by Thomas King
But when they arrived back in Chinook, Claire dropped him off and drove away by herself.
“You been to that new place yet? Down the street from Budd’s? Fancy bistro thingy with organic espresso and flavoured coffees?”
Thumps looked up. “What?”
“Mirrors,” Al yelled over the sizzle of the grill. “Who the hell calls a coffee shop Mirrors?”
Thumps tried to look sympathetic.
“You talk to the sheriff yet?”
“Duke?”
“He was looking for you.”
“Why?”
Al waved her spatula at Thumps. “Don’t know, but when you see him, tell him ‘Howdy’ for me. And be sure to ask him about the hitching post.”
Three
The Chamber of Commerce was serious about its Howdy campaign. Red and yellow geraniums were hanging in baskets from light standards, horse-opera scenes were painted on the windows of storefronts, even the ones that were dark and empty, and the heads of the parking meters had “Howdy” stickers stuck to the front, so you couldn’t tell how much time you had left.
The main street was festooned with banners that announced the “Chinook Summer Roundup.”
Whatever that was.
“DreadfulWater!”
Thumps turned to find Sheriff Duke Hockney at the curb behind the wheel of his black and white Ford Bronco.
“About time you got back.”
Duke had little concern with fashion. His wife, Macy, bought most of his clothes, and she generally kept things simple. Long-sleeved shirts in the mid-tone range. Dark green whipcord slacks. A comfortable pair of workboots.
“You plan to stand there all day?”
“I’m relaxing.”
“This is what happens when you don’t have a real job,” said Hockney.
Today the sheriff was dressed in a multicoloured, snap-button cowboy shirt, set off with a bolo tie, a leather vest, and an enormous gold belt buckle that said “Rodeo.” Thumps imagined that if Hockney bent over, the buckle would cut him in half.
“I have a job.”
“Photography isn’t a job,” said Duke. “It’s a hobby. Like model airplanes and birdwatching.”
The bolo tie, with its silver and turquoise slide, was somewhat ridiculous. Around Duke’s thick neck, it looked as though someone had tried to strangle a bear with a piece of dental floss.
“Now police work is a real job,” said Duke. “And you used to be a cop.”
Thumps wondered if he should go out to the reservation and camp on Claire’s doorstep. Maybe she’d forgotten that he cared and needed to be reminded.
“Get in,” said Hockney. “I’ve got something for you.”
“In that case,” said Thumps, “I’m not getting in.”
“Damn it, DreadfulWater, I’m trying to do you a favour.”
The marshal star on Duke’s vest looked like the very thing John Wayne might have worn in Cahill U.S. Marshal. Thumps wondered what else was lurking in the sheriff’s new wardrobe. Chaps? Cowboy boots? Spurs?
“I’m enjoying the weather.”
“There’s fresh croissants and espresso.”
Thumps tried to contain his disbelief. “How did that happen?”
Hockney rolled the Bronco forward. “Just get in the damn car.”
THE OUTSIDE OF the sheriff’s office looked pretty much the same as it had two months ago except someone had put up an enormous hand-painted sign that said “Sheriff” in a gilded font that reminded Thumps of cattle roundups and posters for turn-of-the-century Wild West shows.
“Is that a hitching post?”
Duke grunted something unpleasant, slammed the door of the Bronco, and stomped into his office.
Whoever had decorated the outside of the sheriff’s office had been turned loose on the inside as well. Rusty animal traps, Navajo rugs, a brace of stuffed ducks on the fly, an oil painting of Plains Indians hunting buffalo. There was an enormous moose head hanging on the wall behind Duke’s desk.
“Nice moose.”
“Two months gone,” said the sheriff, “and you’re still annoying.”
The head was angled as though the animal had heard something in the trees and was trying to see what was coming up behind it.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Same place as the damn hitching post.”
Beside Duke’s desk was a brass spittoon. Thumps was sure that this was Hockney’s office, but it looked more like a Western Americana thrift store.
“You watch much television?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither,” said Duke. “But Macy does. And what the woman loves most are those reality shows.” The sheriff whacked himself on the side of his head as though he were trying to knock a bad memory out of his brain. “Other night, she forced me to watch something called Exhibit A. Had that Native actor you like so much . . . Graham . . . Graham somebody.”
“Greene.”
“Whatever,” said Duke. “You know that joke about watching paint peel?”
“Sort of like men watching sports?”
“Nothing wrong with men watching sports.” Duke stomped over to where his ancient percolator was sitting on a small table. “You want some coffee?”
Thumps had seen what came out of the old percolator. On a number of occasions, he had even made the mistake of trying Duke’s coffee.
“I don’t see any croissants.”
The sheriff poured hot asphalt into a cup.
“Or any espresso.”
“I didn’t say I had croissants and espresso at my office.”
There was a white paper bag on one of the filing cabinets with a logo Thumps didn’t recognize. A dancing cartoon squirrel. “Skippy’s” was stencilled above the rodent.
“Just opened,” said Duke. “Good burgers. Thick and juicy.”
“I don’t need a burger,” said Thumps. “You promised me a croissant and an espresso.”
Hockney shook his head. “What you need is a job. Something to take your mind off your woes.”
“My woes?”
The sheriff put the cup to his lips and worked his jaw back and forth as though he were trying to chew the coffee into manageable pieces.
“Have you seen your car yet?”
Thumps waited.
“You’re going to be needing a new one.” The sheriff cleared his throat. “You ever hear of a TV show called Malice Aforethought? They do cold case re-enactments. It’s Macy’s favourite show. And they’re shooting an episode right here in Chinook.”
“That should make Macy happy.”
“Yes, it will,” said the sheriff. “And they want someone to review their current case for them, someone with investigative experience, someone who knows police procedure.”
“Not interested.”
“You get to hang out with movie stars. They bring in fresh croissants every morning, and they have one of those fancy chrome espresso machines.” Duke paused to catch his breath. “Maybe you can bring Claire on the set. Give her a tour of the behind-the-scenes stuff. Might cheer her up.”
“Not interested.”
“They pay really well.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
The sheriff made a face. “City frowns on moonlighting. Makes it look as though they don’t pay me enough.”
“They don’t.”
“And I have to run the Chamber’s stupid Howdy program,” said Duke. “Why do you think I’m dressed like this? Why do you think my office looks like a goddamn petting zoo?”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Look, just meet with the producers and the team.” Hockney was smiling now. Which was never a good sign. “Where’s the harm in that?”
“So, what’s the show going to be about?”
“About?”
“You said they do cold case re-enactments.”
Duke banged his coffee cup against the edge of the table. The black sludge didn’t move. The table did. “Trudy Samuels.”
“The same,” said Duke. “Emmitt Tull was sheriff then. Her body was found out at Belly Butte. Emmitt figured it for an accident. Nobody liked to talk about suicide in those days.”
“But?”
“Trudy’s stepmother, Adele Samuels, screamed murder, swore Trudy had been killed by her boyfriend.”
“Always a good bet.”
“Boyfriend was Tobias Rattler.” Duke paused to see if Thumps was paying attention.
“The novelist?”
“Wasn’t a novelist back then,” said Hockney. “Just another kid off the reservation.”
“Autopsy?”
“Inconclusive,” said Duke. “But Tull looked at Rattler. In those days the Samuels family was royalty.”
“And?”
“According to the police report, the night Trudy died, the two of them were supposed to meet up for a movie. But Rattler said she never showed.”
“So, no alibi.”
“No motive either,” said Hockney. “And no physical evidence to tie him to Trudy’s death.”
“And this TV program is going to solve the case?”
“Malice Aforethought doesn’t solve cases. Shows like that just kick up dirt and pick at scabs.” Duke paused. “You sure you don’t know the program?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then why do you suppose they asked for you specifically?” said Duke.
“Me?”
“Specifically,” said the sheriff. “Kinda curious, ain’t it?”
Thumps considered the moose head on the wall. Probably the last thing the animal had heard was the crack of the bullet just before it passed through his body. But the sound could just as easily have been a friend asking for a favour.
“Production office is where Budd’s used to be.” Duke settled in his chair and put his feet on the desk. “Sydney Pearl and Nina Maslow,” he said with a smile. “You can thank me later.”
Four
If Thumps had bothered making a to-do list, it would not have included working for a reality television program.
It would have included his Volvo. He hadn’t seen the car yet, had no idea how badly it had been damaged, though to hear Roxanne and the sheriff tell the story, the car was a write-off. He tried to remember if he had collision coverage.
And the list would have included Cooley Small Elk. He hadn’t talked to Cooley, hadn’t gone to see him, didn’t know how badly the big man had been hurt in the accident.
And it certainly would have included Claire. She would have been the first item on it, though he had no idea what he should do or what he could do. He hadn’t seen her since they had returned from Seattle. All his phone calls had gone directly to her answering machine, and she hadn’t called back.
BUDD’S CLOTHING—“Clothes for the Entire Family”—had been in business since 1943, a fact that Leo Budd was always happy to share with others.
And now it wasn’t.
One evening, Leo and his wife, Fanny, had decided that enough was enough. They sold the merchandise and the fixtures to a jobber out of Missoula, put the building up for sale, and moved to Florida.
“Got a place in the Keys,” Leo told everyone. “Right next door to Marathon. Not real big, but we got sunshine all the time.”
Leo and Fanny had invited most of the town to come down and visit, though Thumps didn’t know of anyone who had taken them up on the offer. Then, too, they hadn’t stayed all that long. About six months after they had left, they were back in Chinook, a little plumper, a little tanner.
“Place was beautiful.” Leo had photographs. “Ocean, no snow, friendly people. But all everyone did was sit around in their underwear and drink. Or they’d go out on a boat and fish, and then they’d sit around and drink. We tried the fishing thing once and got sick.”
Someone had painted a cowboy and a bucking bronco on the big plate-glass window, along with a red and yellow “Howdy” banner flying over the man and his horse. To one side, taped to the glass, was a single sheet of green copy paper that said simply, “Veritas Productions.”
Thumps had never been in a production office before, so he had no idea what to expect. Still, the sprawl of mismatched desks, second-hand chairs, and the long folding table stacked with reams of different-coloured paper was, by and large, disappointing. There was a large copier in a corner where the shoe department had been, and someone had set a sheet of plywood on sawhorses and buried it in food.
Duke hadn’t been lying. There were croissants. As well as fruit and cold drinks.
And espresso.
On a table, all by itself, was a sparkling block of chrome and gauges that looked as though it could power a small town.
Standing next to the machine was a slender woman with dark hair cut short. Her white shirt and jeans were two sizes too small. They weren’t made out of rubber, but the effect was the same.
“I’m guessing you’re Mr. DreadfulWater.”
Thumps tried to keep his eyes on the machine.
“Nina Maslow,” said the woman. “The sheriff has told me all about you.”
Nina’s teeth were a brilliant white, and the effect of her smile was much like a strobe going off in a dark room. Maslow held out a hand. Her skin was soft and glowing, all her nails trimmed and polished. Thumps’s hand more closely resembled a chunk of wood that had been left out in the weather too long.
“I’d offer you a latte, but the machine isn’t set up yet.” Maslow made a face. “Someone misplaced the portafilter.”
Thumps tried to look sympathetic.
“Course we could have gotten one of those new machines that are completely automated,” said Nina. “No portafilter. No levers. Just a bunch of buttons. Have you seen that ad with George Clooney and Danny DeVito?”
“Nope.”
“I thought better of those two,” said Maslow. “The coffee comes pre-ground in little plastic cups, so it’s stale before it even gets near the machine, but you can be a complete idiot and still make a mediocre espresso. So long as you don’t mind all the waste that’s created.”
“Espresso for Dummies.”
“Exactly,” said Nina. “Doing it from scratch with fresh beans, a good grinder, and a professional machine is the only way to get a great cup of espresso.”
Thumps was trying to decide between a croissant and cheese or fruit and cheese, and didn’t see the guy as he rushed by.
“Have you seen this script?” The man was tall and slim, blond with soft blue eyes, perfect teeth, and a chin that could split wood. “Why am I off camera in the third scene?”
Nina tilted her head to one side so she could get a clean angle on the man’s throat. “Mr. DreadfulWater, meet Mr. Calder Banks. Calder is the face of Malice Aforethought.”
Thumps could see where Banks might be the face of something. The man was magazine handsome, glossy with a deep, resonant voice.
“I’ve seen the script,” said Nina. “So has Sydney.”
“And?”
There was something familiar about Banks, a vague memory of having seen the man before. A television show? A movie?
“Let’s remember our roles,” said Nina in a motherly tone. “You’re not the writer. You’re not the producer. You’re the star.”
“You might remind Sydney of that.” Banks dropped the script on the table. “No Calder Banks, no show. She upstairs?”
“I wouldn’t bother her right now,” said Maslow. “She just got off the phone with head office.”
“L.A. pricks.”
“Yes,” said Maslow. “The very L.A. pricks who pay our salaries.”
“Okay.” Banks took a deep breath. “Tell her to call me. We need to talk.”
Thumps waited until Banks had cleared the area. “Wasn’t he in . . .”
“The Troy Donahue of our generation,” said Maslow. “Pretty, petulant, fights below his weight.”
“But?”
/> “But they love him in Japan.” Nina made a soft kissing sound with her mouth. “You want a career that is guaranteed to be short and miserable? Take up acting. Five years back, Calder had the lead in a surefire hit TV series and then, bang, it was all over.”
Somewhere in the office, Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys started in on “Across the Alley from the Alamo.” Nina grabbed her cellphone and walked to the front of the store. Thumps could see where he might have been mistaken. Maybe her shirt and pants were made out of rubber after all.
“He just got here . . . Okay . . . on our way . . .” Maslow slipped the phone into her back pocket, a trick Thumps would have thought to be impossible. “You ever wonder where L. Frank Baum got his inspiration for the Wicked Witch of the West?”
“The Wizard of Oz?”
“Your lucky day.” Nina nodded. “’Cause you’re about to meet her.”
Five
Budd’s had the only mezzanine in Chinook, a distinction that was probably lost even on locals who had shopped at the store on a regular basis. It was a balcony of sorts wedged between the ground floor and the first floor. Thumps wasn’t sure who had come up with the concept, but he guessed it was a suspicious store owner who had wanted to watch his sales staff and keep track of the customers at the same time.
Mezzanines were largely a vestige of the past. While the openness made the ground floor feel spacious and airy, they gave up valuable space, and newer commercial construction had all but eliminated them.
Maslow bounced up the stairs. Thumps plodded along behind her.
“Sydney Pearl,” said Nina, as though the name itself was enough.
“He someone famous?”
Nina stopped on the landing. “She. Sydney is a woman.”
Thumps tried a smile. “Embarrassing.”
“Sydney and I co-produce the show. She handles finances and head office. I pick the topics and do the research. Both of us beat up the talent.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“So, you’ll have two bosses.”
“If I take the job.”
Nina frowned. “Why wouldn’t you take the job?”
“Maybe I won’t like her,” said Thumps. “Maybe I won’t like you.”