Murder Under the Desert Moon

by Maria Grazia Swan

  "Oh, and what are we going to do?"

  "We'll listen very carefully then let them know we need to think about it. We'll say good-bye, and I'll take you for a paddleboat ride."

  I rolled my eyes. "Where? In the desert?"

  "Seriously, Encanto Park, and the name is well earned, it's enchanting. If we have time I'll show you the historic district next to the park. It will probably remind you of the old country. I'm still waiting to hear from the Innocence Free Project about meeting with Carillo."

  Just then a tall, lanky young man entered the room carrying some files. He was so light on his feet it was as if he slid instead of walked. He wore a suit and tie. He shook my hand first.

  "Mrs. York, I'm Patrick Smith."

  He laid a file on the table in front of me. Next he introduced himself to Larry and gave him a file also. The man didn't smile much. When he sat across from us he put on reading glasses and opened his own file, then looked at us.

  We followed his lead. The file consisted of about ten pages of legalese. I didn't even bother reading it, just sat back and waited for Larry to do his thing.

  Thirty minutes later we sat in the rented Lincoln on our way to Encanto Park.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Encanto Park was not something I'd ever imagined finding in Phoenix. Smack in the heart of the city, too. Green grass, expanses of it, hard to ignore. That was the first thing I noticed. And tall, very tall palm trees. Maybe my imagination played tricks on me, but I could swear it felt cooler.

  The air, the grass, the stream of water peacefully wandering under bridges and stretching and curling like a ribbon made of blue sky. Fantastic.

  And, yes, Larry was correct, paddleboats and white swans shared water space in this man-made paradise. To the east you could see the silhouettes of some high buildings dotting Central Avenue, but it was easy to forget about them when surrounded by nature at its best.

  "I'm guessing you like it." Larry had his arm around my shoulders and nudged me forward.

  "I'm speechless—never would I have guessed that this slice of heaven existed here." I looked at my open-toed sandals. "Do you mind if we skip the boat ride? And you know what else? On the way back home we should buy some drinking water. Look, everyone is carrying a bottle. Makes me thirsty looking at it. We're definitely the tourists."

  "What's wrong with tourists? They're good for the local economy." He bent to kiss me on my forehead.

  He was just so cute. Staying over turned out to be the right decision.

  "Is it just me, or is there a theme here? Encanto Park and Fountain Hills Lake. Both large bodies of water in the desert."

  "I hear they have manmade lakes in many other places in the county, except that if I remember correctly, Encanto Park was the first one and possibly the best. Goes back to the forties."

  "Where do they get the water from?"

  "Lella, I don't know. Ancient canals? Perhaps the purpose was to cool the air—remember there wasn't any air conditioning back then. I'm told that Encanto Park at night is about five degrees cooler than the concrete jungle on Central, and no, we aren't going to come around at night."

  So, I had not imagined the drop in temperature.

  "Dennis said last summer the park lost a large amount of the old, original trees during a major monsoon, just about the same time you and I were carousing around Europe."

  We arrived at the lagoon where kids and grown-ups alike were fishing. The older generation sat on low chairs with attached umbrellas. Very clever. Some of the children were as young as five. Mostly boys, dark-skinned, from the sun or by birth? Big bright eyes, totally focused on the task.

  It reminded me a little of growing up in Italy and of the river running through my hometown. There too, there were the occasional fishermen, but no kids. The kids could be found diving into the water from rocky ledges and often scraping their knees. This was turning into a nostalgic experience rather than a carefree one.

  "Dennis? Do I know him?" I asked.

  "Dennis the lawyer. He was at the Sheriff's party. He lives in one of the houses I was telling you about. Can't recall the name of the street. Doesn't matter. He's not home anyhow—he's meeting with the Innocence Free Project group and putting in a recommendation for me to be allowed to see Carillo."

  "So, is Dennis one of the good guys? And what about the Sheriff?"

  "Wait, wait. The Sheriff has nothing to do with Carillo. The Sheriff runs the jail system. Carillo is in prison."

  "Jail, prison, what's the difference when you're locked away?"

  "How did we get onto this subject? People in jail are in for minor offenses carrying a year or less. Prisoners have longer sentences, and the prison system is run by the state government and the governor, not the Sheriff. Personnel working there are correctional officers, not detention officers. Let's go look at houses before I get depressed."

  "Good idea. Let's get out of the sun," I said.

  "Okay, but I'm waiting for a phone call. How about we find something cool to drink, and then I'll show you the old mansions. They're not too far from here."

  "Are we taking the Phoenix nostalgia tour?" I kidded.

  "Not nostalgia as far as I'm concerned, but you may catch it big time. Most of the houses date back to the 1920s, and the European influence is hard to miss."

  On a cloudy day, if there were such a thing in Phoenix, we could have walked to the Encanto-Palmcroft Historic District. It was that close to the park. Blue signs announcing the well-earned spot as a Historic Place could be seen on most every corner.

  Except for the missing turquoise waters of the Mediterranean, the whole neighborhood, with its weathered tiled roofs and swaying palm trees, reminded me of coastal places in Europe: Monte Carlo or the French Riviera.

  We drove street by street at a snail's pace as images of newly disembarked European immigrants filled my mind. And if that weren't enough, the names of the streets fueled the fantasy even more: Monte Vista (some Italian missing his mountains?), Granada (a Spaniard of course), Virginia (this one had me thinking of lost love).

  The homes were on larger than usual lots, and while the architectural styles varied from Spanish to Tudor, all shared the same perfectly green, manicured lawn and mature vegetation. I bet their water bills in summer were the equivalent of a mortgage payment in the less pricey neighborhoods.

  Larry's phone chimed; it was the call he'd been waiting for. I listened to his side of the conversation. The name Carillo was mentioned and also news media. By Larry's expression I guessed not everything had played out the way he'd hoped. Does it ever? The call ended.

  He sighed and patted my knee, absentmindedly, I could tell. "Well, I may have to drop you off at the condo and then come back to town," he said.

  "Bad news?"

  "Not exactly, just not the way I would have preferred things. Life."

  He made a U-turn, and we headed to the east side of town leaving the historic realty behind. We stopped at a Safeway store to pick up bottled water, fresh fruits, and a few other items before heading back to the place we called home.

  Larry felt compelled to dress professionally. Thankfully the Lincoln's air-conditioning system worked very well, or the poor man would have been drenched in perspiration by the time he reached the offices of his buddy Dennis. That's where everyone was supposed to meet. I had no desire to join him.

  As soon as he left I put on a lighter, looser kind of dress. I had come to the conclusion that dresses without tight belts were probably the most practical outfit to wear in the Arizona heat. Forget jeans or anything snug. Plus, I still experienced the occasional hot flash. I pitied the poor women going through menopause in this town, too hot to sit outside, even with the misting and the fan. I wasn't about to go fry by the pool.

  Flash decided to nibble on my ankle. Was it hunger or boredom? Do cats have good memories? Would she remember the ferret next door? Whatever, I fed her and waited to see if that did the trick. Maybe I could watch television? That was going to be a chore
. I had no idea what channel was what in Phoenix. With nothing going on, this would be the perfect time to find out.

  I heard a knock at the front door. I hesitated. Who could it be? Well, it was still daytime, and my neighbor was but a shout away. I went to unlock the door to find the very same neighbor I'd just thought of, standing there. She looked different in the light of day. Older, more tired. That was an odd thing to think.

  She wore a caftan similar to the one she'd had on the evening before, but this one was pale yellow, and the fabric wasn't so see-through. Her hair hadn't changed. She didn't look at ease—she kept rubbing her hands against each other and fidgeting. Was I making her nervous? Good, payback for the way I'd felt the night before when I went looking for Flash.

  Flash. Damn. Did she get out? That darn cat.

  "Hi." We both said hi at the same moment. Awkward.

  "Huh, I was…I wanted to let you know, um, it's okay for your cat to play with Lucy. If you don't mind, I mean."

  I felt sorry for her. Why? "Would you like to come in?"

  I stepped aside, and she walked into the living room. She looked around. Maybe she was comparing places? Should I close the front door or leave it open? Living by the beach without air conditioning this was a new experience. I was pretty sure Larry told me you were supposed to keep doors and windows closed when the air conditioning was running. Apparently the system recirculated indoor air or something like that. I closed the door.

  "So, Mrs. Kurtis, what can I do for you?" I congratulated myself on remembering her last name.

  "Vivian, please call me Vivian." She sounded a little more comfortable. "And no missus. I've never been married." She spoke in a sort of neutral tone, as if announcing someone else's marital status. Either that or having repeated the same words over and over they had lost all real meaning.

  "Would you like to sit down?"

  She did. She walked around the sofa and sat on one of the accent chairs on the opposite side of the coffee table. I made myself comfortable on the sofa.

  Vivian stretched forward, staring at me, her bottom barely touching the seat. "Where are you from?" she asked.

  "California, Orange County."

  "Huh, no, I mean, where are you from, you know?" She fidgeted again.

  I feared she was going to slip off the chair. "Oh, oh. Sorry, you mean where am I from originally?" I chuckled. "I tend to forget about my accent. Italy. I'm Italian."

  That seemed to appease her. She finally sat back and sort of relaxed. Even her face didn't look so tense. "Italy," she repeated, her voice an octave lower. "Lovely country. My family is also from the old country."

  "From Italy?" Now she had my full attention.

  She shook her head no. "Not Italy, some country that was with Russia but is no longer a country."

  "Oh, I get it. So is your family here now?"

  "No, no. It's just me."

  "Same here, my husband was American. I'm a widow, but I have a son, a wonderful son. His name is Kyle. I'm so proud that he speaks Italian. I don't know, sometimes I ask myself if I should have gone back to Italy, but after all these years, it would be like starting all over, you know?" Why was I telling all this to a perfect stranger?

  Again she nodded and lowered her glance. "If you're alone, perhaps you'd like to come over and have a drink?"

  "Oh, how rude of me, I didn't even offer you something to drink. I'm so sorry. The heat must be getting to my brain."

  "It's okay, really. We don't get too many people in the units during the summer months, and I have a nice bottle of Italian Prosecco chilled just right." She smiled for the first time.

  Against my better judgment I decided to go back to her place for a glass of Prosecco. I didn't even lock the front door. After all I was going to be just on the other side of the wall.

  And it was there that Flash sat, waiting. I noticed that Vivian's gate to the patio had a sheet of Plexiglas on the interior side. That explained how the ferret couldn't get out; it probably couldn't climb or jump around like my annoying cat.

  The inside of her place looked just like ours, but reversed. She had more, and probably better, artwork on the walls and luxurious rugs on the floor. Before she could close the door Flash sneaked in acting like the guest of honor.

  I couldn't see the ferret, but being so small and limber, she could have been hiding just about anywhere. It didn't take long for my cat to locate the furry thing, and before I could sit back into the comfy sofa, the two of them were running around the room like old friends.

  "I can't get over it," I said to Vivian. "As far as I know, this is the first time Flash has ever seen a ferret. Larry explained how they're not allowed in California, and yet, look at them."

  "Yes, people could learn a lot from pets," Vivian said from the kitchen.

  I assumed she was getting her famous chilled bottle of Prosecco. It seemed to me she wasn't just a casual visitor to this complex, with potted plants and knickknacks galore this had to be her real home, unless she owned the place and could come and go at will. And why did I care? I heard a loud noise outside.

  "It's the yardman," my hostess said. "He sweeps the patios with the leaf blower." She went to the window, pushed back the drapes, and waved.

  Yes, she couldn't possibly be just a casual tourist like me.

  The scurrying of small feet stopped, and cat and ferret couldn't be seen nor heard. Vivian came back with a tray holding stem glasses filled with what I assumed was bubbly wine and a small bowl of saltines and one of potato chips. That was indeed very European. She rested the tray on the coffee table and moved her head in the direction of the dining room. I followed her glance, and there, in a corner, Flash and Lucy slept on a towel.

  We both smiled at the sight.

  The Prosecco was wonderful, and I found myself munching on potato chips, something I hadn't done in years. "So, Vivian, when was the last time you were in Europe?" I really wanted to say, "that you went home," but somehow it didn't feel appropriate.

  She seemed stumped by the question and looked at me as if I had grown an extra head. "Europe? Huh, let me think…it has been so long…" Her eyes bounced from my face to some blank spot on the wall—she swallowed, hard. "Ten, maybe twelve years ago? Can't remember exactly."

  By her sense of embarrassment you'd think I'd asked when she'd last had sex.

  "I tried to go back to Italy every year while my mom was alive, but now I don't go so often. I guess it's the same for you?"

  "I didn't go back home. I was a flight attendant with American Airlines." Her voice could have put the air conditioning temporarily out of business. Ouch.

  Time to change the subject. "Vivian, do you think you can give me a fast rundown on the local television channels? I'm sure it's different than in California."

  "Oh, sure." That was a quick defrost. "You mean like, ABC is channel 15, and NBC would be channel 12. Any particular show you like to watch?"

  "Not really, but Larry may want to watch the news, you know."

  She nodded. "Larry is—your boyfriend?"

  It was my turn to nod and feel uncomfortable.

  "You two travel together much?"

  "Well, not really." I wasn't going to tell her about Flash getting into Larry's car. "He's here on business—I sort of decided to tag along."

  "Is that why you brought two cars?"

  Darn, this woman didn't miss much. "Actually, the Lincoln is a rental. I think I should get back in case Larry calls."

  Vivian reacted by clicking on a remote, and the television came on. "Wait—let me make sure I gave the correct channels." She sounded hurried, kept on clicking, then stopped, staring at the screen as if hypnotized.

  I followed her stare, and there was Larry Devin, next to Dennis the lawyer and two more men in dark suits, being interviewed by various local reporters.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I couldn't sleep. Neither could Larry. His expression had screamed stress the minute he'd stepped through the front door, and while I doubted it ha
d anything to do with me, his pain was my pain and vice versa. This was a new twist in our relationship. Usually, I would be the one with the night sweats and hundreds of doubts creeping into my head after the light went off.

  "Larry." I tapped his back with the tip of my finger. "Would you like to talk about what's bothering you?"

  He stirred, then turned on the lamp on the night table. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he said.

  "You didn't. How can I go to sleep when I sense all this misery festering inside you? It must have something to do with the press conference because I don't remember you being upset when you left."

  He sat up, rested his back against the headboard, and the light filtering from the lampshade cast a shadow on his face. He looked gloomier than before. "This isn't what I expected." His hands clenched over the light blanket. "I feel so guilty, like all that has happened to that poor kid is entirely my fault."

  "Is it?"

  "No, I hope not." Hesitation was in his voice.

  "Then why are you beating yourself up over an imagined wrong doing?"

  He turned to look at me. Did he even see me? I watched his fists relax, letting go. "You know what?" He smiled. "You're absolutely right. Thank you, Dear Abby." He slid his arm under my shoulders and pulled me closer. "I shouldn't let the three-ring circus get to me. And tomorrow I will be visiting Miguel Carillo. Dennis will be my chaperon. I must find out what all this thanking me is for. Truth or irony?"

  "What are you talking about? Who's thanking you? For what?" I asked.

  "Didn't you say you watched the press conference?"

  "Sort of."

  He turned my face, and his eyes met mine. "How do you sort of watch something on television?"

  "I told you, I was over at the neighbor's place. She kept switching channels. When she happened onto the press conference she got up and stood there in front of the screen, mouth open, like hypnotized. It was hard for me to see since she isn't small or transparent, and with the volume so low I had no idea what was being said. I'm telling you she has a major crush on you."