by Betty Webb
“Nothing’s going on.” He wouldn’t look at me.
“You think I can’t tell when you’re holding back? Look, I’m worried about you, and I’m worried about Ted, but I can’t help either of you if I don’t have all the facts.” When he still wouldn’t meet my eyes, I added, “Oh, well. You’re probably right about the time. Later would be better. I’ll drive out to the ranch by myself after lunch. Who knows? Maybe I’ll discover something you missed.”
“Stay away from the ranch!” He grabbed my wrist hard enough to leave a red mark.
“Have you lost your mind?” I snapped, twisting out of his grip.
Horrified by his own actions, he looked down at his hands. They were shaking. “I…I…Oh, God, Lena. I’m so sorry!”
He stood up from the table so quickly it toppled over. Then, before I could stop him, he rushed out the door.
***
As I was mounting the steps to the Walapai Flats government complex, Jimmy’s pickup rolled into the parking space behind mine. The morning sun was in his eyes as he approached, so he didn’t see me until the last moment. When he did, he halted and made a half turn back toward his truck. I’d seen more cheerful faces on men about to be executed.
“Jimmy!” I called. “Don’t walk away. Please!”
Shoulders hunched, he stopped mid-turn. Was he still angry, or just embarrassed by his outburst at the motel?
I held out my hand. “Are we still friends, Almost Brother?”
He came toward me slowly, his face a study in pain. When he took my hand, he held it longer than he would a mere handshake. “For life, Almost Sister.”
The lobby was noisier than the night before, only partially because of a loudspeaker reeling off names. Against the wall, a long row of benches held groupings of men, women, and crying children, each adult clutching either a blue, yellow, or green slip of paper. To our right, a line of people were handing yellow slips to an armed deputy before making their way through the security checkpoint that led to the jail annex. The longest line was in front of the reception desk, which I now realized was the complex’s clearing station. A female deputy manning the station was handing out yellow paper for jail business, blue for the sheriff’s offices, and green for admission to the courthouse. She looked bored, as if she’d rather be tracking down serial killers.
“Sheriff’s offices, courthouse, or jail?” she asked, when our turn finally came. Her eyes were too dulled over to focus on us.
“Jail,” Jimmy said. “We’re here to see Ted Olmstead.”
Upon hearing his voice, her eyes cleared and a smile transformed her dour face. “Ah, Mr. James Sisiwan in the flesh. How nice to see you again. It’s not all that common to have a former prisoner voluntarily return a couple of days later. Miss us?”
He smiled back. Jimmy had never met a woman he didn’t like, even when they were cops. “Just visiting my brother, Terry.”
“And the lady with you is?”
“My partner.”
“Partner?” Deputy Terry frowned at me.
Aware that with my long blond hair and less than stocky build I didn’t look like anyone’s idea of a private investigator, I handed over my state ID card. “Lena Jones, Desert Investigations.”
She studied my ID as if hoping to find an error.
I tried not to let my irritation show. “It’s all in order. If you have questions, you can call the state licensing board. Need the phone number?”
Jimmy’s voice was more soothing than mine. “Lena’s good people, Terry.”
The deputy handed my ID back. “If Jimmy says you’re good people, then you’re good people.” She wrote something down on one of the yellow slips and handed it to Jimmy. “Take your seats, if any are left. I’d get you taken care of right away, but first I need to call over and see if your brother is allowed to see anyone who’s out on bond. I’m not sure how that works.”
Jimmy and I dutifully sat down on one of the long benches. The building, being relatively new, hadn’t yet accumulated the worst odors that could permeate such places: vomit, urine, fear. The only smell I noticed, besides a blending of deodorants, was the tea rose cologne emanating from a woman sitting across from us. One of her eyes was bruised and a long scab marred her jaw. It looked like someone had worked her over. The toddler on her lap, a little girl, wore a cast on her left arm. On the bench next to them was a large metal lunchbox, nothing a woman or child would use. Maybe she was dropping it off for someone at the complex. I wondered who the thug was.
I could hear Jimmy grinding his teeth. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he whispered.
“Maybe it was a car accident.”
“Not with that…”
“This is neither the time nor the place, Jimmy. We’re here to see Ted, nothing else.” For the rest of our wait, I kept my eyes averted, otherwise I’d wind up grinding my teeth, too.
A few minutes later, the loudspeaker belched out our names. Before we joined the line in front of the jail’s security station, I hurried over to the bruised woman and handed her my business card. “If you’re having a problem with a domestic partner, give me a call.”
She snatched up the card, but kept her eyes down.
“Fifteen minutes, that’s all you get today,” an elderly detention officer said, as he greeted us by name once we’d entered the jail’s visiting room. “Mr. Olmstead’s attorney is due any minute and he’ll want privacy.”
The room proved as bland as the lobby. Small plastic cubbies offered a modicum of privacy, and reinforced Plexiglas separated visitor from prisoner. Small holes in the barrier allowed them to communicate, however poorly.
When another detention officer brought Ted in, I was shocked by how much he’d changed in the months since I’d met him. His weight was down and his eyes had settled deeper into his gaunt brown face. Understandable, really. In that time, his wife had been shot to death, and now he was involved in another homicide case.
We couldn’t touch him but before sitting down, Jimmy raised his open hand and pressed it against the Plexiglas. Ted leaned forward and did the same, covering the shape of Jimmy’s hand with his own.
“My brother,” Jimmy whispered.
“My brother,” Ted repeated.
To some Easterners all Native Americans look the same, but in reality, each tribe has its own culture and physical attributes. Jimmy, a Pima, had a big, muscular build that sometimes got him mistaken for Polynesian. Ted, a Paiute, was shorter and darker, with a distinct Asian cast to his features. Despite their differences, they didn’t need to speak to communicate. For the longest time the two stood there silently, their hands separated by a quarter-inch of Plexiglas, their eyes saying everything that needed to be said.
Finally, Ted—more for my benefit than Jimmy’s, I suspect—said, “I didn’t do it.”
“I know,” Jimmy and I chorused.
We took our seats while Ted told his side of the story.
Yes, he admitted, he had been involved in an argument with Ike Donohue, but the other man had started it. Donohue arrived at the gas station first, and was filling up his Mercury Sable at the gas pump on the opposite side of the island. When Ted got there, he pulled alongside the diesel pump needed for the ranch’s big truck, but as soon as he lifted the handle, Donohue rushed across the island and jerked it out of his hand, splashing fuel on Ted’s pants.
“Donohue’s car used regular, so what was the big deal?” Jimmy asked.
I suspected their set-to wasn’t about gas at all. “The newspaper account I read before driving up here said a woman named Mia Tosches witnessed the altercation. I saw her at a restaurant last night, and she’s pretty attractive.”
Ted shrugged. “If you like the type.” His own Kimama had been a raven-haired Paiute beauty.
“Where was Mrs. Tosches standing when Donohue challenged you for the diesel pump?” I asked.
“She was coming out of the gas station with a Coke. She’d parked that big Mercedes of her husband’s at the pu
mp ahead of mine.”
“Was it a diesel pump?”
Light dawned on Ted’s face. “No, it wasn’t. And the Mercedes needed diesel, which meant she’d have to back up to use the same pump I was using. But I didn’t realize it then, and because of the way Donohue was carrying on, he wasn’t making any sense. Mrs. Tosches stood there giggling, like she was enjoying the whole scene. Next thing I knew, Donohue stumbled and began to fall. I tried grabbing onto him, but he went down anyway. You mean to tell me that’s what all the fuss was about, Donohue wanting to look good in front of Mrs. Tosches? Bully me away from the diesel pump so she could have first dibs?”
“Sounds like it.”
“But that guy has to be forty years older than her!” Ted sounded like he couldn’t fathom such disparity.
I could. “No fool like an old fool.”
Small events can have big consequences. If Ted hadn’t arrived at the gas station at the same time as Donohue, none of us would be sitting in the jail visitor’s room. Unless the sheriff knew something Ted had neglected to tell us about.
“Ted, other than the Black Basin Mine disagreement, which we’ll get to in a minute, was there anything else that connects you with Donohue? For instance, did he or his wife ever take part in activities at the ranch?”
He shook his head. “Not Mr. Donohue himself, but his wife came along on several of our trail rides. Pretty good in the saddle, too, doesn’t need any babysitting like some of the others.” He managed his first smile. “You know how dudes are.”
I remembered that photograph of Nancy Donohue, rifle in hand, foot on a dead elk. No dude, she.
“How about the murder weapon? Any word yet on the ballistics tests?”
“Not that I know of,” Ted said. “Does it matter?”
“Maybe.” Arizona being Arizona, there were would be plenty of firearms at the ranch, ranging from handguns to hunting rifles. Since the issue of firearms was a moot point until we saw the ballistics report, I decided to delve further into the personalities involved. Ballistics tests might provide proof, but personalities provided motive. “The newspaper account I read said you, let’s see, how did the reporter put it, ‘blamed Donohue for creating the hostile environment that led to Kimama’s death.’ Could you go into detail about that?”
Ted’s face grew guarded. “Mr. Donohue was the public relations flak for the Black Basin Mine, which meant that it was his business to make V.U.M.—the Victims of Uranium Mining—look bad. Some of the things he said about Kimama bordered on slander.”
“Such as?”
He looked at Jimmy as if pleading for help, but Jimmy remained silent. After taking a deep breath, Ted finally answered. “Lots of reasons. Apparently, before Donohue moved here, he was some big deal PR guy back east, and when Roger Tosches, the owner of the Black Basin, needed a little help, he hired Donohue. Well, Donohue set out to convince everyone the mine would be safe, which is just about the biggest crock of…Well, it wasn’t true, and Kimama knew it.”
After mentioning his murdered wife’s name, he had to swallow before he could continue, and when he did, his voice was bitter. “Kimama knew all about Tosches’ history with the Moccasin Peak mine on the Navajo rez, and how the thing killed the miners and how the tailings are still contaminating the drinking water. She called a press conference at the school auditorium, got the newspapers in, the TV crews, plus all the local bigwigs, and blasted his treatment of the Navajos. Cancer, arsenic poisoning, the whole deal. So what did Donohue do? He charged the stage, grabbed the mike, and called Kimama a gullible dupe of false research. Since he was a PR pro and a lot slicker speaker than she was, at least half the people bought into his version.”
He cleared his throat. “Look, Lena, I know darned well how much this town relies on the tourist trade, but not everyone works at a resort or guest ranch. With so many of the mine closings—yep, the gold, silver and copper are all gone—a quarter of the people up here are unemployed, and they’re desperate. Once Donohue got through slandering Kimama, he pointed out that the Black Basin Mine would bring in more than four hundred jobs. In a town this size, that’s a lot.”
“So Kimama’s warning about the safety issues was ignored?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. But she didn’t give up. V.U.M. filed a petition in federal court, and using the disaster at Moccasin Peak as an example of what could go wrong when a uranium mine was operated by the wrong people, she got the Black Basin’s opening date put on hold. When the mine didn’t open when it was supposed to, everyone blamed her. She got threatening phone calls and hate mail, unbelievably creepy stuff. She ignored it, and for a while there, it looked like V.U.M. might get the opening put off indefinitely, or at least until the mine management was transferred to someone with a better reputation, but then…”
“But then she was killed.”
His eyes flashed with hate. “But then she was murdered! And I’m telling you that Donohue’s responsible!”
I hoped Ted’s attorney would counsel him not to speak ill of the dead. Especially not to a cellmate, who might be tempted to turn state’s evidence in exchange for a lighter sentence for his own crimes.
After cautioning Ted against loose talk, I said, “One of the unusual things about your situation is that you’re being held as a material witness, not an actual suspect. What do you know about that?”
Disgust replaced the rage in his eyes. “The sheriff told me it was partially for my own protection.”
“Because of the Black Basin Uranium Mine business?”
Ted looked like he was ready to spit. “Don’t forget, I’m a long-time member of V.U.M., too, and I wasn’t exactly being quiet about the mine, either. From what I hear, once Donohue was killed, the sheriff was worried—he says—that the same people who went after Kimama might come after me out of some sense of revenge. But if you believe that tall tale, I’ve got a three-legged horse I’d like to sell you.”
Ted’s disbelief notwithstanding, the scenario did make sense. The sooner I sat down for a confab with the sheriff, the better.
Before I could tell Ted what I planned to do, the visiting room door opened and the elderly detention officer shuffled back in. Behind him waddled a short man in a wrinkled gabardine suit, carrying a briefcase almost as fat as he was.
“Your attorney’s here, Mr. Olmstead,” the officer announced, motioning for us to leave.
We did.
On the way back to the lobby, Jimmy told me he’d wait behind to alert the attorney that his father had hired Desert Investigations to help with the case.
“Officially?” Handshakes seldom impress lawyers.
He fished in his shirt pocket and drew out a piece of paper. It was a hand-written note on Desert Investigation letterhead. “Dad gave me a dollar and I wrote out a receipt.”
Oh, that Jimmy, always a step ahead, sometimes in the wrong direction. When he asked if I’d wait with him, I shook my head, saying I had several errands to run, but first, I was going to try and see Sheriff Alcott.
“Tell you what, Jimmy. It’s ten now. How about we meet for lunch around one at that restaurant down the street from the park? Ma’s Kitchen. That’ll give me time to take care of a few things. Don’t try to interview anyone, you hear? It would be a shame if your father had to bail you out again.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. Next time I talk to anyone, I’ll stand well back.” With that, he settled himself down on the same bench we’d been sitting on earlier.
The lobby was still crowded, but the bruised woman and her child were gone.
Chapter Six
Sheriff Alcott’s secretary informed me that he was too busy to see me, but penciled me in for the next afternoon. “Better call and confirm,” she said. “His schedule has been pretty fluid for the past few weeks.”
In Scottsdale, “a fluid schedule” would have meant the sheriff was working on something big, but here in the boonies, it could have been either a reflection of understaffing or incomp
etence. Frustrated, I decided to pay a visit to Sunset Trails Guest Ranch, but was careful not to let Jimmy know. There was no point in risking another freak-out.
Ten miles out of town, a gravel road split off Route 47, heralded by a sign announcing that the Sunset Trails Guest Ranch was located one mile down “one of the most scenic drives in Arizona.” The sign didn’t exaggerate. Enraptured, I rolled down the Trailblazer’s tinted windows, the better to see the true colors of red and orange mesas and the yellow-gold sun chasing purple shadows from the beige desert floor. Only a few hundred feet away, the Virgin River—no longer encased by the steep cliffs of the Virgin River Gorge to the north—burbled merrily along, shaded by tall cottonwoods and silver-green sage. Adding to the road’s unearthly beauty, a nearby coyote yipped a farewell aria before turning in for the day.
Too soon I was parking my Trailblazer in the ranch’s visitor’s lot. Near the guest ranch’s main building—a two-story log lodge pretending to be a pioneer structure—people dressed in riding gear waited to be mounted on the horses being led from the corral. As I approached the lodge, a large dog ran out to meet me. Not certain of the animal’s intentions I froze, but my concern proved unnecessary. The moment the blue-eyed heeler reached me, it flopped down on the ground, bared its belly, and grinned.
Pet me, pet me, he begged.
Never one to snub a friendly dog, I complied.
A few tummy-rubs later, my new friend escorted me to the lodge’s front steps, then ran off to join the horses.
I had never met Hank Olmstead, Jimmy’s adoptive father, but as I entered the pine paneled lounge area decorated in leather and wood, I recognized him from a photograph Jimmy had once shown me. Tall and lean with a sun-roughened complexion, he stood in front of a massive stone fireplace, gray head bent solicitously while he listened to a young couple’s complaints.
“…wasn’t as good as usual,” the woman said, sounding annoyed. The combination of professionally streaked hair and perfectly applied makeup with designer shirt and jeans made her look like a dressed-down fashion model.
