Free Desert Wind by Betty Webb Page A

into my patrol car and regretfully watched him drive away. Back then, Scottsdale wasn’t as large as it is now, and we soon ran into each other again under less official circumstances. When he asked me out, I accepted.
    The problem was this: Dusty drank. A lot. While on benders, he would disappear for weeks, then reappear in my life as if nothing had happened. Hobbled by commitment issues of my own—what survivor of multiple foster homes doesn’t have them?—our on-again, off-again relationship worked for me until a woman he married during a blackout found out where I lived. She shot up my apartment, almost killing me in the process.
    Appalled, Dusty entered rehab and swore off the sauce.
    I swore off Dusty.
    Now my bad penny had turned up again, and I was faced with a decision. Should I continue sitting quietly behind him, hidden by the open door, or should I announce my presence and get the discomfort out of the way.
    Remembering what one of my kinder foster fathers, a Baptist minister, once said, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” I remained quiet while Olmstead told Dusty to take the dudes along the river trail. When the conversation ended and the door shut, I began breathing again.
    “Are you all right, Miss Jones? You look pale.”
    Olmstead’s voice roused me from my shock. “I’m fine, thanks. It’s this higher elevation, I guess. Walapai Flats is about a thousand feet higher that Scottsdale.”
    “One thousand, two hundred and eight feet, to be exact. It’s not like we’re Denver.”
    “Another nice town.” Olmstead wasn’t the only person who could deflect.
    “If you don’t mind the traffic.”
    Small talk can be pleasant, especially after Olmstead’s previous formality, but it’s a waste of time during a murder investigation, so I picked up where we’d left off. “You’ve told me that your relationship with Ike Donohue was slight, but is it possible you or your guests might have heard something negative about him, something that might provide a motive for his murder?”
    “Miss Jones, I have better things to do with my time than listen to idle gossip. Same with my guests.”
    If there had been gossip about Donohue, I’d ferret it out whether he liked it or not. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, Mr. Olmstead, and I understand your not wanting to worry the guests, but if I’m going to help Ted, I need considerably more information than I have now. So please. Who disliked Donohue?”
    “Enough to kill him?”
    “Over time, even the smallest disagreement can fester.”
    He looked at the family photograph again. “Jesus counseled us to forgive the sins of others.”
    “Jesus isn’t involved in this case, though, so would you mind answering my question?”
    Olmstead didn’t like that, but in accordance with his beliefs, he forgave me instead of slapping me upside the head. “Perhaps some of the people involved in V.U.M. get fairly emotional, but never to the point of shooting anyone. They’re responsible people. But since you’re determined to dwell on the negative, drive over to Sunset Canyon Lakes and talk to Mrs. Donohue. Like you, she never misses a chance to speak her mind. As for me, I hardly knew the man. Nor, as far as I know, did anyone else on this ranch, whether wrangler or guest.”
    “What about your other children? The ones who still live at home.”
    “They know nothing.”
    “I need to hear that for myself.”
    He pursed his lips. “I’m not letting you anywhere near them. Aren’t you aware of their condition?”
    I turned around the look at the family photograph. “I take it, then, that your Down syndrome children are the only ones left at home.”
    “Other than Theodore and Leilani, of course. As for the others, even if they did see something, which I doubt because they spend almost all their time in the family home out back, their language skills are so limited they won’t be able to convey that information to you in any meaningful