by Betty Webb
A woman’s body.
She hadn’t been dead long because her filmy but intact eyes still gazed at the sky. The rising sun caressed her pale skin and light brown hair, proving she wasn’t Pima. Caucasian, and young. Early twenties? Her ankle-length blue dress revealed stick-thin arms flung outwards in a pose reminiscent of crucifixion. No shoes, no purse, and no jewelry other than a simple gold band on the spindly ring finger of her left hand. No nail polish.
Dismounting, I studied the ground around her, taking note of the tire tracks stopping just short of the cactus stand, the faint impression of shoeprints too large to be hers. Besides, she was barefoot, and her feet were clean.
Body dump.
Was the crucifixion pose purposeful, or simply the result of the way she’d landed?
I took out my cell phone, snapped several pictures, then carefully retraced my own footsteps in order not to further disturb the site. My first call was to Jimmy to tell him what happened, to go ahead and open the office without me. My next call was to the Salt River Police Department.
Adila nudged me with her soft muzzle. She was impatient, wanting to go return to the paddock. But I had to disappoint her.
There was no way I could leave the woman alone. I had to stand watch, to bear witness.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, not certain who I was apologizing to—my horse or the dead woman.
“How bad was it?” Jimmy asked, when I finally made it in to Desert Investigations.
“Could have been worse. There were no marks of violence that I could see. It looked like she had just…well, just died.” I stopped there, not being able to get those thin arms out of my mind.
Reservation Woman, as I would call her until she was identified, had been the second woman found dead on or near the Rez in a week, and both were white. People died in our desert all the time, especially in the summers when the temperatures could get up to 123 Fahrenheit. Entranced by the area’s beauty, tourists wandered into it without enough water, then became disoriented and died of heatstroke. But this was October, and the temps hadn’t risen past the low eighties in weeks. Besides, the woman had been barefoot, and no sane person entered the snake-friendly desert without sturdy boots or shoes.
“What did the cops say?”
“Not much. You know how careful they are. The case might wind up with the FBI. Caucasian woman, reservation dump, possible homicide.”
“Possible?”
“Probable, actually. Someone dies naturally at home, you don’t drive their body all the way out to the Pima Rez to dump them. You call 9-1-1.”
He grunted agreement. “Cops treat you okay?”
“Norm Jakupi was the first one there.” No further explanation was necessary, since Lieutenant Jakupi and Jimmy were old friends. Given the situation, he’d been solicitous as possible. Haunted, still seeing Reservation Woman’s soul-emptied face, I knew I needed to stop talking about death or I’d be worthless for the rest of the day.
Horses. Talk about horses. Forcing away my sadness, I said, “When I was putting Adila away, I noticed you’d had the farrier out.”
Quick on the uptake, Jimmy responded, “He stopped by on the way to Wolf Ramirez’s place.”
“I didn’t know Wolf had horses.”
“He’s taking care of his niece and nephew’s animals while they’re visiting a cousin in Wind River.”
“Hope they dressed warmly enough. I hear October can be a bitch in Wyoming.”
From there the conversation segued into the fall weather in various parts of the U.S., pushing the image of Reservation Woman’s filmy eyes into the recesses of my mind, as I had hoped. After returning a few calls, I asked Jimmy, “Did you call Wolf?”
He looked at me over the top of his computer. “About what? The horses?”
“About the possibility of a homeless camp up by him.”
When he shook his head, I picked up the phone, dialed, and when Wolf answered, put him on speaker.
“Homeless camp?” the tribal elder said. “Out by me? Not that I’m aware, but since you’ve brought it up, maybe I’ll drive around today and see if I can spot what looks like a camp, but after that mess a few years ago, the tribal police have been pretty strict about that sort of thing.”
Wolf was referring to an incident when a homeless camp comprised mainly of veterans had occupied a portion of the Rez near the Salt River. Since a couple of the residents were Indian, although not Pima, the tribe had allowed it for a while, but once the camp tripled in size and the area surrounding it became a sanitation problem, tribal officials clamped down. The camp was relocated to vacant land held by the Arizona Department of Transportation, underneath a freeway overpass.
“Let us know if you see anything,” Jimmy told Wolf.
“Oh, don’t worry, I will. I sure won’t tell that Yamaguchi woman. Last thing our tribe needs is more bad publicity. Our casinos are already being blamed for the rise in gambling problems. Hmph. That’s like blaming grapes for alcoholism.”
The third person to walk into Desert Investigations that morning, after an elderly woman looking for her lost dog, and a twenty-something man looking for his lost girlfriend, was Clint Moran, the cult deprogrammer who had “extracted” a young heiress from Children of the Universal Gods. After serving less than three years at Arizona State Prison, Moran was out and about, still doing business.
He handed me his card, which I took with two fingers. God knows where it had been. “Nice seeing you again, Lena.”
“Wish I could say likewise.”
Those years behind bars hadn’t changed Clint much. He was still the same self-righteous boor I’d met years earlier at a convention held by the National Council of Investigation and Security Services. Only his hair had changed. Instead of the thick brown pompadour he used to rock, he was currently bald, and he hadn’t yet recovered from his prison pallor. Women inexperienced with the type often found him attractive, but I had never trusted those squinty eyes or baby-pout mouth.
Oblivious of physical boundaries, he lolled back in the client chair, his left leg outstretched so far I had to move mine back several inches to avoid contact. “Harold Slow Horse tells me you’ve been out to Kanati,” he smarmed. “What’s it like?”
“Do your own research.”
“I tried, Lena, but the rent-a-cop at the gate wouldn’t let me in.”
“Your reputation must precede you.”
“But you got in. Maybe he was overcome by your beauty. May I say you’re looking particularly fine today, Lena?”
Jimmy, busy working the computers, took time to scowl.
I made a great show of looking at my watch, a cheap Timex. “A new client will be arriving in a couple of minutes.”
“You always were a bad liar, Lena.”
Ever notice how a salesman keeps using your name over and over? They’re trying to establish intimacy.
“Get lost, Clint.” I could play the game, too.
“Don’t be like that, Lena.”
“Listen, you sack of…”
Miraculously, the phone rang. The display panel showed a Pima Rez number, so I answered before Jimmy could grab it. I held the receiver close so the caller’s end of the conversation wouldn’t leak out and alert Clint, who hadn’t yet taken the hint.
“What’d you find out?” I asked Wolf Ramirez.
“If there’s a homeless camp out here on the Rez where Yamaguchi said it was, it’s led by the Invisible Man and his invisible followers.”
“That’s what I figured. Thanks for checking.”
“No prob. I love hanging out by Talking Stick. Saw a red-tailed hawk take a rabbit, and a Mercedes rear-end a Rolls. Good times.”
We chatted aimlessly for a couple of more minutes, and long before I rang off, I heard the front door shut. Clint was history.
“Need some air freshen
er over there?” Jimmy called.
“I’ll live. That was Wolf on the phone just now. He says there’s no homeless camp anywhere near him.”
“It’s not like Yamaguchi to get things wrong. Wonder what happened?”
I wondered, too. Placing a call to the television station, I left a message for Yamaguchi. I’d helped her on a couple of stories and hoped she remembered.
My next call was to Harold Slow Horse.
“Guess who just dropped by,” I said, when he picked up.
“Clint Moran, right?”
“How much is he charging you?”
“I’m paying in art, remember.”
“Which he’ll promptly sell. Paintings? Sculpture? Which and how many?”
“That’s between me and Clint. If he gets Chelsea out of that place, no price is too high.”
Ever notice that men in love act dumber than women? I motioned to Jimmy, and mouthed, “Harold.”
Jimmy picked up the extension. “My man!”
The conversation switched to Pima, and I went back to work. Jimmy didn’t want me to hear him begging Harold to fire the deprogrammer, and I didn’t want to hear it, either. Especially when the phone rang again and it was my goddaughter Ali on line two, calling me between classes. She sounded considerably more upbeat than yesterday.
“You watch the morning news? Mom’s dropped three points in the polls!”
Yes, I had watched. “The only polls that matter are in the voting booths on election day.”
“If she loses, I won’t have to go to D.C. with her.”
So there we were. After months of mere grumbling, Juliana’s daughter had officially come out against her mother’s U.S. Senate run. “Ali, I don’t see how your mom losing the election would help you with the Kyle situation. Either way, I doubt she’ll let you move away with the Etheridges. Speaking of, have you talked to them about it yet?”
Her silence told me everything I needed to know. The Etheridge family wasn’t any more thrilled about Ali’s plan than was Juliana.
Poor Ali. Poor young love.
The day continued to be busy, with new clients across the Valley wanting Desert Investigations to put out various fires, none of which helped dim the memory of the dead woman I’d found that morning. Reservation Woman had appeared peaceful, but past experience with murder victims taught me that appearances could be deceptive. Sometimes that “peaceful” look arrived after hours, even days, of agony.
An elderly widow from Tempe hired us to run surveillance on her grandson, whom she feared was selling drugs to Arizona State University students. If it turned out to be true, she wanted us to warn him that if he didn’t stop, she was not only going to disinherit him in favor of the Halo No-Kill Animal Shelter, but she’d also narc him off to the DEA. Closer to home, I finally made contact with gallery owner Sharona Gavalan. She was worried about Megan Unruh, one of her artists, and wondered if I could find out why she wasn’t answering her phone calls. Megan had dropped off the radar and Sharona needed her to sign some release forms.
“I must have called her a dozen times this past couple of months, and left a message each time, but never got a call-back,” Sharona explained, when I’d dropped into her nearby gallery. Her latest exhibit seemed to be doing well, with a lot of SOLD signs tacked up beside the paintings. Instead of looking gratified, Sharona’s immaculately made-up face was tight with anxiety.
Although I was busy, I told her I’d check around, just as soon as I got a few things out of the way.
Late afternoon found me on Mill Avenue only three blocks from ASU, taking a video of a blatant drug deal going down on Mill and University between an angel-faced dealer, and a scraggly student who looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. As soon as money changed hands, I walked up to Angel Face, flashed my ID, and showed him the video. When I delivered Grandma’s warning, he spit at me. I’m quick on my feet, so he missed, but his grandmother wasn’t pleased with his churlish behavior—which I’d also videoed. Angel Face’s loss would be the doggies’ and kitties’ gain.
I was less successful at running down Sharona Gavalan’s missing artist. The other two artists Megan Unruh shared studio space with hadn’t seen her in a couple of months, which they declared odd, since she normally came in several times a week. When I dropped by her low-rent apartment in an industrial section of Tempe, the manager, a woman whose gray hair looked like it had exploded outward, said she hadn’t seen Megan in a while, and her rent was two weeks past due.
“Did she pay last month’s rent on time?”
The landlady’s mouth compressed into a thin, mean line. “Yeah, but that was then, this is now. I’m not running a Salvation Army here, so if she doesn’t turn up at my door by the end of the week with money in hand, I’ll initiate eviction proceedings.”
“After only two weeks? For all you know, she could be dead in there.” Unbidden, the vision of Reservation Woman’s face returned. I pushed it away. You’d think that after being in the business for so many years I’d be inured to death and sorrow, but I wasn’t. Something about her touched me deeply.
Maybe concern is catching. After some hemming and hawing, the landlady backtracked and agreed to enter the artist’s apartment for a look-see. For legal reasons, I wasn’t invited along. During the next few minutes I cooled my heels in the dark hallway, and when she finally came back out, she announced, “Okay, she’s not dead in there, but Jesus, it does look like a funeral parlor with all that black. Black sofa, black throw rugs, black bedspread, every damned thing black, even the walls. It’ll take four coats of Navajo white to cover that. Damned artists. I got three of ’em living here. Talk about a bunch of weirdos. The stories I could tell you…”
I didn’t have time to hear them. “Did you see her purse? Cell phone?”
She shook her head. “Wherever she went off to, she musta took them with her, but I can tell you this, I even checked the screen on her landline and she’s got eleven messages. That’s kinda worrying.”
I thought so, too.
Megan Unruh’s mother lived in Wildwood Heights, a North Scottsdale community so far north it was almost in Fountain Hills. It nestled against the side of a hill overlooking the Valley, and as soon I pulled my Jeep in front of her house, I took a moment to enjoy the million-dollar view. It was a clear day, and from here I could see the high-rises of downtown Phoenix, the lower rises of Scottsdale, and the no-rise Pima Reservation, its only exception being the big Talking Stick Resort and Casino. The desert wasn’t fully concreted over yet. Some more natural landmarks remained, such as the red sandstone Papago Buttes, Camelback Mountain, and Piestewa Peak, named for Lori Piestewa, the first American Indian woman killed in combat while serving in the U.S. military. Looking into the distance, I thought could even see the creosote grove where I had found Reservation Woman. Do spirits inhabit the places of their death? Or do they go home, wherever home was?
Turning my mind to more easily answered questions, I walked up the drive to Dorothea Unruh’s two-story house. It was one of those pretend-Mediterraneans, its outsized grandeur meant to telegraph the inhabitant’s financial status. Large enough to contain a family of polygamists, its sole inhabitant was Megan Unruh’s widowed mother.
The doorbell chimed to the tune of “You Are So Beautiful,” so when the door opened and I was confronted by an astoundingly beautiful woman, I wasn’t surprised. Dorothea Unruh stood almost six feet tall, and her expensively streaked hair framed a flawless face. Her eyes were such a pale blue they looked almost colorless. She was dressed as if on her way to a formal high tea: lavender silk shantung sheath, pearl necklace and earrings, bone-colored backless heels. When she invited me in, I saw that her beam-vaulted living room matched her shoes, with a bone-colored carpet, sofas, and chairs. Even the walls had been painted a soft bone. Some people may have considered the decor as beautiful as its owner, but the color scheme made me feel that I had
just stepped into an ossuary.
Mrs. Unruh showed little alarm when I told her Megan hadn’t been seen in two months.
“My daughter hasn’t contacted me in some time, but that isn’t unusual.” Her voice was as chilly as the room’s décor.
“Did you try calling her?”
“What for? We have nothing in common.”
I asked if she could give me a photograph of her daughter.
She tilted her head. “Why?”
Exasperated, I tried again. “Her art dealer is worried about her, so I’m checking around to see if anyone’s seen her lately. A photograph would help.”
With all the regality of a queen bestowing a favor on an unworthy subject, Mrs. Unruh stood and walked down the long hallway. After a few minutes she returned with a ten-year-old high school yearbook. Megan’s picture was near the back, where she’d been voted Most Creative. It showed a plump brunette with a glum expression on her round face. Her bangs were so long they cast a deep shadow over her brown eyes.
“You don’t have anything more recent?”
“Megan didn’t like to be photographed. Said cameras made her look fat, which they did. Because she was.”
As I scanned the bone-colored living room, I didn’t see one picture of Megan, although the far wall displayed a large photo montage of her mother. From what I could deduce from the shots, Mrs. Unruh used to be a model.
She was still stick thin.
When I arrived back at Desert Investigations, I found several phone messages, one of them from TV anchorwoman Polly Yamaguchi stating that she was currently off-air, and to call her back quick because she would be unreachable after four.
Since it was already three-thirty-five, I returned her call first. “My sources say there are no homeless encampments on the Pima Rez near the El Mesquite Business Park where that body was found. In fact, they say there are none at all in or on the Rez since the authorities moved that old one onto ADOT property.”
