Deadly Sanctuary (7 page)

The second week of May ended with the thermometer outside the front door of the
Sun
pegged at one hundred degrees. Everyone else at the office seemed oblivious to the heat while I wilted like a head of warm lettuce.

Hot as I was, I did feel better. My asthma attacks had decreased to the point of only using my inhaler once a day, if then. And for that I was grateful. Even so, I missed rain. Actually I would have settled for a cloud at that point.

“Hang onto your hat,” Ginger said, tossing mail onto my desk. “When them monsoons blow in around July, y’all are gonna think this is downright cold. Come rainy season we’re talking about heat and humidity.”

I gave her a quizzical look. “You mean it actually does rain here? I swear my skin is so dry, I feel like a lizard.”

“Relax, sugar. Besides getting y’all gussied up in some fine new clothes, we’ll get us a barrelful of body lotion to boot.”

Laughing, I agreed and then went back to work, tapping out a story concerning the upcoming Gold Dust Days celebrations.

Bradley, who’d been out most of the morning, came sauntering in, sailed his hat onto the wall hook, and then rolled his swivel chair up close to mine. I tried not to react to his closeness by pretending to be utterly absorbed in my copy.

“You busy?” His knee was almost touching mine. I looked up at him. For a fraction of a second before answering, I studied the chiseled contours of his lean face. When our eyes met, a jolt shot through me, almost like the time I’d stuck a bobby pin in a wall socket.

“Sort of. What do you need?”

He flashed me that crooked grin. “I heard you’re covering the fund-raiser tomorrow night. I’m going to be there too, interviewing some of the tennis bigwigs. You’ve heard of Ron Holiday, haven’t you? Second seeded at Wimbledon? He’ll be there.”

I wondered what he was getting at. “I’m impressed,” I said, keeping my voice casual. “What’s your point?”

“I was thinking. Since you’re on the way, what say I stop and pick you up?”

Sideglancing, I noticed Jim’s gaze glued on us. I ought to refuse him again, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of any reason why I should. Anyway, what harm could there possibly be?

“Well…” I hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you…” Why was my heart beating so erratically?

“No inconvenience at all. See you at six-thirty.” He touched me lightly on the shoulder and pushed back to his desk.

Jim’s bratty face wore an expectant smirk. I hoped he hadn’t seen how much the simple encounter had shaken me. Bradley and I were simply two co-workers covering the same story. Period. Right?

With an effort, I pulled my wandering thoughts back to work. After completing the copy, I hauled out my journal and studied the notes from the previous week.

My interview last Monday with town socialite Thena Rodenborn had been quite informative. I’d let out a low whistle of admiration at the sight of her sprawling Santa Fe-style adobe house flanked on both sides by well-kept gardens. Tugg had told me she was a wealthy widow and by the look of the place, plus the sleek gold Lexus parked in the driveway, there was little doubt.

She greeted me with a cheery smile and escorted me into a beautifully furnished sitting room. Had I not known, I would have never guessed by her slender, youthful appearance that this woman was in her early seventies.

“My dear, I certainly cannot take all the credit,” she’d said in answer to my question regarding the shelter. “Reverend Gleason, who’s the pastor of the Valley Chapel along with a lovely, lovely lady by the name of Violet Mendoza were absolute saints in helping me get it started.” She explained that the pastor had donated the space and Violet had managed the daily activities of the shelter. Through further questioning I learned that an anonymous benefactor five years earlier had provided the funds needed to purchase the house which was now the Desert Harbor Shelter. That happy event had been tempered by the sudden death of Violet Mendoza when she’d been struck down one night by a hit-and-run driver.

“Shortly after that terrible tragedy we were blessed, absolutely blessed, to get a woman like Claudia Phillips to take her place, and frankly, I’m surprised she’s stayed on so long considering the small amount we’re able to pay her.” But,” she added hastily, wagging a well-manicured finger, “she’s very efficient.”

She applauded my idea for a series on runaways and suggested I talk to Claudia as soon as possible.

When asked about the upcoming fund-raiser she spoke enthusiastically about her son, Eric, and how successful the gala event had been last year raising money for not just the shelter, but other local charities.

“I’m so glad you’ll be attending,” she said as she showed me out the door. “My son makes sure everything is first class. It is the social event of the season,” she finished, her voice filled with pride.

The interview with Claudia Phillips proved to be more difficult. When she didn’t return my third phone call, I’d hopped in the car on Tuesday afternoon and driven to the two-story wooden house on Tumbleweed Trail.

A weather-bleached sign announcing the name swung back and forth, squeaking softly, as I walked under it. I noted the narrow, dead end street had only four houses set back from the curb on large lots. It was quiet and deserted.

I knocked on the ragged screen door, thinking the rather dilapidated house could certainly use some repairs. Nothing happened for a minute, so I knocked again. Finally, a stocky young woman most likely of Mexican descent answered with “You need help? ¿
sí
?”

I said I’d like to see Ms. Phillips. Smiling, head bobbing, she led me into a small office, pointed to a chair and then backed out the door. Apparently, she spoke little English.

Even though the room was sparsely furnished it gave me comfort to know there existed in these harsh surroundings a sanctuary. Had my young blonde hitchhiker made it here for help?

I’d already formed a picture of Claudia in my mind. She’d be plump, fiftyish, benevolent, overflowing with motherly compassion… My thoughts halted as a tall, slim woman dressed in an expensively cut cream-colored suit glided into the room and froze. I wondered if I wore the same look of surprise on my face.

“Yes?” Her voice was low and husky. The glint of suspicion in her eyes remained even after I’d introduced myself.

“I’m sorry to come without an appointment, but I have a four o’clock deadline to get this in tomorrow’s edition and since you didn’t return my calls…well.” I smiled, but she continued to stare at me coldly. When I mentioned I’d spoken to Thena Rodenborn, her attitude thawed a bit. With the grace of a panther, she seated herself behind the desk and needlessly smoothed her dark hair, already pulled tightly into a silky chignon.

“I’m extremely busy today, Miss O’Dell…but since Mrs. Rodenborn requests it, I can speak to you for…” She hesitated, glancing at her thin gold watch. “Ten minutes.”

I wanted to say, “Well, whoop-de-do! Don’t do me any favors, your ladyship.” Instead, I mustered another professional smile and launched into a series of questions concerning runaway girls and what part the shelter played in their lives.

In a voice completely devoid of any emotion she gave me a dry run-down. “The homeless problem in this state is not considered by legislators to be of much social importance, even though the numbers of runaways increase by the month. We exist on a minimal…really pathetic amount of assistance from the Department of Health Services and an occasional Runaway and Homeless Youth Grant from the federal level. Needless to say, we rely heavily on private donations and we still receive some help from the Valley Chapel.” While she talked, she rubbed the back of one hand with the other.

The curtain at the window beside her fluttered gently, wafting the scent of her sweet perfume toward me. I was genuinely puzzled by her cool attitude. Was this normal or was she annoyed with me because I’d come without an appointment?

In the short time remaining she explained that most of the girls stayed only a few days, usually moving on to larger metropolitan areas like Los Angeles where welfare budgets were more substantial.

“We can give them a change of clothes, food, some medical assistance and help them out with bus fare,” she continued, “but due to our limited funds we’re unable to provide much more.”

“How do the girls find this place?” I asked.

“Posters at the bus station, some of the churches and the clinic direct them to us.”

And Lucinda Johns at the cafe I added ruefully to myself. She rose then, announcing the conclusion of the interview. I thanked her, stating my intention to do a series on the problem after the fundraising event and could I return for more details and perhaps interview some of the girls?

She rubbed her hand harder. “Interview?”

“Yes, you know, to kind of personalize this. And perhaps I could take some photos…” I halted as her eyes narrowed. They were a peculiar shade of violet.

“I think not, Miss O’Dell. I do after all, have an obligation to protect these girls’ privacy.”

“Please think it over. I can assure you of their anonymity and I would, of course, shadow their faces.”

She showed me to the door. “It’s really against policy.”

“Whose policy?” It couldn’t hurt to push a little.

“Mine.” Her smoldering gaze challenged me to respond. It was obvious I’d overstepped the line.

“Thank you so much for your time,” I said, faking a warm tone. “You’ve been most helpful. Perhaps we can talk another time when you’re not so busy.”

“Perhaps.” She inclined her head and shut the door.

Inwardly fuming, I turned and strode to my car. It was ego deflating to be so thoroughly skunked on a story. With a touch of defiance, I yanked my camera from the car, snapped a few pictures of the house’s exterior and then slumped behind the wheel. I’d gain nothing by alienating Claudia Phillips so I’d have to think of a different approach.

Before leaving, I surveyed the house once more. It was then I noticed the slight movement of the curtain at the office window. If Claudia Phillips was so terribly busy, why was she watching me?

I’d returned to the office and made the afternoon deadline with ease. The rest of the week went smoothly, but now, as I sat studying the notes three days after the interview, I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that something about the woman just didn’t click. The more I thought about it, the more I was reminded of drawings in some of my childhood activity books. What’s wrong with this picture? What doesn’t belong here? I flipped to the back of the notebook and added Claudia Phillip’s name to the list.

“Hey, O’Dell, wake up! I’m talking to you.” Jim’s demand combined with being hit on the head with a paper wad pulled me from my reverie.

“What is it?” I said with a slight touch of irritation in my voice.

“A bunch of us are going over to the bowling alley for happy hour and then,” he paused and scooped his right hand forward, “knock down a few pins. You want to come?”

“Bowling? I don’t think I can stand the excitement.” That brought a laugh from Bradley. Jim muttered for me to ‘suit myself’ and swaggered out. I felt a little guilty then. Though annoying at times, he was only trying to be friendly.

But then, I couldn’t have gone anyway. I had one last stop before heading home. John Dexter’s place.

At four o’clock Bradley left with a reminder that he’d pick me up at six-thirty sharp the following evening. I agreed, cleared my desk and headed to my car.

The Ocotillo Village Apartments had obviously seen better days. The peeling pink stucco walls seemed to sag in the late afternoon sun. As I picked my way through the littered courtyard, I suppressed a shiver of revulsion at the sight of a chipped swimming pool filled with murky, oily-looking water.

I counted twelve units before knocking on a door that had one F missing from OFFICE. A small grayish lizard clutching the doorframe turned bulbous black eyes in my direction.

The manager, a greasy looking little man with leering eyes and boozy breath invited me inside the dusty, cluttered room.

“Have a seat.” With eager movements, he removed a pile of newspapers from the chair in front of his desk. The way his gaze lingered on my body made my skin crawl. But…perhaps he could be useful. So, I gave him an extra flash of leg as I crossed one over the other.

Practically slobbering, he ran around behind the desk and pulled out a blank rental agreement. “I don’t have a unit available right at this minute,” he said, fumbling for a pen, “but just as soon as one opens up, you can be sure you’ll get it.”

It was difficult, but I mustered up what I hoped was a bewitching smile.

“I’m not looking for an apartment, actually.”

The gleam of anticipation in his beady eyes faded. “Oh. Well…what do you want?”

“I’m looking for someone. My…ah brother, David, gave me a couple of things that belong to a friend of his who used to live here. David’s in the service and he’s been transferred to Germany. Before he left, he asked me if I’d return this guy’s stuff.” I gave him another wide smile. “So…I was hoping you could give me his forwarding address.”

He reached for a rolodex file. “What’s his name?”

“John Dexter.”

A scowl creased his face. “Dexter? That son-of-a-bitch broke his lease and skipped. Sorry, can’t help you.”

I pouted. “Oh dear. So, you don’t have any idea where he might be?” It was hard to maintain the beguiling expression.

He reached for a cigarette, lit it, and blew out a long stream of acrid smoke.

“I don’t know if there’s anything to it, but I did overhear him having a row with his little wetback girlfriend here when I was working outside number six one night shortly before he took off.”

“Really? What about?”

“Something about tickets to Nogales.”

“Nogales?”