"That's not what I heard."
She was peering up at me through the open crack of window with a look that was almost conspiratorial while the glow of the halogen streetlight behind her made a lavender halo of her lush blonde hair.
"Maybe you'd better tell me what you heard," I said guardedly. "This is all news to me."
"Joey said he thought you were a plant, a narc working undercover. I'm sure that's why he tried to kill you."
Women drive me crazy. They're forever trying to tell you things while leaving out vital details, those critical specifics that make what they're saying understandable.
"Why who tried to kill me? Lady, you're talking in circles."
"Joey, of course. My son. Who did you think? Ringo belonged to him, you know."
"I don't know anything of the kind," I responded irritably. "Besides, who the hell is Ringo?"
"The snake. Joey's rattlesnake. I ought to know. I lived in the same house with that damned thing long enough that I'd recognize Ringo anywhere, even in somebody else's glass jar a hundred miles from home."
Understanding dawned. Joey's snake.
"You're right," I said. "You'd better come inside. We need to talk."
"But will you help me?" she insisted. "I'm not getting out of the car unless I have your word of honor."
At that point, I would have agreed to almost anything. "Yes," I told her. "You have my word."
I reached down to take hold of the door handle, but Rhonda Attwood didn't wait long enough for me to prove myself a gentleman. She had already unlocked the door, opened it herself, and was getting out.
She straightened up and looked around uncertainly. She was a medium-sized woman, five-five or so, with a dynamite figure.
"Which is your room?" she asked.
"Right here. The one with the burned-out porch light."
She started toward the door. If she felt any concern about entering a strange man's motel room alone at night, it certainly didn't show. She paused on the unlit doorstep and waited for me.
I closed the car door behind her, first checking to be sure both doors were properly locked. They weren't, and so I locked them. After all, I'm from the big city.
She laughed at my precautions. "Thanks, but I'm sure the car would have been fine," Rhonda Attwood said, as I opened the door to let her in. "Nobody's going to bother stealing a broken-down old wreck like that."
Considering Ringo's unannounced presence in my room at Ironwood Ranch earlier in the day, potential car thieves were the least of my worries.
"Better safe than sorry," I murmured.
I glanced around the room nervously, trying not to appear too obvious about it, but checking for snakes just the same. Right about then I felt a certain kinship with the little old ladies in this world who are forever checking in their closets and under beds, searching for prowlers.
Maybe I was being paranoid, but I wanted nothing more at that moment than to be out of Arizona and back home in Seattle, where the rattlesnake population is exceedingly low.
And where Karen Moffit Beaumont Livingston can't make unscheduled surprise appearances.
CHAPTER 9
In terms of quality, the Joshua Tree Motel is a long way from, say, the Westin Bayshore, and I was embarrassed to show anyone, especially an unknown lady, into that dingy hovel of a room, but Rhonda Attwood appeared to be totally unaffected by the bleak surroundings. Without waiting to be invited, she settled herself at the spindly-legged kitchen table with its chipped and mottled gray Formica top.
Seeing her out of the car and in the light, I was startled by her uncanny resemblance to Marsha Rothman. At forty-one or so, Rhonda was a good ten years older than her husband's second wife, but they were both uncommonly attractive women-small-boned, narrow-shouldered, blue-eyed blondes with similarly delicate facial features and classic profiles. Both wore their hair in below-the-ear bobs, but Marsha's flawless honey blonde was courtesy of Lady Clairol herself. No hair dared wiggle out of place in Marsha Rothman's chiseled, precision cut. Rhonda's seemed more nonchalant, breezy, and genuine. The ash blonde was highlighted by marauding streaks of premature silver from Mother Nature's own paintbrush.
"What's the matter?" she asked, settling back against the ragged plastic-covered chair and regarding me curiously. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"It's just that you're so much alike," I mumbled in confusion.
Her lips curled into a tight smile with just a hint of rancor. "You mean Marsha and me? You're not the first to mention it, and I don't suppose you'll be the last. JoJo Rothman never drew a faithful breath in his life, but he's certainly true to type."
"JoJo?" I asked.
"He goes by James now. He got rid of JoJo when he got rid of me. He always picks blue-eyed blondes, but I've got some bad news for Marsha Rothman. She's going to lose her gravy train. JoJo ditched me around the time I hit thirty. She'll reach that soon enough herself. He'll give her the slip then, too. Women age, you see. JoJo doesn't."
She paused for a moment, unabashedly meeting my gaze and giving me an opportunity to study her more closely. Everything about Rhonda Attwood seemed contradictory. Her skin glowed with a healthy, wholesome vitality that showed little assistance from makeup of any kind. A softly feminine pink angora cardigan was worn over a garish Powdermilk Biscuit T-shirt and faded, belted jeans. Her feet were shod in much-used waffle-stomping hiking boots with thick leather thong laces.
A complex woman, I thought, internalizing the full paradoxical effect. Rhonda Attwood was pretty, not beautiful, but capable of making a stunning appearance. At the moment she simply chose not to.
"I don't believe you came here to tell me about your former husband's martial difficulties with his present wife," I said, tentatively, trying to bring her back to the subject at hand.
She nodded, allowing herself to be herded. "You're absolutely right, Mr. Beaumont. I came because I need your help. I came to talk to you about Joey. About my son, and, as I said outside, to ask for your help."
Until she spoke Joey Rothman's name aloud, there had been little outward evidence of the grieving mother about her. Her distress was muted and kept a firmly under control. People who succeed in not showing emotions under these circumstances come from the two opposite ends of the grieving spectrum. Either they genuinely don't care about what happened or they're afraid to show it for fear it will tear them apart.
"I'm sorry about what happened," I said, trying to smoke out which definition applied.
She looked at me appraisingly. "I suppose you think I ought to cry or something, don't you," she said.
"We're all different," I assured her. "No two people react in exactly the same way."
She nodded thoughtfully. "I'm sure most mothers do cry, but I can't anymore. You see, I used up all my tears years ago. Maybe Joey finally died last night, at least his body did, but he's been gone a long, long time. The only thing left for me to do is bury him. After that, I plan to get even."
Her voice was low and husky and deadly serious.
"Get even?" I asked, playing dumb. "What do you mean?"
"I think you know what I mean. Like in the Old Testament. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. I'm going to find whoever did this to him, and I'm going to take them out."
Her words seemed totally at odds with a lady of her demeanor, but there was a chilling certainty about them, a dogged, unemotional resolve, that put me on edge. Determined women who decide to even scores scare hell out of me.
"That's a job for professional police officers," I cautioned.
Unblinking, she stared at me. For a scary moment or two I wondered if maybe that was why she had come looking for me. Maybe she was operating under the misapprehension that I was somehow personally responsible for her son's death. She had laid a narrow purse on the table in front of her. With tension tightening across my shoulders, I gauged how thick the bag was and wondered if it was big enough to hold a handgun. Unfortunately, the answer was yes.