by Lakota Grace
“Did you know Gil Streicker died there Tuesday morning?”
“Oh, no!” Her posture stiffened, and her eyes held a blank look for a moment. “I saw the firetrucks going by, but I didn’t realize that someone lost their life. What happened?”
She listened intently as I told her the story of the barn fire and finding Gil Streicker’s body.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know that sounds funny, given how angry I was the other day. But I was just defending my brother. I don't—didn't—really have anything against the man, in particular, just that creep he works for. And the horses?”
“The horses are fine.”
“That's a blessing, anyway.”
What was it with these ranching people? One life, whether animal or human, was as important as the next. It was hard to understand that.
“Can you account for your actions Monday night and Tuesday morning?”
“You don't think it was an accident then.” She thought a moment and then gave me a precise accounting of her hours.
“We went to the store Monday afternoon. I remember Hank and I had an argument over squash—he doesn’t like it. Said hello to the checkout clerk who always wears those western shirts, but I don’t know her name. After dinner, I said good night to Hank, then went to bed. I struggle with insomnia, but for some reason, I slept through the entire night.”
“And Tuesday morning, early?” I asked.
“I was here.”
“Can anyone vouch for that?”
“I said hello to Mabel next door when I went out for the paper—she said she was up with her colicky baby. The propane guy came about seven to refill our tank and I talked to him for a moment. Then somebody came by to buy a carton of eggs. I keep them in that old refrigerator on the porch. Have a box where they can put their money, so I didn't talk to them. Mail came about eleven. But by the time I walked up for it, the truck was gone. Don't think he saw me.”
I listened to her recounting, event by commonplace event. A quiet life by all accounts, yet I’d seen her rouse to anger with Gil Streicker. And she seemed very protective of that brother.
“I met Hank as I came in,” I said.
Sorrow drifted over her face. “Two years ago he was attending college, wanted to be an Aggie man. Then the accident happened. The medical bills took all of our savings and then some.”
“That had to be hard. No other family?”
She shook her head. “Just Hank and me. When my father died I wanted to sell this place and move to Phoenix, but with Hank the way he is—you saw him. He'd have trouble in a big city.”
“Were his injuries bad?”
“Couple of cracked ribs, broken ankle. But the worst was the blow to the head—memory loss, difficulty concentrating, gets upset easily. Hank used to be the most gentle, kind man, but now...”
“Hank knew you were upset with the people at the Spine Ranch.”
She slammed her glass of water down on the coffee table, spilling a few drops. “Hank had nothing to do with that accident. He couldn't!”
“Easy. Nobody is accusing him of anything. But there's an ongoing investigation. Both of you need to stay close.”
“Where would we go? We have no money.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “We're right here, twenty-four seven. You'll have no problem finding us.”
I didn't leave her one of the Sheriff’s burglary flyers. She had enough on her plate without that worry. Anyway, the rattlers would attack anyone foolish enough to travel the rutted road leading to the Battle farm.
It was time visit the Spine Horse Ranch and find out what Amanda Riordan wanted.
Chapter 6
When I drove under the sign to the Spine Ranch, Raven LightDancer was working a skip-loader, scraping blackened timbers and ash off the barn foundation. Yellow crime tape waved in tatters from the loaded blade. A stack of new timbers edged the boundary of the cement, and a contractor held a blueprint, marking locations for the new wall framing.
“Hey!” I shouted to Raven. “What are you doing? That’s a possible crime scene.”
He looked down and shrugged. “Heinrich’s orders. You need to check with him.”
Perhaps they'd gotten an “all clear” from the sheriff's office, that Gil's death was accidental. Even so, that voice in the back of my head muttered, “uh-oh”, as any possible traces of homicide vanished in a huff of sooty ash.
By now it was after lunchtime, and my stomach growled at me. I told it to shut up. I'd grab something in Camp Verde before I reported to the sheriff's office, but first I wanted to hear what Amanda Riordan had to say. I walked to the house and knocked on the door. Rosa let me in the and I asked about Amanda.
“Marguerite wants to speak to you first.” She led me to an office off the main living area.
Marguerite had a phone to her ear and looked up when I entered. “Good. You're here. Take this phone for me. I'm on hold.”
She handed me the cell phone and I listened to three variations of the Pachelbel Canon in D before I switched it on speaker and set it down on the desk where it continued to play in a tinny fashion.
“Oh. I never thought of that,” Marguerite said.
She waved a hand-held vac back and forth over the computer keyboard. A long-haired cat watched in fascination until she gently lifted him off the desk and set him on the floor. “Darling kitty,” she said in dulcet tones. “Mommy’s fixing the computer. You can’t be here.”
He jumped back up. Marguerite dropped the vacuum, snatched the cat, and tossed him outside the room, slamming the door. There was a frustrated yowl from the other side and then silence.
Marguerite sat down again, carefully straightening her designer skirt. “The computer isn't working, and Amanda says it’s full of cat hair. Why would she say that? My daughter’s been spending too much time around those nasty smelly animals in the barn.”
The phone beeped into service and she grabbed it. An East Indian voice came through the loudspeaker and she hit speaker-off, putting the phone to her ear. “Yes, the C key sticks. I hit it and the screen turns blue...no, I've tried that. No, you can't have control of my computer monitor. How do I know where you're calling from—Ohio? Yes, the weather is fine here.”
I tried not to laugh. I'd been there, too.
Finally, Marguerite slammed down the phone in frustration. “I know that man was lying. Did he sound like he was from Ohio to you? I was on hold for forty-five minutes for that? I think I’ve ruined my manicure.” She turned her hand this way and that, fretfully examining her fingernails.
“What was the final verdict?”
“What?”
“About the computer,” I said.
“Oh. He suggested I take it to a local repair shop.”
She flashed me a runway smile. “Can’t you fix it for me? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Help people?”
I shook my head. Never volunteer.
Then I had a thought. My former assistant, Ben, was a computer whiz. Perhaps he could assist her and gain a little more information about the family in the process. Ben had helped me that way in the past. And he always could use extra money.
He’d given me some business cards, and I dug in my billfold for one to give to Marguerite. Then I headed to the auxiliary barn to find Amanda.
***
Detouring around the construction site to a second barn, I followed the sound of running water. Amanda in old clothes and tall rubber boots was giving the huge black stallion a shower. The horse seemed to enjoy the attention, standing patiently as Amanda scrubbed each leg in turn, rinsed twice, and applied—was that hair conditioner?—to the long hair on the horse’s ankles.
I looked closer. Yes, I recognized the turquoise palm trees on the legend. There was a bottle just like it on my shower shelf.
Amanda turned off the water hose. Her hair was tousled as if she'd forgotten to run a comb through it that morning, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She wore a wrinkled white blouse tucked crookedly into blue stretch jean
s.
A brown streak decorated one sleeve. I didn’t examine that closer. My investigative talents had limits.
“Beautiful horse,” I said, admiring the black stallion. Its tail was so long it touched the ground, and each fetlock created a silken ruff of black hair.
“Thanks. This big guy is my favorite. He's a Friesian. His name is Black Onyx.”
I put out a tentative hand to give his wet neck a pat. “Heard of Friesians, I think. Don’t they use them for matched pairs, like on Downton Abby?”
Amanda gave me a tiny smile.
Rapport established, I moved on to the real purpose of my visit and asked her what she’d called about.
She lowered her voice. “What I'm about to tell you has to be kept in strict confidence.”
It was the usual quandary. If what she told me concerned this case, I'd be obligated to report it. So I didn't promise, just gave a noncommittal “Go ahead.” I hoped I wouldn’t have to use what she told me against her.
“It's my fault Gil died.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” she began, “I lied when you asked me about the fire.”
I motioned her to continue.
“This is hard.” She stroked the stallion’s rump with a nervous gesture. “You remember I said Gil was helping get the horses out? Well, he wasn't. The last time I saw him was the evening before, and he was sick as a dog then. I didn't see him at all at the barn the morning of the fire. And I was so intent on rescuing the horses, I didn't check the office.”
She started to cry, and I patted her shoulder. “You did the best you could in a rough situation.”
She scrubbed at the horse’s mane in silence, carefully lathering the mass of hair. Silent tears dripped down her cheeks. “All I know is that Gil wasn't there to help when we rescued the horses. But he would have been.” She buried her head in the horse's shoulder, sobbing.
On Perry Mason, the murderer always confessed. Maybe I needed to develop a better scowl. Or maybe none of this family was actually connected to Gil Streicker’s death? It was too soon to tell.
“I need to take a look at Gil's living quarters,” I said. At least they hadn’t been destroyed by Raven’s bulldozer. “Can you help me with that?”
“No! They're private.”
“Amanda, Gil’s dead. But maybe there’s something there that can explain why.”
I left it at that, silently urging her to cooperate. I didn’t want this unhappy girl to be associated with a possible murder.
Amanda’s agreement didn’t come for a while, as she returned to sudsing and rinsing. The big stallion leaned into her body as she stroked one ear.
I waited.
Finally, she said in a sulky voice, “You won't touch anything of Gil’s?”
“Not one thing,” I promised.
She turned off the water and pulled another hose from the overhead roll. Hot air hissed from the nozzle. She handed it to me. “Dry the fetlocks, while I go get the key.”
“What?”
“Everything has to be totally dry, or Onyx will develop greasy heel.”
Right. She disappeared toward the big house, leaving me a very large horse with wet feet. The hose in my hand whooshed. Black Onyx turned to look at me with curious eyes.
“Not your fault you got stuck with a novice,” I muttered, as I bent to dry the long hair. It was coarse and heavy in my hand, but with the conditioner, dried tangle free.
I backed up as he shifted weight, and moved to the other side to start work on the second front hoof. Amanda returned before I had to tackle the back two, the ones that could kick me into the middle of next week.
She poked a ring of keys in my hand. “Gil lives—lived—in the bunkhouse.” She stumbled over the words and drew in a ragged breath. “It’s across the yard. Lock up when you leave.” She grabbed the hose from me.
When I left the stables, she was redoing the work I'd just done.
Sorry, horse.
Chapter 7
I walked across the hot, sunlit courtyard to the bunkhouse. The front was a communal sleeping arrangement for the ranch hands, and to the rear, with a separate entrance, was the ranch manager's quarters. Amanda said Gil lived there.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open. It seemed strange to be going through the personal effects of a man I had met in person a few days ago, now dead.
The room was Spartan, containing a single bed made with military precision. Beyond was a rude pine student desk, and above it, a small window framed by muslin curtains.
To one side was an old steamer trunk, the hasp closed with a simple metal lock, firmly shut. I always like chests, ever since I read Treasure Island as a kid. Especially ones with locks. I opened the center drawer of the desk, pulled out a paper clip, and straightened it. Sometimes these simple locks could be jiggered and they'd snap open. All I needed to do was be patient and trust my fingers.
I crouched and poked the metal wire into the lock carefully. There! The latch snapped open with a satisfying click. I lifted the hasp and opened the lid. No pirate doubloons. Instead, Gil had used the trunk as a dresser, with T-shirts and boxers folded neatly to the left, socks to the right, a Dopp kit nestled on top, its old leather folds cracked and worn. I set the Dopp on the ground and slipped my hand through the stacks of underwear, searching. Nothing.
Next, I unzipped the Dopp kit. Inside were a straight razor, toothbrush, a bar of soap. I sniffed. Old Spice. There wasn’t a bathroom in this small living space. Gil probably used the communal shower for the ranch hands. I put the kit back in the trunk, closed the lid, and straightened. My knees popped as I rose from the crouched position—I definitely needed to hit the gym more often.
I started on the desk contents. The file drawer to the left held a stack of receipts. No utility bills—these quarters would be part of the main ranch system—but some bank statements.
I leafed through a few. They showed regular bi-weekly deposits—Gil’s salary? Withdrawals for cash and one regular monthly payment for the same amount, the same day of the month.
That could be an automatic payment—if so, to whom? There was no evidence of a big screen TV or other high-end purchase in the living quarters, but Amanda had mentioned a daughter. From the amount of the withdrawal, it might be a child support payment. Under the bank statements was the receipt for rental of a storage locker marked “paid” in a black angular script. I set that to one side along with the bank statements to examine further.
The center desk drawer held the usual jumble of scissors, paper clips, and pencils. I angled a blank pad of paper, but couldn’t pick up any writing impressions. The desk drawer jammed when I tried to close it. I pulled it out further and reached with searching fingers.
A crumpled photo was wedged in the back, one of those tiny pictures grade schools send home each year. I smoothed out the wrinkles. It was a young girl, maybe eight or so, smiling with that row of crooked teeth that kids get when they’ve lost a few. Looked cuter on her than Hank Battle’s missing teeth.
I set the crumpled photo on top of the papers I had collected thus far and moved to the closet. A long curtain, sagging on wooden rings obscured the opening. I pushed it aside. Jeans hung in a neat row to the left, long-sleeved work shirts to the right. Checked the pockets. Nothing.
On the floor, a pair of cowboy boots fashioned from bumpy ostrich leather. Gil had been wearing work boots when they'd pulled him from the fire. These fancy ones must be for Saturday night trips to town. An empty plastic laundry basket.
The shelf above the clothes held only a black fur Stetson hat. I pulled the hat down and sniffed the earthy musk of Brylcreem on the inside sweatband. Definitely for Saturday nights. I returned it to the shelf.
I tripped over a small rag rug near the bed. As I straightened it, a small irregular lump caught my eye. I pulled the rug back to examine the back of it. Stuck inside one warp end was a safe deposit key. I wiggled it free and set it on the desk. I might get lucky there.
&
nbsp; The bed was next. A Hudson Bay blanket, white with red and green stripes, served as a coverlet. It was worn to the threads in the center. I lifted the thin, cotton-stuffed mattress. He’d used newspaper sheets for insulation to cover the metal springs, but not a single porn magazine among them. A few dust bunnies the housekeeper had missed held court under the bed.
And that was it. The room was as bare of personality as a motel room. All it lacked was the Gideon bible. If I died tomorrow, what would they find at my apartment? I set that uneasy picture of clutter out of my mind. I'd definitely clean the place—soon.
I put the photograph and key in my shirt pocket and grabbed the bank statements and storage receipt. Then I locked the door and returned to the stable. I had more questions for Amanda.
The young woman was still grooming Black Onyx. The horse’s mane was parted in big hunks, loosely knotted like hanks of yarn. Amanda undid each one and combed it through, murmuring to the horse as she did so. He stood patiently under her ministrations. Maybe it felt like a massage.
“Did you discover anything in Gil's room?” she asked.
“It looked clean. Do you have a housekeeper?”
“I straightened up a little after, you know...”
“That include washing his clothes?” I asked.
She sniffed. “Well, I didn't want anybody to see the room in that condition. Things tossed all over.”
“Find any interesting reading material?”
Her face reddened. “Gil wasn’t like that!”
Uh-huh.
Then she paused. “Now that I think of it, it looked as though somebody had been there before me. Not Gil.”
“Maybe a person was looking for something?” The words came out before I could censure them. Leading the witness. Bad idea. I knew better.
“Yes, that had to be it!”
I filed that piece of information away for further thought. Maybe it was a stranger, and maybe Amanda had been the one doing the searching.
“Did Gil smoke?”
“No! He knew how dangerous that would be around barns.”