Desert Rage: A Lena Jones Mystery (34 page)

With a welcoming smile, she brushed frosted brown hair out of her eyes and invited me in. “Don’t pay any attention to Brunhilda,” she said, gesturing toward the slavering Rottweiler at her side. “She’s really a sweetie.”

Brunhilda didn’t look like a sweetie to me, but I walked in anyway and sank onto the softest sofa I’d ever encountered. The living room was a riot of pastels. Pink walls. Rose and cream-colored sofa and chairs, pale gray Berber carpet accented by a pink, cream, and mint-green throw rug. A menagerie of delicate glass animals capered across several antique-white occasional tables. The only evidence of a bodybuilding lifestyle was a series of framed photos on the wall showing Phoebe, bronzed and beaming, holding large trophies. No photographs of Terry. Women who overdevelop themselves to the point of psychosis don’t win trophies.

“How’s Terry?” I asked Phoebe, after explaining my face away as the result of a dropped barbell, thus continuing her belief that Monster Woman and I were workout buddies from the gym.

“Not so good. You know about the ’roids?”

“They’re kind of obvious.”

“If I’ve warned that girl a million times…Well, now she’s detoxing from them and she’s miserable. Not that she wasn’t miserable before, what with the eye injury that vicious bitch who jumped her in the gym parking lot gave her.”

“Hmm. Say, could I have some water? It’s really hot out there. And I need to pop an Excedrin.”

She gave me a look of concern. “Geez, where are my manners! I’ve also got iced tea?”

Of course she had iced tea. Everyone in Arizona makes iced tea in the summer. “I’d love some, but don’t put yourself out for me.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s already made.” With that, she jumped up and headed for the kitchen, followed by Brunhilda and me, carryall in hand. The kitchen was pink, too. Pink walls, pink and green-striped curtains, marbled pink dinette set. At least the refrigerator was white. When Phoebe opened the refrigerator door and began rattling things around, I snuck a look out the window. Small concrete patio with two chairs and a glass-topped table, desert-landscaped yard area, kidney-shaped pool. Was that dark lump in the far corner a rock or a turd?

Phoebe carried a big pitcher of tea over to the sink and poured us both full glasses. “Want sugar? I don’t use it, myself.”

“Naw, this’ll be fine.” I washed down an Excedrin. It got caught halfway down, so I took another big drink. After it had cleared, I said, “You were telling me about Terry’s eye injury. Is it serious?” I settled myself in a pink chair and sipped at my tea, showing no eagerness to return to the living room.

Phoebe took the hint and sat down, too, Brunhilda at her feet. “Oh, Terry’s eye. She can see out of it again, thank God, but it’s still blurry. The doctor told me they won’t transfer her to jail until it’s back to normal, and like I said, ’cause she’s detoxing off the ’roids, she’s got stomach cramps, muscle aches, she’s hurling all over the place, and she’s lost a ton of weight. She hates that more than anything ’cause she’s so proud of her body.”

Despite everything, I felt a pang of pity for the demented Terry Jardine. “They let you visit her in the hospital?”

“Oh, yeah. After her brother OD’ed, she listed me as her emergency contact, so I was the first person they called. It was awful, I’m telling you, seeing her handcuffed to the bed like that.”

I acted surprised. “Handcuffed!”

Brunhilda growled. She was a sweetie, all right. Her and Cujo.

I was still trying to figure out how I could get a sample of the Rottweiler’s feces when Phoebe added in a near-whisper, “Cops said she broke parole when she hit the woman back, but I’m not buying it. Terry wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Not flies, maybe. Human beings and innocent office buildings, different story. But Phoebe had given me the perfect opening. “I’m sure you’re right. Terry’s judgment isn’t always the greatest, though. The steroids, that pen pal of hers, the guy in prison, what-his-name.”

Phoebe mashed her Cupid’s-bow mouth into a grim line. “Kenny Dean Hopper. Talk about slime! Why she bothered with that creep…” She shook her head. “Only way I can figure it, he looked something like her brother. You ever meet Ashton?”

I shook my head.

“Terry showed me Ashton’s picture once. Same build as Kenny Dean, same wild look in his eyes. From what she told me, he was a sicko, too.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there, so I moved the subject back to the late Kenny Dean.

“She was pretty shook up after Kenny Dean was, uh…”

“After he rode the needle,” she finished, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. “I comforted her as best I could, but to tell the truth, I’m glad the whole thing’s over. He wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest influence, if you know what I mean. That ’roid business and that stupid Hummer of hers, it only started after she began writing him. He told her all kinds of stuff, such as liking tough-looking women who could handle themselves like men. Why do they let those creeps write naïve women like her and spread the crazy around like they do?”

Because even creeps have civil rights, I wanted to tell her. But I kept the conversation on track. “Did Terry ever say anything about getting even?”

Phoebe gave me a puzzled look. “Even with who? About what?”

I shrugged. “Oh, I dunno. The warden. Maybe even the executioner. Anybody who had a hand in killing Kenny.”

A laugh of disbelief. “That sounds too crazy even for Terry.”

“You’re probably right.” I was trying to figure out how I could reasonably ask for a tour of the backyard when Brunhilda, bless her vicious heart, trotted over to the door, sat down, and whined. “Looks like she wants out.”

Phoebe stood up. “Yep. Wanna wait here?”

“Sure.”

“Won’t be but a minute.”

“Take your time.”

As soon as she and the dog were out the door, I reached inside my carryall and took out a baggie. Hiding it behind me, I went to the door and opened it.

“On second thought,” I called, stepping outside, “maybe a little fresh air would be nice.”

“It’s awful hot.”

“I like it.” I didn’t, actually. It must have been a hundred and ten by now, and my head hurt again.

But there was Brunhilda, hunched over in the corner, near the other dark mound. Regardless of breed, dogs are creatures of habit; they like to crap in the same spot. Once Brunhilda had done her business, she scratched some gravel over it, and began to caper around, snapping at flies and chasing her non-existent tail.

“She’s so cute!” I exclaimed. “Why don’t we have our tea here and watch her? I’ll go in and get our glasses.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Phoebe said, all politeness. She tsk-tsked me and went back inside, declaring she’d get the glasses herself. The minute she closed the kitchen door behind her, I ran over to the fresh turd and, to the Rottweiler’s amazement, scooped up a sample. By the time Phoebe returned with the tea, the turd was in my carryall and I was back in my seat.

For the next few minutes we discussed various workout routines and Terry Jardine’s problems—they extended far beyond murderous boyfriends, although that was definitely the most spectacular—until I could leave without appearing rude. Feeling guilty about my dishonesty toward Phoebe, a pleasant enough woman, I climbed into my Jeep and headed straight for Arizona Pet Lab.

I had once used the lab’s services to settle a homeowners association’s squabble over whose mutt was responsible for depositing fecal matter all over the condominium community’s lavishly landscaped green area. The guilty party turned out to be the shar-pei in 4710-D, and the owner was given a hefty fine. To ease the pain, the HOA gave the shar-pei’s owner a month’s supply of doggie-do bags. Arizona Pet Lab, although expensive, offered a much faster DNA turnaround than the overburdened county lab. I dropped off the baggie, then left to see how the work was coming along on my apartment. The sooner I got out from under Jimmy’s eagle eye, the better.

***

After making sympathetic noises over my beat-up appearance, Cal Kinsley, the good-looking foreman from Scottsdale Restore, said he was pleased with his company’s progress. As far as I was concerned, my apartment remained a disaster. The ceiling was finished, but the new drywall hadn’t yet been installed so the walls, with their two-by-fours showing, looked skeletonized. The floor wasn’t much better. Having decided that neither the carpet nor the pad could be saved, Tinsley’s men had ripped up both, exposing an expanse of algae-green linoleum.

“We’ll get rid of that, if you want,” he said.

Envisioning another week added to the original estimate, I shook my head. “Carpet over it. Same color, same style.”

He made a check on his clipboard. “I suggest new drapes.”

“Can’t the old ones be saved?”

“They got ripped at some point. We can stitch them back together, but due to the moisture they were subjected to and the subsequent stretching, there’s no certainty they’ll ever hang right again.”

I sighed. “Replace them. Same color, same style.”

“Wish all our clients were as amenable as you.” He made another check on his clipboard. “Next item. That Navajo rug and Navajo-print pillows on your sofa? They’ll be fine, but they’re still being treated at our plant.”

“How about my ‘Welcome to the Philippines’ pillow?” It was no work of art, but it had memories.

He gave me a curious look, as if wondering why I sounded so concerned about such an obviously cheap souvenir. “Same story there. It’s at the plant.”

“Good.” Then I asked him the question I hated to ask. “My vinyl record albums. How are they?” Especially the album on which my long-dead father played back-up guitar for John Lee Hooker, I wanted to say. But since that would open a subject I was too tired to deal with, I didn’t.

Unaware of the album’s value to me, he answered, “Most will be okay, but a few, well, let’s just say you’ll have to replace them. Nice blues collection, though. And they say vinyl’s coming back.”

My heart hurt, so I returned to a safer subject. “My Navajo things. How long before I get them back?”

“Another week. But they’re worth it, right? At least the Two Gray Hills rug is. Gorgeous.”

“No kidding.” I knew the weaver. Anna Begay, from Shiprock. Young, but she belonged to the new wave of Navajo traditionalists whose work was currently displayed at the Heard Museum.

Decisions made about the living room, we moved onto the bedroom, which looked even worse. No new drywall here yet, either, and the closet door had been ripped from its hinges, exposing a row of empty clothes hangers. The bed was stripped down to the frame.

“We couldn’t save the mattress,” Cal said.

As Gertrude Stein once said, a mattress is a mattress is a mattress. “Replace it.”

He smiled. “Same color, same style, right?”

“Right.”

“I like your style, Lena. No muss, no fuss.”

I started to smile back, then remembered. “Oh. My Lone Ranger bedspread, is that okay or…”

“It’s fine. Cute. You into fifties collectables?”

“Something like that.”

The rest of the tour went quickly. Kitchen, fine. Bedroom, fine. New drywall up in both. The only casualties from the kitchen were the packets of ramen that had to be junked, no big deal because you can find ramen anywhere at any time. As for the bathroom, it needed a new shower curtain, toothbrush, bottle of Excedrin Extra-Strength gel tabs, a loofah, and some Yardley’s lemon verbena soap. Oh, and shampoo, whatever was on sale. As the man said, I wasn’t fussy, except when it came to bath soap.

“How long before I can move back in?” I asked.

Cal looked at his clipboard. “According to my calculations, the place will be good to go by, say, next week. Maybe even Monday or Tuesday. That’s if we can get the carpet guys out by then, but I don’t foresee a problem there. For obvious reasons, there’s not a lot of redecorating going on in July. But just in case, are you willing to approve overtime? That’s what weekend work costs.”

Desperate to get back into my apartment, I nodded.

“Then sign on the dotted line.”

When he passed me the clipboard, I saw that Scottsdale Restore charged double for overtime. Still worth it. I signed.

“That’s it, then!” Big smile. “Say, I didn’t see you at Fight Pro yesterday. Still recuperating from your dust-up with Terry?”

“You heard about that?”

He gave me an
Are-You-Serious
look.

I wished people would drop their obsession with my health. “Doc says I need to take it easy for a while.” For another week, actually, but I refused to wait that long.

“Word’s going around Terry’s membership’s been cancelled.”

Gyms are like small towns; everyone knows everything. “A wise move.”

“Absolutely. Say, how about I take you to dinner tonight? If you’re up to it, that is.”

I almost said yes, but for now I had too much on my plate. “Ask me again next week. After I’ve moved back in here.” And out of Jimmy’s trailer.

Downstairs, reconstruction continued. Out with the old and burned and water-damaged, in with the new. Like the Phoenix bird, Desert Investigations was rising from the ashes. After a brief conversation with the foreman, my après-beating fatigue caught up with me, and I headed back to Jimmy’s trailer. I needed more Excedrin and a nap.

***

I slept until four and awoke feeling nauseated. When I staggered into the kitchen area of the trailer, Jimmy had a big frown on his face. “You need to see the doctor.”

“It’s just a headache. Nothing to worry about.” I didn’t mention my nausea.

“How many Excedrins did you just take?”

“Only four.” I’d stopped counting at six.

“Are you seeing double?”

“No, Doctor, I’m not. Just one nosy Pima. Give it up, already. I’m fine, just fine.”

“Don’t lie. I heard you barfing in the bathroom.”

“An auditory hallucination on your part.”

“Hmm. While you were out roaming around this morning, did you stop anywhere for lunch?”

Finally. A question I didn’t have to lie my way through. “Nope. Too busy.”

“Then you must be hungry. How’s some more Pima stew sound? It’s easy on the stomach. Takes only seconds to heat up.”