"I couldn't have said it better myself."
The course of the interview had taken so many sudden twists and turns that I had almost lost sight of my initial reason for wanting to talk to her. I had come to report an attempt on my own life, but that original intention kept getting buried under other issues. Resentment boiled to the surface.
"And let me remind you, Detective Reyes-Gonzales, that no matter what you were told by the sheriff or Crenshaw or anybody else, somebody, most likely Joey, tried to kill me with that snake yesterday afternoon. I'm not going to let up until I know for sure."
The detective flashed me a winning smile. "If I were you…" she began.
"You're not me," I reminded her, and strode away.
Rhonda Attwood was waiting in the lobby with a night clerk hovering in attendance when I came out of the office area. She seemed to have gotten herself under control.
"There's a message for you," she said.
I turned to the clerk. "For me? For J. P. Beaumont?"
"Yes. Mr. Ames said to tell you that he's chartered a helicopter and that he expects to be in Prescott within the hour. He said for you to wait right here. We've sent a cab out to the airport to meet him."
"Who's Ames?" Rhonda asked, showing some interest.
"Ralph Ames. My attorney. He's coming up from Phoenix."
"By chartered helicopter?" she asked.
"He thought I was in some kind of trouble," I answered lamely. "So did I."
"I'll wait with you until he gets here," Rhonda said.
I thanked the clerk for the message then led Rhonda over to some chairs by a blind-covered window.
"Tell me about her," Rhonda said.
"The detective? What's to tell?"
"Not her, the girlfriend. Joey's girlfriend…the pregnant one."
"Her name's Michelle, Michelle Owens."
"Where's she from?"
"Ironwood Ranch."
"You mean she lives there?"
"No, she was a client, same as everybody else. They met there. Like the detective said, she's only fifteen, a mousey little girl. The last time I saw her she looked like she was scared to death."
"I don't care what she looks like. Where does she live?"
"With her family, her father anyway. He's in the service, a lieutenant colonel in the army, I believe."
"From here in Arizona?"
"I think so, but I can't remember where exactly. Fort something. It seems like the name starts with a W."
Rhonda thought about that for a moment. "Fort Huachuca, maybe?"
"That's it. I told you it starts with a W."
"It starts with an H," she corrected. "It's Spanish."
"You could have fooled me," I said.
Suddenly, a light came on in my head. Detective Reyes-Gonzales had mentioned a suspect. She hadn't said so in so many words, but her manner had hinted that I wasn't it. I was off the hook and somebody else was on, and I wondered if that somebody was Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens.
"I'm going to talk to her," Rhonda said determinedly.
Absorbed in my own thoughts, I hadn't been listening. "Talk to who?" I asked.
"Michelle, and her father, too."
The mention of Guy Owens made me feel as though Rhonda had somehow been peering into my brain. Talking with Guy and Michelle Owens was the last thing Rhonda should do, especially if the lieutenant colonel really was Detective Reyes-Gonzales' prime suspect.
"Don't," I said. "Leave them alone. Don't go messing around with things you don't know about."
"What I don't know about!" Rhonda repeated venomously. "After all, he was my son."
"What I mean is…"
Rhonda didn't wait for me to finish. She got up from the chair and bolted toward the door, where she ran headlong into Ralph Ames. He stopped abruptly, grabbed her elbow to keep her from falling, apologized, and then looked around the room frowning until he caught sight of me.
"There you are," he said. "How are things?"
"Fine."
"I don't see any handcuffs. Does that mean you're free to go?"
"As near as I can tell."
"Are you telling me this whole thing was a false alarm?"
"There's nothing false about it, Ralph. My roommate's still dead. This is his mother." standing quietly beside him, Rhonda Attwood hadn't moved during the course of Ralph's and my exchange. He looked down at her and seemed to see her for the first time.
"Excuse me," he said politely, releasing her arm and then holding out his hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Ralph Ames, Mr. Beaumont's attorney. His roommate was your son? I'm so sorry."
She took his proffered hand and shook it. "Thank you," she said. "My name is Rhonda Attwood."
While a look of total consternation passed over his face, Ralph Ames did a complete double take. He stepped back a step, a full step.
"The water-colorist!" Ralph evidently knew the lady. If not personally, at least by reputation.
Rhonda inclined her head gracefully. "Yes," she said.
"But your son's name…"
"Attwood was my maiden name," she explained.
"Of course," Ralph said, nodding. "If there's anything I can do to be of service…"
"I'll let you know," Rhonda said, completing his sentence. "And since you're here to pick up Mr. Beaumont, I'll be heading back to Sedona."
She started away then stopped and turned to me. "I heard you tell the detective inside that you will be staying with Mr. Ames here. Is that where I could get in touch with you if I needed to?"
Ralph groped in his pocket and extracted a card. He handed it to her. "Both my office and home numbers are on there," he said. "Feel free to call any time. If we're not in, be sure to leave a message."
Rhonda nodded her thanks and walked away.
"Who the hell is that?" I asked.
"You should know. You were with her."
"But you acted like you knew her."
"You mean you don't?"
"No, dammit. All I know is her son was my roommate and he got himself killed. When they shut down the bridge in Wickenburg tonight, she gave me a ride here to Prescott. Let me tell you, she may be a nice lady, but as a driver she's scary as hell."
Ralph Ames looked at me and shook his head sadly. "She's developing quite a reputation throughout the state as one of the most up-and-coming young water-colorists. As far as I'm concerned, she's still terribly underpaid, but she's also very, very talented. She does such marvelous work and yet here you are complaining about her driving?"
"Somehow water-coloring didn't come up in the course of conversation. Survival takes precedence over aesthetics. Now shut up and take me home, Ralph. I'm dead on my feet."
CHAPTER 11
When I woke up it was two o'clock in the afternoon. I lay there for a while on the huge bed in Ralph Ames' guest room, looking out the window and across a pristine backyard swimming pool at the huge mass of ocher sandstone that forms the hump of Phoenix's famed Camelback Mountain.
There was a discreet tap on the door. "Come in."
Ames entered wearing a three-piece suit but playing butler. He handed me a snazzy cordless phone. "Telephone for the birthday boy," he announced.
Birthday? Was today my birthday? Somehow the arrival of my birthday had gotten lost in the frenetic shuffle of the past few days.
"Hello?"
"Dad? Is that you? Are you all right?"
It was Scott. His voice sounded tight and worried. "Of course I'm all right, Scotty. Where are you?"
"Home," he said. "In California. We all drove home to Cucamonga last night. I don't know what you said to Mom. She was furious. I've never seen her that mad. I don't think Dave had ever seen her like that, either."
"She thought I was out drinking."
He hesitated. "Were you?"
"No. It was all a big misunderstanding. Your mother saw me in a bar and jumped to the wrong conclusion."
"That's what Dave tried to tell her," Scott said ruefully, "all the way home, but she wouldn't listen. Anyway, I just called to wish you a happy birthday."