Free Kiss of the Bees by J. A. Jance Page B

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    Gabe had heard it said that Delia Chavez Cachora sounded and acted so much like a Mil-gahn at times that she wasn’t really “Indian” enough. She was doing the proper things—living with her aunt out at Little Tucson was certainly a step in the right direction—but Gabe knew she would need additional help. He had developed a plan to address that particular problem. Delia just didn’t know about it yet, although he’d have to tell her soon.
    Davy Ladd was a young man, an Anglo who had been raised by Gabe Ortiz’s Aunt Rita. A recent law school graduate, Davy was due back in Tucson sometime in the next few days. By the time he arrived, Delia would have to know that Gabe had hired Davy to spend the summer months and maybe more time beyond that working as an intern in the tribal attorney’s office.
    Gabe thought it would be interesting to see how Delia Chavez Cachora dealt with an Anglo who spoke her supposedly native tongue far better than she did. Not only that, Gabe was looking forward to getting to know the grown-up version of his late Aunt Rita’s Little Olhoni.
    Next to his ear, someone tapped on the window. Gabe opened his eyes and sat up. Delia herself was standing next to his car, a concerned frown on her face. “Are you all right?” she asked when he rolled down the window.
    “Just resting my eyes,” he said.
    “I was afraid you were sick.”
    Gabe shook his head. “Tired,” he said with a smile. “Tired but not sick.”
    “Are you going straight home?” she asked. “We could stop and get something to drink.”
    “No, thanks,” he said. “You go on ahead. I have to visit with someone on the way.”
    “All right,” she said. “See you Monday.”
    As she walked away from the car, Gabe noticed she was stripping off her watch and putting it in her purse. When Gabe had asked her about it, she had told him that on weekends she tried to live on Indian time; tried to do without clocks and all the other trappings of the Anglo world, including, presumably, the evils of air conditioning, he thought as she drove past him a few minutes later with all the windows of her turbo Saab wide open.
    Gabe put the now reasonably cool Ford in gear and backed out of his parking place. Instead of heading for Ajo Way and the road back to Sells, he headed north to Speedway and then west toward Gates Pass and the home of his friends, Brandon and Diana Walker.
    It wasn’t a trip Gabe was looking forward to because he didn’t know what he was going to say. However, he knew he would have to say something. It was his responsibility.
    “Brandon?”
    Over the noise of the chain saw, Brandon hadn’t heard the car stop outside the front of the house, nor had he noticed Gabe Ortiz materialize silently behind him. Startled by the unexpected voice, Brandon almost dropped the saw when he turned around to see who had spoken.
    “Fat Crack!” he exclaimed, taking off his hat and wiping his face with the damp bandanna he wore tied around his forehead. “The way you came sneaking up behind me, it’s a wonder I didn’t cut off my leg. How the hell are you? What are you doing here? Would you like some iced tea or a beer?”
    Now that he was tribal chairman, Fat Crack was a name Gabe Ortiz didn’t hear very often anymore, not outside the confines of his immediate family. The distinctive physiognomy that had given rise to his nickname was no longer quite so visible, especially not now when he often wore a sports jacket over his ample middle. The dress-up slacks, necessary attire for the office and for meetings in town, didn’t shift downward in quite the same fashion as his old Levi’s had. Still, he reached down and tugged self-consciously at his belt, just to be sure his pants weren’t hanging at half-mast.
    “Iced tea sounds good,” Gabe said.
    The two men walked into and through the yard and then on inside the house. With the book fresh in his mind, Gabe looked around the kitchen. It had been completely redesigned and