Lena Jones 02 - Desert Wives

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