Desert Shadows (9781615952250)

by Webb, Betty

  “It’s not about excusing, honey. It’s about understanding.”

  “I’m not in the mood for understanding.” With that, I pushed him aside and stalked up the hill, hoping I’d run into the National Alliance goons. I was spoiling for a fight.

  ***

  The drive from WestWorld to Desert Shadows passed quickly, but not before I had time to lament the ruin of Scottsdale Road. Only a few years earlier, this had been one of the prettiest drives in Scottsdale, with unmarred desert reaching all the way to the McDowell Mountains. The Rev used to bring us kids here almost every weekend, pointing out bright clumps of Mexican gold poppy, upthrust stalks of burgundy lupine, the towering saguaro and ocotillo. At one point, a nature club had installed discreet signage along the road, giving each plant’s Latin and common names, but those friendly little nature lessons were gone now. Everything disappeared when the developers moved in, dragging tract homes and shopping centers in their wake. Like Joni Mitchell once complained, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot.

  Desert Shadows Resort, however, had seen the bulldozers of progress headed their way, so the Japanese consortium which owned the place hurriedly bought up the surrounding acreage. Located several hundred yards from the highway, secluded in a shallow valley ringed with massive boulders, it could still project the illusion that it was miles from civilization.

  The resort was internationally famous for its breathtaking golf course and rock-rimmed swimming pool complete with waterfall, as well as its luxurious suites and spas. Most of SOBOP’s publishers must be doing well, I figured, to afford to stay here. Or maybe they’d wrangled one hell of a group discount.

  After parking the Jeep next to a fleet of Mercedes and Beemers, I headed toward the lobby and its acres of glass, marble and palm fronds, where the concierge informed me that Mrs. Myra Gordon was not in her room. No problem, though, he said. Since she was one of the SOBOP people, she was probably attending some seminar or other. Would I like him to send a bellhop in search of her?

  I declined the offer and, taking a map of the resort’s various meeting rooms, set off to find her myself. After a brief stop at SOBOP’s seminar sign-in table, I learned she was in Meeting Room 307, attending “The Bright Future of Minority Publishing.” The seminar was due to finish any minute.

  “She’s wearing an emerald green silk shantung dress and carrying one of those cute little lunchbox handbags,” said the blond woman at the table. Her own handbag resembled a mid-sized suitcase.

  As I started toward the hallway that led to the meeting rooms, the blonde called after me, “Oh, and she’s African-American. Gray hair.”

  I positioned myself outside Room 307 and waited until the double doors opened. Sure enough, here came Myra Gordon in an emerald dress and handbag emblazoned with a cartoon of a sly-looking poodle dressed in a pink poodle skirt. She started to walk by me.

  “Mrs. Gordon?”

  “Why, yes?” She stopped and offered me a smile. Approximately fifty, her skin, the color of gently creamed coffee, was sprinkled with freckles. Her eyes were a startling topaz. “What can I do for you?”

  I showed her my I.D. and asked if we could go someplace quiet.

  Her face closed down. “I’ve already talked to the police. And unless I am incorrect in my interpretation of Arizona law, Miss Jones, private detectives have no legal standing in murder cases.”

  Librarians. They know everything.

  “I’m just trying to keep an innocent man out of prison,” I said. “The accused is a friend of mine.”

  “Then I am very sorry for you and your friend.” With that, she opened her poodle-purse and pulled out a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Dabbing her forehead, she added, “I’ve been so busy that I must admit I haven’t kept track of things. I’d heard that someone was arrested last night, but.…” She shrugged. “I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “His name is Owen Sisiwan.”

  Her hand froze. “That sweet man who took us to Oak Creek Canyon?”

  I know when to keep my mouth shut, to let someone’s conscience do the work, so I just nodded.

  She stood there for a moment, letting the stream of SOBOP folks pass us by. Then, tucking the handkerchief back into her handbag, she said, “Let’s go to my room.”

  I followed her down the corridor, across the marble lobby, and into the residential wing of the resort, where we passed enough paintings and sculpture to furnish a small museum.

  “Nice,” I commented, as we walked along.

  “A little pretentious, if you ask me,” she said over her shoulder. “But who am I to criticize anyone’s taste, me with my poodle-purse?”

  “I like poodles in skirts.”

  She stopped in front of a door and inserted a card key into the lock. As the door opened, she said, “So do I.”

  The large room, which overlooked the resort’s swimming pool, was furnished in Pima Modern, an ironic theme since the resort was built on land snatched from the tribe during the late 1800s. The sandstone-colored duvet on the king-size bed was decorated with replications of Pima pictographs, and the creamy, textured walls were covered with several signed lithographs of Kokopelli, the mythic Native American flute-player. The room must be costing Gordon a small fortune.

  Seeing me check it out, she volunteered, “The SOBOP discount is the only way I can afford to stay here on my librarian’s salary. Still, I’ll probably be eating beans for a month when I get back to Wyatt’s Landing.”

  “The library isn’t picking up the cost?”

  “No, I’m doing this on my own. Seeing a book described in a catalog isn’t the same as leafing through its pages. And I do want to make certain our library carries a full selection of Southwestern books.” She threw her handbag on the bed, so I followed suit with my carry-all. But I placed it carefully, so my .38 wouldn’t clunk.

  “Let’s sit over here,” she said, gesturing to a book-covered oak table surrounded by plush chairs. “Would you like a drink? The mini-bar’s stocked with liquor, juice, and Evian.”

  Mini-bar water could cost up to eight dollars a bottle in Scottsdale, so I ignored my thirst and declined. I hoped she didn’t hear my stomach rumble, because I doubted I’d be able to turn down twenty-dollar pretzels. That half-order of fry bread I’d eaten at WestWorld had only tweaked my appetite.

  “Mrs. Gordon, I don’t want to interfere with your schedule any more than necessary, so I’ll be quick.” I settled into the chair nearest the big picture window. “Did you see Owen pocket the water hemlock?”

  She sat across from me and looked out toward the pool, where pale-skinned tourists splashed happily. Then she nodded, not taking their eyes off them. “Yes, I’m afraid I did. Some of the others on the hike were behaving foolishly, and Mr. Sisiwan did what he had to do. But I don’t believe for a moment that he is responsible for Gloriana Alden-Taylor’s death. He impressed me as a gentle man.”

  She knew nothing about the Taliban Owen had killed in Afghanistan, and there was no point in disillusioning her. “I had a look at the banquet seating chart. You sat right next to Gloriana, didn’t you?”

  “I wonder if they’re wearing sun block,” she said, still watching the pool action. “Those UV rays are dangerous. Are you aware of the number of melanoma cases in Arizona every year?”

  I ask about banquet seating, I get a lecture on UV rays. Interesting. “Mrs. Gordon, could you answer my question?”

  She finally looked at me. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. What was it you asked?”

  “Weren’t you sitting next to Gloriana at the banquet?”

  She inclined her head. “Of course. Considering the types of books Patriot’s Blood publishes, I thought the seating rather amusing. Or at least I did until the poor woman became ill.”

  “Before that, did she say anything that made you believe she might be afraid of someone?”

  “Certainly not. We just chatted about the publishing business. At one point, she expressed a desire for me to look at some o
f her publications, saying that they would make a nice addition to Wyatt’s Landing’s collection.”

  I almost laughed. “Fat chance of that, right?”

  “Ah, you are quite wrong,” she said, patting one of the books on the table.

  For the first time I noticed the title: The South Was Right. Patriot’s Blood Press.

  “A librarian is not a censor, Ms. Jones. We are enjoined to serve the public, and if the public wishes to read certain materials, materials that we ourselves may not care for nor even agree with, we still must make them available. Last year, for instance, I ordered several copies of Losing America because the demand was so great. Now it appears that I may order this, ah, historical work.”

  “Wyatt’s Landing must be an interesting town,” I said.

  Another smile. “No more interesting than Scottsdale.”

  In other circumstances, I would have followed up this intriguing comparison, but this was not the time. “During the banquet, did you see anyone touch Gloriana’s salad?”

  Her initial hesitation to talk vanished, she cut to the chase. “No, I did not. And I did not touch it myself, either.”

  “Did you find her behavior offensive in any way?”

  “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, no. Gloriana made no racial remarks to me nor to any other person of color at our table. If anything, she was quite courteous. Generous, too. That trip to Oak Creek was her idea, taken at her expense.”

  But I thought Gloriana’s generosity seemed unusual for such a self-involved old harridan, and I said so.

  “In my case, perhaps she looked upon me and the library as customers, and was eager to curry favor. But I doubt it. She was no more polite to me than to Mr. Zhang and Mr. Ramos, although she did remark at one point upon Mr. Ramos’ German first name. She said it didn’t match his last. He didn’t take offense. Remember, we were all invited on the Oak Creek trip.”

  It seemed important to Gordon for me to believe she had no motive for Gloriana’s death. For now, I’d play along. “How about Owen? Did you hear any exchanges between him and Gloriana? Anything that sounded a bit heated?”

  She didn’t answer right away, just stretched her hands out on the table and pumped them, as if to exercise her fingers. I noticed a plain gold wedding ring, but saw only one suitcase sitting on the stand by the door. Hubby stayed home?

  “The banquet hall was noisy,” she finally answered. “I’m afraid any conversation that Gloriana and Owen might have had while she was in the hallway was lost to me.”

  “Gloriana went into the hall?”

  “Several times. I took it for granted that she was visiting the ladies’ room. Elderly bladders can be quite sensitive, I understand. And she was drinking quite a bit of tea.”

  After a few more questions, I realized that she would offer little more, so I thanked her for her time and let myself out. Once in the hall, though, I reflected that Mrs. Gordon had been more guarded than necessary.

  And I didn’t believe a word she said.

  ***

  I spent a couple more hours interviewing other attendees at the SOBOP convention, but without success. Eerily similar to a banger drive-by in the ghetto, nobody seen nuthin’, not the California woo woo publisher, the Washington state ecology pressman, nor the Vegas how-to-beat-the-odds publisher. When I pressed them, they made me feel about as welcome as an ex-wife at a wedding.

  Finally giving up, I returned to the Jeep, but now that the distraction of questioning was behind me, I realized that I was starving. Instead of driving straight back to Scottsdale, I decided to detour through the nearby town of Cave Creek, eager for a big, fat hamburger at the Horny Toad Saloon. As soon as I turned west on Carefree Highway, though, the traffic thickened. To my surprise, I was soon bumper-to-bumper with a herd of Harley Davidsons and a long, snaky line of graffiti-covered vans, many of them bearing Idaho license plates. The motorcycles made sense. Cave Creek was the gathering spot for the Scottsdale Harley-Davidson Club, which despite its macho-sounding name consisted of a couple hundred business executives. But the vans.…

  Then I remembered what I should have at WestWorld.

  Attracted by Arizona’s rising tide of anti-immigrant feeling and Cave Creek’s immigrant-friendly day labor program, the Aryan Nation and its brethren had selected the town as the site for their yearly picnic. Now the vans’ graffiti made sense. The groups might have been too cowardly to display the swastika itself—they were too frightened of the Crips, Bloods, or even scarier, the Jewish Defense League—but they had found more subtle ways to trumpet their beliefs.

  Four-foot-high blue letters on the rear of the white van in front of me blared, 14/88. Every cop knew that the “14” stood for the “Fourteen Words” holy to White Supremacists everywhere: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for White children.” The “88” meant the eighth letter of the alphabet, H, as in “Heil Hitler.”

  Next to me idled a black van with the numbers “311” painted in red on the sides. “11” meant the eleventh letter of the alphabet, K; the “3” stood for K times three. KKK, Ku Klux Klan.

  I checked out the driver. When I saw he sported a shaved head and the de rigeur lightning bolt tats on his neck, I lost my appetite. Swinging into an illegal U-turn, I headed back to Scottsdale.

  By the time I made it back to Desert Investigations, the streetlights were on. The neighboring art galleries had closed, and Jimmy was locking up for the night.

  “Don’t take Esther and Rebecca to Cave Creek this weekend,” I warned him. Jimmy had been dating Esther ever since we had helped her daughter Rebecca escape from a forced marriage to an elderly prophet in one of Arizona’s notorious polygamy compounds.2

  He was way ahead of me. “Fat chance, with those National Alliance jerks in town.” Standing aside so that I could make it past him to the stairwell that led to my apartment, he added, “We’re just going to kick back, have a little bar-b-que, and listen to some Chicken Scratch. But first, I’m going over to Wal-Mart to buy some toys for Owen’s kids. Cheer them up. Speaking of Owen, did you find out anything that might help him?”

  “I found out that Gloriana wasn’t a very popular woman.”

  He turned the deadbolt behind him. “Yeah, Owen’s told me stories. She wasn’t in the running for the Humanitarian of the Year Award.”

  “Few people are.” I made no move to go upstairs.

  “I guess. Well.…” Jimmy stood there, the tungsten light revealing a baffled expression on his face. “Is there something else? You know you’re invited to join us, you always are.”

  I pictured him on the Rez, surrounded by his nieces and nephews, his girlfriend and her daughter, all the people he loved. Then I pictured my own empty apartment and decided to make the conversation last longer. “By the way, were you able to get started on those names I gave you?”

  “It’ll take a while. Right now they look clean, but we’ll see what comes up when I go deeper.” He frowned. “Lena, are you okay? Are you sure you don’t want to follow me back to the Rez?”

  “I’m fine, fine. Thanks anyway. I need to do some thinking, and it’s easier when I’m by myself.”

  He tried not to look doubtful, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “See you tomorrow, then.”

  “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

  After I watched his truck’s taillights disappear down the street, I pulled my gun out of my carry-all and began the long walk up the stairs to my apartment. The long walk I took every night. The long walk I never ceased to dread.

  The monster in the closet.

  My childhood nightmares still haunted me, still crept into my waking hours. They had become so much a part of my existence that I could no longer imagine a world without them. But, oh, to not fear dark spaces, to welcome the night.…

  Such ease was not for me. Since living in my sixth foster home, I had never been able to enter a room alone without searching it thoroughly.

  As usual, I had left the lights on, which I always d
o when there’s a chance I will be out past sunset. Helped along by years of experience, the search went quickly. First the living room, a beige-on-beige box devoid of all personality other than the Two Gray Hills Navajo rug hanging over the sofa and the vivid George Haozous oil painting on the opposite wall. No monsters here, other than a few dust bunnies the size of alley cats lurking under the one window. Then an inspection of the hallway, the kitchen, the bathroom, and finally, the worst place of all—my bedroom.

  Both hands trembling, I flipped on the lights, saw nothing. I looked under the bed. Nothing there, either.

  Then I approached the long closet with its sliding double doors.

  The monster in the closet.

  My .38 cocked and ready, I slid back one door with my foot and parted the clothes with the gun. Nothing. I repeated the process on the other side. Another wonderful nothing. My apartment, my bedroom, my closet, all were empty of everything except the sound of my own heartbeats. I began to breathe again.

  You’d think that I would hook up with someone if for no better reason than to forestall my fear of empty rooms. But as my relationship with Dusty illustrates, intimacy has never been my strong suit. Oh, I don’t mean that easy physical intimacy which visits us all from time to randy time. I mean the real deal, intimacy, the deep emotional bond with another which is forged only after years of commitment.

  I have never experienced that kind of intimacy and probably never will. Foster homes are not good training grounds for close encounters. Those of us who grew up in the wild round robin of CPS learned early on not to get attached to anyone because we understood that today’s home was just that—today’s and today’s only. Tomorrow we might be someplace else. To us the word “home” itself was an abstraction, the description of a space where we temporarily stored our garbage bags filled with clothes. Why begin to love? Why ask for heartbreak? A child can only cry so much, and then the well—along with hope—runs dry.

  Nightly apartment check finished and the remembered terrors of my nine-year-old self temporarily vanquished, I returned to the living room and laid the .38 on the coffee table. Then I leaned over my circa-1970 turntable and slipped on the John Lee Hooker vinyl masterpiece “Hooked on Blues” I’d found a few days earlier at a yard sale, but hadn’t yet played. This simple joy would enrich the night. Bottleneck guitar licks on CD might be fine in the Jeep, but nothing could capture the nuances of an old bluesman like vinyl. While John Lee groaned his way through “Every Night,” I nuked a Michelina’s macaroni and cheese dinner with jalapenos, a nod to us Southwestern gourmets. While eating, I listened calmly enough to “Boogie Chillen,” “It Serves Me Right to Suffer,” and “Drive Me Away.” Then, halfway through “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” I found myself tearing up.