Bitterroot Blues

by Paul Moomaw

  “Sometimes at the end of the day,” Arceneaux said. “It still swells up a little if I bang it around too much. Otherwise, it’s only a problem when I button my shirt, things like that. I can’t get my thumb and fingers to touch.” He paused, then added, “I appreciate your seeing me.”

  “It was as much curiosity as anything else. I saw in the paper where Arden’s been charged with murder.”

  Arceneaux nodded. “His second wife.”

  A shadow passed behind Ruth Cantrell’s eyes. “Did he do it?” she asked.

  “I’m trying to help him prove he didn’t.”

  She smiled. “Arden never liked to admit he needed anybody’s help,” she said.

  “He still doesn’t.” Arcneaux paused, not sure where to begin. “How long were you married to him?” he asked finally.

  “Not quite four years,” she said. “I left him the month before our anniversary.”

  “You mind telling me why you left?”

  “We couldn’t have babies,” she said. “We tried and failed, and Arden blamed me, said there was something wrong with me. I wanted to see a doctor and try to find out why we couldn’t conceive. He wouldn’t hear of it for the longest time. He would just pray and pray, and read things in the Bible about barren women. After three years I finally talked him into seeing someone, and it turned out that it was him, not me. His sperm count was too low, and what he produced was kind of sickly. After that, it got worse. He could not, or would not, believe it was his fault. I tried to tell him it didn’t matter. I thought we could adopt a child, or use artificial insemination. I learned real fast not to talk to him about things like that. Arden was never violent. He would get black moods, and sulk, and withdraw, and he was a stubborn as a stone, but I never saw him in a rage.” She paused, shook her head slowly back and forth. “But the one or two times I brought up anything like adoption, he got a look in his eyes that scared me to death. It was like I got a peek at someone else inside, someone I hadn’t ever seen before, and never wanted to see again.” She sat back and sighed. “Anyway, that last year was pure hell. For both of us, I guess. It got kind of weird, too. For a while, his brother, Elbert, started hanging around me when Arden was gone. Gave me the creeps. He actually started hinting that Arden wanted him to do the job for him, so to speak. That grossed me out, I can tell you.” She rolled her eyes. “You ever see Elbert?”

  “You’d have been too tall for him,” Arceneaux said.

  “I expect that was the last straw for me, having the slimy brother coming on to me. I finally told Arden I was leaving.”

  “How did he handle that,” Arceneaux asked.

  “I was surprised,” she replied. “He just said okay. He helped me pack, and let me use his truck to haul things back to my parents’ house in Victor. I filed divorce papers a week after I moved out, and he signed them right away.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll have to get out of here pretty soon and relieve the baby sitter,” she said.

  “So you managed to wind up with a kid after all,” Arceneaux said.

  “Two of them,” she replied. “A boy and a girl, and a pretty decent husband to go with them.”

  “Does it ever bother you, flying around in a helicopter, when you have kids? Those things have been known to crash, after all.”

  She laughed. “That’s what my husband says. He’s a smoke jumper, and he’s always trying to persuade me that one of us should play it safe, for the children’s sake. I just tell him, okay, you get a desk job.”

  Arceneaux had walked from his house to the hospital, and now he headed on foot down Broadway to Orange Street, and then across the new Orange Street bridge to the south side of the river. Arceneaux still missed the old bridge. The new one certainly handled the traffic better, and the designers had made a real effort to make it elegant and in tune with its surroundings. But the old one had possessed a funky charm, and too much of that was vanishing from Missoula, a nibble here and a nibble there; he was afraid one day none of it would be left. He scrambled down the bridge embankment to the pedestrian and bike path that followed the south side of the river for miles, and that would take him to the old Milwaukee Station building and his office.

  The telephone was ringing as Arceneaux stepped into the office. He picked it up and said hello.

  “Sam?” It was Tyler Rentz.

  “What’s up?” Arceneaux said.

  “I thought you ought to know. David Crisp has an alibi for the night Laura was killed.”

  “Bull,” Arceneaux said.

  “My reaction exactly,” Rentz said. “But I questioned the family. He insists he was home all evening, watching TV. He gave a blow by blow of the shows he watched. And his wife and kid back him up.”

  “They’re lying,” Arceneaux said.

  “Maybe.”

  Arceneaux stared at the ceiling. “Thanks, Tyler,” he said at length.

  “Sure,” Rentz said. “Anything else turns up, I’ll let you know.”

  Chapter 29

  The next day was Saturday, and after bolting down a breakfast of waffles and maple syrup, Josh and Jimmy Littletoes took off for the other boy’s house, from where, half an hour later, Josh telephoned to ask if he could stay, because Jimmy’s mother had offered to take the two boys to Burger King, and to the dollar movie at the Wilma Theater downtown. Arceneaux decided to take advantage of his sudden freedom by going out to Potomac to visit Matt Hagan, the maker of the knife that the Double Pine housekeeper had given him. He searched for Hagan’s telephone number, failed to find it, and decided it would be a nice day for a drive, anyway.

  The Potomac Valley, about twenty-five miles northeast of Missoula, had managed for the most part to resist the encroachment of starter castles that had changed the character of so much of the area. It still contained real ranches, even if most of the owners had to have town jobs to get by; and was a last refuge of artisans, writers and old hippies who wanted to keep life simple.The road to Matt Hagan’s place went from the highway through the small town of Potomac, then petered out at the edge of the foothills to the east. Off to one side of the road, reached by a long, muddy drive, a weathered frame house stood, the smoke of a wood burning stove rising from its pipe chimney. Next to it a barn, in a little better condition than the house, sported a painted wooden sign that said HAGAN CUSTOM KNIVES.

  Arceneaux pulled up in front of the house, grabbed the knife, and got out of the car. He started toward the house, then heard music coming through the large open doors of the bar, and changed course. As he approached the barn, a large man, heavy but not fat, with horn rimmed glasses and a well shaved skull, appeared. He wiped his hands on the faded coveralls he wore, and walked toward Arceneaux.

  “Do something for you?” he asked.

  “Are you Matt Hagan?” Arceneaux said.

  “That’s me,” the other man replied.

  Arceneaux identified himself and held out the knife. “I’m told you made this,” he said.

  Hagan looked at the knife and nodded. “One of my Elk Masters.”

  “It was found at the scene of a murder,” Arceneaux said. “I understand you might be able to tell me who bought it from you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Hagan said. “Let’s go see.” He turned and started walking back to the barn. “Three months ago I could have told you for sure,” he said. “That was before the goddam lawyers got into my life.” He led the way past a forge, and a table covered with tools, most of which Arceneaux did not recognize, and into a smaller room at the rear. The room contained a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet, and two folding chairs.

  “Sit,” Hagan said, motioning toward the chairs. He opened the filing cabinet, pawed through it, and pulled out a folder stuffed with paper. He returned to the table, sat down, and opened the folder. “This is about the best I can do,” he said. “I had everything computerized, but the divorce lawyers have it all. They call it discovery, or something like that. I guess my ex thinks I’m hiding the crown jewels somewhere.” He pulled out a sheet
of paper and nodded. “This is probably it,” he said. “I’ve only been making that style for about two years, and I’m pretty sure I only sold one locally.” He looked up, pride in his eyes. “I sell knives all over the world. Most people around here can’t afford them, even if they understand what goes into them.” He grinned. “Tell you the truth, when I go hunting, I carry my old Schrade Sharpfinger to skin the deer with. Came right off the hardware store shelf, and works just as good; and I don’t have to worry if I lose the damn thing.”

  “And this knife?” Arceneaux said, tossing the Elk Master in his hand.

  Hagan returned his attention to the sheet of paper. “I’ve got a note here that says to hold for pickup by someone name of Marks. I checked it off and dated it on September sixth of last year, which means that’s when it was picked up.”

  Arceneaux’s stomach twisted. “Marks?” he said.

  Hagan looked at the paper again. “That’s right.”

  Arceneaux was getting a sinking feeling. “No first name?”

  Hagan shook his head and slipped the sheet back into the folder. “Nope,” he said.

  “Do you remember what he looked like?”

  “I don’t even remember selling the knife,” Hagan said. He paused, stared hard at Arceneaux. “You’re just a private cop, right?”

  “Strictly.”

  “The thing is, at the end of the day, when I’m done working with the blades, sometimes I smoke a little. Just the local stuff, but some of that is pretty damn good. Anyway, I don’t always remember a lot of details after about four in the afternoon.” He rose and put the folder back into the filing cabinet. “Come back in a few weeks and I should be able to tell you who that Marks was. My lawyer says I should have all my stuff back by then. Of course, I may not have a business, if my wife’s attorneys have their way.” Hagan snorted in disgust. “Fucking lawyers. I never met a single one that didn’t need to be shot, including the one who’s supposed to be working for me.”

  Arceneaux felt a passing impulse to defend the profession, then thought better of it. “Good luck,” he said. “I’ve been through a divorce myself, so I can kind of understand.”

  “How bad did you get taken?” Hagan said.

  Arceneaux shook his head. “We were both too poor. Neither one of us had anything worth taking.” He found himself wondering, suddenly, if Teresa had kept things amicable in part because he was a lawyer. It occurred to him for the first time that maybe she had been afraid to fight him in the divorce, no matter how much of a hell raiser she had been during the marriage. He stood up.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said. He handed Hagan a business card. “When you get your files back, if you think of it, give me a call.”

  “Sure.”

  “Before four o’clock.”

  “You bet,” Hagan said. “I hope you can find the owner.”

  Arceneaux picked up the knife, pulled it out of its scabbard, and turned it in his hand, watching the light glint and shift on the elaborately marked Damascene blade.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not so sure I hope I do,” he said.

  Hagan grinned. “Then I’ll hope you don’t,” he said.

  The Blackfoot River beckoned invitingly to Arceneaux as he drove back toward Missoula. He was not sure when Josh would be back from his time with Jimmy Littletoes, but he convinced himself, as he pulled into the entrance to the Angevine Park fishing access, that he could certainly manage a few quick casts and still beat the boys to the house. He parked, got out of the car, and walked to the river’s edge. It was low, but a couple of big boulders still offered some promising pocket water. He returned to the car, pulled out his rod, and the reel with a lead head at the leader that would take the fly down a little. But he realized after five minutes of stubborn fumbling that, with his left thumb and fingers held apart by the cast, he could not get the reel attached to the rod handle.

  “Damn,” he said. He tossed the gear back into his car and settled into the driver’s seat, then glanced over at the knife lying on the other seat. “Damn,” he said again. He knew he could not put off turning the blade over to the authorities any longer, and now it might help drive another nail into the very man he was supposed to save. “Sometimes life is just too damn complicated,” he muttered at the windshield, and drove away in a less than marvelous mood.

  Back on the highway, he found himself thinking of Harvey English. He wondered if English knew that Elizabeth Crisp was aware that Samantha had been seeing him. He was sure that if Elizabeth knew, David Crisp would sooner or later know, and that might be something English should be concerned about. It might even be something to convince him to open up, if not to Arceneaux, then to Barbara Drake. He decided to call English when he got back to the house. Then he remembered that he had a cellular telephone now, had possessed it for almost three months, in fact. He was not sure why he had it. He had made a half dozen calls on it at most, and never remembered to turn it on so people could call him. For that matter, when he wanted to have someone call him on it, he always forgot the number, and could never figure out how to make the telephone display it.

  “But, hey, let’s cross that bridge into the twenty-first century,” he said. He rooted around in the glove compartment and found the phone, and nearly ran off the road trying to get it out of its case with one hand while he steered with his knees. Finally he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and pulled off the road. Only then did it occur to him that, of course, he could not call English, because he had no telephone directory and did not know the number. He snorted in disgust, started the car up again, and drove home.

  As soon as he got to the house he grabbed the telephone directory and looked up Harvey English’s listing, then picked up the phone and dialed. This time he got a recording informing him that calls were being taken at a new number. He dialed that number and got yet another recording. This time it was English, asking him to leave a message, informing him that the psychologist’s practice would be closed for a few days due to an unfortunate fire at his office, and apologizing for the inconvenience. Arceneaux hung up. David Crisp, he thought, sure as hell. He promised himself to keep trying to reach English and warn him.

  “But right now it’s time for a beer,” he said to the walls, and headed for the refrigerator.

  Chapter 30

  The Monday morning edition of The Missoulian carried a small story inside about the fire at Harvey English’s office. Damage was mostly from smoke, the story said, but one room had been gutted, and the computer and files in that room destroyed. Arceneaux frowned. He was still willing to bet a week’s pay, if he ever got a week’s pay, that this was the work of David Crisp. He tossed the newspaper onto the kitchen table. He wondered if Barbara Drake even knew that Samantha had been seeing a shrink, and made a mental note to tell her. He grabbed the jar where he kept his coffee beans and tried to open it, holding the jar in his right hand and pressing the lid between his cast and his chest. Just as the lid released, the jar flew from his grasp and beans went everywhere. He grunted and forced a smile, then found a whisk broom and dustpan and swept up the beans. “What the hell,” he said, and dumped some of the swept-up beans into the coffee maker. Then, with the coffee going, he paused to make the first big decision of the week—what to have for breakfast. He settled on the last half of a honeydew melon, a fried egg and a few strips of bacon, and toast from bread he had made in a brand new bread machine he hadn’t gotten the knack of, so that about all it was good for was toast.

  When the coffee had brewed, he took a cup back to the table and sat down again. He leafed idly through the paper, which as usual was mostly advertising inserts and promotional puffery. He could remember when it had been a pretty good little local newspaper, but that was before Lee Enterprises, with its obsession over profit and not much else, had bought it. He read the funnies, got back up and poured himself more coffee, and loaded the eggs, bacon and toast onto a plate, then returned to the table to eat. As he wiped crumbs from his mouth he mad
e his second decision for the day, which was to drive to Woodvale and talk to Arden Marks. He was bothered about the knife, sold to someone named Marks. Arceneaux remembered that he had been sure Arden recognized the weapon when he had shown it to him. Now it seemed that he might be the blade’s owner. Arceneaux did not like being in the position of trying to help someone who wasn’t being straight with him.

  “I could resent that,” he said, and pushed himself away from the table. He threw on a jacket and headed for the door, then looked guiltily back at the dirty dishes on the table. To clean, or not to clean? Arceneaux shook his head. That was one decision too many for a Monday morning. He pushed the door open and headed for the garage.

  Traffic coming north on Highway 93 into Missoula was bumper to bumper with commuters who had bought their little piece of paradise in the Bitterroot Valley, but still had to work in the city to pay for it. Southbound traffic was pretty relaxed, except for playing involuntary chicken with the northbound crazies who tried to pass five vehicles at a time in their frenzy to reach Missoula, or heaven, whichever came first. The highway department planned to four-lane the road, despite opposition from most of the small communities along the route, who argued, correctly but futilely, that increasing the access would just increase the traffic, and things would be even worse in the long run. The highway poohbahs wanted to do the same to 93 north of Missoula, through the Flathead Reservation, but there the tribes had the final say, and the tribes said no.

  Passing through Hamilton, Arceneaux swung by Harvey English’s office. There was no damage visible from the outside, but a bright yellow X of ribbon blocked access to the front door, which stood open. Arceneaux parked and walked onto the porch. The smell of smoke, water and ash was still strong, and the ceiling of the front room, which had been white, now sported swirls of brown and gray. Arceneaux shook his head and returned to his car. He was convinced that David Crisp had torched the office. He resolved again to warn English, partly from a sense of guilt, and partly because of the chance that Crisp might target the psychologist himself next. He did not seem to mind killing people. He started the car and headed back to the highway, and then north to the Woodvale turnoff.