by J. A. Jance
By the time the mile-long funeral cortege reached the cemetery at Ban Thak, the sun had already dropped behind the crest of Ioligam. People crowded into the dusty cemetery, stumbling over crumbled headstones and crooked crosses and standing on what must have been graves themselves as they strained to hear whatever words the Reverend Moon had to say this time.
After the casket had been lowered into the ground and properly covered with new blankets fresh from JC Penney, the crowd remained transfixed while Leo and Richard helped their mother drop the first shovelful of earth onto the casket. One at a time, each of the children took their separate turns. After that, while the menfolk worked at filling the grave, women and children headed toward the feast house, where the smells of wood smoke from cooking fires filled the warm desert twilight.
With people lining up outside, Wanda took her place at the door to the feast house and offered a short blessing. “Thank you, Lord, that in this time of sorrow you offer us food that we may remember to live. Amen.”
Then she flung wide the feast-house door and let the first group enter.
From where Brian stood, the line seemed to stretch forever. Every fifteen or twenty minutes, a group of forty or fifty people would be allowed inside. Only when that group had finished eating and left was the next group admitted. Brian had come home late. He and Kath had arrived at the high school gym just after the service started. Now he and Brandon Walker stood near the end of the line. With both their wives helping cook and serve, there was no sense rushing.
“There are lots of people,” Brian observed. “It’s hard to imagine they won’t run out of food or dishes.”
Brandon had been to plenty of Tohono O’odham feasts, but this was by far the largest he’d ever seen. He nodded. “The old miracle of the loaves and fishes all over again,” he said.
The two men stood slightly apart from the rest of the line. Had Leo or Baby been with them, Brian and Brandon would have been included in some of the easy laughter and lighthearted banter from other people waiting in line. Without Ortiz relatives to run interference, the two Anglos were left alone-Mil-gahn outsiders in an essentially Indian world.
“Brian, I’ve got to talk to you,” Brandon began.
A cell phone chirped farther up the line. The crowd paused and waited. The idea of a cell phone ringing while people waited to eat food cooked over a woodstove struck Brandon’s funny bone. Years earlier, when hard-wired telephone lines had been difficult to come by on the reservation, phones had been a rare commodity outside the villages of Sells and Topawa. Now, though, with revenue-raising cell-tower sites dotting reservation lands, cell phones had proliferated.
Finally, as general talk and laughter resumed, Brandon broached a subject he’d been waiting to bring up. “I understand you made an arrest in that case,” he said casually. “The one from over the weekend. I heard a snippet on the radio earlier, but since I haven’t had a chance to look at the paper, I’m short on details.”
“We did,” Brian agreed. “And the guy’s been bound over for trial.”
“You don’t seem too happy about it,” Brandon observed.
“Arresting him may have been premature,” Brian said. “I suspect there’s a whole lot more to the story than we know so far.”
“You and PeeWee are both good detectives,” the older man said encouragingly. “You’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Brian accepted Brandon’s praise gratefully. He wasn’t getting strokes like that from Sheriff Forsythe. “By the way,” he added, “I did look at that file you mentioned the other day.”
Brandon’s heart leaped, but he tried not to show it-tried not to sound too eager. “Roseanne Orozco’s file?” he asked.
Brian nodded. “I have to admit, that case does bear an uncanny resemblance to this new one, but I doubt they’re related,” he said. “For our guy to be the perp, he would have started killing people when he was five.”
“Right,” Brandon agreed. “That’s not too likely. I think I-”
He was interrupted by the arrival of Davy and Candace, who had emerged from the feast house as the group at the head of the line was ushered inside. Tyler, whimpering and whining in typical two-year-old fashion, clung tightly to his father’s shoulder.
“The kid’s run out of steam,” Davy explained. “We have to get going.”
“How are our womenfolk holding up in there?” Brandon asked.
Davy grinned. “Fine,” he said. “They’re washing dishes like mad.”
“What about the food, Ty?” Brandon asked. “Was it good? Did you leave any for Grandpa?”
For an answer, Tyler Walker Ladd shook his head and buried his face in his father’s neck. Candace, standing off to one side, beckoned impatiently and then headed for the car. Davy nodded in acknowledgment, sighed in resignation, and followed.
“She keeps him on a pretty tight leash,” Brian said.
“True, but what do you expect?” Brandon agreed. “She’s a woman, isn’t she?”
Another cell phone chirped. This time it was Brian’s turn to dig his phone out of his pocket. Not wanting to listen in, Brandon con-tented himself with wondering whether or not he should say anything about his own suspicions. What did he have to go on other than a sense Larry Stryker had been lying? He had nothing concrete to offer that would cover Brian’s back if Sheriff Forsythe came gunning for him. And until you do, Brandon told himself, shut the hell up.
Brian clicked off his phone. “Damn!” he muttered.
“What’s the matter?” Brandon asked.
Brian Fellows turned to his old mentor with a face full of anguish. “PeeWee and I were going to interview our suspect again this afternoon, but things came up. I was worried about being late for the funeral, so we put the interview off until tomorrow. Now it’s too late.”
“What do you mean, it’s too late?”
“Our suspect just tried to off himself, but he botched the job and is on life support at Saint Mary’s,” Brian said. “PeeWee thinks we should be there if he wakes up-or if he doesn’t.”
Brandon understood. More than once the same thing had happened to him when a suspect had committed suicide before answering the critical question that might have filled in the missing pieces of some puzzle. “Sorry about that,” he said.
“Thanks,” Brian replied. “I’d better go.”
It was hot inside the cooking portion of the feast house. As the evening dragged on, tempers ran short. “How many more groups?” Wanda Ortiz asked, surveying the dwindling stacks of tamales and tortillas.
“At least three more,” Kath Fellows answered, “not counting this one.”
Wanda shook her head. “Maybe we won’t run out of food,” she said, “but it’s going to be close.” She glanced at Delia, who had been manning the serving line for most of the evening. “You look tired. Sit down and put your feet up for a few minutes.”
Delia glanced toward the sink, where Diana Ladd and Lani had been doing KP duty all evening long. Other people had offered to spell them, but they had refused all offers. They claimed to be doing fine and were more than happy to keep on doing it. Even now, hours into the event, they were still talking and laughing. Despite the tragic occasion, working together in the hot kitchen provided its own salutary remedy.
Not wanting to be outdone in the dutiful department, Delia shook her head. “I’m fine,” she told her mother-in-law. “You’re the one who should sit down.”
By then the new set of guests had their plates and were streaming into the serving line. When a discreet knock sounded on the exit door, Wanda opened it to find Brian standing outside.
“I have to go in to work,” he called to Kath, who stood in the serving line doling out thick red chili. “Can you come now?”
Kath made no move to leave her station. “Does it look like I can come now?” she asked.
Lani, who had heard the exchange, pulled her soapy hand from the dishwater and dashed over to Brian. She gave him a brief but enthusiastic hug. “Long time n
o see,” she told him. “But don’t worry about Kath. Leave her here with us. I’ll see to it that she gets home. Promise.”
“You’re sure?” Brian asked. “It’s out of your way.”
“I don’t mind,” Lani said.
“Is that all right with you, Kath?”
“Sure,” Kath Fellows told her husband. “It’s fine. Get out of here now. You’re holding up production.”
The whole day and most of the evening passed without Gayle’s being able to sort out what to do about Larry and Brandon Walker. Frustrated and tired, she finally went to bed in the upstairs bedroom of her El Encanto home. She switched on the television set just as that night’s edition of the Ten O’Clock News came on. KOLD-TV’s “Breaking News” headline stunned her.
“This afternoon Erik LaGrange, former director for development for Medicos for Mexico, one of Tucson’s premier nonprofits, was charged with first-degree murder in the death of an unidentified teenage girl whose dismembered body was found near Vail on Saturday. We’ve just received word from the Pima County Sheriff’s Department that this evening, shortly before nine o’clock, LaGrange attempted suicide in his Pima County Jail cell. He’s been taken to Saint Mary’s Hospital, where he is listed in guarded condition.”
Gayle’s joy knew no bounds. This was nothing short of a miracle-a gift from a god Gayle Stryker hadn’t, until now, believed in. If Erik died, what could be better? When it came to assumptions of guilt, nothing quite compared with committing suicide-or even attempting it. And if he lived? No problem. Gayle Stryker was a master at the art of spin. She knew that the very act of saying something loud enough and long enough could make it true, even if it wasn’t. She had told Bill Forsythe earlier about the unsatisfactory job-performance review looming in Erik’s future. Now she had a chance to turn that job review into a motive for murder.
After looking up KOLD-TV’s phone number in the book, Gayle dialed the “Breaking News” number and asked to speak to the news director. While the weatherman was doing his gig, Gayle Stryker was speaking to a blundering young woman who was obviously out of her league.
“My name is Gayle Stryker,” she said firmly. “I’m the chief operations officer for Medicos for Mexico. I’m concerned about the headline story you ran a few minutes ago. I’d like to make a public statement.”
The assistant news director mumbled and fumbled and tried to put her off. She evidently had no idea who Gayle Stryker was. Or maybe she just didn’t believe that the woman speaking on her phone was actually who she claimed to be, but Gayle refused to be dissuaded.
“Put Gary Fisher on the line,” she ordered, referring to the station’s nighttime news anchor and hunk. “I’ve done lots of charity events with Gary. He knows me personally.”
Which is how, after the end of the sports segment, KOLD’s Ten O’Clock News filched a little time out of Monday evening’s David Letterman show. While the camera focused on one of the station’s stock photos of Gayle Stryker, her voice came through loud and clear.
“At Medicos for Mexico it has recently come to our attention that our former director of development, Erik LaGrange, may have been using his position of trust with us in order to entice young women to enter this country illegally. It is suspected that he may have had something to do with the murder of one of those poor girls. My husband and I are both appalled and disheartened that he might be capable of such heinous actions, and we can only express our terrible sorrow and regret that anyone connected to Medicos for Mexico-someone we regarded as a trusted employee-could have used our organization’s good name to camouflage such evil.”
All in all, it was a masterful performance. Afterward she was sorry she hadn’t thought to turn on the VCR. Most of the time when she appeared on a news broadcast, she simply asked the station to send her a copy.
In this instance, that would probably be a bad idea.
A little before eleven, Diana Ladd went looking for her husband, who was outside leaning on Leo’s truck. “Uncle,” she said. “I’m not as young as I used to be. Do you mind taking me home?”
“Are you kidding?” Brandon grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. Where’s Lani?”
“She and Kath are staying on to help clean up.”
Brandon was torn. Should he say something about Larry Stryker or not? Confide his fears in Diana and worry her, too, or count on the presence of other people to protect Lani?
As they headed toward the Suburban, Brandon noticed that Lani had left the Buick’s top down in Ban Thak’s dusty parking lot. “Why did she do that?” he grumbled, masking his real concerns. “The interior’s going to be filthy.”
“Don’t hassle her about it,” Diana cautioned. “I’ll have it detailed tomorrow.”
Diana fell asleep before they ever reached the highway. As far as Brandon was concerned, that was just as well. He had been tired while he waited all those hours at the feast house, but now that they were going home, he felt the adrenaline kicking in. He was eager to go to his study and see what the TLC reference librarians had sent him.
He had parked inside the garage and turned off the engine before Diana roused herself. “Sorry to conk out on you,” she said. “I’m wiped out and on my way to bed. What about you?”
“I’ll stop in my office for a few minutes,” he told her. “TLC sent me some faxes earlier. I didn’t have a chance to glance at them.”
Diana shook her head. “I forgot,” she said, climbing out of the car.
“Forgot what?” Brandon asked.
“How you are when you’re on a case. Totally focused. And immune to sleep.”
“I sleep,” he said.
“Not as much as I do,” she told him. “And not as much as you should.” She reached up and kissed him as she went past. “Good night.”
Brandon fed Damsel and used playing ball with her as an excuse to check out the yard and the exterior of the house. Finally, reassured nothing was amiss, he went into his office. Earlier, when his printer had been acting up, Brandon had only taken time to scrape the scattered papers into a pile. Now, sitting down to sort them, he discovered there was a rudimentary order to them. He laid them out like a game of bridge, matching faxes and page numbers rather than suits of cards.
Once he had the material organized, he grabbed a highlighter and started to read, all the while keeping his ear cocked for the sound of the Buick’s big tires crunching the graveled driveway.
J. A. Jance
Day of the Dead
Twenty-Five
The woman dropped her own cradle blanket and ran to the nuhkuth from which the baby’s voice had come. She took the cradle in her arms, but her arms held only some dry brown leaves that were swinging from a spider’s thread.
Then the woman heard another baby cry. This cry came from among some low bushes, but when she reached the place, there were only more dry leaves. The leaves were curled into tiny cradles, but the cradles were all empty.
The woman stood, puzzled. From left and right and all around, she heard the cries of little babies, but when she looked she found only more dead leaves. And the leaves were thick under her feet. The noise of the dead leaves was almost as loud as the cries of the babies.
The woman put her hands over her face.
The last group of diners had been herded through the feast house before the cooks and servers finally sat down to eat. There weren’t enough tamales or tortillas to go around, but by then they were all too tired to eat very much anyway. Then they tackled the cleanup.
Once the big pots and pans had been washed and dried, Leo and Baby loaded them into the back of a pickup truck. When they had finished loading, Leo popped his head back in the door and saw Delia sitting with her feet up. “Do you want to ride home with us?” he asked.
Wanda cut him off. “Leave Delia here,” she ordered. “You two have all that stuff to unload. I’ll drop Delia off on the way. She’ll be home sooner if I take her.”
“Is that all right with you, Delia?” Leo asked.
&
nbsp; Delia nodded. “Whatever gets me home and in bed the fastest is what I want to do.”
Leo and Baby left a few minutes later as the women began the final wiping down of tables and sinks and sweeping the floor. Delia was half asleep when a sudden gush of water brought her fully awake. She was astounded to find herself sitting in the middle of a growing puddle.
“Your water!” Wanda exclaimed. “It broke. The baby’s coming.”
Delia heard only that much before her body was doubled over by a powerful spasm. It started at her rib cage, front and back, and then rolled down and through her body like a marauding truck, leaving her gasping for breath and clinging to the bench with both hands to keep from falling.
The next face Delia saw was Lani’s, right in front of hers, barely inches away. Lani’s mouth was moving, but at first Delia heard nothing. Finally a few of the words came through. Something about “hospital.” And something about “walk.” And then the contraction ended.
“I’m all right now,” Delia said. “I can walk.” She tried to stand, with her clothes dripping around her. As soon as she did, another contraction hit. She dropped back down on the bench as though her legs had been lopped from under her.
When Delia came around again, Lani’s face was once more in front of hers. “…car…” she was saying urgently. Then, with Lani Walker at one elbow and Christine at the other, Delia felt herself being lifted off the bench and propelled out of the feast house. Just outside the door sat Diana Ladd’s huge convertible with the top down and the engine running. Kath was behind the wheel. She got out to help Lani lever Delia through the passenger-side back door and into the backseat. Delia was lying flat when the next spasm hit.
She saw the worried look on Lani’s face and heard her say “…not make it…” Then she heard nothing more. When the contraction overcame her, Delia no longer cared if she was standing up or lying down.
When she came to herself again, the space above her was filled with stars. Somehow she was moving through or maybe under them. I must be dead, she thought. The baby and I are on our way to heaven. But then Lani’s face obliterated the stars. This time she held a long, pencil-thin flashlight between her teeth. Her long hair whipped around her face. That was when Delia finally understood that she was in the backseat of an open convertible. As they bounced along over a rough dirt road, she realized Lani was there in the backseat with her. Before Delia could make sense of any of that or say a single word, she was overwhelmed by another powerful spasm.