by Jane Heller
“Then he couldn’t have killed Amanda,” I said to Terry, reviewing the police’s time line. “Not unless he slept through it.”
Terry sighed. “Has anybody else come into the casino talking about Amanda Reid?” he asked Buddy.
“Not yet, but after they read the newspaper and watch the news, they’ll be in here talking about her, sure,” he said. “It’s not every day that somebody gets murdered in Sedona. Especially a famous rich lady.”
“Buddy, do me a favor, would you? If you find out something that could help Will, give me a call, okay?” Terry asked.
“I’ll give you a call, sure,” he said. “Will Singleton’s a decent guy. It’s the cops who are evil. They don’t understand that an Indian would never kill on sacred land. Except in self-defense.”
Self-defense? It hadn’t occurred to me that Amanda might have provoked her killer into killing her at Cathedral Rock; that she could have turned a chance encounter up there on that canyon into justifiable homicide.
“Where to now, O Tour Guide?” I asked when we had strapped ourselves back inside the Jeep and were heading southwest on 89A.
“Jerome,” said Terry.
“Another buddy of yours?” I said wryly.
“Jerome is a town,” he explained. “A remarkable town, actually.”
“How so?”
“Its geography, for one thing. Unlike Cottonwood, which is essentially flat and desertlike, Jerome literally hangs over the side of Mingus Mountain, about five thousand feet above sea level. It’s not for the phobically inclined. It defies gravity.”
I thought of Arthur, Rona’s husband. He probably wouldn’t even look at photographs of the place.
“How else is Jerome remarkable?” I asked, feeling my ears pop as we climbed higher and higher up the winding road.
“It used to be a ghost town,” said Terry. “Well, no. It used to be a prosperous town that became a ghost town. It was founded in the late 1800s, when people were willing to brave the steep hills so they could mine for copper and silver and gold. I think the population was close to fifteen thousand back then.”
“What happened?”
“A fire destroyed the mines and they started strip-mining with dynamite. Before they knew it, the buildings crumbled and slid down the mountain. The place went bust. In the fifties, there weren’t more than fifty people living in Jerome.”
“Obviously, things have changed or we wouldn’t be going there.”
“Things have changed, all right. In the sixties, a lot of artists and writers discovered the town. The housing was cheap, the attitude was laid back, and the view! Wow. To the north, you can see the twelve-thousand-foot summits of the San Francisco Peaks. It’s spectacular.”
“So Jerome has made a comeback.”
“Big time. The buildings are beautifully renovated, the galleries showcase local artists, and the copper and silver have been replaced by espresso and cappuccino. Jerome is trendy now. Sort of.”
“So what is our mission in Jerome?”
“We’re about to have a chat with a blues singer,” said Terry.
“Why am I not surprised?” I remarked.
“Her name’s Laverne Altamont,” he said. “She sings at a local hangout called The Spirit Room.”
The Spirit Room. Only in Sedona and its environs, I thought.
“Does Laverne have the power to channel Amanda’s spirit?” I asked. “Is that why we’re going to see her?”
“No. She’s a singer, not a psychic,” said Terry. “But aside from having a voice that’ll knock you out, she has a lot of friends who do Vision Quests. At Cathedral Rock, for example. I’m hoping one of them may have run into Amanda up there, witnessed the murder maybe, and then told Laverne. It’s a long shot, but even if she can’t help us, the trip won’t be a total loss.”
“Because I’ll get to hear her sing.”
“And because I’m gonna buy you lunch at a picturesque little café on the side of a mountain.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“That’s the general idea.”
Since Laverne didn’t begin her set at The Spirit Room until two o’clock each afternoon, Terry and I decided to have lunch first.
The Flatiron Café more than lived up to its description. Perched a few thousand feet above sea level, it’s a tiny restaurant, wedged into the crook of the “Y” where Jerome’s Main and Hull Streets meet, affording its patrons a truly breathtaking view of Sedona’s red rocks, Cottonwood’s cactus-dotted landscape, and, off in the distance, the extraordinary San Francisco Peaks. Outside the building, which also houses a popcorn and candy store, a green sign that reads “Espresso Bar * Breakfast & Lunch * Fresh Squeezed Lemonade” announces the café; inside are just three tables plus a counter at which you place your order. Across the narrow street, there are a few additional tables for dining al fresco. Across the neighboring street, in the basement of an art gallery, is the café’s rest room. Obviously, we’re not talking opulence here; we’re talking funky. The Flatiron is basically a sandwich shop with atmosphere.
We both ordered what was billed as a house specialty: artichoke hearts, mozzarella, and fresh basil on focaccia, and two tall, frosty glasses of homemade lemonade. We brought the food across the street on trays so we could sit outside and enjoy the fresh mountain breezes. I realized, as I popped an errant artichoke heart into my mouth, that despite the fact that a woman I had just met was missing and presumed dead, I was happy.
Terry noticed. “You like it,” he said, nodding.
“By ‘it,’ do you mean my sandwich, this restaurant, or Jerome?”
“Being here with me,” he said, his blue eyes mischievous. “That’s what I mean.”
“Well, now,” I chuckled. “You’re putting me on the spot, aren’t you, Terry?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” he said.
“All right. Then, yes. I like it. Satisfied?”
“I’m beginning to be.” He bit into his sandwich and moaned with pleasure. “Jesus, I forgot how good this place is. As good as you’ve got in New York, huh?”
“Better,” I said, after sampling my meal. “There aren’t any rude waiters here.”
He smiled. “So what do you like about being here with me, Crystal?”
“Terry.”
“Come on. Humor me.”
I took a long swallow of lemonade. It was so tart I couldn’t speak for several seconds; my tongue had shriveled up. “I like that you’re committed to helping your friend Will,” I said when I had recovered. “Your loyalty is admirable. And contagious. I hardly know the man and yet I want to help him, too.”
He shrugged. “He and Jean were there for me when I needed help. Why shouldn’t I help them when they need it?”
“Because you used to avoid tough situations,” I said. “You preferred the easy route.”
“I was a kid then, Crystal. And now I’m not.”
I nodded. “And now you’re not.”
“Any other reasons you like being with me?” he asked, intent on this fishing expedition.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, there are other reasons.” Oh, why not, I thought. Tell him the truth. By this time tomorrow, Steven will be in Sedona and you’ll be too busy answering his questions to answer Terry’s. “I like the fact that when I’m with you, you’re very attentive, very present,” I told him. “I never feel as if you’d rather be doing something else.”
“That’s because I wouldn’t rather be doing something else,” he said. “Simple.”
Simple. Nothing in my life had ever been simple, except my career. And even that wasn’t simple anymore.
“I like the fact that you say personal things to me,” I went on, warming to Terry’s little exercise, becoming very warm, actually, given the way he was looking at me. “You don’t make me guess what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking how lovely you are,” he said, causing both of us to abandon our sandwiches. Who concentrates on food at a time like this? My ap
petite was directed elsewhere, I can tell you that.
“I like the fact that you not only flood me with feelings, you force me to face my feelings,” I continued, my face flushed with the intimate turn the conversation had taken. “You don’t let me get away with my usual ‘I’m fine—mind your own business.’”
“Everybody else lets you get away with that?”
“Everybody except my friend Rona. She’s the one who accuses me of being in denial about virtually every facet of my life. She’s the one who encourages me to find balance, meaning, inner peace. She’s the one who badgered me into coming to Sedona. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her.”
“I like her already,” Terry said with a grin. “Tell her she’s got my undying gratitude.”
“I will, but I’m not sure how thrilled she’ll be. She warned me to keep away from you,” I said. “She’s worried that you’re ‘sucking me back in,’ as she puts it.”
“Is she right, Crystal? Am I sucking you back in?”
While he waited for me to answer him, he reached across the table to hold my hand. I did not pull away. Not even when a light breeze blew my paper napkin onto the ground, into the street. I did not chase after it. I did not move a muscle. I was welded to Terry’s touch.
“Am I sucking you back in?” he asked again, his question heavy with expectations.
“Is that your intention?” I said softly.
“It is,” he said. “If at all possible.”
Chapter Twenty-One
We lingered over lunch—lingered over each other, more accurately—until we reminded ourselves why we’d come to Jerome in the first place: to pay Laverne Altamont a visit. Since The Spirit Room was just around the corner from the Flatiron Café, we walked over, chattering merrily all the way, Terry’s arm around my shoulder, my arm around his waist. I was enjoying myself immensely.
The Spirit Room, where Laverne sang during what were billed as “Live Afternoon Jams,” occupied the first floor of an historic, two-story brick building. I had an inkling of the kind of crowd I would find inside when I saw the kind of vehicles that were lined up outside: motorcycles.
“This Laverne must be a biker chick,” I said, judging by all the Harleys.
“Laverne defies description,” Terry promised. “She’s an original. You’ll see.”
I couldn’t see Laverne or anybody else when we first stepped inside The Spirit Room. The place was so dark—one of those bar/restaurants where the red neon “Budweiser—On Tap” sign in the window provides the only illumination—that my eyes had trouble adjusting, and near-blindness set in momentarily. Then Terry took my hand, a waitress led us to an empty table not far from the small stage, and, just as we were being seated, my sight returned; I was able to get a good look at the fabled Laverne Altamont.
Terry was right. She defied description, but I’ll do my best.
For openers, she was bald—an absolute cue ball without a single patch of growth on her forty-something-year-old head. For another thing, her eyebrows seemed to have been tattooed onto her pasty white face in an upside-down “V” position, giving her the appearance of someone who was perpetually surprised. What’s more, she was shapeless—a heavy, lumpy woman with breasts so saggy, you couldn’t tell where they began or ended. And then there was the chain smoking, the black leather outfit, and the voice. Especially the voice. When we first entered The Spirit Room, Laverne was belting out B.B. King’s “The Thrill Is Gone,” and it had taken me a few seconds to realize that she wasn’t B.B. King, that we weren’t listening to recorded music, that the bald, middle-aged, white woman standing among a trio of ponytailed young dudes—a guitarist, a drummer, and a keyboard player—wasn’t the great black rhythm and blues singer. Her voice was so low, her delivery so smooth and soulful, that I kept shaking my head and wondering why someone with such talent hadn’t been “discovered.”
“She’s not interested in being a star,” Terry replied after I’d asked the question. “She’s happy doing what she’s doing.”
She certainly looked happy. Beatific, almost. Her eyes were closed as she sang, her arms outstretched, her black leather-clad body a veritable metronome swaying back and forth in time with the music. After each song, she beamed, clapping for herself, her band, her audience. Here, I thought, is a woman who likes her job.
“She used to work in a bank in Phoenix,” Terry said after we’d ordered a couple of beers.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. She was a teller for years. Then all her hair fell out—it was that stress-related disease you hear about—and the big shots at the bank thought she’d scare the customers away. They told her to wear a wig and she told them to find another teller. She decided her hair loss was a spiritual omen, tipping her off that she should leave Phoenix, move to a place where her uniqueness would be appreciated, and do what she loved.”
“So she settled in Sedona and started singing.”
Terry nodded. “She came to town the same year Gwen and I did. She sang in area clubs and we’d go and listen to her.”
“Oh, so she knows Gwen,” I said.
“She knew Gwen. Gwen took off, remember?”
“I remember,” I said and wondered not for the first time if Gwen might reappear someday, the way Stephanie had, the way I had. It suddenly occurred to me that yet another downside of middle age is that there are more and more former partners lurking out there, more and more exes with the potential to show up, throw you off course, complicate your life. It’s something your parents never tell you about getting older—that the world becomes littered with people you’re convinced you’ll never see again but inevitably do.
“Anyhow, Laverne developed a loyal following,” Terry went on. “Especially with the less ‘mainstream’ crowd, if there is such a thing in Sedona. The bikers love her. The gays love her. And the New Agers really love her, maybe because she’s sort of ‘out there’ herself—and so they talk to her in a way they’d never talk to the police.”
“You don’t honestly think one of these people trusts her enough to confess to murdering Amanda, do you?”
“No, but one of them might trust her enough to confess to witnessing Amanda’s murder. Like I said, the spiritualists around here don’t like the cops, and the feeling is mutual. Laverne may have access to information Detective Whitehead will never get his hands on.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said, thinking of Will Singleton, feeling more and more that it was unlikely he had killed anybody.
When Laverne finished her set, Terry waved her over, and she came and sat down at our table.
Her appearance was even more startling at close range, but when she spoke to us, there was a sweetness, if not a girl-next-door way about her, that put me at ease.
“So you’re the one he was married to all those years ago,” she said, lighting up the first of several Marlboros. “It’s real nice to meet you, cookie.” She called everyone cookie, it turned out, even herself, as in: “I’m one smart cookie.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Laverne,” I said. “You have an incredible voice.”
“It’s just the one Spirit gave me,” she said, shrugging off the compliment. “Whatever flows through me flows from Him.”
I nodded. Who was I to argue with a large bald woman?
“Crystal came to Sedona on a little vacation and, coincidentally, signed up for my Jeep Tour,” Terry explained. “Now we’re taking advantage of our dumb luck and getting to know each other again.”
Laverne smiled. “Coincidentally? You know better than that, cookie. There are no coincidences. Everything happens for a reason.”
Gee, I thought. It really is a small world. Laverne has probably had an attunement with Jazeem.
“Whatever the reason, I’m glad she’s here,” said Terry, referring to me, “but there is something I’m not so glad about.”
“Your friend Will Singleton,” Laverne guessed. “You’re worried because the police think he killed that woman. I’ve been
reading about the case in the newspaper, cookie.”
“Yeah, I’m worried,” said Terry. “Listen, Laverne. You’ve got friends who spend a lot of time up on Cathedral Rock. Maybe one of them saw something yesterday morning after Will left Amanda Reid there. Maybe one of them came to you with the information instead of going to the police. Is that possible?”
Laverne sat back in her chair and motioned for a waitress to bring her a beer. When the bottle arrived, she curled her stubby fingers around it and brought it to her lips. She took a few swallows, then addressed Terry’s question.
“I’m about to disappoint you, cookie,” she said. “I’m gonna put a damper on your nice day with your long-lost sweetheart.”
“How?” said Terry.
“Because I do have friends who were up at Cathedral Rock yesterday morning—four of them—and they all saw Amanda Reid,” Laverne said. “They didn’t know that’s who she was at first—then they saw her picture in the paper and figured it out.”
“Was she alone when they saw her?” Terry asked.
“No, and there’s your problem. She was with Will,” said Laverne, who took a drag on her cigarette, then exhaled the smoke in a long, thin stream. “My friends swear he was yelling at her—he and Miss Socialite were having an argument, maybe—and he was holding something over her head.”
“Yeah, his hands, probably,” Terry said, growing exasperated. “And he wasn’t yelling at her, he was chanting at her. You know these Vision Quest rituals, Laverne. There’s a lot of praying and chanting that goes on. Will was only doing his thing. When he finished, he left Amanda at Cathedral Rock and went back down the canyon. End of story.”
“Hey, I’m sure Will’s as innocent as they come,” said Laverne. “I’m just telling you what my friends told me.”
“So you believe he didn’t kill Amanda,” said Terry.
“I believe this, I believe that. It doesn’t matter what I believe. Only Spirit knows what really happened up at Cathedral Rock,” she said. “Only Spirit knows where Amanda Reid is now and why nobody has been able to find her. If I were you two, I wouldn’t waste my time talking to me. I’d go talk to someone who talks to Spirit.”