by Webb, Betty
What the hell?
I am not a crier and the sudden tears spooked me, especially since I didn’t know what prompted them. The stress of the day? My fears for Owen? Deciding that I had heard enough music for one night, I shut the turntable off and carefully slipped the old vinyl back into its paper sleeve. But I still needed some sound, something to light my own dark spaces, so after putting the empty Michelina’s carton in the trash, I turned on FOX News. While Geraldo Rivera oozed ego, I busied myself around the apartment. I scrubbed the sinks, the tub, the toilet. I slaughtered the dust bunnies, I vacuumed. Exhausted, I finally settled myself at the kitchen table and wrote checks for the rent, the light bill, the water, my monthly Crisis Nursery donation.
No time to think, no time to remember.
My resolve faded around midnight, and I finally staggered off to bed. But as soon as I fell asleep, I entered Dreamland’s time tunnel and found myself four years old again, back on that terrible bus hurtling through the Arizona night, while around me, voices rose in song. Above the song—still unidentifiable to my adult ears—I heard my mother scream that yes, she’d kill me, she’d kill me, just leave her alone to do it, for God’s sake.
I saw her raise the gun, heard the explosion of gunfire, found myself curling over with pain. Then the hot desert air sucked away my breath as I fell through the bus door onto the broiling pavement. Over the sound of the bus speeding off, I heard a voice call to me in Spanish, felt tender arms pick me up.…
Then mercifully, my nightmare, like my memories, was replaced by a comforting blackness.
But the respite was brief.
The dream started up again, and in the odd way of dreams, the bus morphed into to a barroom or restaurant, I couldn’t tell which. I sat in someone’s lap listening to John Lee Hooker singing “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” Not on vinyl this time, in the flesh. The spotlight on John Lee’s face revealed a much younger man, not the ruined husk I had seen when I attended his Phoenix concert a mere month before his death. His dream face had not yet developed the crevices of age, nor his voice the quaver of time.
This younger John Lee sang and sang, his raspy voice rising to a gospel shout, promising the eventual reunion of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, all the loved ones who had crossed over the River Jordan. He sang of arms reaching out from Heaven to hold us tight, arms that would never let us go.
Then his voice changed. My dream-self looked over to discover that, no, not the voice, but the singer had changed. One of his band members, a young red-haired man playing a dobro, had stepped up to the mike. This man’s voice, a high, clear tenor, briefly sailed above John Lee’s, then swooped low, blending with the blues master in a haunting duet. “Will the circle be unbroken by and by, Lord, by and by?”
The person who held me, a woman I couldn’t quite see, tightened her arms into a hug. Her perfume, a mixture of lily of the valley and lilac, softened the acrid stench of the cigarettes around us.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” the woman whispered into my ear, and I knew she wasn’t talking about John Lee.
As the spotlight caressed the young man’s face, my heart clenched.
His eyes, a deep green, were the same color as mine.
Chapter 6
The next morning Jimmy updated me on his background searches into the Gloriana Alden-Taylor case.
“Zip on Myra Gordon. Emil Ramos looks fairly clean, considering that he’s such a hot-tempered political gadfly. Nothing but a few parking tickets, all promptly paid. But David Zhang ran into some financial problems six years back, right before he started Desert Trails. He got real comfy again real fast, and I haven’t found out why yet. Randall Ott looks promising, too. He’s in hot water with the Anti-Defamation League, La Raza, the NAACP.”
“Over Losing America?”
Jimmy shook his head. “That’s the interesting thing. Sure, the Civil Rights crowd has been complaining loud and long to the media about Ott’s faulty research and voodoo science, but I’m not talking about the book. The trouble is old trouble. When he was twelve, he got caught painting a swastika on a Scottsdale temple. Mommy and Daddy had to pay a big fine. At the ripe old age of fourteen, he and a few fellow travelers turned loose a grease-covered pig in a United Farm Workers’ meeting—his parents paid for that, too. A year later, he was caught defacing a billboard advertising a Marvin Gaye concert. He actually did a stint in juvie for that.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Granted, that’s old history,” Jimmy continued, “when he was your basic addle-brained delinquent. Apparently he cleaned up his act when he began writing. In a manner of speaking.”
I tsk-tsked. “They’re going to catch you some day, hacking into those files.”
He responded with a sly grin. “I cover my tracks. But you haven’t heard the best part yet. Lynn Tinsley? The honorable congresswoman?” He sat back in his chair, an expectant look on his face.
I played along. “I await your news with bated breath, oh Great Master of Cyberspace.”
Gratified, he said, “Seven years ago, before she ran for the House, she was picked up for shoplifting a silk scarf from Neiman Marcus.”
I flashed on Tinsley, with her too-teased hair, her frou-frou dress, her incongruous spike heels sinking into the dirt at WestWorld. So miss Girly Girl was a regular Miss Misdemeanor. “How’d it play out?”
“Charges dropped. Everything hushed up. Not even a fine.”
“Hmm.” Could Gloriana have found out this dirt and threatened Tinsley? And if so, why? What would Gloriana have to gain? The obvious answer was help with legislation of some sort, possibly exempting bulk book sales from state sales tax.
“Jimmy, keep checking on Tinsley, and keep an eye out for whatever legislation she’s sponsored in the last couple of years.”
“Gloriana-type legislation?”
“Exactly. And while you’re at it, I want you to look at that librarian again. I’ve got a feeling about her.”
“Will do.”
As his fingers flew over the keyboard, I placed a call to Dr. Deborah Mendelson, the dermatologist who had tried to save Gloriana’s life. The woman who answered the phone told me the doctor was having a busy morning and would have to call me back.
I left my number, as well as a brief explanation, and proceeded to burrow into the stacks of paperwork generated by various cases both past and present. Whoever forecasted that computers would create a paperless office had been sorely mistaken. Paper usage was up, not down. While I was on the phone to Office Max begging for new filing cabinets to be delivered to Desert Investigations as soon as possible, my second phone line lit up. Caller ID notified me that Dr. Mendelson was returning my call, so I picked up, leaving the Office Max clerk in the lurch.
“Dr. Mendelson, I’m a detective working the Gloriana Alden-Taylor murder case, and I’d like to ask you some questions.”
A long silence, then, “Detective with whom, may I ask? Your prefix isn’t right for Scottsdale PD.”
No dummy, this doc. “I used to be with Scottsdale PD, but now I’m a private detective brought into the case by Owen Sisiwan’s family. As you probably have heard, he’s been charged with Gloriana’s murder.”
Another silence, shorter this time. “I remember Mr. Sisiwan. He seemed like a nice man. Ms. Alden-Taylor told him to sit in the hallway while she ate lunch, which I thought rather unkind. I asked her if I might take him something to eat, but she told me to mind my own business. Look, Ms. Jones, I only have a couple of minutes before my next patient comes in, so we’d better make this quick.”
I’m no dummy, either, and I had my questions ready. “What made you think Gloriana’s death wasn’t natural? The captain in charge of the case said you alerted the EMTs immediately.”
“Ms. Alden-Taylor’s symptoms were clearly not those of a heart attack or stroke. At first I thought she might be choking on something she ate, but when I rendered aid, I found her air passages were swollen almost completely shut. Afte
r she expired, I remembered that the garnish on her salad didn’t look quite the same as mine. That, coupled with her symptoms, ran up a red flag, so I shared my suspicions with the EMTs. They took it from there.”
From her end of the phone, I heard a quick buzz.
“My patient’s here, Ms. Jones. You’ll need to call me at another time if you want anything else.” With a soft click, Dr. Mendelson hung up.
I drummed my fingers on my desk until Jimmy turned away from his computer and asked, “Problems?”
“Just the usual nobody-knows-nothing. I’m really beginning to worry about Owen.”
He didn’t say anything for a second, then, “We’re all worried about him, especially his wife.” He told me about his visit with her the night before, of the dire straits Owen’s family would endure without his paycheck. “The money he was getting from the G.I. Bill stopped when Owen’s work schedule kept him from attending classes at Scottsdale Community College. Our family’s doing what they can, but that’s not much.”
During my bill-paying frenzy the night before, I had also written out a check to help Owen’s wife buy groceries, but that wouldn’t help her long-term problem. Like most of the Pima Indians out on the Salt River-Maricopa Reservation, the Sisiwans had little money. Life had begun to look up since the Pima casinos had opened on the eastern edge of Scottsdale, but it would take time for the tribe to complete its climb out of poverty. War hero or not, Owen was as broke as everybody else on the Rez.
Thinking about Owen’s real-life problems made my own nightmares fade. “You’re visiting him tonight, right?”
“Yeah. Esther and I’ll drive over to the jail after work.”
“Tell him not to worry, that I’ll have him out of there in no time.”
I hoped my voice sounded more optimistic than I felt.
***
When I parked the Jeep in front of Zachary Alden-Taylor VI’s house, I allowed myself a moment of surprise. I had imagined that Gloriana’s grandson would live in grander digs, but I’d been wrong. Granted, South Scottsdale had never been known for its high-toned mansions—we left that sort of thing up to our posher kin to the north—but Scottsdale was still Scottsdale, right?
The street, while not exactly slummy, was lined with the kind of small, inexpensive tract homes you would find in any working class Arizona neighborhood. Bargain-basement stucco painted in ice cream colors attempted to relieve the monotony, but Zachary’s house wouldn’t have looked out of place in Appalachia. Its roof sagged, a sheet of crumpled aluminum foil patched a broken front window, and the indoor-outdoor carpeting covering the a-kilter porch had been ripped in several places, exposing the crumbling concrete pad beneath. The tiny lawn surrounding this wreck had long ago given up its fight for life and had let the desert take over. Someone had money troubles.
I stepped carefully up the short walk, dodging a couple of skittering scorpions, yet feeling my spirits rise. I could almost hear Owen’s cell door open.
When I reached up to knock on the ripped screen door, though, a yellow flier fluttering from the knob temporarily drove Owen from my mind. Over the photograph of a blond-haired child, the headline on the flier read, MISSING: A FUTURE FOR WHITE CHILDREN. At the bottom was an invitation to join the National Alliance.
They were recruiting in Scottsdale now? I looked back along the street and saw yellow fliers on each door.
As I stood on the porch, wondering if I’d break any laws if I ripped the flier away (and if I cared), the screen door opened. A tall, dark-haired beauty with vivid blue eyes smiled down at me. “I told Boz you were coming for him and he’s very excited.”
Boz? “I don’t think.…”
She opened the screen door further, and I saw a small black and brown dog grinning up at me from between Beauty’s ankles. Regardless of the fact that he was a mere Heinz 57 mutt, he had been groomed within an inch of his life and reeked of Giorgio.
“Cute dog,” I said. “But I.…”
“Get in here quick before somebody gets out.” She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a tiny living room, which, after the bright sunlight outside, seemed barroom dark. As the screen door snapped shut behind me, the scent of Eau de Kitty Litter replaced the Giorgio. Even in the gloom I could make out a startling assortment of animals perched upon every conceivable piece of furniture. More dogs, cats, even several rabbits swarmed across a tatty, tweed-patterned carpet. The few areas not covered with shed hair and/or animals were heaped with books.
Beauty, whom I now saw was very pregnant, chattered on about Boz and paperwork. Surreptitiously, I stuffed the National Alliance flier into my carry-all.
“You’ll need to fill out some papers swearing on the life of your first-born that you won’t keep him on a chain in the backyard and other evil stuff like that, then you can take him home.” She looked down at the grinning dog, who took that as a cue to chase his tail. “Would you like that, Boz? Would you like that?”
Boz paused in his tail-chasing to bark an affirmative.
Yes, a very cute dog, but not for me. This big dog hunted alone. “Look, ma’am, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” I said. “I’m not here about Boz.”
Beauty scrunched her face, which didn’t even begin to mar her astonishing looks. “Then you’re not Mrs. Howell?”
“No, but it looks like Mrs. Howell is getting a great little dog.”
Upon hearing the word dog, Boz made a beeline for my ankle, which he then proceeded to lick as if it had been slathered in liver. A ratty-looking white cat hissed at him from the corner.
“Bad dog, Boz. Bad cat, Andrew,” Beauty said, obviously not meaning it. Then she leaned over—with difficulty, due to her prominent belly—and tugged the dog away from me by his collar. “Don’t lick her, Boz.”
I dug into my carry-all and handed her a card. “Lena Jones, Desert Investigations.”
She released the dog’s collar and her friendly face closed down. “I told you. It’s being taken care of.”
Interesting. Beauty had confused me with someone else yet again, even after I’d identified myself as a private detective.
Boz, sensing that something had upset his mistress, began to growl. A few other dogs joined the hostile chorus, making the room sound like the tuba section of the Scottsdale Symphony.
“Bad dogs!” This time she meant it. Boz and friends shut up, but Beauty’s own voice turned to a growl when she said, “You’d better leave, Ms. Jones. And you can tell the people who hired you that this is getting ridiculous. Tell them to mind their own business and I’ll mind mine.”
People who hired me? “Look, Mrs. Alden-Taylor, if that’s who you are, I don’t know who you think I am, but I’ve been retained by Owen Sisiwan’s family to investigate Gloriana Alden-Taylor’s murder.”
The frown left her face. “Oh. I thought.…” She gave me a shame-faced smile. “The neighbors have been getting pretty irritated about my beasties, and.…Never mind. That problem’s about to disappear. As to Owen, the very idea that he would hurt a hair on Gloriana’s head is ludicrous. Zach and I have such faith in his innocence that we’re in the process of hiring an attorney for him right now. Here, take a seat. And yeah, I’m Mrs. Alden-Taylor, but call me Megan. Not even Gloriana used that pretentious double-barreled name.”
I looked around at the various mounds of fur dozing on the sofa and chairs. “Er.…”
“Just move somebody.”
My eyes now accustomed to the dim light, I picked my way through the swarming mass of dogs and cats to the dingy La-Z-Boy recliner near a sofa which the cats had obviously been using for a claw-sharpening post. I leaned over the chair and picked up the fat black Persian whose hair, I hoped, wouldn’t look too grungy against my black jeans and T-shirt. Then I sat down, lifting the “beastie” onto my lap. Through all this, the cat never moved, other than to increase the volume of his purrs.
Megan nestled herself on the ragged sofa between two stacks of books, whereupon two elderly cats, arthritic b
ones poking through beautifully groomed coats, immediately draped themselves over her thighs. She appeared not to notice the clumps of white and gray fur adhering to her denim maternity jeans. “All settled in now?” she asked them.
After they purred their assent, she addressed herself to my own lap-warmer. “Poor Black Bart, does Mama need to blow your nose?” Then, to me, “Pig-faced Persians frequently have breathing difficulties. Oh. My manners. Would you like some iced tea? I’ve got some made.” She started to get up, whereupon her two cats yowled in protest.
I waved away the offer of tea, taking care not to dislodge Black Bart, whose purrs now revealed themselves to be catarrhal snorts. “Actually, I’m here to see Mr. Alden-Ta…, uh, Zachary, if that would be possible.”
She shook her head, glossy brown hair rippling like a waterfall at midnight. With her deeply tanned face and vivid blue eyes, the effect was stunning, and I wondered if she had once been a model. If so, judging from the shambles around her, she’d certainly married down.
“Zach’s at the office. He’s the managing editor of Patriot’s Blood Press, you know, and with Gloriana dead, there is a mountain of details for him to tackle. Canceling most of the summer catalog, for one. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but you wouldn’t believe some of the garbage his grandmother was about to publish.”
Neither Megan nor Zach sounded like National Alliance recruitment material, so I fished the flier out of my carry-all and thrust it at her. “This was stuck on your front door.”
