Desert Wives (9781615952267) (28 page)

Chapter 21

“God forgive me, I failed.”

As soon as the words tore from my throat I recognized them as lies. No. I hadn't failed. Not yet. I still had one more day left in Purity, a day to find out who murdered Prophet Solomon. A day to return Rebecca to her mother.

Yes, my mother had failed. Maybe she had even seen my eyes still open as I tumbled from the bus and into the loving arms of the Mexican woman who saved me.

But I
wouldn't
fail.

This wasn't my past. This was the here and now, and I had enough time to find a murderer. Yes, remaining here now would be more dangerous than ever, but so what? I'd faced down danger before and won, starting at the ripe old age of four.

The problem was, almost everyone in Purity had a solid motive for murdering the Prophet. His wives didn't love him, his children feared him, and he'd intimidated the Circle of Elders for years, living in splendor while they grubbed around in slums. I crawled out of bed and headed for the shower, thinking hard. While I fiddled with the taps, I tried each person's motive on for size.
Cui bono?
Who benefited from Prophet Solomon's death? Who had motive, means and opportunity?

I showered in cold water, hoping the shock would help me think. As I scrubbed away my goose bumps, I revisited my belief that the new prophet of Purity remained the most likely murderer. With his father out of the way, Davis inherited the Purity Fellowship Foundation's tax deductible millions. But if Solomon hadn't died in the canyon that night, would the power shift have eventually changed? Earl Graff, leader of the Circle of Elders, desired the more tractable Meade to be named prophet. Possibly an aging Solomon, pressured by more threats of blackmail, might have finally caved in, designating Meade his spiritual heir whether the boy liked it or not.

Earl Graff could murder without a qualm, of that I was certain. But how had he benefited from Prophet Solomon's death? He was the chief proponent of the Meade-for-Prophet-Party, and the old man's death had ended his dreams. Then again, someone had taken a shot at Davis recently, too. It wouldn't have surprised me if Earl's finger had pulled the trigger.

Purity swarmed with murder suspects. In one of his Alzheimer's fugues, Jacob Waldman could have killed Solomon, but why? Then again, people suffering from dementia didn't need rational motives, did they?

Abel Corbett, Rebecca's father, couldn't be left out of the equation, either. Yes, we'd all been told the old prophet had promised him a couple of young girls in exchange for Rebecca, but what if Solomon had reneged on the deal at the last minute? Could the about-face have made Abel angry enough to kill? As I thought about Abel's less-than-stellar track record at fatherhood, an even more intriguing suspect entered the picture.

Noah Heaton, the dwarfish thug who'd been frustrated by Solomon's refusal to give him any wives, looked good for it. Now his wedding day was about to arrive, along with his new wives' welfare checks. Brother Noah had certainly cashed in after Solomon's death.

Noises down the hall interrupted my thinking. Saul was up and headed for the kitchen, Ruby trailing behind him. Thinking about my pseudo-husband and sister wife drew my mind onto a track I'd been avoiding. Saul's own motive for killing Solomon remained second only to Davis's. Solomon had bilked Saul out of his life savings, leaving him stranded in Purity with an unloving wife.

For that matter, how about Ruby herself? She'd told me that Gaynell, her first husband, had died after Solomon's faith healing failed. Although Saul had described Gaynell as somewhat less than kind, Ruby wouldn't have been the first woman to have loved a brute. Even the Marquis de Sade's wife had remained loyal to the bitter end.

Even Cynthia couldn't be ruled out as a suspect. Her father had ignored her desire to attend college, and instead promised her to Earl Graff. If the old bastard had still been alive, I might have been tempted to kill him for that myself.

I finalized my list of female suspects with the person I least wanted to be the killer. Virginia Lawler, the owner of West Wind Ranch, the woman who devoted her life to helping girls escape from the polygamy compounds. Virginia's present life might be an ongoing act of contrition, but I wondered if she found her efforts eased her nightmares. Remembering my own nights, I shuddered. Dreams could make you crazy. They could infiltrate your waking life until you could no longer tell fantasy from reality, right from wrong.

Disturbed, I turned off the taps, stepped out of the shower, and dried off. Maybe I didn't like it, but Virginia had means, motive, and probably opportunity. And then driven back to West Wind Guest Ranch in time for cocktails. Like most ranching types in Arizona and Utah she was probably comfortable with hand guns and rifles, but in the end, what did that prove? The same could be said for every single man, and possibly some women, in Purity.

The real question here was, would Virginia have been heartless enough to allow another woman, a mother, to pay for her crime?

I refused to believe it.

I returned to my room, dressed quickly, and went into the kitchen, where Saul sat eating his Special K as Ruby watched him, her face unreadable. Neither spoke, but at least she'd set out the breakfast fixins'. Her orderly life was about to change, but Ruby just kept plugging along. It was almost admirable.

Then again,
would
Ruby's life change? Granted, Saul was still her legal husband, but did she plan to leave the compound with him? Or would she remain in Purity, hoping that the Circle of Elders would find her a new husband so that she could continue to live near her children and grandchildren?

Thinking about it hurt my head, so I dumped a pile of Special K into my bowl and drowned it with milk.

“Rain's stopped,” Saul finally said into the silence.

“Good. I'm going for a walk, but when I get back I'll help pack.” Getting out of the house would help me think and I had precious little to pack, anyway. Some underwear and maybe one long-skirted dress. As a souvenir.

I bolted down the cereal and after a quick goodbye, headed out the door. It was still early enough that I crossed paths with Meade on his daily journey across Prophet's Park to Ermaline's house for morning prayers.

He smiled, looking more like his mother than ever. “Would you like to join us in prayer, Sister Lena?”

Apparently Meade hadn't heard about the scene with Davis the day before. There was no reason he should have. Even though the two shared the same father, I'd never seen them together. I also doubted Sissy had told him I'd caught her husband fooling around with a seven-year-old girl. In my experience, child molesters' wives usually covered for them.

I shook my head. “Thanks for the offer, Meade, but I'm persona non grata over at Ermaline's these days.”

“Sona non gratis?”

Of course. Latin was hardly a required subject at Purity School. “An unwelcome person,” I translated.

“Oh, that's no problem, then. Sister Ermaline has to do whatever I say, so if you want to pray with us, you just come on. I know that you and your husband have to leave Purity tomorrow, and I'm figuring you need the solace of prayer more than ever.”

What a sweet boy. But something he'd just said intrigued me. “Brother Meade, what do you mean, Sister Ermaline has to do whatever you tell her to do?”

His smile didn't change. “Because I'm a man, and Sister Ermaline is just a woman.”

Not such a sweet boy. “Yeah, well, that's all very nice, kid, but I think exercise will do me a lot more good than your sexist prayers.”

With that, I hitched up my skirt in front of his horrified eyes, and began jogging down the muddy track that led toward the graveyard. I looked back once to see Meade still standing in the dirt circle, staring after me in disbelief.

Once out of the compound, however, I felt a pang of guilt over my behavior. Why blame the kid for his goofy beliefs? He'd been brainwashed, too, and in a way was as much a victim as anyone else. Then I remembered Cynthia's battered body. No, not quite as much as everyone.

As I splashed along the road near Paiute Canyon, I heard the roar of the water. Two days of rain had funneled through the Vermillion Cliffs, creating one of the area's notorious flash floods, so I made certain not to go too near the edge while I ran. After an hour, I decided to take a short break. I slowed to a walk, and moseyed over to the rim, gazing into the canyon as untold tons of muddy water foamed toward the Colorado River. Small trees, ripped loose from their precarious hold on the canyon's walls, bounced along the torrent like daredevil surfers. I even saw a dead antelope borne along in the wake of a mesquite, its head bobbing loosely in the current. I hoped its death had been quick.

Other small corpses floated past, animals too small or frail to escape from the flood. Rabbits. Quail. Unidentifiable bits of feathers and fur.

I don't know how long I stood there watching water and death flow by, hoping those tiny deaths might lead me to understanding. But I when I finally turned away, I found myself no closer to solving Prophet Solomon's murder than before.

Chapter 22

When I entered the compound, I noticed most of the older children had already made it to the school, leaving only a few stragglers to wend their way through the rusting pickup trucks in Prophet's Park. Cynthia herded Cora and several younger children along, so intent upon watching them that she actually ran into me. The impact dislodged a small paperback from her apron pocket.

I retrieved it, but not before reading the title.
The Mayor of Casterbridge,
by Thomas Hardy, the story of a man who sold his wife and child and lived to regret it.

“Interesting choice,” I said. “But whatever you do, don't let anyone here see you reading this.”

She looked around nervously, then hurriedly stuffed the novel back into her apron pocket. “Saul once brought me something that listed the two thousand most important books ever written, so I've been working my way through them. I think I've got about nineteen hundred left.” She paused, and her voice sounded heavy. “I guess I'll have to make the Hardy last until Mother lets me go to my aunt's house in Salt Lake.”

Until? I didn't like the sound of that. “Come with us tomorrow,” I urged. “I'll drive you to your aunt's. Why wait?”

She looked down at the children clustered around her feet, her sisters and brothers. When she finally met my eyes, she whispered, “Oh, Lena. How can I leave them?”

I understood. For years escape to Salt Lake City and the University of Utah had been her dream, and dreams were safe. Now, on the brink of freedom, those dreams looked scary.

Inspired, I bent down and picked up one of the children, a little girl of about four who so closely resembled Cynthia that she could have been her full, biological sister. As I kissed the child's blond head, I asked “Think she'll wind up marrying Earl Graff?”

Cynthia gasped.

Even Cora screwed up her face. “He's nasty.” Then she began playing patty-cake with a younger girl.

“She sure got that right,” Cynthia said, recovering. “But Lena, if I leave, who'll help the kids around here?”

I shifted the little girl, who had grown heavy in my arms. She giggled, and leaned against me, which made me look more closely at her. Adorable, but with the same vacant eyes as Cora. I closed my eyes for a moment, waiting for the wave of rage to pass. When it did, I opened them again.

“She's retarded,” I said.

Cynthia nodded. “But she'll be fine. She'll still be able to make a life. You know how things are around here.”

I sure did. But I wondered about her. “Have you ever been upstairs at the clinic?”

She looked baffled. “No. Why would I? That's where the Circle of Elders meets.”

Just what I'd suspected. The soundproofing was evidence that the male rulers of Purity wanted to keep the compound's genetic problems secret, perhaps fearing that if the girls and young women knew the extent of the defects caused by inbreeding, they might start refusing to marry their relatives. As it stood, though, the females' continued ignorance gave the males exactly what they needed—unlimited power.

Well, I could do something about that. I told her the clinic's ugly secret.

“And it'll only get worse,” I finished up. “Cora and this little girl here, who will they marry, Cynthia? Their cousins? Their
brothers?
And what kind of defects will
their
children have? Now that you know what you know, are you going to stick around and watch the show, just like everybody else?”

Cynthia, who had grown ashen while I recounted what I'd seen on the second floor, looked as sick as I felt. “That's why the Circle of Elders won't let most of us go up there! Just some of the older women.”

“And women like Hanna, women with such low self-esteem that they probably believe their children's problems are
their
fault.”

With that, I set the little girl down and left Cynthia to think about the future of the children she loved.

I continued across Prophet's Park to Saul's house, where I found him knee-deep in boxes he'd picked up at the grocery store in Zion City. Thumping sounds from the bedroom told me that Ruby had started packing in there.

“What a mess,” Saul grumbled, as he carefully stacked his old vinyl 78s into one of the boxes.

I grunted as I headed for the shower once more. “It's a mess, all right.”

In the shower, I turned up the hot water as high as I could stand it. As I scrubbed, mud from my morning run created a dark whirlpool around the drain, vaguely resembling the dirty water in Paiute Canyon. I pushed that memory away, preferring not to dwell on the animals lost to the flood. Closing my eyes, I let the hot water needle my body. I'd seen so much sorrow centered around children lately. Esther. Virginia. Hanna. Even Miles and Dwayne Alder. Could there be anything more horrible than to lose a child, even when the child was a half-crazy criminal?

I tilted my face toward the spray, hoping to wash my memories away. Minutes later, the memories remained, but at least my sore muscles stopped aching. As the tenderness and tension fell away so did my mind's resistance. By the time I'd stepped out of the shower, I knew who'd killed Prophet Solomon.

And why.

Oh, it had all been so obvious. So obvious that I wondered how many people in Purity already knew the truth. But truth and law didn't mean much to them, did it? For decades they'd covered up rapes, wife-beatings, and infanticide, so there was no reason to believe they would suddenly feel compelled to run to the authorities over a matter they'd consider private.

No, Purity liked to solve its own problems in its own way. Even when the solution was simply to do nothing.

Sheriff Benson shared their moral lethargy, too. Like the rest of the Arizona Strip's polygamists, he cared more about keeping his illegal lifestyle intact than he did serving the law. Tony Lomahguahu had called it right; some people preferred walking in darkness instead of seeing the light.

I dried quickly. After putting on a clean granny dress, I hurried down the hallway, pausing once to make certain Ruby was still busy packing in the bedroom.

“Where's your tape recorder?” I asked Saul.

He looked up from a box filled with papers and gestured toward the desk. “Top drawer. What do you need it for?”

“To tape a murderer's confession.”

He blocked my hand from the drawer. “Hey, wait a minute. What do you mean,
tape a murderer's confession?
If you've figured out who killed Solomon Royal, you'd better get on the phone to Sheriff Benson, not play some kind of cops and robbers game with that thing. You could get killed.”

I shoved his hand aside and opened the drawer. “Call Sheriff Benson again? Don't make me laugh. Besides, I know what I'm doing.”

“That's what the fly said to the spider just before he became the spider's dinner.”

I drew the tape recorder out. “Saul, this is the only way. Otherwise, Esther goes on trial for murder.”

After a moment, Saul took the recorder from me, scrabbled through another drawer, and fished out new batteries. When he'd finished reloading it, he handed it back. “I'm going with you.”

I shook my head. “It'll only work if I go by myself.” Turning away, I unbuttoned my high-necked dress, and tucked the recorder securely inside my bra. Facing him once more, I told him how he could help.

“I want you to go ask Davis and everyone in the Circle of Elders for help in loading your truck tomorrow. Tell them it'll get us out of their hair quicker. During the conversation, mention that I think I know who killed Prophet Solomon, but act like you don't believe me. Complain that I've even decided to go over Sheriff Benson's head, right up to the county attorney, maybe even the state attorney general. That should shake them up.”

Saul wasn't happy about my plan, but he followed my instructions and left immediately for Earl Graff's.

He returned within minutes. “I did what you wanted, told Davis, Earl Graff, Vern Leonard, just about everybody I could think of. It may come as no surprise to you, though, that we'll be loading the truck ourselves.”

“What'd they say when you told them I knew who the murderer was?”

“They didn't even ask who.”

Because they already knew. “I'll wait for a few minutes, give them time to spread the word, then I'll get started.”

Saul sank onto the sofa, his face drawn with worry. “Is there anything I can say to stop you? If anything happens to you, I'll never forgive myself.”

I patted him on the arm. “With Prophet Solomon dead, the murderer isn't all that dangerous anymore,” I assured him. I'll be all right, you'll see. And just in case…” I slapped my voluminous skirt, which hid my ever-present .38. “I'm a very good shot. Believe me, Saul, compared to some of the other things I've gone through in my life, this will be a piece of cake.”

As soon as school let out and children and teachers had started streaming toward their homes, I went out on the porch and began to sing a few bars of “Mustang Sally.” Then I stepped off the porch, lifted up my skirts, and danced the Funky Chicken to my song. Once I had been noticed by as many people as possible, including a few shocked women standing in front of their houses, I set off toward the graveyard.

I called to Graff, who'd just emerged from his house. “Since this is my last day in beautiful Purity, I think I'll go for a walk, maybe pick a few wildflowers and take them up to the graveyard.”

Once out of sight of the compound, I began listening for footsteps behind me. At first I thought my plan might not have worked, because the only noises I heard were the roaring of water in the canyon, and above, the harsh cries of hawks on the hunt. But once I crossed the ridge and started down the final stretch of road to the graveyard, I heard the thud of a rock, dislodged from its place, skittering down the slope.

My plan had worked after all.

By the time the murderer finally caught up with me, I was sitting on a rock, staring at the graves of Martha Royal's children. I had already slipped my gun out of the holster and put it next to me, covering it with my long skirt. And I'd reached inside my bra and switched on Saul's tape recorder.

Smiling, I turned and looked into the face of a killer.

“Hi, Meade. Would you like to know how I figured out you murdered your father?”

Fourteen-year-old Meade Solomon looked nervous, but to it came as no surprise to see him unarmed. After all, I was just a woman.

Meade's flushed face almost matched his red flannel shirt. “Brother Earl's right. You're crazy.” But his deep voice failed to carry the conviction he desired.

“Nah, I'm not crazy, Meade, but you may be. After all, you killed your father because he was going to marry Cora the same girl you wanted to marry.”

“Don't be stupid. Cora's my sister.”

I shrugged. “She was Solomon's daughter, too, but that didn't stop him. The men of Purity have been marrying their sisters and daughters for a long time, haven't they, Meade?”

Meade's voice broke then and he sounded like the boy he still was. He nodded. “Yeah, but so what? The Bible tells us it's all right. That ain't why Father Prophet and I…I said hard things to him, things a son shouldn't have to say to his father. But I was right! I called him selfish, I told him he didn't care nothing about Purity, he only cared about himself.” He eyes, which had been stoked with the fires of self-righteousness, became sad. “Nothing I said made any difference, though. When I was through, he told me he'd decided Davis should be the next prophet, not me, and then he ordered me to leave Purity. He said I could go anywhere I wanted in the Outside, even to one of the other compounds, but I couldn't come back here as long as he lived.”

The morning sun was at his back and I couldn't see his face, but I heard the tears in his voice. Like Cynthia and so many other of Purity's children, he feared life on the Outside. I almost felt sorry for him.

“You couldn't leave, could you, Meade? You knew you weren't equipped to make it in the outside world.”

He sniffled. “Purity's my home! Living here is the only way I can ever ascend to Highest Heaven. You understand that, don't you? By telling me to me leave, my daddy was sending me to the lowest pit of Hell. I couldn't let that happen. I
had
to kill him!”

“So you followed him that afternoon when he went hunting. And you shot him.”

He nodded miserably. “Yeah, I acted like I was trying to make it all up with him, like I was taking back everything I'd said. And then I grabbed the shotgun and I did what I had to do. I did it for the good of Purity!”

I was certain he believed it, too. But I found one item in his recital troubling. Meade hadn't killed his father in the heat of the moment, like I'd originally thought; he'd planned the whole thing. The crime hadn't been a spur-of-the-moment act, after all. It had been Murder One.

Still, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. “By killing your father before he banished you, you figured you'd still be able to get into Highest Heaven, right? And murder or not, everything would be all right if you turned away from your one sin and walked a righteous path for the rest of your life.”

Meade shook his head. “No, no. When I shot Father Prophet, it wasn't murder. It was blood atonement.”

“Blood atonement? What do you mean?”

He drew himself up and his voice became deeper, more Biblical. “Brother Earl says I'm the true prophet of Purity, not Davis. So when I do anything, I'm doing it for the good of everybody. My father was a false prophet, and he didn't have any right to keep my bride from me, not after God gave me a revelation that Cora should be my first wife.”

Another convenient revelation that Purity's men—and boys—of Purity used to excuse their crimes. “Oh, I get it. The Devil didn't make you murder your father, God did.”