by Rose, Kristi
She stopped next to me. “I was sorry to hear about your husband, Samantha.” She squeezed my shoulder.
Her condolences caught me off guard. Then I remembered Dad had put in an obituary in the paper. Was I supposed to be a grieving widow? I blew out a deep sigh. “Thanks, Mrs. Peterson. It’s been quite a shock.” Truth.
She leaned in closer and said in a whisper, “Mr. Linn said he left you with some debt issues. My Earl did the same. I got back at him, though. Buried his butt in a cheap oak box instead of the fancy mahogany casket he’d picked out. The inconsiderate boob. Don’t be ashamed to do the same.” She gave my shoulder another squeeze.
“Thanks,” I said. I suppose there was some good to the lie I’d told Mr. Linn. If word got around about the debt, then at least that might explain my reaction, or lack thereof. “From what I understand, Carson’s car hit a tree and the tree fell onto his car and caused the gas to spill out. Boom. Explosion. So, casket isn’t really an issue.”
Her mouth made a tiny O. Then, her brows shot up as I presume she had a thought. “Even better. Some of the local discount stores sell those vases that can be used as urns for ten dollars.”
“Good to know.” I worried my wedding band around and around my finger.
“You hang in there,” she said. Mrs. Peterson waved goodbye to my folks and was gone.
“Are you doing okay?” Mom patted my hand, forcing it to be still.
“Yep,” I said. I’d ordered a beer, a local IPA. The moment the waitress sat the bottle before me, I raised it in a silent toast then chugged half of it down.
“Samantha, are you really okay? You seem fragile.” Mom moved my beer slightly out of reach.
She did this to have my full attention. I gave it to her. “I really am,” I said.
“Do you need money?” Mom shot a look of worry to my dad. “Are you okay being alone? Do you need to move home?”
“What? No,” I said. “I’m fine. I got a job at Ralph’s today.”
My parents shared another look that I couldn’t interpret. “I bet Mr. Toomey would take you back,” Dad said.
“I bet I’d rather run naked through town on a wintery day than go back to work for him.” I gestured for my beer. My mom pushed it back toward me, and I raised it for another chug. “Seriously, I’ve got this. It’s all good.”
Dad said, “Rachel called today. She’s going to be deploying at the end of summer.”
I put my beer down. Having to leave her daughter was one of my sister’s greatest fears. “What’s the plan? What about Cora?”
“She’s going to come live with us until Rachel’s deployment is over,” Dad said.
“She’s heartbroken to leave Cora,” my mom added.
“You don’t have to worry about me moving in, too,” I said.
“What a relief,” my mom said and took her own healthy sip of her cocktail.
Dad waved a frantic hand. “It’s not that we don’t want you home, Sammy. It’s that research shows when adult children move home, they sometimes never move out. I think there’s even a movie about it. Something about failing to launch. We only want—” He fumbled the last few words, making unintelligible sounds instead.
“Stop while you’re ahead,” I said. “Besides, I’d move back to the apartment before I move home.”
Dad said, “We make a good wage from the tourists. Renting it will cost you more than you expect, and with the debt issue…” He took a drink.
“I’m not moving home,” I said and put my bottle down with a bang.
“Evening Mayor, Russ, Samantha,” said Chuck Elm, owner of the market and tech shop, as he approached the table. “Pardon me for interrupting your family time.” He turned to me. “I just wanted to say to you, Samantha, that I was sorry to hear about Carson.” Chuck was a hippie of the highest form. He had a long scraggly beard, and his hair was pulled back into a graying ponytail. He wore Birkenstocks in summer and Birkenstocks with socks in the winter. He apparently had an endless supply of Beatles T-shirts since he rarely wore the same one twice.
“Thanks,” I said.
“He did some work for me that I’m very appreciative of.” Chuck shifted, looking uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “If there’s anything I can do to help with these debtors…”
Wow. Rumors did travel at the speed of sound.
I shook my head. “It’s fine, Chuck. It’ll work out.” Wanting to change the subject, I said, “He put in a security system for you, right?” I briefly remember something of this nature happening.
He cleared his throat a second time and looked over his shoulder. He took the empty seat next to me, spun it backward so the back faced the table and sat. He lowered his voice, leaned toward me, and said, “Yeah, at first. But he helped me find my kid brother. He took off two decades ago. Served time in the armed forces and was never right after a few combat situations. I’d been looking for him for a while, but Carson managed to find him in no time.” He nodded, his smile sad. “My brother died a few months back, and I got to be there with him for his last days. Thanks to Carson.”
Wow. I guess there was some good in Carson after all. Yet, something Chuck said didn’t fit. Maybe it was because I’d been totally clueless about the PI aspect of Carson’s company or maybe I didn’t make the leap like everyone else and equate a security systems guy to PI.
I was curious. “So how did Carson know you needed help finding your brother?” Like how did he know to approach Shannon about Sean? Was it something simple like, “Oh, by the way, I’m also a PI, so if you need anything…”
Chuck shrugged. “We got to talking after he finished installing the security system, and he told me he did PI work as well. He did some stuff for Graycloud, too.”
Graycloud was a leader on the Cowlitz tribal council and a long-time businessman. He had a motel and diner on the outskirts of Wind River that abutted Cowlitz land.
“What sort of stuff?” I glanced at my dad. He played poker with Graycloud. Chuck, too.
“Nothing.” Chuck waved his hand dismissively.
“Nothing sounds big if it required him hiring a PI,” I said matter of fact.
Chuck laughed. “Not too much. More security. He’d been having problems with harassment.”
I must have looked as confused as I felt. No one in their right mind would harass Graycloud. He was formidable, a strong advocate and community voice.
Chuck said, “Someone was sabotaging his business. Trouble with the health department, break-ins, that sort of thing.”
I put the pieces together. “And Carson set up security to help catch whoever it was.” That made more sense. Unanswered questions nagged at me.
“Yes, that’s what Carson did,” Dad said. “He was very helpful.”
Why did a man move to another town, take a false identity, and start over? What was he running from? I couldn’t imagine Carson running from anything. So, I had to wonder, why here? What brought Carson to Wind River? And why hide the PI portion of his job from just me?
I scoffed, briefly forgetting that Carson hid pretty much all kinds of truths from me. My parents looked at me in question.
“Was it something I said?” my dad asked.
“You’re right. Carson was very helpful in that situation.” Implying that currently the situation Carson had left me in wasn’t very helpful. It was nice to share the sentiment, even if they were thinking of the money lie I told.
“We’re sorry, sweetheart,” my mom said, putting her hand over mine.
I turned to Chuck. “I hope things with Graycloud are better.”
Chuck pulled at his beard. “Hard to say. This has been going on for so long.” He looked at my dad. “What would you say, Russ? Ever since we got those offers for the land, things have been off. Each of us having a bit of trouble.”
I studied my father. There had been no mention of trouble.
“Just a break-in,” he said to me then turned to Chuck. “We all run businesses. Break-ins are bound to happen. There�
�s a meth problem in this country, and Wind River is no exception.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Before Christmas,” my mom said. “Stole a few computers but your father has so much paper, books, and boxes in that building, the burglars probably gave up looking for anything of value.” She chuckled.
“What land?” I had a million questions.
My father sighed. “A long time ago, your mother and I bought land out by Graycloud’s diner.”
My mom jumped in. “It was before the tribe was given designated land by the government. Graycloud’s idea was that if locals bought land near where the tribe had settled, then maybe we could use it to help the tribe get established. There was always the chance the government would take the land into trust and we’d break even.” It was Mom’s turn to scoff. Native American rights were high on her list of priorities. “But we know the government is slow to move and doesn’t always do the right thing, so we decided to take matters into our own hands.”
She continued, “Our goal with the land is to sell to builders who will create jobs for locals, specifically tribe members. Or better yet, sell to a tribal member and help them build something. Start a business. Anything.”
“My mom was part Cowlitz,” Chuck said.
I looked between my parents. “Did the land get put into a trust to the tribe? Isn’t it now protected land?”
“Nope,” Dad said. “It’s prime real estate so the government didn’t touch it when it gave the tribe their land. But it butts up to tribal land so lots of people assume the same.”
“So, you”—I pointed to my parents—“Chuck, Graycloud, and who else own land there?”
“The Stillmans, Jimmy Linn, the Wagenknechts, and the Kleppners.”
“Sean and Shannon?” I was surprised.
“No, Sean’s parents,” Dad said. “You know how adamant Sean senior is about keeping outsiders out of Wind River.” Dad rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Pride flowed through me. My parents were good people. And they were good citizens in their community. “And no one has tried to buy and develop the land?”
“Sure,” Chuck said. “It’s value has soared. Million-dollar views. But it backs up to the reservation, so there are some limitations.”
Dad said, “We’ve had several offers, but we never felt like the projects were beneficial to the community. Or they only wanted certain parcels.”
“Last year some big company tried to buy the land for a fancy resort. Showed us some impressive numbers on paper about how many Native Americans they would employ and how it would help the community,” Chuck said. He patted my dad on the back and smiled. “But your dad did some digging and didn’t like what he found.”
I raised my brows.
Dad smirked. “I found nothing.”
“Nothing bad?” I was confused.
“Nothing, nothing. A shell company, it looked like to me. Had another resort like the one they proposed up and running in New York and one being built outside Houston. All somewhat near reservations. I didn’t like it. Another similarity to these resorts is the quick access to main interstates. I once did a story on drug trafficking, and these resorts would be good gateways for drug trafficking and money laundering.” Dad raised his brows and wiggled them.
“You watch too much crime TV, Russ,” my mom said. “Money laundering isn’t done through high-end resorts. It’s done through car washes and strip clubs.”
I teased, “That sounds a lot like stereotyping. And now you sound like you watch too much crime TV.”
Everyone chuckled.
Dad continued, “This company talked about how it would help the community but, personally, how can one be invested in our community if they don’t live here? Raise kids here? That was the heart of this matter.”
“They can’t,” my mother said as she took my dad’s hand. “So we all agreed not to sell.”
I nodded in understanding. “At those poker meetings, are you guys really playing poker?” I teased. It sounded like much more was happening.
Chuck and my dad laughed.
“Yeah,” Chuck said. “Mostly, though, we pick your dad’s brain about fantasy leagues.”
Everyone laughed. Dad was reigning champ in his fantasy league three years running. I’d been trying to get into the league for the last two years but had been told that, as long as he was winning, another True wasn’t allowed to play for fear that we’d sweep.
We spent the rest of dinner in pleasant conversation, though my mind continued to drift to all my unanswered questions. And more kept piling up.
Afterward, I decided to sit in the park for a bit to think. The deck of the Frontiersman overlooked the dark blue of Windy River. Between the river and the Frontiersman was a portion of the park.
I found an empty bench and stared out at the water. Bits and pieces of the last few days weren’t adding up. Nothing I’d learned about Carson since discovering his betrayal should have been kept a secret from me. Okay, maybe the wife thing might have been hard to tell me. But why not tell me he was also a PI? Why make me one, too? I got not being able to tell me confidential information about Chuck and such, but the secrecy felt over-the-top. Was the term private investigator viewed negatively? Enough to keep it on the down-low?
I had to admit, Carson using the security system business as the main way to become established was clever. Who wouldn’t trust the man who set you up to be safe? Of course, the BTK killer (bind, torture, kill) worked at ADT Security Systems, so there was that.
And what was with the backpack? Why make sure I get the PI business? A business I was wholly unskilled for. Signs and clues were around me, but I was missing them. I was afraid my anger was blinding me to what I should be seeing, and I didn’t know how to get over it.
“Mrs. Holmes?” a male voice said from behind me.
“Not it!” I said and raised my hand like Precious and I had always done when someone had to do the grunt job. I chuckled. Cracking myself up with my own joke. Precious would be proud.
“Excuse me?” the man said. He stepped into my periphery.
He was just shy of six feet, dark hair with a former receding hairline that now sported new growth. He wore flip-flops and long cargo shorts, much like Carson had preferred to wear. They seemed to be around the same age. Carson’s pockets had always held the most interesting gadgets. Hey, maybe that should have been a clue.
I faced him and said deadpanned, “I said I wasn’t Mrs. Holmes. I don’t know a Mrs. Holmes.”
“Oh, I thought you were married to Carson Holmes.”
I waved away his words. “Married might not be the right word. Regardless, that didn’t make me Mrs. Holmes.”
His brow furrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Me, either,” I said.
“Do you mind if I sit?” He moved toward the bench, a small smile on his face.
If I said no, would he just stand there? Go away? The idea was tempting. I slid to the end, giving him room.
“I knew your husband.” Sitting next to me, he nodded solemnly.
“I figured.” Carson’s pack was between us, my phone sticking out of the front pocket. Needing to fidget, I took it out and rolled the phone over and over in my hands.
“He was a good guy. A funny guy. Quick wit.” He leaned against the bench and laid an arm across the back, his hand by my shoulder. The urge to move away was strong.
“If you say so. How did you know him?” I prepared for another curveball.
“We did some work together.” His attention was on the water, and there was a sadness in his voice.
“What kind of work?” I couldn’t wait to hear this.
He glanced at me. “All kinds of stuff. Mostly we consulted. I’m sorta in the same business as him.” He studied his fingernails and continued, “I gave him my overflow accounts, and he’d help me out with more difficult cases.” He held out a hand, ready for a shake. “Joe Cooper.”
His hand was str
ong but damp, and it took a lot for me not to wipe my own hand on my skirt when he let go. I said his name over in my head several times trying to remember it, then added a feature for association. Joe, whose hair plugs were raked with a hoe, Joe.
“Samantha True,” I said.
Joe didn’t look like a PI. Not that Carson had either. But Joe seemed more the sort to stand before a boardroom table, bark out orders, and push other’s pressure points. There was a hardness about him, something that made him come off as controlling. Maybe it was the lack of warmth in his narrow eyes. But, I suspected, any PI who experienced the underbelly of life would have a similar look.
“Ah, that’s why you don’t identify yourself as Holmes. You kept your maiden name.”
I nodded. “Where did you say you were from? You mentioned having a PI firm.”
“I said I was in security.”
“Actually, you said you did the same sort of work, but now I know it was security. And Carson helped with that?”
Cooper chuckled. “Carson had a knack for weaknesses and how to exploit them,” he said. Rather pointedly, I thought.
“Did you want something, Joe Cooper?”
“To offer my condolences.” He smiled softly, but the sentiment didn’t reach his eyes.
“And?” My father was a beat reporter who could sniff out a story buried deep in a pile of poop. I wasn’t his child for nothing.
Cooper chuckled. “You have me there. I’m sorry to bother you. I went to the office, but no one was around.”
“Did you try calling the numbers on the office window?” Currently, the window was a large board from the local hardware store. Would he bring that up? What did it mean if he didn’t?
“No. This is an issue better handled in person.”