Desert Noir (9781615952236) (25 page)

The Hacienda Palms is one of Scottsdale's oldest resorts. The original Spanish Colonial Revival complex with its plastered brick walls and red tile roofs had been erected just after the turn of the century as a magnet to wealthy tuberculosis patients from back East. Here, legend has it, they lay on silk sheets in their private casitas and, with the aid of the sanatorium's resident priest, prayed for a cure. While the disease ravaged their lungs, they suffered amidst elegance. Sixteenth-century fountains imported from Italy played water music behind lush plantings of bougainvillea and hibiscus. A reflecting pool lined in Moorish tiles echoed the tall palms that gave the sanatorium its name.

When the discovery of penicillin made the old sanatorium redundant, the place changed hands. The priest was booted out and the complex found new life as a resort. And now the
serious
money began to roll in. Who else, other than millionaires, could afford a couple of thou a night?

In contrast to the huge resorts that lined Scottsdale Road, the Hacienda Palms' main building and its attendant casitas took up fewer than twenty acres and catered to only two hundred guests at a time. In their financial (if not ecological) wisdom the new owners had bulldozed the workers' shacks at the back of the resort and installed a nine-hole golf course. While the little putt-and-chip course couldn't compete with the big professional courses further north that hosted such world-class events as the Phoenix Open, the course's sheer beauty had the others beat.

The green backed up to the mountain itself, snaking around granite outcroppings, meandering alongside a man-made stream operated by huge pumps. Throughout the years, the course had remained popular with Old Money families, families who knew they couldn't hold a candle to the likes of Arnold Palmer or Tiger Woods and had more sense than to try.

I'd wondered about Eleanor's common sense in choosing an outdoor restaurant for lunch, but as the maitre d' led me from the guest reception area across the elegant Patio Café, I discovered that the entire area was cooled by an elaborate misting system. The temperature might be in the triple digits, but under the mis-ters, it was cool as spring. I clattered along the Saltillo tiles, passing at various tables a local anchorman, the star of a popular TV sit-com, and a former First Lady.

Eleanor was waiting for me at a table just off the ninth hole, the emerald slopes behind her contrasting nicely with her bloodshot eyes. She sat surrounded by a blue haze of cigarette smoke, but at least she appeared sober. For now. She was already halfway through a margarita served in a glass the size of a goldfish bowl. Crystals of salt speckled her lips, and as I watched in disgusted fascination, a coated tongue snaked out and licked them away.

I forced a smile. “Mrs. Hyath, it was so good of you to agree to see me.” 

She didn't bother to smile back. “The lunch is on you, remember. And the drinks.” 

“Of course.”

As I took the menu from the waiter, I realized the lunch would gut Desert Investigations' petty cash fund for the next three months. I tried my best to contain my horror as I ordered a salad
(Curly Radicchio Crowned with Edible Flowers, Kissed by a Calorie Conscious Honey-Dijon Dressing)
—at $24.50, the cheapest thing on the menu. To drink, I contented myself with the lemon-garnished water. I'd pretend it was lemonade.

Mrs. Hyath didn't follow my cheap lead. For an appetizer, she ordered Oysters Rockefeller
(Flown in Fresh Daily!)
, then the same small salad I'd ordered, and for the main course,
Mesquite-Broiled Milk-Fed Reindeer Medallions from Norway, Nestled on Slices of Crispy Rusk Topped with a Sensuous Smattering of Paté de Fois Gras, then Smothered in Silver Palms' Award-Winning Bordelaise Sauce
—A Delightful Culinary Escapade!

Eleanor's culinary escapade would set me back more than one hundred and fifty dollars.

Smiling until I thought my ears would pop off, I handed the menu back to the waiter. I thought I detected a brief glint of amusement in his eyes, but he was too well-trained to show it for long. As he turned to leave, Mrs. Hyath called after him, “And I'll want to see the dessert selection afterwards.” 

My glued-on smile felt as if the glue was eating a hole through my skin. To calm myself, I began counting the broken capillaries on Eleanor's nose.

She misinterpreted my close study. “So what do you want from me now?” she asked. “And don't hand me any more bullshit condolences. I couldn't stand Clarice and she couldn't stand me, which you well know.” Another drag on her cigarette, more sucking noises at the margarita. She'd be ready for a new one soon. God. How much did they cost here?

When I dropped the smile, my face thanked me for it. “Look, Mrs. Hyath, I just wanted to talk to you away from your husband, get your side of the story, who you think might have killed Clarice.” 

She snorted, and a few drops of moisture landed on my hand. I hoped they were from the misting system. “They arrested Jay again so you don't need anything from me.” 

“Let's just say I'm hedging my bets. What if Jay didn't do it?”

 She sucked at her margarita some more, then wiped her hand across her mouth and answered, “Oh, he did it, all right.” 

Eleanor sounded so certain I didn't have time to disguise the look of surprise on my face. “You sound pretty sure.” 

Her raspy laugh brought stares from some of the other guests. “Of course, I'm sure. And you would be, too, if you could see your nose in front of your face. By the way, why don't you ever wear any makeup? Those blond eyelashes of yours make you look like some Georgia cracker. You could at least do something to cover that ghastly scar.” 

“It's against my religion,” I answered, deciding not to tell her the real reason, that I was still hoping to be recognized by someone who knew me a lifetime ago.

Another snort. “And I thought I made it clear you were to dress well.” 

Poor Clarice. And for that matter, poor Serena and poor Evan. “This is the nicest dress I own, Mrs. Hyath. It's from Saks.” 

“It takes an unusual talent to go to a good store and find something so cheap-looking.” 

She smeared the remnants of her cigarette across a clamshell-shaped ashtray and lit another. Although her nails had been manicured the polish had begun to flake off, and underneath some of the clear areas, I could see dark ridges of dirt. Perhaps she believed that if she was critical enough of others, her own shortcomings would go unnoticed.

“Oh, dear, it looks like you've got egg yolk on your expensive dress,” I said, pointing a clean, unvarnished finger at the offending area. “Right there under that, um, what
is
it? Merlot? Sloe gin?” 

Her eyes lit up and the wattles under her chin danced merrily. “Well, well. You're not exactly a pushover, are you, Miss Jones.” 

“I never told you I was, Mrs. Hyath. Now, do you want to continue this juvenile dissing contest, or do you want to get down to business?” 

The wattles wobbled. “How's this, then? Jay told me he killed her.” 

Just at that point, the waiter delivered her Oysters Rockefeller, and I composed myself as she slurped away. Her noisy enjoyment didn't surprise me. At $6 per oyster, the slimy little bastards should deliver multiple orgasms.

After the waiter took the shells away and returned with our salads, I finally managed, “So when did Jay tell you he'd murdered Clarice? When you went to visit him at the Madison Street Jail?” 

She flushed.
Damn!
So I was right! She had visited the creep! I wondered briefly what kind of woman would visit her daughter's accused murderer, but the answer was obvious: A woman who enjoyed maliciousness in all its forms. This insight complicated the interview considerably, because I had no way of knowing if she was telling the truth or merely trying to make as much trouble as she could.

“As a matter of fact, I did visit Jay,” she said. “I'm not without a heart, you understand, so I went down to see the poor boy, just in case there was anything he needed. That's when he confessed to me. Jay and I have always gotten along well, you see. Anyway, he told me he had slipped out of bed that night and gone down to the gallery to see if he could talk her out of the divorce. I hate divorce. It's so unnatural. But Clarice didn't want to listen to him and started calling him names.

“She wasn't the innocent little victim the world likes to think, you know. She was always a difficult girl, very self-centered. I had to take a firm hand with her when she was growing up, I tell you. Her father spoiled her rotten.” The wattles began to dance again. “Anyway, Jay told me he just lost control of his temper and popped her one.” 

Popped her one
. “Did you see Clarice's body? You don't lose an eye just from being
popped
one. And I must tell you that the confession you say Jay gave you doesn't jive in any way with the forensic evidence. Or did Jay also tell you he was wearing latex gloves at the time?” 

She shrugged. “Whatever. I just thought you should know he did confess.” Then she leaned back in her chair and sighed. Looking out over the golf course, she said, “Isn't that just the most magnificent sight? This is a real Garden of Eden, isn't it. But have you heard the rumors?”

I was puzzled. “What rumors?”

She smiled nastily. “About the golf course.”

I shook my head. The conversation was drifting off into the ozone and it was time for me to take a stronger hand.

“Look, Mrs. Hyath, I don't care what the rumors are about the golf course, not even if they're going to start playing an abbreviated Masters Tournament here in the nude. I want to hear more about Jay and Clarice.” 

“Awfully short-sighted of you.” A curl of radicchio hung from her lower lip. I couldn't take my eyes off it. “But I should be used to short-sighted people. None of my children ever had any fore-sight, not even Clarice, and she was the smartest one of the whole stupid lot.” 

Our waiter approached with a small plate of what appeared to be tiny veal steaks. Rudolph smelled great, making my still-empty stomach rumble. I reminded myself to stop off for a Big Mac on the way home. With fries.

“I don't agree about your children,” I said, hoping to draw her further. “Other than in his personal life, Evan seems to be doing well, and Serena has made quite an impact in the Valley with all those charitable organizations she's part of.” 

“Used to be part of. That crowd she likes to run with doesn't fraternize with junkies.” 

Somehow I kept from spitting in her face. “Still, they've all managed to make a contribution to the community.” 

A sucking announced to the entire restaurant that Eleanor Hyath was through with her margarita. As the former First Lady and the sit-com star glared, the waiter whisked the empty glass away and replaced it almost immediately with a fresh one. Apparently they didn't mind how drunk you got here, just as long as you were quiet about it.

“What'd you say?” she said, licking more salt off her lips. I thought her words were beginning to slur, but maybe it was just that she tended to talk with her mouth full. I'd never seen anybody eat so fast.

“That all your children have made some kind of contribution to the community.” But you haven't, I finished silently. You just take up space.

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

“Oh?”

Eleanor leaned over her margarita and snapped, “They're failures, each one of them! As for success, that idiot son of mine gave almost everything he ever owned to his ex-wives, and Serena herself wound up paying alimony to her ex-husband. Now she's in another bad marriage and didn't even have the sense to ask for a pre-nupt. What a stupid, stupid girl! She's headed for divorce court again and that greasy Mex she's married to is going to fleece her like the last one did.” 

“He's Spanish.”

“Just another Beaner with pretensions.”

Our waiter, who was Hispanic, looked like he wanted to hit her, but his training stood him in good stead. “Madam wishes to see the dessert menu?” he asked, removing Rudolph's remains.

“Isn't that what I told you? Christ, is everyone around here deaf?” 

The former First Lady threw down her napkin and started for our table, fire in her eyes. Just before she reached us, the young man she was with put a restraining hand on her arm and returned her to her seat. I breathed a sigh of relief. Bar fights were a pain, no matter how classy the bar. Or the combatants.

Our waiter exhibited more control. “Very good, Madam,” he said, his face now totally devoid of expression. “I'll bring the dessert menu immediately.” 

“You'd better.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. One. Two. Three. “Ah, you were saying that Serena didn't have a pre-nupt, and that her marriage is on the rocks?” 

Cigarette time again. She lit up and blew smoke into my face. “By the time that Beaner's through with her, she won't have a pot to piss in.” 

I didn't bother waving the smoke away. It would give her too much satisfaction to know that she'd managed to annoy me.

“I thought Serena received a steady income from the construction company.” 

“As of now,” Eleanor cackled. “But she won't when Pedro or whatever his name is gets through with her!” Then she shook her head in a great show of sorrow. “I just don't know why none of my children ever learned anything from my example.” 

I wasn't certain I heard her right. “Your example? What do you mean?” 

The waiter delivered a tall dessert menu and Eleanor took it with a crooning noise. She disappeared behind it for a while, then finally re-emerged with a genuine smile on her face. “Prickly Pear Crepes with Brandy Sauce! My, my. I haven't had them in years. Who would ever have known that this outdated old sand trap still served them.” Then she handed the menu back to the waiter. “You know what to do,” she told him.