She came up alongside and put down her passenger window.
“Twinkie.”
“Babs. What are you doing out here?”
“Checking old listings.”
“Hell, Babs, you can’t even give these houses away.”
Bunny Matthews, Twinkie’s partner, got out and came over to Babs’s window. “Hey, girl.”
“Fellas, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be out in the county fixing things.”
Twinkie took in a breath. “SSRM’s let a lot of people go. We’re all doing double-duty now.”
“Yeah, we do repairs like always but today we’re down here cutting off water,” Bunny grumbled.
“Guys, there are squatters with children in these places.”
“Yeah, I know. Sucks.” Twinkie spat on the ground.
“What would happen if you left the water on in a few houses?”
“We’d get fired,” Bunny answered.
“Well, what if you turned on the water in a few houses, came back tomorrow and turned it off, then did the same at a few other houses? People could at least wash up.”
“Babs, once that meter’s running, SSRM knows where it is and how much water is being used,” Twinkie said.
“Sorry to put you on the spot.” She meant it.
“We don’t like doing this. We don’t care about cutting service in Cracktown.” Bunny referred to the bad part of town. “But a lot of people in this neighborhood are just down on their luck.”
“Whole nation’s down on its luck.” Twinkie sighed.
“You got that right, brother,” agreed Babs. “My business is nowhere. Thank God, I put a little away, and you know what? I don’t know when the good times are coming back.” Babs shook her head. “Know one thing, though.”
“What’s that?” Twinkie leaned his arms on her windowsill along with Bunny.
“If this gets fixed, it will be because we fix it. Don’t wait on Washington.”
“I wish I had a solution.” Twinkie smiled at Babs.
“Well, I’m getting one little idea and it’s that I want to help these people get back on their feet and I want to restore value to these homes. That might be a good start.”
“Let me know when you’re ready.” Twinkie reached over and touched her hand. “I’ll help.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”
As Babs drove off, her emotions roiled. She truly did want to do something about this problem. If she didn’t, who would?
The person who would have the best ideas, who very well might come up with a good plan, was Jeep Reed.
You could always depend on Jeep.
CHAPTER TWO
Legs crossed under her, Jeep watched the flames jump in Howie Norris’s river-stone fireplace.
King, a German shepherd mix, stretched out at Jeep’s feet. Zippy, a dark chestnut-colored Australian kelpie, sat next to Howie in his deep club chair.
Outside, a light snow fell. The sun had set a half hour ago, the dark sky deepening with the passing minutes.
Howie’s house had been built about the same time as Jeep’s, back in the early 1880s. Over the years both houses had expanded, a room here, a porch there, creating a wonderful lived-in feeling. Sometimes Jeep felt she heard those early voices whispering, but she kept the prospect of ghosts to herself.
Knowing each other since the fifties, Jeep and Howie had remained close. With Ronnie, Howie’s wife, having passed away two years ago, Jeep made a point of weekly visits to see how he was, to check the place out, and to make sure all was well. If a big job needed doing she’d send her ranch crew over to do it, despite Howie’s protests.
They talked on and on, laughing as only two people who adore each other can. What richness there was in a friendship nudging six decades. Jeep’s memories of Howie harkened back to when she was trying to make a go of it after World War II. He was young and finding his way also.
“Is he buying any?” Howie, a cattleman like Jeep, asked about her adopted son’s trip to Sheridan, Wyoming, to look at the red Angus.
“He is. Enrique’s buying twenty-five head to start. You know me, I love my Herefords. I know the horns are a problem. People always tell me I need Polled Herefords but I love the true old Hereford, have since I was a kid. They are the sweetest cattle, I love being around them. ’Course you have Baldies—good good cattle.” She complimented his choice.
Baldies were Angus crossed with Polled Herefords. They were popular across the United States, bringing good prices at auction.
Jeep didn’t like black cattle in hot climates. She was out of step with most of the country on this. Even in the American South people thought black cattle were better. She didn’t understand why.
The heat kept the meat-to-bone ratio down, plus it was harder to keep fat on them. It’s fat that makes meat taste delicious and makes all those uptight dietitians self-righteous—they’re all for low fat.
“He’s a good hand with cattle, your boy.”
“Dot and I sent him to college thinking he might go into medicine or law. He was bright enough. He majored in agriculture and he’s doing what he loves. I don’t think Enrique could sit behind a desk any more than I could. You know, Howie, if more people worked at what they loved we’d have far fewer problems.”
He lifted his shoulders slightly. “But they can’t. Our economy is geared toward sedentary jobs. I hardly think most young men and women want to park their butts in front of a computer in a cubicle in a bland office in a city. How can you be young and alive and want that? I sure as hell didn’t. When I got back from Korea, I just wanted to run cattle. But Ronnie said I’d learned so much as a quartermaster, about finding supplies, delivering them, locating quarters, that I should go into banking. Ronnie figured if I could do all that banking would be easy. She’d run the cattle and I could ride with her after work and on weekends. She was right. I did pretty good at Reno National, though I was glad to get out. I always felt most alive, happiest, in the saddle, moving the herd or cutting one out. I’d be a richer man if I’d stayed in banking every time we merged, but Jeep, I hated it. If I sat in a bank meeting today and talked about the character of a loan applicant I’d be laughed out of the room. I prefer ranching.”
“Me, too. Well, ranching and flying. I dream about the cockpit, those big Flying Fortresses. I’m always on my way to the airbase in Montana to leave the bombers for the Russians. Isn’t it funny the tricks your mind plays on you when you sleep?”
He laughed. “Mine does it even while I’m awake.” He sat up straighter, animated. “You know what I can’t get out of my mind these days?”
“Couldn’t say.” She grinned at him.
“The Garthwaite treasure.”
She touched her silver hair for a moment with her right hand. “I believe it exists. In fact, I have no doubt. It’s written about in the Fords’ scrapbooks.”
“The Garthwaites stole from the Fords, from everyone, I reckon,” he said.
The Ford brothers had built the house Jeep lived in. The original ranch spanned three thousand acres. Jeep bought it, renamed it Wings Ranch, and added onto the original holding. It now covered a glorious ten thousand acres.
“The Fords were certain Hank and Bertie Garthwaite had stolen a payroll saddlebag. That would have been greenbacks. But the Fords couldn’t prove it.”
“Well, we know for sure that those Garthwaites killed the president of Sunrise Mine, walked off with what was in that vault, and lifted a bag of gold and silver ingots, as well,” said Howie. “Then they went to my old bank, Reno National. Given that Winston Froling, the president of the bank, and his assistant were still counting deposits, no one really knows how much they got away with. Killed the assistant, too. Three men shot to death.”
“I always thought they might have hid it in an abandoned mine around here,” Jeep said.
“But there’re no abandoned mines on Peterson Ranch.” Howie’s ranch was named for the Peterson range in full view.
“Not
that you know of,” Jeep answered.
“I know every inch of this ranch.” Howie puffed out his chest. “And so did Ronnie. We never found anything that looked like a mine shaft. They captured Hank in San Francisco, living high on the hog. He wouldn’t tell where he and his brother had hidden the money, raw silver and silver bars, too, except he never denied hiding out at Peterson Ranch. He killed himself in prison. They never found Bertie. Hank said Bertie took some of the loot and took off for Brazil.”
“I’ve got all those old newspaper articles,” Jeep said. “Like so many things, it’s a fascinating mystery. Like the skeleton we found in the old barn. Eventually we found out he worked for Buffalo Bill.”
“You still wear his ring.”
“I do. Brings me luck, I think.”
Jeep held up her left hand, on which was the ring from the St. Nicholas School of Cavalry, St. Petersburg, Russia. Jeep smiled and said, “ ’Course if it is found, part of it may belong to me. A saddlebag full of money.”
“Well, depends on which saddlebag,” said Howie. “Some will be the banks’ and some will be the Fords’.”
“If that treasure’s found, I’ll bet you one good heifer that the Ford saddlebags have their brands on them.” Jeep’s expression suggested she was quite sure about this.
“It’s a bet.” He smiled.
As he walked her to the front door, she said wistfully, “I worry about you, Howie. I’ve got Enrique, Carlotta, and now Mags, but you’re here all alone.”
“I’ve got Zippy.”
“I’m good company.” The medium-sized dog wagged her tail.
“Zippy’s a wonderful friend.” Jeep smiled. “I think love is the wild card of existence. Don’t rule it out. Old as we are, it may still get thrown on the table.”
He smiled back. “Could be, could be, but with you, I don’t know if it would be a king or a queen.”
She laughed. “I never did care. I think of the body as an envelope for love. Well, Howie, the odds may be against us, but you never know.”
“It’s better that way.” He kissed her cheek as she stepped out onto the porch with King at her side, snowflakes swirling.
CHAPTER THREE
Three blocks away, in what Bunny Matthews dubbed Cracktown, Deputy Pete Meadows and his partner, Lonnie Parrish, pulled up to an abandoned house: 93356 Yolanda Street. Unlike Spring Street’s abandoned houses, these homes bore testimony to hard use.
An anonymous call had brought them here. All that the muffled voice had said to the person at HQ was, “You’ll find blood at 93356 Yolanda Street.”
The street bore no signs of life. No cars were parked by the sidewalk. The Washoe County sheriff’s men parked, pulled their pistols, and approached the cedar-lined house.
Pete turned to nod at Lonnie, who stood behind him, as he knocked on the door.
“Sheriff’s Department,” Pete announced. He stood to the side of the door in case anyone tried to shoot through it.
No reply.
Cautiously, Pete swung open the door, again flattening himself against the outside wall.
No bullets. No sound.
The two men, senses razor sharp, crossed the threshold—Pete first, Lonnie behind.
A small entry hall led to a living room, where the two young police officers saw a man’s body: hands tied at the wrist behind his back. Feet tied also. He’d been gagged, his throat slit. A giant pool of blood had soaked the cheap wall-to-wall carpet.
They bypassed the corpse, checking the rest of the house for anyone else, dead or alive. Garbage littered the floors but the place bore no signs of recent inhabitation.
Once each room and all the closets were checked, they opened the back door and surveilled the yard. Again, no one.
Slipping guns back into their holsters, they returned to the body. The blood was still congealing. He hadn’t been dead too long.
“Guess they killed him here.” Lonnie checked for ID.
“Looks that way.” Pete knelt down, slipping a bit in the blood.
“Whoever slit his throat found out it’s more difficult than you think.” Lonnie observed the ragged cut.
“No sound. A gunshot might have drawn attention,” Pete noted.
“Well, somebody knew what was going down or we wouldn’t have gotten the call,” Lonnie said. “Think this is the start of another drug war?”
“I hope not. He’s in his midthirties. So if it is a drug beef, he’s way above being a runner.” Pete stood up and called HQ on his cell.
“Deputy Meadows and Officer Parrish. We answered a call for 93356 Yolanda Street. Victim is white, male, midthirties, dead for perhaps two hours, if that. Send in the team.”
After a few more words with the dispatcher, he cut off his cell.
“There’s no sign of drugs.”
“Well, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill him where they do business. No smell.” He inhaled deeply. “I can sometimes smell the stuff.”
“Yeah. Meth kind of bites your nose.” Lonnie stood up. “Wonder if they can trace the call that came in from the tipster.”
“I doubt it. Probably when we check it out it will be one of those cheap cellphones people buy and throw away. Whoever called this in has their own agenda.”
“Right.” Lonnie shivered. “Cold in here.”
“Sometimes I think spring will never come.” Pete smiled. “But I’ll play baseball even if it snows.”
“You guys start practice already?”
“Next week. I’ve been running, though. Three miles a day plus my gym workouts.” Pete’s head turned as he heard backup arrive out front.
Lonnie opened the front door and tried to sound like the voice-over for a documentary. “The crime team has arrived at the scene of the murder.”
“I’m guessing he doesn’t have drugs in his system,” Pete said. “The smart ones never take it.”
“He can’t be that smart. He’s dead.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The glow from the fireplace in Jeep Reed’s living room cast soft light on the beautiful paintings throughout. Jeep could take no credit for acquiring them. Her late partner, Dorothy Jocham, wisely acquired Remingtons and Charles Russells while everyone else was buying up Impressionists for a lot more money. Dot had also turned what looked like a barracks into a home.
Jeep, a flier for the Women Airforce Service Pilots, lacked any sense of domesticity. She lacked little else. Born dirt-poor in 1924, she made a fortune in mining after World War II, still holding a thirty percent interest in that first mine. She made another fortune in salvage with her male lover, Danny Marks, who’d flown P-47s in the war.
Jeep had juggled two lovers, a big career, and a lively interest in protecting Nevada’s harsh but fragile environment. Never one for convention, she acted as Danny’s best man when he finally married, ultimately understanding that Jeep could be a lover but not a wife. It all worked out just fine. But now only Jeep was left with the memories and a resolve to continue to live in a way both Dot and Danny would admire. She never forgot her friends, dead or alive.
Babs Gallagher grew up knowing Jeep, who had been a good friend to her parents. Sitting on the sofa with the fit old lady was Magdalene Rogers—her great-niece, called Mags—as well as King, the shepherd mix, and Baxter, Mags’s wire-haired dachshund.
The three women spanning two centuries and three generations sipped tea, coffee, and nibbled at cookies while Babs told Jeep and Mags what she’d seen.
“A child alone and a mother turning tricks in the next house.” Jeep exhaled forcefully. “That’s a hell of a way to grow up.”
“She was a tough little chick.” Babs smiled.
“She’d have to be.” Mags, a beautiful woman of thirty-four, smiled, too.
“If I call child services, they’ll take the kid away from the mother. While there was no electricity, heat, or water, she seemed well cared for, under the circumstances. And Jeep, there are more children in those homes. I just hope all their mothers aren’t t
urning tricks.”
“It’s so odd to me that prostitution is legal in Nevada but illegal in Washoe County,” commented Mags. She’d come to stay with her great-aunt after her career bottomed out on Wall Street.
“Not so odd.” Jeep reached for a chocolate chip cookie. “Some states have wet and dry counties. Leave it to the locals. In fact, it’s a good idea for so many issues.” She looked up at Babs, sitting in a leather chair, the frame of which was made out of longhorns from cattle.
Dot had just about died when Jeep bought those chairs, but she had wisely shut up. Jeep had taken only a sporadic interest in the interior of the house, which Dot said she always wanted.
With her frosted blonde hair impeccably coiffed, Babs measured her words. “You taught me, along with my parents, to create situations where divergent and competing interests can have singular beneficial interests.”
“Thank you, Babs.”
“So I’ve tried to come up with something along those lines. Clearly, having children in a cold house without services is not in the best interest of those children or of Washoe County. I would think that’s obvious.”
“I agree.” Jeep nodded as King put his head on her lap and closed his eyes.
“Okay, here’s what I think. It’s a raw idea and will need tweaking. I’d like to approach SSRM, the power company, and the bottled gas companies to restore services to those homes. If they hired some of these people, say in warehouse jobs, that’s another step. We can start a campaign to hire the adults, provide some kind of care for the toddlers—the bigger kids are in school—and as the people begin to earn wages the banks who now own these properties could grant low-interest mortgages. That would bring a little bit of revenue to the county since the homes are occupied and it’s better than banks being in the real estate business. They know nothing about real estate”—she paused—“obviously.”
“Well”—Jeep considered this—“that’s the truth. The hardest part, I think, will be convincing the water company, the power company, and the gas company to turn services back on.”
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