Read Online Desert Shadows (9781615952250) by Betty Webb - Free Book Online Page B

Gordon was not in her room. No problem, though, he said. Since she was one of the SOBOP people, she was probably attending some seminar or other. Would I like him to send a bellhop in search of her?
    I declined the offer and, taking a map of the resort’s various meeting rooms, set off to find her myself. After a brief stop at SOBOP’s seminar sign-in table, I learned she was in Meeting Room 307, attending “The Bright Future of Minority Publishing.” The seminar was due to finish any minute.
    â€œShe’s wearing an emerald green silk shantung dress and carrying one of those cute little lunchbox handbags,” said the blond woman at the table. Her own handbag resembled a mid-sized suitcase.
    As I started toward the hallway that led to the meeting rooms, the blonde called after me, “Oh, and she’s African-American. Gray hair.”
    I positioned myself outside Room 307 and waited until the double doors opened. Sure enough, here came Myra Gordon in an emerald dress and handbag emblazoned with a cartoon of a sly-looking poodle dressed in a pink poodle skirt. She started to walk by me.
    â€œMrs. Gordon?”
    â€œWhy, yes?” She stopped and offered me a smile. Approximately fifty, her skin, the color of gently creamed coffee, was sprinkled with freckles. Her eyes were a startling topaz. “What can I do for you?”
    I showed her my I.D. and asked if we could go someplace quiet.
    Her face closed down. “I’ve already talked to the police. And unless I am incorrect in my interpretation of Arizona law, Miss Jones, private detectives have no legal standing in murder cases.”
    Librarians. They know everything.
    â€œI’m just trying to keep an innocent man out of prison,” I said. “The accused is a friend of mine.”
    â€œThen I am very sorry for you and your friend.” With that, she opened her poodle-purse and pulled out a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Dabbing her forehead, she added, “I’ve been so busy that I must admit I haven’t kept track of things. I’d heard that someone was arrested last night, but.…” She shrugged. “I didn’t pay much attention.”
    â€œHis name is Owen Sisiwan.”
    Her hand froze. “That sweet man who took us to Oak Creek Canyon?”
    I know when to keep my mouth shut, to let someone’s conscience do the work, so I just nodded.
    She stood there for a moment, letting the stream of SOBOP folks pass us by. Then, tucking the handkerchief back into her handbag, she said, “Let’s go to my room.”
    I followed her down the corridor, across the marble lobby, and into the residential wing of the resort, where we passed enough paintings and sculpture to furnish a small museum.
    â€œNice,” I commented, as we walked along.
    â€œA little pretentious, if you ask me,” she said over her shoulder. “But who am I to criticize anyone’s taste, me with my poodle-purse?”
    â€œI like poodles in skirts.”
    She stopped in front of a door and inserted a card key into the lock. As the door opened, she said, “So do I.”
    The large room, which overlooked the resort’s swimming pool, was furnished in Pima Modern, an ironic theme since the resort was built on land snatched from the tribe during the late 1800s. The sandstone-colored duvet on the king-size bed was decorated with replications of Pima pictographs, and the creamy, textured walls were covered with several signed lithographs of Kokopelli, the mythic Native American flute-player. The room must be costing Gordon a small fortune.
    Seeing me check it out, she volunteered, “The SOBOP discount is the only way I can afford to stay here on my librarian’s salary. Still, I’ll probably be eating beans for a month when I get back to Wyatt’s Landing.”
    â€œThe library isn’t picking up the cost?”
    â€œNo, I’m doing this on my own. Seeing a book described in a