Bye, Bye, Love

by Virginia Swift

  “Not cooking them. Somebody brought them to her, right after Jimbo died. Why do you suppose anybody would do that?”

  They thought about it. “A well-meaning pothead friend?” Hawk said.

  “Maybe. But she didn’t seem to have any idea who that might have been,” Sally said.

  “Or malicious mischief at the very least,” said Dickie.

  “Or maybe there was more in there than just weed,” said Scotty. “Maybe somebody wanted to poison her.”

  “I doubt that,” said Sally. “She seems more or less healthy. She’s just been zonked for weeks.”

  “I noticed that she seemed dazed and vacant when I interviewed her. Figured she was in shock and mourning,” said Scotty. “And maybe really stupid.”

  “Yeah. She could tell. It wasn’t exactly flattering to her. But you should have seen how quick she got on that dog when those eyeballs started bouncing around.” Sally started to laugh, and then remembered the piece of paper in her jeans pocket. “Hey. I forgot something. It was in the jar full of glass eyes. When the jar broke and all the stuff started spreading out on the floor, I picked it up to keep it from getting soaked, and stuck it in my pocket. Can I have that bag please?”

  Hawk reached down and picked up the white plastic bag the hospital had given Sally for her wet clothes.

  “There was something written on it. Hope it didn’t get too wet to read,” she said, pulling her jeans out of the bag, sliding her fingers into the pocket, carefully pulling out the limp paper and handing it to Dickie.

  He smoothed the paper out on the Formica-topped table and leaned over it, peering down. “Lucky for us, this was written in ballpoint pen, not felt-tip. Didn’t run much.”

  “What is it?” Hawk asked.

  Dickie pored over the paper. “It’s a bill of sale, handwritten. For one Marlin 336 rifle, to be shipped to a post office box in Aspen, Colorado. Paid for in cash. Dated September 25 and initialed JP.”

  They all looked at one another.

  “But there’s more. He’s written down below, ‘Rifle returned October 7. Customer didn’t give reason, but wants cash refund, in person.’ And that part’s dated October 11. The night before Jimbo Perrine was shot.”

  “Goddamn,” said Hawk. “He didn’t do it.”

  “And he departed from his usual practice and wrote up a receipt. After the fact, no doubt. Must have gotten suspicious when the customer sent the gun back and asked for the cash. In person, no less. And the goddamn fool, he went to the meeting. But then he was still nervous enough that he hid the bill of sale in his eyeball jar. Jesus!” said Sally. “So which of the suspects have connections in Aspen, Colorado?”

  Scotty rolled his eyes.

  “Would you believe, all of them?” Dickie asked.

  A moment of silence. Then Hawk said, “Aspen’s the Kevin Bacon of western towns. Nobody’s more than six degrees of separation from it.”

  “This is going nowhere,” Sally said.

  “Au contraire, as we say in Wyoming,” said Dickie. “We now know that Jimbo Perrine was set up, by somebody using an Aspen drop, at a particular time. Even though it could’ve been any number of people, that gives us our best lead yet. The feebs will be ecstatic.”

  “In fact,” Scotty said, “it’s likely just about enough to blow this thing open. So thank you very much, Dr. Alder, for once again provoking a ridiculously dangerous situation that puts a useful piece of evidence in our hands.”

  “You’re welcome,” Sally said solemnly.

  “I think that’ll be enough assistance from you on this one,” said Dickie. “Your hero medal and McGruff Crime Dog Fun Pack will be in the mail.”

  “Send it to Baja or the Bahamas,” said Hawk. “I think a tropical vacation is in order. Like immediately. Maybe we could get a last-minute Internet deal for Thanksgiving weekend.”

  “No way!” said Sally. “You think I’d give up the chance to meet Emmylou and sing with Stone Jackson?”

  All three men stared at her in horror. “Consider the circumstances. Briefly: nasty pranks, bullets, devious murder plots, even, for Christ’s sake, a toxic spill. Somebody who already killed at least twice wants you out of the picture, Mustang, and you’re acting like a lovesick groupie, throwing her undies over the fence where the Rolling Stones are holed up. Get a fucking grip, would you? Getting out of Dodge would be the prudent thing to do,” Dickie finally managed.

  “Or we could just lock you up until we make the collar,” Scotty said placidly. “It’ll probably only be a few days. Given the current political climate, I could probably get a warrant to arrest you for hanging around with radical environmentalists. That’s practically terrorism. We wouldn’t even have to let you talk to a lawyer. In fact, we could probably arrange for you to spend the Thanksgiving break in a chain-link cage in scenic Guantánamo Bay. Thank God for the Patriot Act.”

  “Come on, guys,” said Sally. “I’ve got things to wrap up at school this week. So do you, darlin’,” she told Hawk.

  “Can the sweet talk,” said Hawk. “Save it for the beach at Bimini.”

  She sighed. “Sorry, guys. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll keep out of sight for the next couple of days, so you professionals can do your work. And I can do mine. Then, I swear on John Lennon’s grave that I’ll be careful. I’ll go to the Thanksgiving dinner and the benefit, but other than that I’ll hole up at home or my office. Hawk will look out for me, won’t you?”

  “Look what a great job I’ve been doing so far,” he grumbled.

  “I’d say you’ve been a saint, Hawk,” said Scotty. “Most guys prefer women who don’t have to undergo emergency decontamination procedures.”

  Scotty and Sally exchanged mock smiles.

  “We’re getting real close here, Sally,” Dickie said as patiently as he could. “Can you manage to get the hell out of our way for at least a few days while we wrap this up? Then you can do whatever you want. Write your book, spend Nina Cruz’s money on a mink coat, quit your job and move to Cody to be Stone Jackson’s towel girl. That is if the Cruz money’s still there, and Jackson isn’t in jail,” he finished.

  “He didn’t do it. Or Cat either. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars,” Sally said. “Look. It seems pretty obvious that whoever killed Nina and, presumably, Jimbo, knew what was in the can of stuff Nina used to make her breakfast power drink. By the way, has the lab finished the analysis?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, they have. It was protein all right,” said Dickie. “But not soy. Ground-up spinal cord and brain tissue from diseased cows. I doubt Ms. Cruz knew what she was putting in her morning milk shake.”

  “No,” said Sally. “But she did know she was sick. She may even have suspected what was wrong with her. If she thought she had mad cow, she might have been willing to try anything to get better. Having passed several years of my wayward youth in hippie houses, I can testify from personal experience that counterculture types like Nina are pretty susceptible to dietary cures.

  “People with terrible illnesses look for miracles where they can find them. She might have been hoping that those smoothies would save her life. In that case, whoever knew what was really in the cans must have been playing on Nina’s hopeless hope. How cruel is that?” Sally asked.

  Maybe not cruel in the eyes of a killer who saw Nina Cruz as a woman who wielded hope as a weapon of torture.

  Sally groped at an answer, just out of reach.

  “Thanks for that expert testimony,” Scotty replied. “And I hope it will be your last attempt to involve yourself in this police matter. Go flunk some freshmen or something.”

  She stood up, put on her coat, walked out into the hall. The three men took a moment longer to get ready to go out into the cold night, pulling on gloves, exchanging soft words. Sally’s hearing had suffered from too many years of standing in front of too many speakers, being blasted by too much rock ’n’ roll. But she caught snatches of the conversation. “Incorrigible idiot.” “Curious to a fault.” “Taken out
back, tied up, and whipped.” And “extra protection.”

  Maybe it was the surreal moment in the taxidermy workshop, complete with monster and witches’ brew. Maybe it was the knowledge that Jimbo hadn’t been a murderer, that the dowdy Arvida was a complicated and interesting person, that even the Dub-Dubs had their virtues, and their reasons.

  Or perhaps it was the fact that the halls and offices of the University of Wyoming were vacation quiet, her Tuesday class all but empty, most of the students having started the break the weekend before.

  Or, possibly, it was the confidence of Dickie Langham and Scotty Atkins that they would soon know who had killed Nina Cruz and Jimbo Perrine, and why. For the first time in weeks, Sally enjoyed some peace of mind.

  She even got a little of the holiday spirit. She wasn’t cooking Thanksgiving dinner, of course. That task was in the capable hands of Pammie Montgomery, who was, despite Delice’s grumbling, managing both her day job and the madness of the massive catering assignment with grace, efficiency, and a seemingly superhuman power to forgo sleep. According to Delice, Pammie was getting her prep work done at the Yippie I O between four and eight in the morning, when no one was there except the café’s bakers, Quartz the soul mate and catering sous chef, and the indefatigable John-Boy. Delice didn’t mention it when they talked on Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving, but Sally felt certain that John-Boy must be helping Pammie out. For that matter, if by doing nothing more than grumbling and looking the other way, Delice was giving Pammie a little boost, too. When Delice said something about “people who spend all their spare time caramelizing squash and toasting almonds and conning other people into chasing down fresh turkeys and organic brussels sprouts in Colorado,” Sally suspected that Delice might have even made a helpful phone call or two.

  “She’ll have to clear out today, though. We’re booked solid for Thanksgiving. So she’ll move the whole operation over to the Holiday Inn tonight. It’s fucking incredible, Mustang. This girl thinks she can pull off Thanksgiving dinner for a hundred and fifty, with full-scale meat-eater, vegetarian, and vegan menus. She’s dealing with so many special dietary requests, you’d think she was running a hospital commissary. Those guys at the Holiday won’t know what hit them! They probably think arugula is some kind of horrid skin condition.”

  “What do you think, Dee? Can she manage it?” Sally asked.

  “Yeah. Probably. Although the kitchen will be chaos. She’s got only four assistants, plus any volunteers she can snag. I guess she talked a couple of the Wild West weirdos into helping out.”

  “Which ones?” Sally asked.

  “Her boyfriend, of course. Got him on the pies. Kid’s got a good hand with pastry, but he gets distracted. Slave to his cell phone. Yesterday, he got a call and took off in the middle of rolling out dough for a dozen pecan pies. Stuck the dough in the fridge, but didn’t even wash the flour off his hands. Came back an hour later, and didn’t say a thing about where he’d been, just got back to work with the rolling pin. Pammie was pretty pissed, but then, he’s working for free, so he can do as he damn well pleases.”

  “Who else is helping?”

  “A few of her friends from college, and the two crackpots who don’t eat cooked food.”

  “Lark and Kali? They’re cooking?” Sally was taken aback.

  “The blonde one won’t touch anything that isn’t raw. But the other one seems willing to deal with heating up vegan ingredients, as long as she doesn’t have to eat what she cooks. It’s not that weird. Remember that anorexic roommate you used to have, who cooked huge fattening meals for everybody else and then wouldn’t eat a bite? Some people are just strange about food,” Delice said.

  “Sounds to me like Pammie could use some more helpers,” Sally decided. “I can’t make it tonight, but I could go over there tomorrow and give her a hand.”

  “What’ve you got going tonight?” Delice asked, assuming, as always, that everything was her business.

  “Stone Jackson’s coming over. We’re going to run through a couple of songs.”

  Delice guffawed. “At last! Your lifelong dream come true. By the time you’re done rehearsing, they’ll have to put your knickers in the Laramie landfill.”

  “Many thanks for that delicate insight,” Sally said.

  “I presume Hawk will be there to chaperone?” Delice asked.

  “Sure. He says it’s a private performance he wouldn’t miss. We’ll work in the living room while he gets some grading done at the kitchen table.”

  “Good,” said Delice. “Aside from any lascivious designs you may have on darlin’ Tommy J, there’s the little matter of whether the man killed his ex-wife. And then set up and murdered Jimbo Perrine, for that matter.”

  “How’d you hear about that?” Sally asked. The cops had decided, for the moment, not to release the information about Jimbo to the public.

  “My brother told me, idiot. He figured I’d find out anyhow, and he wanted me to know so I could help keep an eye on you. You’re not supposed to be alone with these people, girlfriend.”

  “What are you?” Sally said. “Deputy for a day?”

  “Nope,” said Delice. “I’m just a woman with an ounce of common sense, unlike you.”

  Chapter 27

  Running Without the Ball

  Thomas Jackson arrived at the Eighth Street house carrying a guitar case and a large plastic to-go mug of coffee and looking haggard. He’d lost weight since Sally had seen him last, hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and he appeared to have slept in his clothes. His skin was like parchment, his bones showing through. “I look like shit,” he said as she let him in the house.

  Actually, she was ashamed to admit, she found his worn-out wasted look appealing. It seemed to say, “I need help,” and of course, she’d lived the better part of her life fantasizing about rescuing Stone Jackson from whatever devils pursued him. “You had anything to eat in the past week?” she asked him.

  “I don’t know. Probably. Could you try an easier question?” he asked.

  “How about a toasted cheese sandwich and some tomato soup?” she said. “And I can make some more coffee.”

  He smiled wanly. “That’d be swell,” he said.

  And so he sat at the kitchen table, eating and chatting quietly with Hawk. It occurred to Sally that the two hadn’t met before, and Hawk seemed anything but intimidated by the living legend sitting across from him, slurping canned tomato soup. Stone, for his part, expressed curiosity about the lab exercises Hawk was grading. They were hitting it off just fine.

  She smiled. Dream Man meets Real Life. Considering the events of the past few weeks, Real Life was looking quite good.

  But once Stone had fortified himself with a few calories, and the color had come back into his face, the dream took over again. They went into the living room, tuned up their guitars, and, without doing anything at all overt, without even buttoning the top two buttons of his rumpled flannel shirt, Thomas Jackson transformed himself from a fallible, flawed, exhausted human into a perfect vessel for the music of the cosmos. For a blissful time out of time, she gave herself to the magic.

  Stone had decided they’d open the show by performing two of Nina’s sweetest songs. “Morning for Women” was a feminist ballad so pretty, it almost made you forget the message. The second, “Wake Up Again,” was about the inevitability of pain and change, and the eternal possibility of joy and renewal. “Wake Up Again” told one version of the story of Stone and Nina, one lesson about the relationships of humans who, despite everything, tried their damnedest to care for each other.

  Other performers would take on Nina’s darker material, her more outspoken political tunes. Toward the end, Thomas and Emmylou would do the soul-wrenching but soaring “Hard Way,” and then Thomas would close the show with the song he’d finished for Nina, “Home at Last.” The song was ostensibly about finding her way to Wyoming, to a home place she’d never known was there. Then again, it could be read another way: as the testam
ent of a woman accepting imminent death as a kind of peace. It was hard to tell what Nina had left behind, and what Stone had added to “Home at Last.”

  Sally knew the old songs, of course. She’d been singing them for years, often as solo numbers when she’d played restaurant gigs and happy hours, almost always wishing somebody had been there to trade verses, put in the harmonies. She’d performed “Morning for Women” at pot-lucks and fund-raisers for women’s groups, and you could pretty much count on getting everybody in the place to sing along.

  But now, for the first time, the voice she’d always sung with in her head was right there in the room. Taking a solo break on a guitar whose sound she knew by heart. Singing with her as if they’d done it half the days of their lives.

  Damn, the man was good. He was so good, he made her sound good. Which made her feel very good. Which made her sing and play better, maybe, than she ever had in her life.

  “I think that’ll do,” he said after an hour and a half. “If we do half that well Friday night, we’ll get things rolling nicely.” He took a big swig from his coffee mug. “I hope to hell I can get through this. It just gets worse and worse. If they don’t get the person who killed Nina and Perrine soon, I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

  “So you heard about the gun,” Sally said.

  “Yeah,” said Stone. “The sheriff called me. Wanted to know what I thought about it.”

  “And what do you think?” she asked.

  “I’m beyond thinking,” he answered. “I’m on autopilot. I’ll think after the gig.”

  “In the meantime,” Sally said, “you’d better take real good care of yourself, Stone.” She took a deep breath, knowing she was probably stepping over the line. “You might think about going to a meeting.”

  He closed his eyes, nodded his head, smiled. “Already did. And going to another one tomorrow morning. And every day, if I need to, until I don’t.”