Death Pans Out

by Ashna Graves

  “I’d rather see them ranch for play or any way at all than opening private hunting lodges,” Darla said. “The first thing you know you have a hundred ‘Keep Out’ signs. Next comes a campaign to keep cows from eating the deer food or elk food, like there’s not enough to go around.”

  “You see what they did over at Salt Springs?” said the man who hadn’t yet spoken. “That’s no house he’s building on the hill, it’s a goddamn castle for dudes. But that Owen fellow isn’t so bad. He hired Mitch to be his foreman.”

  “Big deal,” said the other man. “How’d you like to be hired foreman on a ranch your family owned since before they invented white bread?”

  “He’s better off foreman than owning the place, if you want my opinion,” said Al. “If anybody loses their shirt it won’t be him. And they’re building him a better house than he ever hoped to live in this side of the grave.”

  “It isn’t just prices,” said Darla. “Every time you turn around there are new rules. We have to keep the cows out of the creeks, which I understand, but it means more fences. I have to ride up three times a year and measure the grass along each creek. They used to have somebody that did it, but now it’s the ranchers that have to do it. Just one more thing to keep track of. Not that I want to hurt the creeks, but sometimes it just doesn’t make sense. Last year this fish biologist told me I couldn’t irrigate my alfalfa by pumping the water out of the river and letting it run back down through the fields, even where they slope good. He said they figured out that trout need 65 degrees. Well, I said there wasn’t even any water in the river in August before they built the dam, so how could there be 65 degrees for the trout? In other words, there never was a year-round trout population in the Dry River.

  “He said irrigating made the water warmer. I said the irrigation water soaked into the ground and stayed there until it got back to the river, which should make it cooler, not warmer. I said, ‘Did you measure the temperature upriver from my place and then downriver to see if it got warmer?’ He said no, he hadn’t thought of that.”

  She paused long enough for Al to prompt, “So they measured it, right?”

  “They did. Like I said, the water got cooler by irrigating. They mean well, I guess. He wasn’t a bad kid, he just had an idea that worked in the laboratory, but that doesn’t mean it works on the ground. I don’t know what to say about the trout, but it wasn’t the farmers that killed the salmon in this river, it was the dam. They built it in the 1930s without any fish ladder. My dad said the Chinook beat themselves against it for a couple of years and that was the end of the run.”

  “It’s not that the environmentalists’ ideas are so bad,” said Al. “Nobody wants to see the land wrecked. But you have these people in Washington making the rules, people that’ve never been out here, so what do you expect? Why don’t you write about that in your newspaper.”

  “Maybe I will,” Neva said.

  “Send me a copy. I’ll frame it,” Al said, setting a plate down in front of Darla. The steak was decorated with the deep-fried paper wad on top of a spray of parsley, like a weird rose on a stem. The two exchanged a look, no words, but it was enough to confirm Neva’s guess. Al appeared to be in his fifties, older than Darla and a bit on the short side, but height wouldn’t make any difference in the saddle. The Steadman ranch might yet see some heirs, taxes or no taxes.

  Al winked at Neva. “How about telling Darla here about your recent loss. I think she’d find that very interesting.”

  Darla not only found it interesting, she was sufficiently outraged about the stolen ashes to head straight for Father Bernard’s when she finished eating, to get him to mention it to the congregation on Sunday. The two men, a rancher and a logger, also promised to spread the word, and of course Al would tell the tale to everyone who stopped for a drink or a meal.

  As Neva drove back up the Dry River Valley, she felt satisfied that she had done what she could about the ashes. Rounding the final bend before the Billie Creek turnoff, she saw a small red car parked at the bottom of the road. Her first thought was that whoever had taken the box had already heard the story and come to meet her, to return the ashes with apologies. In the next moment she saw that the person standing next to the car was Enid Gale. She was wearing a sky-blue dress.

  “Funny thing about time,” Enid said when Neva pulled up beside her. “I don’t remember any road sign here, and it seems to me the road used to go in at a different angle. I had to get my feet on the ground just to be sure it’s the right ground. The air, though, is just right, hot and heavy with the smell of cooked sagebrush. But now to business. It’s just as well we met because that will save me going all the way up, and to be honest, I’d get sad seeing the place. I have something for you.” She opened the back door of her car and half disappeared inside as she rummaged, then emerged with a shoebox. “Letters and papers. They were in Orson’s stuff but I could see they were your uncle’s. I don’t know why they didn’t go to your mother at the time but they finally made it to where they belong.”

  Neva looked at the older woman rather than down at the box hugged to her chest. “That’s a long drive, Enid, too long to turn around and go right back again. I wish you’d come up to the mine. I’d love to talk.”

  “Oh, dear me, kiddo, I’m most certainly not headed straight back home.” Enid laughed gaily. “I’m on my way to John Day for a workshop. Fused glass. I didn’t show you my studio but I’ve been working with glass for a year now. I never thought I could love glass, so brittle and rather nasty to work with but, oh, my, the magic grows on you. I really did enjoy your visit the other day.” Enid offered Neva the shoebox, then held her by the shoulders, kissed her lightly on each cheek, looked into her eyes for a moment, and said, “I don’t think I mentioned how much you’re like him. He could have had such a rich life, and I don’t mean gold.”

  “You would have been a lovely aunt.”

  “It’s funny you should say that. All my life I’ve felt like an aunt. Only thing missing were the nieces and nephews.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Neva watched with regret as Enid drove away. What fun it would have been to spend the afternoon with this sensible, humorous woman so tantalizingly linked to her own past. Standing with the shoebox cradled in her arms, she felt suddenly bereft and lonely, and this led her thoughts to Reese in his solitary jail cell. Could it be true, as McCarty had said, that she was the only one to visit him? How many days had it been since her trip to the jail? Four? Five? She couldn’t remember for sure but it felt like a long time. He must be half crazy by now, pent up like that. And he would have no way of knowing that she had found Lance and delivered the food.

  She was out of fruit and vegetables, and had begun to crave oranges. It would take an hour to get to Elkhorn, a half hour to visit with Reese, another half hour in the grocery store, an hour to get home. This would still leave her time for a late walk and a long evening in which to read Uncle Matthew’s papers.

  Tenderly, as though it were alive, she set the shoebox on the passenger’s seat and headed up the empty highway toward the pass. It was about two when she reached Elkhorn and pulled into a spot near the door of the law enforcement building. Recalling the long wait last time she visited Reese, and the lack of even outdated magazines to read, she took the top few papers from the box and put them in her bag.

  The young officer on duty at the reception window smiled happily, pleased to be able to deliver good news. “Reese Cotter? He was released this morning, first thing. Did you want to talk to anybody else?”

  Too surprised to say more than a mumbled no thank you, Neva returned to the parking lot and stood squinting in the hot July glare. Of course it was good that Reese was free, but still her sense of disappointment was acute, and it struck her suddenly that she had not been on a mission of kindness. She had wanted to see the young miner. Like Skipper, he had managed to get tangled somewhere in her affections, even if only on the edge, and she had anticipated some lively talk about jai
l life and the useless twit lawyer, and she in turn would relate the quarry adventure, the meeting with Boris Dietering, and even the loss of the ashes. It was a pleasure just to imagine his explosive reaction to that one. How odd that she felt comfortable talking to this man whose life was so far removed from her own. She could say anything to him, she realized with surprise. Was it his bluntness, or not really caring what he thought, or a result of spending their only evening together spilling out “whiskey truth,” as Skipper would call it?

  At a loss for what to do next, she felt a rare flush of self-pity. She was hot and dusty, and not one person in the whole town knew or cared she was here.

  “Hey, there, Ms. Leopold,” a hearty voice called. For an instant Neva didn’t recognize its owner, then saw it was Sheriff McCarty in street clothes.

  “I hardly know you out of costume,” she teased, genuinely glad to see his robust and beaming figure.

  “Costume! Somebody should teach you a little respect for the law, young lady. You’ve been inside, I take it.”

  “You let him go.”

  “You know any reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “I didn’t know any reason why you should arrest him in the first place.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. I’ll tell you all about it on one condition—you join me for that beer. The Grand’s nice and quiet this time of day. Best brew around. It’s only a couple of blocks but we’ll drive over, if you don’t mind. Arthritis in my hip, a goddamn nuisance. It’s best to park on the side street there right past the hotel. I’ll just run inside here a moment and be right behind you.”

  Neva parked, as directed, just beyond the Grand Hotel and had finished a quick hair brushing when the sheriff pulled up behind her. Watching in the rearview mirror as he got nimbly out of his car, she wondered about the extent of his arthritis. He could not be sixty yet, and he moved with energetic pleasure in his own body like a fit young man. Escorting her into the elegant, restored bar, he cupped her elbow, and she found herself regretting her shorts and visibly scratched legs.

  “It was the finest bar in the territory a hundred years ago,” he said with an air of personal pride. “Probably still is, come to think of it.”

  The elaborate Victorian lights were unlit and not a soul sat at the carved wood bar, but McCarty strode into the deserted room as though bellying through crowds. A diminutive bartender appeared, smiling and half bowing.

  “How you doing, Marvin?” the sheriff said. “Two pints of Billie Creek Brown.” Pulling out a chair for Neva, he said, “Most women don’t care for stout but seeing as how you’re so stuck on Billie Creek you have to try it.”

  “Sounds great to me. Where is everyone?”

  “The bar doesn’t open for an hour yet, but they like to keep me happy.”

  Looking around with pleasure, Neva said, “I heard that Elkhorn was so rich the banks used to mint their own money.”

  “True enough. They say about twenty million dollars in gold came out of the area in one year. One of my few regrets in life is that I wasn’t around to see it.”

  Launching into stories about growing up on a nearby ranch, McCarty kept her laughing until they were on their second round of stout and the bar had begun to fill, when he turned serious. “Now that I’ve got you warmed up I’m going to order us some Cajun fries with Ranch dressing and we’re going to talk about your pals on Billie Creek. I didn’t have enough evidence to justify holding onto Reese, but there’s something funny going on over there and if the Cotter brothers aren’t mixed up in it somehow, I’ll trade in my badge for a bongo drum. Where’s Lance been hiding out, anyway?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You’d have to know where he is to take him food.”

  Neva had lifted her glass and now held it to her lips as though taking a long sip, but she would drink no more this evening. Two stouts had not diminished the sheriff’s gamesmanship, and she had better keep sharp or he would pick her clean of secrets rather than telling his own. That he was using her own favorite method with sources—talk about yourself to make them think it’s a conversation rather than an interview—amused her even as it sounded a warning bell. And yet, why not admit taking food to Lance? He was no longer at the line shack, as far as she knew, and she might well be wrong about the Cotter brothers’ innocence in Roy’s murder. Who more logical than his partners?

  McCarty was studying her more unguardedly than before, and suddenly she felt his physical presence as distinctly as though he had reached out and touched her bare arm. The dark blue cotton shirt suited him better than sheriff’s drabs, and accentuated his look of easy strength. Under the scrutiny of his canny eyes she felt that unpredictable female animal rise up inside her and reach for the controls. Oh no you don’t, Woman, she protested. You are out of order. This is business thinly disguised as a jolly drinking date. McCarty has no personal interest in you. He wants information and he’s accustomed to getting what he wants. She set down the glass.

  “What do you really know about the Cotters, about their background?” he pressed.

  Neva drew a slow breath and said as though reciting, “Their grandfather was the mayor of Elkhorn and he lost everything in a poker game, including that fancy funeral parlor that was their house, and since then it’s been more or less hard knocks for the family.”

  “That’s so. A bad deal for them, but plenty of folks have worse luck. Lance got something out of it, anyway, working for Lloyd Guptill like he did till Reese dragged him off to the mine.”

  “Guptill—is that an East Indian name?”

  “Not that I ever knew. Lloyd’s as white as they come and so’s his boy, Darrell.”

  “I’ve met Darrell. I got the impression that his heart isn’t really in the funeral business.”

  “I’d say you got that right. It’s really the old man’s show, though he’s getting pretty long in the tooth. I wouldn’t be surprised if Darrell sells out and leaves the territory when Lloyd packs it in. Now, what about your pal, Skipper Dooley? What do you know about him?”

  Neva looked steadily at the sheriff. As far as she could recall, she had not mentioned Skipper in their previous meetings. How did he know about her friendship, her ex-friendship, that is, with the old artifact hunter? Had he succeeded in having her watched after all? Thinking of the stranger on the ridge with binoculars, she felt anger flare even as good sense told her that the suspicion was absurd. She was not worth that kind of surveillance…though he also had discovered somehow about the supplies she delivered to Lance. Glancing around, she saw that they were now entirely hemmed in by broad backs and cowboy hats. Laughter and the crash of glassware made a din she hadn’t noticed while they were talking. She was one of only a few women in the bar, and the only person wearing shorts. The sudden sense of being transparent and conspicuous sent a chill through her. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and shifted on the chair to hide her bare legs under the table, bumping McCarty’s knees. “Excuse me.”

  “My pleasure. Looks like you wrestle bears for fun, but in case you missed my point I’ll say it straight out. Bears might be better company than some of the folks you’ve taken up with on Billie Creek.”

  “Now that’s too much, Sheriff. I haven’t ‘taken up’ with anyone. I spend ninety-nine percent of the time alone. I’m friendly by nature and interested in just about everyone. That’s the way I am. That’s why I’m sitting here drinking with you. I’m interested in people. I don’t think they’re all angels but at the same time I tend to assume the best until I see otherwise. Kind of like innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Hey, now, easy does it. I didn’t mean to get your back up. I didn’t really mean anything except you have to be careful about people. It’s my job to look a little deeper. Take Skipper now. He claims to be an artifact hunter, but did you ever see him with any artifacts? No, I didn’t think so. And that miner fellow, Gene Holland. As near as I’ve been able to find out, he has
n’t got any profit out of his mine for a good ten years, only enough to pay for the operation. What’s that all about? You may see the best in folks but don’t forget I see the worst, and maybe that’s what I come to expect, right or wrong. And I notice when people suddenly change their ways, like Lance Cotter, who used to hang around this very bar every night. He disappeared like a rock in water. I was beginning to wonder if he was dead, too, but then I heard Reese on the phone before he left the jail, that he was going to meet Lance.”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t have him followed? What’s got into you, Sheriff?”

  “Damn straight he was followed. But the tricky bugger went to his mother’s house and left out the back way while my deputy cooled his butt out front.”

  “His mother? You said his mother was dead.”

  “Did I? I must have been thinking of someone else.”

  Neva remained silent until the sheriff said, “Well, hell, it’s my job.”

  “Sheriff McCarty, you are not the man I thought you were. You’re up to some strange tricks that truly surprise me in a law enforcement officer.”

  Neva stood up as she spoke, bringing McCarty to his feet as well. Forced together by the crowd, they stood face to face in tense mutual scrutiny until a sudden buzzing made him reach for his cell phone. He listened for a moment, said “Bingo,” and returned the phone to his pocket. “This is a complicated business, Neva, and I can see I’m going to have to play it straight with you. But not here. There’s a new restaurant close by where we can get a table in a private room. I’ll just give them a call. You don’t want to drive home hungry anyway.”

  The thought of being closeted for the rest of the evening with the sheriff while he was intent on playing games made Neva feel impatient and tired. The sheriff had eaten most of the Cajun fries, and lunch at the Angus Café was no more than a delicious memory, but a meal wasn’t worth more of this cat and mouse routine. She said, “I can’t go to a restaurant in shorts.”