Minor in Possession (17 page)

“So what are you thinking?”

“That maybe they both got hung up in Louise Crenshaw's little sideshow.”

“That would explain a lot, wouldn't it,” I breathed, “but do you have any proof?”

“I'm working on it. In my spare time, but I'm on real thin ice, and I can't afford to go through regular channels on this. That's why I'm using you as a sounding board. I need someone I'm sure isn't tarred with Louise Crenshaw's brush. She
never managed to get her claws into you.”

I smiled at Delcia's comment. “I thought I was the only one who noticed Louise Crenshaw's talons. So what do you think? Are the Crenshaws involved in this business too? Are they part of Joey's supply system?”

“Maybe, and maybe not. I don't know what to think. I sure as hell can't afford to disregard them, but the problem is, I'm pretty much working alone, at least as far as Yavapai County is concerned. My guess is that Sheriff Heagerty wants me spread too thin to do anything constructive. If I hadn't been so tired, if I had been thinking straight, I would have asked for protection for Rhonda and Michelle both. Even then, it might not have helped, but still…”

She turned and looked me full in the face. “As far as Rhonda's concerned, you saved the day. I want you to know I'm grateful.”

“You're welcome,” I said, “for that and for saving my own ass too, but it would have been a helluva lot easier if I'd been armed. When that creep came after us, I felt like we were sitting ducks.”

“Do you ever go to swap meets?” Delcia asked suddenly.

The abrupt detour in the conversation sounded as though Delcia Reyes-Gonzales had reverted to her earlier game-playing.

“Swap meets?” I asked stupidly. “You mean, like in garage sales?”

She nodded, but I shook my head. “Not me.
Buying somebody else's cast-off junk isn't my idea of a good deal.”

“Maybe you should check into them,” Delcia said seriously. “In fact, I believe there's one at Phoenix Greyhound Race Track on Saturdays and Sundays. I'd try it, if I were you. It's on Washington, east of the airport. Do you think you can find it?”

“I'm sure I can, but why would I want to?”

“The guy's name is Zeke. From what I've heard, he's there every weekend. He sells guns. Used, of course. From a private collection.”

“Privately,” I said, getting the picture. “So there's no three-day waiting period?”

“That's right.”

“And you're suggesting I go get myself one.”

“Who, me?” she asked innocently. “Certainly not. I never said anything of the kind.”

Just then Ralph Ames walked up to the car and tapped on Delcia's window.

“Ralph Ames,” he said, introducing himself to her. “Beau here is a client of mine. So's Mrs. Attwood. They told me inside that I'd find him out in the car with you. May I join you?”

He opened the door and climbed into the cramped back seat.

I completed the introductions. “This is Detective Delcia Reyes-Gonzales, Ralph. She's from Prescott. How did you get here?”

Ralph smiled at her. “We met on the phone.” He turned to me. “When you two didn't show up at Vincent's I got worried and came here looking.
From what I've heard, Alamo is going to want to burn you at the stake. The next time you try to rent a car from them, alarms will probably go off on Alamo computers all over the country.”

“At least I didn't take it to Mexico,” I said. “That's the only thing I remember them telling me that I couldn't do. What's going on in there? It's taking a long time.”

“They're about finished,” Ralph said. “I suggested that considering the circumstances it might be wise for Rhonda to come stay with us. For tonight anyway. I'm sure I'll be far more at ease if I know she isn't staying by herself. We'll leave the Fiat parked here in the lot and make sure we aren't followed when we go.”

I looked at Delcia. She was half dozing right there in the car. “What about you?” I asked. “Surely you're not going to drive all the way back home tonight.”

“No. My sister lives across town in Peoria. I'll stay there tonight. If Ralph here can give you and Rhonda a ride home, I'll go ahead and take off if you don't mind. It's been a long day.”

Ralph and I waited in La Posada's well-appointed lobby until the detectives finished with Rhonda's room. She arrived in the lobby carrying a suitcase and small overnight bag.

“I guess you're stuck with me for the night,” she said apologetically. “They told me I shouldn't stay here alone. And what about the paintings?”

“Don't worry,” Ames assured her. “I'll let Vincent know what happened.”

We took her out to the car through the main entrance. Driving home, I made several quick maneuvers and doubled back once or twice, making sure we didn't have a tail. When we got to the house, Ralph insisted on parking the Lincoln in the garage.

Once inside the house, we settled down in the living room for a few minutes to recap what all had happened over the course of the evening. Ralph had heard bits and pieces from many sources. He was the one who gave Rhonda the bad news that Michelle was missing. She took that stoically enough, but when she heard that Guy Owens had been trying to coerce Michelle into having an abortion, she was outraged and wanted to get in the car right then and there to make the three-and-a-half-hour drive to tell Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens what was what. We finally dissuaded her, but only barely.

Toward midnight, we ventured into the kitchen, where Ralph made us a late-night supper of cheese, cocoa, and toast. Munching away, we finished our play-by-play review of the evening at the kitchen counter, said our good-nights, and headed for our separate rooms. I was in bed with lights out when there came a light tapping on my door.

“Who is it?”

“Rhonda. May I come in?”

She came into the room and felt her way across to the bed. Once there, she sat down on the edge of it.

“What's the matter?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”

“What would have happened to me tonight if you hadn't been there at the hotel, waiting for me in the parking lot?”

“I don't know. That's hard to say.”

“He must have been there, hiding in my room. Would he have killed me if he'd had the chance?”

“Maybe, and then again, maybe not. We still don't have any idea what he was after, but my guess is that they think you have something, maybe something damaging to the whole operation.”

“But I haven't.”

“That doesn't matter, as long as they think you do.”

“So why am I scared now, hours after it's all over?”

“For one thing, it's not all over. If they still believe you have whatever they were looking for, you're still in danger. Stay alert, and don't fault yourself for being jittery after the worst of the action seems to be over. It happens that way sometimes. When you're in the thick of things, you're too busy to be afraid. Fear comes later.”

She turned to face me. In the pale glow of moonlight shining through the window, her face was unnaturally white, eyes wide open. I reached out my hand and caught hold of her narrow wrist, feeling the pulse imprisoned within it.

“It's all right to be scared,” I told her. “It's a normal reaction.”

“Were you scared out there in the car when he was after us?”

“Shitless,” I answered.

“What about now?”

“It's worse now,” I said, suppressing a grin.

She snatched her hand away and leaned closer, peering at me closely in the hazy light. “Worse? Really? Or are you making fun of me?”

“I'm not making fun,” I said. “Women scare me a whole lot more than 4-X-4s.”

For a moment she looked hurt, then angry, then a tiny smile tickled the corners of her mouth. “You mean to tell me you're scared of me?”

“Absolutely. Out of my wits. Shouldn't I be?”

Within seconds, we were both laughing, giggling first then laughing uproariously, rolling on the bed, holding our stomachs, and gasping for air. When we finally quit laughing, we were still lying on the bed, facing each other. Neither one of us made a move to get up. Within moments I moved closer, folding her in my arms.

It was the most natural thing in the world.

I
slept, content in the knowledge that whatever incursions booze may have made against my liver, other pieces of essential equipment, unlike Calvin Crenshaw's, remained totally unaffected. I awoke to the sound of small scratchings, rodent sounds, only to discover that Rhonda Attwood, sitting curled up in the high wing-backed chair beside the window, was busily sketching away.

“Coffee or orange juice?” she asked, not looking up. “Ralph already brought us both. He's out cleaning the pool.”

It was only to be expected that Ralph Ames was already up and on duty. He evidently also knew where Rhonda had spent the night. “Coffee,” I said, a little sheepishly.

“Okay. Just a minute.”

She finished what she was doing, examined it critically at arm's length with a slight frown pursing her brow, and then put the sketch pad on the table next to her. Pouring two cups of coffee from a stainless steel carafe, she padded barefoot across the room to the bed. She was wearing a knee-
length blue nightshirt with Mickey and Minnie Mouse emblazoned on the front. Her hair was tousled, but from the strained lines and shadows around her eyes, I suspected she hadn't slept nearly as well as I had.

“What are you working on?” I asked, taking one cup of coffee off her hands.

“Nothing much.” Careful not to spill her coffee, she lowered herself onto the bed beside me. “Just a sketch.”

I reached over and let my hand fall on the smooth firm curve of her thigh. It rested there for some time, and she made no effort to move it away. Closing my eyes, I lost myself in the miracle of an instant replay until she jarred me out of it with a softly voiced question.

“Will you drive me down to Sierra Vista today?”

Surprised, I opened my eyes and looked at her. “To Sierra Vista? Why?”

“Because I've got to talk to Guy Owens.”

I sat up in the bed. “I thought we already went over that. Your chances for persuading this guy are nil. He's one angry man.”

Rhonda Attwood's blue eyes filled with tears. “I can try. I've got to try. Don't you understand? Joey was all I had, my only child. I was never able to have another one after he was born, even though I wanted one and tried for years. This baby, Michelle's baby, is part of me, too. I can't just turn my back and let it go. I can't.” The last sentence was a strangled sob.

When God gave Eve the ability to cry, he stacked the deck against us. It hasn't been a fair fight since. I'm impervious to lots of things, but a weeping woman isn't one of them. Besides, Rhonda Attwood could easily have gone off on her mission alone, without telling me. My masculine pride was honored that she wanted to have me along.

“All right, all right,” I said, knowing perfectly well that I'd been manipulated and sounding suitably crotchety. “I'll drives down there with you, but don't count on it doing much good.”

Smiling through her tears, Rhonda Attwood leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the side of my neck. “Thank you,” she said. “I'll go shower.”

Gracefully she eased herself off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. I drank my coffee, listening first to the rush of the shower and later to the hum of a blow-dryer. When I finished draining my first cup, I slipped on a pair of shorts and went over to the table to pour a second. The sketch pad was lying right there next to the carafe. I couldn't resist the temptation to pick it up and see what she'd been doing.

It was spooky—almost like looking in the mirror. The penciled sketch staring back at me was me. My eyes, my nose, my ever-increasing forehead. I was still standing there holding it when the bathroom door opened. I jumped as though I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't, afraid she'd be offended by my prying.

“You have good features,” Rhonda said, stopping in the doorway. “Strong, masculine features.”

Never at ease with compliments, I turned it aside with a question. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?” she returned. “Draw?” I nodded, and she shrugged. “I don't know. It's something I've always been able to do, from the time I was little. You don't, I take it?”

“Not me, not at all. I wouldn't have the foggiest idea how to go about it.”

Rhonda smiled. “That's all right. I wouldn't have known how to drive the car into the pickup's tire, either, so we're even.”

There was a knock on the door. “Are you two decent?” Ralph asked, in his unflappable manner. “There's a call for you, Beau.”

I opened the door and took the cordless handset. “Hello.”

“Beau, it's me, Delcia. They've got him, the guy from the truck. Phoenix P.D. picked him up a little after midnight, but I didn't find out about it until just a few minutes ago. Somebody neglected to call me.”

“They caught him? Who is it?”

“I don't know yet, but according to the detective who called me, he's already got himself a very high-priced defense attorney, and he refused to say word one without his attorney present.”

“So this is someone who knows the ropes.”

“Sounds like.”

“Do you need us to come down there with you?
I only got one look at him in the headlights as he was going ass-over-teakettle into the water. I'm not sure whether or not I could identify him.”

“No,” she said. “I'll be there. The City of Scottsdale's sending someone over. It'll be enough of a crowd without having you there as well. Just keep me posted as to where I can reach you if I need to.”

“I thought I'd check into the swap meets around here. I understand the one at Greyhound Race Track is pretty good.”

Delcia laughed. “That's what they say.”

“And then Rhonda and I may take a ride down to Sierra Vista.”

The laughter stopped. “Why?”

“Rhonda wants to talk to Guy Owens. She's hoping to get him to change his mind about Michelle having an abortion.”

There was a pause. “Well,” she said at last, “as long as you're there to keep an eye on her, I suppose it'll be all right.”

“Any word on Michelle?”

“No. Nothing so far. When will you get back?”

I glanced at Rhonda. She had picked up the sketch pad and was standing next to the window, adding a few deft lines here and there with her pencil. Her blonde hair caught the sunlight from outside and glinted like a burnished golden halo. Rhonda Attwood was a beautiful, desirable woman.

“I don't know,” I said to Delcia. “Probably sometime late this afternoon or evening. We'll
leave a telephone trail with Ralph Ames.”

When I hung up, Rhonda was looking at me. “How soon do we leave?” she asked.

“Look, are you sure you want to do this? The funeral is tomorrow. Shouldn't you stay here? Aren't there people who'll want to see you?”

“Just because Joey's dead doesn't mean I have to make a public spectacle out of myself. The only person I want to see is Michelle.”

“She knew you were staying at La Posada?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Did anyone else?”

“Not really. I didn't take out an ad in the
Arizona Republic
, if that's what you mean. What are you getting at?”

“I'm trying to figure out who else besides Michelle, Detective Reyes-Gonzales, Ralph Ames, and me knew where you were staying.”

“That's all,” she said. “I didn't even tell Vincent, and not the people at Renthrow Gallery either. I didn't want people being able to find me, people and reporters.”

I was gratified to hear that she differentiated between the two. It gave us something in common.

“But somebody else must have known.”

She shook her head. “I can't think of anybody.”

At that juncture, Ralph Ames, who had obviously never heard of cholesterol counting, summoned us to breakfast—an Eggs Benedict extravaganza served poolside. He wasn't terribly
enthusiastic about our proposed drive to Sierra Vista, but he nonetheless offered us the use of his Lincoln, saying that for safety's sake the Fiat should probably remain parked where it was for the time being.

“I agree about the Fiat, Ralph,” I said, “and thanks for the offer, but I think I hear Alamo calling me. After all, the insurance will cover the damage. Besides, none of it was my fault. They owe me a car.”

Ralph Ames grinned. “You are one stubborn man, Beau. They may not agree with you, but I'll see what I can do.”

In the end, Ralph prevailed. Rhonda and I left the Alamo office driving a low-slung Chevrolet Beretta, having taken the extra collision insurance at an additional ten dollars a day and with the rental agent's final prohibition once more ringing in our ears that we were not, under any circumstances, to take the car to Mexico.

By ten-fifteen we were in the parking lot at Phoenix Greyhound Race Track. The people who frequent the swap meet, vendors and customers alike, struck me as a new lost generation, one that had started out in the late sixties making love not war. Almost twenty years later, these folks still hadn't gotten their act together.

There were plenty of wear-dated peace symbols in evidence, and the people displaying them were middle-aged earth-mother types with ample bosoms and long-haired men whose ponytails and beards were flecked with gray. It struck me as
ironic that Zeke, Delcia's illegal-arms merchant, should be hiding out in the open, peddling his lethal wares among all the militant peacenik anti-nukers. I would have expected them to run him off as well since, statistically speaking, the attendees are far more likely to be shot than they are to be nuked.

For a while Rhonda and I wandered through the milling aisles. Finally, though, impatient to get out of there, I asked one of the vendors if he knew where I could find Zeke.

“Sure,” he said, eying me suspiciously. I didn't fit the typical customer profile. “Next aisle over. Far end on the right.”

We found Zeke's stall without any trouble, but the first thing I saw when we got there wasn't Zeke or his guns—it was the rattlesnake.

The snake, so similar to Ringo that they might have been full brothers, sat waist-high on a wobbly card table. Unlike Ringo, however, this one was dead, thoroughly dead, forever frozen by some taxidermist's art into a ferocious striking position. The curved fangs were bared, and the charcoal-colored body coiled back on itself, while the glassy eyes stared straight ahead—directly at me. Just looking at it was enough to prickle the hairs on the back of my neck. Instinctively, I dodged back.

“Purty, ain't he,” growled a yellow-toothed man with a fat chew of tobacco stuffed in one cheek. His weighty peace symbol, three inches tall and made from hand-pounded silver, dangled on
a frayed leather thong in front of a worn red flannel shirt that was stretched taut over a bulging midsection. “Bagged him myself last year up near Bumble Bee. I'll sell him to you cheap—a hun'red fifty. You won't do no better 'an that.”

“No thanks,” I said, still maintaining a wary distance.

Rhonda stepped closer and examined the snake curiously. “It does look like Ringo,” she said before turning to the vendor. “Are you Zeke?” I had told her who we were looking for and why.

Zeke nodded slowly, giving her a lecherous up-and-down appraisal as he did so. “Sure am, ma'am. What can I do for you today? If'n you don't like snakes, how 'bout a Gila monster then?”

He paused long enough to spit an arc of brown tobacco juice over his shoulder where it landed unerringly in a two-pound Folgers coffee can several feet behind him. “Got me one of them, too. That'll run you 'bout two hun'red even. Or somethin' a little smaller maybe—scorpions and centipedes. These here are s'posed to be plastic paperweights. Real classy if'n you work in an office.”

The guy took off his hat and wiped a shiny bald pate with his red bandanna. When he put the Stetson back on, I noticed it was decorated with a rattlesnake skin hatband and several multicolored feathers. Considering his alligator boots and hand-tooled leather belt, this dusty overweight specimen was someone the Earth First folks should have picketed right along with all those
fur-wearing, opera-going society matrons.

“We're more interested in guns,” I said casually. He blinked. “I've got me some of them, too,” he said tentatively. “What kind you lookin' for?”

He pointed me toward a second rickety table, this one covered with guns. The weapons, mostly aged specimens, were a collection of ten or so rifles and shotguns of various makes and models. Some were undoubtedly antique quality with ornate handmade inlay work on the stocks. Others were just plain old.

“Not any of these,” I said, dismissing the entire table with a wave. “These are all too big. I was thinking of something smaller.”

He looked at me closely.

“A friend told me about you,” I added as a further reference, “a nameless, mutual friend. She said you had quite a collection, but if this is all you've got…”

Zeke, watching me closely, made up his mind. “I can't afford to put 'em all out,” he said quickly. “Somebody might rip 'em off. Exactly what kind of gun might you be lookin' for, mister?”

“A handgun,” I said. “Thirty-eight caliber.”

“A .38,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I just might have one of them. It's small, though. Only a two-inch barrel.”

“Small's fine,” I said.

He nodded then called over his shoulder, “Hey, Carl. Would you keep an eye on my stuff for a while? I gotta go out to the parking lot for a minute.”

Carl, a permanently sunburned blond, occupied a booth that advertised genuine Zuni hand-tooled silver jewelry, although Carl didn't look like any American Indian I'd ever seen. He waved a careless hand in response. “No prob, Zeke. Take your time.”

Zeke led us through the parking lot to where a beat-out Volkswagen was parked. Someone with more patience than brains had carefully painted it so that it bore an uncommon resemblance to a mini-Greyhound bus. The inside, however, had been specially fitted with a set of custom mini-blinds which shut off the interior of the vehicle from any outside snooping.