by J. A. Jance
"Don't tell me she's blaming all of it on me?"
"And that's barely scratching the surface," Ames replied dryly. "I'm telling you, the lady's mightily provoked. You have to understand, I'm sure the Crenshaws are looking at all this adverse publicity in the long term-how it's going to affect their viability in the treatment center community."
"What adverse publicity?"
"According to Louise, the Joey Rothman story is headline news all over the state because of the prominence of his family. Both sides," Ames added.
"Terrific," I said.
Ames nodded. "Not only that, now someone has leaked the snake story to the press as well. They're saying it's one successful homicide and one not so successful."
"What's wrong with that?" I demanded. "It's the truth, isn't it? That's better than newspapers usually do."
"Louise Crenshaw is categorically denying the snake story, saying the snake was obviously an unfortunate refugee from the flood and that he inadvertently strayed into an occupied cabin."
Ralph Ames allowed himself another slight smile. "Actually, in terms of adverse publicity, I don't think it matters that much if the snake was a stray or if it was deliberately planted. Either way, Ironwood Ranch doesn't sound like the super-safe, squeaky-clean kind of place you'd want to send your addicted husband or wife or child, whatever the case may be."
"Who leaked the story?" I asked.
"Nobody knows."
"They didn't mention me by name, I hope."
"Or the snake either, thank God," Ralph added. "If they'd done the story with names included, the wire services would be jumping on it, and Captain Powell would be reading it in Maxwell Cole's column in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer tomorrow morning at breakfast."
"And you expect me to count my blessings?"
"Something like that. It could be worse."
We sat there silently for a few moments, both of us sipping our coffee and lost in our own private thoughts. The more I considered the situation with Louise Crenshaw, the more puzzled and offended I became.
"Ralph," I said finally. "Louise Crenshaw is crazy. She's got to be. None of this is the least bit logical."
"Who says women have to be logical?"
"Don't make jokes, Ralph, I'm serious. She's given every indication of hating my guts since the first day I checked into that damn place. She as good as said right then and there that I'd never make it, and she's been riding me hard ever since."
"Sometimes there's no accounting for personal animosities," Ames suggested.
"I can buy that, but in the last two days, her reactions as far as I'm concerned have been totally out of proportion to what's been going on. Joey Rothman was my roommate. Luck of the draw. I sure as hell didn't ask for him. He's dead, and frankly I don't care that much one way or the other. But Louise Crenshaw is carrying on like Joey was the Second Coming himself. How come?"
"I don't know," Ralph said, standing up and moving toward the door, taking his half-filled coffee cup with him. "Get up and shower, Beau. We've got things to do."
"What am I supposed to wear?"
"I almost forgot to mention it, Louise had someone pack up your stuff. She sent it down with somebody named Shorty. He dropped it off about an hour ago. The dirty clothes are out in the laundry. The suitcase is in the closet. Shorty said for me to tell you that the sandbags held."
"Wait a minute. You mean the Crenshaws sent my luggage? Before or after somebody from the sheriff's department went over the room?"
"I wouldn't know about that," Ralph answered. "Shorty didn't say. Neither did Louise. Get a move on, Beau. I have to go by my office for a little while. After that, we have dinner reservations between five-thirty and six. It's a good thing Scott called. Otherwise I might not have remembered your birthday."
Fuming with frustration, I crawled out of bed and headed into the shower. Over my objections, Louise and Calvin Crenshaw had ordered someone to pack my things and send them to Phoenix. There was no point in calling Ironwood Ranch to raise hell or to check to see if anyone from the sheriff's department had gone over my room searching for evidence. They hadn't. Louise hadn't let it happen.
Ringo was gone, let loose to starve in the desert somewhere, and my room had been stripped clean of all personal belongings. Any trace of evidence my attempted killer might have left behind would have disappeared as well. If, after our talk in Prescott, Detective Reyes-Gonzales went looking for something, there wouldn't be anything left to find.
The problem with credibility is that once gone, it's hard as hell to regain. I didn't much relish the idea of some bright female homicide detective in Prescott, Arizona, thinking about J. P. Beaumont as a complete fruitcake.
I stood in Ralph Ames' steaming shower and vowed that one way or another Calvin and Louise Crenshaw were going to have to eat their words. Somehow I'd force them to admit that I had indeed been the victim of an attempted homicide. Once they agreed to that sticky stipulation, once they admitted that, they might take me back as a client. They might have thrown me out once, but I'd graduate from their pukey little program or know the reason why.
I was still lost in thought as I stepped out of the shower and toweled myself dry. Something was out of kilter with Calvin and Louise Crenshaw, but I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. It was enough of a thought to file away for later consideration. After all, that's what we homicide detective look for-things that are slightly out of place.
Just then a light tapping on the door cut short the thinking process. Ralph was champing at the bit and ready to go. I hurried into my most respectable shirt and sport jacket. Ralph had brought along one of his own ties, which he tossed in my direction. "You'll need it," he said. "For dinner."
Ralph, my friend as well as my attorney, drives an automotive anachronism, a huge whale on wheels-a white Lincoln Town Car. Unlike Rhonda Attwood's Spider, the Lincoln had plenty of headroom and legroom both, even for the likes of me. The smooth gray leather interior was plush and classy enough to suit even the most fastidious of clients, but as one who is making heavy monetary contributions to Ralph Ames' personal lifestyle, I appreciate the fact that he buys American. (After all, the Pcrsche 928 was given to me.) I don't want to pay the freight on the kind of conspicuous consumption that thrives on Mercedes or Jaguars.
We drove first to Ralph's office, a brass-and-glass high rise at Indian School and Central, an area that seems to be close to but not exactly in downtown Phoenix. I'm not sure there is a downtown Phoenix, but the city had plenty of mid-afternoon stop-and-go traffic without a freeway or bridge anywhere in sight.
I'm accustomed to the steep, tree-studded glacial ridges of Seattle and the Pacific Northwest. Driving through Phoenix, I was struck by the unremitting sameness of it all. The city seemed brown and flat, an endless panorama of urban blight. Here and there, on the periphery, stark rocky ramparts, blue and gray in the distance, rose up abruptly from the desert floor into a hazy, smoggy sky. I had been in Arizona for more than a month, but the desert still had an alien look about it, alien and forbidding and full of snakes.
When we reached his office, Ralph disappeared into his inner sanctum, leaving me to linger in the finely appointed reception area, where I used the phone to negotiate a temporary peace treaty with Alamo Rent A Car.
It wasn't easy. They were not happy to hear that their vehicle was in the hands of the Yavapai County Sheriff's Department as part of the evidence in a murder investigation, and they weren't eager to rent me a substitute vehicle, either. The first three people I spoke to insisted that I was responsible for daily charges regardless of whether or not the vehicle had been impounded by a law enforcement agency, and none would agree to place a clarifying phone call to Detective Reyes-Gonzales. Finally, on the fourth try, I connected with a supervisor who did make the call. With some additional prodding, she reluctantly allowed as how I could have a Subaru station wagon if I came back to Sky Harbor International Airport that evening to pick it up. I told her I'd be there.
> When Ralph emerged from his office an hour later, he was wearing a self-satisfied smile that put me on guard as soon as I saw it.
"What are you grinning about?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing," he said offhandedly, which worried me that much more. "We have an early dinner reservation. We're meeting someone."
"Who?"
"It's a surprise."
The surprise got unwrapped as soon as we pulled into the parking lot of Vincent's on Camelback. The car idling roughly in front of us under the valet parking canopy was a familiar one, a dark green Fiat Spider.
"Rhonda Attwood's here too?" I asked.
Ralph Ames grinned smugly. "That's right. She called and left a message this morning. When I got back to her this afternoon with the information she needed, she said she wanted to speak to you as well. I suggested that she meet us here."
"Information? She asked you for information? What kind?"
"You know I can't answer those kinds of questions, Beau. She asked me to make some simple inquiries for her, that's all."
Ralph's suddenly choosing to duck behind a curtain of professional confidentiality surprised me. Since when had Rhonda Attwood become a client of his?
"You know what she's up to, don't you?" I asked.
"Up to? She's trying to bury her son, and not getting a whole lot of cooperation from her former husband," Ames replied confidently, as though he hadn't a doubt in the world that he knew the whole truth of the matter. I had been too worn out on our trip down from Prescott to Phoenix to give him many of the disturbing details from my hours alone with Rhonda Attwood, but I could see now that I should have warned him.
"Don't get mixed up with her," I said.
The parking attendant parked the Fiat and came back for the Lincoln. Ames got out and handed him the keys.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked me over the car's roof as the attendant got inside to drive it away.
"She's dangerous, for one thing," I said.
Ames shook his head in obvious disbelief.
"Look, what if I told you she's another Anne Corley waiting to go off? What would you think of that?"
"I'd say you have an overly active imagination," Ralph Ames said, and started for the entrance.
"Ralph, wait. She told me so herself last night."
"She's arranging a funeral, Beau. Come on."
The small anteroom, furnished with a few chairs and a polished burled maple desk, was decked with bouquets of freshly cut flowers. We were met at the door by a lovely blonde hostess carrying a leather-bound reservation book. She cooed happily over Ralph the moment she saw him.
"Ah, Mr. Ames. So good to see you again. One of your guests has already arrived and been seated. If you will please follow me, I'll take you directly to your table. Vincent is busy with the grill right now, but he'll try to stop by your table in a few minutes, before we get too busy."
Ralph nodded. "Fine," he said.
She led us into the restaurant, which turned out to be an odd mixture of Southwestern-American and something else, Continental probably, although I wouldn't know Continental for sure if it got up and hit me smack in the face. The whole place was light and airy, with white walls and tall open-beamed ceilings. There appeared to be a series of several small, intimate dining rooms, each highlighting some piece of original artwork. A number of other tables were already occupied with parties of early diners, some of whom had drinks in hand although no sign of a bar was in evidence.
Rhonda Attwood was seated in the first room, talking animatedly to a tuxedo-clad man I assumed was our waiter. He shook hands with Ralph, introduced himself to me as Francis, and then turned back to Ames.
"The lady and I have been discussing wines. She says she's never tried Le Neilleur Du Chai."
Ralph beamed at Rhonda. "Good choice. That will be perfect, Francis. Is it '83?"
"Of course," Francis replied.
He started away from the table. Assuming he was our waiter, I wanted to catch him before he left. "I'll have coffee," I said.
Francis nodded. "I'll send your waiter with some right away."
"I thought he was the waiter," I said to Ralph.
"Oh, no. Francis is the sommelier and sometime maitre d'," Ralph answered with a smile. "He and Vincent have been together through several incarnations of local fine dining establishments. As chef, Vincent plays the starting role, but always with Francis backing him up."
Ralph focused on Rhonda. "How are you doing?"
"Fine," she answered. Her sleek hair, brushed back from her face, glowed in the muted, indirect lighting. She was wearing a softly belted knit dress that showed off her figure. There was nothing about Rhonda Attwood that looked the part of a grieving mother. And nothing about the evening had the feel of planning a funeral.
A spiffy waiter in a crisply pleated white shirt and black bow tie appeared moments later. Without having to ask who was who, he set a full cup of coffee in front of me. Before the waiter walked away, Francis was there as well. With suitable pomp and circumstance, he administered the Cabernet Sauvignon, first ceremoniously sampling it with a spoon before offering a sip to Ames and finally pouring the two glasses, Maybe that's why I never cared much for wine-it always involved too much ritual and not enough drinking.
I sat there unnecessarily stirring my black coffee and waiting for them to get on with it. Despite the fact that this was supposedly a dinner in honor of my birthday, the conversation between Ralph and Rhonda made me feel very much like the proverbial fifth wheel.
Eventually, Francis withdrew only to be replaced by Vincent himself, a brawny Swiss ex-patriot who believed in the old-fashioned, hands-on, innkeeper's approach to running a restaurant. He arrived at the table wearing his chef's hat and an eye-watering perfume of mesquite smoke.
Rubbing his hands together in anticipation and fixing Rhonda Attwood with a blazing smile, he said to Ralph, "So this is the lady you were telling me about?"
Ames looked pleased. "She certainly is, Vincent. Allow me to introduce Rhonda Attwood."
What followed was a long discussion of art and artists, of shows and galleries and commissioned paintings-things about which the three of them seemed to know a great deal, while I knew less than nothing. Rhonda Attwood flushed with obvious pleasure that Ralph Ames had such an extensive working knowledge of her artistic progress. The enthusiastic sales pitch Ralph was giving Vincent made me wonder if his attorney relationship with Rhonda Attwood involved a commission.
Art and artists have never been my strong suit. My only artistic achievement, drawing stick figures, went out of vogue between second and third grades. From then or art classes left me cold. The ability to draw a lifelike landscape or seascape or face or even an orange strikes me as something akin to witchcraft.
Talking about all those things is even more remote. Instead of paying much attention, I concentrated on watching the people coming into the restaurant. Vincent's was obviously a place to see and be seen, where Phoenix fashion plates of both sexes sized one another up and kept score. This was almost, but not quite, as boring as the art talk. I was only too happy when some crisis in the kitchen summoned Vincent away from our table.
"So what's good here?" I asked, picking up my menu and trying to turn the conversation back to a subject I could handle.
"You didn't tell me today was your birthday," Rhonda remarked reprovingly.
"It slipped my mind," I replied.
My answer sounded unnecessarily curt, even to me. Ames' raised eyebrow sent me into retreat. "After forty there's not much reason to keep track," I added lightly. "So what's good here?"
"Everything's good," Ralph offered smoothly. "It all depends on what you like."
I looked at my menu, but looking didn't help. It was in French, most of it. The only word that looked vaguely familiar was "tamale," and that was only on the appetizer list.
"I didn't think tamales were French," I objected.
Ralph smiled. "They're not, but these are made from duck and
they're wonderful."
With his selection already made, Ralph lowered his menu and caught Rhonda's eye. "So, did you reach her?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you so much," Rhonda murmured. She took a delicate sip of her wine.
I had the distinct feeling I was once more being left out of the conversation. "Reach who?" I questioned.
Ralph didn't answer but Rhonda did. "Michelle," she said, "Michelle Owens. When I called him this morning, Ralph here very kindly agreed to try to help me locate her. He's very efficient. By this afternoon it was a fait accompli."
In view of Rhonda's and my conversation from the night before, the idea of her having anything to do with either Michelle or Guy Owens made me very uncomfortable. "Ralph helped you do that?"
Rhonda nodded. "Owens is stationed at Fort Huachuca. He lives in a town called Sierra Vista just outside the military base. It's down in the southeastern part of the state."
I turned from Rhonda to Ralph. Dismay must have registered all over my face. Ralph shrugged as though my concern was totally uncalled for.
"When Rhonda told me that Michelle and Joey had been…well, involved, and that perhaps the girl would be interested in attending the funeral, it seemed only reasonable. Under the circumstances, I think Rhonda's being very civilized to take Michelle's feelings into consideration. The funeral's Monday afternoon, by the way," he added for my benefit. "At St. John's Episcopal, right here on Lincoln Drive."
I glanced at Rhonda Attwood. She was gazing back at me innocently, as if daring me to refute any of what Ames had said.
"Excuse me," I said, "but did Rhonda happen to mention to you that Michelle's father, Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens, is quite possibly a suspect in the investigation into the death of her son?"
Naturally, the waiter chose that exact moment to return to our table. "Are you ready to order?"
"Not yet," Ames told him, waving him away. Only when the waiter was out of earshot did Ames answer my question.
"Actually, Rhonda did mention it. I checked with Delcia before I gave out the number."
