by Webb, Betty
I raised my eyebrows. “Since when is a gallery brawl a big enough deal to become the talk of Scottsdale? Artists are always getting their feelings hurt.”
He smiled mischievously. “It’s not every day that an artist threatens to kill a gallery owner, dear. I think George’s exact words were, ‘I ought to take a tomahawk to your head, bitch.’”
Chapter 8
The next morning I felt better, so as soon as I finished my shower, I got on the phone to set up a couple of appointments. Jay Kobe wasn’t answering, but that didn’t worry me. He was a party hearty guy and was probably sleeping in. Fine with me. It would be interesting to see the expression on his face when I showed up unannounced and accused him of shooting me.
Since it was only nine o’clock, the temperature was just in the nineties, but I knew this respite wouldn’t last. Heading out to the Jeep, I glanced up at the sky. It remained an uncluttered azure but the air held an ominous heaviness that hinted of the upcoming monsoon season. What most newcomers to the desert didn’t realize was that beginning in the last part of July and continuing until late August, the Valley played host to a horrendous series of thunderstorms. Lightning flashed, winds raged, rain blew sideways. Trees collapsed, roofs took flight, streets flooded. The usually dry Salt River bed raged at flood pitch, and every year, some kayaking fool drowned in it. I checked the Jeep’s storage compartment to make certain its bikini top was still stashed away.
How did a thug like Jay Kobe keep attracting moneyed women?
Once past the congestion of Indian School Road, I sped north up Hayden along the miles-long strip of greenbelt that comprised a pond-dotted park. Inline skaters—the Arizona natives wearing hand-tooled leather holsters—crowded the bicycle lanes. At one point, a gaggle of white geese attempted to waddle across one side of the busy street to the other. Miraculously, the geese made it but the sound of screeching brakes and the smell of burned rubber filled the air. I glared behind me when a burgundy-colored Lexus wearing Indiana license plates stopped short a hair from my Jeep’s bumper.
Kobe’s girlfriend lived near Indian Bend Wash, not far from the new development where the coyote had bitten a toddler. The accepted wisdom in Scottsdale was that houses increased twenty thousand dollars in value for every mile you traveled north from the city limits at McDowell Road until you reached the three-million-plus estates at the extreme northeast of the Valley. Judging from her location, I figured that Alison Garwood’s house probably weighed in at the three-and-a-half to four hundred thousand dollar mark. But as I drove down the eucalyptus-shaded streets in her neighborhood, I nudged the estimate upwards because many of the huge, rambling homes were clearly closer to the half-million dollar mark. This made me wonder how Kobe’s girlfriend made her money. Was she one of those successful yuppies that Scottsdale seemed to breed like rabbits, or was she just another California transplant who’d made out big in that state’s hideously inflated real estate market?
As I turned onto Via Del Loma Maria, to my surprise, I saw a coyote loping east along the sidewalk towards the Pima Reservation with what appeared to be the remains of a Big Mac in its mouth. Two smiling bicyclists had stopped to watch the show. Neither made a move to rescue the Big Mac.
Alison Garwood’s house was on the corner and as I drew the Jeep to the curb, a woman wearing a turquoise silk warm-up suit waved cheerfully at me. She pointed to the running coyote. “Aren’t they wonderful?” An Eastern accent.
The coyote was moving too fast for me to get a good look at him. “Wonderful, maybe, but a lot of people are afraid of coyotes and it’s just a matter of time before some self-styled Wyatt Earp decides to use one for target practice.”
She stopped scraping at the mauve-colored gravel decorating her yard’s “desert” landscaping, and leaned on the rake. She was slender, about fifty, with short auburn hair that revealed the ministrations of an expensive hairdresser. She had kind eyes.
“No one around here would ever hurt a coyote. We love them. They’re one of the reasons why my husband and I moved here from New Jersey. There’s nothing left back there but criminals and concrete.”
It would be the same in Scottsdale soon, but there was no point in disillusioning her. “Well, be careful. Some of those coyotes are getting pretty bold. I read in the paper the other day where one actually bit some kid.”
She shook her head. “That wouldn’t have been one of our coyotes. Our coyotes are harmless. Why, we can even feed them by hand.”
Which is exactly why the coyotes were becoming bold enough to bite children. As evidenced by the way the woman seemed to believe that wildlife could be tamed and owned— our coyotes—she probably also fed the bears bologna sandwiches in Yellowstone Park, then got her feelings hurt when one tried to bite off her leg. Deciding to skip my usual lecture on proper wildlife management, I gave her a friendly wave and headed up the walk.
Up close, Alison’s house looked like it belonged somewhere else—like in a cheaper neighborhood. True desert landscaping (cactus, sage and dirt) was littered with old newspapers. A Babe Ruth candy wrapper had impaled itself on one of the spines of a dying prickly pear. As I climbed the short steps to the Territorial’s front door, I noticed that part of the tan adobe siding had begun to flake off and that the huge oak door stood in desperate need of repair. Holes had been gouged around the latch, almost as if someone had forgotten his keys and tried to let himself in with an ice pick. At the large picture window, the vertical blinds were missing a few slats, allowing anyone who so desired to look inside. I peered through one of the gaps and didn’t like what I saw.
I pulled my head away and started banging against the door.
“Jay? Alison? Either of you in there?”
Not caring that I had aroused the curiosity of the woman across the street, I leaned my ear against the door. After a few minutes and some more banging, I heard groans from inside, some shuffling, then the door squeaked open and a bloodshot hazel eye peered out. “What the hell are you doing here, Jones? Don’t you believe in calling first?”
“I skipped Business Etiquette 101.”
I pushed my way through the door to find a scene that looked like a major staging area for World War II. Vivid red stains marred the matching champagne sofa and carpet. A rosewood occasional table tilted drunkenly on shattered legs and a once-magnificent Victorian golden oak armoire looked like it had been used for target practice. Empty wine and beer bottles were scattered everywhere. Paintings hung crookedly on wine-splattered walls, their canvases slashed. Alison’s house looked like an upscale furniture store after a riot.
I’d seen houses displaying this type of destruction before, but they’d usually been crack houses in South Phoenix. Scottsdale was better at keeping this sort of thing under wraps, mainly because its citizens could afford better lawyers.
Kobe didn’t look any more upbeat than the house’s décor. Deep scratches marred his handsome face and his cheek sported a vivid purple bruise.
It made me wonder what his girlfriend looked like.
I didn’t have to wonder long. A slender blond woman wrapped in a dirty silk bathrobe limped slowly from the next room. As the sunlight streamed through the missing slats of the blinds and illuminated her, I had to repress a gasp. The woman’s face looked like raw meat. The gap in her front teeth told me she’d lost whatever battle had been fought here. I couldn’t tell if she’d ever been pretty.
After clearing my throat, I said, “Look, I’m sorry for the intrusion but something happened last night and I need to ask you both some questions.”
“So what happened?” Kobe didn’t even bother to apologize for his girlfriend’s appearance.
“Have ssssome coffee?” Alison mumbled, the missing tooth leaking a sibilant hiss.
Not wanting to bother her any more than she’d already been bothered, I shook my head, but Kobe looked at her and growled, “What the fuck you think?”
She nodded and limped off into the kitchen. Without being invited, I sat down on an und
amaged section of the sofa. Almost immediately, I heard a grinding noise then caught the scent of freshly ground coffee beans. All the elegant comforts of Scottsdale life. Kobe dropped into a wine-splattered chair across from me and neither of us said a word until Alison returned with two steaming mugs. Mine said, “Have a nice day!” His said, “No. 1 Stud Muffin!”
“You usssse cream? Ssssugar?” she asked, already half-turned towards the kitchen.
Trying hard to keep from hauling my .38 out of my carryall and plugging Kobe between the eyes, I shook my head. Jesus, why didn’t the woman find help?
Duties accomplished, Alison wrapped the bathrobe more tightly around her and started to limp back into the bedroom, but I stopped her.
“Miss Garwood, I need to talk to you, too.” I had to clear my throat. Something seemed to be in it.
She looked timidly at Kobe. When he shrugged, she lowered herself down on the sofa as creakily as an old woman.
I cleared my throat again. “Look, someone shot me a couple of nights ago and I think it might be connected to the Clarice Kobe case. Do you know anything about that?”
Kobe smirked but Alison’s face paled, if ground beef can be said to pale. “Sssomeone ssshot you? That’sss terrible!”
Maybe not as terrible as some other things I could think of—such as living with a monster—but I said, “Yes, terrible. Now, who besides you two knew that I was working on the case?” Kobe barked a short laugh. “Oh, several guys down at the jail. Then after I was released I called Clarice’s father and told him what I thought of him, told him I was siccing you on his ass. And I think I mentioned it at the party we had the afternoon I got out.” He looked across at Alison. “Did you tell anybody, hon?”
“Jussst my hair ssstylisst,” Alison answered. Well, this explained the one undamaged area of her person. Her hair was movie-star blond, shoulder length and parted to the side like Kim Basinger’s in L.A. Confidential, and it glowed like an angel’s halo. Alison was probably gorgeous when she wasn’t banged up.
Great. Between them they’d told Clarice’s possibly incestuous father. The guys at the jail. The revelers at the party. Alison’s hairdresser and whoever else had been eavesdropping. Altogether, the two had probably told half the population of Scottsdale that I had taken on the case.
“So where’d you get shot this time?” Kobe was grinning.
I knew better than to let him needle me. “In the shoulder. It was just a flesh wound so I don’t think we’re looking for any Olympic marksman here. You know anybody who carries a gun?”
Kobe’s grin exploded into a laugh. “In Arizona? Shit, just about everybody’s packing, including half the kids in kindergarten. As for me, I’ve got a new .45 in the night stand but it hasn’t been fired recently. Wanna see?”
I shook my head. The bullet casing retrieved from the sidewalk had been a .38. If Jay owned a .38, he wouldn’t show it to me without a search warrant.
Then Alison spoke up. “Clariccce had a gun, a pearl-handled Derringer. Her brother hasss a gun, too, but I’m not sssure what kind. And probably her sssissster Ssserena has one. Come to think of it, Clariccce’sss father hasss a wonderful gun collection, very, very valuable. He even hasss one of Doc Holliday’sss old riflesss, sssupposedly the one he usssed at the OK Corral. He wasss kind enough to ssshow it to me when I wasss redecorating his houssse.”
“You were Mr. Hyath’s decorator?” This explained her own relative financial comfort. Decorators to the rich never went hungry in Scottsdale.
She nodded, then winced and lifted a fluttery hand to an area of her neck covered by her long, blond hair. Not all the damage done by batterers shows, I remembered. “That’sss how I met Jay. He wasss up there taking hisss paintingsss when I wasss ssshowing Mr. Hyath sssome fabric sssamplesss.”
Jay frowned. “Those people don’t know good art when it’s all around them. The minute Stephen Hyath found out that Clarice and I were, ah, having our trouble, he made me take my paintings out of his house. I even had to return the money he’d paid me for them, the cheap son of a bitch.”
Alison threw Kobe a trembling smile which made her lower lip bleed. “When I met Jay up there it wasss love at firssst sssight.”
Jay didn’t smile back.
My finger itched to make contact with the trigger on my .38. “Look, I’m going to have to ask you both some unpleasant questions about the day Clarice was murdered. I need to know exactly where you two were at exactly what time, and what you were doing. And please don’t lie to me. If you’re really innocent, Jay…” Here I looked right into his drink-bleared eyes. “…the truth can only help you.”
He gave me a faint smile. He enjoyed being helped. “I was right here, with Alison, just like I told you. We started partying and then we got into a fight. Alison gets pretty edgy when she’s drinking. Isn’t that right, honey?”
She nodded weakly, her hand at her neck again.
“Alison? Are you sure that’s true? You told the police you weren’t certain if Jay left the house or not.”
She opened her battered mouth to answer but before she could, Kobe rose from his chair and joined her on the stained couch. As he slipped his muscular arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug, I thought I saw her wince. “Now, honey, you tell Ms. Jones that I was too drunk to leave and that it’s the God’s honest truth.”
Alison wouldn’t meet my eyes. “It’sss the God’sss honessst truth.”
On a scale of one to ten, I scored the interview somewhere at a two, giving them the higher rating simply because they were both conscious. But Alison was too terrified of Kobe to answer truthfully and Kobe, although no rocket scientist, wasn’t dumb enough to let her see me alone. That could still be arranged, though. The next time I saw her—alone—I’d give her the address of the nearest battered women’s shelter.
Clarice’s parents lived three-quarters of the way up Camelback Mountain, which afforded them a magnificent view of the Valley of the Sun. While present zoning restrictions protected the remaining part of the mountain, for all intents and purposes, the once-magnificent peak was already ruined. As the heat rose in waves from the desert floor below, the ostentatious mansions clinging to the steep hillside appeared to wiggle in the sun. They looked like gyrating hookers at a Sierra Club dance. The man responsible for most of this vandalism was Stephen Hyath, the most successful developer in Arizona. The rumor on the street was that he had long since stopped being a mere millionaire and had joined the rarified ranks of billionaires.
The mountain had been raped for its view. Halfway up Camelback I pulled the Jeep off to the side in front of an authentic-looking adobe house that could have been there since Arizona’s old Territorial days, and walked to the edge of the road. This was the opposite of the view that I had enjoyed during my run in Papago Park. From there, I’d looked to the north, but from Camelback Mountain, the view was to the south and much more encompassing. As the smell of gasoline and sage rose to meet me from the hot city basin, I marveled again at the sere but threatened beauty of the Valley of the Sun.
In 1870, while Arizona was still the Arizona Territory, only two hundred and forty people lived down there. Now there were almost three million of us—more than half the entire state’s population—crowded into the Valley. The wear and tear was beginning to show in pollution of almost Los Angeles proportions.
While much of the Valley’s development paid homage to the territory’s Hispanic and Indian heritage, too much of it had been imported from the East with the ever-increasing influx of new residents. As I gazed straight down at the Minnesota-lushness of the Arcadia district, I saw emerald lawns accented by turquoise pools, mulberry and olive trees busy skyrocketing the Valley’s already alarming pollen count. Allergy sufferers, beware. To the west, Central Phoenix was trying its best to mimic the skyline of New York, pushing up skyscrapers with abandon, blocking the view of the stunning lavender mountains that completely ringed the Valley. Meanwhile, the western edge of the Valley had begun to resemble the i
ndustrial Midwest, continuously spewing industrial fumes into the once-pristine sky.
Only Scottsdale still seemed to have a chance at maintaining the Valley’s Western heritage, but even there, I counted too many Taco Bell-clone houses, too much alien Midwestern landscaping, too many golf courses sucking up the ever-dwindling waters of the aquifer.
In an almost straight shot down the mountain, I could see Scottsdale’s showcase resort, the old Hacienda Palms. Unlike the newer resorts, the Hacienda offered its guests only a nine-hole golf course, but it was considered one of the most beautiful short courses in the world, with swan-filled lagoons, trickling brooks, and deep, meandering greens. I was still admiring it when I heard footsteps behind me.
“This is a private road.” A female voice.
I turned around and saw a tiny, white-haired woman who appeared to be in her late eighties and couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. The gun in her hand was almost as big as she was, a long-barreled Colt the size of a small dog. It was cocked and ready for action. The button on her white blouse said, Neighborhood Watch.
At least the gun was pointed at the ground.
Forcing a smile, I said, “I was on my way up the mountain and thought I’d stop and admire the view.”
That didn’t cut any ice with her. “If you want to gawk go on over to Squaw Peak. That’s public property, this isn’t.”
“I’ve got an appointment to see the Hyaths,” I said, not taking my eyes off that big gun.
Her frown intensified as she looked up the mountain. “Trash. That’s what those people are. Trash.” Then she looked back at me. “Get on up there then but don’t dawdle on your way down. I’ll be watching you.”
I gave her a wary salute. “I’m sure you will.”
She stood there, gun still cocked, while I climbed back into the Jeep and headed on up the mountain.
As I neared the Hyath mansion, the reason for the old lady’s hostility towards them became quickly apparent. I grimaced with distaste as I wrestled my Jeep up a narrow switchback and the white marble monstrosity the Hyaths called home came into view. It was a lunatic riff on a Norman castle, with elevated walkways, narrow archers’ windows hacked out of the marble, and a pseudo-drawbridge perched above a pseudo-moat. Spires and towers thrust themselves in every direction, as if to provide first defense for the mansion’s long, crenellated roof. What the hell were these people expecting—an attack by mounted Saracens?
