Desert Wind

by Betty Webb

  When I pondered this conundrum, a rust-eaten 1997 Chevy with Utah plates pulled up next to my Trailblazer. It disgorged three screaming children and a careworn woman with a lit cigarette hanging from her mouth. She looked old enough to be the children’s grandmother, but judging from her twenty-something leggings and ultra-short skirt, she was probably their mother. Her mouse-colored hair was faded but not gray, and as yet no wrinkles had appeared around her stunned-looking eyes. An old man, his face liver-spotted and gaunt, remained in the front passenger’s seat. He was smoking, too.

  The results of Ike Donohue’s public relations efforts?

  Before Parking Lot Woman reached the motel office, the smallest of her children, a girl wearing a lacy pink dress, tripped and fell over a curbing. Instead of getting up, she simply lay on her side howling. With an expression of infinite patience, the woman picked the child up and nuzzled her hair. Because my window was rolled up to keep the heat at bay, I couldn’t make out what she said, but the child stopped sobbing, gulped once, and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. Parking Lot Woman kissed back, and with that, the quartet vanished into the motel office.

  Once the Trailblazer had cooled to a comfortable temperature, I began backing out of my space. Before I made it, two of the children I’d seen earlier burst from the motel office followed by their haggard mother, who was still carrying the little girl. She waved a single key at the elderly man; the entire gang was going to share one room. With two adults puffing away, I didn’t want to think about those children’s lungs. Balancing the girl on her hip, the woman unlocked the door next to Jimmy’s room and ushered her rambunctious brood inside, then returned to the car and tenderly helped the old man out of his seat and into the room. Before closing the door behind them, she tossed the stub of her still-lit cigarette out onto the pavement. Then she put the little girl down and lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply while she watched the traffic go by on John Wayne Boulevard.

  If I live to be a hundred and twenty, I’ll never understand people.

  That thought reminded me to make a phone call, so I pulled forward back into my parking space and punched a number on my cell phone. Nancy Donohue picked up immediately. She didn’t sound pleased.

  “You again, Jones. This is getting tiresome.”

  “I’m sure it is, so I’ll be as brief as possible. Did you know your husband was ill?”

  “I told you, you ninny. Ike was a Type 2 diabetic, and Lord, was that man a whiner. You’d think he was the only person in the world to ever come down with something. Me, my arthritis is flaring up but I don’t go around whining about it.”

  Instead, you take out your discomfort on everyone you know. Aloud, I said, “I’m talking about the other thing.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what other thing, Jones? Make it snappy, because I have places to go and people to see.”

  Maybe she didn’t know the truth about her husband’s health. Nancy wasn’t the type of person a dying man would open his heart to, so he might have kept her in the dark while he scurried around, trying to right his wrongs.

  In case I was wrong about everything, I said with as much compassion as I could muster, “Nancy, the autopsy results on your husband have come back, and the medical examiner found something you should know about.”

  “Like what? Syphilis?” The old harridan actually laughed. “Wouldn’t surprise me, given those times Ike stayed out all night. VD, or STD, or whatever PC bullshit they’re calling the wages of sin these days. Serves him right. If it was the clap or whatever, I’ll dance on the cheating bastard’s grave. Then I’ll get my own ass checked.”

  There was no gentle way to say it. “Your husband didn’t have a sexually transmitted disease, Nancy. He had end-stage lung cancer.”

  Now her laughter sounded forced. “Don’t be ridiculous. Granted, the fool huffed and puffed all the time like the big bad wolf, but that was because he was dumb enough to smoke three packs a day. His problem, not mine. But dying? What kind of fool do you take me for?”

  “No fool, Nancy, just a woman whose husband didn’t tell her everything. Look, if you want to talk to the medical examiner yourself, I have his phone number. It’s…”

  She slammed the phone down, almost deafening me.

  ***

  A couple of hours later, when I called Jimmy to see if he wanted to meet for dinner at Ma’s Kitchen, he declined, saying that he was still working.

  “It doesn’t help, having the family from Hell bunked down next door. The kids have been screaming nonstop. The noise is so bad I knocked on their door to see if someone was getting killed, but they were simply running around, shooting off cap guns. Happy as clams, if clams are happy. The mother invited me in for a game of Monopoly, but I declined. Say, if you want, you can come over here and share some pizza. I’ve already ordered out, but there’s probably enough for two.”

  “What kind of pizza?”

  “Cheese, ham, onions, pineapple, and anchovies.”

  Pineapple, anchovies, and screaming kids: not a good combination. “I’ll pass, but tomorrow morning, say, around seven, let’s meet at Ma’s for breakfast. Afterwards we can see if the jail’s still on lockdown because I have more questions for Ted. I want to see the sheriff, too, and make certain Deputy Smiley Face turned in his report on that shooting. Along with the bullets and cartridges.”

  He made a disgusted sound. “Sure would be bad if it got lost in the system, wouldn’t it? In the meantime, promise me you won’t go driving around alone in the desert.”

  “See you at breakfast, partner. Eight sharp.”

  “Lena! You didn’t pro…”

  “No, I didn’t, did I?” With that, I hung up.

  After a quick steak dinner at The Stagecoach, I returned to my room and tried to read the Sue Grafton novel I’d begun, but my mind refused to focus. Unbidden, it harkened back to my conversation with Earl Two Horses about Detective Smiley Face’s abused wife and daughter. In a perfect world, a loving mother would have long ago rescued both herself and her child, but past experience with battered women told me she’d stay until someone got killed. Maybe her, maybe the child, maybe…You can’t expect common sense from abused women. They were like battle-weary soldiers suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome: they either let the beatings continue or went crazy themselves.

  Not feeling hopeful, I picked up the Sue Grafton novel again, but a half hour later I was still on the page I’d started. I gave up on the literary world and clicked on the TV. A few rounds of channel surfing turned up little more than news accounts of the latest terrorist attacks or so-called reality shows that featured snotty, over-dressed, overly made-up women pretending they were Beverly Hills housewives. After opting for pay-for-view, I watched a cadre of zombies sweep across the White House lawn. One wore a straw hat emblazoned with a red, white, and blue hatband that read DONALD TRUMP FOR PRESIDENT. As they staggered up the steps, I finally drifted off.

  ***

  The pine-scented night air closed around me as I became aware of pain in my hands. My four-year-old self was back at the mine entrance, clawing away the last board that covered it.

  Behind me, my mother said, “Oh, honey, look at your hands. They’re bleeding.”

  When I turned around, I saw she was bleeding, too, but her wound was in her right temple where the bullet had struck her.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer, just drew me to her in a hug. “Shhhh, now. We must be quiet or Abraham will find us. And you know what Abraham does to children.”

  At the name, I clutched her tighter. “Will he hurt me like he did the other kids?”

  She started to answer, but then I heard more gunshots.

  “They’re closer,” my mother said. “Do you trust me?”

  I nodded. Of course I trusted my mother. Didn’t every little girl?

  She kissed me on the forehead, and said, “I’ll always love you, Tina.” With that, she shot me in the face, then kicked me in the stoma
ch. I fell backwards into the mineshaft to join the other dead children.

  ***

  I was still falling when the sound of my own moans woke me. I didn’t get back to sleep until around three, but even then I tossed and turned. When the phone at my bedside rang at six forty-five, I was almost glad for an excuse to crawl out of bed.

  “’Lo?” I mumbled, still half-asleep.

  It was Jimmy. “Ted’s getting released!”

  That happy news worked better than a good night’s sleep. “What happened? I asked, fully alert.

  “Dad called, said he was going down to the police station this morning to turn himself in.”

  “Your dad confessed to killing Ike Donohue!?”

  “No, no, the other guy, he confessed everything. I’m only telling you what Dad told me when he called.”

  “What other guy? I’m confused, Jimmy. Take a deep breath, slow down, and begin at the beginning.”

  He tried, but he was so excited he made little sense. “It was the cook who killed him. The cook at Dad’s ranch. He’d been out of town for a funeral and didn’t get back until late last night, didn’t even know anybody was in custody until he started making breakfast this morning. That’s when Dad told him about Ted and the whole murder thing, while he was chopping up potatoes for the home fries. I mean, the cook was chopping up the potatoes, not Dad. As soon as he, the cook, heard Ted was in jail, he put the knife down and told Dad everything, that he shot Donohue. Then he went and finished making breakfast, can you believe it? He’s on his way to the police station to confess. Dad called Ted’s attorney, and he’s driving in from Silver Ridge right now to file some legal papers. I don’t know exactly what they are, but they’re supposed to be able to help get Ted released and Dad said…”

  I listened while he babbled on in a stream-of-consciousness that would have made James Joyce proud. When he finally ran down, I said, “Let’s see if I’ve got this right. The cook at Sunset Trails killed Ike Donohue and he’s turning himself in.”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  “In a roundabout way. Why did the cook kill Donohue?”

  “Didn’t I say?”

  “No, Jimmy, you didn’t.”

  “He said he murdered his wife.”

  Damn the English language. “Who killed who’s wife?”

  Speaking more slowly, Jimmy said, “The cook said Donohue killed his—the cook’s—wife.”

  Ran her down in his car, maybe, when he was lit to the gills? Strange, because the background check Jimmy had run on Donohue hadn’t revealed any brushes with the law.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the jail in an hour. By the way, what’s his name?”

  “The cook’s?”

  I laughed. The brightness of Jimmy’s joy had chased away the dark terrors of my night. “Yes, Jimmy, the cook. Donohue’s murderer. What’s his name?”

  “Oh. It’s Boone. Gabe Boone.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  No one was thrilled to see us at the county complex. The jail’s lockdown had been lifted the night before, but the fact that Hank Olmstead brought in a man who confessed to killing Ike Donohue left the harried deputies little time to schmooze. After announcing ourselves to the officer manning the front desk, we joined Olmstead on a bench in the lobby. Now that freedom for Ted was at hand, his adoptive father looked ten years younger. The worry had disappeared from his eyes, and the slump that had detracted from his six-foot-plus height was gone. He sat close to Jimmy, and for once, didn’t speak to his son with an edge in his voice. Joy was as strong a bonding agent as grief.

  “Shouldn’t Ted’s attorney already be here?” I asked. “I’d hate to think…”

  The sound of doors slamming down the hall drew our attention. From the direction of the sheriff’s offices, voices shouted back and forth. At the same time, phones began ringing non-stop.

  “What’s happening?” Jimmy asked, rising from his seat.

  “Wait here!” Olmstead ordered. He walked over to a group of deputies assembled near the information desk. After a brief conversation, he returned shaking his head. “Something’s up, but they’re being tight-lipped about it.”

  I hoped it didn’t have anything to do with Ted. Terrible things could happen to a man in jail. My concern faded when seconds later the deputies charged out the door so fast they almost knocked over portly Anderson Behar, who was entering the complex with his over-stuffed briefcase.

  “Wow, where’s the fire?” the attorney asked.

  Olmstead shook Behar’s hand. “No fire that I know of, Anderson, but it was very kind of you to drive here so early.”

  “Glad to do it since I’m double-billing you for it.” At the look on Olmstead’s face, Behar winked. “Joke, Hank. Joke.”

  Behar rested his heavy briefcase on the bench, opened it, and rifled through his paper collection. After pulling out a blue-covered packet, he took it to the duty officer, who picked up his phone and punched in a number. The deputy said a few words to the person on the other end, then waved the attorney down the corridor toward the sheriff’s office. Olmstead attempted to follow but the deputy told him to sit down.

  “Theodore’s my son,” Olmstead grumbled, returning to the bench. “I can’t imagine why the sheriff won’t see me, too.”

  I could. Over the past few days, I’d learned that if there was any possible way to complicate a situation, Olmstead would find it. Given his prickly personality, how he managed to run a successful tourism business was beyond me. But his behavior did explain why Jimmy had such a talent for getting along with problem people; he’d had plenty of practice.

  Less than ten minutes later, Behar was back, a strange expression on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” Olmstead asked.

  Behar shook his head. “Nothing, as far as Ted’s concerned. I found out what that commotion was all about, though. It’ll speed up his release, since he has an iron-clad alibi for this one. As soon as the courthouse opens up, I’ll deliver these papers to the clerk, get an emergency hearing, and that’ll do ’er. Ted should be released by the end of the day, if not earlier. Relax, Hank. It’s a good news day. For some people, anyway.”

  “I don’t want to wait that long before I see him,” Olmstead carped.

  “You won’t have to. A detention officer will be out here any minute to take us in. But only you and I were cleared.”

  Jimmy looked disappointed at not being able to see his brother right away, but settled back down on the bench without a fuss. I was less sanguine. “Mr. Behar, you said something about Ted having an iron-clad alibi for ‘this one.’ What did you mean ‘this one’?”

  Behar glanced around to see if anyone was listening, but the only deputy remaining in the lobby was the man at the front desk, who was leafing through a magazine. “Well, the sheriff didn’t swear me to silence, so I guess I can tell you. The whole town will know soon enough, anyway. It appears there’s been another high-profile death.”

  I immediately thought of Officer Smiley Face’s battered wife and child. “A domestic?”

  “No, no.” To Olmstead, he said, “Hank, I’m pretty sure you know the dead man. It’s Roger Tosches, the man who owns the new mine and that big resort.”

  The color drained from Olmstead’s face, but his voice betrayed no emotion. “We were acquainted, yes.”

  “What happened?” I asked Behar.

  “The sheriff told me that Mr. Tosches’ body was found on that long gravel road leading to Sunset Trails.” He frowned. “Hank, you saw nothing, ah, unusual on your way here?”

  “If I had, I would have reported it,” Olmstead answered.

  Behar got that look lawyers get when they’re not certain their clients are telling the truth. “Maybe you were distracted.”

  Olmstead frowned.

  The attorney pretended not to notice. “Anyway, that’s where all those deputies are headed, to your ranch. If you ask me, it seems like a pretty heavy response to something that might have bee
n an accident, but maybe that’s the way they handle things around here. I asked the sheriff if it was a car accident and he said no, that the cause of death had not been determined.”

  That’s what law officials always say, even if a big butcher knife is sticking out of the corpse’s chest.

  “And Hank?” Behar continued, sounding worried. “Considering that whatever it was happened on ranch property, prepare yourself to be questioned. Make sure you don’t talk to them unless I’m with you, understand?” Spoken like a halfway decent criminal attorney.

  Olmstead looked affronted. “Why would they want to talk to me?”

  His determined obtuseness made me want to shake him. Olmstead would have driven down that road on the way to the jail this morning. How could he have failed to see a dead man lying in the road? Perhaps the attorney had confused the word “near” with the word “on” and Tosches’ body wasn’t actually on the road. Maybe it was off to the side, hidden in a creosote thicket.

  “Mr. Behar, did the sheriff give any indication of when the body was found or how long it might have been lying there?”

  When the attorney shook his head, Olmstead began to look worried. For his sake, I hoped Tosches had dropped dead of a simple heart attack—after Olmstead had walked through the county complex doors.

  Making my excuses, I left them waiting to see Ted and took off for Sunset Trails Ranch.

  ***

  When I pulled to the shoulder of the blacktop, I saw wooden sawhorses and crime tape blocking the turnoff to the ranch. If lookey-loos didn’t get the message, a sheriff’s cruiser, blue lights flashing, was parked behind them. Several more cruisers, an ambulance, and a farrier’s truck were parked about a hundred yards further down. Just beyond was a black Mercedes, nose pointed toward the distant lodge. A dark lump lay near next to the car. If Tosches had been there when Olmstead and the cook left for the jail, they’d need to swerve around him before continuing on. There was no way, simply no way, they could have missed him.

  As I exited the Trailblazer, a deputy emerged from the nearest cruiser and swaggered up to me. Officer Smiley Face, wearing those spooky mirrored sunglasses. He wasn’t smiling today. In fact, Deputy Stark looked downright tense.