The Wilding Probate: A Bucky McCrae Adventure

by D. J. Butler

  Evil’s Buick is not a bitchin’ mode of transportation in his eyes.

  It is the bitchin’ mode.

  I think he mostly likes to drive with the windows down and imagine he’s fighting crime or bootlegging in some ’80s TV show starring actors with big hair. But I don’t tell him that, because it might start him off on his spiel.

  “So, nobody’s found your phone yet,” Evil said.

  “Not as far I know. You worried I’m missing all the action on Twitter?”

  Evil shrugged. “What’s in the records office that you want to see?”

  “I want to look at the plans for the Wilding house. Aaron Wilding built that place, right?”

  Evil shrugged. “I guess.”

  “So the county should have the plans.”

  Evil leaned into the open window. His hair would be ruffling in the wind, except that it was really short and now covered by his bandage. “You thinking about that grow building?”

  “‘Grow building’? Is that what you big city marijuana bankers call it?”

  “Small city. I’m thinking Boise, remember?”

  “No, I’m thinking about the water.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, you remember what a new age, ultra-efficient, hippy kind of house the Wildings live in?”

  “Lived,” Evil said. “At least, in the case of Mr. Wilding. I remember.”

  “Dad said a couple of times they have their own well. I want to confirm it, one way or the other.”

  “It wouldn’t be too surprising.” Evil scratched his chin, which was now sprouting a couple of days’ worth of stubble. “Lots of houses in the Ups have wells. Geothermal heat pumps, even. Some of those places up in the canyons are on city water, though.”

  “That’s why I want to check.”

  Evil looked as if he had more questions, but at that moment he was parking at county records. The records office was a brick building that had once been a bar and before that a bank. It’s downtown, across a gravel parking lot from where Judge Ybarra holds her court in a trailer.

  I knew Scott Brough, who ran the office. He was a sharp guy who used to work in health insurance down south somewhere before he came to Howard for the lifestyle. He collected model trains, and today must have been a slow day at the office, because he had a pot of fire engine red paint on the counter and was squinting down along a fine-tipped paintbrush at a locomotive he held in his hand, touching up a few spots where the paint had rubbed off. He was also wearing a navy and white striped train engineer’s cap.

  Welcome to Howard County.

  “Bucky.” He didn’t look up. “Know what kind of train this is?”

  “Uh…a toy one?”

  “Pfff. Just because something is small doesn’t mean it’s a toy.”

  “Right. So it’s a…locomotive, I guess. For a fairy train line.”

  “It’s the locomotive Consolidation, two-eight-oh in the Whyte notation. Introduced in 1865, and by the mid-1870s, the standard freight locomotive on the Pennsylvania and Erie Railroads.” Brough squinted past the pot of paint to glare at me. “A model, not a toy. This train will be displayed, not played with.”

  “I totally respect you,” I said. “And I wish I had a train set as sick as yours.”

  “Hmm. So whatcha lookin’ for?”

  “Just some real estate records. Has to do with a client’s will.”

  He dabbed paint. “Knock yourself out.”

  I know in a bigger town, there would be request forms and process and maybe permissions to ask and a wait. Not in Howard.

  I’d looked up real property records before, so it didn’t take me long to find the lot on the county maps, then locate the drawer where Aaron Wilding had filed his plans when he’d built his house. There was nothing on the plans about a grow building, as Evil had called it.

  But there was a well.

  “Huh,” Evil said. He was looking over my shoulder as we hunkered together over a table in the reading room, which had once been the common room of the bar. “Look at that. Basement’s the same half-circle shape as the above-ground floor.”

  “Yep.” I was a bit distracted, focusing on the piece that interested me. “More space, though, because below ground you’re not trying to build that envelope of dead air for insulation.”

  “You gonna explain your big idea now?”

  “I think the well has been poisoned.” I pointed at the well marked on the blueprints. “The poison must have got into the aquifer. That’s what killed the deer. And Marilyn Wilding knows about it.”

  “Pretty sure you’re wrong about the aquifer being poisoned.” This was the third time Evil had said these exact same words to me in fifteen minutes. “I don’t think you’re really grasping just how big the aquifer is.”

  “Maybe the poison’s in the well. And just a bit leaked into the aquifer.”

  “Just a bit would disperse and not kill deer. Probably.”

  “Probably.”

  Evil sighed. “And you realize you’re not a crime fighter, right?” This was the third time Evil had said this to me in fifteen minutes, too. “You’re not a detective. You’re not a cop.”

  He was driving into the Ups, toward the Wilding house.

  “I know what I’m not,” I said. “Thanks for the reminder. Let me remind you that you’re not a hydraulics engineer.”

  “You’re not even a lawyer,” he added. “I mean, except on a pro hunk basis.”

  That was true. But I’d tried to tell Dad; Evil had driven by the Fun Lanes, and Dad’s car had been gone. Gladys had said Dad had gone to the court with Marilyn Wilding, and that had given me the idea.

  Nick was dead. Marilyn was at the court with Dad. I could go to her house.

  I didn’t even need to get into the house, really. I just needed to get to the stream with the dead deer in it. I needed a little water sample. If I was right, the water would be toxic.

  And maybe my theory was improbable. But it fit the facts.

  You’re wondering why I didn’t call the sheriff.

  I had called him, or at least I’d tried. On Evil’s phone, standing in front of the records building, and he hadn’t been in the office. I didn’t have a direct number to call. But the secretary had said he was out, and did I want to leave a message.

  And that had made me hesitate. I wasn’t so worried about a corrupt deputy anymore, but if I was right, I might have evidence against my own client. Against Dad’s client. And if Marilyn Wilding was guilty, so be it. You can’t deliberately hide evidence from the police if you’re a lawyer, you can’t connive with your client to hide a crime.

  But if I was wrong, and my guesses got passed around as fact, I could be wrecking my client’s reputation.

  So I’d asked the secretary to have Sheriff Sutherland call me, and I gave her Evil’s phone number. And now we were on our way up to the Wilding place.

  Like I said, no one should be there. I just needed to get in and get a water sample, and get that to the sheriff. If there was anything in the water, the prosecutor could worry about admissibility later.

  “You know that guy who shot you is still out there,” Evil reminded me.

  “‘Out there’ meaning he’s alive, not necessarily that he’s hanging around the scene of his crimes. I’m betting the flashing lights last night scared him off, if he hadn’t already headed out.”

  “Yeah.” Evil nodded slowly. The bandages wrapped around his head gave the gesture a solemn look, as if he were a nodding swami or something. “Still, I’d feel better about this if we were armed, or had the sheriff with us, or even if someone knew where we were.”

  I shuddered. “I’ve handled enough pistols in the last two days to last me a long time.” I remembered the jerking motions Michael Fellows had made as I’d shot him and shuddered. “And it’s probably better if we don’t leave a record of where we’re going.”

  “Okay.” Evil shook his head. “But for this, you’re going to have to watch The Last of the Mohicans
and the sequel.”

  I didn’t remind Evil that he could just drop me off instead and I’d drive myself. I guess I didn’t really want to go back into the Ups alone. “There is no sequel.”

  “No? Dang.” Evil rapped the dashboard of the GSX with his knuckles. “I had such high hopes for My Left Foot.”

  “My Left Foot? I guess you never read the Leatherstocking Tales.” I laughed out loud. “What would that even be about?”

  Evil shrugged. “Something about moccasins, I guess. Maybe stockings, to hear you talk.”

  “I want you to know, I’m okay with the fact that you have a crush on Daniel Day-Lewis.”

  “He’s a fine actor.” Evil didn’t skip a beat. “He’s got great hair, which I am particularly conscious of at this time when I may have lost my scalp entirely. And I’m comfortable enough in my own skin to admire a handsome man.”

  We both fell quiet as he turned the GSX into the Wildings’ driveway. My heart beat a little faster, and just as we crested the little bowl and the house came into view, I had an urge to grab the wheel and spin Evil’s muscle car around to head back to Howard.

  But I didn’t grab the wheel, and the driveway was empty.

  The driveway forked, which I hadn’t noticed before. One fork passed the house and kept going, off to the left. I wondered where it might lead. Evil parked next to the house.

  “You said this would be quick,” Evil reminded me.

  “Yep.” We both got out of the car, and then I realized what I hadn’t brought with me. “You have anything…to, you know, carry water in?”

  Evil laughed out loud. “You mean, did I replace the condom in my wallet? Doggone it, Becky, that’s the most romantic thing you ever asked me.”

  “I really want it to hold water.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “And I’m sorry to disappoint you. I have not restocked my emergency canteen.”

  “Nuts.” I looked at the house and thought a moment. There were glasses in the little cabin over the rise, but I didn’t want to try to carry an open glass of water back to town. Especially if I was right, and the water was poisonous.

  “You know, maybe you ought to think about carrying a condom around in your wallet,” Evil suggested. “Just to be prepared.”

  “You’d like that.”

  “I would be amused. And you never know when it could come in handy.”

  I didn’t see anything useful sitting around in the yard, and I didn’t want to waste any more time. I walked up to the front door, wrapped my hand in the front of my own shirt, and grabbed the door handle. Might as well not leave any more fingerprints, just in case.

  The knob turned, and the door opened.

  If you’re from somewhere big, like Denver, you’re surprised. Also, you’re remembering that I was careful to lock up the Fun Lanes. But a lot of people around here leave their doors unlocked. There’s nowhere in Howard to fence stolen goods, and it’s a long way for a burglar from anywhere else to drive, for the privilege of breaking and entering. And besides, if a burglar wanted to let himself in by heaving a rock through a window this far into the Ups, there aren’t any neighbors in earshot, anyway. Leaving your door open might just save you the expense of having to replace shattered glass.

  I’m not saying we don’t have crime. I’m just saying we don’t always lock the doors to our homes.

  “I didn’t know this was part of the plan.” Evil followed me in through the open door.

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets. “How’s that?”

  “Good move.”

  “Saw it on a cop show.”

  Still using my baggy shirt like a glove, I opened the refrigerator and grabbed two bottles of water. “We’re going to want to be able to tell these apart,” I said, looking at them. “You have a pen?”

  “How well you know me. I drive around with a pen, so I can record my spontaneous observations of people and nature. You know, write a little poetry now and then.”

  “Smart ass.”

  “Better than a dumbass. Rip the label off one bottle. That’ll tell them apart.”

  Duh. I ripped off one label and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I emptied both bottles down the sink, bumped the kitchen faucet handle up with one sleeve-shrouded elbow and carefully filled the label-less bottle. “Do not drink this.” I handed the full bottle to Evil and shut off the water the same way I’d turned it on.

  “Got it. The bottle with no label has poisoned water from the house.”

  “Maybe poisoned. But better safe than sorry.”

  “That’s why I carry a condom. Usually.”

  “No label, house.”

  “Right. Now let’s go get water from the stream.”

  “Wait,” I said. “I want to take a look at the pipes.”

  “You mean downstairs? Where the water comes into the house? What do you think you’ll see?”

  But as he asked, I was already heading deeper into the house. I knew where the stairs were because they’d been on the plans, so I dropped down into the basement. I don’t know what I expected to find, but something…I don’t know, well-like. Instead, all I found were the usual water heaters in a concrete utility room.

  “That’s probably your incoming water.” Evil tapped one of the pipes. “Actual well’s outside.”

  “You think you could stick poison in there somehow?” I crouched and tugged at an elbow of the pipe.

  “It’d be a lot of work.” Evil sounded distracted. “Easier just to drop poison in the water heater, don’t you think?”

  Of course. I looked up at him. He stood in the door of the utility room and peered out. “So collecting water is kind of silly, isn’t it?”

  He focused on me again. “I would never call you silly, Bucky. Becky. And hey, if the water from the tap is toxic, checking it against the stream water will tell you whether the toxin came from the aquifer, or was inserted somewhere in the house’s plumbing. So that’s very clever of you.”

  Ha. “What are you looking at out there?”

  “Well, check this out.” Evil pointed. I stood and left the utility room so I could follow what he was trying to show me.

  Outside the little room was a den. The wall curved behind a sofa in a long gentle slope, and then suddenly turned and straightened out, running thirty feet or so before turning again at a right angle.

  And suddenly I saw what Evil saw. “Oh my gosh. That doesn’t match the blueprints.”

  “There’s space behind that wall,” Evil said, nodding at it. “Kind of a big space, I think. But no door.”

  No obvious door. “I’m pretty sure the blueprints showed a room.”

  “What do you think? Secret lever hidden in a bookcase?” Evil looked around.

  “I think that’s too complicated.” The wall in question was a series of wood panels. I pushed on them in sequence, expecting one of them to simply swing inward. Instead, the third panel made a click when I pressed it, and then swung open toward me.

  The open panel formed a low door. Beyond the door was a room.

  I stepped inside. Evil followed me, cursing as he banged his head.

  There were no windows and almost no furniture, so I took in the room at a glance. Thick carpet. Amber light bulbs when I hit the switch to turn them on. And a deputy sheriff’s uniform, lying on top of a quilt over a king-sized bed.

  The bed was king-sized, but otherwise the room appeared to be decorated for children. The quilt was covered with images of bears. Bears in bathing suits, holding balloons in their cute little paws. The same images were hand-painted all over the walls.

  I felt like throwing up.

  “We gotta leave now.” Evil pulled at my elbow and I didn’t resist him.

  I scanned the kitchen floor on the way back out to be sure we hadn’t tracked in any dirt, and then shut the door behind us. The sun was high overhead.

  “It’s going to be a hot afternoon,” I said. I was just making small talk, trying not to think abou
t the fact that I’d been chased, shot at, and then eventually shot, just the day before, in this very place. And that I’d just seen a secret room in the basement of the Wildings’ house, a room that contained bears in swimsuits, holding balloons.

  A room Sheriff Sutherland had almost certainly not seen.

  “It’s going to rain,” Evil said. “You still want water from the stream?”

  “Are you feeling a twinge in your old war wound?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head. “I can smell the water in the air. Can’t you?”

  I stopped to look at him. “Are you serious?”

  Evil laughed. “No. I checked the forecast this morning. I work on the highways, remember? And I hunt for fun, and I drive a fast car. I always like to know what the weather’s going to be.”

  “Jerk.” I kept walking, but I was grateful for his joking. It calmed me down.

  “Don’t knock old war wounds, though. Storms follow drops in atmospheric pressure. Some animals can sense the pressure differences and know when bad weather’s coming. No reason a human being might not be able to feel the same thing, if they had part of their body that was particularly sensitive.”

  “This is going to sound wrong,” I said, stumbling down the slope toward the stream. “But most of the time, I don’t give you enough credit for being smart.”

  Evil shrugged. “I dunno. I’ll be lucky to get out of high school, let alone college. You’re the smart one. Look at that secret room you just discovered.”

  “You’re smart,” I said again, “and you know stuff. Lots of stuff. It’s just not the stuff I know.” I was trying to process what I’d seen in the hidden room. Obviously, Charlie Herbert had been in that room: bears and balloons, he had said. So had Michael Fellows, who had had a menacing conversation on the phone with someone unknown using the phrase bears in swimming suits. “You’re a good man, Evil Patten.”

  When had the two men been in the room? And why?