by Webb, Betty
The area was surrounded by a hastily erected fence, built without even sight holes for the customary sidewalk superintendents. As a further deterrent to gawkers, Day-Glo CRIME SCENE stickers plastered all over the barrier warned people to keep their distance. I prowled back and forth along the fence in the dimming light, looking for entry but finding none. It probably didn’t make any difference, since I doubted if the ATF had left behind anything worthwhile. After I had circled the perimeter several times, a cool rain began to fall. When it hit the ash on the other side of the fence, the acrid smell of burned wood expanded for a moment, then dissipated.
As I hurried back to the Neon, I wondered if Gloriana’s memoirs had perished, too. The file cabinet storing them had looked fireproof, but I doubted if it was blast proof.
For some reason, I was reluctant to leave. While the rain fell, I sat in the Neon, staring at the remains of Gloriana’s dreams.
***
I was stepping out of the shower, getting ready to towel off, when someone knocked on my door.
Not Dusty’s knock. Not Jimmy’s.
Throwing on a robe, I grabbed my .38 and limped to the door. On the other side of the peephole stood Joanne, her wet red hair plastered to her head, a forlorn expression on her face.
“Put down your purse and show you hands!” I called through the door.
She did.
“Now take off your coat, lift up your blouse, and turn around!”
She did that, too, revealing that she didn’t need a bra to keep her implants pointed north.
Satisfied, I delivered the required warning. “Joanne, I’m letting you in, but be warned that I’ve got a gun, and unlike you, I know how to use it. Your handbag stays outside.”
She nodded wetly, and I opened the door, grateful that I had left my crutches in the bedroom. I did not want her to know how vulnerable I felt.
“Close the door behind you,” I ordered, as she stepped through. “But don’t lock it. You may be leaving real fast.”
Still obedient, Joanne did exactly as I said. “May I sit down?”
I waved the revolver toward the beige corner chair that faced the door. “Sit. Speak. Then get the hell out.”
She shuffled over to the chair and sat down. “I brought my checkbook. I want to pay for the damage I caused before I fly out in the morning.”
On her broom, no doubt. “Stay where I can see you.” I kept the gun on her as I eased myself out the door and recovered the handbag she’d obediently left on the landing. Still covering her with my gun, I rifled through the thing (Hermes, real leather, what appeared to be solid silver clasps) and found the checkbook in a side flap next to an expensive-looking pen. I tossed both to her.
“How much?” she asked.
I told her.
“May I see the invoice?”
“Only if you promise to shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
She blinked. “There’s no need to be rude.”
Did tourists leave their brains at the airport? “Joanne, you couldn’t get a Manhattan pedicure for the amount I quoted.”
She shook her head, and a few wet strands fell across her forehead. “I need to give it to my accountant.”
“Just write, ‘For drywall damage incurred during attempted double homicide’ on the subject line.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again and wrote out the check.
“Drop it on the floor.”
The check fluttered to the beige carpet.
“Bye.” I motioned the gun toward the door.
“No, wait.”
What now?
“I want my gun back.”
I began to laugh. “Are you completely out of your mind? Give you back the gun you tried to kill me with? As far as I’m concerned, it’s finders keepers.”
Joanne frowned. “That was a very expensive gun.” The amount she quoted me made me raise my eyebrows.
“A Desert Eagle only runs about half of that. Next time you want to shoot someone, do a little comparison shopping first.” But I suspected why the gun cost her so much. Not being an Arizona resident, Joanne would have trouble purchasing legal firearms on the spur of the moment here. She’d gone off-market.
“You’re going to keep my gun? Well, maybe I should tear up my check!” She made as if to pick the check up off the floor, but froze when I cocked the hammer on the .38.
“Time to leave now, Joanne.”
She burst into tears.
Normally, women’s tears do not affect me. I know how easily they can be manufactured, but Joanne’s held real heartache. Her haggling had been mere camouflage.
I eased the hammer home and let her cry until her sobs settled into mere gulps. “You’re not getting the Desert Eagle back and from the looks of you, you’re not getting Dusty, either. It’s time to cut your losses and go back to where you know how to play the game.”
“It wasn’t a game,” she said miserably. “I love him. When I was with him, it was like having a different life, a better life than product pitches and idea meetings. Dusty was from another world. Handsome. Tough. And yet so, so tender. I’d never met anyone like him before.”
Poor bitch. Softening my voice, I said, “The point is, he doesn’t love you, regardless of what he said while he was drunk.”
“He lied?”
“Men do lie to women, Joanne.” I wondered how often Dusty had lied to me. Not recently, I hoped. Then I remembered some of the things I’d told him. “And sometimes women lie back.”
“He won’t talk to me. And they won’t even let me on the ranch property now.”
“Then it’s time to go back to New York. I’m sure if you look hard enough, you can find a handsome, tough, and tender man there, too. It’s a big city.”
She gave a heavy, trembling sigh. “This has all been such a mess.”
I agreed with her. “It sure has, Joanne. Good-bye.” I stepped away from the door.
She got up, leaving the check lying on the floor. “Tell Dusty… well, tell him I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused.”
“Will do.”
She started to leave, then stopped.
I raised the .38 again. “What is it now?”
Her eyes were bleak. “He told me…he told me you didn’t love him. That you couldn’t love anyone. Is it true?”
I did not answer, because I did not know the truth. “Good-bye, Joanne.”
As soon as she walked through the door, I bolted it behind her.
Chapter 27
First thing the next morning, I called Kryzinski.
“I found a gun in the alley last night,” I told him. “Want me to bring it in?”
His voice was cautious, probably because he knew me so well. “Since when do you hang around in alleys, Lena?”
“Oh, I thought I heard something back there, so I went out to check. That’s when I found it. Big .50 caliber Desert Eagle.”
Kryzinski whistled. “Serial number intact?”
“Filed off.” Not that it made any difference. A good ballistics expert could probably raise the number and trace the gun’s point of origin. Which would result in good news for some lucky gun collector out there, because most black market guns, especially the higher-priced models like the Desert Eagle, came from burglaries.
“Yeah, bring it in,” Kryzinski said. “I’m anxious to take a look, not that I’ll ever be able to afford one of them babies. Not on my salary.”
“Be there in a few minutes.”
The gun was a ruse. When I arrived at Scottsdale North, I turned the Desert Eagle over, and after Kryzinski had fondled it for a while, I got down to business.
“You still think Owen looks good for the Alden-Taylor killing?” We sat in his glass-walled office with the door closed. A couple of detectives looked up from their paperwork and waved at me. One blew a kiss. I reciprocated. Satisfied, he went back to work.
“Owen’s the DA’s problem now, not mine.” His eyes had trouble meeting mine.
I refu
sed to let him off the hook. “How carefully did you question the other people at the banquet, the people who actually saw Gloriana die?”
“We talked to everyone, Lena. Other than those people on the hike, most didn’t know her personally. And since we didn’t have enough leads to keep them in town, we let them all go back home.”
I knew that the witnesses were now scattered all the way from Dallas to Lodi, but in the end, it would make little difference. “How hard did you run at Gloriana’s grandson?”
Kryzinski gave me a cagey look. “Considering that he’s the primary heir, we looked at him pretty carefully, regardless of what you might think.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Zachary Alden-Taylor went on the hike, but during the day’s last seminar and during the banquet itself, he was always within sight of someone. And I’m not even counting his wife, because wives do tend to lie for their husbands. Lena, he didn’t do it.”
I remembered the ashes at Patriot’s Blood Press, the rise of Zach’s dreams. “Zach really hated his grandmother’s products, Captain.”
Kryzinski snorted. “I hate working for a living, too, but I do it anyway.”
Talking to Kryzinski was like talking to a stone. He didn’t hear what he didn’t want to hear, so I left him there, still fondling Joanne’s Desert Eagle.
***
I didn’t look forward to my next stop, but there was no choice. The rain had stopped and I would have made good time over to the Arcadia District, except for the usual out-of-state RVs dogging the speed limit. Frustrated by the traffic tie-up, I found myself sympathizing with the bumper sticker I saw on a passing delivery van: SO MANY SNOWBIRDS, SO LITTLE FREEZER SPACE.
The twins let me in without a word. A quick look at Lavelle revealed that although the bruise on her face had faded, new bruises the size of fingertips darkened her arms. Time to call Adult Protective Services.
Leila’s cranky voice interrupted my thoughts. “The detective returns, all crippled up.” She didn’t offer me a seat.
Bracing myself on my crutches, I tried to keep the distaste out of my voice. “Yes, all crippled up and back again with more questions. When I was here before, you led me to believe that Sandra inherited little under the terms of Gloriana’s will. Since then, I’ve discovered she received enough to buy a house.”
Lavelle frowned and rubbed her sore arms. “Compared to Gloriana’s fortune, it’s nothing. She should have inherited everything.”
“Why?” After all I had seen and learned the past couple of weeks, I suspected the answer, but needed confirmation.
Leila pushed her aside, none too gently. “Don’t pay any attention to my sister. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
But for once, Lavelle showed some spirit. “Oh, yes, I do.”
This brought a snarl from Leila. “Keep your mouth shut about your slutty daughter and don’t cause any more trouble.”
I stepped between them before Leila could add more bruises to Lavelle’s collection. Any more trouble? During my previous visit, they had mentioned warning Gloriana about something.
I directed my next question to Leila. “Gloriana came by a few days before she was murdered, right?”
Leila nodded. “Yes, Miss Rich Pants honored us with one of her once-in-a-blue-moons. So what?”
Lavelle gave me a pleading look. “It’s not relevant, Miss Jones. Just a family matter.”
But Alden-Taylor family matters were looming larger and larger in my mind these days. “Zach told me there was some talk about moving you two into an assisted living facility, that he’d discussed it with Gloriana.”
Alarm flashed in Lavelle’s eyes. “Sandra would never have allowed that!”
But maybe Sandra also suspected what was going on in this house. Assisted living would provide her mother some protection.
“Shut up, Sissy,” Leila hissed. “This detective already knows too much of our business. Why complicate things?”
The timing of Gloriana’s last visit intrigued me. She’d shown up, possibly to urge the sisters to move, and soon afterward had been poisoned. Yet there was no way the sisters could have committed a murder. I doubted if they had enough money to contract a hired killer even if they’d been able to find one.
“Were there any harsh words between you and Gloriana when she came by?” Harsh words, such as “I’m calling my attorney.”
Leila offered a mean smile. “Gloriana was sorry she came out and bothered us, I’ll tell you that. We fixed her.”
“Sissy, don’t,” Lavelle begged.
Fixed? In what way, fixed?
Lavelle’s plea meant nothing to Leila, who had already worked up a full load of venom. “We took her down a few notches, we did. Her and that so-called grandson of hers.”
“Oh, no,” Lavelle muttered.
So-called grandson? Leaving Lavelle looking more distressed than ever, I said to Leila, “Zach wasn’t really Gloriana’s grandson, was he? That’s why she came by, not to talk about moving you into assisted living.”
She crossed her arms in front of her sagging breasts. “You’re a regular Perry Mason, aren’t you?”
“Sissy, please!” Lavelle reached out a hand to her sister, but Leila slapped it away.
I began to put it together. “Gloriana had been trying to prove a connection to Thomas Jefferson, so she had all the family members swabbed. The DNA testing proved that Zach wasn’t related to any of you, didn’t it?”
“Sissy and I suspected it all along,” Leila said. “Zach didn’t really look like any of us. His mother was my maid’s daughter, for God’s sake! Nothing but a tart! The girl was pregnant when she married Big Zach, but sly minx that she was, she told him the baby was his. That’s what happens when you let the help get too friendly. They take advantage.”
Lavelle bit her lip. “We were always afraid that if Gloriana found out, she’d blame us. And cut us out of the will. Then what would we do?”
Leila punched her arm before I could intervene. “Nonsense! Gloriana would never disinherit her own flesh and blood. It was a joke for us, that’s all, watching Miss Rich Pants make a fool of herself over the little bastard. We’d…Well, I’d always planned to tell her the truth, and I was getting close to doing it, too, when she started that silly Thomas Jefferson business. So I decided not to spoil the fun, to let her find out the truth on her own. But, Lord, was it ever rich when Sissy let it slip who Zach’s daddy really was! That’s just what Gloriana deserved, chasing after old Jefferson as if we Alden-Taylors weren’t quality people on our own. We didn’t need him!”
Overwhelmed by her combination of arrogance and malice, I hurried the next few questions. “What did Gloriana say she was going to do about the situation? Did she plan to change her will? Cut Zach out?”
Lavelle, whose forearm was beginning to redden from Leila’s punch, finally spoke up. “Of course she was! Why let Zach inherit everything when my daughter was her true blood relative?”
And the real carrier of those oh-so-magnificent Alden-Taylor genes. Only one question left. Not that it mattered, anymore, but I was curious. “By the way, the supposed Thomas Jefferson connection. How did that turn out?”
Leila smirked. “Inconclusive.”
***
Once I settled myself back into the Neon, I dug the cell phone out of my carry-all and placed a call to Adult Protective Services. The harassed-sounding social worker who answered took my info and told me she’d send someone out, but I doubted it would happen anytime soon. I thanked her anyway, then called Kryzinski. As I waited to be put through, fat black clouds scuttled across the sky, threatening more rain. The few people strolling along the tree-lined Arcadia street wore no raincoats nor carried umbrellas. Arizonans didn’t believe in rain, not even when they were standing in it, which is why every winter so many of the damn fools drove their cars into streets-turned-rivers and had to be lifted out by helicopter.
Kryzinski finally came on the line. “What now, Lena? I only have
a minute.” I could hear the police chief in the background, telling everyone to take their seats. Another damned meeting. One more reason I was glad not to be a cop anymore.
“Then I’ll be quick. Did you talk to Gloriana’s attorney about her will?” The police chief was now telling everyone to turn their cell phones and beepers off.
“Hiram Johns? Sure. He told us that almost everything goes to Gloriana’s grandson, except for a couple hundred thou to her niece, and half that to her sisters. But none of them did it, Lena. It was Owen. Now I’ve gotta go.” He disconnected before I could ask another question.
I decided to get the answer straight from the horse’s mouth. I punched in the number for Information and got Hiram Johns office address, which turned out to be in Old Town Scottsdale, not far from my office. The rain began to fall in torrents as soon as I pulled into the office building parking lot. By the time I’d crutched my way from the Neon to the entrance, I was a sopping mess—not necessarily a bad thing. There was always the chance, albeit a slim one, that a rain-washed blonde on crutches might stir even an attorney’s hard heart to pity.
But not, as it turned out, the attorney’s receptionist.
The dour crone sitting at the front desk as I hobbled in informed me that no one saw Hiram Johns without an appointment, and sorry, he was full up today and tomorrow. Full up next week, too. “This is a busy office, Miss Jones,” she said, her voice firm. “You can’t just drop in here and expect to see someone. Especially Mr. Johns. By the way, you’re dripping on the Persian.”
I moved off the Persian—a carpet, not a cat—and shifted strategies. “I completely understand, Miss…Miss.…”
“Maxwell. And it’s Mrs. Maxwell.”
Belatedly I noticed the wedding ring. “Of course, of course, and I’m sure you’re both very happy. But I have a question only Mr. Johns can answer, about Gloriana Alden-Taylor’s will.”
She sniffed, but appeared mollified. “Mr. Johns won’t tell you anything about a client, especially about the contents of a will. Surely you know that.”
“I already know what’s in the will. I just need to know if Mrs. Alden-Taylor made an appointment with Mr. Johns sometime in the last two weeks.”