“I know,” said Sally. “I was the one who made the first call to Arvida Perrine to see how she felt about the idea of being a beneficiary. She said she could use all the help she could get. And then she kind of giggled and said that, after all, Jimbo wouldn’t be around to object. I think she’s in pretty deep shock, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the doctors haven’t given her a little something to help her through this.”
“No doubt,” said Whitebird, waving a hand like the executive whose time was being wasted on trivia. “But the truth is, no one in my office feels comfortable dealing with her.”
How, Sally wondered, would the Dub-Dubs feel about raising money for the Perrine family once the word was out that Jimbo had shot Nina Cruz? Not to mention the fact that they’d have a hell of a PR problem on their hands, dedicating a piece of the action to the loved ones of the very fiend who’d killed the dearly lamented Nina. But Sally didn’t give a damn about PR. That was Randy Whitebird’s problem. The old corporate spin doctor would be earning his keep in that department. (And what was his keep anyway? Was he a paid employee? Doing some of that pro bono work he’d mentioned?)
As far as Sally was concerned, Arvida and her children were a whole lot needier than the owls or ferrets or whatever creatures stood to reap most of the bounty from the benefit. And Sally had reasons of her own for wanting to talk to Arvida Perrine again. “I’ll be glad to act as liaison with Mrs. Perrine,” she told Whitebird, reaching into her trusty shoulder bag to dig out her wallet and looking down to count out bills in lieu of working up a problematic poker face.
She could have used the practice. Whitebird gave her a protocol hug and strode off while she was still laying her money down. Seconds later, Delice Langham was looming over her. “What’s with you buying lunch for Mr. Woo-woo?” Delice demanded.
“Don’t be so snooty, Dee. Mr. Woo-woo did a few tours with the army Airborne Rangers.”
Delice’s eyes bugged. “The Rangers? You’re kidding. Those guys are trained to eat babies.”
Sally raised an eyebrow. “He had the grilled cheese. And what are you doing here? This is—what?—Thursday. You’re usually over at the Wrangler for the lunch shift.”
“I got a craving for tortilla soup,” said Delice. “I don’t know what John-Boy puts in the broth, but he should probably be prosecuted for pushing addictive drugs.” She lowered her voice. “Did you hear? They’ve got the gun that killed Nina Cruz, and it’s—”
“Shhh!” Sally stage-whispered. “Don’t say another word. How did you find out?”
Delice narrowed her eyes. “How did you?”
“Who says I’ve heard anything?” Sally tried.
Delice put her hands on her hips, bracelets jangling. “Give me a break, Mustang,” she said. But then she reached out, grabbed Sally by the arm, and said, “Maybe we should discuss this someplace a little more private,” and dragged her through the hectic kitchen, out the back door, through a little courtyard, and into a tiny utilitarian office. Two desks, two chairs. They sat in the chairs and put their feet up on the desks.
Sally glared at Delice. “I know nothing,” she said, doing her best Sergeant Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes. “Leave me alone.”
Delice pursed her lips. “Okay,” she finally said. “Let’s say you don’t. In that case, are you interested in hearing what I heard?”
“Just spill it,” Sally said. They shared a penchant for high drama, but enough was enough.
“We’ve been working up a new marketing approach for the restaurants. I was down dropping off the ad copy at the Boomerang about an hour ago when they got a press release from my brother’s office, saying that the murder weapon had been a Marlin 336 that belonged to Jimbo Perrine.
“Of course, Jimbo hated uppity women,” Delice said. “And Californians and vegetarians, and anybody to the left of John Ashcroft. But he’d have been hard put to get rid of everybody who put a bug up his butt. You ask yourself, why would Jimbo have gone and shot Nina Cruz? And then, when he turns up dead himself, the answer’s obvious: somebody paid him to shoot her, then decided to eliminate the risk that he’d talk.”
It did seem obvious. Right? Jimbo had evidently been hard up for money. His neck was as red as they came. He had lots of guns, which he adored as much as he loved shooting them.
Which still didn’t quite add up to murder, in Sally’s mind. As far as she knew, Jimbo, in forty-something years of life in Laramie, Wyoming, had shot and owned many a firearm, but had never killed a person. Could he really have been capable of doing such a thing?
But then, she’d known him. She’d been in a band with him, for Christ’s sake. He was a bigot and a slob, but so, probably, were a quarter of the adult population of the Rocky Mountain region. She could easily imagine Jimbo tanking up on cheap beer and blasting a hole in his TV set during a Hillary Clinton press conference. She could not visualize him picking up a gun, killing Nina Cruz, and calmly collecting the fee for the hit.
But was Sally any judge in the matter? As Delice was wont to remind her, Sally was a real sap when it came to musicians, who were, as a species, among the lowest snail-sucking scum of the planet. Your average drummer or bass player or guitar jock had the libido of a jackrabbit and the morals of a jackal. Your below-average rock ’n’ roller probably ought to be wearing a Hannibal Lecter mask. But Sally liked most of them anyway, and had loved an above-average number. Musicians were, alas, her weakness. So far, not fatal. So far. If Ted Bundy had been a guitar player, Sally Alder would probably be pushing up daisies with teeth marks on her ass.
And speaking of musicians, she wondered how the Millionaires would react to the latest development in the Nina Cruz saga? She wouldn’t have long to find out. They had practice tonight. If Dickie had known yesterday, and Delice knew by today, Dwayne Langham would surely have the word within hours. In fact, the entire Langham clan, down to second cousins, would doubtless be speculating on the type of ammunition Jimbo had used before the story even hit the dinner-hour newscasts from Casper and Cheyenne, scooping the Boomerang by a whole news cycle.
“One more thing. Did you get anything out of my friend at the vet lab?” Delice asked.
“Nothing to speak of,” Sally said.
“Look, I gotta go,” she told Delice. “I’m a college professor, right? Got a class to teach this afternoon, office hours, meetings.”
“Yeah,” said Delice, “you professors work so hard, it makes me weep. Just remember, while you’re up at the university eating bonbons, I’ll be down at the Wrangler humping cases of beer and beating up drunks.”
They grinned at each other as they walked back through the courtyard and into the Yippie I O’s open kitchen.
“Hey, Sally!” said Pammie Montgomery from a counter where she was putting the finishing touches on an exquisite sculpture involving fresh spinach leaves and colorful fruits and vegetables.
“How’s it going, Pammie?” Sally asked.
“Going great!” came the reply, as Pammie passed off the sculpture, pulled a chilled plate off a stack and moved on to her next composition. “Are you coming to Thanksgiving?” she asked.
“I haven’t heard anything about it,” Sally said.
“Well, Cat Cruz has been out of town,” Pammie said, “and she only called me about the job on Monday. But I’m sure you’re invited. It’s for everybody involved in the Night for Nina who doesn’t have other plans. Some of the artists and most of the crew are getting to town a day or two before the Friday-night gig. They’ve gotta do setups and sound and light checks and security run-throughs and all that kind of stuff,” she said. “Probably they’re sensible enough to worry about the weather. Anyway, they’ve booked pretty much every room at the Holiday Inn, and they’ll park the touring buses out there. So Cat decided to throw a Thanksgiving dinner in an event room.”
“Wow,” said Sally. “How many people are you feeding?”
“She’s got a list of about fifty at this point, but there could be more. Cat mentioned that sh
e wanted to invite the police and security people to feel free to come by for a bite. From what I’ve seen, those guys can pack in enough for three people, and there could be a couple dozen or more of them. So I’m just going to make enough food for a hundred and fifty, and what doesn’t get eaten there, we can take to the women’s shelter and Travelers’ Aid.”
“That’s a huge job!” Sally said. “Didn’t you just start out in the catering business?”
“Sure,” Pammie said cheerfully. “It’ll be a challenge. But I’m hiring some helpers, and I can draft some volunteers, and I’ll be really well organized.” She snuck a look at Delice, who was temporarily distracted from the conversation, cadging a cup of tortilla soup from the chef. “Plus John-Boy and Burt are letting me use the kitchen here, after hours, for the advance prep work. It’ll be fine. You don’t turn down the gig that could lead to fame and fortune just because you haven’t done anything that big before.”
Sally tried to imagine a couple dozen Wyoming cops chowing down on brown rice casserole instead of turkey and dressing for their Thanksgiving dinner. “Is this a vegetarian feast?” she asked.
“Cat wanted something for everyone, so we’ll have lots of options. Turkey and all the trimmings for the carnivores, a bunch of vegan goodies and veggie side dishes, great desserts. Not quite sure what I’ll do for the people who don’t eat cooked food—I mean, like, Thanksgiving’s all about cooking! But I’ve got a few ideas. Any requests?”
“I feel very safe leaving the menu in your hands,” said Sally. “But I’m partial to pecan pie.”
“Quartz is handling the pies,” said Pammie. “I’ll let him know, if I see him. He’s been real busy lately.”
“Trouble in paradise?” Sally couldn’t help asking.
“Oh no!” Pammie said. “It’s just that he’s working really hard. Putting in a lot of hours at the office,” she said.
“I hear things are getting cozy there,” Sally said.
“Yeah,” Pammie answered. “A little too cozy for him. When Kali moved in, he decided to find another place to crash. He’s got a room in a house with some friends of mine. But he’s hardly ever there, between the time he’s in the office and going back and forth to Shady Grove.”
“Shady Grove?” Sally said.
“Uh-huh. His bus is still there, plus Cat has him working on getting access to Nina’s computer records. I guess it’s a real trick, because he’s been out there three or four times, and he’s gotta go back again. But at least he’s got a key, so he can come and go without needing her to be there.”
“That’s enough chatting up the help,” Delice said as she returned with her soup, hustling Sally out of the kitchen. “Miss Pamela M’s got salads to plate.”
By the time she got to her office, Sally had an hour before class. She had a huge stack of mail to open, maybe thirty e-mail messages in her inbox, and, of course, a final review of her lecture and discussion notes for today’s class. She spent twenty minutes looking over her class notes, realized she had the material well in hand, put the pages back in their folder, and tucked the folder in her bag. She grabbed the mail and began sorting, setting the journals she really intended to read on top of the heap of previous volumes she still meant to get around to, throwing out ads for journal subscriptions and books she’d had no prayer of reading, discarding announcements of employee-training sessions (she ought to learn how to create her own websites, but she probably wouldn’t), and tossing away invitations to receptions and potluck suppers she wouldn’t attend. What remained were a request to review a manuscript, an invitation to give a lecture at a liberal arts college in the Midwest (they wanted to know what kind of honorarium she wanted; she always tried to highball that kind of request, and then found out they’d been willing to pay more), and two royalty checks (yahoo!). She glared at her computer screen, but the new e-mail messages didn’t go away. She figured that the human race had waited thousands of years for electronic mail; her e-mail could wait a couple of hours longer.
She dialed the number at Shady Grove, hoping she might catch Quartz out there and schedule a time to talk.
An old-fashioned answering machine picked up on the fourth ring, and Nina Cruz’s voice came eerily across the wires. “You’ve reached Nina’s machine. Please leave a message. Peace.”
Quartz probably wouldn’t be picking up messages off Nina’s machine, so she didn’t leave one. She called the Wild West office, but he wasn’t there either. Lark answered with a mellow, New Age, serenity voice, but when Sally identified herself, the yoga-class tone gave way to something more like an irate housewife blowing off a phone solicitor. Sally would have to try to get a home number for Quartz from Pammie, or leave a message with her.
Then she called the Perrine household. Arvida’s mother answered, out of breath. But then, given the woman’s bulk, it was probably an effort for her to hit the mute switch on the remote, get up out of a chair, and answer a phone. She reported that Arvida was resting. Sally decided to go out on a limb. “Ma’am,” she said, realizing that she didn’t know the mother’s name, “my name is Sally Alder. I don’t know if you remember me. I was in a band with your son-in-law. I was at the hospital,” she began, knowing she couldn’t bring herself to say, “the day Jimbo died.”
“Oh, I remember you,” said the mother. “You brought us dinner. We never did pay you for that.”
“Please, don’t think about it. I wish there was more I could do. I called today because I’m working with the Wild West people, and I’ve been in contact with Arvida about the benefit.”
“The benefit? Oh, yes. Well, I don’t reckon they’ll be wanting to send any of that money my daughter’s way once they see the six o’clock news,” the woman said, sounding exhausted and near tears.
“I’m so sorry,” said Sally, “I’m aware of recent developments in the Nina Cruz case. I can’t speak for the foundation, but as far as I’m concerned, your daughter and her children need support more than ever. I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure that she gets the help she needs.”
“Thank you,” said the mother. “I’ll give her that message.”
Sally knew that Arvida’s mother was about ready to end the conversation, but she wanted to get another word in. “I’d like to drop by sometime and see her. In the meantime, is there anything I can do?”
Arvida’s mother wheezed a moment in thought. “It’s good of you to offer,” she said at last. “The poor girl’s all tuckered out. Jimbo was a hard man, and he did love those guns of his, but we never imagined this. She’s had a real time of it since the po-lice came the first time, and every time they came back it just got worse. They had her half crazy looking for the combination to the lock on that gun room of his, and she went through pretty near every piece of paper in the house and never did manage to find it. They finally had to break down the door, and they left a bigger mess than you ever did see.
“The doctor’s keeping her sedated right now. She might be ready for a visit in a day or two. I’m here helping out, making sure the kids get their dinner and like that.”
“Could I bring by some food or anything?” Sally asked.
“Oh honey, since Jimbo passed, we’ve been buried in food. Seems like everybody in Laramie has brought by a hot dish or a plate of cookies or a ham or whatever. People we don’t even know. Thanks, but that ain’t necessary. I will let Arvida know you called, though. And you come see her later on. I expect she’ll be glad of the company.”
Chapter 21
Protein
The phone in her office was ringing madly as Sally tried to unlock the door while juggling her overstuffed tote bag and a big stack of freshly collected term papers. She dumped the papers on top of everything else on the desk and snatched up the phone, just as her voice message service was about to pick up.
Cat Cruz got right to the point. “Just tell me one thing,” Cat said. “In your opinion, is there any possibility that Mrs. Perrine could have used her husband’s gun to kill my sister?�
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Sally’s jaw dropped. The idea absolutely hadn’t occurred to her. “I don’t really know Arvida Perrine,” she told Cat, “but I haven’t seen or heard a thing that would make me think that was even remotely possible. Plus, I happened to talk to her mother yesterday, and she told me that when the police came to the house and wanted to get into Jimbo’s gun room, Arvida didn’t know the combination to the lock, and never managed to find it. So I don’t believe she would have had access to the gun, let alone used it. Why would you ask?”
Cat sighed. “I had a speaker phone call from the Wild West staff. They’d held a meeting, and they all agreed that it was ‘absolutely unacceptable,’ under the circumstances, for any of the proceeds from the benefit to go to the family of the man who had murdered Nina. Kali and Lark were nearly hysterical on the subject. Kali was ranting about the fact that Mrs. Perrine was probably an accomplice in the whole thing anyway. Whitebird was a little calmer, but he pointed out that at the very least, the public relations side of things would be a nightmare.”
“And what did they say about the fact that Jimbo himself was killed?”
“Lark said that it was undoubtedly divine justice, a hunting accident that turned the hunter into the game. A case of instant karma.”
“They’re full of shit,” Sally said.
“Undoubtedly,” said Cat. “But what’s your take on the widow?”
Sally gave it a moment’s thought. “I think she didn’t know a thing about it. She’s in utter shock, maybe teetering on the edge of a breakdown, not to mention up to her eyeballs in financial problems. The sheriff told me she was planning to sell the guns to pay Jimbo’s debts, but as I think of it, if the police hang on to those guns for any length of time, she’ll be screwed. She’s supposedly also going to have to sell his taxi-dermy collection, but face it. We’re talking about stuffed heads and mounted-up dead animals here. Those things are liable to take some time to move.”
Bye, Bye, Love Page 21