Desert Wind

by Betty Webb

  It didn’t sound that bad to me, though it would play hell with Desert Investigations’ website and Facebook page. “There was something else that puzzled me at the demonstration, an elderly woman carrying a sign that said ‘Hasn’t Walapai County suffered enough?’ What did that mean?”

  “I have no idea.” He handed me my mug and my receipt. “Have a nice day.”

  I ran into the same polite brush-off at Cowboy Clem’s Western Wear, where I purchased a white Stetson; Tumbleweed Books, coming away with a copy of Arizona in the Movies; and at Kalico Karen’s Koffee Kup, the special of the day being Iced Caramel Mocha Frappuccino. While I lapped up the calorie-laden thing, I perused a copy of the Las Vegas Sun someone had so kindly left on the reading rack. A story on B-2 informed me that a new casino had opened in Vegas, this one with a Wild West theme; it featured daily reenactments of the shootout at the OK Corral at two, Indian attacks at six.

  The Vegas newspaper reminded me of Ike Donohue’s odd phone calls. Since Donohue had remained successfully employed by the Black Basin Mine right up until the day of his murder, I decided he probably wasn’t addicted to booze or drugs. Maybe he gambled.

  After finishing my Frappuccino I resumed questioning the proud members of the Walapai Flats Chamber of Commerce, but my luck never improved. Everyone assured me the uranium mine wouldn’t make the town or the Grand Canyon radioactive, and tsk tsk, wasn’t that fuss at the demonstration a shame? It was all the fault of those nasty environmentalists. The old woman’s picket sign? Sorry, no clue. By three I gave up. I walked back to my Trailblazer and headed for the Gas-N-Go, where I caught Earl Two Horses clearing away litter by one of the pumps.

  I rolled my window down. “Hey, Earl. Got a minute?”

  “If you’re a customer.”

  My gas tank remained three-quarters full, so while Earl dumped the litter into a trash receptacle, then walked toward the store, I pulled the Traiblazer over to the parking area. Steeling myself for more obstruction, I followed him. Except for the clerk at the cash register, a middle-aged woman with harlequin eyeglasses and old-fashioned beehive, the store was empty. When Earl said something to her I couldn’t hear, she smiled and grabbed her purse.

  “See you tomorrow, then,” she said, getting up. “Oh, I forgot to tell you earlier, the Hostess delivery guy called and…”

  They discussed a delayed shipment of Twinkies as I wandered through the store. It was a lot like the Circle K’s in Phoenix, with a little of this, a little of that. I picked up a Diet Coke, a bag of vinegar potato chips, and two Slim Jims to tide me over until dinner. When the clerk finally left, I took my purchases to the counter.

  “There was an anti-mining demonstration in town yesterday,” I said. “Why didn’t you go over to root for your side, whichever side that is?”

  “Too busy working.” He made a big show of counting the money in the till.

  “Good turnout, even the New York media was there.”

  “New York’s a big city.” More counting.

  “Eight million people, I hear. Did you know one of their reporters is covering the Black Basin Mine opening?”

  “No such thing as bad publicity.”

  “Even when it’s about opening a uranium mine near a town that relies so heavily on tourism? Please, Earl. All I want to do is help Ted, but no one will tell me anything. I was hoping that since he’s your friend…”

  My groveling opened him up somewhat. “The only thing I know about Mr. Donohue is that he bought his gas here, and sometimes milk and eggs. He used to buy cigarettes, but he stopped doing that last month.”

  “You know anything about his wife Nancy?”

  “Fine woman, that.”

  “What!?”

  A hint of a smile. “Do not pay so much attention to people’s mouths, Miss Jones. Sometimes they just like the sounds that come out. The only real measure of a man or a woman is their actions. Now, please excuse me because I must balance my books and that is a difficult enough task in itself without holding a conversation at the same time.” He started fussing with the till again.

  I held my ground. “What do you know about Roger Tosches?”

  “Rich. Owns the Black Basin. Sunset Canyon Lakes, too.”

  “That’s all you know? You haven’t heard any rumors about him?”

  “Don’t listen to rumors.”

  Getting a cat to sing an a cappella version of “Stairway To Heaven” was easier than getting Earl to talk, but I kept at it. “How about Mia, Tosches’ wife? Know anything about her?”

  “She caused trouble for Ted Olmstead.”

  “I heard she plays around and that her husband doesn’t mind.”

  “You through buying stuff?”

  “Why? You going to throw me out?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  Gratified by the half-smile he gave me, I said, “Earl, we both want to get Ted out of the mess he’s in, so tell me anything you know about the people over at Sunset Canyon Lakes.” I had a sudden thought. “Or about Deputy Ronald Stark.”

  With that, he lost interest in the money. Framing his next words carefully, he said, “People he arrests sometimes have accidents on the way to jail.”

  Gee, what a surprise. “Did anyone ever lodge a complaint against him?”

  “No one in Walapai Flats is that foolish.”

  “Do you know anything about his wife?”

  “She has many accidents.”

  “How about the daughter?”

  “The one accident’s all I know of, her arm. Heard she broke it falling off a swing.”

  My temper rose. At him, at a town that purposely knew nothing about nothing. “Dammit, Earl, hasn’t anyone around here done anything to help her and that poor kid out?”

  Frustration clouded his normally stolid face. “She will not leave him. As for the little girl, someone called Child Protective Services last week and they came out and checked the home. They found no reason to investigate further.”

  “How do you know this happened?”

  When he didn’t answer, I guessed he either had contacts at the local CPS office or that he’d made the call himself. I would have pursued it further but the door opened and two teenagers came in and headed straight for the soft drinks cooler. Relief was in Earl’s voice when he said, “I must get back to work now, Miss Jones. Have a nice day.”

  People sure were polite in Walapai Flats, even when they’re telling you to get lost.

  I was halfway to my Trailblazer when I remembered a statement Mia Tosches had made in passing, but that I’d taken little note of at the time. Turning on my heel, I walked back into the store and waited until Earl finished ringing up the teenagers’ sales.

  As soon as they left, I said, “I was told you’re half Navajo on your father’s side.”

  He didn’t look up. “My father was Chester Two Horses of the Bitter Water People.”

  “I was also told your father worked at the Moccasin Peak Mine.”

  “It is an honorable thing for a man to support his family.”

  “He died there, didn’t he?”

  Earl’s silence lasted so long I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but after he finished counting the money in the till and making a note in the record book next to it, he closed the cash drawer and looked at my right ear. That as was close as a Navajo would come to looking you in the eye.

  “Yes, Miss Jones. And yes, he died of lung cancer.”

  ***

  Once back in my SUV, I sat there digesting what I’d learned. Earl was bitter, and rightly so, because the man who was at least partially responsible for his father’s death was now opening another mine. True, Roger Tosches had brought a new partner on board, a man who on the surface, at least, was of shining reputation, but what difference did it make when Tosches would still call the shots?

  It was time to take a look at the root cause of so much dissention. From the descriptions I’d been given, the Black Basin Uranium Mine was located fifteen miles southeast
of town, tucked between a series of rocky crags pretending to be mountains. It could have been a rough trip, but a series of signs provided directions, and the wide, smooth road to the mine was a miracle of modern engineering, the better to move heavy equipment. When at last I crested a double-humped hill and saw the activity below me, I was astounded.

  A fence ringing the entire valley floor enclosed a collection of massive earth-moving machines, each sporting red, white, and blue streamers attached to various appendages. One vehicle was like something out of a nightmare, a monstrous edifice the size of a three-story building. It had a crane-like extension from which jutted a circular series of blades, making the thing resemble a pinwheel designed in Hell. This was the bucket wheel excavator, the bane of ecologists everywhere. Even the American flag waving atop its roof couldn’t lessen its terror.

  An army of men wearing hard hats swarmed around the machines like acolytes attending to pagan gods. Less nightmarish were the workers nearest me. They were building the stage for the opening day ceremony and setting up big, stadium-style grandstands. As I drove closer to them with the windows of the Trailblazer rolled down, I heard whistling and singing. It sounded like they were happy to have jobs.

  Somewhere in the midst of all this hustle and bustle would be the original mine shaft, the exploratory hole dug months earlier that proved the uranium deposit was rich enough to make this enormous expense worthwhile. I thought I saw the entrance peeking out from behind the bucket wheel excavator, but couldn’t be certain. In a few months, the shaft, the surrounding hills, and most of the valley would have disappeared, replaced by a crater at least a hundred feet deep. Whatever witches brew lay hidden below would be accessed by roads spiraling down from the valley floor, making the resulting configuration resemble an upside-down wedding cake—if the cake was a half-mile across.

  How much would all this cost? Millions? Roger Tosches had already spared no expense in getting ready to dig his big hole in the ground, hoping that the return would far eclipse the start-up costs. No wonder he’d hired PR slickster Ike Donohue to refute the claims of Kimama Olmstead and the members of Victims of Uranium Mining. His entire fortune must be riding on the mine’s success.

  After responding to a few friendly waves from the workers, I followed the road away from the party planners around to the opposite side of the valley, where I came to a closed gate that warned, URANIUM MINE: DANGER. So much for the assurances of the Walapai County Chamber of Commerce. In case visitors couldn’t read, two black-clad guards armed with assault rifles stood in front of the gate. To their side lurked a matching black Hummer. When I stepped out of the Trailblazer, one guard raised his rifle and the other—the larger of the two—walked toward me looking no less dangerous. His AR-15 was pointed at the ground.

  “This area is closed to visitors,” he said. “Move along.”

  In my best dither, I said, “Oh, I was just out for a drive and decided it would be nice to see everything before it gets too crowded, officer.” I’d added the title merely to flatter him. Most rent-a-cops wanted to be police officers but a large number of them couldn’t pass the physical and mental requirements, let alone the background checks.

  Big-and-Mean was impervious to flattery. “This ain’t no museum.”

  Behind him, Almost-As-Big-and-Mean laughed. At least he had a sense of humor.

  “I know, I know. It’s going to be a uranium mine, but I’ve heard so much about the Black Basin, can’t I take a peek?” Little Miss Blonde, that was me, driving around, admiring the scenery, totally harmless.

  “How’d you like a rifle barrel up your ass?” Big-and-Mean shifted his assault rifle into ramming position.

  Almost-As-Big-and-Mean laughed again.

  My charms having failed, I said, “Well, it’s sure been nice meeting you fellas.”

  I got the hell out of there.

  ***

  Having spent much of the afternoon running around in the heat, it was a relief to get back to my air-conditioned motel room. Toweling off after a quick shower, I remembered that I still hadn’t discovered the meaning of that mysterious picket sign: Hasn’t Walapai County suffered enough? Not knowing the elderly woman’s name, I couldn’t ask her, but I could ask the person who’d chased after her when the demonstration turned into a riot. Olivia Eames.

  As I picked up the nightstand phone to punch in the reporter’s number, I noticed the message light blinking.

  “Ted’s attorney emailed me a copy of Ike Donohue’s autopsy, and we need to talk,” Jimmy’s voice alerted me. “It includes a big surprise, something I’d prefer not to discuss over the phone, so why don’t you swing by here as soon as you get back? I’m still following up on that other information you asked for, too.”

  Since the conversation with Olivia would be the shorter one, I called her first. Her phone rang six times before she picked up, and when she did, her voice sounded fogged

  When I told her what I wanted, she said, “The elderly woman who got knocked down? Yeah, I interviewed her, but girl, you’ve…you’ve picked a…a crappy time to call. I’ve got one of my damned migraines and the medication’s just now ki…kicking in. Jesus, here it comes. Wow, this is some s…serious shit. Call me b-back tomorrow and I’ll give you her name and phone number. Bye, ’til…whatever.”

  The rattle and bang on the other side of the line told me she’d dropped her cell. I waited to make certain she was all right, heard her mutter to herself, then another rattle as she picked it up with a final imprecation.

  Dial tone.

  Jimmy’s motel was within walking distance, especially if you’re as fit as I am, but when I opened the door, the afternoon remained so hot I elected to drive over in my lovely air-conditioned rental. When I arrived, he took his own sweet time answering my knock, leaving me broiling on his doorstep. When he did finally make it to the door, he was barefoot and shirtless, and his shoulder-length black hair was wet. Good lord, no wonder the man was a chick magnet. With his perfectly formed pecs and abs, he looked like something on the cover of a romance novel.

  Startled at the bronze expanse of chest set off by low-slung jeans, I blurted, “When did you start working out?”

  “About fifteen years ago,” he answered wryly. “Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve noticed.”

  Face flaming, I entered his room. It was damp and smelled like soap. “So what’s the big surprise with Donohue’s autopsy? And would you please put on some clothes?”

  Without a word, he padded over to the closet and grabbed a rust-colored tee shirt that proclaimed ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION BEGAN IN 1492. When he slipped it on, he was damp enough from his shower that it clung to his torso. He still looked half-naked.

  “Better?”

  “Infinitesimally.” Averting my eyes from his gloriousness, I studied the room.

  It was no Covered Wagons. The walls were green-colored cement blocks, and neither the orange tweed carpeting nor the rose-and-purple paisley bedspread matched them. Given Jimmy’s usual sensitivity to his surroundings, I wondered how he could stand it. He’d made the best of the situation, though, placing his laptop on a spindly table. It was in “rest” mode, and the screen-saver, a portrait of Sitting Bull, drifted peacefully by.

  “So what’s the big news you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” I asked.

  He sat down next to me, tapped a couple of keys, and Sitting Bull vanished. “Ted’s attorney emailed me the autopsy report on Ike Donohue, and it turns out that his killer did him a favor. The poor guy had advanced lung cancer and it’d metastasized to his spine. He must have been in horrific pain.”

  This changed everything. “Is there a possibility he committed suicide?”

  “Nope. The killer was standing at least five feet away, as much as eight.”

  In Nancy Donohue’s conversation with me, she had attributed her husband’s behavior to the effects of nicotine withdrawal on a body already stressed by Type 2 diabetes, not the pain of end-stage lung cancer. By the time Donohue had
sworn off cigarettes, it had been nothing more than a futile attempt to stave off the inevitable. The autopsy explained something else that had been bothering me, too. Like some terminally ill people, Donohue had tried to right his wrongs in order to die with a clear conscience, thus the advice to a friend’s granddaughter to stop smoking.

  This line of thought brought about two intriguing possibilities. Donohue, in his attempt to make peace with his Maker, might have reopened one too many old wounds and gotten killed for it. On the other hand, maybe his wife, who knew her way around firearms, had played Jack Kevorkian. Was the “murder” actually a mercy killing? One that might even garner her a higher insurance settlement than death by natural causes?

  “Lena? You’ve got a strange look on your face.”

  “I’m thinking this case just got a lot more complicated.”

  “You can see why I didn’t want to discuss this over a phone. Well, I still have more research to do, so…” Having delivered the polite Pima version of Get lost! he bent over his laptop and started typing.

  Before driving back to my own motel, I sat in the Desert View’s parking lot for a few minutes, thinking about the peculiar relationships between husbands and wives as the Trailblazer’s air conditioning chased away the heat. At what point did married people share moral responsibility for their spouse’s immoral lives? If you knew you were married to a war criminal, did that make you guilty by association? If you knew you were married to a child rapist and kept quiet about it—as my sixth foster mother had done—were you a criminal too? Or because you loved him, did you get a Get Out of Jail Free card?

  At what point does love become a crime?

  Because Ike Donohue had been the mouthpiece for a tobacco company, some moral sticklers might claim he’d led a wicked life, but to give the devil his due, Donohue was a smoker himself. Near the end, he was at least trying to play catch-up in the ethics arena. Nancy, however…