the desert still had an alien look about it, alien and forbidding and full of snakes.
When we reached his office, Ralph disappeared into his inner sanctum, leaving me to linger in the finely appointed reception area, where I used the phone to negotiate a temporary peace treaty with Alamo Rent A Car.
It wasn't easy. They were not happy to hear that their vehicle was in the hands of the Yavapai County Sheriff's Department as part of the evidence in a murder investigation, and they weren't eager to rent me a substitute vehicle, either. The first three people I spoke to insisted that I was responsible for daily charges regardless of whether or not the vehicle had been impounded by a law enforcement agency, and none would agree to place a clarifying phone call to Detective Reyes-Gonzales. Finally, on the fourth try, I connected with a supervisor who did make the call. With some additional prodding, she reluctantly allowed as how I could have a Subaru station wagon if I came back to Sky Harbor International Airport that evening to pick it up. I told her I'd be there.
When Ralph emerged from his office an hour later, he was wearing a self-satisfied smile that put me on guard as soon as I saw it.
'What are you grinning about?' I asked.
'Oh, nothing,' he said offhandedly, which worried me that much more. 'We have an early dinner reservation. We're meeting someone.'
'Who?'
'It's a surprise.'
The surprise got unwrapped as soon as we pulled into the parking lot of Vincent's on Camelback. The car idling roughly in front of us under the valet parking canopy was a familiar one, a dark green Fiat Spider.
'Rhonda Attwood's here too?' I asked.
Ralph Ames grinned smugly. 'That's right. She called and left a message this morning. When I got back to her this afternoon with the information she needed, she said she wanted to speak to you as well. I suggested that she meet us here.'
'Information? She asked you for information? What kind?'
'You know I can't answer those kinds of questions, Beau. She asked me to make some simple inquiries for her, that's all.'
Ralph's suddenly choosing to duck behind a curtain of professional confidentiality surprised me. Since when had Rhonda Attwood become a client of his?
'You know what she's up to, don't you?' I asked.
'Up to? She's trying to bury her son, and not getting a whole lot of cooperation from her former husband,' Ames replied confidently, as though he hadn't a doubt in the world that he knew the whole truth of the matter. I had been too worn out on our trip down from Prescott to Phoenix to give him many of the disturbing details from my hours alone with Rhonda Attwood, but I could see now that I should have warned him.
'Don't get mixed up with her,' I said.
The parking attendant parked the Fiat and came back for the Lincoln. Ames got out and handed him the keys.
'What's that supposed to mean?' he asked me over the car's roof as the attendant got inside to drive it away.
'She's dangerous, for one thing,' I said.
Ames shook his head in obvious disbelief.
'Look, what if I told you she's another Anne Corley waiting to go off? What would you think of that?'
'I'd say you have an overly active imagination,' Ralph Ames said, and started for the entrance.
'Ralph, wait. She told me so herself last night.'
'She's arranging a funeral, Beau. Come on.'
The small anteroom, furnished with a few chairs and a polished burled maple desk, was decked with bouquets of freshly cut flowers. We were met at the door by a lovely blonde hostess carrying a leather-bound reservation book. She cooed happily over Ralph the moment she saw him.
'Ah, Mr. Ames. So good to see you again. One of your guests has already arrived and been seated. If you will please follow me, I'll take you directly to your table. Vincent is busy with the grill right now, but he'll try to stop by your table in a few minutes, before we get too busy.'
Ralph nodded. 'Fine,' he said.
She led us into the restaurant, which turned out to be an odd mixture of Southwestern-American and something else, Continental probably, although I wouldn't know Continental for sure if it got up and hit me smack in the face. The whole place was light and airy, with white walls and tall open-beamed ceilings. There appeared to be a series of several small, intimate dining rooms, each highlighting some piece of original artwork. A number of other tables were already occupied with parties of early diners, some of whom had drinks in hand although no sign of a bar was in evidence.
Rhonda Attwood was seated in the first room, talking animatedly to a tuxedo-clad man I assumed was our waiter. He shook hands with Ralph, introduced himself to me as Francis, and then turned back to Ames.
'The lady and I have been discussing wines. She says she's never tried Le Neilleur Du Chai.'
Ralph beamed at Rhonda. 'Good choice. That will be perfect, Francis. Is it '83?'
'Of course,' Francis replied.
He started away from the table. Assuming he was our waiter, I wanted to catch him before he left. 'I'll have coffee,' I said.
Francis nodded. 'I'll send your waiter with some right away.'
'I thought he was the waiter,' I said to Ralph.
'Oh, no. Francis is the sommelier and sometime maitre d',' Ralph answered with a smile. 'He and Vincent have been together through several incarnations of local fine dining establishments. As chef, Vincent plays the starting role, but always with Francis backing him up.'
Ralph focused on Rhonda. 'How are you doing?'
'Fine,' she answered. Her sleek hair, brushed back from her face, glowed in the muted, indirect lighting. She was wearing a softly belted knit dress that showed off her figure. There was nothing about Rhonda Attwood that looked the part of a grieving mother. And nothing about the evening had the feel of planning a funeral.
A spiffy waiter in a crisply pleated white shirt and black bow tie appeared moments later. Without having to ask who was who, he set a full cup of coffee in front of me. Before the waiter walked away, Francis was there as well. With suitable pomp and circumstance, he administered the Cabernet Sauvignon, first ceremoniously sampling it with a spoon before offering a sip to Ames and finally pouring the two glasses, Maybe that's why I never cared much for wine-it always involved too much ritual and not enough drinking.
I sat there unnecessarily stirring my black coffee and waiting for them to get on with it. Despite the fact that this was supposedly a dinner in honor of my birthday, the conversation between Ralph and Rhonda made me feel very much like the proverbial fifth wheel.
Eventually, Francis withdrew only to be replaced by Vincent himself, a brawny Swiss ex-patriot who believed in the old-fashioned, hands-on, innkeeper's approach to running a restaurant. He arrived at the table wearing his chef's hat and an eye-watering perfume of mesquite smoke.
Rubbing his hands together in anticipation and fixing Rhonda Attwood with a blazing smile, he said to Ralph, 'So this is the lady you were telling me about?'
Ames looked pleased. 'She certainly is, Vincent. Allow me to introduce Rhonda Attwood.'
What followed was a long discussion of art and artists, of shows and galleries and commissioned paintings- things about which the three of them seemed to know a great deal, while I knew less than nothing. Rhonda Attwood flushed with obvious pleasure that Ralph Ames had such an extensive working knowledge of her artistic progress. The enthusiastic sales pitch Ralph was giving Vincent made me wonder if his attorney relationship with Rhonda Attwood involved a commission.
Art and artists have never been my strong suit. My only artistic achievement, drawing stick figures, went out of vogue between second and third grades. From then or art classes left me cold. The ability to draw a lifelike landscape or seascape or face or even an orange strikes me as something akin to witchcraft.
Talking about all those things is even more remote. Instead of paying much attention, I concentrated on watching the people coming into the restaurant. Vincent's was obviously a place to see and be seen, where Phoenix fashion plates of both sexes sized one another up and kept score. This was almost, but not quite, as boring as the
