by Webb, Betty
“Admirable sentiments, Mrs. Gordon, but I didn’t drive all the way down here to God’s country for a lecture on the Bill of Rights. Convince me you didn’t kill Gloriana.”
She looked at the photograph of her dead husband, her dead son. Then back at me. When she finally spoke, there was no expression on her face at all. “All I have for you is the truth, Ms. Jones. I arranged to be seated next to Gloriana so I could look into the face of evil. But when I met her, I didn’t see evil. All I saw was the face of a lonely old woman. A woman just like me.”
***
When I got back to Scottsdale, the drywall guy was just pulling into the office parking slot, having obviously completed his job at the Biltmore Resort. I inched my way carefully up the stairs and let him into my apartment. After taking another look around, he told me the place would be good to go by the end of the day.
Pleased, I hobbled back down the stairs to the office and reported the conversation to Jimmy, who tried to hide his relief. “One more week at my place and those feet should be healed enough for you to navigate your stairs.” His face froze. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you just say you let the guy into your apartment? Lena, how’d you get up there?”
I waved a crutch at him. “I’ve been practicing.”
“You’re going to do what you’re going to do, but I think you should give it a little more time.” There was resignation in his voice.
If I stayed at Jimmy’s trailer any longer I might destroy a beautiful partnership, not to mention friendship. But I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I said I was homesick. Not that I knew what “homesick” really meant. When you’ve grown up in as many “homes” as I had, you can’t grasp the concept.
“Can you help me move back tonight?” I asked.
“It’ll have to be tomorrow. Tonight Esther and I are taking Rebecca to the movies. I’ve finally found a film we can all see together without one of us losing his mind.”
I thought for a moment about calling Dusty, but then decided against it. Relying on my partner for help was one thing; relying on my boyfriend yet another. “Tomorrow it is, then.”
Satisfied with the way things were going, I returned to the business at hand, making a list of the people I needed to interview again. Sandra, most definitely, without Brookings standing guard. Yes, she had almost died in the fire, but Gloriana’s murderer hadn’t necessarily set it. The Aryan Brotherhood remained likely suspects.
I wrote down SANDRA ALDEN-TAYLOR and JOHN ALDEN BROOKINGS.
Both their lives had taken an upward turn after Gloriana’s death, and I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that blood was always thicker than water. Nieces had killed aunts before. Daughters, mothers.
And grandsons, grandmothers.
Of all people whose lives had been most enriched by Gloriana’s death, Zach topped the list. Not only was he now able to re-create Patriot’s Blood in his own image, but he had inherited a spectacular house in the bargain. And that undeveloped desert acreage I kept hearing about. At the beginning of this case, I had liked Zach, but since he inherited full control of Patriot’s Press, I found myself liking him less. Had arrogance always lurked under that veil of harassed humility? Or had it been born with his new power?
I drew a double line under ZACHARY ALDEN-TAYLOR.
Who else? I wrote down OWEN SISIWAN, and after some thought, added JANELLE SISIWAN. Owen gave every appearance of being a committed family man, but appearances frequently meant little. It was entirely possible that after a life of hardship on the reservation, he had decided to partake of the Good Life via Gloriana’s lust for him. Unless I was wrong, Janelle was perfectly capable of committing murder to keep her man. As for procuring the water hemlock, many Native Americans were adept at identifying poisonous plants. That no one had mentioned seeing Owen’s wife at the Desert Shadows Resort meant little. Few if any of the SOBOP folks knew her, but even if they had, she could have thrown a white apron over a black dress and blended into the background. Even Gloriana wouldn’t have recognized her. No one pays attention to the help.
Then I corrected myself. No one pays attention to the help unless they look like Owen.
I drew a double line under JANELLE.
Who else? After careful thought, I discounted the dermatologist who had sat at Gloriana’s table at the SOBOP banquet. The doctor had no motive and had actually tried to save Gloriana. But that wasn’t true for the other people who had sat at the table.
After writing down MYRA MBISI/GORDON, I added DAVID ZHANG. Then EMIL RAMOS and REPRESENTATIVE LYNN TINSLEY. And how about RANDALL OTT? Gloriana was ruthless; Ott, crazy. A nasty combination. Anything could have happened between those two.
I wrote down LAVELLE and LEILA ALDEN-TAYLOR. While I couldn’t see the twins actually doing the deed, they were obviously hiding something.
BARRY FETZNER made my list. Considering the far-reaching loyalty of prison gangs, it would have been relatively easy for a member of the Aryan Brotherhood to come to some sort of arrangement with an outside killer.
I added CHAPS PETERSON, too. A long shot, but even cowboy poets do not like to hear their talent denigrated. Then, after thinking about it for a while, I wrote down REVEREND MELVIN GIBLIN. The fact that he had been good to me did not cancel out the possibility that he could be a killer. The Rev, who certainly knew his Arizona fauna and flora, might have killed Gloriana merely to keep her from spreading her press’ awful brand of hate any further. A long shot, but so were some of the other names on my list.
I sat there staring at the Rev’s name for a while, remembering the happy times I had spent with him and the other foster kids out on the desert. Remembered the songs around the campfire, remembered my sorrow when he—still half mad with grief over his wife’s death—told us we couldn’t live with him any longer. Remembered his tears when the CPS van came to pick us up.
I looked at the name some more.
Then I erased it.
***
Jimmy was still running names through the system when I pushed myself away from the desk and grappled with my crutches.
“Going upstairs to check on the progress,” I told him. “And after that, I’m driving up to Scottsdale Air Park to talk to David Zhang and Emil Ramos again. I have some follow-up questions.”
“Please be careful.”
I didn’t bother asking who or what I was supposed to be careful of. It would elicit another lecture. Instead, I bumped up the stairs, only to find the drywall guy packing up his things.
“Finished.” He handed me an invoice.
When I saw the amount, I regretted not telling my landlord about my little hole-in-the-wall problem. But then I saw the now-sleek ceiling and walls and realized that he’d done a better job than my landlord would ever have paid for. The guy had even smoothed out a few extra spots, holes not put there by a big Desert Eagle. Which, I reminded myself, I had yet to get rid of. Maybe I should drop it down a sewer somewhere.
And Dusty’s pistol-packing redhead with it.
“You’ll need to paint,” the drywall guy said, interrupting my murderous thoughts. “I think that’s Navajo White up there, but I’m no expert. Maybe you want to throw a little color in here, too.”
Maybe. Those white walls sure didn’t do much for the beige carpet, beige sofa, and beige coffee table.
But who cared? The apartment was a place to eat and sleep. Nothing else. It wasn’t a home. There was no kidding myself. I’d never had a home and probably never would.
***
When I maneuvered my crutches into Verdad Press an hour later, Emil Ramos was adding another book to a shelf in the reception area. The bell tingled and he looked around, his expression forming into dismay. He hurriedly masked it with his usual smile.
“Ah, Miss Jones, it is so nice to see you alive.”
His words startled me until I realized that I had not seen Ramos since the Patriot’s Blood bombing. “I think it’s nice to see me alive, too, Mr. Ramos. How goes the book business?”
He
patted the book into place, then stepped away from the bookcase. “We are still waiting for the Hispanic Michael Crichton to appear on our doorstep. Other than that, business is fine. But I am certain you did not drive up here to discuss the ins and outs of the publishing business. What may I help you with this time?”
As he led me to the conference room, I told him what I’d discovered about Gloriana, that her perceived racism appeared to be more financial than heart-felt. Ramos didn’t appear as surprised as I’d thought he would.
“That makes her behavior even worse,” he said, helping me into my seat.
My thoughts, too. But I asked him why.
He settled back into his chair, his face troubled. “To do what you believe in, that is the course of action all honest men and women should follow, even to the death. But to spread such lies only for money, that is unforgivable. The poor, yes, they frequently commit terrible acts to feed themselves or their children, or even out of some other desperate need. Gloriana Alden-Taylor had none of these excuses. She was born into wealth. How can her greed ever be understood?”
“She wasn’t born into as much wealth as you think.” I explained Gloriana’s financial situation, the condition of the family home.
The troubled look cleared. “Then I understand.”
I heard a noise behind me, and turned to see John Alden Brookings, ensconced again in his wheelchair, leading an elderly lady down the hall. He gave me a curt nod, then rolled into a small office with her and closed the door.
“One of Mr. Brookings’ private clients,” Ramos explained. “But he will be leaving soon to return to Patriot’s Blood. I suppose I should be happy for him, but now I must find another bilingual editor. The hiring process always depresses me. There are so many good people out of work these days, and I cannot help them all.”
I sympathized, but steered him away from what looked to be the beginnings of a long monologue by asking my next question. “Mr. Ramos, you said you understand Gloriana’s behavior. What did you mean by that?”
“Ah, Ms. Jones. People will kill, or even die, to protect their homes, so if Gloriana loved her Hacienda as much as you say, then I am not surprised by anything she did. We had such a case in my own family, an elderly relative who refused to leave her adobe even as the bulldozers pushed down the walls.”
Could the world really be that small? “Mr. Ramos, are you talking about the adobes that were razed for the new art museum?”
I’d worked that case, a very messy one which had almost gotten me killed. As it had turned out, a member of that old woman’s family—the woman who had preferred to die with her house—saved my life. This put me in a difficult ethical position. Yet, for all Ramos’ Old World courtesy, he could still be a murderer.
“Why, yes,” Ramos said, surprised. “The woman involved, Magdalena Espinoza, was my great-aunt.”
It was true, then. Pushing aside my moral qualms, I decided that the past is the past, and that whatever Ramos’ kin had done for me, he himself had played no part in it. But even if he had, I was still a detective.
There was no point in letting Ramos know about my ties to his family, so I barged ahead. “I think I remember reading about her. It was a very sad situation.”
He nodded. “You see what I am saying, then. For people who are no longer young, a home can be a sacred thing, especially for a proud woman like Gloriana Alden-Taylor. But I understand something else about the woman now, too.”
Then he was doing better than me. I just couldn’t seem to get a fix on Gloriana. “What do you understand about her?”
“Great love, great desire—they often go hand in hand with great blindness.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, great blindness?”
He looked around at the bookcases in the room, the proof of his own great desires. “You Anglos have the saying, ‘Love is blind,’ which is, of course, true. We all know that no one is more blind to ugly truths than a lover. But when passions cool, vision clears; the floodlight of truth reveals all. If that revealed truth is unacceptable, a great hatred will grow in its place, a hatred as great as the passions that came before. Did such a thing happen to Gloriana Alden-Taylor? Did the thing she once loved become her great hate? And is that why she had to die?”
***
“Did the thing she once loved become her great hate?”
Ramos’ words stayed with me as I hobbled across the parking lot to Arizona Trails Publishing and the offices of David Zhang.
What did Gloriana love? Her exalted lineage. Her crumbling Hacienda. And, possibly, Owen.
Who or what had she turned against? And why?
Zhang was in, but the young woman who stuck her head around the corner told me he was finishing up an editorial conference and asked me to wait. She then disappeared again.
I settled myself and my crutches on a sleek chair designed more for looks than comfort and flipped through a stack of magazines on the side table: Road and Track, American Baby, Cosmopolitan. Not being all that interested in cars, and even less in babies, I picked up the Cosmopolitan. I’d begun reading an article titled “Jealousy: The Most Destructive of the Seven Deadly Sins,” when I heard approaching voices.
David Zhang, and a mellifluous baritone it was hard to forget. Chaps Peterson, the cowboy poet. What was he doing here?
Intrigued, I watched as Zhang, who hadn’t yet spotted me, shook hands with Chaps at the door. “I’m looking forward to a long and profitable relationship,” Zhang said, his salesman’s smile wide, bright, and phoney.
“Right, pardner, we’ll be riding a lot of fence together in the next few years,” Chaps agreed. His too-overt “cowhand” accent sounded off today, but maybe it was just me.
With a tip of his weatherbeaten hat, Chaps finally exited, leaving Zhang in the doorway.
“Ahem.” I gave him a wave.
Zhang’s brilliant smile dimmed for a nanosecond and I caught a flash of temper in his eyes. Then the smile flared again. “Why, Miss Jones! How nice to see you again!” His professed joy sounded every bit as phoney as Chaps’ accent.
Before I could say anything, Zhang made a show of checking his watch. “Look at the time! We’re about to close up. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow?”
There’s a reason detectives like to drop in on people unannounced. Why give suspects time to perfect their lies?
“I have a couple more questions,” I said, delivering a whopper of my own. “I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
“Make it quick then.” Unlike Ramos, Zhang didn’t invite me into the conference room. Instead, he perched himself on the chair across from me as if to punctuate the lateness of the hour.
“Wasn’t that Chaps Peterson I saw leaving?” I asked.
Zhang looked relieved. “Yes, it was. We signed him to a three-book contract.”
So much for Arizona flora and fauna. “I didn’t know Arizona Trails published Chaps’ kind of work.”
“I’ve been thinking of branching out into other areas of Southwestern interest, and since Mr. Peterson is one of the most popular poets around, why not?”
I noticed that he said most popular, not best. But when I mentioned his lapse, he laughed.
“Whoever said publishing is about quality hasn’t studied the bestseller list lately. It’s a freak show, Miss Jones, top heavy with wrestlers, teenage pop stars, and political has-beens confessing their sexual peccadillos. Mediocre books produced by mediocre ghostwriters. Perhaps publishing used to be about developing talent and producing the best books possible, but today it’s all showmanship and sales. And when it comes to showmanship, Chaps is one of the best salesmen around. In fact, I am so confident of that I am sending him on a ten-state book tour when his first collection rolls off the press. As I am sure you noticed at the Festival of the West, people from the East Coast lap up the cowboy business.”
And the cowboys themselves. Look at Joanne’s passion for Dusty. But I didn’t have time to worry about her now. “Speaking of the East Coast,
don’t I detect a wee bit of Brooklyn in Chaps’ accent?”
Zhang’s face closed down again. “Chaps assured me that not only was he was born and raised in Arizona, but also that his father and both grandfathers were cowboys.”
Well, yippee-ki-yo-ki-yay, youse guys. There seemed to be no point in raining on Chaps’ parade when I had other issues to pursue. “Better have him watch those Brooklyn ‘R’s then. But back to what I came here for. As you must surely know, someone bombed Patriot’s Blood last week. Do you have any idea who might have done that?” Not that he would tell me if he did.
Zhang looked relieved at the change of subject. “If the bombing had happened before Gloriana died, I could have said anyone. The NAACP. The Jewish Defense League. PETA, even, because some of that racist propaganda she published has been urging the Aryan types to eat more meat. You know the kind of thing, ‘Real racists don’t eat quiche.’ But everyone knew that Zach was going to change editorial policy as soon as he took over, so fire-bombing the place just as he’d started to do so makes no sense to me.”
It didn’t make any sense to me, either. Something else bothered me, too. “Are you aware of the material Zach wants to publish now?”
Zhang laughed so hard he almost fell down. “Oh, God, yes!” he finally managed, wiping his eyes. “Look, Zach’s a great guy and all that, a heart of gold under all that literary pretentiousness, but the man has no financial sense. I’m betting he’ll run through Gloriana’s money in a year, two at the outside. Nobody’s going to buy that…” here he drew out the word “…LIT-ER-AH-TURE. He’s his grandmother all over again, blind to everything except his own obsession. At least old Gloriana understood money.”
His praise for Gloriana surprised me, and I told him so.
“Oh, well,” he said, shrugging. “At Harvard, where I received my MBA, they teach you great respect for money. And the people who make it.”
Chapter 26
On my way back to the office, I stopped by the site where Patriot’s Blood once stood.
