by Paul Moomaw
“Elbert is paying me to try to clear his brother.”
Tina drained her beer glass. “I’ll take your word for it. But, to tell the truth, he’s the kind that’s more likely to pay you to get his brother hanged. Take his money, but don’t trust him.”
Arceneaux laughed and got up from the table. “You can be my consultant.”
“And you can pay me with more of that fancy beer.” She walked with Arceneaux to the door and grabbed his arm. “Good luck with Arden,” she said. “I don’t want him to be a killer.”
“Hey, I get paid either way.”
Tina shook her head. “Such a tough guy,” she said. “Makes me wonder what you’re hiding down inside.”
“What you see is what you get,” Arceneaux said.
But as he walked back to his office, Tina’s mild scolding about his behavior as a father nibbled at his mind. He stopped in the middle of the bridge over the Clark Fork and watched the water pass below him. Usually the flow of the river calmed him and carried concerns downstream and out of sight, but it failed to work this time.
“I know how to be a father,” he said to the river. “I grew up with one, for Chrissakes.” His own father had been devoted to him. He could not say that about his mother, who had ditched the family when he was still a child. But his father had stuck by him, provided a good home for him. He had never re-married. Sometimes, as a young boy, Arceneaux had wished he would, because he was the only kid he knew who had no brothers or sisters. It would have given him someone to play with. If his own father had a weakness, it was that he had not played with his son. He had been a steady presence, dependable, always there, but serious, not playful. Arceneaux suddenly realized that he could not ever remember his father laughing. It was something he had never even thought about before, but he realized that it was true. Reluctantly, he found himself wondering if he avoided time with Josh because he was afraid he did not know how to play with him.
“You didn’t let me inside, old man,” he whispered to the air. It was true. Arceneaux’s father had been a constant presence, always there, always reasonable, always calm and in control, and for the first time in his life it occurred to Arceneaux that his father could not have been that serene on the inside. But if he had strong feelings, he never showed them. When his wife had abandoned him and his son, it was as if nothing had happened.
“How come you never talked about it?” Arceneaux said softly. He was staring down at the river, but he was seeing his mother’s empty chair at the dining room table. He had come home from school one day and his father had said, “Your mom’s decided not to live here any more.” That was all. No explanation, no discussion, and after that it was as if she had never been there, except for the chair. For a long time, Arceneaux would sit in that chair when his father was not looking, especially after his mother moved out of state with another man and never came back to Montana. He tried to push the memory out of his head, only to find himself thinking of Anne, and wondering if he was involved with her because she was white, and he was still trying to fill that dining room chair. He shook his head disgustedly.
“Don’t ask yourself questions if you don’t want to know the answer,” he muttered, and started walking again, but a cloud of doubt circled his head. He hated that. He did not like uncertainty.
Chapter 4
Highway 93 makes a big S curve as it crosses the Bitterroot River coming into Hamilton from the north, sweeping left as it approaches the bridge, and then right as it enters the town and passes a two hundred foot smokestack with a giant M on top. The stack is the only thing remaining of a sugar beet factory that was built sometime around World War One for a sugar boom that never happened. The next mile is mostly highway strip mall, with a couple of new box stores, and then the town begins to look like a town.
Larry French worked out of a small house on Fourth Street, a couple of blocks from the Ravalli County Courthouse, that his father had converted to office space years before. The sign still said FRENCH AND FRENCH, ATTORNEYS. There had been two of them, for six months after Larry French passed the bar, before his father fell off a cliff, horse and all, up Blodgett Canyon, and broke his neck. Arceneaux made himself as comfortable as he could in the stiff wooden chair French reserved for visitors and clients, and waited for the attorney to get off the telephone. The conversation on this end consisted mostly of nods, grunts, and grimaces. Once, when he and Arceneaux crossed glances, French rolled his eyes and shrugged. Finally he nodded, said “I’ll see what I can do,” and hung up.
“Another five hundred dollar retainer looking for ten grand worth of work,” he said.
“I remember,” Arceneaux said.
“Are you going to go back to it?”
Arceneaux shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I have the patience any more.”
“I thought Indians were big on patience.”
“I’m only half Indian, remember?”
French spread his palms in defeat. “So what can I do for you in the meantime?”
“You can tell me when you’re going to change your sign.”
“Maybe never. Dad had a lot of friends, and a hell of a reputation.”
“Competence by association?”
French laughed and stretched back in his chair. “Why not? And it’s a small town. People around here don’t like change.”
“Yeah,” Arceneaux said. “I understand that real well.” They sat, uncomfortably silent, for a moment.
“I guess Elbert Marks paid a call on you,” French said finally.
“Yeah,” Arceneaux replied. “He says Arden didn’t kill those two, and he and his neighbors are willing to bet a thousand dollars I can find out who did.”
French shook his head. “Elbert’s wrong. Arden did it, and if he’s got any sense he’ll cop a plea, so I can cut a deal with the County Attorney.” He tilted his head to one side. “In the meantime, I figured you could use a fee.”
“Elbert said you told him I’d be cheap, because I needed the work.”
“I didn’t put it quite that way,” French said.
“It’s true, though. So thanks.”
“Any time.”
“What’s my new client charged with, precisely?”
“Two counts of first degree murder and one second degree.”
“Three counts? I thought there were only two stiffs.”
“One first degree count for Samantha Marks. Another for the male victim. And a second degree murder charge because it turns out the woman was pregnant.” French shook his head. “That may be the trickiest one, you know? The unborn child stuff is such a hot button thing these days. But I’m getting signals from the County Attorney’s office that they might be willing to reduce the other charges to second degree, at least, and maybe even one second and one manslaughter. You know, husband walks in on his young wife having sex with another man and loses it. Crime of passion.”
“What does Arden Marks say about a plea agreement?”
“That it’s up to God.” French stood up. “I’m going across to the jail house to see him. Come along if you like.”
“He’s still in jail?”
French shook his head and grinned. “He won’t post bond. Says freedom is a God-given right, and he shouldn’t have to pay for it. He could be out, too. The County Attorney, that’s Barbara Drake. Remember her?”
“Will I ever forget?” Arceneaux and French had both suffered through internships under Drake when she was Missoula City Attorney. She had decided that law students were too stupid to handle anything but barking dog cases, so it had been a twelve-month purgatory for both of them.
“Barbara got her hands on one of those electronic monitoring gadgets,” French said, “and she’s hot to try it. If he asked, Arden probably could get out on house arrest. Dumb son of a bitch.” French opened his office door and motioned Arceneaux through.
Arden Marks was the only occupant of the jail, which stood at the rear of the Ravalli County Courthouse, across the street an
d down a block from French’s office. He sat on his bed, staring at his shoes. As the deputy opened the cage door to admit French and Arceneaux, Marks rose to his feet and stared down at the men. His body, which was easily six foot five, swayed and his eyes and head moved slowly back and forth, like a great, wounded bear. At length the eyes fixed on Arceneaux.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Sam Arceneaux. I’m a private investigator.” Arceneaux held out his hand. Marks looked at it as if he wasn’t sure what it was at first, then finally reached out and swallowed Arceneaux’s hand in his own giant paw.
“Elbert hired him to find out who killed your wife and that fellow,” French said.
Marks continued to look at Arceneaux. He shook his head ponderously.
“It don’t matter. Truth is, I killed her soul before anybody killed her body, and if God wants to punish me for that, I deserve it.” He sat down heavily.
French leaned against the washbasin that stood in a corner of the cell. “I think the County Attorney will agree to a guilty plea to a lesser charge,” he said. “Maybe even reduce one of the counts to manslaughter.”
Marks shook his head and looked at the floor again. “No.”
“Why not, Arden? Why risk hanging? You would probably get ten to twenty, and with those running concurrently you could be out in three or four years, put the whole thing behind you, and get on with your life.”
Marks shook his head again and did not answer. French waited for what seemed minutes, then finally launched himself from the washbasin’s edge, walked to the door, and called out for the deputy. He was silent until he and Arceneaux reached the street. On the sidewalk, he stopped and punched Arceneaux lightly on the arm.
“That’s what I’m dealing with,” he said. “Dumb son of a bitch just sits and waits for God to do something.” He shook his head, and the two men walked silently back to his office.
“Investigate all you want,” French said, as he settled into his chair. “But don’t count on any help from good old Arden.”
“Maybe he didn’t do it.”
“And maybe I’m the King of England. There’s no way he didn’t do it.”
“It’s that certain?”
French nodded. “One,” and he held up a finger, “His wife put up a fight. She scratched his face. He still had the wound when they arrested him, and they found his skin under her fingernails.”
“A match?”
“Crime lab says yes. Two,” a second finger wagging at Arceneaux, “a married couple taking a late walk saw him driving on the road to the cabins. The guy said Marks nearly ran him down. Made him downright pissed, although he struck me as a man who gets pissed pretty easily.”
“Positive ID?”
“They couldn’t identify his picture, but when they were walking back to their place they saw the truck again, parked this time right next to the cabin where the victims were found. The guy wrote down the license number. Said he was going to report him for reckless driving. The truck belongs to Marks.”
“But someone else could have been using it,” Arceneaux said.
French shook his head and sighed, “Three, Marks took out a quarter million dollar life insurance policy on Samantha six months ago. And four, the stupid son of a bitch left his hat—a John Deere baseball cap—on the deck of the cabin three feet from the hot tub where they found the bodies.”
“How do they know it’s his hat?”
“He made it easy,” French said. “He wrote his name inside the sweat band with a ball point pen. Nice big letters, and in his own handwriting. They checked that out, which surprised me, frankly. The boys in this county must have been reading self-help books on how to be a deputy.”
“Sounds convincing, I have to admit.”
“No way can I do more than get him a reduced charge.”
“What’s the name of that couple?” Arceneaux said. “The ones who saw the truck.”
“Why?” French asked.
“I want to talk to them.”
French arched his eyebrows and grinned. “You really are going to investigate this thing?”
“I’m a detective, remember?”
French went to a file cabinet and pulled out a manila folder. He paged through the contents, then nodded his head.
“Glazeburke,” he said. Man’s name is Otis, woman’s is Lorena.” He paused. “Lorena Zimmerman. I forgot. They split up, and she took her old name back. I guess their second honeymoon didn’t help. Here,” he said, scribbling on a piece of yellow foolscap. “These are the addresses.”
Arceneaux shrugged. “I’d be interested in seeing the pathologist’s report.” he said.
French shook his head. “You’re wasting your time, Sam,” he said.
“It’s never a waste of time when I’m getting paid,” Arceneaux said with a grin. “I have a thousand dollar retainer.”
“Good for you. With a little luck, the county will pay me the public defender’s pittance when it’s all over.”
“You break my heart, white man. How about the report?”
French nodded, got up from his chair, and stepped across the small room to a file cabinet. He opened the second drawer, rummaged around in it briefly, and pulled out two folders.
“Grab a look at the crime scene investigation report while you’re at it. The pathology report doesn’t have much to offer. Mostly documents that Arden beat the shit out of his wife and the guy she was with.” He tossed the files onto the desk. “Some guy name of Corey Wallace. I think he was from Missoula, but that’s all I know about him.”
Arceneaux picked up the investigation report and opened it. It was brief as well. The bodies had been found in the hot tub. There was some blood in the bedroom of the cabin, and some on the deck. The blood inside came from both victims, the blood on the deck matched only that of Samantha Marks. The officers had dusted for fingerprints and found some that came from Wallace, some from the woman, and a third set from an unknown person. It was assumed that all of the prints were left there the night of the murder, because the cabins were thoroughly cleaned, including dusting and waxing of all exposed surfaces, every morning, although not the morning the bodies were found.
Arceneaux put the file back on the desk. “No prints from Arden Marks?”
“Not a one. It’s about the only thing he has going for him.”
“But you’re not impressed?”
“He probably wore gloves,” French said. “It is that time of year, you know.”
The telephone rang as Arceneaux started to open the folder containing the pathologist’s report. French picked it up.
“This is Larry French. Hang on a minute.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Go ahead and take that with you. I’m not going to need it any time soon.”
Arceneaux stood up and walked to the door. “I’ll stay in touch,” he said.
“Do that,” French said. “Maybe we can hit the river for a little fishing. The browns are running.”
“Good. I’ll bring the beer, and you bring the luck.”
As he drove back to Missoula Arceneaux’s mind went back to the jail cell and Arden Marks. Maybe French was right. Marks did not seem to care what happened to him. But Arceneaux realized that any hesitancy he had felt about working on the case had vanished as soon as he met Marks. It had nothing to do with the facts, the realities. They said this was a lost cause.
Arceneaux smiled and shook his head. Maybe that was the point. He had been fighting for a lost cause all his life–his own. He had battled the odds and finally thought he had beaten them, until they suspended his license. Maybe he and Marks were kindred souls. Maybe beating the odds with Marks would help him believe he could do the same for himself.
Chapter 5
Living on the North Side was a matter of necessity for some, and principle for others. Arceneaux had experienced both. He had bought his house because living north of the tracks appealed to him. He liked the neighborhood, with its mix of seedy rental houses sadly in need of
repair, and small jewel boxes lovingly restored by young carpenters, artists and the occasional dope dealer. Arceneaux’s house fell somewhere in between. He had painted it, tightened it up with new windows, and upgraded the kitchen because he liked to cook. He had bought the place when he was still an attorney, so the bargain price hadn’t mattered. Nowadays it did.
The other thing that made the North Side appealing was that Anne O’Meara also lived there. Her house, two blocks from Arceneaux’s, was one of the jewel boxes, and Anne, who could have hired the work out, had done most of it herself. It was one of the things Arceneaux admired about her.
Some of her other admirable qualities were spread out on his bed at the moment. Arceneaux propped himself on one elbow and gazed at her prone body. He ran a fingernail lightly up the back of her calf and thigh, across the curve of her firm, meaty buttocks—the product of years of childhood ballet lessons, and later years of hard-core skiing through the bumps of Missoula’s Snow Bowl—and up the ridge of her spine to where her hair, short, curly and black as obsidian, fringed her neck. She rolled over onto her back and smiled up at him. Her skin was somewhere between cream and ivory, and her finely chiseled cheeks and hawk-like nose framed eyes the dark blue of a Montana winter sky.
“You’re thinking,” she said.
Arceneaux nodded. “I am.”
“I must be losing my touch, if you can still think after that,” she said.
“They say you can get used to anything.”
Anne dug her fingernails into Arceneaux’s left nipple, and stuck her tongue out at him as he yelped.
“Take that,” she said. “So, what were you thinking about?”
“I was thinking maybe I ought to go ahead and really fall in love with you.”
“Dangerous stuff.”
“Yeah. But then I thought, why ruin a fantastic sex life?” He pulled her toward him, kissed her on the nose, and once on each eye, and then snuggled into the sheet with her. They lay together for a while, touching and nuzzling, and enjoying the feel of skin on skin. Then she sat up and pressed her index finger against his chin.