The Desert Waits

by J. Carson Black

  McCutcheon wrote his name down. He scanned the room, saw the roses and the jewelry case sitting on the dresser. “Have you looked to see if he took anything?” he asked, motioning to the box. “Mind if I look?”

  Caroline shrugged.

  He donned gloves and pried the case open, trying to touch it as little as possible. Alex gasped as she saw the ruby-and-diamond bracelet inside.

  “Is this real?” McCutcheon asked.

  “It’s from Pepi.”

  “Pepe? He a friend of yours?”

  “Pepi of Beverly Hills. It’s a store.”

  “How much would you say it’s worth?”

  “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” she said matter-of-factly. “Ted was with me when I priced it.”

  “Ted’s your husband? He gave this to you?”

  “He had it sent for my birthday.”

  Some birthday present, Alex thought.

  “I think we can rule out robbery.”

  Someone rapped on the door. The deputy opened it to a man whose face was a pretty good approximation of a basset hound. He carried a Polaroid camera in one hand and a large black case in the other.

  “Why don’t you two go to the coffee shop for about an hour?” It was not a question. “We’re going to go over the room for evidence.”

  “We’ll be outside if you need us,” Caroline said, grabbing her bottle of Cuervo and the shot glasses.

  Against Alex’s better judgment, they sat on the tailgate of one of the crew trucks. She wasn’t altogether comforted by Caroline’s assertion that a security guard patrolled the area. It was nice out here, though. The heat of the day had been chased away by the thunderstorm and the air was redolent of rain-washed creosote. A cicada buzzed nearby. The foothills were silhouetted black against a navy backdrop. Date palms from the courtyard and spires of saguaro cactus poked into the stardusted sky. The peace here was a contrast to the menace Alex had felt off and on since she’d arrived.

  “You like my ring?” Caroline asked, sliding aside the scarab beetle and sprinkling salt on her forearm from a tiny compartment. “Just like Lucretia Borgia, only my poison’s Cuervo.” After licking the salt, she downed a shot of tequila and sucked the lime. She motioned to the other glass. “Want another?”

  Alex shook her head. By her count, Caroline had had four: two before the deputy arrived and two out here.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she said, draping her arm around Alex’s shoulders and pulling her close. “If you knew the mistake I almost made … but everything’s fine now, everything’s great.”

  Alex could feel Caroline’s ribs through the tank top. The moonlight picked out the sharp shadow of her collarbone and the faintly luminous shell fragment resting just below the hollow of her throat.

  “Everything will be all right, now you’re here. I knew I could count on you. You put everything … into perspective. I don’t know how you do it. Maybe it’s your sense of humor or that you’re so smart.”

  Alex winced at the flattery in Caroline’s tone. “Your problem isn’t a matter of perspective. There’s someone out there who’s out to get you, and you’d better start taking it seriously.”

  “You’re here, just being my friend. That’s all I want.”

  “Deputy McCutcheon …”

  “He’s a hunk, isn’t he? I wouldn’t mind getting me some of that!” She swung her big clumpy hunting boots back and forth. “You have the hots for him?”

  When Alex didn’t answer, she sang a chorus of “I Shot the Sheriff.”

  Alex stifled her disgust. Caroline was consumed with fear. She was like a delicate crystal vase that might shatter at any moment.

  “Who’d shoot a deputy as cute as that?”

  “That letter scared me. Didn’t it scare you?”

  “Sure, it gave me a jolt.”

  “A jolt?”

  “Alex, what you’ve got to understand is, I’ve got a lot more problems than a secret admirer. I can handle men.”

  Suddenly, Alex had a thought. “Do you know who’s doing this?”

  Caroline’s eyes widened. “No, of course I don’t. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. There’s so much we’ve got to catch up on.” She hugged Alex again. “I’m sorry we lost touch. I’ve thought of you so often, but things get … complicated. You have no idea the kind of demands they make on me. But you can tell I haven’t forgotten,” she added pointedly, touching the shell necklace. She lifted the chain and ran it across her teeth, looking up at the sky. “Look at those stars. There must be billions of them. Did you ever see anything so beautiful? To think I almost threw it all away.” She sighed, and Alex was surprised to see the sadness in her eyes. “Have another shot and we’ll talk about old times.”

  Alex gave in. Caroline needed comfort, not an argument. The investigation was in the capable hands of Deputy McCutcheon. Caroline did most of the talking. Her husband Ted, she told Alex, had gone “indie prod.”

  “What’s indie prod?”

  “Independent producer. Means he’s got to scramble for backing because the studios won’t finance his projects.” She laughed. “An independent producer can be anything from a creative genius to some guy with a rented Beemer and call-waiting.” Ted, she added, was currently scouting locations in Italy for a reprise of the spaghetti western.

  “Are you going to be in it?”

  “Are you kidding? Ted’s got some good ideas, at least in theory, but a lot of times they fall flat. Spaghetti westerns—I don’t think they’re due for a comeback. Too grungy and depressing.”

  “The Beverly Hillbillies. They brought that back.”

  “Ugh. Next it’ll be Gilligan’s Island.”

  “Gilligan’s Island 6: The Final Insult.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe if he updated the western a little to fit with the times. He could call it a manicotti western.”

  Caroline giggled. “Mostaciolli! Linguine! A spinach rotelli western in a light alfredo sauce.”

  It was good to hear her laugh. Alex had another shot of tequila and became pleasantly mellow. Caroline’s defensiveness dropped away, and it seemed as though they had never been apart. When Alex looked at her watch, she realized it was almost three o’clock.

  “Oh shit, we have an early shoot tomorrow,” Caroline said.

  “Do you want me there?”

  “Sure, the more the merrier.”

  As they reached the lobby, Caroline said with inebriated sincerity, “Alex, you have no idea how much better I feel now you’re here. I know. Let’s celebrate my birthday when we get back from location. Just you and me, nobody else, okay?” And then she turned away and walked unsteadily to her room.

  Alex never saw her again.

  Three

  Sure there are problems. There are problems on any shoot.

  —Director Grey Sullivan to Premiere Magazine

  Alex overslept. She awoke, mildly foggy, to a jungle of bird voices: mockingbirds, cardinals, quail, cactus wrens, sparrows, and doves (inca, mourning, and white-winged). A chorus of avian scolding, calling, chirping, hooting.

  There was always this babble in the morning, a constant background noise rising from the dense tapestry of the Sonoran Desert. The term “desert,” Alex mused, was defined by rainfall averages and didn’t in any way describe this lush oasis brimming with scores of different plants and cactus. The Sonoran Desert’s subtle greens and myriad textures were more suited to the mythical garden of Scheherazade’s 1001 Arabian Nights than the flat, dusty terrain of TV westerns. At least Alex had always thought so.

  As she walked to the bathroom, she saw the note Caroline must have shoved under the door. Caroline had left early this morning, not wanting to wake her. They were shooting on location near the border, and they’d be back by five (she guessed). She wanted Alex to wait for her so they could celebrate her birthday. Alex wasn’t to worry. The gorgeous deputy had turned up and was going along as an extra. What woman in her right mind would turn down an offer like t
hat?

  This turn of events left Alex at a loose end. There was no point in looking for Caroline. If the sheriff’s deputy was watching her, she was in good hands.

  Alex drove up to the trailhead to Groves Canyon and walked in a couple of miles. She’d decided it would be a quick trip in to get the lay of the land, but she took her Nikon fitted with a short telephoto zoom lens.

  She saw nothing, but didn’t really expect to. Alex had spent two years trying to get close to a mountain lion, and to this date, she hadn’t even seen one in the wild, although mountain lions were common in Arizona. Jaguarundi weren’t supposed to be in the United States at all—not anymore. She spent most of her time looking at the ground, hoping to see some indication that the cat had been around: tracks, scat, and other sign. Jaguarundi had the same scrupulous bathroom habits as a pampered housecat, so she kept a look out for “scratch,” sand or dirt that had been raked up by feline claws.

  She was back by one. Late spring in the desert was a little hot to be hiking in the middle of the day. Tomorrow, she’d get an earlier start.

  Back in her room, she kicked off her Merrell Moab hikers, peeled off her sweaty clothes and pulled on her swimsuit, pausing for just a moment to glance at herself in the mirror. Still lean and mean. Not bad for a thirty-year-old broad.

  Which reminded her that later today she should stop by the gift shop and pick up a card for Caroline. She guessed she should get her a gift, too, although she had no idea what her high school friend liked—other than Cuervo Gold.

  Alex looked forward to diving into the pool. She had the place to herself, probably because most of the guests were on the movie crew. The pool, glittering like an aquamarine, was situated in the center of the courtyard. It was a beautiful setting, if a trifle frayed at the edges. A yellow-green California peppertree spread its drooping arms across the calm surface of the pool. A faded 7UP thermometer was tacked to its trunk like a rusty bottlecap; the temperature read ninety-seven degrees. Alex swam some laps, then stretched out on a creaky chaise loungue and shaded her eyes against the sun. Soaring above the Spanish tiled roofs, the khaki-colored mountain baked under the desert sky, its rock-encrusted slopes dotted with shrubs and cactus, teeming with unseen life.

  She anticipated enjoying the book she’d bought for the trip, about a hardboiled female P.I. with a mouth like a sailor, but for some reason couldn’t get into it. Her mind kept wandering back to last night and the strange way Caroline had acted.

  All the hugs. Caroline had never been particularly demonstrative. She must have picked up the hugging and the kiss-kisses from the movie business.

  I don’t even know her anymore.

  Of course not. People didn’t stay the same. Especially people who breathed the rarified air of Hollywood. That was bound to shake anyone to their foundations.

  But Caroline still wore the chain around her neck, the chain with the half piece of shell. Its mate was long gone. Alex felt guilty about that. She’d lost track of it years ago, and had forgotten about the pact until Caroline’s call. Obviously, Caroline took it much more seriously. The idea made Alex feel uncomfortable. What could she do? She wasn’t a police officer or a bodyguard or even a counselor. Caroline was obviously wounded, and Alex doubted her anguish was completely attributable to the stalker.

  The vague uneasiness that had been her companion since yesterday afternoon solidified. Why had she been such a pushover? She didn’t want to get involved in Caroline’s problems; she had enough of her own.

  Alex squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the memory, but it came anyway. Why did her own mind insist on running the scene by her like a strip of film, frame by frame? Wasn’t it bad enough that it happened at all?

  It came again. Inexorable. The sunny day. She’d just come back from photographing a bear in the Chiricahua Mountains. She dumped all her stuff and walked out to the mailbox.

  Alex saw the mailbox sitting on a cairn of rocks, the flag down. Maybe if she didn’t open it. If she turned around and walked back to the house ... but she did open it, took out the circulars, the bills, the stiff white envelope from Willard, Dean and Associates.

  She hadn’t felt even a twinge of uneasiness. Not a clue. It was probably an invitation to a party from Brian’s law firm. She opened it because it was addressed to her.

  She stood in the driveway, the sun burning her neck, a swarm of colored dots blocking her vision. It didn’t matter. She’d seen enough. The words “petition for a dissolution of marriage” were all she needed.

  Alex opened her eyes, stared at the palm trees that rose above her like gold-and-green feather dusters. Trying to shut out her impending divorce was like trying not to think of the white bear.

  Alex remembered that phrase from an acting class she’d taken in college. Her instructor had told them to go to a quiet part of the room and try not to think of the white bear. Of course that was all they thought about. What white bear? Was it a polar bear or a regular bear? Why wasn’t she supposed to think about it?

  Ignoring the fact that the divorce would be final this week was like trying not to think of the white bear.

  Every time she wished she could go back to the time before the divorce papers arrived, Alex remembered the pain Brian had inflicted. She knew he’d betrayed her long before then. Once it was out in the open, people had come out of the woodwork to share the details.

  Alex had done the only thing she could to preserve her sanity. She fled to Sedona and stayed with her parents for a month. The pain was still a constant pedal point, but she believed that it was in Sedona, on her day-long hikes in the red rocks, when she’d come back so tired that she couldn’t even think, that she began to heal. It was there in the simple rituals of home and family—her odd family—that she realized the world hadn’t come to an end after all. Sometimes she even forgot for stretches at a time.

  So much so that when Brian showed up at her door in a moment of weakness, she’d almost taken him into her arms and forgiven him. Almost, but hadn’t.

  Maybe there was a reason her mind was so cruel, replaying that hurt over and over again. No one liked pain, but it served a purpose. Without pain, you didn’t know you were hurt.

  Five o’clock came, then six. Alex graduated from annoyance to full-fledged anger. She remembered all the times she’d waited for Brian, the nights she’d awakened in the middle of the night to realize his side of the bed hadn’t been slept in.

  You pushover, she chided herself. Why do people think they can use you like a doormat?

  The other part of her mind cautioned her to be reasonable. There was always a logical explanation, an extenuating circumstance which leavened her anger and made her feel selfish for expecting too much. With Brian, it had been his caseload, his striving to become a partner in the law firm. He had to work long hours. As the star of the film, Caroline was at the whim of the director, the producer, the schedule. Things went wrong in filming; shoots often went overtime. Alex had no right to expect anything. But that didn’t make a dent in her anger.

  She took a walk in the desert and returned just after moonrise.

  Back at the hotel, members of the crew were filtering in. They looked like movie people: running shoes, baseball caps, jeans, ponytails (men), bulky gym bags slung over shoulders. Alex stood in a sea of drab desert colors trying to pick out Caroline.

  Although people continued to pour into the lobby, Alex was surprised by the lack of noise. A couple of crew members brushed past her, expressions careworn.

  The idea struck her that they didn’t look as much careworn as shocked. Something was wrong.

  A man stood near her. He looked as puzzled as she felt. At first she thought he was with the movie. In his L.L. Bean outfit, he could easily be mistaken for someone high up on the Jagged Impact food chain. Then she saw the garment bag at his feet and realized he was waiting to check in. On second thought, he didn’t look like someone on a film crew. His handsome, open face pegged him as a midwestern businessman. Catching her eye, h
e asked her if she knew what was going on.

  “They’re filming a movie here.”

  “I know that,” he said. “My wife’s the star.”

  “Caroline?” She tried to stifle her incredulity.

  “You on the crew?” he asked.

  Alex realized that she could pass for a movie person herself in her Woolrich canvas pants and desert-tone shirt. “I’m an old friend of Caroline’s, Alex Cafarelli. You must be Ted.”

  He shook her hand. “I’ve heard the name. You went to high school together, right?”

  She nodded. “She and I were supposed to get together ... oh!”

  He looked at her strangely.

  “She wasn’t expecting to see … I mean, does she know you’re here?”

  “I thought I’d surprise her. I was scouting locations in Italy, but we got finished ahead of schedule. Do you know where she is?”

  Alex told him about their plans. “I haven’t seen her, though.”

  “I’ll ask,” he said, stepping up to the desk. Alex watched him for a moment, then scanned the crowd. Some of the crew had congregated on the cozily arranged leather chairs in the center of the room, spilling over onto the Santa Fe-style coffee table, some dropping their bags and taking up a piece of the floor. They spoke in hushed, intent voices, and a couple of the women appeared to be chilled, rubbing their arms and leaning forward, huddled against some imagined cold. The bad feeling settled in to stay.

  It’s Caroline, her inner voice said. Something’s happened. Alex didn’t know what made her so certain, but she knew.

  Her nerves screaming, she approached the group. “Excuse me. I’m supposed to meet Caroline Arnet at—”

  The mountainous, bearded man sitting on the edge of the coffee table stared up at her. The look on his face was enough. She didn’t even hear his words; he might as well have been underwater speaking through a snorkel.

  She needed clarification. “Caroline? Caroline’s dead? Are you sure?”