by Susan Slater
Dan nodded, “I can understand that. But kids…doesn’t add up.”
“I think the fact that someone took the time to read it when he did, indicates addled thinking—drugs, maybe? And, if so, then tunneling in there could have been all about money to keep them supplied.”
“A possibility. Makes sense that they took the wrong turn altogether—got into the room of safe deposit boxes and not the vault. Amateurs might do that.” But that didn’t explain the sophisticated laser equipment, Dan mused to himself. That was one bunch of tech-savvy kids.
“How ’bout another?” Buster pointed at Dan’s empty bottle.
“No, thanks. Good stuff, though, but I need to get going.”
“Would you like to see some real chickens?”
“As opposed to those over the gate?”
Buster chuckled, “Yeah, you could say that. Back of the house here is one big incubator. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Well, why not. It wasn’t like he had anything really pressing. And Dan was a little curious. Hatching prairie chickens? Sounded interesting.
“First building is just one oversized greenhouse. The government is paying the big bucks to preserve the prairie grasses…find a sustainable fertilizer, grow more drought-resistant, bug-free strains—those are their main concerns.”
“Any luck?” They were walking between the house and a Quonset hut-shaped building of about a thousand square feet. Dan stood to one side while Buster unlocked two padlocks. There it was again, that attention to safety by locking everything up.
“Actually, a cross between Andropogon gerardii and Schizachyrium scoparium—in layman’s terms “big bluestem” and “little bluestem”—is giving us a stronger version of the parents. So far, it seems to be outperforming blue grama.”
Dan followed Buster into the structure. Growing-tables in precise rows stretched from front to back each holding fifty to a hundred small containers with green shoots poking up. Dan waited while Buster pressed several buttons on an electrical box and watched as panels in the ceiling slid open.
“These are about ready to be transplanted but need to be hardened off before it’s back to nature.” Buster picked up a small planting cup from a table near him. “Shoots need to be over six inches high. This is just one of over two thousand samples that need to be planted before the first frost.”
“Impressive.” And Dan meant it. This was one well-run operation. “That’s an interesting plant.” Dan pointed at the corner nearest him. “Another hybrid?”
“Not exactly, but it is part of the research model. Trying to find cheap hardy chicken feed. This plant also makes good hedge-row cover. But it’s underrated. Lost its popularity. In my day and maybe yours, too, a tablespoon of this plant’s tonic kept a lot of children healthy.”
“Castor oil?”
“One and the same. More than one generation of grandmothers swore by it.” Buster pointed to a side door. “Go through there and you’ll see a fairly successful cross of native juniper with ornamental juniper. We’ll be ready to set out seedlings with the grasses end of next month. And one greenhouse over, you’ll see an array of houseplants. Originally, we’d hoped to finance a part of all this by supplying local nurseries. But we’re just a little too isolated to make that kind of operation really worthwhile.”
Dan didn’t know anything about greenhouse growing, but what he was looking at was a huge undertaking. “You can’t do all this by yourself.”
“Got about half a dozen workers come by four hours a day. We’re between shifts at the moment so the place’s empty.”
Something told Dan he was glad he wasn’t there to check green cards. But maybe if you worked on a government project you were given some kind of immunity. Dispensation for working with prairie chickens? The government was involved in more bizarre things, he was sure.
“Think we’ve seen about all there is to see here. Let’s check on those chickens. Follow me.”
Dan fell into step behind Buster but stopped just inside the door to the third Quonset hut. Breathtaking. Cage after cage all with automatic waterers and tube-filled food dishes. And incubators lined the walls. Fifty? More? Dan knew there were a lot. But it was the pens on the floor in front of him that had made him stop.
All baby animals are cute. Something his grandmother would say every time he tried to make a case for bringing that “cute” baby squirrel in the house to raise or a “cute” kitten found in the ally. But just being cute wasn’t enough to get his grandmother to allow an expansion of his critter collection. More than once the saved “cute” one was taken to the vet’s or a wildlife rescue center. But prairie chickens, now that personified cute! Grandma couldn’t have turned those down. Pen after pen of feathered fluff from about walnut size to rounded grapefruit, some with mothers in attendance, some not, spread out before him.
“Kinda takes your breath away.” It was obvious that Buster was proud. “Every pen you see is slated to be released one flock at a time over the next two months. They’re banded and a few have radio transmitters. The tracking will begin in November.”
“Is this your first release?”
“First release of this quantity. We’ve had two years of relative success with smaller samples. Now it’s time to increase the numbers.”
“Awe-inspiring. Thanks for the tour.” He followed Buster back through the greenhouse and then the kitchen.
“Oops. Don’t want to be running off with this.” Dan held up the empty beer bottle.
“Let me take that.” Buster took Dan’s empty and set it in the sink. “You know where I live if I can be of any further help.”
“That the latest in prairie chicken formal wear?” Dan pointed to a rhinestone tiara on the counter. For all the world it looked like a Bitsy castoff.
A laugh. “Kids. My granddaughter visited last weekend with her two—turned the place upside down looking for this.” Buster slipped the tiara in his pocket.
As they walked past the shotgun on the porch, Dan wondered if it was kept locked up when kids were around. He could only hope Buster was as diligent with his grandkids as he was with a couple thousand baby birds.
***
The five miles back to town gave him time to reflect—in hopes that some of the pieces were ready to fall into place but something wasn’t adding up. Two days of interviews and the only thing taken was apparently the one thing of greatest value in the vault—Gert Kennedy’s necklace. That made sense until he thought of the amount of time and work it took to get to it. Well, there was the comic, but its value obviously wasn’t known and it wasn’t taken. But kids? Druggies? “It’s not what you think.” So, where did that bit of wisdom fit in? And why try to keep him out of Wagon Mound? Keep him from doing his job? Pretty drastic to try and kill someone over an insured necklace. And his job was cut and dried unless someone thought he might uncover something else, giving that someone a reason to—
His cell vibrated against his chest from the inner pocket of his jacket. Elaine. She had said she’d call before she left Roswell. But it wasn’t Elaine’s number.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Mahoney? This is Penny…Gertrude Kennedy’s daughter. I need to talk with you.”
“Okay. Now’s a good time.” He was on the road but hadn’t seen a car in ten minutes.
“I don’t mean over the phone. Could we meet? I’m on my way to the bank. I’ll meet you out in front in ten minutes.” Click.
She seemed to know that he’d agree. He could only hope that there wasn’t a problem, and that Gertrude was okay. He was rather fond of the old girl.
He pulled up across from the bank and almost missed Penny, only recognizing her after she’d gotten out of the vintage Jag. Now that was worth a pretty penny—not to play on words or anything. But it wasn’t just the car, the Penny in front of him looked different. Once again she was dressed in a no-nonsense, cuffs at t
he wrist and lace at the neckline, shirtwaist. But her head was uncovered and her hair had been straightened. He wasn’t sure how that was done, but now the unruly curls were soft waves that framed her face and just touched her shoulders. And the sunglasses? Straight out of Hollywood. Still the Jag didn’t quite fit. But why did it bother him? Because he hated to be wrong and he’d have bet his life on her driving something Asian and cheap…a KIA maybe? Nothing with the sleek, eye-catching dark green lines of the car that had pulled to a stop in front of him. But she was headed his way and he leaned over to open the Cherokee’s passenger-side door.
“Thanks so much for meeting with me.” She climbed in, turned toward him and plopped an oversized bag onto her lap. “I see you like my car.” She slipped off the oversized, tortoiseshell sunglasses.
He hadn’t realized he was still giving the Jag the once-over. “Yes. A true classic.” But then he gave Penny the once-over, too. Those eyes…was that makeup? She looked pretty good to just be going to the bank.
“My father’s pride and joy. I think he loved that car more than my mother.…Um, that’s a family joke.” She colored slightly which made him think that maybe it wasn’t a joke. Then, suddenly she just looked flustered.
“I don’t know where to begin.” She fumbled with the clasp on the bag. “I suppose I should just get it over with and answer questions later.”
She certainly had his undivided attention. She rummaged for a moment in the bottom of the bag before pulling out a drawstring purse or maybe it was just another smaller bag, Dan wasn’t sure.
“I owe you such an apology. I never saw this coming but everything is our fault—” Penny was struggling with the knot, picking at it with short blunt nails. Finally it gave way and she reached inside slowly drawing out her hand.
Dan didn’t need to be told that he was looking at the real thing. The diamonds and sapphires caught the sunlight and sent prisms of light dancing across the dash.
“Where…?”
“Under the mattress in the guest room. Mother sometimes would put it there if she had it out when someone came to the door. It was only ever a quick fix—never permanent. I was putting the flannel sheets on the bed for winter when I found it.”
“The pictures don’t do it justice.”
“No, they don’t.”
Dan waited and watched Penny struggle with what she wanted to say next.
“Your mother—”
“Mr. Mahoney, Mother doesn’t know I’ve found the necklace. She’s…she’s beginning to have problems, forgetting things, confusing names and dates.”
“All signs of being eighty-five, I’d imagine.”
“I’m afraid it’s a little more. The doctor called me after her checkup last spring and wanted me to take her for testing. He told me he suspected the beginnings of Alzheimer’s. Of course, she’d have none of it.”
“Pride and the elderly can be a tough combination.”
“More than that. I think the dementia is becoming dangerous…just yesterday she left eggs to boil, went out in the yard to weed, and forgot them. Took us hours to air out the house.”
“What will you do now?”
“With the necklace? I’ve already talked with Mr. Woods. He’s willing to look the other way…say the necklace was misplaced, put back in another box after the robbery. Then it will be ‘found’ and Mother contacted. Mother doesn’t need to ever know what she did. That, of course, depends upon you and the insurance company.” Penny’s left eye involuntarily twitched.
“Sounds like a plan.” And he meant it. The last thing he wanted to do was cause additional worry for the two women.
Penny’s sigh of relief was audible as she grabbed his hands and just held on, “You’ll never know how much this means. Mother’s failing is so very difficult.”
“I can only imagine.”
“And now you can leave. Take that wonderful Ms. Linden on a trip to Ireland after all.” Penny sat back and fairly beamed at him.
Everyone liked a little romance…boy gets girl, girl gets trip to Ireland. But there was something vaguely bothering him…yes, he now had no reason to prolong his stay in Wagon Mound; certainly, he wouldn’t be on the UL&C payroll after his report. But there was something…something that rankled, flew in the face of right versus wrong. A man lost his life and his own had been threatened. No, it wasn’t what it seemed, but unavenged death…was old Chet counting on him?
“Mr. Mahoney?” Dan jerked back to the present. “That’s right isn’t it? You really don’t have a reason to stay. I can’t believe that Mother’s dementia came so close to taking your life. I know she’d never forgive herself if she knew. And the fact that she was standing in the way of Elaine’s happiness. Bitsy loved her—Mother and I just know she’s a wonderful person. The right person.” This delivered with hands clasped to chest and a wink.
“I’m sure Elaine would appreciate the vote of confidence and you’re right. A day or two to wrap things up and I’m gone.” But, then again, maybe not. Taking away his reason to be in Wagon Mound still left questions. Lots of them.
“Well, again, my apologies. Better get going. Just holding this thing gives me the jeebies.” A quick smile, an awkward, moist handshake, the oversized glasses perched once again on her nose, and Penny was out of the Cherokee and across the street. He watched until she was safely inside the bank. And then he just sat there. What the hell? was about the only coherent thought to drift to the surface. Just plain what the hell? Then he put the Cherokee in gear and turned toward I-25. A visit with Jeeter Ferris was long overdue. Now that he had a clear conscience about working on company time. Company time had just been erased.
The trip to Las Vegas took an hour and allowed some time to reflect. He wasn’t going to lead the witness but he wanted access to any paper trail.
What had been done to the truck, and when. He figured he was owed that much. A quick check in the phone book when he gassed up at the edge of town put the chop shop about four blocks from the center of downtown. He wasn’t going to call first. This was a workday; somebody would be there. Better to not give anyone a reason to overthink what Dan might want.
He had to park on the street and walk back to the chain-link entrance. Didn’t look like the brothers were lacking in business. The array of half torn down bikes and cars filled the side yard and extended around the back.
The office seemed to be the top floor of the two-story metal-sided barn-like structure in the front corner of the lot—if he could trust the word “office” above the arrow pointing up the outside stairs. The door above him opened before he could reach the bottom step.
“Help yuh?” Complete with red-and-white bandana rakishly pulled low touching bushy eyebrows that matched a handlebar mustache that brushed his chest, the mountain of a man towered above him—and it wasn’t just one story’s worth of stairs with Dan being at the bottom looking up. This guy was big.
“Looking for Jeeter Ferris.”
“Found him. Should I know you?”
“Probably not. Dan Mahoney. I was Chet Echols’ passenger when he rolled his truck. I think you put that truck together for him.”
“Yeah. Been expecting you actually. Some ol’ coot try to take me out, I’d be hot—wanna know the where’s and why’s of that one, fer sure.”
“Are you saying you can help me?”
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t go so far, but come on up. I’ll tell you what I know.”
Dan followed Jeeter up the narrow wooden stairs and settled in a folding chair facing a huge, pockmarked wooden desk with carved initials under a skull and crossbones on the corner nearest him.
“I appreciate you taking the time.”
“Not a problem.” Jeeter rummaged in the desk’s file drawer before drawing out a grease-stained folder. “This should help.” He opened it and spread a stack of receipts across the desk. “And this.” He handed
an envelope to Dan.
“What—?”
“Initial contract.”
The letter was on regular paper—could have come out of a copy machine—no letterhead or other identifying marks. No marks on the envelope and past the time when there’d be any viable fingerprints. It was short and to the point. A movie producer by the name of Martin St. Martin would be sending one Chet Echols Jeeter’s way by the end of the week. This Mr. Echols would map out what he would be needing in the way of a pickup to be used in various stunts on the set of the movie Cowboys and Werewolves, currently being filmed outside Roy, New Mexico. Mr. Echols had been instructed to begin with a budget of ten thousand. More would follow as needed. Receipts would be turned over to Mr. Echols every thirty days.
“And I take it Chet showed up that week?”
“As promised.”
“What kinds of things did he ask for?
“Well, it wasn’t our usual job. That’s fer sure.”
The door to the office opened a foot and the man who stuck his head in looked startled that Jeeter had company.
“Sorry, catch ya later.” He ducked back and the door quickly closed. Dan barely registered another red-checked bandana and handlebar mustache.
“Let’s see where was I?”Jeeter paused then opened the middle drawer of the desk. “Here’s a list of parts we ordered. Suppose I should have handed these off.”
“Can I make a copy?”
“You can have the original. No good to me.”
Dan glanced at such objects as bumpers, right fender, left headlight rim, doors…“You know the door didn’t fit—didn’t line up with the hinges on the passenger side.”
“Told me to leave the door that way…said he’d need to wire it shut anyway.”
“And you didn’t ask why?” Dan stared hard at Jeeter, then turned away. “Sorry, but I’m just trying to figure out why a whole bunch of red flags didn’t fly up.”
“Mostly ’cause I don’t know my ass from my elbow when it comes to stunt autos. He coulda told me he wanted chrome duel exhaust pipes mounted on the hood vertical and I’d done it.”