Desert Run

by Betty Webb

  Clay gestured toward me with the knife. A new lightning strike nearby illuminated the blade, making it look twice as big. “Listen, officers, that cunt…”

  Then he was on the ground, but damned if I could see how it happened. Maybe the rain had made the street too slippery. Behind me, I could hear the muffled sounds of MaryEllen’s sobs. She still hadn’t rolled down the window. Smart girl.

  A crack—not lightning this time. A scream. I closed my eyes. What you can’t see you can’t testify to in court. Another scream. When I opened them again, Clay was on his knees holding his right wrist. It looked crooked. The knife was on the ground. It looked okay.

  “You gonna press charges, right, Lena?” Stan Jessup, giving Vic Gonzales an amazed glance. Rain dribbled down his chin.

  I smiled. “Sounds like a plan. Think of something nice, six-months-off-the-street nice.”

  MaryEllen exited the car. Before anyone could stop her, she ran through the storm to Clay, knelt down and put her arms around him, shielding him from the downpour. “You hurt him! But it was all my fault!” Then, to Clay, in a crooning voice, “Oh, baby, I’ll be good from now on, I promise.”

  Disgusted sounds from both cops.

  I wasn’t disgusted, just sad. MaryEllen had been trained from birth to love abusers, so the only sound I made was when I clicked the hammer home on my .38.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I spent the next morning working through Fay’s notes again, placing calls to the phone numbers she’d jotted down. Ian Mantz, the name circled in red and somehow connected with POW Gunter Hoenig, turned out to be a dentist in Glendale, a growing city on the west side of Phoenix. His receptionist told me he was busy with a patient, but that she’d have him return my call. Several other men on Fay’s list were now deceased, and the persons who answered their phones had no idea what she had talked to them about, if she’d talked to them at all. One had died ten years earlier.

  I struck paydirt when I tried the number next to Gemuetlichkeit. A chipper female voice with a slight German accent answered “Gemuetlichkeit.”

  “Ah, my name is Lena Jones and I’d like to speak to Mr. Gem…Gemal…lickit?”

  A giggle. “I should have answered in English, but you know how it is. I have been speaking German to everyone all morning. I am Helga, and there is no Mr. Gemuetlichkeit here, but you have reached Gemuetlichkeit, the Phoenix German-American Club. How may I help you?”

  Of course. A German-American club. Before she wrote her book, Fay would certainly have contacted them. Trying not to get too optimistic, I explained who I was and why I was calling.

  “Hmmm. Fay Harris, Fay Harris. Why does this name sound so familiar?”

  “She’s the journalist for the Scottsdale Journal who was killed the other day.”

  “Mein Gott!” Oh, but that is terrible! Yes, yes, I remember Miss Harris now. She called here hoping to speak to some of our older members, men who might be able to help with a book she was writing about that POW camp in Papago Park. I said to her that I was not comfortable giving out that kind of information but that she could visit us in person. Besides hosting dances for our younger members, Gemuetlichkeit also functions as a senior center for German-Americans, and for them we have little weekly luncheons, free for those who need it. But anyone may come, German or not, old or young. All we request is that non-seniors or non-members donate to our Meals On Wheels program.”

  In other words, bring your checkbook. “Did Fay attend any of those luncheons?”

  “Several. She made many friends. Our older gentlemen grew quite fond of her.”

  I smiled, picturing Fay flirting with a roomful of elderly men. Then my eyes began to sting and I forced the picture away. “Anyone in particular?”

  “I am so sorry, but I must say again that I do not give out personal information about our members. But if you come visit us, there are several gentlemen I will introduce you to. Older, gallant gentlemen whose lives might be brightened by a new face.”

  Dreading the drive, I agreed to attend the next luncheon. “Tell me when and where.”

  “Noon today.”

  My plans to have lunch somewhere with Warren—although the rain had stopped, it was still too wet out to film—died. I said I’d be right over. Before I hung up, I asked her, “Helga, what does Gem…Gemlicket or whatever mean?”

  That infectious giggle again. “I forget that everyone who calls here does not understand. They think I am excusing them for sneezing. Gemuetlichkeit means, hmm, how would it translate? Ah. Cozy. Or coziness. That is what we offer here at Gemuetlichkeit. A cozy place for old friends to meet.”

  As I was leaving my office, my phone rang. It was Warren. “Lena, something’s come up. I’m sure you realize we’re not shooting today…”

  “I know. Too wet.”

  “Right. I’m going to take advantage of the down day by flying back to L.A. to attend a meeting with some investors. I’m at the airport now, but if all goes well, I should be back Sunday.”

  “You’ll miss Fay’s funeral.” Kryzinski had called. It was on for Saturday morning and a big crowd was expected.

  “That can’t be helped, but at least I can send flowers.”

  I gave him the funeral home information, then added, “Say hi to Angel and the twins.”

  “Will do. Anything you need before I leave?”

  I couldn’t think of anything which didn’t entail heated massage oil and a Muddy Waters album played low in the background, so I simply told him to have a nice trip.

  As I sped along Loop 101 north of Phoenix, I passed mile after mile of strip malls and housing developments where not long ago golden desert stretched as far as the eye could see. Phoenix and all its surrounding suburbs was becoming Los Angeles, but without the ocean breeze to cool increasing tempers. As the Jeep raced through Deer Valley—which hadn’t seen deer in decades—I spied the dark Hedgpeth Hills to the north, surrounded by an old lava field. Madeline, one of my foster mothers, used to drive us out there for hikes. An artist, she would take her sketchpad along and sit drawing under the shade of a mesquite while I collected rocks near the wash. Those had been some of the happiest days of my life. But then she got sick.

  I averted my eyes from the Hedgpeths and focused on the rushing traffic. One thing I’d learned from my days in foster care was to keep my vision narrow. If you look at the broad picture, it’ll damn near kill you.

  Gemuetlichkeit, the German-American Club, was located near Glendale’s arts district, an old area of town where brick-fronted antique shops and art galleries stood side-by-side with taco stands and check-cashing businesses. In a cultural blend that was almost schizophrenic in its extremes, Hispanic laborers looking for work brushed shoulders on the narrow streets with yuppies looking for fumed-oak Victorian armoires.

  I found Gemuetlichkeit sharing quarters in a refurbished warehouse with an antique store specializing in Fifties memorabilia. On one side of the center corridor, Roy Rogers and Trigger stared at me from a lunch pail, while on the other side, I heard the raucous din of a polka band going flat out behind the club’s closed door. My heart sank. I was prepared to be charming, but not to dance.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry. The music was merely a recording and most of the people sitting at the long wooden tables were long past the polka. Or any other dance, for that matter, since many were in wheelchairs. The average age of the lunchtime crowd appeared to be seventy, with a sprinkling of young whippersnappers in their sixties. I looked around for Helga, who’d had a young voice, and found a likely prospect in a matronly brunette chatting with an elderly woman who had to be ninety, at least.

  I walked over. “Helga?”

  When she turned to me with a broad smile, I caught a whiff of White Shoulders cologne that sweetened the tobacco-scented air. Her bright pink lipstick was the exact color of her dress. “Ah, you must be Lena! We are pleased to have you visit Gemuetlichkeit. Come, there are several gentlemen I would like you to meet.” Without further
ado, she led me to a card table in the corner where four elderly men, finished with their lunch, were conversing in German. She introduced me, then left to attend to a woman who was having trouble maneuvering her walker between two tables.

  The men weren’t too old to appreciate a young blonde, but unlike their younger counterparts, their appreciation was relatively discreet. When they had finished checking out the fit of my black turtleneck, they each gave me a polite handshake. One bird-thin man, dressed formally in a dark blue suit, held my hand longer than the others. Even at his advanced age, he was heartbreakingly handsome, his hazel eyes flickering back and forth from green to brown. His accent was thick, but I had no trouble understanding him. “Our lovely Helga tells us you are a detective and that you are looking into the death of our dearly departed Kapitan Ernst.”

  His companions laughed. One, who introduced himself as Klaus Brautigan, said, “Ha! Dearly departed. That is rich, Stefan.”

  I acknowledged my role in the case, adding that I believed the wrong man had been arrested for his murder.

  Stefan nodded. “The Ethiopian. Yes, it is an easy thing to blame immigrants.”

  Murmurs of assent from the rest of the table. I was certain they all had their own stories to tell about this issue, but I didn’t want to go down that path now. “I don’t believe Rada Tesema killed Ernst.”

  “Are you certain of that? To know our Ernst was to wish to kill him. I, myself, toyed with the idea many times.”

  More dark chuckles, but it took me a moment to overcome my shock. “You knew him?”

  A smile. “Yes I did. We were in Camp Papago together.”

  I looked at him more closely, mentally erasing the map of wrinkles across his face, and realized that I had seen his face peering out at me from one of the old Scottsdale Journal articles. U-boat Captain Stefan Schauer had been in his twenties when the picture was taken. Schauer hadn’t escaped with the others, but had stayed behind leading the Christmas Eve sing-along that covered the noise the escapees made. For his pains, he’d been transferred to another camp.

  “You immigrated to Arizona after the war!”

  Another nod. “During my time at Camp Papago I developed an affinity for cactus.”

  Several snorts from around the table. “And American women!”

  “Those, too, Klaus. They have given me great joy through the years.”

  His friend Klaus nudged me with a bony elbow. “He’s been married four times, the dog. And he is looking for number five. So be careful, pretty girl!”

  One thing puzzled me. Before coming to Arizona to film, Warren had instituted a world-wide search for former inmates of Camp Papago, yet I had never heard him mention Stefan Schauer. When I said this to the former U-boat captain, he gave me a sly smile.

  “The famous director found me, all right, but why would I wish to appear in a film that would record my wrinkles for all posterity? It is much better to leave my old loves with the memory of my young and handsome face.”

  Klaus cackled. “That is not the way it was at all. Stefan is writing a book about his adventures, and he did not want movie viewers to know how little he really has to say.”

  Schauer gave him a cutting look. “I have much to say, my friend. But the money was not right. Warren Quinn made me an offer I could very easily refuse.”

  Vanity, thy name is Man. I was reminded yet again that however often we want to lump the elderly into one big, homogenous mass, they remain individuals. Just like the rest of us.

  As if to prove my thesis, Schauer continued, “My exploits during the war, especially while on leave, are the stuff of legend. There was sweet…”

  I listened for a few minutes to Schauer’s recitation of his conquests—some of them surprisingly recent—until finally, not having hours to spend at Gemuetlichkeit, I steered the conversation back to Ernst. “Did you see Ernst after he moved to Arizona?”

  Now a frown. “Unfortunately, yes. He came here once, several years ago, but in spite of our club’s name, he found little coziness and he did not return.”

  “Why did he not find, ah, coziness? Did he offend someone?”

  Schauer’s nose twitched. “Kapitan Ernst’s presence offended everyone.”

  “Who, in particular?”

  The twitch again. “You desire that I give you names of others who might have killed him? Ah, that I will never do. Other than to offer up myself, of course. I would cheerfully have shot him, and taken pleasure in his dying gasps. However, I have an alibi, an excellent one.”

  Shot. Did Schauer not know how Ernst had died? Or was he merely being clever? As for his so-called alibi, he’d probably been with a woman, for what such an alibi was worth. But I asked anyway. “What’s her name?”

  “Dr. Alicia Feldman. The morning before Das Kapitan’s murder, she repaired my hernia at Humana General Hospital. As Ernst lay dying—slowly, I hope—I was lying in my hospital bed, savoring the delights of morphine. Today, you see, is my first day back at Gemuetlichkeit since my operation. I am still, as you say, woozy, which is why my friend Klaus drove me here.”

  His story would be easy enough to check, but it held the ring of truth. I decided to ask him something else that had been bothering me. “Did you know Gunter Hoenig or Josef Braun? They were both among the escapees from Camp Papago.”

  A chuckle. “Ah, yes. The only two who were never found. Good for them, I say. In my dreams, I see them in Mexico, drinking tequila with dark-eyed senoritas. Sometimes I see them in Munich, drinking schnapps with voluptuous frauleins.”

  Why had I bothered to ask? Of course the old wolf’s fantasies would involve women.

  I looked at the other men. “Did anyone else know Ernst? Or Gunter and Josef, or anyone else who was at Camp Papago?”

  Head shakes all around. Disappointed, I made ready to leave.

  But then Schauer’s friend Klaus added something that rekindled my hopes. “Oh. I forgot. I myself was not at Gemuetlichkeit the day Erik Ernst visited, but I hear that Gerhardt Mantz met him. And that Gerhardt…”

  “Klaus!” For an old man, Stefan Schauer’s voice was surprisingly firm and still carried the don’t-talk-back authority of a U-boat captain. “Our friend Gerhardt is dead now, so these things no longer matter.”

  Klaus fell silent and the other men averted their glances.

  Schauer pasted a smile on his face, one much less genuine than before. “Klaus gets confused, as do we all at this age. Do you not, Klaus?”

  Klaus’ smile was as false as Schauer’s. “Oh, yes, yes. Very confused. You must forgive me for being such a foolish man.”

  But my smile was genuine.

  ***

  As soon as I left Gemuetlichkeit I drove around the corner, parked the Jeep in the shade of a low-hanging olive tree, and called Jimmy. “Run a check on some guy named Gerhardt Mantz. See if he’s any relation to Ian Mantz, a Glendale dentist. Looks like Gerhardt used to attend the German-American club in Glendale and once met Kapitan Ernst. When it was brought up, everyone turned paranoid. While you’re at it, check out former U-boat captain Stefan Schauer. He was at Camp Papago and knew Ernst, too.”

  “Small world, eh? Listen, do you need this right now, or can you wait? I’m still running knee-deep in work. You want me to finish everything before I leave, don’t you?”

  Did he mean finish for the day, or forever? Because he wanted to take some time off between jobs, he had little more than a week left at Desert Investigations. After that, he would become my competitor. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was only a few minutes past two. If Ian Mantz practiced in Glendale, I hated the idea of driving all the way back to Scottsdale, then driving all the way back to the west side again. “Do it now, please.” So what if I ticked Jimmy off? He was going to leave me anyway.

  His voice sounded as irritated as I felt. “All right, all right. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. I’ll call you back.” Without waiting for my reply, he hung up.

  I spent the next half hour trolling
Antique Row, purchasing at one store a chartreuse Fifties bedside lamp shaped like a horse’s head. From another store I bought a Lone Ranger and Tonto bedspread, also from the Fifties, then was gratified to see the beginning of a trend. Without even thinking, I was purchasing items for my bare apartment. One of the things I’d learned during my anger management sessions was that turning an apartment into a home was a sign of hope, not futility. I was no longer that lonely foster child who’d been shifted from home to home several times yearly with her belongings in a sack. I was now a grown woman, free to put down roots.

  Free to decorate.

  I was pondering the wisdom of purchasing a complete Fifties living room suite crafted from bleached saguaro cactus skeletons, made comfy by cushions covered with bright Navajo designs, when my cell phone rang. It was Jimmy, telling me that Kapitan Stefan Schauer had immigrated to the U.S. in 1953, and worked at an aircraft design firm in Seattle until his retirement. In 1998, following a particularly nasty divorce—there had been joint accusations of infidelity—he had moved to Phoenix. No wants, no warrants.

  Gerhardt Mantz was born in Bonn, Germany, in 1922, immigrated to the U.S. in 1940, became a successful farmer, but eventually sold his farm to a developer and started a small construction firm. He retired in 1987, and died in a car crash with his wife Eva in 1999, leaving behind a son, four grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. That was the bad news. The good news was that the Ian Mantz of Fay’s notes was Gerhardt’s son. Born in 1946 at Phoenix’s St. Joseph’s Hospital, Ian received his DDS at University of Southern California, and after filling a few thousand teeth in the U.S. Army during the waning days of the Vietnam War, he returned to the Phoenix area. He was a member of the Lion’s Club, Rotary, and the Glendale Chamber of Commerce. Neither he, his wife Huong, nor any of his children had ever been arrested. He owned his house free and clear, enjoyed a Triple A credit rating, and had never been sued.

  Ian Mantz was such a sterling character, in fact, that he immediately aroused my suspicion. But what could possibly be his connection to Ernst? They lived on opposite sides of Phoenix, and from what I’d heard at Gemuetlichkeit, Ernst had only attended the club once before he’d been frozen out. But that one time he had met Mantz’s father. Could Ernst have delivered an insult which his son had avenged years after his father’s death? No, the idea was ridiculous. I had to stop reading mystery novels.