Ironwood Ranch took that news seriously. I sure as hell do.'
I doubt Shorty Rojas had ever quite come to grips with the essential differences between wrangling horses for a dude ranch and doing the same thing for a rehab joint. He hailed from a simpler, less complicated time long before the red-taped vagaries of the Louise Crenshaws and Lucy Washingtons of the world reigned supreme. People were people to Shorty Rojas, regardless of whether they were dudes or drunks.
I'm sure he shouldn't have, but when I asked him for a ride, he looked at me appraisingly, then shrugged. 'Don't suppose it'll hurt nothin' if I take you there. When you finish, I can still drop you off at the meeting later.'
I followed Shorty outside to an elderly Ford pickup parked ten yards up the hill. 'Get in,' he said. 'She ain't pretty, but she'll get us there.'
The pickup fired up after only one try. It slipped and slid some in the muddy track. As we started up the hill, an unopened can of Coors rolled out from under the seat and banged against the side of my shoe. When I reached down to pick it up, it was icy cold.
'Sorry about that,' Shorty said sheepishly as I handed it back to him and he returned it to its place under the seat. 'I like to have a cool one of an evening.'
'No problem,' I returned.
We sailed out of the parking lot just as people were beginning to climb into vans for the ride to the meetings in town.
The Crenshaws' house was located near the outskirts of Wickenburg, on a high bluff overlooking the highway. When we pulled up in front, Shorty stopped the pickup and turned off the engine. 'Wait here,' he said, climbing out of the truck and starting up the walk. There was no porch light shining on the flagstone patio, but there were lights on inside the house. The porch light came on moments after Shorty rang the bell.
Calvin was the one who came to the door, stepping back in surprise when he saw who it was. They talked for a few moments before Shorty motioned for me to get out of the truck and come to the door.
'Mr. Beaumont, what are you doing here?' Calvin Crenshaw demanded when I stepped into the light.
'Who is it, Cal?' Louise Crenshaw called from out of sight somewhere inside the house.
'It's nothing, hon. I'll handle it,' he said, moving as if to close the door behind him before Louise got a look at who it was.
'Please,' he began hurriedly, 'my wife has been through too much already today. She can't handle any more…' But he was too late. Louise Crenshaw appeared in the lighted doorway before he managed to pull the door shut behind him.
At least someone who resembled Louise Crenshaw stood there. She wore a long blue robe and held a glass in one hand. I thought at first it might be Louise's much older sister, or maybe even her mother, but then I realized that for the first time I was seeing the real Louise Crenshaw, one washed clean of all her war paint. Her sallow face looked like a death mask, a pale reflection of the woman I'd argued with early that morning.
As soon as she recognized me, however, the look of cold fury that further disfigured her face left her identity unmistakable. It was Louise Crenshaw, all right. The one and only.
'What are you doing here?' she inquired imperiously.
'Somebody tried to kill me today,' I answered reasonably enough, I thought, considering the circumstances. 'In my cabin. Naturally, Lucy Washington wouldn't let me report it without your permission, so I'm here to find out what you intend to do about it. In case you haven't noticed, the phones aren't working.'
'You say someone tried to kill you?'
Louise Crenshaw's question was couched in a dismissively sarcastic mode, derogatory but still slyly coy, almost like her old bitchy self.
'Come now, Mr. Beaumont. Surely your imagination is playing tricks on you. If you were female, I'd say you were overwrought, but men don't get overwrought. Or do they?'
'I'm not overwrought, as you call it. Somebody planted a damn rattlesnake in my cabin this afternoon. It's a wonder I didn't step on it in the dark.'
Louise laughed then, uproariously, almost hysterically. Calvin Crenshaw hurried to his wife's side, a worried frown on his face.
'Come on inside, Louise. You really must sit down.'
She pulled away from his grasp. 'I'm all right, Calvin, but I want this man out of here. Now.'
'We'll talk about this tomorrow,' Calvin said to me, turning as if to take Louise back into the house.
'No, we won't,' I insisted before he could hustle her inside. 'We'll talk about it now! Tonight. Don't you understand? I'm telling you, somebody tried to kill me.'
Calvin Crenshaw stubbornly shook his head. 'Rattlesnakes are part of the natural order of things around here, Mr. Beaumont. They do turn up occasionally, especially when it rains.'
'That's what I'm trying to tell you. Shorty says the snake isn't from around here, that it must be somebody's pet.'
Louise came to life and spun around, her eyes wide. 'Who says?'
'Shorty Rojas. He came to my cabin and caught the snake with a stick. It was in my closet.'
Louise's face went suddenly slack. 'You're right, Cal,' she said weakly. 'I want to go lie down, please.'
'Sure, hon. Right away.' Cal turned back to us. 'Wait right here.'
As gently as if she were a damaged porcelain doll, Calvin Crenshaw led his wife into the house, closing the door behind them. He was gone for several minutes. The longer he stayed away, the longer I had to wait, the more aggravated I became. When he finally returned to the door, though, I noticed a subtle change in the man. He was grim-faced but determined.
'Louise and I have talked it over. Our clients have had enough disturbances for one day. You're to go back to the ranch, Mr. Beaumont. Tomorrow we'll decide what's to be done.'
My mouth must have dropped open half a foot. 'Tomorrow? Are you crazy? I'm talking attempted murder here. Homicide. I'm not going back to that cabin, and I'm sure as hell not staying there until there's been a full police investigation.'
'Then you won't be going back at all.' Calvin Crenshaw spoke with a quiet assurance I had never seen in him before. 'That being the case, Mr. Beaumont,' Calvin continued, 'I suggest you have Shorty here take you back to the ranch to pick up your belongings. If you hurry, you may be able to catch the Greyhound into Phoenix.'
'Wait a minute. Pick up my belongings? Does that mean you're throwing me out?'
'If you're not prepared to do as you're told, Mr. Beaumont, you don't leave us any choice. We have a treatment center to run, and we must look to the welfare of all our clients.'
'What the hell do you expect me to do? Forget that someone tried to kill me? Go back to my cabin and act like it never happened? You expect me to sleep there?'
Beside me on the porch, Shorty Rojas shifted uneasily, but Calvin Crenshaw gave him a warning head shake that stifled any objection Shorty might have had. I couldn't blame him. I had no doubt that if he had crossed this newly transformed Calvin Crenshaw, his job would be on the line.
'It's up to you, Mr. Beaumont,' Calvin said, turning back to me, relaxing a little now that he felt he was once more in control. 'If you go back to the ranch tonight, you're welcome to stay. If you leave Ironwood Ranch without permission, however, you won't be coming back.'
Aggravation and mystification turned to rage. 'That remains to be seen, Mr. Crenshaw,' I replied, barely holding my temper in check. 'I will be back, in the morning, along with someone from the Yavapai County Sheriff's Department. If anybody goes near my cabin between now and then, you can tell them for me that they're running the risk of becoming prime suspects in a felony investigation.'
'Good night, Mr. Beaumont,' said an unperturbed Calvin Crenshaw, closing the door in my face as deliberately as if I'd been a pushy door-to-door salesman.
I turned to Shorty. 'What the hell got into him?'
But Shorty Rojas didn't answer. He pulled his cowboy hat down low on his forehead and turned away from me, walking quickly back toward his pickup.
'Sorry about that, Mr. Beaumont,' he said. 'Come on. I'll drop you in town, then I'd better get home and see what the river's doing. It'll be cresting pretty soon now.'
I stopped long enough to look back at the house just in time to see the living room and kitchen lights go out. The message was clear. Calvin Crenshaw was shutting the place down and going to bed. J. P. Beaumont and his
