Sonoran Sunset

Marjorie Kellerman hoped for a prince for twenty-nine years, beginning at age five thanks to Disney. She was tired of kissing frogs. Most men were disappointments in ill-fitting suits, but Jay Orbin really did seem different. This was at the Moulin on Fremont one mild August night in 1963. He wasn’t like the marks who typically hit Vegas strip joints — oil field workers out blowing paychecks or conventioneers fiddling with their wedding rings. Jay had class. Real class.

He sat alone at a corner table, nursing a scotch and watching her dance with attention that wasn’t so much sleazy as rapt and appreciative. Nice tailoring, groomed nails, and a Rolex that caught light when he lifted his glass. When Marjorie worked the room after her set, moving from table to table in her sequined sheath, Jay didn’t grope or make an off-color crack.

You’re an artist, he said when she reached him. His voice carried traces of the Southwest, maybe Arizona or New Mexico.

The way you move — it’s not just dancing. It’s something else.

Most men said clueless things about her body. Jay talked about grace. She settled into the chair beside him.

So are you here for the MetLife shindig?

He smiled. Straight teeth. Strong jaw, clear eyes, hair starting to gray at the temples in a way that only made him seem thoughtful.

Business, but not that one. I deal in Native American art. Authentic pieces … Navajo rugs, Hopi pottery, traditional silver jewelry. I’ve got galleries in Santa Fe and Phoenix.

Sounds exotic.

Not so much. But you’re spending every day with beautiful work, and there’s always more to learn about the land, the people.

He flagged the waitress.

Another for me, and whatever the lady’s drinking.

Champagne, Marjorie said, though it was a simple sparkling wine with a ludicrous label.

They talked until the club closed. Jay was forty-two, divorced, no kids. He’d built his business from nothing, traveling to scores of reservations, building relationships with artists and craftsmen and other dealers. He spent three weeks out of every month on the road, which explained why he was alone in Vegas on a Tuesday night.

Sounds like a lot, Marjorie said as they walked to the parking lot.

The desert air was cool at this hour, a relief after the hazy heat of the club.

It can be.

He stopped beside a cream-colored Eldorado with Arizona plates.

Maybe you’d like to have dinner tomorrow night. Somewhere nice, not a specialty club.

It was a familiar line, but something in Jay’s voice made it land a bit differently.

I’d like that.

The Golden Nugget has a good restaurant — better than you’d expect. Eight o’clock?

She nodded and watched him drive off. The Cadillac’s taillights merged into the maze and Marjorie turned in the parking lot, considering what she would wear.

Jay stayed in Vegas for a week, longer than intended. They had dinner at the Nugget, then lunch at Caesars, then took a drive out to Red Rock Canyon where he talked about the desert the way other men referred to beautiful women. He knew the names of cacti and the difference between a mesa, butte, and plateau. When he looked out at the landscape, he saw history and beauty. When Marjorie squinted into it, she saw scrub and hot struggle for survival.

I used to think the desert was boring, she told him from the hood of the Caddy, watching the sunset paint the mountains deep red.

You know … just sand and rocks.

Jay opened a bottle he’d brought from the hotel.

Seems like the longer you give it, the more you find to love.

On his last night, he took her to the Copa Room at the Sands to catch Dean Martin’s act. They sat close to the stage and Martin spotted Marjorie at one point.

Now there’s a beautiful dame, he purred into the microphone, lifting his glass in their direction.

You’re one lucky man, pal.

Jay smiled and squeezed her hand.

I know.

Later, in his suite, Jay made love with a tenderness she’d only felt once before. Most of the men in her life had been takers. Jay was a giver. When she told him about her early divorce, her string of mistakes, how she landed in Vegas, he listened without judgment.

I have a proposition, he said as they lay in the bed later, the lights of the Strip twinkling out past the floor-to-ceiling view.

Move to Phoenix with me. Let me take care of you.

Marjorie turned to face him. What are you saying?

It’s growing out there. New money, new opportunities —

No, what are you saying?

Marry me.

You don’t even know me.

I know enough.

She lay back on the pillow, disoriented, blinking blindly at the ceiling.

I’ve never even been to Phoenix.

He traced patterns on her bare shoulder. She felt the need to smooth the sheets around her waist and hips.

I can’t have children, medically speaking. You need to know that. It was one of the problems in my marriage.

He held her closer and said it didn’t matter.

Marry me. If really you want kids, we’ll adopt. We can make a family either way.

It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her.

Your are smart and you’re beautiful and deserve a lot better than dancing every night for drunk tourists. And I know I’d rather spend my life with you than rattling around by myself.

Three days later they were married at the Little White Wedding Chapel, with two strangers as witnesses and an Elvis impersonator crooning Love Me Tender. Not the fairy tale wedding she had dreamed as a child, but there was something wonderfully spontaneous about it. Jay bought her a ring at Tiffany’s the next morning — two carats, emerald cut and flawless.

Mrs. Orbin, he said as they headed to Phoenix, her life in two Samsonite cases in the trunk.

Mid-’60s Phoenix was mid-reinvention, caught between cow town and copper boom town, with new money building modern new structures. Jay’s house in the foothills, perched partway up a hillside, had clean lines of glass and steel and spectacular views. It was worthy of Better Homes and Gardens, Marjorie thought, if they’d bothered with modern Southwest construction.

Welcome home, Jay said, carrying her over the threshold like a proper newlywed.

It was beautifully appointed — Navajo rugs on polished hardwoods, modern furniture that looked like sculpture, walls covered with fine Maricopa and Yavapai art. There were richly-colored weavings, kachina dolls, and silver jewelry in custom cases. The bank of floor-to-ceiling windows brought on vertigo when she approached.

It’s magnificent, is all she could manage.

Make yourself at home, he said.

Change anything you want. This is your house now, too.

For the first few months, Marjorie threw herself into domestic life with the enthusiasm of a woman who finally found where she belonged. She redecorated the guest rooms, reorganized the kitchen, and learned Jay’s favorite meals. When he was home, they entertained other couples from Phoenix’s growing art scene — gallery owners, collectors, and assorted socialites from oil and real estate money.

Marjorie discovered that she was good at the hostess game. She had an eye for presentation and a gift for making others feel welcome. The visiting wives never brought up her Vegas background, whether out of pity or simple good manners.

You’re a natural, Jay told her after a particularly pleasant dinner party.

Maybe you should think about opening a gallery of your own.

I don’t know anything about art.

You’ve got a good eye and you trust it. Trusting yourself is the key.

They began fertility treatments. Dr. Morrison ran tests, prescribed hormones, discussed procedures with awkward names that took practice to pronounce.

Your husband has excellent motility, he announced after reviewing Jay’s results.

The issue could be your fallopian tubes. Scarring from an old infection, possibly. There are no guarantees, but there’s a chance of surgical repair.

Marjorie spent two days recovering, floating on medication while Jay sat beside her reading auction listings. He also brought on a housekeeper, Carmen.

You don’t need to wait on me, Marjorie told her.

Mister Jay says you go easy. So go easy … get strong.

Months passed without progress. More tests, another procedure, and a new medication that made her mind swing around like a broken gate. Jay remained patient, supportive, understanding. Which somehow made it feel worse.

Maybe we should stop trying.

They sat on the patio watching another sunset unfold, blood darkening the mountains and then the desert below. Jay was leaving the next morning for another trip to Colorado and New Mexico. Three weeks of visits with reservation artists, selecting pieces for display at the galleries.

Maybe this was a mistake. Getting married so fast and moving here. You know, when you’re on the road, I sit in this house and I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m not a dancer, I’m not a mother, I’m not — I’m just Mrs. Jay Orbin, waiting for her husband to return home and start planning another party.

Jay set down his drink.

What do you want me to do? Give up half of my business? Stay home all the time?

I don’t know what I want … I just know this isn’t it.

He left in the morning as scheduled, with a kiss on her forehead and a promise to call every day. Marjorie watched the Eldorado wind down the long drive, then pause to turn onto the road. She felt like a princess in paradise.

The positive pregnancy test arrived just as Marjorie was narrowing down divorce lawyers. She stared at a chart in Dr. Morrison’s office, hardly believing the news after so much frustration.

Congratulations, Mrs. Orbin. Near as we can tell, you’re six weeks along.

She drove home in a daze with the results on the seat beside her. Jay was in Santa Fe and wouldn’t be back for another week. She considered telling him on the next phone call, but decided to wait. This deserved to be delivered in person.

The week crawled by. Marjorie bought a pregnancy book and studied her face in the mirror for signs of the supposed glow. Planning ahead, she approached the office of a pediatrician. When Jay finally made it back, she met him at the door with the test results.

Jay read the sheet, reread it, then picked her up and spun her around.

They named the boy Noah. Born after fourteen hours of labor at Good Samaritan, weighing seven pounds and three ounces, with Jay’s active eyes and Marjorie’s stubborn chin. Everyone present declared him perfect. Marjorie watched her husband hold their baby and thought, at that moment, ah … now a family. And a purpose.

For the next six months, life was exactly what she’d dreamed it could be. Jay cut back on his travel, spending more time at the Phoenix gallery and less on the road. They hired a nanny so that Marjorie could sleep through the night, but she found herself getting up anyway just to watch Noah in his bassinet.

You’re going to spoil him.

Jay found her in the nursery at two in the morning.

Good. He deserves to be spoiled.

C’mon … so do you.

Jay put his arms around her.

I was thinking we should take a big trip once he’s older. Show him the world.

Where would we go?

Anywhere you want. Europe, for starters … hit the Louvre, gawk at the goods in the Prado, maybe cut over to Rome. We could spend a summer traveling, doing our own Grand Tour.

It sounded impossibly fun.

The registered letter arrived on a Tuesday in March of ’67, while Jay was in Colorado and Noah was napping. Internal Revenue Service, it said in austere black letters. Marjorie opened it assuming it was routine correspondence, maybe a refund check or a request for an additional form.

It wasn’t.

Notice of Tax Lien. Amount Owed: $88,450.32.

Marjorie read it three times before it finally made sense. The IRS claimed she owed back taxes on unreported income from the Vegas years, plus assorted accrued penalties and interest. They were placing liens on properties and assets, along with freezing her accounts.

She called Jay’s hotel in Denver, hands shaking as she dialed.

There has to be a mistake, he said after she read him the letter.

You filed taxes every one of those years, correct?

Of course I did. I used a guy on Sahara Avenue, the same one all the girls went to.

What was his name?

Hamill … something Hamill. Martin Hamill, I think. He had an office above a delicatessen. Clean-cut Mormon gentleman … very polite.

I’ll get my accountant to look into it. Don’t worry, honey. We’ll straighten this out.

But two day later, the accountant brought back bad news.

Mrs. Orbin? I tracked down your tax guy from Vegas, Martin Hamill. Turns out he was arrested last year — and he’s since been convicted — for running a fraudulent tax preparation business. For a dozen years he was handling casino staff filings — think dealers, dancers, wait staff, what-all — but he was rerouting both payments-due and any returns. Three wives and eight kids. Guess he was feeling the pressure.

So what does that mean?

It means you never filed a proper return for 1950 through 1963. The IRS is treating all your earnings from those years as unreported income.

Marjorie felt sick.

But I paid him. I gave him money every year.

Oh yes, you certainly did. Unfortunately, the IRS doesn’t care who you paid. They only care that no returns were filed and no taxes were booked.

How much do I really owe?

With penalties and interest? Pretty much what they said. Maybe a rounding error less.

I don’t have that kind of money.

That’s the other angle to this. Technically, you do. You’re married to Jay, and under Arizona’s community property laws, all marital assets are considered to be jointly owned. The IRS can reach for anything in Jay’s name, too.

Marjorie hung up the phone and walked out to the deck. The desert stretched wide, dry and beckoning. Everything she’d built, everything she’d found, was about to disappear because of some crooked accountant in Vegas she’d trusted with her pitiful, sweat-stained, near-enough-to-prostitution, strip-joint dancer income.

When Jay finally came home, she was waiting with a bottle and a draft of divorce papers.

What’s this? he asked, picking up the documents.

The only way to protect your assets. If we’re divorced, the IRS can’t touch your savings or your business or this house.

He returned the papers to the counter without reading them.

There has to be another way.

Your own accountant says there isn’t. They can seize or freeze everything, Jay. Everything you’ve worked for.

I don’t care about the money.

I do.

Marjorie poured herself three fingers and drank half in one go.

I know everything you’ve got is invested, Jay. You’ve got assets but nothing liquid, nothing convertible, correct?

He nodded.

I won’t be responsible for destroying your life.

Oh, don’t be dramatic … you’re not destroying a damned thing. We’ll fight it, hire a specialist —.

To be paid with what, Jay? They’ve already frozen my bank account. I had to start a tab this week at the grocery store, and that was awkward to explain.

Jay sat quietly for for a while. Then he poured a drink for himself and they both stood and sipped, neither looking at the other.

So, a tactical, technical divorce. Like a green card arrangement in reverse.

She nodded.

You’ll be stuck with debt you can’t pay, but they can’t touch you, can’t throw you from the house.

We’ll still be living together. This will still be a family.

It’s just … bizarre. You realize, don’t you, that I can eventually free stuff up and keep earning enough to make this go away. It might take a year or so.

We have a practical solution to my problem right now. My problem, my solution.

Marjorie made it to the bottom of her bourbon.

It’s bad enough that I owe everything to you. I’m not about to owe it twice over.

They divorced on paper but not in practice. Jay moved his legal residence to a tiny rental in Scottsdale while Marjorie and Noah remained in the foothills house, which was folded into to one of Jay’s business entities. By all appearances they were amicably parted, raising their son in joint custody as a model of responsible parenting.

The arrangement worked well for eight years. Jay continued to travel widely and circled home to his happy family. Marjorie raised Noah, managed the household, and played the role of devoted single mother. They were discreet and very shrewd.

But by 1975, the facade was becoming reality.

I met someone.

Jay said it quietly, over dinner at their usual restaurant. Noah was nearly fourteen and mature enough now to be trusted for an evening at home. But it was obvious Jay didn’t want him present for this conversation.

Marjorie set down her fork.

Someone?

Her name is Susan. She owns a gallery in Santa Fe. We’ve been working on a project for the last six months.

Working together.

Marjorie picked up her glass, gave it a swirl.

Is that what they’re calling it now?

Don’t do that.

Do what? Act like I care that my husband — excuse me, my ex-husband — has taken up with another woman?

Jay reached across the table for her hand. She pulled it away.

It’s not like that.

What’s it like?

Complicated.

He flagged the waiter for a fresh bottle.

We’ve been living a lie for eight years, Marjorie. It’s not fair to either of us. It’s not fair to Noah.

I thought we were protecting what you built.

We were … we are. But somewhere along the way, we stopped protecting each other.

The waiter brought the bottle, uncorked it. Marjorie waited until he left before speaking.

How long?

A couple months.

Are you in love with her?

Jay hesitated, looked way.

And there it is.

Marjorie sat back and shrugged.

So what happens now? Do you move to Santa Fe permanently? Leave Noah and me here until he finishes school? And then what?

I don’t know. I was hoping we could figure this out together.

Together, she laughed, all together, one fat happy family.

Marjorie reached for her purse.

I need to go home. To my house. Where I don’t belong legally but continue to live anyway because my life is a parade of pretense.

We can work this out.

No, Jay, We can’t. This isn’t something that needs working out. This is something that needs to end.

She drove home through the desert darkness, past the lights of Phoenix spreading across the valley like misguided stars. The house was quiet when she arrived. Noah was in his room doing homework, Carmen had gone home, and the desert night was filled with the sounds of coyotes calling.

Marjorie sat on the patio where she and Jay had cuddled, fought, planned their future, raised their son. The city lights began to blur and she rubbed at her eyes.

They reached an agreement, eventually. Jay would spend most of his time in Santa Fe with Susan. Marjorie would stay at the Phoenix property with Noah, continuing to manage the gallery side of Jay’s business.

This arrangement lasted six years. Noah graduated and went on to Arizona State, close enough to come home for Sunday dinners. Jay’s business did well, with out-of-state contracts and elegant galleries in Phoenix, Santa Fe, and eventually Sedona. Susan, meanwhile, became a fixture at show openings and museum events, a sophisticated young woman with expertise in Native art, gesturing toward pieces with fingers and wrists bedecked in exquisite turquoise.

Marjorie, however, became something she’d feared: a middle-aged woman adrift. At fifty-three she had a little bit of money, a home she didn’t own, and no reason whatsoever to get out of bed.

You should travel, a friend suggested over lunch.

Linda had been a cheerleader.

Take a cruise, go to the Mediterranean. Jay will pay for it.

I don’t want to wander around the world alone.

So don’t go alone. Take a friend.

What friend? Everyone I know is married. They don’t want a third wheel.

Then meet someone new. God, you’re still beautiful. And you’re still plenty young enough to start over.

But Marjorie didn’t feel young. She felt like a car with too many miles that only looked good at a distance.

Marjorie was in the garden deadheading lantana, second-guessing selections and a layout she’d established nine or more ago. The phone rang from inside the house and she let the answering machine take it.

When she came back in and cleaned up, there was a cryptic message from Susan. She sounded odd, but then Marjorie wasn’t all that familiar with her voice. She picked up the receiver and returned the call to Santa Fe.

Jay had collapsed on a business trip to Colorado. A massive heart attack in a Denver hotel room. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was far enough gone to be cold.

Susan was quiet and courteous.

The funeral is Thursday. I assume you’ll attend.

Of course.

There are estate things we’ll need to discuss. Jay wanted a prenup, you know, which meant waivers of default claims on the estate. There are provisions for you and Noah. We’ll need to sit down with his lawyer for a while.

I understand.

The funeral was well-attended, filled with art dealers and collectors, gallery owners and museum curators. Jay had been respected in his field … successful, connected, well-liked. Susan sat in the front row, accepting condolences with the composure of a woman who’d seen this day coming.

After the service, Susan approached her in the parking lot.

He’d talk about you, you know, she offered without preamble.

More than I wanted to hear, sometimes.

I’m sorry.

He kept a few personal items in his office — photographs of you, a few letters, souvenirs from trips, I’m guessing. An old address book. I thought you might want them.

That’s very generous.

No, it’s really not.

Marjorie drove home with the small box on the seat beside her. Two photos of her, one of him by her, a postcard, two letters, a few reservation trinkets bought as an inside joke. His little pocket address and phone book, where she found her name underscored. Tokens of twenty years spent together.

That night, she sat on the patio with a chilled glass and Jay’s odds-and-ends at her feet. They had been happy for a while … genuinely happy. For longer than most people got.

Jay’s arrangements were extremely generous. Marjorie inherited the foothills house and the Phoenix gallery, along with a tax-sheltered fund providing quarterly payments to keep her flush for the rest of her life. A second trust fund supported Noah. Susan wouldn’t go without, but Jay’s priorities were clear.

Noah called her the night after the papers were signed.

How you doing, Mom?

Fine. Great, actually. I own a beautiful house in the prettiest part of Phoenix. I have enough money for another lifetime. I can do anything I want.

So what do you want to do?

She had no idea how to answer.

I guess I’ll figure it out.

But months passed and she didn’t figure it out. She redecorated rooms that didn’t need redecorating, took art classes that bored her, volunteered for charities that made her feel useful but not fulfilled. She dated occasionally — divorced doctors and retired business owners who seemed like reasonable companions for a woman of her age and circumstances.

None of them made her feel anything close to what she’d felt for Jay.

You need a project, Linda said during another of their lunches.

Something that’s yours. A business maybe, or a hobby that could become a business.

I don’t know all that much about business.

You helped run galleries for years. You understand art, you know about marketing, you have connections in the art community.

I was never really part of the art community. I was just Jay’s wife.

Ex-wife. And now you can be Marjorie Orbin, gallery owner. Or Marjorie Orbin, whatever it is you’d like to be.

Linda pointed to the fresco beside them.

What about that cruise I almost talked you into?

Marjorie did not book a cruise. But she traveled — South America, Europe, Asia — not as part of any tour group. She spent the next two years living elsewhere — a series of elsewheres — entirely on her own. Along the way she took classes on photography, pottery, watercolors, crafts — whatever appealed to her at that time and locale. She read books about botany, watched movies in languages she didn’t understand, and often ate ordering nothing but appetizers and desserts.

She began to approximate who she was before the princes. She’d once been sturdy, independent, and up for nearly anything. Not a survivor — a thriver. It struck her, standing in a kiosk in Singapore, that maybe it was time to go home.

Larry Foster entered her life on a Tuesday afternoon while she was picking up groceries at AJ’s. Angular, dark-haired but probably fifty, with the sort of tan you didn’t come by on tennis courts. He was standing in the wine section, studying labels like they mattered.

The 1979 Silver Oak is excellent, Marjorie said, noticing he was holding a competing Cabernet.

That is, if you like heavy reds.

He looked up, smiled. You know wine?

I know what I like.

And you are?

Marjorie. Marjorie Orbin.

Are you buying wine for a special occasion, Marjorie Orbin?

It’s a Tuesday night. Is that special enough?

He laughed, a rumpled sound that reminded her of Jay in the early days.

What are you doing for dinner, Marjorie? Besides drinking good wine by yourself.

She should have said she was married, attached, unavailable. She should have made polite conversation and walked away. Instead, she heard herself saying Nothing special.

Would you like to change that? I’m Larry … Larry Foster.

They had dinner at a steakhouse, nothing fancy but comfortable and anonymous. Larry was easy to talk to, funny without trying, attentive without being cloying. He owned an auto repair business that included body work and customizations. Originally from Chicago but he’d been in Phoenix for nearly ten years.

What brought you to Arizona?

Divorce. Fresh start. Just your standard-issue mid-life meltdown.

Any kids?

Two boys. They live with their mother in Chicago. I see them summers and holidays.

That must be hard.

It was. But you adapt. Kids are tougher than we think.

He studied her over his coffee cup.

What about you? Kids?

One son. He’s in college.

Married?

Divorced.

Sorry to hear that.

Don’t be. It needed to be done.

Larry drove her home in a pickup truck that smelled like sawdust and leather. He didn’t try to kiss her, didn’t ask to come in, didn’t make any of the moves she expected from a middle-aged divorced man.

I’d like to see you again, he said in her driveway.

I’d like that too.

Friday night? Somewhere a little nicer than a steakhouse.

The steakhouse was fine.

Oh, I think you deserve better than fine.

That next dinner was better than fine, and it was followed by drinks at a newly-opened jazz-and-blues club.

The next week they drove to Sedona, walked among the red rocks, had lunch at a restaurant with a view of Cathedral Rock. The following Sunday he had her over for breakfast at his condo. It was fairly new construction, with two bedrooms, one bath, beige wall-to-wall throughout. Nothing interesting on the walls. Work clothes in the closet, automotive magazines on the coffee table, a television and Technics hifi on a console. In the refrigerator, beer and leftover takeout.

This is … comfortable, she finally said.

It’ll do. Things were tight when I got it, but I’ve been thinking of moving up by the end of the year.

They became lovers that afternoon on his mismatched sheets. Larry approached sex like he did everything else — competently, confidently, without any unnecessary flourishes. He wasn’t romantic like Jay had been, but he found ways to make her writhe.

Later, beside him, she felt the need to answer a question before he asked.

I’m over fifty, you know.

You’re also beautiful. So what’s your point?

Larry took her to places Jay never would have — motorcycle races, boxing matches, country music concerts. He introduced her to his friends, small business owners and specialty contractors who treated her like a tomboy. But she didn’t feel boyish with Larry. Once, when he accidentally touched her hand reaching for salt, she felt the same electric current she’d experienced beside him at the store..

Noah came to dinner on a Sunday and met Larry for the first time.

You’re different with him.

Different how?

Relaxed. Like you’re not trying to be someone else.

I was never trying to be someone else.

Weren’t you? When you were with Dad, weren’t you always performing? The poised hostess, the perfect partner and mother. With Larry now, you just seem more yourself.

The courtship continued for nearly a year. Larry would come to the house for dinner twice a week and she would visit his condo most Saturdays. They took occasional weekend trips to Flagstaff, Tucson, the Grand Canyon.

Larry moved into her house gradually — a few clothes here, some toiletries there, until he was essentially there full-time. He was attentive, affectionate. He paid his own expenses and never ask for money. If he was going to be late, he called.

They were married at the courthouse in Phoenix, with Noah and his fiancée as witnesses. No white dress, no flowers, no reception. Just two people of a certain age promising to love and honor each other for the time that remained.

How does it feel, Mrs. Foster? Larry asked as they walked to the parking lot.

Unsettling.

Good. That means it matters.

It went well for nine years. Larry kept the auto repair and body shop going, since he enjoyed being useful and didn’t want to be reduced, in effect, to Marjorie’s kept man. They settled comfortably into the rhythms of late-middle-aged marriage — morning coffee in the kitchen or out on the patio, evening walks along the foothills, weekends puttering or reading or nodding off with the television on.

Until a Tuesday in late September, with Larry at the the shop, when Marjorie picked up the phone.

Hello … is this Mrs. Foster?

Yes.

This is Jennifer Martinez, from First National Bank. Could I speak with your husband, please?

Regarding?

I’m sorry, but I can only discuss that with Mr. Foster. Is he available?

Marjorie was about to give her the shop’s office number, but then an instinct kicked in. She swerved.

He’s out at moment — for the whole day, really — and there’s no good way to reach him. I’m sorry. Perhaps tomorrow if you leave me your number?

Would you please have him call us as soon as possible?

Marjorie could have called Larry and relayed the message. She did not. Instead, she stared hard at the mountains where the light was slanting, throwing silhouettes of scrub and stiff grass on the ground.

When she finally called a number, it was one she’d discovered in Jay’s old address book.

This Mrs. Jay Orbin. I need a matter looked into, and I need it rather quickly.

Nothing was said to Larry when he returned that evening.

Two days later, at ten in the morning, a bland little man arrived with an attache under his arm. He sat down with Marjorie, opened the case, and pulled out a set of manila folders. One held bank records, the other had invoices.

Explain this to me.

He’s been writing bad checks. Small amounts, different banks, always covering them before they bounce. Kiting … check kiting.

For how long?

At least eight months. Possibly longer, if we kept digging.

For how much?

It varies. He floats upwards of thirty thousand at any given time.

Marjorie closed her eyes. The little man waited.

What else?

He’s has two credit cards you wouldn’t know about. Gambling debts at a couple of casinos. And he’s been using your address to set up phony business accounts.

For the repair shop?

Yes. The shop itself is legitimate, but it’s hosting other questionable ventures.

Such as?

Small-time cons. Insurance fraud, mostly. He files claims for accident damage that never happened, addressing problems that pre-existed. Nothing quite big enough to draw attention, but it supplements the legal income.

Marjorie flipped through the folders, looking at statements and credit lines, at Larry’s signature over here and her address over there.

I’m very sorry, Ma’am.

She closed the folders. He raised an eyebrow.

How would you like to proceed?

Larry returned in the evening to find her and the folders at the dining room table.

He bent over the table across from her, picked through the evidence, then slowly nodded.

I was trying to protect you.

From what? From your grifting?

From having to face some hard choices.

I’m facing a hard one right this moment, Larry.

He finally sat down.

We’re in trouble, Marjorie.

We?

Well, I am. Which unfortunately means you are, too, since we’re married.

What kind of trouble?

The kiting got a little out of hand. And at it led to some arrangements with some characters who specialize in short-term loans.

How much?

Ninety-six thousand, as it stands.

And you thought you could just — what? Keep churning accounts to pay them back?

I thought I could work my way out. Book enough clean income to cover the debts and come out all right.

Instead you got deeper.

Yeah. I got deeper.

She looked at this man she’d married, this graying delinquent with her husband’s face and who answered to his name, but who was clearly a cheap imposter.

How long do we have?

Until what?

Until they try to collect.

The end of the month. I’ve thought of a failsafe solution, if it comes to that.

What sort of solution?

Larry reached across the table for her hands.

We could liquidate some of your assets.

My assets.

She pulled back her hands and folded them neatly.

You’d get it all back eventually. Everything plus interest … I just need more time than what these guys are giving.

No.

Marjorie —

No. We’ll draft an annulment, you’ll sign the papers, you’ll pack up and get out.

If I leave they’ll come after you anyway. They know we’ve been married for years, they know you have property. Hell, they even know about this house.

So let them come. I’ll explain that we’re done and you’re gone.

They won’t care. To them you’re collateral.

I’ll add security.

Security won’t help if they get creative.

The threat hung in the air, twisting like a toxic curlicue. She’d heard stories about loan sharks, about the creative ways they collected debts from deadbeat clients. Broken windows, slashed tires, mysterious fires in the middle of the night.

Larry tried a different tone, somewhere between resignation and pleading.

I’m truly sorry you’ve been dragged into this, hon. It was my mistake, and I made things worse when I tried to make them better.

Marjorie stood, walked to the window with the view back to Phoenix. The city’s lights littered the valley, distant and indifferent to drama.

The end of the month.

He waited.

Ninety-six thousand.

Correct. But look, it wouldn’t all be on you. I can’t sell the shop in a week, but I could flip other stuff — the truck, spare parts, some pieces of equipment — that could lighten the hit to maybe fifty-five, sixty thousand.

Except that they know you’re good for more. That I’m good for more.

No no, once they’re paid, it’s over.

What makes you sure?

I know these people. They’re businessmen, not psychopaths. They want their money back, not a war.

The breezy way that he said this — as if he had a grasp of manly criminal codes and rules, of the laws of a jungle he’d tripped into, of the self-enforced constraints of street-hardened men — crystallized the situation for Marjorie. This was who Larry actually was all this time. A careless man who caused problems for others to solve, who made promises he couldn’t keep, and who wilted when the weather turned rough.

No, she said.

No what?

No to all of it. No to the money, no to your plan, no to cleaning up your idiot mess.

Marjorie pulled down a bottle and a glass for herself.

They are going to disappear.

She poured.

Disappear permanently.

Marjorie, these aren’t the kind of people you disappear permanently. These are the kind of people who disappear you.

Who are they? Specifically?

Local loan sharks. A guy named Rudy Castellano and his crew.

Crew?

Couple of guys. Maybe three. Why?

Because I want to know what we’re up against.

We’re not up against anything. I’m going to deal with it by paying them back.

With my money.

Well, yes, dammit — with some of your money. But we both know you can afford it.

Marjorie looked out at mountains eternal, indifferent, unimaginably patient. They’d seen civilizations rise and fall, seen people solve their problems in ways both sublime and brutally effective.

I refuse to be a victim — or yours or your nasty new friends. I’m going to kill this at the root.

Larry stood, but didn’t move from the table.

Marjorie, you’re not a killer.

How do you know? Have you even seen me seriously threatened?

Larry studied her, disoriented, struggling to recognize his wife.

Even if we could — which we can’t — how would we manage it? We’re talking about several people here, professionals —

We’ll use their expectations against them.

Their expectations?

They expect you to pay, thanks to me. They don’t expect a couple our age to fight back.

Because couples our age don’t fight back. Because it’s suicide.

Marjorie turned away from the patio doors.

How much do you love me Larry? Answer carefully and clearly.

A brief pause.

Enough to do anything for you.

It was carefully and clearly stated.

To kill?

Marjorie —

He was quiet long enough that she could hear, very faintly, coyotes calling across to each other in the desert.

Yes, he said finally.

If that’s what it takes.

Then we need to make a plan.

The plan was simple in the way that desperate plans often are — relying more on surprise than strategy. Larry would arrange a meeting with Rudy Castellano, ostensibly to present a payment that would combine cash and assets. The meeting would take place at the house, in the evening, with the desert and darkness providing cover.

He’ll bring backup, Larry warned.

— at least one guy for sure. Maybe two.

Safe to assume guns?

Rudy always carries. Anyone with him will, too.

Then we’ll deal with them first.

Marjorie spent days studying the problem like a logistics puzzle, breaking it down into components that could be analyzed and separately solved. Layout, timing, weapons, disposal. The kind of planning she’d once applied to gallery shows, dinner parties, and fundraisers.

You’ll answer the door, bring them into the living room.

She stepped through it with Larry, rehearsing their roles in the house.

Offer them drinks, be a nervous but dutiful host.

While you do what?

While I wait in the kitchen with Jay’s carbine.

It’s funny, I never thought of Jay handling a rifle.

There were dimensions to the man.

Do you know how to use it?

He bought for me for protection, living out here with little Noah and him on the road. I practiced out back … mostly bottles and bad fruit.

The carbine in question was an M1 .30 caliber. Iron sights and a 15-round magazine with soft-nosed rounds. She cleaned it and practiced out back one more time, re-acquainting herself with weight, balance, noise, recoil. Smoke and sound drifted slowly downwind.

What if there are more than three of them? Larry asked.

Then we improvise.

What if they don’t go for it? What if they get suspicious?

They’ll go for it, Larry. You just need to tap-dance for a minute. And if there’s more than two total, draw one of them out of the room.

Marjorie spent the afternoon of the meeting cooking — pot roast with vegetables, the kind of meal that would make the house smell like a grandmother’s cottage. She set the dining room table with her second-best china, arranged a vase of fresh flowers. Domestic tranquility.

At seven-thirty she took her position in the kitchen, M1 loaded and ready, safety off. From her spot behind the breakfast bar she had line of sight to the living room and part of the front hallway. She could hear Larry pacing, on edge.

The doorbell rang at precisely eight o’clock. Surprisingly punctual, considering.

She heard Larry bring them in, then voices in the hallway — three men in all. Two would have been better, but they’d cope. They passed into the living room and she got a look at Rudy Castellano.

He was thick-set, five-eight or so with thinning hair. A decent suit but excessive jewelry — the kind of guy who’d probably been tough once, but let success turn him soft and indulgent. His two companions were younger, harder, and clearly more dangerous.

Nice place, Rudy said

He did a slow rotation in the center of the room.

You did okay for yourself, Larry.

It’s my wife’s place. I just live here.

Your wife. The monied lady.

That’s right.

Where is she? I’d like to meet the dame you lucked into.

She’s out for the evening. Book club.

Book club, Rudy laughed.

Rich ladies and their book clubs. What do you think they talk about at those things?

Their loser husbands, most likely.

Probably right.

Rudy settled into an armchair. His companions remained standing. Marjorie kept listening from her post.

Larry suggested drinks but Rudy waved his hand.

Maybe later. What have you got to show us?

Sixty-eight cash in cash, the rest in bearer bonds.

Bearer bonds. Fancy. Why don’t I see them already on this table?

They’re in the safe. I’ll get them.

You’ll go with Tony here. Don’t get cute.

The backup with a neck tattoo, maybe thirty, followed Larry into the study. That left Rudy and the other, one standing and one sitting, sixteen feet from Marjorie’s position.

She charged out from the kitchen and had the rifle shouldered by the time she swept into the living room. The muzzle was tipped slightly down at Rudy’s chest.

Nobody move.

The words were steadier than she’d expected. Rudy looked up, more surprised than frightened. The remaining enforcer — pushing forty with a scar across an eyebrow — began to reach inside his jacket.

Don’t, Marjorie said without looking his way.

Hands out and up.

Lady, what the hell do you think you’re doing?

Solving a big problem.

You’re creating a way bigger problem.

From the study came the sound of a struggle, then a shout that was hard to read, and then the jolt of something large and heavy landing hard on the floor. Marjorie kept the rifle on Rudy, finger on the trigger.

Larry? she called.

I’m okay.

He sounded winded.

Tony’s not.

Dead?

Yeah, I think so. Sure looks like it.

Rudy and his man exchanged glances.

Mrs. Foster, right? Rudy said, his voice carefully calm.

Let’s talk about this. No need for anyone else to get hurt.

That’s correct. Just two more people.

Lady, you really need to think this through. You kill us, there’ll be people asking questions. People who won’t be as reasonable as we are.

What people?

People you don’t want to meet.

You’re bluffing.

Larry appeared in the doorway with blood on his shirt and a gun — Tony’s gun — in his hand.

Everything okay in here?

Your classy wife here is aiming artillery. So no, thing’s aren’t okay.

I’d be careful, Rudy. She doesn’t take shit. It’s one of the things I love about her.

Scarred-eyebrow guy made his move then, reaching for his piece with surprising speed. Marjorie whipped sideways and fired immediately, the report shockingly loud in the room. The .30 slug took him just off center mass, spinning him around and dropping him to the floor where he twitched once and then was still. His blood started fanning beneath him, fast and thick like a biblical flood.

Rudy stared at his dead associate, then at Marjorie, and then at the smoking rifle in her hands.

Jesus Christ, he said.

He’s not here right now. Just us sinners.

You’re fucking insane.

The next shot was cleaner than her first, as he was seated directly in front of her. Rudy jerked back and then slumped, a sizable hole in his chest and astonishment on his face, as if he’d suddenly caught on to an especially good joke. The blood, this time, flowed down to his waist and then dribbled off the edges of the chair. Marjorie nodded, satisfied, and propped the carbine against a cabinet.

Tony?

Larry nodded toward the study. Marjorie found the man face up with a seven-inch Ka-Bar buried in his belly. He looked nearly as surprised as Castellano.

You knifed him?

The plan was to pull a Colt from a corner of the bookcase.

Where on earth did you have that stashed?

Tucked in my boot.

Marjorie stared down at the handle and hilt, which was fused to Tony’s form like Exaclibur.

My god, Larry, who are you?

They’d prepared for the tedious aftermath. Plastic sheeting to wrap the bodies, cleaning supplies for the blood, a panel van for debris and remains.

I sometimes worried about stepping into an old mine shaft, she’d told Larry the week before.

But you know, the bottom of one of those might as well be Shanghai.

What about their car?

It’ll be found in Tijuana. Folks will figure they went for business. Maybe pleasure.

They worked through the night and next morning, cleaning and then loading and driving. The Shanghai shaft was thirty-three miles west, accessed by a strewn-over road they could barely discern in the dark. The hole itself was more than a hundred feet deep and as dark as original sin.

They both strained to hear the bodies hit bottom. The M1 went next. That was easier to hear. The carpet made no sound at all.

Car disposal went smoothly. Two-and-a-half hours to the border, a lift to Nogales, then a bus ride back to Phoenix. By nightfall they were home, exhausted but alive, survivors of a sequence that was already distant, surreal.

How do you feel? Larry asked.

A long pause. She was drawing a bath. There was grime beneath her nails, a dark glue of dried tissue and fluids.

Different … disoriented. The closest thing — it’s a funny thing — was the feeling a few minutes after Noah was born. I was catching my breath and thinking ‘I did this’, ‘I did this’, ‘how on earth did I do this, not knowing how?’

They spent the next week acting normal, going through the motions of ordinary life while waiting to see if anyone would come around for Rudy Castellano. Larry continued driving to the body shop, Marjorie worked on the landscaping, they had dinner together and watched the news together like any other comfortable couple.

But something subtle had shifted between them. Shared kills had created a bond deeper than marriage or sex. They’d crossed a rarified line, become people they’d never pictured. And sex was now with a sort of stranger, so she was leading him to the bedroom nearly every night, climbing on for a fast hot ride.

Weeks, then months passed without repercussions. No one came looking for Rudy, no one asked awkward questions, no one seemed to care that three dangerous, nasty characters had vanished from the world. Marjorie began to relax.

Nine months later, Detective Jan Butcher was having a bad day. Three missing persons cases, two unsolved homicides, and a robbery that went sideways and left two citizens dead. The Phoenix Police Department was understaffed and overworked, and the brass wanted clearance rates that defied arithmetic and common sense.

The Castellano case had been bothering her. Three men who’d simply vanished one night, leaving behind a business that was obviously criminal, assorted debts uncollected, and surviving family members more relieved than worried about their loss.

What do we know about Castellano? she asked Martinez.

He had the case files on his desk.

Small-time shark. No arrests, but lots of complaints that went nowhere. His collectors had records — Tony Briggs was in for assault, Mickey Torrino was a recidivist and a suspect in two different shootings.

So we can take our pick of enemies.

But none of them want us as friends.

What about the debtors? Anyone owe Castellano enough to dig in?

Martinez thumbed through the reports.

Dozen or so active accounts. They’re pretty much small-time — addicts, gamblers, people who borrowed for groceries and couldn’t pay it back.

Any big ones?

There’s one guy stands out — Larry Foster. Owed ninety-some grand, which is getting up there for this operation.

Where’s the deal with Foster?

Married the former Marjorie Orbin. They have a house in the foothills worth maybe half a million.

Orbin. Why do I know that name?

She was married to Jay Orbin, the art dealer who dropped dead a few years back. Big settlement … he left a proper estate.

So Foster owes a loan shark while married a rich widow, and then the loan shark up and goes missing.

Could be coincidence.

Could be. Let’s go for a drive.

Both the house and the setting were impressive — modern architecture nestled up against a desert vista, with a view that was worthy of a John Ford western. Marjorie Foster answered the door with a curious smile.

Mrs. Foster? I’m Detective Butcher, Phoenix Police. This is Detective Martinez. We’d like to ask you about a man named Rudy Castellano.

I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone by that name.

Mrs. Foster frowned.

I don’t think I’ve ever met a ‘Rudy’ … I’d remember a name like that.

Your husband might know him. Is he home?

He’s at work at the moment. Can I ask what this is about?

Mr. Castellano is missing. We’re trying to determine his whereabouts on the night of November fifteenth.

I see. I’m so sorry I can’t help you. Would you like to come in? I can give you Larry’s number and shop address if you don’t already have it. But I imagine you already do.

Yes ma’am, we know where to find him — we just thought we’d start here, since we needed to have a word with you both.

Butcher studied Marjorie’s face, looking for tells, signs of stress. But the woman was perfectly poised, fielding questions with the courtesy of someone with nothing to hide.

Mrs. Foster, did your husband ever mention owing money to anyone? Gambling debts, business loans, anything like that?

Oh no, Larry’s very careful with money. It’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about him.

Never any mention of short-term loans?

Detective, my husband makes a decent living doing honest work. I can’t imagine why he’d need a loan from anyone, and if he did I’d be the person he’d ask.

It was time to quit. Martinez was doing the driving. After he started the car he looked over at Butcher.

What do you think?

I think she’s lying.

She seemed pretty smooth for a civilian lying to police on her doorstep.

Too smooth. Because you’re right, most folks would get edgy if cops turned up to ask about loan sharks.

So what now?

Mr. Foster, of course, but let’s wait a day before hitting the shop. The delay might throw them off-balance.

Butcher looked back at the house and its setting. Beautiful, expensive, isolated. Sound would carry, but coyotes wouldn’t care.

They found Mr. Foster at Desert Auto Body, exactly as expected, lowering the transmission of a tricked-out, custom Plymouth. He had a build based on a lifetime of physical labor. His hands were stained at that moment, and he answered their questions while continuing to work.

Rudy Castellano?

Larry shook his head.

Never heard of him.

You’re sure? Because we have evidence that you owed him money.

Evidence such as what?

Records from his books. Your name, your address, the amount of the accrued debt.

Larry wiped his hands on a shop rag.

Detectives, I do not gamble, I do not borrow from shady characters, and I sure as hell don’t owe a bundle to anyone named Rudy.

So how do you explain your name being in Castellano’s files?

I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s a different Larry Foster … maybe someone used my name for something. Maybe your information is wrong.

Your name, your address.

Then someone stole my identity. That happens, doesn’t it?

Butcher searched his face for a tic. But Larry seemed genuinely puzzled by these questions, more incredulous than defensive, his volume fairly level.

Mr. Foster, where were you on the evening of November fifteenth?

At home with my wife. We had dinner, watched the news, went to bed before Carson.

Can anyone verify that?

My wife, of course, but I guess she wouldn’t count.

Anyone else?

No. We live quietly up there. Don’t have many visitors.

What about phone calls? Did you talk to anyone that evening?

I don’t think so. Why? What’s this really all about?

Three men are missing. We’re trying to account for everyone who might have had contact with them.

And you think I had contact with them because my name was in some file?

It’s an angle we have to explore.

Larry nodded, almost sympathetic.

I wish I could help you. But I don’t know anything about these people.

Could you wife have borrowed money without telling you?

Marjorie? Larry laughed.

Detective, my wife has more seashells than some island nations. If she needs cash, she writes herself a check.

Outside the shop, Detective Martinez lit a cigarette and leaned against their car.

He’s either clean or a damned good liar.

Or his wife is doing the lying for the both of them.

You think a woman pushing seventy could have killed three men?

I think a sixty-eight-year-old woman with that kind of money could arrange for three men to be killed.

But three more weeks of investigation produced nothing — no evidence of hired killers, no payouts to suspicious operators, no connections between the Fosters and anyone capable of making three heavy thugs disappear. Butcher squinted at the photos of Rudy Castellano and his crew, three men who’d built their reputation on violence and intimidation. They weren’t the kind of people who would disappear willingly, and they weren’t the kind of people who’d be killed by rank amateurs.

Unless the amateurs were smarter than they looked. In which case, she and Martinez would be waiting on luck.

Luck arrived four months later. It came not from Larry or Marjorie, but from someone the detectives had neglected.

Carmen Valdez had worked as a housekeeper for wealthy families in Phoenix for more than twenty years. She tended to several houses in the foothills with her eyes and ears open but her thoughts to herself. She’d found that rich people told their help things they’d never tell their friends, and that the best way to keep working was to forget everything she saw, heard, or smelled.

But some things were hard to forget.

Like the subtle odor that lingered in Mrs. Foster’s house for weeks in late November. Like the new rug in the living room that replaced the Navajo piece she’d been careful with for so many years. Like the way Mr. Larry and Mrs. Marjorie had started acting differently with her in a way that she didn’t quite like. As if they were very much aware she was there. As if she had just been hired.

Carmen might have kept it to herself if her nephew hadn’t been arrested.

Miguel Valdez was nineteen, stupid, and involved with even stupider people. He’d been caught selling joints near a school, and the prosecutor was talking about a decade in prison unless Miguel could provide something useful.

Tía, he said when Carmen when she came, you work for rich Anglos, right?

Sí, but what —

Maybe some of them sometimes have said some things. Maybe a thing that would help, a thing that could buy back some time. Not all of these people are nice, no?

Carmen stared at her nephew through the reinforced glass. She’d helped raise him after his father died, had tried to keep him out of trouble, and had so clearly, so completely failed. And no, not all those people were nice.

Miguel, I don’t —

But she caught herself. She thought about the off smell in the Fosters’ house, about the sudden new rug, about the way Mr. Larry and Mrs. Marjorie had been acting. She’s heard them mention detectives. She thought about her nephew spending the prime of his life in prison, about his mother’s broken heart, about watching Noah grow in that beautiful house, Noah now a young man with an education and career and pretty wife and full life.

I might know something.

She didn’t explain.

Detective Butcher was eating a sandwich at her desk when the call came. A woman nervous but determined, asking to speak with someone about a possible crime.

My name is Carmen Valdez. I work for people you have been to see. The Fosters.

What kind of work?

I clean and help. I’m their housekeeper. I see things.

Butcher reached for a pen. The woman seemed uncomfortable but resolute, with weathered hands.

What brings you here?

What brings me is my nephew Miguel … Miguel Valdez. He faces sentencing soon for being foolish. He is young and deserves a break. You know his case?

Tell me about the Fosters.

Carmen explained arriving at their place on a November morning to find the house smelling like beef and cleaning supplies. About the Navajo heirloom that had disappeared, replaced by something new and also fine but a different pattern and size. About their strange behavior ever since — so careful around her after such a long time in their home.

I think maybe something bad happened in the house. Something they want no one to know about.

Have you see anything specific? Blood, any sign of violence?

The smell was enough. You live with people long enough, you know what they smell like, their clothes smell like, the smell of the place when you walk in the door. You know.

It wasn’t much. But it was worth rounding up Martinez.

Let’s try to get a warrant for a search of the Foster house.

Based on what?

Information from a reliable source about the smell of a homicide.

Kinda thin, don’t you think?

It’s what we’ve got.

The search warrant was executed at dawn on a Tuesday morning, six months and three days after Rudy Castellano and his crew had vanished into the desert night. Marjorie answered the door in a silk robe and slippers, showing nothing more than mild curiosity at the officers standing on her doorstep.

Mrs. Foster, we have a warrant to search these premises.

Of course. May I see it?

Butcher handed over the paper and watched Marjorie read it. She nodded when she got to the end.

This seems to be in order. May I ask what you are looking for?

Evidence relating to the disappearance of Rudy Castellano, Tony Briggs, and Mickey Torrino.

I see. Well, you are welcome to look. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.

Butcher was systematic. Martinez and the others carefully inspected the bedrooms, all the closets, the kitchen, the garage. She focused on the living room where Carmen was bothered by the rug.

The new one, still obviously Navajo, was very large and exquisitely crafted, boldly patterned in familiar desert-and-sky tones. It also appeared to be slightly larger than the one it replaced. Lifting a corner, Butcher could see the faint outline on the hardwood where the previous one had lain, a subtle shift of hue in the wood’s finish that spoke of continuous years under cover.

Ma’am, this is really quite a striking rug.

Marjorie was hanging back, watching the detective work with the detached interest of someone viewing a television program.

Thank you, it’s new. I redecorated recently.

Didn’t care for the old one?

It was damaged. A terrible red wine stain that just wouldn’t come out.

That’s unfortunate. They’re each one one-of-a-kind, aren’t they? Must cost a small fortune to replace.

I can afford it.

Where’s the old one now? Did you give it away? Was it trashed or recycled somewhere?

We burned it.

Detective Butcher stood up, cocked her head, and considered her suspect.

Really?

Out back, at sunset on a Sunday. A small ceremony, of sorts. There are traditional spiritual aspects to these pieces, you know. It’s not just a mass-produced pad on the floor. Think of how we retire the flag when it’s tattered too far. With honor.

Butcher returned to the rug, peeled back farther from one corner, and saw what she’d hoped to find: muted stains on the wood beneath, looking treated and scrubbed but not fully removed. She called for the crime scene photographer.

Mrs. Foster, I’m going to need you to stand back and not enter this room.

After photos and sliding the rug clear and then another set of photos, they brought out the luminol and started spraying. The flooring went lurid with blue.

Jesus, Martinez whispered.

The study was adjacent, so they continued there. More photos. Slivers of samples.

Larry came home while the team was winding down. He looked at the lights and cameras and technicians, his face — to the extent that Butcher could read it — cycling through surprise, confusion, and perhaps resignation.

Evening, Mr. Foster. We should talk.

About —

About what went on here last November.

Larry took in the fluorescence on the living room floor, the strangers in and out of uniform, his wife in the hallway with her arms crossed and her face a flat mask.

I want a lawyer, he said.

The arrests were anticlimactic. Larry submitted without resistance, Marjorie wanted to call her personal attorney. They were processed separately, photographed and fingerprinted and formally read their rights, per protocol.

In due course, Larry started talking.

We’re not killers. That’s pretty obvious. We were just people who got backed into a corner and had to fight our way out.

By murdering three men.

By protecting ourselves from men who were going to hurt us whether we paid them or not.

So you decided to kill them instead of paying.

We decided to end it.

And your wife was okay with that?

Larry was quiet for a long moment.

My wife is the strongest person I’ve ever met. When she decides on something, she commits completely.

Even to murder?

To survival.

He covered the planning, the execution, the cleanup, the disposal. He pointed out the mine shaft on a topographic map.

Your wife hasn’t said much, Butcher noted toward the end.

Yeah. I think she’s done with all that.

The trial took two weeks, devoted entirely to the sequence of events, forensic specialists with visual aids, and exhibits of recovered evidence. Larry pled guilty to three counts of manslaughter and testified against Marjorie. This was in exchange for a life sentence that allowed for parole.

Marjorie maintained her innocence, claiming half-heartedly — through her lawyer — that she’d acted in self-defense when three strangers barged into her house. No one bought it. When the verdict for conspiracy, murder, and evidence tampering came through, it brought life without the possibility of parole.

She showed no emotion when the verdict was read. She stood straight and silent, her hands folded in front of her, her face composed and dignified. When the judge asked if she had anything to say before sentencing, she responded with exactly four words.

Thank you, Your Honor.

She was led away in shackles, back straight and head high, looking like a queen being escorted to the waiting block.

Outside the courthouse, the desert sun beat down on concrete and steel and glass, on a city that sprawled for miles in the space of her lifetime. In the distance, mountains rose like ancient sentinels, older than human memory, indifferent to the petty dramas playing out in their shadows.

Later, from her cell in Goodyear, she’d sit on a narrow bunk and look out through the bars at the desert skies she’d enjoyed from her patio for thirty-odd years. The guards viewed her as just another elderly inmate, counting down the days until death closed her sentence. But she wasn’t counting anything … she was listening, moment by moment, breath by breath, star by star.

Out in the dry distance, coyotes would call out across the rocks, voicing the joy of fresh meat, warm blood, cracked bone. When she heard them Marjorie smiled.