remembering. Ah, yes, that was the problem. Wasn’t it always? He looked over to the Duke for inspiration, but the Duke picked that moment to vanish. Probably on his way to help someone else, so Gabe was on his own. But that was okay. He had rehearsed his speech so many times he knew it by heart.

  He gave her an apologetic smile. “Well, now, Miss Jones, I already answered them same questions as best I could for them detectives who talked to me. They videotaped the whole thing. Me, in the movies! Ain’t that a stitch? Anyways, them detectives had me write it all down on a yellow pad of paper, too, and when I was finished, I signed my John Hancock to the whole thing. I’m guessing they’ll give you a copy if you ask nice. Maybe even a copy of the tape.”

  “I won’t be able to get my hands on those materials for a while. Since Mr. Olmstead has already forked over a big check to your new attorney, why don’t you make it worth his while by telling me what I need to know? Specifically, why did you shoot Mr. Donohue? Oh, and while you’re at it, tell me about the firearm you used, whether it was a rifle or a handgun.”

  The interview room was air-conditioned, but it felt like the thing wasn’t even running because sweat started dripping down his body. He hoped he wasn’t stinking up the place. Not that the law would care, but he didn’t want to offend this pretty girl. She sure didn’t stink. Smelled like lilacs and soap, she did. There’d been a touch of lilac in Abby’s Evening in Paris perfume, too, and he’d always been a sucker for lilacs.

  Mindful of his language, he said, “You know, Miss Jones, when you get to be my age, your memory starts going, just like your hearing. I told that to the detectives, and they gave me a bad time about it, but what can you expect, ’cause the ages of both them boys together don’t add up to mine. They don’t know the first thing about getting old. I’ll tell you what I told them, that the only thing I can remember is followin’ that Donohue fellow up to Sunset Point, shooting him, then kicki
ng his body over the ledge. That’s pretty much it.”

  “You do remember what firearm you used, don’t you?”

  “Can’t help you there, either. Might a been that old hunting rifle I’ve had since God was a pup, might a been that pistol I won in a poker game over in Sparks, Nevada. All I can remember is a big bang, then Donohue falling down.”

  “Where do you keep your firearms?”

  No wedding ring on her left hand. What was wrong with men today, letting a fine woman like that get away? Were they blind or just plain stupid? To ease a heart that had to be lonely, he gentled his voice like he’d do with a skittish mare. “Well, Miss Jones, I keep my guns in my room, in the barn, sometimes in my truck. It all depends on what I’m gonna do during the day. Like most of them boys out at the ranch, I like to do me a little target shooting from time to time.”

  “Where are your firearms now?”

  Talk about a one-track mind. Abby’d been like that, too, never letting him get away with anything. Knowing what she was like, he’d always behaved himself around his sweet girl, ’cause if he didn’t, he’d never hear the end of it. That was a woman’s job, wasn’t it, keeping her man walking the straight and narrow. Once Abby was gone, look what had happened to him. If it hadn’t been for the Duke setting him on the right path…Well, Hank Olmstead came in for some of the credit, too. He’d never forget what that man did for him—gave him a chance for redemption and he sure wasn’t about to blow it.