by Ann Ripley
“Tom’s a terrific man,” said Ann, “a down-to-earth guy, originally from Oklahoma. He’s overseeing the dismantling of the plant, and apparently is doing a good job. He’s had a little picketing—people complaining about safety—but he hasn’t taken the brunt of nuclear protesters: For years, they’ve been making other plant managers’ lives miserable. And he’s very supportive of everything the county’s doing. Very cooperative on land issues.” She tossed her hand in a casual gesture. “Good family man, kids apparently at the top of their classes—and that’s good, because he has lots of kids.”
Then came Josef Reingold. Slim and no taller than Louise, he looked every inch the urbane European, from his black metal-rimmed glasses down to his loafers, which she suspected were Gucci. As he walked in, she could hear him greeting someone with a slight German accent. A bulge under his expensive jacket had to be a handgun; undoubtedly, some Colorado concealed-weapons law made it legal. “The man carries a gun,” said Louise quietly.
“Maybe he needs it,” murmured Ann. “Austrian, apparently, and terribly rich—the Wall Street journal called him one of America’s secret land barons.”
Reingold made his way through the room with the grace of a seigneur, bowing to the ladies, and shaking each man’s hand. He went to a seat right next to Spangler’s. A real meeting of cultures there, thought Louise. Austrian and Okie. They were obviously friends. They put their heads together for a moment of casual conversation, two city figures probably chewing over the latest civic gossip. Then die two got up and wandered to the back of the room to pay their respects to Ann; Louise was pleased to see her new friend had a little clout around town. Ann in turn introduced them to Louise. She immediately turned her attention to the nuclear power plant manager. “You have a challenging job, I hear, Mr. Spangler. Dismantling a major plant from the Gold War days, and then managing all that poisonous waste.”
His smile was as practiced as hers: he’d probably turned away much public antinuclear fallout with that down-home smile. “Ms. Eldridge, my job’s a delight. I’m a family man who is proud to live safely in a neighborhood not too far from the plant, to raise my six children there, and our horses and dogs—even to own a little chunk ’a land out there as a retirement investment. Yeah, overseeing the dismantling of Stony Flats is the biggest challenge of my life.”
“And obviously, it’s being done safely, or you wouldn’t—”
“Of course not—wouldn’t expose my wife and children, or my neighbors. Why, even our little Catholic congregation is out there. We meet in homes, you see. No, everything’s going well with Stony Flats, and that includes the citizen’s committee that advises us as we go.”
The man was utterly convincing. Apple pie, Mother, and—Stony Flats.
“And fine people they are, too, on that advisory committee,” continued the plant manager, his eyes lighting up behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “I’m from Oklahoma, a real great place to be from, and I’ve lived and worked in a lotta places. Yet I find the Boulder area is the most stimulating place I’ve ever had the privilege to live.” He cast a glance around the room which included Reingold, standing beside him. Louise could just imagine why Spangler loved Boulder. Besides all the other perks he mentioned, this big, friendly man got to rub elbows with international scientists and businessmen on a daily basis, and he reveled in every minute of it.
Curious, she thought, the way Americans viewed the country and where they came from, and where they wanted to go. Migrating to and fro, in their search for the perfect place to be. Oklahomans yearning to be Californians. Californians, flocking to become Coloradans. And a thousand other cravings and hopes that propelled people back and forth across this big country.
Spangler had ended his quest for the perfect place to live. He wanted to stay in Colorado forever.
During Louise’s exchange with the Stony Flats plant manager, the debonair Reingold checked out the people coming into the room, and also discreetly checked out Louise—she did not fail to notice this. But suddenly Rein-gold’s attention was diverted from her to another woman.
Harriet Bingham, with her gray hair swept up in a French knot and wearing a handsome but well-worn purple dress, walked in like the queen mother and took her place in the front row. “Excuse me,” said Reingold, with a small bow, and hurried over to sit next to her. Harriet looked the picture of strength tonight, until Reingold came along and spoiled it. As soon as she laid eyes on him, she seemed to shrink into herself.
Louise didn’t like to see old Harriet suffer, but mentally she rubbed her hands together. This potentially boring meeting was becoming downright intriguing!
Then another group caught Louise’s eye—the Porter brothers. They were being given a good talking-to by a well-rounded little woman with frizzy gray curls and flashing brown eyes, who looked as if she might reach up and box their ears. What were the brothers doing here, anyway—seeing what kind of a deal they could strike? And who was this little scold? Then she caught on. This must be Grace Prangley, their father’s affianced.
When she and Ann first arrived, she had noticed the Porter brothers in the hall, being courted just like congressmen in the outer halls of the Capitol. The courtiers were developers, no doubt. Eddie Porter, cowlick now liberated from the grease and sticking straight up, had looked delighted to be the subject of so much attention.
“Psst.” Ann was busy reviewing her papers, but looked up as Louise leaned back to talk. Louise cocked her head toward the solid little woman. “The fiancée?”
“Yes,” whispered Ann, “that’s Grace Prangley, the one I told you about. The retired schoolteacher.”
Louise pressed her hand to her mouth. “Everybody’s here,” she murmured. “The plot thickens.”
Ann looked at the room over her half-glasses. “I wish she were prodding them to go ahead with the land deal.” She frowned. “But I have a feeling she isn’t. She’s very shrewd—you know—regarding—”
“Don’t tell me. Land.”
Then they heard the gavel, and the meeting started.
There was a solemn mention of the death of Jimmy Porter. But missing from the agenda was the most important question of all. Who would get the biggest and certainly the most beautiful remaining ranch in Boulder County? Obviously, to Reingold and Payne, plus any number of other developers and builders present, Porter Ranch was like a Colorado steak to a hungry man: They wanted it so badly they could taste it. The value of Porter’s land only increased when one thought of it in conjunction with the neighboring parcel, the land belonging to Harriet.
But Harriet herself looked as if she would like to evaporate from the chair next to the most predatory-looking one of the bunch. Josef Reingold.
In mid-meeting, the chairman opened the floor to comments from the audience. A parade of citizens went to the podium either to gripe or to commend the county for its actions regarding open-space land.
Louise sat forward with interest when a confident and smiling Grace Prangley came forward. Turning her head from side to side, she unblinkingly eyed the crowd, like a teacher alerting a class to pay attention to something important. Louise whispered to Ann, “She doesn’t act like a woman whose beloved fiancé just had his head blown to bits.”
Ann, whose glasses had slid down on her burnished nose, rolled her eyes toward Louise and nodded agreement.
Plainly, Grace was not a woman to mince words. “You people sittin’ up there, so concerned about animal trails and open space, you’re goin’ around paying millions so acreage can be held off from development. But do you realize how much money it’s goin’ to cost to maintain, to say nothing of patrol, that acreage, when y’turn it all into parks? More millions. Otherwise, park hoodlums and weeds are goin’ to get the best of you.”
With a flashing glance that encompassed them all, she lassoed the open-space board members and figuratively brought them to the ground. “My forebears,” she said, “were into development, and that’s what’s made this county. It’s what draws people t
o the Boulder area: good housing, and enough of it for people t’ have a nice selection. You keep on turning this into a no-growth community, and it’s all goin’ t’ go sour on you.”
Grace propped a hand under her chin and gave them a bright smile. “Some people already think Boulder’s gone elite, y’know, think it’s kind of a joke. Now, I ask you, do you want the whole county to get that reputation, too?”
Then she straightened up, smoothed her dress, and walked confidently back to her seat in her Nike cross-trainers. It was clear now what her sentiments were about the disposition of the ranch. Louise moved Grace in her mental playbill from a bit player to one of the second leads in the Jimmy Porter murder mystery.
What dismayed her most was Grace’s lack of grief for her dead fiancé. Why, even Louise liked Jimmy Porter, just from hearing stories about him. This woman couldn’t have loved Jimmy without showing traces of a few tears or some sorrow, following his death only three days ago. Or was she in shock, too devastated to grasp what had happened?
But how better to augment the meager retirement package of the schoolteacher than to wangle an elderly man out of a quarter of his valuable property, and then blast him with a shotgun? Startled, Louise realized Grace was the second woman she had pegged as possibly having gunned down Jimmy Porter—the first being Jimmy’s own phlegmatic daughter, Sally.
Warming to the idea, Louise decided that little Grace Prangley fit the part better than Sally did. She had a dead-aim, Annie Oakley quality about her. Louise was sure she knew how to handle a shotgun. All Grace would have to do now would be to persuade the rest of the Porter clan to back out of the deal.
As discussion ended on the matter of wilderness corridors, people began to leave. The Porter brothers and their almost-stepmother Grace had already gone—probably somewhere where she could continue to cajole Frank into cancelling the county deal.
Payne and most of the other developers had disappeared. Only Josef Reingold remained, He rose from his seat and tried to help a nervous Harriet Bingham from hers, but the woman would not budge; her cheeks were feverish above her purple dress as she resisted his entreaties. He had tried to take her somewhere—to do what? Buy her a cup of coffee? Or twist her thumbs until she agreed to sell her land? Louise was glad the old lady had the strength to say no.
Louise arrived back home feeling restless. She had seen enough people for today, and needed a walk to stretch her legs and give herself some time to sort things out. Although it was not really necessary out here in the country, she locked the house behind her as she took off down the road.
Outside, she looked up at the hogback mountain and gasped. Above it was a sky Tiepolo might have painted, a luminescent moment when the setting sun transformed a poetic cluster of clouds—swirls and twirls and puffs and feathers of clouds—into a pink-and-gold confection that resembled heaven. She would not have been surprised if God had appeared in those clouds.
Pete was right. Clouds were everything in Colorado.
She passed the neighboring farmer’s property, and looked over to see if she could see the llama and the horse with which Janie had become acquainted.
That may have been why she didn’t notice the rattler, until her foot stepped on its firm body. In utter terror, she let out a screech. Then she backed off the four-foot-long reptile and stared at it from a respectable distance, her heart thumping wildly.
It was some moments before she realized the thing had not moved.
Someone nearby was laughing hard. It was Herb, the farmer, inside his fence, cowboy hat set well back on his head, shotgun cradled under his arm.
Louise tried to regain her composure. And that meant laying blame where it belonged. She pointed a finger accusingly at the snake. “That snake…”
Herb laughed uproariously again, and patted his stomach, as if to make himself stop. “Sorry—it’s jest real amusin’. I shot that snake out in m’ field an hour ago. Then, my cat must of drug it back into th’ road. Why, it don’t even have its head and rattler on—y’notice that?”
His llama had come up next to him, its alert ears jutting forward, its face twisted in a smirk, as if echoing its master’s ridicule of this city slicker who didn’t know a live snake from a dead one.
“Dead, huh,” she muttered. She peered at the serpent. It was quite headless and tailless. She was so relieved she decided not to be annoyed at Herb for laughing at her. She stepped carefully across the mowed grass to where he stood by the fence.
“Herb—you are Herb, aren’t you? I’m Louise.”
He gave her a warm handshake and thrust a thumb sideways to indicate the llama, which stood as tall as the barn. “And this here’s Daisy.”
“Hi, Daisy,” said Louise, standing out of range. She didn’t know what inspired llamas to spit at people, and wasn’t anxious to find out.
“And my wife Elbe’s in the house bakin’ cookies, so if any time y’want ta try ’em, drop in. She’d love t’ meet ya.”
“I will, but maybe not tonight.” She pointed to Herb’s weapon. “That’s a shotgun, I guess.”
“Yep, Twelve-gauge.”
Just like the one used to murder Jimmy Porter, from what Louise had read in the paper. She knew little of guns, and nothing about this kind that was so widely used in the West. “What are you shooting with it now?”
“Mebbe another snake,” he said, laughing. “Who knows?” Seeing she was curious, he took a few minutes to acquaint her with the weapon. He showed her how to load two shells and snap the gun back together again. “With a twelve-gauge,” explained Herb, “you have ta remember ta hold the stock tight t’yer shoulder.” He shoved the wooden end of the gun into the crease between her upper arm and her chest and placed one of her hands at the trigger and the other on the handrest at the base of the barrel.
The gun felt heavy and loathsome in her hands.
“Don’t ya wanna fire it?” asked Herb. “It’s got the kick of a mule, ’n if ya don’t hug it that way, it kin knock y’off your feet and leave ya with a black-and-blue shoulder.”
Louise lowered the weapon. “I get the idea. Thanks, Herb, but I doubt I’d ever be comfortable shooting one. I guess I’d rather count on my wits to save myself.”
He said, “Suit yerself. But when the chips’re down and a live rattler’s starin’ at ya, a gun’s a darn sight better.”
It took what seemed like hours to fall asleep that night. And when she did, Louise had a dream in which developers’ bulldozers climbed up steep mountain roads and she fell off the edge in a pickup, while rattlers lurked menacingly in the tall grass below.
What was particularly strange was that the snakes were slithering around, not in native Colorado grasses like buffalo grass or blue grama, but rather in clumps of Miscanthus sinensis “Gracillimus.” Not a native grass, but an ornamental, the kind you had to buy in a nursery. Just as she thought: She continued gardening in her dreams.
Chapter 7
LOUISE WAS SITTING IN THE overstuffed chair with the Wednesday morning paper, dressed and ready to go to work. Relieved, in fact, to be doing something organized after her day off. Then the phone rang, and she had a foreboding that it would be bad news. It was. Marty Corbin wanted to delay the shoot. “Look, I’ve worked it out with the cameraman and the rest of the crew—they’ve got another project brewing, anyway. Would you mind?” She hesitated, trying to stem her disappointment. Then she said, “Of course not, Marty.” She had no choice but to agree with her producer. That was the deal on this trip—fun came first. Except, unlike Marty, Louise had no one to have fun with. When he told her he and Steffi would spend the day in the casinos of Central City, she tried to hide her distaste. In a light voice, she said, “I hate gambling, so it’s useless to try to sell me on this. Gambling in the city is bad enough. But gambling in the mountains—it’s a desecration.”
“Louise,” said Marty, his enthusiasm put on hold, “can I tell you something and you won’t get insulted?”
“Sure, Marty.”
&nb
sp; “You’re a hard-ass. Do you ever let it go and have a little fun? You, and that Bill of yours? Waddaya do for fun, read The New York Review of Books, while you have a quiet cup of herbal tea?”
She laughed. She knew Marty could give as good as he got. “Look, I know everybody’s doing it—so you guys might as well do it, too. Have fun.”
She looked bleakly out the living room window, where a few raindrops had fallen, and dark clouds still threatened. It wouldn’t have been a good day for shooting, anyway. But now she faced another twenty-four hours of trying to fill her time.
The phone rang again just as she had stepped out of her jeans to change into shorts. She ran back to the living room and answered it in her underwear, hoping no one spied her through the big windows. The words of the sheriff’s deputy were brief and to the point, and sent a chill through her body. She could see the goose bumps on her bare legs. Sally Porter, Jimmy Porter’s daughter, had been found dead this morning. Her car had plunged off the Porter Ranch road as she was returning home last evening.
“But who…”
The deputy was patient. “Ma’am, it looks like an accident, according to the sheriff. But a couple of loose ends need to be tied up. Sheriff Tatum wants you to come in this morning and have a nice long talk with him.”
Tatum. The aspect of the man, bullying and faintly dishonest, and the smell of him, reeking with garlic, were vivid in her memory. She could not think when she had had a more unwelcome invitation.
“What would he want to talk to me about?”
“You and Ann Evans and the undertaker were the last parties to have talked to the deceased. You may be able to shed light on her mental state.” Did they think Sally committed suicide?