Deadly Deception in Arizona: A Novel of Suspense

Deadly

Deception

in Arizona

An Abby Taylor Mystery

Elizabeth Bruening Lewis

The Sharlot Hall Museum

415 West Gurley Street

Prescott, AZ 86301

928-445-3122

www.sharlot.org

Most writers of fiction emphasize the fictional nature of their product. Indeed, the plot and main characters of Deadly Deception in Arizona are wholly a product of my imagination. However, the historical events, people from the past (and even some from the present who have graciously agreed to appear on these pages—see In Deep Appreciation), and places such as the Sharlot Hall Museum are quite real. These are part of the rich tapestry of this state.

E.B.L.

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© Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Bruening Lewis.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

isbn: 978-1-4669-3276-0 (e)

Trafford rev. 04/19/2012

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

FOR JOHN HAYS, A RANCHER WHO LOVES AND

CARES FOR THE LAND,

FOR LINDA JENCKES AND BLAISE HAZELWOOD WHO HAVE SERVED BRILLIANTLY ON THE BOARD OF THE POLYCYSTIC KIDNEY RESEARCH FOUNDATION;

And for Sharlot Hall and

all the women who gave of themselves to

the Arizona frontier

INTRODUCTION

When an old friend, former Sharlot Hall Museum Director, Richard Sims, asked me to write a forward for a book written by another old friend, Elizabeth Lewis, I accepted more as a favor to two old friends. I’ve written a number of forwards over the years but never one for a mystery. But, my motto has always been, when in doubt, go ahead, so I curled up in a big leather chair and began reading. Now, I’m no stranger to mystery stories. During the 1940s my brothers and I used to lie on the living room floor in the evening listening to Sam Spade and other who-done-it detective stories on the radio. Many years later I got hooked on the wonderful Navajo detective stories featuring Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee. Tony Hillerman became required reading for my Arizona history students.

When I’m reading fiction I much prefer it be a learning experience too. Elizabeth Lewis’ book certainly fills that need. Her story takes place around Skull Valley. Her protagonist is Abby Taylor, a bright young woman who spends a third of her day hooked up to a dialysis machine. She and her soul mate, David Neale, are taking care of a friend’s home in Skull Valley when a series of mysterious deaths occurs. The first is the poisoning of a young bull belonging to neighboring ranchers. We see developing what appears to be a conflict between ranchers, environmentalists and eco-terrorists. But wait! The next victim is a Basque sheepherder. Is the notorious Pleasant Valley War being re-visited? Read on! There’s an odd assortment of characters in the story ranging from trust fund babies, snobs and obnoxious bores to environmentalists and down home, salt of the earth ranch folks. That’s all of the plot you’re going to get from me.

Having grown up in Yavapai County I was riveted by her vivid descriptions of the physical features of an area I’ve known since childhood. For some thirty years my father was an engineer on the Santa Fe trains winding their way past Iron Springs, through Skull Valley and on to Kirkland on their journey along the twisting Peavine from Ash Fork to Phoenix.

The physical descriptions and historical accounts of the area causes

the reader to feel like they’re listening to a professional tour guide lecturing on the unique landscape and history of Arizona.

Through dialogue with her characters we learn something about the pronghorn (antelope) that inhabited the grass-carpeted plains where the town of Prescott Valley now lies. The tall grass protected their young from predatory mountain lions and coyotes until it was eradicated by scores of new homes and businesses. As a youngster, I remember seeing herds of thirty to fifty pronghorn at a time grazing casually on the open plains. Like the great herds of bison that carpeted the Great Plains in the early 1800s, the pronghorn are gone. Development has changed forever the face of that and other parts of Yavapai County. The reader also learns about the ways preservation groups such as the Nature Conservancy works to preserve the land from urban development.

Her characters delight the readers with delightful tidbits of Arizona history, ranging from the Indian Wars of the second half of the 19th century to women like Margaret McCormick and Sharlot Hall. Margaret was the young bride of Richard McCormick, the second territorial governor, and the man who named the new capital, Prescott. Margaret, wanting to bring a little civilization to the wilderness capital, brought a rose bush from her eastern home, planting it next to the log-structured governor’s mansion, where it grows today. She died giving birth to a stillborn child in the spring of 1867, and was buried beneath a pine with her child wrapped tenderly in her arms.

Sharlot Hall was an independent, determined, and spirited woman who saved the old governor’s mansion from destruction, and for whom the museum is named. As a young girl in 1882, she rode horseback with her family from Kansas to Yavapai County. Later she was a gifted poet, writer, and was named territorial historian, becoming the first woman in Arizona to hold public office. During the early 1900s he was also one of the leaders in Arizona’s battle for statehood.

This is much more than a mystery story but the author manages to draw the reader into her web of intrigue as the plot unfolds, such as greedy developers who will stop at nothing in their quest to turn pristine ranges into cookie-cutter communities. But wait, I said I wouldn’t reveal any more of the plot. You’ll have to read it for yourself.

Yup, this is a real page turner. Like all good mystery stories, it’s got an interesting twist of the tale at the conclusion. By the way, I think you’ll like the way things turn out in the end.

Marshall Trimble

Official Arizona State Historian

Deadly Deception in Arizona

An Abby Taylor Mystery

Sequel to the award winning

To Live or Die in Arizona and Dry Death in Arizona

Chapter 1

His victim toddled purposefully toward the trap. The scene had an aura of super clarity as if he were looking through powerful binoculars set too high. Every detail seared itself on his brain like being burned onto a CD: the sky an impossible blue, shimmering with intense sunlight; newly unfolded leaves pristine in their bright spring green; where cattle grazed peacefully on fields that rolled up gradually into foothills dotted by the dark forms of juniper, their spicy scent carried down to him by a light breeze; in front of him patches of emerald grass over which his victim ambled. Country quiet broken only by the rumble of a jet far overhead. Too beautiful a day to die.

At the thought of death a wave of fear swept through him—a nameless, amorphous dread. Wiping his hand across his forehead he found it damp, though not from the heat because May still remained relatively cool in the Arizona high country. Nonetheless his lips and throat were parched. Dizziness and nausea attacked him like persistent gnats swarming over his body. His legs threatened to give way. The shadow of a hawk passed silently by.

Just for a moment the scene blurred, then snapped into focus again as the little fellow, whose progress he was monitoring so closely, moved on toward the pile of fresh leaves and new-mown grass. Not actually little, he corrected himself, for the Hereford bull yearling probably already weighed in at around six hundred pounds. His hooves, dainty in comparison to his bulk, appeared to be topped by white bobby socks of the sort young girls wore in old movies from the Forties and Fifties. A white face, white chest, and dark red markings stood out against the deep russet of his shining coat.

Crouched behind a screen of scratchy scrub oak, the man watched in horrified fascination as the yearling picked up steam, heading for the bait. His tail twitched jauntily; with one ear he flicked away a fly. Then he began to nibble away as nature had intended. This would lead to urination, the killer reminded himself, eventually some twenty pounds a day, defecation, perhaps as much as fifty pounds there, belching, and farting on a grand scale. Full-grown, this guy would emit quantities of methane gas, not up to the amount produced by rice paddies, but still significant in an ever warming world.

This is what the measured, mechanical voice on the phone had told him. At the Prescott Public Library, he’d found that the voice had been right. Only this particular yearling would do no such thing. Nor would he breed others who would similarly pollute the environment, breeding being this guy’s designated role in life. Men were so careless of the world they lived in, and even more careless of each other, he reflected with sorrow. Sure, you couldn’t prevent every source of pollution, or even every source of cruelty for that matter. But here was one significant blow for the environment. One polluter and his future progeny wiped off the map.

At last the little fellow came across the oleander. The voice had told him that he’d have to bring it up from Phoenix since oleander didn’t grow much above three thousand feet, and here they were a thousand feet higher. But as it happened, he hadn’t had to make the hour-and-a-half drive to the southeast. He’d found everything he’d needed around Wickenburg, including a pile of new-mown grass and fresh-cut leaves.

To the watcher the yearling, ears flicking, tail high, seemed ecstatic at the opportunity to try something new. He munched, swallowed, then staggered a few uneven steps, and dropped with a resounding thud. For a moment his hind legs kicked convulsively, hooves scraping the dirt. Then the body went limp.

Mission accomplished. The man should have felt elation. Instead he gasped for air, his lips and fingers went numb, his legs trembled. Shit, it was only a cow! But the lifeless form before him, so young and so alive a few minutes before, tugged at his heart.

* * *

Abby Taylor awakened between the two males she loved most in all the world.

She would have said men, but the implications would have been risqué and besides, she was too literal. One, after all, was distinctly canine—a small, soft, red and white mass with large ears up at the alert even with the body in repose, a long muzzle, stubby legs, and no tail. Francis. The other form beside her—very human, very masculine, very . . . Here she gave up on adjectives.

She admired David Neale’s body as he slept, or at least what she could see of it; although he eschewed night clothes, the sheet and a light blanket were pulled up to his waist. Nor could she look into his blue eyes, closed as they were in sleep, protected by thick lashes and sheltered under dark brows. But she could appreciate the tousled shock of thick dark hair shot with gray, the high forehead and the even features of his face. A light morning stubble set off his full lips, which in turn called attention to a straight, rather smallish nose. Her eyes traveled downward to the dark strands which made his chest, if never quite as soft as Francis’s, so invitingly male. Reluctantly she restrained the temptation to run her fingers across it for fear of awakening him.

One arm was thrust over the blanket, an arm corded and firm with use from the sort of outdoor activity—hiking, backpacking, mountain climbing—which left much of his body lightly tanned the year around. Abby smiled as she remembered reading an article in People magazine about men who bulked up on steroids—a Mr. World-type approach to male beauty. Frankly, it did nothing for her. She wanted to see muscles that had been developed through real work, not pumped up by drugs and machines.

Indeed, she thought, although this was a wonderful scene there was something wrong at its core and it wasn’t the presence of Francis, who should have stayed on the floor on his special mat, darn it. The little devil had somehow wriggled up onto the bed in the night, although how he’d done it without awakening her, Abby wasn’t sure. No, nothing that precious Francis did could be very wrong. The problem was the presence of the simple gray machine resembling a portable lectern if you ignored the tubes and sacks and the screen where computerized information appeared. It looked completely out of place in the master bedroom of the old ranch house friends had loaned them while hiking in southern Chile. Its dull, metallic finish had nothing in common with the room’s soft yellow flocked wallpaper, the fleecy white curtains under silky yellow drapes now stirred by a light morning breeze carrying with it the fresh scent of growing things, and the ornately carved antique walnut bed which spoke of another era. The sleek machine seemed totally out of place sitting there on the nubby hand-hooked rug with its graceful swirls and floral arrangements. It wasn’t large, but to her eyes it dominated the space; a dialysis machine which spoke all too clearly of her infirmity.

God knew dialysis had helped as her kidneys continued to fail, and she was grateful. But she was young, in her early forties. She wanted to live! If not with wild abandon—hardly her style in any case—at least not dragging a machine and sacks of dialysate around wherever she went. She had done nothing to deserve this fate, she thought, anger washing over her. She had never abused her body. She had devoted herself to teaching Anglo-Saxon literature, culture, and history at Vassar College. Not exactly earth shaking, but not a lifestyle designed to court life-threatening disease either.

Outside a horse whinnied, and another answered in kind. A calf bawled for its mother. Somewhere someone was running a tractor. The day was underway.

Her eyes slid back to the man beside her, so much a part of her life now, but for how much longer? Since her long-time lover had died many years ago there had been other men. But no one like David Neale. No one who made her ache like a teenager for his touch, no one whose kiss made her want to collapse with him on top of her. No one . . . The images came thick and fast, more and more explicit.

Not that the dialysis precluded physical intimacy. David had proved that to her most conclusively. Yet how long could an active, virile man commit himself to a woman who spent almost a third of her life connected to a machine to cleanse her system of its impurities and remove the excess liquid normally excreted in urine? Worse still, a woman who seemed to be drifting off into a never-never land, unable to face critical decisions?

At the insistence of Lida, her dialysis nurse, Abby had put herself on the transplant list when she arrived in Arizona. You know, you don’t have to accept a transplant until you’re ready, Lida had assured her. You can always say no. Subsequently friends had offered kidneys, and almost to her relief none had proved a satisfactory match. Did she have the guts to go through a major operation? She recoiled at the thought. Could she accept into her body part of another? Could she relinquish the control of her life to which she clung so tenaciously? Not only was there the operation itself to consider—Abby out cold and the surgeon calling the shots—but afterwards? What then? Would her life still be her own? She wondered, she really wondered.

She wanted to escape, not make any decisions at all, to back-pedal into the world of before, before her kidneys failed her. But she couldn’t go back, and she wasn’t at all sure she had the courage to go forward. She balled her fists, whether in fury or frustration she could not have said.

* * *

"What? Harriet Alderson almost shouted into the telephone at her friend. Not Brownie!"

Yes, Brownie. Janet Barnes’ voice was clogged with tears. Little Brownie. She started to sob, then with obvious difficulty and a couple of half-strangled gasps reined herself in and broke off weeping.

Leaning back in her swivel desk chair, Harriet convulsively swung one of her long legs back and forth. Janet—tough little conquer-the-world Janet—crying? Her heart went out to her. They made unlikely friends, she knew. Janet, small, compact, freckled, with short sandy-colored hair; herself tall, slender, her long once-brunette hair softened into silver, setting off a face which looked as if it had never entertained a pimple. Janet with her almost fanatic devotion to family and ranching. She herself immersed in the world of fine art. But in this valley there were only eight spreads, two of which were seldom occupied by their owners. Proximity had bred familiarity and, in this case, ultimately friendship. Harriet admired Janet’s feisty approach toward life. If she couldn’t share her enthusiasm for livestock, she certainly related to the younger woman’s love and care for her children, something Harriet and her long-time companion, Saul Jacob, sadly lacked.

Brownie, Harriet repeated forlornly.

A double tragedy, Harriet recognized instantly. Janet and her husband, Sam, viewed their livestock with real affection. Not exactly as pets—it wasn’t politic to become too attached to a beast which would some day be shipped off to the feedlot before being turned into hamburger—but certainly with affection. And Brownie wouldn’t have gone the hamburger route anyway. He was born to breed and, circumstances being different, would have lived a long and fruitful life covering cows.

Therein lay the second part of the tragedy. The Barneses were struggling to build up their ranch and the herd that went with it. Brownie’s loss hit them hard emotionally, but even harder financially.

He was insured, wasn’t he?

Oh, yes, Janet answered. Only not for what he would have been worth after he sired a few prized calves. He was a very special find. He hadn’t had a chance to prove his potential yet . . . but once he did . . . She started to cry again softly.

I just don’t know what to say. Harriet hated to be at a loss for words. She stared ahead of her. The view through the south window of her office was idyllic; no traffic, no wires, no development; just a few contented cows belonging to neighbors, and some horses. Afternoon sunlight poured through the clerestory windows on the west until the room glowed. To the east she could look through double doors opening on to the master bedroom, where another large window, aligned with the doors, offered a view of the high desert and rolling hills beyond. She had so much to cherish and enjoy, while Janet fought tenaciously for a way of life to which she was committed with every fiber of her body. Were she and Sam fighting a losing battle?

What happened? Harriet asked. All Janet had told her so far was that the yearling had died, not how or under what circumstances.

Oleander.

Oleander? Harriet snorted in disbelief. Impossible. It doesn’t grow up here.

Of course not. Some damned environmentalist. The younger woman’s voice had left the weeping mode and had transitioned into hard, cold anger, anger as dark and daunting as the twisted gray and black rocks of the Grand Canyon’s Inner Gorge. Those bastards loosen the bolts in our windmills so that the windmills fall apart and if we don’t find the cattle in time, they die miserably of thirst. You know a cow needs about ten gallons of water a day, fifteen or more if it’s really hot and dry, Janet rattled on. Most of the year there’s no surface water, so if the tanks aren’t filled . . . Oh, another dirty little trick is to cut fences so that the cattle wander out onto the highway. If some motorist is killed too, well, that’s just too damned bad.

And no way to stop them, Harriet sympathized. Saul and she only lived up here part of the year. They spent the winter season in Scottsdale, where she was the proprietor of a small but chic art gallery; midsummer they usually traveled. But even without being full-time residents or raising livestock, it didn’t take long to get the picture. The raiding Indians and predators of yore had given way to ecoterrorists and even worse, trigger-happy fellows who, feeling macho, would shoot at anything, including a valuable cow. ATVs opened the door to them. No one was exempt.

No way at all, Janet agreed. I carry my Winchester 30/30 and I’d shoot them, or at least their wheels, if I could catch up with them. But with those damned ATVs . . .

Harriet, leg swinging even faster, looked around her office for inspiration, but none was forthcoming. Bookshelves crammed with art books of all descriptions lined the walls. Displayed on the large, polished mahogany desk which dominated the room and the side table beside it was the latest in computer equipment. Here was Harriet’s life. Besides her gallery, she bought and sold art on eBay. Not that any of this was necessary. She could retire at any time, could have retired years ago. But what was the point? She still felt the thrill of the game every day as she hunted down a particularly nice example of the Taos School for a discerning patron, gently counseled another that the Tamayo after which he lusted was probably bogus, and told a recent widow that the collection her late husband had amassed would get her daughter through college with funds to spare.

Oleander, Janet repeated as if solidifying the fact, and Harriet snapped back from the world of Tamayo to the ranching world of Yavapai County. Mixed in with leaves and grass cuttings. If Manuel— Harriet knew that Janet was referring to their ranch foreman—hadn’t happened to ride that way, I don’t know how many head we would have lost. Oh, Harriet, some days I think we should just sell out to the developers.

That said more about her agitation than even the tone of her voice. The Barneses’ ranch had been in Janet’s family for three generations, three generations of ranchers who had loved it and cared for it. But development edged closer. Harriet had just read that Yavapai County, in western Arizona, was the fastest-growing rural county in the country. Here, above the heat of the desert floor, with easy access to Wickenburg, Prescott, and the not too distant Phoenix/Scottsdale area, people were discovering a way of life that had great attraction, especially for the retired or, she added to herself with a slight smile, for those who through the Internet counted the whole world as their bailiwick.

I know Saul is an avid environmentalist, Janet said. But whatever doubts he has about the damage done by livestock to the environment, even he wouldn’t want to see a sea of tiled roofs like some of those developments down in Phoenix along the 101 or in north Scottsdale.

"And he certainly wouldn’t kill a yearling, Harriet assured her friend in case she entertained any doubts on the subject. He’ll pick up a cricket and deposit it outdoors rather than squash the darned thing."

Oh, Harriet, I wouldn’t ever think Saul would harm Brownie! Janet protested.

Harriet shifted a few papers on her desk and for a moment enjoyed the feel of the light, dry breeze coming through the open windows, carrying with it the spicy smell of spring. As far as she could see, enough had been said for the present on the subject of poor Brownie and her companion Saul for that matter. Are you going to the Barretts’ party Thursday? she said, abruptly changing the subject. Of course everyone in their valley would have been invited, but between family and ranching, would the Barneses have the time?

Luncheon on the lawn? With Bob and Louise McCall? I wouldn’t miss it. Some animation seeped back into Janet’s voice. We took the children to see his work in the Smithsonian when we went to Washington last year. They loved it. Of course Sam and I are going to the official opening on Friday at the Phippen, but it will be nice to chat with the artists themselves under less crowded conditions. Tim— Harriet knew she referred to their twelve-year-old son—has been putting together a list of questions to ask Bob McCall, like where does he get his ideas and how does he figure out what things might look like in space. Space art really intrigues him.

Yes, indeed, and we all know that Bunny will put on a fabulous feed.

For a moment both women contemplated the wonders that Bunny Barrett, known for her outstanding cuisine, might conjure up. Then the two women rang off. Harriet checked her e-mail, but let the unanswered ones be. Brownie, not Brownie, she thought. Such a future before him and, for a cow, a really handsome little guy. She remembered Janet pointing him out with pride, his russet coat set off by dark red and white markings gleaming in the sunlight. If 600 pounds of young bull could be called cute, Brownie was it.

Why would anyone kill an innocent animal? Hunting she could understand, since so many of the predators that formerly had thinned the ranks of the wildlife in the West had been killed off. And, unless she were willing to become a vegetarian like Saul, she could hardly object to the feedlot and beyond. But Brownie?

As an act of contrition, although the sin had not been hers, she pulled out her checkbook and wrote a substantial check to the United Animal Friends in Prescott. It wouldn’t do Brownie any good, but it might ease the life of some abandoned cats and dogs.

* * *

"Now, Louise, you’re supposed to be a guest. Stop working so hard!" Bunny shook her head at her friend, who was busily filling the dishwasher with used cooking equipment.

Bunny had been pleased to note that the day for the luncheon on the lawn had dawned as clear and bright and beautiful as had every day so far in May. The two women had set up round tables for six on the spacious flagstone patio. Bunny noted that the tablecloths echoed the colors of Louise’s paintings: vibrant yellow, tangerine orange, rich blue, and a scintillating touch of green. A blue ceramic pot of red-orange geraniums sat in the center of each table. With the blue sky above, the golden orb of the sun, and the swath of green lawn on the far side of the patio beyond which a few cattle and horses grazed, the scene made a picture in itself. Bunny wished she could get Louise to paint it, but Louise’s taste ran more to flowers than to landscapes—not shy little things but huge blooms bursting with life and animation. And besides, at present there wasn’t time. Helga Johnson, who would serve and see to the cleanup, would soon be there and then the guests.

Meanwhile, as far as she could determine, everything was under control. The goat cheese tarts were ready to pop in the oven and the sunflower lamb chops were all set to be sautéed. The vegetable pasta salad had been left to chill in the refrigerator, a big Sub-Zero perfect for the parties she and Bill loved to give, where the asparagus cooked al dente and tossed in a light vinaigrette would join it momentarily.

Now, tell me again who’s coming, Louise asked as she sprinkled pine nuts over the asparagus. It struck Bunny, and not for the first time, that Louise and she looked enough alike to be sisters: both small, trim, white-haired ladies of a certain age with high, arched eyebrows which seemed to signify that the large, dark brown eyes beneath intended to miss nothing. Both women bounced with energy and enthusiasm.

Charlotte Ridgeway and Lindsay Stern you met last time you were here. Charlotte’s the retired stockbroker, and Lindsay used to teach elementary school. Now they raise sheep and weave.

Yes, I’ve seen their rugs, really beautiful things, Louise murmured as she continued to concentrate on the pine nuts.

I invited John Mayer, the rancher whom you met before, but he goes out less and less since his wife died. Besides, today is the day the program director of the Prescott office of the Arizona Nature Conservancy is going to meet with him and ride over his land. John wants life tenancy, but hopes to make arrangements with the Conservancy or some similar organization so that it will be protected when he dies.

John has no children?

Only a daughter who’s in banking in California.

Louise finished with the pine nuts. And?

Roland Tramer, you remember the semi-retired real-estate developer, accepted, along with Sarah, that sweet little Mormon girl who acts as his slavey, and his new lady friend, Mary Linda Raleigh. I’ll just let you meet Mary Linda and make up your own mind, she chuckled.

An