Desert Shadows (9781615952250) by Betty Webb

written out a check to help Owen’s wife buy groceries, but that wouldn’t help her long-term problem. Like most of the Pima Indians out on the Salt River-Maricopa Reservation, the Sisiwans had little money. Life had begun to look up since the Pima casinos had opened on the eastern edge of Scottsdale, but it would take time for the tribe to complete its climb out of poverty. War hero or not, Owen was as broke as everybody else on the Rez.
    Thinking about Owen’s real-life problems made my own nightmares fade. “You’re visiting him tonight, right?”
    â€œYeah. Esther and I’ll drive over to the jail after work.”
    â€œTell him not to worry, that I’ll have him out of there in no time.”
    I hoped my voice sounded more optimistic than I felt.
    ***
    When I parked the Jeep in front of Zachary Alden-Taylor VI’s house, I allowed myself a moment of surprise. I had imagined that Gloriana’s grandson would live in grander digs, but I’d been wrong. Granted, South Scottsdale had never been known for its high-toned mansions—we left that sort of thing up to our posher kin to the north—but Scottsdale was still Scottsdale, right?
    The street, while not exactly slummy, was lined with the kind of small, inexpensive tract homes you would find in any working class Arizona neighborhood. Bargain-basement stucco painted in ice cream colors attempted to relieve the monotony, but Zachary’s house wouldn’t have looked out of place in Appalachia. Its roof sagged, a sheet of crumpled aluminum foil patched a broken front window, and the indoor-outdoor carpeting covering the a-kilter porch had been ripped in several places, exposing the crumbling concrete pad beneath. The tiny lawn surrounding this wreck had long ago given up its fight for life and had let the desert take over. Someone had money troubles.
    I stepped carefully up the short walk, dodging a couple of skittering scorpions, yet feeling my spirits rise. I could almost hear Owen’s cell door open.
    When I reached up to knock on the ripped screen door, though, a yellow flier fluttering from the knob temporarily drove Owen from my mind. Over the photograph of a blond-haired child, the headline on the flier read, MISSING: A FUTURE FOR WHITE CHILDREN . At the bottom was an invitation to join the National Alliance.
    They were recruiting in Scottsdale now? I looked back along the street and saw yellow fliers on each door.
    As I stood on the porch, wondering if I’d break any laws if I ripped the flier away (and if I cared), the screen door opened. A tall, dark-haired beauty with vivid blue eyes smiled down at me. “I told Boz you were coming for him and he’s very excited.”
    Boz? “I don’t think.…”
    She opened the screen door further, and I saw a small black and brown dog grinning up at me from between Beauty’s ankles. Regardless of the fact that he was a mere Heinz 57 mutt, he had been groomed within an inch of his life and reeked of Giorgio.
    â€œCute dog,” I said. “But I.…”
    â€œGet in here quick before somebody gets out.” She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a tiny living room, which, after the bright sunlight outside, seemed barroom dark. As the screen door snapped shut behind me, the scent of Eau de Kitty Litter replaced the Giorgio. Even in the gloom I could make out a startling assortment of animals perched upon every conceivable piece of furniture. More dogs, cats, even several rabbits swarmed across a tatty, tweed-patterned carpet. The few areas not covered with shed hair and/or animals were heaped with books.
    Beauty, whom I now saw was very pregnant, chattered on about Boz and paperwork. Surreptitiously, I stuffed the National Alliance flier into my carry-all.
    â€œYou’ll need to fill out some papers swearing on the life of your first-born that you won’t keep him on a chain in the backyard and other evil stuff like that,