Desert Wind

by Betty Webb

  Olmstead nodded. “My apologies about breakfast, Mrs. Arden. Because of a death in his family, our regular cook had to leave town suddenly. We expect him back day after tomorrow.”

  “You’re saying we have to wait for another two days to have decent food?” snapped her husband, who with his vulture-beaked nose and acne-scarred skin, was nowhere as pretty as his wife. To make up for his physical shortcomings, he’d strapped onto his ostrich-skin boots a pair of sharp-roweled spurs that might have belonged in a silversmith’s showroom but nowhere near a horse.

  Olmstead smiled wearily. “I’m truly sorry about this, Mr. Arden, because we’ve always enjoyed having you as guests. Why don’t you let me comp you this morning’s trail ride? And tomorrow’s?”

  Some of the irritation disappeared from the ugly man’s face. “That’s big of you.”

  “Sunset Trails always tries to accommodate.” Olmstead shook the man’s hand. “Let me personally escort you nice folks out to the wranglers so I can be certain they give you two of our best horses. By the way, you might want to take off those spurs. They tend to annoy the horses, and we don’t want any accidents, do we?”

  He waited until Arden reluctantly unbuckled his equine torture devices and handed them over. “Wonderful quality,” Olmstead said. “I’ll put them in our safe, okay? Now, let’s get you mounted up. You’re about to take in some of Mother Nature’s most glorious scenery.”

  As the trio clomped past me, I pretended to be engrossed in the Sunset Trails brochure I’d lifted off a table shaped like a wagon wheel. It highlighted the ranch’s Old West amenities: nearby airport, spa, heated pool, satellite TV.

  Moments later, Olmstead returned looking thunderous but he feigned pleasure as soon as he spotted me. “Good morning, young lady. Here to inquire about Sunset Trails? We offer wonderful vacation packages…”

  I raised my hand to halt the sales pitch. “I’m Lena Jones, Jimmy’s partner.”

  The bonhomie disappeared. “Then we’ll need privacy.” He turned on his heel.

  I followed him down the hall and into a small office that paid more attention to utility than theme. Mismatched gray and white file cabinets lined the room, surrounding a battered desk that could have been rescued from the town dump. The only decoration on the wall behind the desk was a cross, which did little to break up the room’s starkness, but on the opposite wall hung a large studio photograph of the entire clan. In the center sat Hank Olmstead and Jeanette, his deceased wife, a thin but kind-faced woman. Jimmy had told me that the Olmsteads had no biological children, but made up for the lack by adopting eleven kids. The photograph was testimony to the Olmsteads’ open hearts. Among the children grouped around Hank and his wife, I counted five Whites with what appeared to be Down syndrome; three frail-looking Asian girls; a Hispanic boy in thick glasses; and a girl with possible Polynesian ancestry who wore a brace on one leg. Standing together in the back were Ted Olmstead and a teenaged Jimmy who hadn’t yet obtained his tribal tattoo.

  “Beautiful family.” I gestured toward the photo as I settled into a chair. “Quite the United Nations.”

  After closing the office door, Olmstead took a seat in the big leather chair behind the desk. I realized, then, the importance of the photo’s placement across the room. This way he could look at his family all the time.

  His hard face softened. “We are very proud of our children. Now, what can I do for you, Miss Jones? I must say it’s a surprise to see you. James said he was going to handle Theodore’s situation himself, but here you are. Not that your kind visit is necessary. I’ve called in one of the best attorneys I know, and he will be consulting with Theodore first thing this morning.”

  I inclined my head. “We saw the attorney at the jail. Attorneys are great for handling the legal end of things, but Ted’ll need a good investigator, too.”

  “Of course. That’s why James drove up here. To lend his expertise.”

  James. Not Jimmy. You can tell a lot about people from the way they refer to others. For instance, I was “Miss Jones.” He also used the formal version of both his sons’ names. Had Hank Olmstead always been like this, or had catering to ranch guests for so long made him this way?

  I smiled, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. “Jimmy and I are a team. He handles the Internet investigations, while I take care of the field work.”

  “A division of labor makes sense.”

  “Exactly.” I reached into my carry-all and pulled out my digital recorder. Setting it on his desk, I said, “I hope you don’t mind if I tape this conversation?” I’d displayed the recorder merely out of courtesy, because in Arizona, anyone is allowed to tape a conversation without the other’s knowledge. A strange law, but one private investigators love.

  Olmstead appeared comfortable with the recorder’s presence. “Anything that will help Theodore.”

  I pressed the RECORD button. “Mr. Olmstead, how well did you know Ike Donohue?”

  “Only to say hello to on those rare occasions we ran into each other in town. Mr. Donohue was no horseman.”

  At my show of puzzlement, he explained, “None of the resorts around here have stables, too expensive to keep up, so some of them have standing arrangements for us to furnish horses whenever any of their residents want to ride. Mr. Donohue owns one of those condos at Sunset Canyon Lakes, but as I have stated, riding was never his sport. He preferred golf, and there’s a championship course over there.”

  “Ever hear anything negative about him?”

  “Nothing comes to mind.”

  His answer had come too quickly, but this wasn’t the time to push. The longer Olmstead felt comfortable, the smoother the interview would go. “Tell me what you can remember about last Thursday, the day Donohue was killed.”

  A frown. “I thought he was killed Friday.”

  “His body was found Friday morning, but I haven’t yet learned the exact time of death. It might have occurred as early as Thursday night. We’ll find out for certain when Ted’s attorney gets a copy of the autopsy. The newspaper account hinted that Ted’s altercation with Donohue on Thursday had something to do with his getting picked up, if not actually arrested, so I need to know everything that happened on Thursday, what you saw, what you heard. More importantly, tell me what you know about anyone around here who might have been carrying a grudge against Donohue. Surely Ted wasn’t the only person who’d had a problem with him.”

  Olmstead glanced at the family photograph again, but this time his face gave away nothing. When he spoke, his tone was cautious. “As far as I can remember, last Thursday was like any other day except that I spent much of the morning calling around to find a substitute cook. After breakfast was squared away—Theodore, my daughter Leilani, and I wound up cooking it ourselves, much to the dissatisfaction of our guests—Theodore went outside and helped the wranglers saddle up the horses. When he came back in, he said we needed to get the vet out, that one of the horses had a nasty gash on its flank. Coyote, probably, we’re plagued with them. Until the vet arrived, Theodore busied himself talking to guests. After the horse was taken care of he drove the van over to the airport to pick up a few more guests, settled them into their rooms, then…”

  “Those guests. What were their names?”

  Olmstead flipped a few pages over on his desk calendar, then read, “Bill and Evelyn Nash, Minnesota. Sol and Thelma Bernstein, Ohio.”

  “Are they regulars here?”

  “It’s their first visit, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t alarm them. Returns make up more than 60 percent of Sunset Trails’ business, and we hope they come back.”

  This explained why he’d been so accommodating with the Ardens. “To your knowledge, did any of your guests run into Ike Donohue on Thursday?”

  “Miss Jones, you must understand that our guests are free to come and go as they please. Some of them even rent cars as soon as they arrive so they can drive down to the Grand Canyon, over to Las Vegas…”

  I broke into his travelog
ue. “And a lovely time they have, I’m sure, but to get back on track, tell me what you know about Ted’s altercation with Donohue.”

  Another frown, either because he didn’t like being interrupted or because he didn’t like the subject matter. “The newspaper blew that all out of proportion, and I can guarantee you that Theodore didn’t start the argument. It’s my understanding that Mr. Donohue could be a difficult man to deal with on a personal level. Arrogant. Abrasive. Regardless, he was quite successful as spokesman for the uranium mine. Most resort owners, myself included, don’t like the fact that the open pit operation will be so close to the Grand Canyon, but he was able to sweep our objections under the rug by stressing that the mine would furnish much-needed uranium to the state’s nuclear plants. With gas and oil prices as high as they are around here, he convinced just about everyone that nuclear power was America’s only alternative. What do you think about nuclear power, Miss Jones?”

  He was trying to deflect my attention away from that gas station altercation again, but I gave him the courtesy of an answer. “Considering the tragedy in Japan, I’m not sure I see nuclear power as the best answer to our energy woes, but that’s for the experts to decide. What I’m concerned with is Ted’s situation. How did the authorities find out about his fight with Donohue?”

  “It wasn’t a fight!” He took a few deep breaths, then with difficulty, leveled his voice. “Mr. Donohue may have reported it. Or Mrs. Tosches. Like many young people, she can be over-imaginative. Afterwards, a deputy went out and talked to Earl Two Horses, who runs Walapai Gas-N-Go. Mr. Two Horses is an excellent mechanic and has been taking care of all the ranch’s vehicles since we opened. Paiute mother, Navajo father. Lots of good blood there.”

  “Is Earl a close friend of Ted’s?”

  “Their wives were close, but Theodore and Mr. Two Horses were too busy for much socialization, other than attending pow-wows together from time to time. Once Theodore’s wife died…”

  “Kimama.”

  A nod. “Yes, Kimama. After my daughter-in-law’s death, Theodore stuck closer to the ranch, so I guess you could say his friendship with Mr. and Mrs. Two Horses faded some.” Another pause, another look at the family photograph.

  If Ted was always taking the ranch’s cars in for service at Two Horse’s gas station, there was no reason the two men couldn’t remain close. “Did something happen between them?”

  Olmstead shrugged. “Theodore stopped attending the, ah, activist gatherings, too. He was still a supporter, but I think the meetings reminded him too much of his wife, so he stayed away. It might have disappointed Mr. Two Horses.”

  “Are you talking about the Victims of Uranium Mining meetings?”

  Olmstead looked pained. “Yes. Mr. Two Horses remains quite active in V.U.M. His father was one of the Navajos who worked at a uranium mine on the Navajo Reservation. Do you know anything about what happened, and is still happening, at the Moccasin Peak Mine?”

  “Enough to know that V.U.M. is afraid the same thing might happen in Walapai Flats.”

  Another nod. “I imagine Mr. Two Horses expected Theodore to become even more involved in the protests after Kimama’s death. But losing a wife can make a man draw into himself.” He looked at the family photograph, then down at his wedding ring. For a moment, I thought he might break down. He didn’t.

  “You said Earl Two Horses’ father worked at the old Moccasin Peak. Was he one of the casualties, by any chance?”

  “Lung cancer. The company never issued the proper masks to the Navajo miners.”

  “Then I take it that most of the Indians around here are against the opening of the Black Basin.”

  “And you’d be wrong. Many of the local tribes look forward to getting jobs once it opens. Shoshones, Paiutes, even some Navajos. Indians have to buy groceries and toys for their children, too, Miss Jones.”

  Stung, I was about to inform him that since I live next door to a reservation myself, I was well acquainted with tribal shopping habits, thank you very much, but at that moment the door opened and a tall wrangler, his face hidden by the battered Stetson he wore, leaned in through the open door, and said, “We’re about to head out, Mr. Olmstead. Want us to take the canyon trail, or the one along the river?”

  His back was angled away from me but I didn’t have to see the man’s face to recognize him. I’d heard that voice almost every day for years.

  Dusty.

  The cowboy who’d almost gotten me killed.

  Dusty had been working at a Scottsdale area dude ranch when I met him. I was a police officer then, still patrolling the streets. One day I clocked Dusty driving sixty-two miles an hour in a forty-five mile zone, and while writing him a ticket, couldn’t help but notice his uncanny resemblance to the young Clint Eastwood. Cops were discouraged from turning traffic stops into romantic encounters, so after handing him the summons I climbed back into my patrol car and regretfully watched him drive away. Back then, Scottsdale wasn’t as large as it is now, and we soon ran into each other again under less official circumstances. When he asked me out, I accepted.

  The problem was this: Dusty drank. A lot. While on benders, he would disappear for weeks, then reappear in my life as if nothing had happened. Hobbled by commitment issues of my own—what survivor of multiple foster homes doesn’t have them?—our on-again, off-again relationship worked for me until a woman he married during a blackout found out where I lived. She shot up my apartment, almost killing me in the process.

  Appalled, Dusty entered rehab and swore off the sauce.

  I swore off Dusty.

  Now my bad penny had turned up again, and I was faced with a decision. Should I continue sitting quietly behind him, hidden by the open door, or should I announce my presence and get the discomfort out of the way.

  Remembering what one of my kinder foster fathers, a Baptist minister, once said, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” I remained quiet while Olmstead told Dusty to take the dudes along the river trail. When the conversation ended and the door shut, I began breathing again.

  “Are you all right, Miss Jones? You look pale.”

  Olmstead’s voice roused me from my shock. “I’m fine, thanks. It’s this higher elevation, I guess. Walapai Flats is about a thousand feet higher that Scottsdale.”

  “One thousand, two hundred and eight feet, to be exact. It’s not like we’re Denver.”

  “Another nice town.” Olmstead wasn’t the only person who could deflect.

  “If you don’t mind the traffic.”

  Small talk can be pleasant, especially after Olmstead’s previous formality, but it’s a waste of time during a murder investigation, so I picked up where we’d left off. “You’ve told me that your relationship with Ike Donohue was slight, but is it possible you or your guests might have heard something negative about him, something that might provide a motive for his murder?”

  “Miss Jones, I have better things to do with my time than listen to idle gossip. Same with my guests.”

  If there had been gossip about Donohue, I’d ferret it out whether he liked it or not. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, Mr. Olmstead, and I understand your not wanting to worry the guests, but if I’m going to help Ted, I need considerably more information than I have now. So please. Who disliked Donohue?”

  “Enough to kill him?”

  “Over time, even the smallest disagreement can fester.”

  He looked at the family photograph again. “Jesus counseled us to forgive the sins of others.”

  “Jesus isn’t involved in this case, though, so would you mind answering my question?”

  Olmstead didn’t like that, but in accordance with his beliefs, he forgave me instead of slapping me upside the head. “Perhaps some of the people involved in V.U.M. get fairly emotional, but never to the point of shooting anyone. They’re responsible people. But since you’re determined to dwell on the negative, drive over to Sunset Canyon Lakes and talk to Mrs. Donohue. Like you, she never misses a chanc
e to speak her mind. As for me, I hardly knew the man. Nor, as far as I know, did anyone else on this ranch, whether wrangler or guest.”

  “What about your other children? The ones who still live at home.”

  “They know nothing.”

  “I need to hear that for myself.”

  He pursed his lips. “I’m not letting you anywhere near them. Aren’t you aware of their condition?”

  I turned around the look at the family photograph. “I take it, then, that your Down syndrome children are the only ones left at home.”

  “Other than Theodore and Leilani, of course. As for the others, even if they did see something, which I doubt because they spend almost all their time in the family home out back, their language skills are so limited they won’t be able to convey that information to you in any meaningful way.”

  “I’ve known numerous people with Down syndrome, and most have no trouble conversing. Some live independently and even hold down jobs.”

  “The ones Jeanette and I adopted are not high-functioning, Miss Jones. Now ask me something else and leave my children alone.”

  After that, the interview degenerated. Every question I asked was answered with a noncommittal. Olmstead knew no evil, heard no evil, saw no evil, and certainly wouldn’t speak any evil. Several frustrating minutes later, I thanked him for his time and left.

  Pulling out of the parking lot, I thought back to the family photograph he’d continued looking at throughout our conversation.

  Husband. Wife. Children. Everyone smiling. Everyone happy.

  But pictures could lie.

  As I neared the part of the highway that paralleled the Virgin River, I had to slow for a long line of horseback riders ambling along at dude speed. Dusty and the blue-eyed dog led the group, while another wrangler took up the rear. Not yet ready to face the unpleasantness that was certain to come, I kept my face averted.

  Chapter Seven

  April, 1966: Northwestern Arizona

  The funeral for Abby’s mother was a short one, but as soon as they arrived home, Gabe insisted his wife go straight to bed. “Edna’s at peace now, girl. As for you, you need your rest.”