Desert Vengeance

by Betty Webb

  And from what I had seen of Nicole, she had enough steel in her spine to act on them.

  ***

  Cyril Sanders lived in a small adobe house perched halfway up a hill two miles from Debbie’s Desert Oasis. Given his reputed drinking problem, I was surprised to see how well the property was kept up. Fresh pink paint on the adobe and matching garage, no cannibalized vehicles on cinder blocks, just an un-rusted chain-link fence to keep two noisy but well-groomed toy poodles from running off to play on I-17. Having had my ankles gnawed on by their kindred before, I respected their warning yips and didn’t enter the yard, just yelled at the house.

  “Cyril? Roseanne? Anybody home?”

  After a few seconds, the snow white door opened and a large woman wearing a flower-print housedress looked out. “Whatcha want?” she yelled back.

  I flashed my ID, not that she could read it from this distance. “Lena Jones, private investigator! I’d like to talk to you! And your husband!”

  She thought about that for a moment, then yelled again, “This about that dead guy?”

  “Yes!” No point in being coy.

  “Guess you’ll hafta come on in then.”

  I gestured toward the pint-sized dogs. “They bite?”

  “Nobody lately!”

  I took a deep breath, opened the gate, and hurried across the yard, trailed by two yipping poodles. “They’re not all that fast, are they?” I said, scooting into the house.

  Roseanne smirked. “Shoulda told you they don’t hardly have any teeth left. Fifteen years old, same litter. When they was pups, they was hell on wheels. You wouldn’t a made it halfway across the yard before they brought you down.”

  The tidiness of the house’s exterior was matched by its interior. Spotless mauve carpet, spotless flowered sofa—almost the same print as Roseanne’s housedress—spotless matching chairs, magazines arranged in a neat pile on the unscuffed coffee table, no dust bunnies under the mahogany tallboy, a row of well-dusted family photographs perfectly aligned along the far wall. The only thing that didn’t appear to belong in this Temple of Clean was the bleary-eyed man slumped in one of the chairs. Yellow-skinned and wizened except for his pot belly, shaggy-haired and five o’clock shadowed, he looked like thirty miles of bad road and smelled like it, which explained the miasma of lemon-scented air freshener that hung about the room.

  “Mr. Sanders?” I asked.

  “Yer.”

  I took that to be a yes.

  “Don’t just stand there gawking, Miss Private Investigator,” Roseanne said, plopping her heavy body on the flowered sofa while gesturing to the other chair. “Sit yourself down and ask him what you come here to ask.”

  “Cyril, did you ever have any trouble with the Genoveses?”

  Before answering, he flicked a look at his wife. At her nod, he said, “Naw.”

  “How about Brian Wycoff?”

  “Piece a shit.”

  His wife nodded again.

  “You knew he was in town?”

  “Everbody and his dog did. Mario ’n Grace screaming all over the damned bar ’bout it.” He sniffed. “Like I said, piece a shit.”

  “I hear your daughter was abducted once.”

  Cyril’s bleary eyes got blearier.

  Before I could remark on it, Roseanne interjected, “We don’t talk about that ’round here. B’sides, she’s living with her mama now. Out of state.”

  “But…”

  “‘But’ your ass, Miss Private Investigator. Keep talkin’ ’bout that and I’ll haul that ass right outta here.” She had the heft to do it, too.

  I changed tactics. “Mr. Sanders, did you hold any grudges against Mr. Wycoff?”

  He waved a blue-veined hand. “Wasn’t nothing for me to hold a grudge about.”

  I shot a nervous glance toward Roseanne, who I now realized was more Cyril’s caretaker than his wife. Then I said, “He had, um, problems with children, I hear.”

  Roseanne made a noise somewhere between a throat-clearing and a growl but otherwise didn’t move, so I was still safe.

  “Yer. Piece a shit shoulda got strung up years ago.”

  “I’m with you there,” I said.

  An agreeing grunt from Roseanne.

  “You know anybody who might have had it in for him?”

  “Who didn’t?”

  Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? Who didn’t feel justified in ushering—to quote Cyril, “a piece a shit”—into the next world? Count me among the crowd, although I’d have dispatched Papa Brian without the additional ruffles and flourishes.

  “Maybe, in your, ah, travels around town you heard some talk?”

  “Naw.”

  Roseanne, in a kindlier voice than earlier, said, “He gets to drinking, he don’t hear much.”

  “You ever go out with him, maybe? Hear something yourself?”

  She gave me a sad look. “I told him when we was first married that he’d have to kill himself without me, so no. I don’t never go out with him to any of his bars.”

  “But you picked him up at the Coyote Corral the night Wycoff was murdered.”

  “Always do that. Otherwise he’d kill hisself on the road, maybe some other poor soul, too.”

  “When you picked him up, did Mario or his daughter say anything about maybe one of their customer looking upset and leaving early?”

  “Mario didn’t. We was too busy pouring Cyril into my car.”

  “How about Shana? Maybe she heard something while Mario was getting food from the kitchen.”

  “Shana? Naw. She wasn’t there.”

  Careful not to let my surprise show, I asked, “Do you mean she didn’t help get Cyril to your car, or that she wasn’t there period?”

  Roseanne shrugged. “Don’t know for sure, just that I was under the impression she’d already taken off. ”

  I had to be careful not to alert Roseanne to the fact that the night of Wycoff’s murder, I’d seen Shana leaving the Genovese ranch in the pickup truck with Mario. “I was under the impression she drove home with her father.”

  “Ain’t hard for a pretty girl like Shana to catch a ride from one of the customers. They’d be fallin’ all over themselves to play Sir Galahad.”

  And Shana’s father would be just as eager to cover up for her. I filed Roseanne’s information away for further use.

  “One more question. You ever hear anything odd, and I’m including guesses here, about Wycoff’s murder from visitors, maybe someone who stopped by just to chat?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t nobody come to see us, ’cept Cyril’s daughter once. She was gonna stay for a week, stayed two days, went on back to Indiana. Couldn’t take the memories, I guess. As for the rest of them…” She shrugged. “…they stay away unless they’re dragging him home. Don’t blame them none, either.”

  I felt a stab of pity for her. “But you keep a beautiful house.”

  Her laugh was bitter. “Place is just a house.” Then she motioned with a callused hand toward the bleary-eyed wreck in the chair. “That thing over there, wherever he is, that’s my home.”

  ***

  Life wasn’t fair, I reminded myself as I pulled away from the Sanders’ neat little house. Hardly a news bulletin, but I couldn’t remember any investigation where one perpetrator—or two, if you counted Norma—had permanently damaged the lives of so many people. Besides me, Wycoff had victimized at least six other foster children: Errol Bidley, Gayle Mitter, Molly Arness, Tamara Clemson, Casey Starr, Magda Wallace, and possibly many more who never summoned up the courage to come forward. And then there was Wycoffs’ own family: his sister, Grace, and her husband, Mario; his niece Shana, his attempt on Bethany, stopped only by young Luke. Not to mention Guy DeLucca, the social worker who had…

  I slammed on the brakes before shock made me run off the r
oad and send the Jeep tumbling down the hillside. After catching my breath I steered over to the shoulder and sat there thinking.

  Guy DeLucca.

  When I had talked to him, he said something odd, something that I paid no attention to at the time, but my unconscious mind had glommed onto it and wouldn’t let go. We’d been talking about the Wycoffs’ other foster children and how they were getting on with life when he said, “You’ve done the best of them all.”

  Earlier, he’d told me about following my career, which meant he knew about the bullet I still carried in my hip from a botched drug raid, knew about a different perp at a different time shooting me in the shoulder, knew about my almost dying in the desert, and even that I’d been placed in an anger management program after my attack on an abusive mother in a parking lot.

  Yet he’d said, “You’ve done the best of them all.”

  Which meant DeLucca thought I—with all my problems—had done better than Magda Wallace, the beautifully-put-together flight attendant. Better than Casey Starr, dot.com millionaire and seemingly contented husband.

  What did DeLucca know that I didn’t?

  Chapter Twenty-one

  As soon as I returned to the butterfly trailer, I called DeLucca. Although he was polite, he pretty much told me to mind my own business.

  “Lena, leave Magda and Casey alone. They’ve had enough problems.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Sorry, but I can’t help you.” His voice was kind but firm as he ended the call.

  I had brought my laptop with me but a quick search for Magda Wallace Pierce and Casey Starr revealed little more than the fact that Magda had been married and divorced twice, and that she had a habit of accumulating speeding tickets. As for Starr, he remained pure as the driven snow.

  I don’t trust pure.

  Picking up my cell again, I called Jimmy, who promised to run a more detailed search on Magda and Casey. To cover all my bases I also added the names of Shana Genovese Ferris, and Nicole Beltran. Then I asked, “How’s Snowball?”

  A chuckle. “Snowball is fine. Your drapes, not so much.”

  “Do you think he misses me?” The minute the words were out of my mouth I realized how dumb they sounded.

  “Let me ask him since he’s right here on my lap shredding my jeans. Hey, Snowball, do you miss Lena?” A pause. “Snowball says he misses you and wants you to hurry home.”

  “Tell him I miss him, too.” People can be such fools about animals.

  Jimmy didn’t laugh as he said, “Snowball, Lena misses you.”

  I thought I heard a purr. Or maybe it was just the sound of denim ripping.

  ***

  Later that night as I lay in Monarch’s comfy bed, I wondered how I’d wound up with a cat instead of a Rottweiler. Or maybe a German shepherd. Or a Doberman. Something that, given the business I was in, would be more useful. But a cat?

  Belatedly, I realized that Casey Starr had a rare gift for manipulation. When he first asked me if I had ever considered having a pet I’d told him the story of Sandy, the stray dog I took in while living with the Wycoffs. Every time I threatened to tell the authorities what was going on, Brian threatened to kill my dog if I did. So I’d told Starr—an equal sufferer under the Wycoffs’ regime—I would never own a pet again, would never again allow another creature to have a hold over me.

  Yet I’d left the Starr household with a kitten in my arms.

  ***

  When I woke up the next morning thin rays of sunlight were creeping through Monarch’s windows. I checked my watch. Almost six. I climbed out of bed, put on loose running clothes, and headed out with my .38 secured in its fanny pack.

  The world looks so hopeful at sunrise. The air is clean, birds sing, frogs hush their complaints, and coyotes stop their slaughter of innocent bunnies and head home to bed. It’s all a lie, of course. The world is as vicious in daylight as it is at night.

  Brian Wycoff had only raped me during daylight.

  As I crested the hill that overlooked the Genovese spread, I saw Luke and his grandfather in the pasture below, giving extra feed to the horses and cattle. From their house, a soft breeze carried the sound of George Strait singing “If You Ain’t Lovin’ You Ain’t Livin’”. Such a peaceful country morning.

  Following Luke’s earlier directions, my run took me to the half-hidden trail Wycoff’s killer had taken. The police presence had long since disappeared, but a solitary piece of yellow crime-scene tape remained stuck on a barrel cactus. Like the crime scene techs before me, I scanned the now well-trampled ground, hoping to find something they might have missed. Nothing. Disappointed, I continued down the hillside without finding anything to contradict what appeared to be little more than an innocent footpath. When I reached the bottom of the hill where the trail abutted the far end of the Genovese property, I’d still found nothing other than an additional piece of tape caught in a creosote bush. By now Mario and his grandson had returned to their house and the only sounds from the pasture were the lowing of cattle.

  Disappointed, I turned around and jogged back up the hill toward Monarch for a shower and change of clothes. But less than twenty yards from the top, I heard hoof beats, the rattle and clink of bridles, and the soft whuffle of horses’ nostrils. A baritone cautioned everyone to form a single file because the trail was about to narrow.

  I knew that voice.

  Since there was no nearby bush large enough to hide behind, I moved onto the side of the trail and steeled myself for the encounter. Mere seconds later, a Stetson-hatted wrangler topped the rise, leading a mostly female group of tourists on a morning trail ride.

  “That’s some nice piece of horseflesh you’re riding, Dusty,” I said.

  No lie there. The bay mare the cheating son of a bitch was astride could have won a confirmation class at a statewide quarter horse show, but considering Dusty’s spotty employment record, I doubted the mare belonged to him. Probably to the owner of the Red Rock Ranch.

  Allowing his shock to show for only a second, Dusty reined in only a couple feet away from me and gestured for the others to stop. “Why, if it isn’t Lena Jones! What a delight to meet you here, Hon.”

  I wanted to point out that I was no longer his “Hon,” but there was no point in embarrassing him in front of paying customers.

  “Gonna be a hot one, isn’t it?” I commented. If nothing else, talking about Arizona’s weather was a good conversational default when you couldn’t say what you wanted to say.

  A blonde and a redhead had not followed his instructions to rein in until they’d maneuvered their horses beside his. Both appeared besotted by their handsome trail guide. Dusty’s brief look of annoyance at the two women faded quickly. He was paid to be charming, but the women—in their late forties or early fifties—were on the outer edge of his preferred age range.

  “Weather’s always hot in August, Lena. So what brings you to Black Canyon City? And don’t tell me you’re just fishing.”

  “Then I won’t. Haven’t you been keeping up with the news?”

  He jerked his head toward the other riders as a warning not to say too much. “You know me. Always too busy to read the papers. Especially when the weather’s this nice in the mornings.”

  Another lie from the Prince of Lies. Despite Dusty’s “Aw shucks” cowpoke demeanor, I happened to know that he started every day drinking a pot of black coffee—straight, no chaser—while watching CNN. He also read the local newspapers, so there was no doubt in my mind that he knew exactly why I was here. I was about to bid him a polite goodbye and continue my run back to Monarch when he made me an offer that he knew perfectly well I couldn’t refuse.

  Leaning closer from the saddle, he whispered, “This group’s leaving at noon, and the next one doesn’t arrive until Saturday. Wanna ride this mare tomorrow morning?”

  Instead of cheering, w
hich I felt like doing, I forced a frown. “I doubt your boss would allow a total stranger up on that beauty.”

  Still whispering, he answered, “Boss, my ass. Arabella’s mine, won her in a poker game over in Sedona last year. She took first prize in Western Pleasure at the Tri-State Quarter Horse Show, and her owner got so drunk celebrating, it put him off his game. So how about it, Hon? This pretty lady’s got a canter that’ll make you think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  For a ride on that mare I would even put up with my cheating ex-boyfriend. Sighing, I asked, “What time? And stop calling me ‘Hon!’”

  A wink. “Be at the barn at six, Hon.”

  ***

  More fishermen and hikers had moved into the other trailers during the night and they were already chowing down in the breakfast room when I arrived, freshly showered. Nicole Beltran was serving up a generous helping of herbed scrambled eggs, cottage fries, and only slightly burned toast. I sat across from one of the hikers, a friendly, sturdy-looking woman who introduced herself as Nancy Miller-Borg. Several times during our conversation, she paused to pick a piece of broken eggshell off her tongue.

  “I heard the food here was good,” she said, frowning at her plate.

  “It usually is but the regular cook is, ah, indisposed.” Like locked up at the Prescott jail.

  Misunderstanding, she said, “Let’s hope he or she feels better soon.”

  “Crossing my fingers.”

  Miller-Borg must have been raised well because before she grabbed her backpack and headed for the trails, she said to Nicole, “Lovely breakfast. Thank you.”

  As for myself, I picked my way around pieces of eggshell while berating myself for having a weakness for horses and two-timing cowboys. I was about to call the Red Rock and cancel when my cell rang. Jimmy.

  “You’re up bright and early,” I said. “And what’s that noise in the background?”