Free Desert Shadows (9781615952250) by Betty Webb

catalog isn’t the same as leafing through its pages. And I do want to make certain our library carries a full selection of Southwestern books.” She threw her handbag on the bed, so I followed suit with my carry-all. But I placed it carefully, so my .38 wouldn’t clunk.
    â€œLet’s sit over here,” she said, gesturing to a book-covered oak table surrounded by plush chairs. “Would you like a drink? The mini-bar’s stocked with liquor, juice, and Evian.”
    Mini-bar water could cost up to eight dollars a bottle in Scottsdale, so I ignored my thirst and declined. I hoped she didn’t hear my stomach rumble, because I doubted I’d be able to turn down twenty-dollar pretzels. That half-order of fry bread I’d eaten at WestWorld had only tweaked my appetite.
    â€œMrs. Gordon, I don’t want to interfere with your schedule any more than necessary, so I’ll be quick.” I settled into the chair nearest the big picture window. “Did you see Owen pocket the water hemlock?”
    She sat across from me and looked out toward the pool, where pale-skinned tourists splashed happily. Then she nodded, not taking their eyes off them. “Yes, I’m afraid I did. Some of the others on the hike were behaving foolishly, and Mr. Sisiwan did what he had to do. But I don’t believe for a moment that he is responsible for Gloriana Alden-Taylor’s death. He impressed me as a gentle man.”
    She knew nothing about the Taliban Owen had killed in Afghanistan, and there was no point in disillusioning her. “I had a look at the banquet seating chart. You sat right next to Gloriana, didn’t you?”
    â€œI wonder if they’re wearing sun block,” she said, still watching the pool action. “Those UV rays are dangerous. Are you aware of the number of melanoma cases in Arizona every year?”
    I ask about banquet seating, I get a lecture on UV rays. Interesting. “Mrs. Gordon, could you answer my question?”
    She finally looked at me. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. What was it you asked?”
    â€œWeren’t you sitting next to Gloriana at the banquet?”
    She inclined her head. “Of course. Considering the types of books Patriot’s Blood publishes, I thought the seating rather amusing. Or at least I did until the poor woman became ill.”
    â€œBefore that, did she say anything that made you believe she might be afraid of someone?”
    â€œCertainly not. We just chatted about the publishing business. At one point, she expressed a desire for me to look at some of her publications, saying that they would make a nice addition to Wyatt’s Landing’s collection.”
    I almost laughed. “Fat chance of that, right?”
    â€œAh, you are quite wrong,” she said, patting one of the books on the table.
    For the first time I noticed the title: The South Was Right. Patriot’s Blood Press.
    â€œA librarian is not a censor, Ms. Jones. We are enjoined to serve the public, and if the public wishes to read certain materials, materials that we ourselves may not care for nor even agree with, we still must make them available. Last year, for instance, I ordered several copies of Losing America because the demand was so great. Now it appears that I may order this, ah, historical work.”
    â€œWyatt’s Landing must be an interesting town,” I said.
    Another smile. “No more interesting than Scottsdale.”
    In other circumstances, I would have followed up this intriguing comparison, but this was not the time. “During the banquet, did you see anyone touch Gloriana’s salad?”
    Her initial hesitation to talk vanished, she cut to the chase. “No, I did not. And I did not touch it myself, either.”
    â€œDid you find her behavior offensive in any way?”
    â€œIf you’re asking what I think you’re asking, no. Gloriana made no racial remarks to me nor to any