Queen of the Night by J. A. Jance Read Free Book Online

Under her direction, phone trees had given way to a more streamlined form of e-mail notices. But after five years of running the show, it was time to pass the reins to someone else, and Shirley Folgum was her handpicked successor.
    “So how are things?” Abby asked when Shirley finally came on the line. “Did you hear back from the band?”
    “I was talking to the manager when you called. They’ll be here for a sound check no later than five. I told them to come in by way of the loading dock.”
    “And the caterer?”
    “She’s having trouble locating servers.”
    “Don’t worry. She’ll find them. This party is a big deal for her, and we pay her a bundle of money during the summer when there’s not much else going on. She’ll come through. She always does.
    “What about the storyteller?” Abby asked.
    Abby had come to love the enduring Tohono O’odham legend about the wise old grandmother whose bravery had given rise to the Queen of the Night. Including that story in the annual festivities was one of the ways Abby had put her own distinctive stamp on the party. She insisted that each year some guest of honor would come to the event and recount the story that had struck a chord in her heart. It seemed to Abby that in saving her grandson, Wise Old Grandmother had saved Abby Tennant as well.
    “That’s handled,” Shirley reported. “Dr. Walker and her mother are planning to have lunch in the Tea Room this afternoon before the party starts. Unfortunately, she’s due back at work in the ER at the hospital in Sells by midnight. That means the last scheduled storytelling event can’t be any later than nine.”
    “Good,” Abby said. “Earlier is better than later.”
    “Are you going to stop by for a last-minute checklist?” Shirley asked.
    “No,” Abby said with a laugh. “I don’t think that’s necessary. It sounds as though you have everything under control.”
    Tucson, Arizona
    Saturday, June 6, 2009, 1:30 p.m.
    93º Fahrenheit
    L ani Dahd used her key to unlock the front door of her parents’ house. She stepped inside, with Gabe following close on her heel. He had been here before and was always astonished by the place.
    For one thing, the house, built of river rock, was bigger than any of the houses he knew on the reservation. Although the people who lived here were Milgahn, Anglos, the place was full of a rich profusion of baskets—Tohono O’odham baskets. There were yucca and bear-grass baskets on every available surface—on walls and tables and the mantelpiece. Gabe had been told that many of them had been made by his great-aunt Rita.
    “How did your parents get so many baskets?” Gabe had asked. “Are they rich?”
    Lani Dahd thought about that for a moment before she answered. By reservation standards, the Anglo couple who had adopted her when she was little more than a toddler were rich beyond measure.
    “Yes,” she said finally. “I suppose they are.”
    “But why?” Gabe asked.
    “Because my mother writes books,” Lani answered.
    “What about your father?”
    “He was a police officer.”
    “Why are they so old?” Gabe asked.
    Lani’s father was almost seventy. Her mother was in her mid-sixties. In the Anglo world that wasn’t so very old, but on the reservation, where people were often cut down by alcoholism and diabetes in their forties and fifties, that seemed like a very advanced age.
    “They just are,” she said.
    “Why do they have different names?” Gabe asked. “Mr. Walker and Mrs. Ladd. Aren’t they married?”
    “Yes, they’re married,” Lani explained, “but my mother was already writing books by then. It made sense for her to keep her own name instead of changing it to someone else’s.”
    This time Gabe was without questions as he followed Lani through the house. While she stopped off in a bathroom, Gabe walked on alone to the sliding door that he knew led to the patio.
    Damsel, the household dog, stood outside the sliding door. Gabe opened the