Desert Noir (9781615952236) (31 page)

Clarice's.

“Awfully short-sighted of you,”
Eleanor had said when I told her I wasn't interested in talking about golf courses.

For once Eleanor had been right, because the forms in front of me revealed that the Hyaths were about to turn the legendary Hacienda Palms Golf Course into upscale condominiums.

As soon as I had calmed down, I waved the forms to Mildred. She might have been pushing seventy, but she was going down with all flags flying, wearing enough makeup to stock an entire Merle Norman counter.

“How's this kind of thing handled, Mildred? And how long's it been in the works?” 

Crow's feet traveled all the way from her thin mouth to her crepe-bordered eyes. “The proposed Hacienda Palms zoning change? Oh, lord, Lena, word has it that thing's been hanging fire for a couple of years, but they managed to file the papers yesterday. I think they wanted things to settle a bit over the weekend before the newspapers got wind of it and took up residence in their assholes. The thing is, sure, the Hacienda Palms is private property and all that, but when something's as much of an institution as that place has been, the city's always gonna get involved.

“What's going to happen is, they've gotta bring their plans before both the public and the Zoning Commission. And they'll have to present an environmental impact study that proves there won't be any kind of negative impact on wildlife or desert areas. Not that it looks like there will be, because that resort's in the center of town now and there's no wildlife left to speak of. Just the coyotes and javelinas that trot in from the rez. But this kind of thing's always a long, drawn-out process and a lot of fingers are going to be dipping into that pie before it's out of the oven.” 

I looked back down at the forms. “You mean they can just do that, then? Rip out the Hacienda Palms Golf Course to build condos?” 

She made a small moue of displeasure. “Lena, I've seen the city turn down only three re-zoning applications since I've been here, and I've been here since they were still herding cows down the middle of Scottsdale Road. Unless the City Council puts the brakes on the zoning change, the Hyaths can build any damned thing they want to. Hell, we're talking private enterprise here, and that still counts for something in this state. Now let's get out of here before we get caught. I think that Captain Kryzinski is a fine man even if he is from Brooklyn but I don't want to know him any better than I have to. Jail's jail, if you get my meaning.” 

She ushered me out of the building and locked up behind me. I drove back to the office deep in thought, not even responding to Jimmy's friendly wave.

I sat down at the desk and began dialing. Serena didn't answer the phone, so I tried Evan. The mumbles which came across the wire alerted me to the fact that he was having lunch, but I didn't let that faze me.

“Hey, Evan, I've just found out about the application for the Hacienda Palms zoning change and I'm wondering if I can ask you some questions.” I heard a groan, the rustling of paper, a few crunches. Was he just stalling?

“Whayawannaknow?”

“How long has the family been planning to replace that golf course with a housing development?” 

“Eroulaivers.”

“Huh?”

A few loud gulps, then his voice became clearer. “I said for about the last five years, when Mother got this bug up her ass about it. What started it all, I don't know, but I think it had something to do with this big fight Mother and Father had. When, uh, Clarice, um, started…saying things. You know. Anyway, the place was owned by my maternal grandfather who'd bought it from this old TB doctor, and for years it's been frozen in a family trust. The way the trust is set up, you see, we're all equal partners, and everyone has to agree on a plan before we can do anything. Now that you've met us, you probably know how
that
works out! And the Hacienda Palms was no exception. First Serena didn't want to do it. When she finally changed her mind, Clarice didn't want to do it. Then Clarice changed her mind and
I
didn't want to do it. I think over the years, we all changed our minds at least once. No. That's wrong. Mother never changed her mind. She always wanted to develop. Hates golf, loves money.” 

That part of his story didn't make sense. Anybody who's lived in the Valley for more than a year knows that golf is one of the main money-makers in town, accounting for millions of dollars of revenue. Any resort boasting a golf course could be considered permanently flush. Nope, it just didn't fly, and I told him so.

“C'mon, Evan, ripping out that cash cow makes no sense. Sure, you'll get the one time hit of the land sale, but after that, what have you got? Zero, zip, zilch, nothing.” 

Evan made an odd sound. Then I realized he was choking. I heard some slurps, a couple of more hacks, then he came back on the line.

“Miss Jones, you've been reading too many brochures from the Scottsdale Visitors' Bureau,” he said, his voice only slightly hoarse. “Sure, if the Hacienda Palms Golf Course was a full eighteen-hole course, it'd be making us a fortune. But it's not. It's just
nine
holes, and at this point, watering the damned thing and keeping that artificial stream running is costing us more money than it's bringing in. People who really love the game aren't interested in any little ol' shot-and-putt piece of shit, and they're more than willing to pay those exorbitant fees up on the pro courses. Those are the big money-makers in this town.”

While I would never have called the Hacienda Palms Golf Course a piece of shit, Evan's story held together. “Doesn't the Hacienda Palms have the room to expand it into eighteen holes?” 

“Hell, no. We're butted right up against the mountain and we've got established housing developments on the other three sides.” 

“So from time to time you discussed the prospect of going for the money.” “Yep. Over the years, that damned golf course was responsible for more family fights than Mother's drinking. Or Dad's, well, you know.” 

One final question loomed large. “But you finally all agreed.” 

“Finally.”

I wondered if he would lie to me. “Who was the last holdout, Evan?” 

A couple of more munches, then a gulp. “Clarice, I think. I seem to remember her being pretty upset when the board of the Museum of Western Art wouldn't give her the curator's job. As I'm sure you know, they were horrified by that old woman's death and besides that, they'd always been pretty unimpressed with Clarice's artistic taste. When she realized it was hopeless, Clarice decided to make conserving the golf course her… her
artistic legacy,
as she termed it. Something like that, anyway. The family thought she was nuts. They were all, myself included, hot to get the money the re-development would bring, but Clarice wouldn't budge. God, did we all have one helluva fight! I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call the police. But they don't do that much on the mountain, do they?” 

More munches, then finally, “Whaialaou?” A gulp. “Sorry. What's this all about?”

I told him I wasn't sure, apologized for disturbing his lunch, and hung up.

How much money were we talking about here? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? Enough to kill for? The Hyaths were richer than God, but that didn't mean anything. For some people, too much was never enough.

I'd think more about that later, but for now, I had a few more phone calls to make. I reached for the phone again and dialed up to the San Carlos Apache Reservation, where Mrs. Haozous volunteered the information that her husband was down in Phoenix for the next few days, dancing the Art Dealer Tango.

“I told him he's got to quit sulking and start doing some business,” she said. “You were his first sale in months.” 

She told me he was staying with an old friend on the Pima Reservation and gave me the man's name, phone number, and directions on how to get to his house.

When I called the number she gave me, somebody named Lloyd Gray picked up. His voice was familiar. I identified myself and he said, “I remember you. You're the detective who brought that Jeep in to Michael Sisiwan's to be painted. How's it driving these days?” 

“It's driving proud,” I told him. “Um, is George Haozous there? I need to speak to him if he is.” 

“I'll get him.”

He set the phone down and walked away. In the background I heard him yelling, “George! George! You got a phone call!” Footsteps tapped back to the phone. “He was out back petting my horse. He'll be here in a second. Say, how's that Jimmy doing? He's my nephew, you know. On his mother's side.” I handed the phone across to Jimmy, who said a few words in Piman, then handed it back. His smile had turned into a frown. “That Apache's on the line now.”

I took the phone back. “George, it's Lena Jones. I need to talk to you.” 

He didn't say anything but I heard him breathing.

“George? George are you there?”

“Is there a problem with the painting?” he finally asked. “It giving you nightmares or something?” 

“No, no. The painting's great, cheers up the room. Not that I bought it as an object of décor, you understand.” This was not the time to offend him, however mad I was feeling at the whole world.

“Yeah, yeah. If it's not the painting, then, what do you want? I'm real busy over here.”

Sure, pestering horses and stuff. “It's probably not important, but I need to talk to you about something concerning Clarice. Are you free to talk now? Or would you like to set up an appointment for me to come over there? I know my way around the rez pretty well.”

 Another long silence, more noisy breathing. Was it my imagination, or was Haozous's breath coming faster, as if he were nervous about something?

“Look, Lena, I don't want to talk about this over the phone and I don't want to talk about it anywhere near Lloyd's house. I'll drive to your apartment.” 

Now it was my turn to get nervous. Ever since my trip to Rocky Point, I'd felt emotionally needy and Dusty was the only person I knew who could comfort me when I was feeling blue. I didn't feel like risking our relationship again quite so soon. Which definitely included not inviting a sexy—and married—Apache up to my apartment.

“Want to meet for a drink at the Rusty Spur?”

The man had enough silences left in him to make a 1910 movie. But he finally said, “I don't drink anymore. How about coffee at Denny's? Ah, on second thought, not Denny's. Too public.”

Now I was really curious. What did Haozous have to tell me that couldn't be shouted out to one and all at Denny's? I mentioned the espresso bar Mrs. Albundo liked, and we agreed to meet there at four o'clock.

After I hung up, I checked my watch and looked across the street. The OPEN sign on Damon and Pythias showed that Cliffie was back from lunch, so I told Jimmy I'd be gone for a few moments and walked over there.

Cliffie didn't look all that happy to see me. He was straightening some paintings when I walked in and gave me a feeble wave. Then he turned back around and continued messing with the paintings.

I really liked the painting he was working on, a Jacques Louis David in full neo-classical flight. It portrayed a Greek warrior, naked except for his helmet, restraining a rearing stallion. The horse was fluid, his colors appearing to float off the canvas, but the warrior was static, posed. The contrast was amazingly sexy.

“David or a copy?” I asked Cliffie, more to get his attention than anything else.

He turned, eyebrows raised. Was it my imagination or did he look downright hostile? “There are no copies in this gallery, Lena. And if you don't mind, I'm pretty busy here.”

I gave the gallery the once-over. The floor had been polished to a soft glow and a gardenia-based perfume filled the air. Fresh yellow roses filled the window. Other than the David, the paintings all hung square.

“Busy doing what, Cliffie? Busy avoiding me?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

I walked up behind him and stood close enough for him to feel my body heat. As I had hoped, it bothered him.

“Really, Lena, if you're going to do that, you might have the decency to use a better perfume. That
Eau de Dial
is somewhat less than subtle.” But he didn't move away. He was probably afraid to.

“Cliffie, what was the subject of your meeting with Clarice two nights before her murder?” 

A quick intake of breath, and the David was crooked again. “Now see what you made me do!”

“Better talk to me, Cliffie. It's either me or Captain Kryzinski.” 

He finally turned around, a resigned expression on his face.

But he gave it one last try. “We just went out to dinner. That's what friends do.” 

Now I had him. Clarice was too civilized to eat at six. Her style ran to eight and sometimes even nine o'clock. “Which restaurant? I can check.” 

“Why can't you just leave it alone?” His baby's face was tight, drained of color. Even the gloss had vanished from his well-groomed white hair. Something was eating at this man, and eating hard. “Jay killed her. That's all you need to know. Why do you continue to pester everyone?” 

I was on the verge of losing another friend, but what else was new. “What are you hiding?” 

He darted a look at the door, but no customer walked through it to save him. “Lena, do we have to do this?” 

“Yes, Cliffie, we do have to do this. Tell me what you and Clarice talked about that night.” 

His deep sigh told me that I had him. “All right, but let's go sit down. My back is killing me. I moved that damned desk all by myself this morning and it looks like I'm going to pay for it with a trip to the chiropractor.” 

I noticed then that he was walking hunched over like an old man. I glanced at the heavy Louis Quatorze desk. It appeared to be in the same position as I'd seen it last time.