Desert Redemption Read online

  While walking toward the office, I heard someone call, “Lena Jones! Just the person I’ve been meaning to talk to.” I turned around to see Sharona Gavala, who owned the prestigious art gallery three doors away from Desert Investigations, standing in front of her gallery door, keys in hand. She looked immaculate with her trim black suit, raven-colored hair bobbed in a neo-Twenties cut, and kohl-rimmed gray eyes. Very New York, but I knew she was born in Tucson. “If you get a chance, could you come see me today?”

  “How about now?” I asked. “I have time.”

  A phone rang. “Damn. The phone’s ringing, and I’ve got this out-of-state buyer…”

  “Later, then.”

  With a final wave she unlocked the door and dashed in.

  When I walked into Desert Investigations, Jimmy gestured toward the conference room. “Your nine-thirty appointment has arrived.”

  “I don’t have a nine-thirty appointment.”

  “You do now.”

  Opening the door to the conference room, I saw my fifteen-year-old goddaughter sitting at the long table. She was grasping a handful of tissues and her face was a blurry mess. Alison Cameron-Thorsson wasn’t a crier, so my mind immediately flew to that forbidden place in my nightmares where children screamed, fathers died, and the world turned dark. Sitting in the chair next to her, I took her hand in mine.

  “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

  Her lower lip quivered. “Kyle’s parents are moving to Oregon and I want to go with them.”

  This was bad news indeed, although not quite the horror show my mind had summoned up. Like Jimmy and me, Ali and Kyle Etheridge shared a unique bond. A year earlier, Alison’s birth mother, father, and younger brother had been found murdered in their plush Scottsdale home. Ali and her boyfriend, Kyle—who had his own troubled past—each believed the other had committed the crime, and so confessed separately to the murders. Only after they had been shuttled off to different juvenile facilities had I discovered the truth and brought the real killers to justice.

  But life can be complicated, and thanks to advances in reproductive science, it was becoming even more complicated. Ali had two biological mothers. The first was Juliana Thorsson, who as a cash-strapped college student, had sold the eggs that were implanted into the uterus of Alexandra Cameron, Ali’s second biological mother. Following Alexandra’s murder last year, Juliana had then adopted her own biological child.

  Juliana was doing her best to be a good mother, but since her own life as a member of the U.S. House of Representatives was time-consuming, she had asked me to pick up the slack by becoming the girl’s godmother. Feeling honored, I had accepted, but over the past year I had learned that “godmother” wasn’t simply a title.

  Trying to maintain my equilibrium, I asked Ali, “Does your mother know about this?”

  Sniffling, she answered, “She knows they’re moving, that’s all. I need you to help me talk her into letting me move with them.”

  I took a deep breath. “Um, are Kyle’s parents are on board with this?”

  She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “You’ll have to talk to them, too.”

  “Ali, does your mom know you’re here instead of in school?”

  “She will as soon as the school reports me absent. Oh, Lena, Kyle means everything to me, and if I can’t be with him I’ll just die!” A fresh gush of tears.

  I wouldn’t be a teenager again for all the money in the world. Everything was now or never, black or white, ecstasy or sorrow. “Look, why don’t we call…?”

  A woman’s voice from the front office alerted me that Ali’s mother had already learned she’d skipped school and who she was probably with. Juliana Thorsson stormed into the conference room, prepared to deliver a scathing speech about truancy. Upon seeing the tearful girl, her stern face softened. “What’s wrong, Ali? Did someone hurt you?”

  Juliana’s pale blond hair looked hardly brushed, and her makeup was even more hurried. Up until recently she had always been circumspect about her appearance, but now, only a month before the election, her campaign for the U.S. Senate was in crisis. Her numbers had declined sharply when Gerald Simpson, her opponent, unearthed the information about her personal involvement in the still-controversial in-vitro fertilization process, and had leaked the story to the media. Now her daughter was having a meltdown, too.

  “Nobody hurt me, Mom,” Ali told her.

  “Then why…?”

  Before Juliana could cross-examine the girl, I murmured to her, “Let’s you and me talk in the other room.” To Ali, I said, “Jimmy will bring you a 7-Up. Want some Cheetos, too?”

  She sniffed. “I don’t eat Cheetos.”

  “They’re good for you.”

  “Godmothers aren’t supposed to lie.” She managed a weak smile.

  Jimmy, who had entered the conference room with Juliana, turned around and headed for the small refrigerator we kept in the office. Juliana and I followed.

  “What’s going on, Lena?” Juliana, too wound up to sit in the client chair beside my desk, paced back and forth while I struggled to plead Ali’s case. Not that I agreed with it.

  “It’s complicated, so…”

  She didn’t let me finish. “Ali’s not the truant type. If she’s being bullied because of that damned Simpson thug, he can…”

  “This has nothing to do with Simpson’s IVF slanders, Juliana. It’s something else entirely. Did you know that the Etheridges are moving to Oregon?”

  “Ali’s been carrying on about it all week. She’s miserable, and I’m none too happy, myself. Escrow just closed on that condo down the street from the Etheridge house, the one she wanted me to buy so she and Kyle could remain close even if I win the election. Not that I regret buying into that neighborhood, it’s a great one, but what with all this fuss about the IVF thing and my opponent’s other smears…” She stopped. Paled. Slumped into a chair. “Oh, hell. Is Ali pregnant?”

  “You can rest easy about that.”

  Ali couldn’t be pregnant, not with all the birth control advice she had received from me. I had even bought her a box of condoms to sneak to Kyle, just in case. When a girl is fifteen and sexually active, a godmother needs to be watchful.

  “At least I don’t think she’s pregnant,” I amended, “but here’s the deal. She wants to move to Oregon with the Etheridges.”

  Juliana’s face hardened. “Over my dead body.”

  “Probably over theirs, too, but that’s why she’s here, to get me to talk you into letting her go. Then I’m supposed to talk the Etheridges into it.”

  “She’s crazy.”

  “No, she’s fifteen.”

  “This is all my fault.”

  “Said by every mother about every problem every child ever suffered.”

  When Juliana brushed her white-blond hair away from her eyes I noticed that her mascara was running, but from sweat, not tears. If she didn’t curb her emotions, she would not only lose the election, but Ali’s respect at the very time she needed it most.

  Oblivious to my concern, she continued her self-castigation. “Considering everything she’s been through—her family being murdered, the court cases, the adoption problems—I knew I should have spent more time with her. Hell, I should have dropped this entire senate race and stayed home and just been a good mom.”

  “So said every mother, etcetera, which is why we have so many asshole males running the country. You wanted to change that, remember.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Chain the brat to the bedpost?”

  “I’ve heard worse ideas, but they’re all illegal. For now, dumb as this may sound, take her over to the Sugar Bowl for something full of endorphins. Hot fudge sundaes are packed with them. You have a sundae, too, because you need it as much as she does. Then go on home and spend the rest of the day playing Happy Families. Let her talk while you listen. Then call me
tomorrow and we’ll discuss the situation further.”

  A bleak smile. “In other words, take two aspirin and call me in the morning.”

  “Doctor Jones’ best advice.”

  “Asshole males, huh?” Jimmy said, after mother and daughter had left for the ice cream parlor.

  “You know what I meant.”

  “Uh huh. By the way, while you were in there practicing medicine without a license, we received a call from Harold Slow Horse. He’s in a frenzy because the morning news reported that the body of a Caucasian woman matching Chelsea’s description was found near Talking Stick. The authorities are calling it a suspicious death, so Harold’s on his way up there to see what he can find out.”

  It took a moment for my shock to ebb. Talking Stick was a huge, upscale resort, casino, and entertainment complex that offered everything from high-stakes poker, to fine dining, to indoor skydiving, to animatronic dinosaurs, to a dolphinarium where you could swim with friendly dolphins. Not only was Talking Stick the last place you’d expect a suspicious death, but it was on Indian land, which meant any serious crime there would bring in the Feds, something criminals with any intelligence at all avoid at all costs. There was another oddity, too. The complex was a full ninety miles from that so-called spiritual center Chelsea was staying in.

  “We might be looking at a case of mistaken identity,” I told Jimmy. “Because why in the world would Chelsea drive all the way from that Kanati place to Talking Stick?” I said. “Gambling was never her thing.”

  When Jimmy shrugged, his ebony hair rippled across his broad shoulders, making me wonder once again how I could have blocked out his physical beauty for so many years. But love is blind in more ways than one.

  Unaware of my thoughts, he said, “I caught the tail end of the same newscast, and the woman they found was said to be in her early twenties, five-six, slender, with light-colored hair. Could be her.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Neither did Harold when he called. You know what he’s like.”

  People who think Indians are all about stoicism haven’t known any. Like most artists, Harold had his highs and his lows (usually Chelsea-related), and he was impulsive. For him to hear part of a news broadcast and project it onto his still-beloved ex-wife was exactly the sort of thing he would do, especially since Talking Stick was only a couple of miles from his house. He might even have thought Chelsea had died while trying to make her way back to him. If Harold hadn’t been a successful artist, he probably could have made it as a romance novelist.

  I reached for the landline. “I’m calling Sylvie and getting the straight scoop.”

  Detective Sylvie Perrins of the Scottsdale Police was an old frenemy of mine. The all-sting-and-no-smile Sylvie seldom had a good word for anyone, the exception being her current partner, the ever-patient Bob Grossman. Years ago, when I’d put in my time with the Scottsdale PD, she and I had worked a few cases together, but although she remained quick with an insult, that kind of partnership tends to be long-lasting.

  She answered on the second ring. “What the hell do you want this time, Lena?”

  “That body out near Talking Stick. You hear anything about identifying jewelry or tattoos?”

  “Bob and I didn’t catch the case. Yarnell and Telez did.”

  That stumped me for a second, since Scottsdale PD doesn’t handle reservation crime. “Why would Yarnell and Telez be working a body found on Indian land?”

  “It wasn’t on Indian land. You know the El Mesquite Business Park, the one next door to the Rez? That’s where she was found, half-hidden under some damned mesquite tree. Nobody noticed her until the buzzards moved in.”

  “I meant the tattoo, Sylvie. Did she have any?”

  “Just to shut you up, yeah, a unicorn tattoo, and for further identification, not that you asked, a thin gold wedding ring. A cheap one.”

  “Where?”

  “Third finger, left hand.”

  “The tattoo, Sylvie.”

  “Ass.”

  “No tattoo on either arm?” Chelsea had a butterfly on her left arm, and she’d stopped wearing her wedding ring even before divorcing Harold.

  “Nada.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Quit bothering me.” Dial tone.

  Next, I called Harold. “It’s not her.”

  “How do you know?” His anxiety leaked through the phone.

  “I talked to a friend who heard it from another friend. The dead woman has a unicorn tattoo on her rear, so unless Chelsea had one inked there recently to keep her butterfly company, the body is someone else.”

  “You sure?”

  “My source never lies.” Other than to her boyfriends.

  A relieved sigh. “Thank you.”

  “Any time, Harold. Go home and paint. Or sculpt. Do whatever you need to be doing. I told you I’d check out the Kanati Spiritual Center, and I’m headed to Ironwood Canyon right now.”

  The ruler-straight drive down I-10 from the Phoenix area to Tucson is one of the most tiresome drives in the world. The scenery isn’t much, just miles and miles of flat, monochromatic desert broken occasionally by a scraggly creosote bush. One hour into the drive you’re in danger of dozing off from sheer boredom. Fortunately, I wasn’t going all the way to Tucson, but taking the Ironwood Canyon turnoff near the Pinal County airplane boneyard, where hundreds of out-of-service commercial airliners have gone to die. Watching airplanes rot away in a desert was about as interesting as watching paint dry, or continuing on the boring drive to Tucson. Once I caught sight of a coyote loping along the median, going God knows where. This was unusual because coyotes are night hunters, but as urbanization spreads its nasty way into the desert, wildlife has had to adapt. In the coyotes’ case, it often meant daytime hunting.

  Halfway to the Ironwood Canyon turnoff, and unable to stand the boredom anymore, I stopped at one of the souvenir shops, used the restroom, then bought a liter of water and a cheap keychain with a picture of a cactus on it—not that I needed either. As a life-long desert dweller, I’ve learned to never leave home without at least a gallon of some kind of potable liquid—water, Gatorade, whatever. But there are just so many miles of flat beige desert you can face before overpriced trinkets made in China start looking pretty good to your color-starved eyes.

  During the drive, something had been niggling at me, and while returning to my rented Chevy Malibu, I finally figured out what it was. I had meant to stop by the Gavalan Art Gallery to find out what Sharona Gavalan wanted to talk to me about, but forgot. Well, no biggie. I probably wouldn’t be at Kanati all that long, and should have time to see Sharona before she closed the gallery for the evening.

  After downing the bottle of water and throwing the Chinese keychain into my tote, I pulled back onto the highway. Several more stupefying miles later I heaved a sigh of relief when the Ironwood Canyon turnoff came into view. Not that the scenery on the long gravel road leading to Chelsea’s new digs was any more interesting than the scenery along I-10. But whereas the highway was perfectly maintained, the same couldn’t be said for the rutted gravel road I shortly found myself enduring. It had been washed out in several places, and the Malibu had a hard time dealing with the potholes. I longed for my 1945 Jeep, which ate roads like this for breakfast, but the Jeep was also an unforgettable vehicle, and much too easily traced back to Desert Investigations. I planned to go in as a mere truth-seeker, not a suspicious PI.

  From Harold’s description, I had imagined the Kanati Spiritual Center would be depressing, but it when it appeared on the horizon I had to smile. The one-time movie set had been expanded to around twenty acres, which now included a large entertainment complex I could see through the open gate. This Xanadu in the desert was surrounded by the log walls of a Geronimo-era U.S. Cavalry fort—two-story guard posts and all. On the eastern side, most of the same structures which had ap
peared in Wagon Trails West remained intact. Rustler’s Roundup Saloon, the site of so many gunfights in the film, still sat between a hotel humorously named the Hotel OK Corral, and the rather uncreatively named General Store. Across the dirt street from those stalwart businesses sat the Sheriff’s Office, the jail, and several other old-timey shops. Nothing new there, except fresh coats of paint.

  Things got funky on the western half of the complex, where five rows of pioneer-type log cabins existed peacefully along with a wigwam-ed Indian village. Capping off this section of the Old West was a huge teepee which looked large enough to house a goodly portion of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. It almost, but not quite, eclipsed the three-story log lodge tucked into the corner of the complex. All this frontier-era wackiness appeared wildly out of place next to an Olympic-sized swimming pool and tennis courts. One more modern oddity made me laugh outright: the bright pink Porta Potty sitting between the outer stockade wall and the paved parking lot. For the guard? Or a courtesy for pioneers who couldn’t make it to the next wagon stop?

  In front of the massive teepee a co-ed group of people wearing chinos and white golf shirts were playing hacky sack. Some wore beaded, faux-Indian headbands. The cartoonish Western setup displayed one more modern oddity: The guard shack Harold Slow Horse had referred to turned out to be a cheap lawn chair placed under a green awning, the kind you see at craft fairs. As I rolled to a stop, the thin, redhaired gatekeeper greeted me with a smile. When he John Wayne-ambled up to my window, I saw bruising around his lower jaw.

  “Welcome to Kanati, ma’am. Didn’t know they was expecting anybody new today.”

  I shut off the ignition and stepped out of the Malibu. Having already decided on my approach, I said in a hesitant voice, “Uh, I’m not exactly checking in, at least not yet, but a friend was telling me about this place and it sounded like it could help me with my, um, problem. I just want to take a look before I make a commitment.”