Kiss the Bees bw-2

by J. A. Jance

"And how long have you been writing full-time?"

  "Until I married my husband Brandon, my second husband, I had a full-time teaching job out on the reservation and only wrote during the summers. That's Tohono O'othham — spelled t-o-h-o-n-o new word o'-o-t-h-h-a-m, by the way. The school where I taught is in Topawa, south of Sells, about seventy or so miles from here. After Brandon and I married, I cut back to substitute teaching. I did that for about three years, and I've been writing full-time ever since."

  As Diana went through the motions of answering the questions, it occurred to her that if Monty Lazarus had actually read her book, he would have known the answers to some of those questions without having to ask. She remembered dealing with many of them as part of the "back" story in Shadow of Death.

  She bit back the temptation of mentioning to her interviewer that it might have been a good idea for him to do his homework. It wasn't at all smart to tell an interviewer how to do his job, not unless she wanted a hatchet job to appear in the periodical in question. Instead, Diana Ladd Walker answered the questions with as much poise and humor as she could muster.

  Having filled several pages with cryptic notes, Monty Lazarus finally put down his pen. "Okay," he said. "Enough of that. Now, let's turn to the more personal stuff.

  "Where do you live?"

  "Gates Pass, west of Tucson."

  "For how long?"

  "Since 1969. I moved there right after my first husband died. Brandon Walker came to live there after we got married in 1976."

  "Where were you from originally?"

  "Joseph, Oregon," she said. "My father ran the town garbage dump. We lived in the caretaker's house the whole time I was growing up."

  "So yours is pretty much one of those Horatio Alger stories," Monty Lazarus offered.

  Diana smiled. "You could say so."

  "And do you have children?"

  "Yes."

  For the first time in the whole interview, she felt suddenly wary and uneasy. That was stupid, because she had answered all these same questions time and again. She took a deep breath.

  "In 1975 I was a widow raising an only son, a six-year-old child. In 1976, Brandon and I married. He had two children, two sons. In 1980 we adopted a fourth child, our daughter, Lani."

  "Four," Monty Lazarus repeated. "And where are they all now?"

  Maybe knowing that question would automatically follow the first one was the source of some of her anxiety. She opted for putting all the cards on the table at once.

  "The two older boys were Brandon's. My one stepson disappeared years ago while he was still in high school."

  "He ran away from home?"

  "Yes. At this point, he's missing and presumed dead. His older brother got himself in trouble and ended up in prison in Florence. I believe he's out now, but I have no idea where he's living. We don't exactly stay in touch. The two younger ones, my son David, and our daughter, Lani, are fine. David just graduated from law school in Chicago, and Lani is a junior at University High School right here in Tucson."

  Monty shook his head sympathetically. "It's tough," he said. "Raising kids is always a crapshoot. So it sounds as though you're running about fifty-fifty in the motherhood department."

  "I guess so," Diana agreed. Fifty-fifty wasn't a score she was proud of. She would have liked to do better.

  Monty Lazarus glanced down at his watch. "Yikes," he exclaimed. "We've been at this for over an hour. I'll go flag down a waitress. Can I get you anything? Another glass of wine, maybe?"

  Diana shook her head. "I'd better switch to iced tea," she said. "No sugar, but extra lemon."

  As Monty Lazarus sauntered away, Diana was left mulling his sardonic words about raising kids. Crapshoot. That just about covered it.

  Tommy, Brandon's younger son, had walked out of their lives one summer afternoon between his freshman and sophomore years in high school. Over the years they had gradually come to terms with the idea that Tommy was probably dead-he had to be. The situation with Quentin wasn't nearly as clear-cut. Diana sometimes thought they would have been better off if Quentin had died as well.

  The moment she met Quentin Walker, Diana recognized he was both smart and mean. Even as a ten-year-old, his conversation had shown intermittent flashes of intellectual brilliance. No, lack of brainpower had never been one of Quentin's problems. Curbing his tongue was, his tongue and his temper. He was manipulative and arrogant, angry and unforgiving. Not only that, by the time he was in high school, he had already developed a severe drinking problem.

  Five years earlier, he had been driving drunk. He had crashed his four-wheel-drive pickup into a compact car, a Chevette, killing the woman driver and her two-year-old child. As if that weren't bad enough, the woman was six months pregnant. The baby was taken alive from his dead mother's womb, but he, too, had died three days later.

  Brandon was still sheriff at the time of the trial, and the whole ordeal had been a nightmare for him. Not that he was responsible. Quentin was an adult and had to deal with his own difficulties. Brandon Walker's whole life had been committed to law and order, yet here was his son, a repeat drunk-driving offender, who had blithely killed three people. And when the judge had shipped Brandon Walker's son off to Florence for five years on two counts of vehicular homicide (the dead unborn fetus didn't count), it had almost broken Brandon's heart. It had seemed at the time that things couldn't get any worse. And then they did.

  Three years and a half years after he was locked up, shortly after Diana had started work on Shadow of Death, Brandon had come home from work and told her the latest bad news in the Quentin Walker department.

  The moment Diana caught a glimpse of his face as Brandon stumbled into the house, she knew something was terribly wrong. His face was so gray she initially thought he might be having a heart attack.

  "What's happened?" she had asked, hurrying to his side. "What's going on?"

  Shaking his head, he walked past her proffered embrace, opened the refrigerator door, pulled out a pair of beers-one for each of them. He sank down beside the kitchen table and buried his face in his hands. Concerned, Diana sat down beside him.

  "Brandon, tell me. What is it?"

  "Quentin," he groaned. "Quentin again."

  "What's he done now?"

  "He's hooked up with a gang of extortionists up in Florence," Brandon answered. "They've been operating out of the prison, supposedly accepting bribes on my behalf. It's a protection racket. They've been telling people that if they don't pay up, something bad is going to happen to their building or business, without any cops being there to take care of things. In other words, if the marks don't fork over, they don't get any patrol coverage."

  "But that's outrageous!" Diana exclaimed. "They're claiming you're behind it?"

  "That's right."

  "But that's the whole reason you were elected in the first place," Diana protested. "To clean things up and put an end to that kind of crap."

  "Right." Brandon, staring into the depths of his beer bottle, answered without looking Diana in the eye.

  "How did you find out?"

  "Hank Maddern told me."

  "Hank!" Diana echoed. "He's been retired for years. How did he find out?"

  "One of the deputies-Hank wouldn't say which one-went to him with it and asked for advice as to what he should do about it. The deputy evidently thought I was in on it." Brandon's voice cracked with emotion. It took a minute or so before he could continue.

  "Considering the well-known history of graft and corruption during Sheriff DuShane's watch, you can hardly blame the guy for thinking that. Thankfully, Hank and I go back a long way. He came straight to me with it."

  "What are you going to do?"

  Brandon sighed. "I already did it," he said. "I went straight to Internal Affairs and told them to check it out on the off chance that some of my officers are involved. I told them I'll cooperate in any way necessary, and that they should do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of it."

  "What'll
happen to Quentin?" Diana asked.

  Brandon shook his head. "We're talking felonious activity, Diana. If the prosecutor gets a conviction, he'll spend a couple more years in prison. And when you're already in the slammer, what's another year or two? He won't give a damn, but it's going to be hell for us. Our lives will have to be an open book. We'll have to turn over all our bank records. The investigators will want to know just exactly how much money came in, where it came from, and where it's gone. I told them to have a ball. We've got nothing to hide."

  In the bleak silence that followed that last statement, Brandon Walker slipped lower in his chair, leaning his weight against an arm that had dropped onto the table. "No matter what we did for that kid, it was never enough."

  Diana reached out and put one hand over her husband's. "I'm sorry," she said.

  He nodded. "I know," he murmured. "Me, too."

  "It's not your fault, Brandon," Diana said. "You did everything you could."

  He looked up at her then, his eyes full of hurt and outrage. And tears. "But he's my son, for Chrissakes!" he croaked. "How the hell could my own son do this to me? How could he go against everything I've ever stood for and believed in?"

  "Quentin isn't you," she said. "He made his own choices…"

  "All of them bad," Brandon interjected.

  "… and once again, he's going to have to suffer the consequences."

  Even as Diana uttered the too pat words, she knew they were a cop-out. She was hurt, too, but the real agony belonged solely to Brandon. After all, Quentin was his son. With Tommy evidently out of the picture for good, Quentin was the only "real" son Brandon Walker had left, which made the betrayal that much worse.

  For years they had listened while Janie, Brandon's ex-wife, made one excuse after another about why Quentin and Tommy were the way they were. In Janie's opinion, the critical missing ingredient had always been Brandon's fault and responsibility, one way or the other, although whenever Brandon had tried to exert any influence on the kids, Janie had continually run interference. Any attempt on Brandon's part to discipline the boys had met with implacable resistance from their mother. Diana had seen from the beginning that it was a lose/lose situation all the way around.

  "Can you imagine what Janie's going to say when she gets wind of this? She's going to blame me totally, just like she did with the accident."

  "You're the sheriff," Diana had said. "You have to do your job. Remember, Quentin's a big boy now-a grown-up. If he's turned himself into a criminal, then it's on his head, not yours."

  But that wasn't entirely true. Quentin was the one who was prosecuted for his part in the extortion scheme, and a slick lawyer got him off but when the next election came around, Brandon Walker lost. His opponent, Bill Forsythe, managed to imply that there had to be some connection between Quentin's illegal but unproven activities and his father, the sheriff.

  Diana thought that Brandon could have and should have fought back harder against the Forsythe campaign of character assassination, but somehow his heart wasn't in it. When the fight ended in defeat, he retreated into the Gates Pass house and lived in virtual seclusion while focusing all his energies and frustration on cutting and stacking wood.

  Monty Lazarus returned to Diana trailed by a waitress bearing a tray laden with glasses of iced tea as well as a bowl of salsa and a basket of chips.

  "I thought I'd order a little food-something to keep up our strength." He grinned. "Now where were we? Oh, that's right. You were telling me about your daughter. University High School. That's a prep school of some kind, isn't it?"

  Diana nodded.

  "So she must be smart."

  "Yes. She hopes to study medicine someday."

  "And pretty?"

  Once again she felt that vague sense of unease, but she shook it off.

  "I suppose some people would say so," Diana said dismissively. "But aren't we getting a little off track?"

  "You're right," Monty Lazarus said. "Have some chips and salsa. When I'm hungry, my mind tends to wander."

  Buying the car had been fun for Quentin Walker. Early on he had settled on a faded orange, '79 Ford Bronco 4-by-4 XLT, with alloy wheels, a cassette deck, towing package, a newly rebuilt 302 engine, and a slight lift. He'd had to go through the usual car-buying bullshit with that cocky bastard of a salesman who acted like he was working for a Cadillac dealership instead of hawking beaters at a South Tucson joint called Can Do Deals Used Cars.

  Winston Morris, in his smooth, double-breasted khaki-colored suit and tie, had taken one look at Quentin's mud-spattered boots and figured him for some kind of low-life without a penny to his name. Quentin had willingly put up with all the crap, waiting for the inevitable moment when Winston would finally get around to saying, "What's it going to take to put you in this car today?"

  Quentin had leaned back in his chair and casually crossed one leg over the other. "You've got it listed at forty-two hundred. I'll give you thirty-five, take it or leave it."

  The sad look that came over Winston's face was as predictable as his initial closing question. "You can't be serious. We're in this business to sell cars, not give them away."

  But when Quentin got up to leave, the bargaining had begun in earnest. Quentin ended up paying thirty-six fifty. But the most fun came when the dickering was done and Winston had said, "How do you intend to pay for this?"

  That was the supreme moment, the one Quentin had been salivating over all morning. Nonchalantly, he had reached for his wallet and opened it. One by one he drew out four of the thousand-dollar bills and laid them down on the desk in front of the salesman. "You can give me change, can't you?"

  The look on Winston's face as he scooped up the four bills had been well worth the price of admission. He had taken the money and disappeared into his sales manager's office. He was in there for a long time. No doubt, everybody there was busy trying to figure out whether or not the money was counterfeit. Eventually, though, he came back out and finished up the paperwork.

  Leaving the lot, Quentin still felt good. After not driving a car for six years, it was strange to be back behind the wheel again, odd to be in his own vehicle. Knowing what would most likely be waiting for him in the desert, he stopped at a grocery store and picked up a six-pack of beer, a flashlight, and several spare batteries, as well as a large box-an empty toilet-paper box. Then he headed out of town.

  The good mood lasted for a few miles more, but as soon as he crossed the pass and could see the mountain ahead of him, a pall of gloom settled over him. He popped open the first can and took a sip of beer, hoping to hold off the blanket of despair that was closing in on him.

  If only his father hadn't made him take Davy out to the charco that day. Then, none of the rest of it would have happened.

  "Do I have to?" Quentin had whined to his father on the phone. "Me and Tommy have better things to do today than haul Davy Ladd out into the desert to put a bunch of plastic flowers on something that isn't even a grave."

  "Listen here, young man," Brandon Walker said. "We're not talking options here. Where did you get that car you're driving?"

  "From Grandma," Quentin conceded grudgingly. "You bought it for us from Grandma Walker."

  "That's right. Diana and I both bought it for you," Brandon corrected. "As long as we're paying for gas and insurance, you'd better straighten up and help out when required to do so. Is that clear?"

  "I guess," Quentin said. "But do we have to do it today?"

  "Yes. Today is the anniversary of Gina Antone's death. Rita's too busy with Lani to take care of the shrine herself and it would be too hard on her anyway, so Davy's agreed to do it for her. It's very important to Rita that the work be done today."

  "Well, I'm not doing any of it."

  "Nobody's asking you to. Davy will do whatever needs doing. Brian will probably help out too, if he can come along." Now that Quentin was being slightly more agreeable, Brandon was willing to be conciliatory as well. "I'll send along enough money so the four of you
can stop off at the trading post and have a hamburger or a burrito on your way back. How does that sound?"

  "Okay, I guess," Quentin said.

  Showing off, Quentin had driven the aging '68 New Yorker like a maniac on the way out to the reservation. Tommy was game for anything, but Quentin was waiting to see if he could scare either Davy or Brian into telling him to slow down. Neither one of them said a word. The bad part came, though, when they turned off Coleman Road and headed for the charco.

  Quentin was still going too fast when they came around a blind curve that concealed a sandy wash. He jammed on the brakes. Seconds later, the Chrysler was mired in sand up to its hubcaps. By then they were only half a mile or so away from the charco and the shrine. Brian and Davy had set off with their flowers and candles. Meantime, Quentin left Tommy to watch the car while he hiked out to the highway to find someone to pull the Chrysler out of the sand.

  That took time. He was gone over an hour. When he came back with a guy with a four-wheel-drive pickup and a chain, Tommy was nowhere to be found. The car was out of the sand, the guy with the pickup was long gone, and Brian and Davy were back from doing their shrine duties before Tommy finally showed up.

  "Where the hell have you been?" Quentin growled.

  "I got bored," Tommy told him. "But you'll never guess what I found. There's a cave up there," he said, pointing back up the flank of Kitt Peak. "It's a big one. I tried going inside, but when it got too dark, I came back." He wrenched open the passenger door, opened the glove box, and took out the flashlight Brandon Walker insisted they keep there in case of trouble.

  "Come on," he said. "I'll show you."

  "We can't do that," Davy said.

  "Can't do what?"

  "Go in the caves on Ioligam, " Davy told him.

  "Why not?"

  "Because they belong to the Indians. They're sacred."

  "That's bullshit and you know it!" Tommy said. "Caves belong to everybody. What about Colossal Cave? What about Carlsbad Caverns? Besides, it's Kitt Peak anyway, not 'chewing gum.' "

  "Ioligam,"Davy repeated, but by then Tommy was already headed back up the mountain. Quentin paused for a moment. He himself wasn't wild about exploring caves, but the idea of doing something Davy was against proved to be too much of a temptation. "If Tommy's going, I'm going," he said. With that, Quentin set off after his brother.