Death Pans Out

by Ashna Graves

  “Lady, in this town you could go to church naked as long as you were with me.”

  Neva’s sudden laughter brought a more injured look to McCarty’s broad face than her disapproval had done. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. But I don’t want to drive back to Billie Creek late after a big meal that will make me sleepy.”

  “Stay the night then. Here at the Grand Hotel. On me. When you go back home you can write a newspaper piece about Elkhorn’s historic hotel and do us a little publicity.”

  Why was he being so insistent? The interest wasn’t personal, she felt sure of this despite their intimate proximity in the crowded room. Almost pinning her against the low room divider at her back, he looked so closely into her face she could feel his warm beery breath. Didn’t he have a family to get home to?

  She shook her head. “I’d love to talk with you some more but not tonight. I don’t sleep well in hotel rooms, and I really want to get home. It’s been a long day. Why don’t you stop at the mine sometime soon?” She moved to go around him but he seemed to swell to block her path and grasped her upper arms in his large hands. The shock of his touch on her skin went through them both, making her stiffen and him forget for a moment what he was going to say.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to,” she said at length, “but I suggest you be a good boy and let me go right now.”

  They stood like a single carved figure for perhaps half a minute longer while McCarty went through a visible inward struggle that Neva could not begin to decode, then he let his hands slide down her arms until he gripped her right hand in his. He led her like a child through the crowd, which parted and greeted him familiarly. She intended to wrench her hand free as soon as they were outside, but they had no more stepped from the air-conditioned bar into the warm night than his cell phone rang again. To answer he had to release her, which he did without hesitation.

  “McCarty. That so? Very good.”

  Uncertain what he would do on ringing off, Neva hooked her arm around a light pole, but rather than try to take hold of her again, he said, “Sorry if I alarmed you. I’m not used to uncooperation.”

  “Especially from women?”

  “Especially from anybody. And I have to say you’re not quite like the folks I usually deal with. The dinner invitation still stands, by the way, any day. I wouldn’t mind seeing you in a dress, if you own such a thing. Have a nice evening.”

  Watching him walk jauntily away Neva didn’t know whether to laugh or be angry. If anyone were to recount such an incident to her, she might not believe it. Sheriffs don’t behave like this, even when off duty and out of uniform. Was she under suspicion for Roy DeRoos’ death? Impossible. Then why the silly shenanigans? At least she had not allowed him to buffalo her into dinner and a night at the hotel.

  Neva could see the back end of the sheriff’s car, and waited until he pulled away before letting go of the light pole and half-running to her own car. Watching the rearview mirror to be sure she wasn’t followed, she headed for a taqueria that was on the road out of town. She found a parking spot, collected her bag, and got out, but then remembered the shoebox with joy and relief. She would begin going through the papers while she waited to be served. She leaned over the driver’s seat and reached for the box, but the passenger’s seat was empty. In the dim light from a lamp pole halfway down the parking lot, she could see that there was nothing on the floor. Still, she went around to the other side, searched the floor, felt under the seat, and at last checked the backseat and floor even though she knew that the box could not have slid through.

  The box of letters was gone as though it had never existed. It was too much, really too much. First her mother’s ashes and now the precious papers. What kind of insane business had she wandered into? The shoebox had been in the car when she drove from the jail to the bar so it had to have been taken while she was with the sheriff. No real thief would take a stained old shoebox full of papers and leave a pair of binoculars and her CD player behind. Therefore, it must be another instance of the sheriff’s high-handed investigation style, carried out under the weird notion that she was holding useful evidence about the murder. But was it really possible that law enforcement officers would break into her car? A week ago she would have said no. Now it seemed all too likely, and it would help explain McCarty’s weird behavior. To spring the door locks and remove the papers would have required no time at all for an expert, so they must have taken the precaution of getting a search warrant. McCarty had to keep her with him until he got the call saying the job was done.

  Well, he would not get away with it. Not only would he be sorry, very sorry indeed, but she was getting those papers back right now. Striding into the restaurant, she yanked open the door of the old-fashioned phone booth in the entryway and flipped angrily through the directory until she came to the M’s. She checked every possible spelling of McCarty but without finding a single entry. She dialed information, which told her there was no such listing, then called the jail and got a recording. Full of rage, her face hot, she wanted to rip the receiver off its cord and beat it on the wall.

  Willing herself to breathe slowly, she returned the phone to its hook and stood with her eyes closed. She would drive to the jail and demand McCarty’s address. No, they would never tell her how to find the sheriff. She would go back to the bar and chat up some drunks. They all knew him, it was a small town, someone would tell her where McCarty lived, maybe the little bartender…No, no, it would never work, and she was far too tired to try outwitting anyone, even a drunk. She must make a plan tonight and return to Elkhorn in the morning, but first she needed food.

  She found the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, settled at a corner table and ordered chicken tamales. Waiting with nothing but a glass of ice water, she could think only of the papers. If the sheriff really had got a search warrant he would be unable to deny taking them and would have to return them eventually, but if her theory about McCarty’s involvement was wrong, then the papers were most likely lost for good. Were the Fates really so determined to keep her from having any material mementos from her family past? If only she hadn’t met the sheriff as she was leaving the law enforcement building.

  With an exclamation, she snatched up her bag and pulled out the handful of papers she had taken into the jail. She kissed the small bundle, and hugged it to her.

  When her emotions calmed down enough to let her read, she saw that the note on top was from Enid and was addressed to her.

  Dear niece of my only real love,

  Included here with other papers are some of my letters to Burtie, which I almost decided to keep but they might have ended up with you anyway had things gone differently in his life. And they’ll help show you, I hope, that he was a complex, warm man because you can bet that his letters to me were in the same mode—sorry, I’m keeping those forever! I only glanced at the other things but saw enough to know they’ll mean something to you. Let’s do keep in touch.

  Affectionately,

  Your (almost) Aunt Enid

  The tears Neva had struggled to control poured down her cheeks. So much loss, so much sadness…Her hands fell into her lap along with the papers while she gave in to mourning. When the tears were spent, she wiped her eyes with thin napkins from the dispenser and laid her few treasures out on the table. There were five letters from Enid, two letters from what seemed to be a military buddy, her uncle’s birth certificate, and an envelope containing a handwritten note to Orson. The note was brief.

  Orson,

  I heard it again last night and I’m almost certain my suspicion is right, as horrible as it is. It’s late, so I expect you won’t be back tonight as planned. I’m going up to get a closer look. If anything happens to me don’t go to the law because it will just make things worse for you without helping me. You know you’re sick of the mine anyway. Take what we’ve got, though it’s little enough, thanks to me, and go make a different life for yourself. We’ve had some good times, haven’t we? My love to Enid and her
best brother,

  B

  What affected her more than anything else was the simple letter B as a signature. It was her habit to sign notes to friends with a plain N, just as her mother had signed with a simple F. Orson must have found the note when he returned to the mine and discovered that Burtie was gone, but what did it mean? I heard it again last night and I’m almost certain my suspicion is right, as horrible as it is.

  Could her uncle have heard the night truck fifteen years ago? Goose bumps rose on Neva’s arms and suddenly she was aware of the overhead fans spinning too fast, washing her skin with clammy air.

  The waitress set down the tamales.

  “Thank you,” Neva said, shivering, “but I’m feeling sick all of a sudden. Could I please have them to go?”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Gene’s windows were dark when Neva arrived back on Billie Creek. She felt calmer after the long drive and the tamales, but the lack of visible life at the little cabin was disappointing. She had convinced herself that Gene would be awake, and had counted on his sympathetic ear. He had said he usually went to bed around nightfall after working in the sun all day, and while she could not see herself waking him up to cry on his shoulder, she could not immediately give up the prospect of his company. Acutely aware of the empty eight-mile road ahead, she sat in the idling car looking at the cabin and the pickup truck.

  The truck was pulled in with the front bumper nearly touching the tiny porch, just as it had been when she left the note this morning. Gene must have pulled in hastily, and not moved the truck all day. Could he be ill? Injured?

  Neva turned off the ignition and got out of the car. The air was warm from heat stored in the rocky ground, and the creek murmured pleasantly. She crossed the plank bridge, approached the porch, and saw her note lying undisturbed under the stone. Either Gene was inside and had simply not answered her knock this morning and not come out all day, or he had left the mine sometime before this morning without his truck. She picked up the note, stuffed it into her pocket, and stepped onto the porch. The hasp was over the staple and the padlock was secured. Had it been locked earlier? She could not remember, but at least this meant that Gene was not lying unconscious inside.

  Relieved, she turned to go, but the sight of the truck stopped her again. Gene had no motorbike or other means of getting around apart from walking. Someone must have picked him up, possibly a fellow miner from some other part of the territory, or he had walked somewhere. That he might have gone up to her mine on foot in response to the dinner invitation and be waiting there at this moment struck her suddenly as the most likely explanation. On seeing her note, he had set off walking—assuming she would drive him home—and might even have prepared dinner to surprise her when she returned. It was, after all, his cabin she lived in.

  The prospect of arriving home to find the lamp burning and Gene ready to hear all about her wretched day in Elkhorn lightened the drive up the canyon. As expected, her kitchen window glowed invitingly. She hurried across the dooryard but hesitated at the porch steps, struck suddenly by the improbability of finding Gene inside. He would not work all day at his mine and then walk eight miles uphill to join her for dinner.

  Could it be Lance who waited inside? Or Reese?

  Neva eased up the steps and across the porch to the window. The curtain was open, as she always kept it, and a lamp burned low on the table. The tableau it revealed was surprising, even beautiful. The rocking chair from the back porch had been brought in and placed by the table, and in the chair, sleeping with her mouth open and her hands in her lap, was Tillie Briggs. She looked so at home in the old-fashioned kitchen that Neva stood for some time observing her, wondering at the affection she felt for this near stranger. How could such a woman have produced a son like Tony?

  Neva went into the kitchen, knelt by the chair on one knee, and said softly, “Tillie. Tillie, wake up, it’s Jeneva, I’m home.”

  Tillie stirred, whimpered, sighed and opened her eyes. Regarding Neva without surprise, she said, “I know you’re not a ghost because there’s food on your cheek. Tomato, it looks like.”

  Raising a hand to feel for the offending salsa, Neva resisted laughing. She must think of something wonderful to send this surprising woman when she went home to the Willamette Valley, maybe a subscription to a magazine full of opulent pictures, or better yet, she would renew her subscription to that agricultural newspaper Tillie had said she could no longer afford.

  “You look so peaceful I hate to wake you up.”

  “Must be late. I didn’t mean to sleep, usually I can’t sleep, but here I couldn’t keep awake. It’s so quiet and away from it all. I thought I heard you coming before but it must have been a varmint on the porch.” Letting her head lie against the chair back and her eyes close, Tillie became again the personification of Rest Well Earned. But her eyes soon opened and were filled with distress. She sat up, turned to the table, grasped a worn burlap sack, and handed it to Neva with an effort that clearly was emotional as well as physical.

  Beyond surprise by now, Neva accepted the sack, looked inside, and hugged it to her as she had held the letters scant hours ago. “Was it Tony?” she said. Tillie nodded, then shook her head in a gesture of such evident parental pain that Neva set the sack back on the table and took the old woman’s hand in her own, urging, “Don’t let it bother you, Tillie. The ashes are home again, that’s the main thing. Thank you so very, very much. It was amazing to look in and find you here. I didn’t see your car.”

  “I went too far. It’s down the hill past the woodshed. You know, he thought it was Reese’s gold. Really, I don’t know what comes over men sometimes. He’s been worried about losing the ranch. He’s not really a bad boy, just never thought things through since he was little and was always left behind by his brothers. We taped the paper and everything back up. Nothing spilled, at least not much. I think it’s a real nice idea to bury her up here in her brother’s home place. You’re a good daughter. I always did want a girl.”

  ***

  “McCarty hath murdered sleep.” The words slipped round and round inside Neva’s head as she lay in bed exhausted but unable to turn off her thoughts. Immediately after Tillie’s old pickup had climbed out of sight up the lane, she had placed the battered box of ashes back on the table, and stretched out wearily to sleep. But sleep did not come. Instead, the incidents of this disturbing day clamored in her mind for attention. Lunch with Darla seemed a very long time ago. The gift and almost immediate loss of her uncle’s papers, the sheriff’s game playing, the calm of Tillie Briggs waiting in her kitchen, the return of the ashes, even the departure of Gene Holland without his truck—everything was off balance and strange. Most unsettling of all was Matthew’s note to Orson. What had her uncle heard on the last day or night when he was known to be alive?

  Maybe Andy Sylvester was right that she should leave the mine.

  Neva’s face set in stubborn lines. She was not going home until she was ready. All of this was a mistake, a colossal error that would soon straighten out if she remained steady and continued to pursue her own business on Billie Creek. The immediate problem, the only problem to worry about right now, was sleep. Insomnia was an old demon that she thought she had vanquished in coming to the mine, but she might just as well be back in her house in town counting the hours until dawn, her heart pounding harder than it ever seemed to in daylight.

  With an exasperated twitch, she threw off the covers, sat up on the edge of the bed, and considered what to do. Reading sometimes worked but she would not be able to focus on a book tonight. She needed to let her thoughts run on for a while yet, outdoors where the cool night would gradually chill her through. Then the warm bed would feel welcome and soothing rather than like a trap.

  Without dressing or lighting a lamp, she got a cup of water from the kitchen and took it to the wicker settee. The night was particularly fine, the darkness rich and star-heavy, but she didn’t feel the beauty in her usual way, as physical sensation. S
truggling to remain in the present, to listen and smell and feel with the kind of acute sensory delight she had rediscovered at the mine, she only grew more frustrated. Her thoughts would not be controlled, but continued to track back time and again over recent events on the creek. What did it all mean?

  At last, resignedly, she returned inside, pulled on the shorts and sleeveless shirt she had worn during the day, exchanged flip-flops for walking shoes, and set off up the lane. The quiet was so complete when she stopped at Billie Creek Road to listen that it was as though she had lost her sense of hearing. Her sense of smell, however, remained sharp. Turning up the road, she detected scent pockets of pine, cooling dust, the sweetly musty breath of night flowers. Walking with a long stride to stretch her leg muscles, she felt the weight of the day’s strangeness slip away, and it seemed exactly right that she should have been pulled from her bed to experience this other face of the canyon, this night world of simplified shapes and secretive smells.

  Some distance up the road she rounded a bend and walked into a different smell, a smell that made her stop to test the air with sharpened attention. Surely it was diesel exhaust. Moving ahead slowly, placing her feet with care on the rocky road, she continued for about a hundred yards without seeing anything unusual, but then the faint but distinct ring of metal striking metal made her stop again. The sound had come from the left, where a sidetrack led off the main road. Because it appeared to end within sight she had never bothered following the spur, but now, letting her feet find the way, she entered the denser darkness created by pines on one side and the canyon wall on the other. Her heart was beating harder than usual but she was not afraid. Everything has an explanation if you just possess the facts, and now, it seemed, she would at last get the facts about the mysterious truck, which must have arrived tonight before her own return to the canyon.