The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  He put his glass down on the table and crossed his arms. "Where did you find Bobby?"

  I cleared my throat and told him about meeting Mrs. Reynolds and her suggestion that he might be up at the house on the ridge.

  He turned his head to the side and coughed. "Pardon me. So, you got past the gate?"

  Carter said, "Yeah. It's quite a place."

  "What was it like?"

  "There was a big room in the middle where fifteen men, more or less, were sitting and meditating while a yogi played a sitar."

  I looked over at Carter. "How do you know the name of that instrument?"

  He shrugged. "I know what a sitar is. I saw someone playing one on TV the other day."

  Right then, Tito walked up. "Sheriff, you're wanted on the phone."

  Forrester stood and looked down at us. "Don't either of you leave until I get back. I'm not done with you."

  I smiled in reply and said, "Yes, sir."

  He nodded and followed Tito towards the front of the restaurant.

  Carter put his hand on my thigh and squeezed hard. "I saw all of that, Nick. We are not gonna have a repeat of the Nacho incident." That was Ignacio Esparza, Nacho for short. He was a Baja California state police captain we'd met in Ensenada back in '53. He'd tried very hard to seduce me and had almost succeeded. Not long after we'd met him, he'd died in my arms when his brother, a local outlaw, had shot him.

  I looked up at him. "Don't worry. He's just a regular guy. Nacho was on the prowl." I felt the usual sadness whenever we talked about the guy. I could always feel the warmth and the weight of his body as I'd taken him in my arms whenever his name came up.

  Carter shook his head. "I'm not sure he's as regular a guy as he wants us to think he is."

  I sighed. "Another hire?"

  "Maybe. He doesn't strike me as wanting to leave his job. Maybe no one knows."

  "He blushed when Annie was mentioned."

  Carter nodded and took a drink of his beer. "Maybe he's a Kinsey 4."

  "Or a 3."

  "Nope. 4 or 5."

  "So, you think—"

  Forrester walked up and slid into his seat. "That was Ellen. My mother is throwing a big fit about babysitting."

  Carter asked, "Does that have to do with us?"

  The deputy nodded. "Yeah. Her views on the subject are well known. I told Ellen not to mention you two would be here." He shrugged and took a sip of his drink. "But, she did and so, that's that."

  I said, "Maybe we can drop by tomorrow."

  "Sure. Let's eat." He seemed more disappointed than he should have been, somehow. I wondered about that.

  . . .

  Carter was happily sawing into a tough piece of steak. Forrester and I both had bubbling platters of enchiladas in front of us. Tito had even made us a big bowl of the green goop that I loved so much right at the table. He'd tried to teach me the word for it, but I was hopeless.

  As he cut into his steak, Carter said, "Bobby has an alibi."

  Looking up from his platter, Forrester asked, "He does?"

  I said, "Yeah. Seems like he's in love with one of the ranch hands who used to work for his mother. Guy by the name of Tom Wilkerson who lives up here, from what I could tell. Bobby spent the night at his place."

  Forrester paused. "So there was nothing between Bobby and Carl?"

  I shook my head. "Not from the sound of things."

  Swallowing his bite, the deputy said, "I've seen Tom a couple of times. He's about my height, blond hair, blue eyes, and lanky as hell."

  I looked at the deputy. He was describing the man like a cop would, like I would, but it sounded as if he was also admiring Tom's physique.

  "Aren't all ranch hands lanky?" I asked.

  Forrester glanced at me for a moment and then looked down at his enchiladas and swirled a bite around in the gravy. "I suppose so. That's hard work. Before the war, I did a little work for Big John."

  I glanced over at Carter who shook his head slightly. He was probably right. Better to let Forrester tell us about himself. If he wanted to.

  "He was a real S.O.B. and that son of his wasn't much better. I guess I shouldn't talk like that about the dead, but that was the longest year of my life."

  "When was that?" asked Carter.

  Forrester thought for a moment. "I dropped outta high school in '37. My old man dropped dead that April. Ellen was just 10. My mother sold the little ranch my dad had inherited from his dad. She used that money to move up here. My mother grew up in San Jose. I don't think she ever liked living on the coast. It's rough, day after day. The weather is a real bitch." He took a long gulp of the rest of his margarita, draining the glass.

  "So, you stayed down there and went to work for Mr. Reynolds?"

  Forrester grinned at Carter. It was sexy as hell. "Mr. Reynolds was Bobby's daddy. I worked for Big John Reynolds."

  "Why was he called Big John?" I asked.

  The deputy winked at me. "Good question. That was just his name. He was about Bobby's height. But he was broad in the shoulders and could carry as much and work as hard as any of us hands. Like I said, he was a real S.O.B."

  Tito showed up right then. "You ready for a beer, Sheriff?"

  Forrester shook his head. "I'm not going in tomorrow until 4 p.m. Bring me another margarita."

  Tito glanced at me. "How about you, Mr. Williams?"

  "I'll take a cup of coffee."

  "Mr. Jones?"

  "Another Burgie, thank you, Tito."

  The man picked up our glasses and then made his way to the bar.

  "So, you said you went to work for Big John out of high school," prompted Carter.

  Nodding, Forrester said, "Great thing about that job was that it came with a bunk. It meant I didn't have to leave the Sur. At the time, I thought I wanted to live down there forever." He took a bite of food and barely chewed it before swallowing it. "Michelle, Mrs. Reynolds, had the bunkhouse pulled down after she sold the ranch. It was right behind the barn." He grinned for a moment and then cleared his throat. "Anyway, I went to work there and did OK. By the next spring, I was worn out so I asked my mother to ask around and she said the Sheriff was hiring. And the rest is history."

  Tito arrived with our drinks right then. After those were distributed, he walked into the kitchen and began to shout at someone in Spanish.

  "Tito's a good guy. He really thinks that the voters of Monterey County would elect me Sheriff." He took a drink of his margarita and licked the salt rim again. Looking up at me over the edge of his glass, he said, "I don't think they would. But who am I to doubt the wisdom of the public mind?" He laughed at himself and had another drink.

  "Who do you think killed Carl Mackey?" asked Carter.

  I heard the tone of his voice and looked up at my husband. He had a worried expression on his face.

  "I have a couple of suspects in mind. But best not to talk about who. Not yet."

  "Who was Annie?" I asked. I wanted to see how he reacted.

  He sighed. "She was the sweetest gal I've ever known. O'Bannion was a bit of a nut but she was smart as a whip and a very talented architect and designer. She would have become famous if she hadn't died on us." He looked at me. "Why'd you ask?" It was more of an accusation than a question.

  "I noticed how you reacted to her name when Mrs. Hughes brought her up yesterday."

  Looking down at his glass, Forrester swirled the liquid around. He took a long gulp and then banged the glass on the table. "Only woman I've ever really loved. I miss her like hell." As he lifted his head, I could see tears running down his face. He didn't seem to notice. "When she was at Stanford, I used to sneak down and visit her. We'd go grab hot dogs and just sit on the grass and talk for hours."

  Carter asked, "Were you essential personnel?"

  Forrester frowned. "I guess you could say that."

  Nodding, Carter said, "I was, too. My chief didn't want me to volunteer, so I didn't. He talked about how the City might be bombed and how we needed all the fireme
n to stay home."

  "And did you?"

  "What?" asked Carter.

  "Volunteer?"

  He shook his head. "I'd been a fireman for a couple of years. If my chief said jump, I asked how high. I would never have gone against him." He took a swig from his Burgie.

  Forrester smiled grimly and looked at his glass. "Sheriff told me the same thing but I went down to the recruitment office in January of '42. They turned me down."

  "Because you were a deputy?" I asked.

  "Sure." He drained his glass and pushed his plate away. I wondered what the real story was.

  Carter said, "It was tough. People used to stare at me on the street. Particularly after things started to go badly in the Pacific. The chief gave us little badges to wear that I think he had made up on his own dime. They were red and had the letters S, F, F, D inscribed on them in gold. That helped." He drained his beer.

  "What about you, pumpkin?" asked Forrester with a grin. Carter stirred in his seat as the deputy continued, "How was shipboard life?"

  I knew what he was asking. I wondered whether I should answer or just pretend like he meant something else. I decided on the latter. "It wasn't too bad. I was on a hospital ship for most of the war. I spent the last few months in New Guinea at a hospital there."

  "What'd you do?"

  "Corpsman. Like an orderly."

  He grinned. "Millionaire cleans bed pans. That must have been hard work."

  I shook my head. "I didn't know about all that until '43. I was just a broke kid, barely able to scrape together two dimes, when I signed up."

  "What about your old man? Didn't he have money?"

  I nodded. "He kicked me out of the house in '39."

  "What'd you do between then and Pearl Harbor?"

  "I lived with a friend. Worked in a factory South of the Slot."

  "I've heard that phrase all my life. What the hell does it mean?"

  Carter explained. "From what I've heard, Jack London was the first to use the term in writing. It refers to the side of town that's south of Market Street. The slot is the track that the cable cars on Market used."

  "Huh," replied Forrester.

  I added, "My father says that everyone used that term long before Jack London's short story showed up in the Saturday Evening Post."

  "You don't say?" The margaritas had hit the deputy hard. They were strong. I was buzzing pretty hard from mine. But I'd eaten most of my enchiladas. He'd barely touched his.

  Tito arrived at that moment with a cup of coffee. He put it in front of the deputy and said, "Have some of this, Sheriff."

  Looking up at the man, Forrester asked, "You really think I could be elected?"

  Spreading his arms wide, Tito said, "Of course. This is America."

  Forrester looked at me. "What do you have to say about that, pumpkin?"

  Tito, who appeared to be a very smart businessman, quickly disappeared into the kitchen.

  I nodded. "Sure." I paused. "Do you wanna be Sheriff?"

  "Maybe." He thought for a moment. "But what I really want is another margarita."

  Carter said, "I think the bar's closed."

  Forrester frowned and looked at his watch. "Closed? But, it's 7:30."

  . . .

  In the parking lot, Forrester was stumbling towards his car. I said, "You can't drive home. We'll take you."

  He stopped and turned towards me with a leer. "Yeah?"

  I nodded. "Sure."

  "I dunno." He swayed as he spoke. I wondered if he'd already been drunk when he got to the restaurant. I'd never seen anyone hit that hard by just two drinks, even if tequila was involved.

  Carter looked at me and asked, "What's the penalty for driving intoxicated?"

  I shrugged and looked at Forrester. "I dunno. Better ask the Sheriff."

  Forrester pulled out his keys and dropped them on the ground. "Fine."

  . . .

  As we pulled up the little driveway next to his bungalow, Forrester said, "Honeys, we're home." His right hand had been resting on my thigh during the ten minutes it had taken to get to his house. He squeezed it and said, "Come on in, you two. We'll have a little nightcap."

  I said, "We'll put you to bed and then be on our way."

  "Fine," he said, sounding disappointed.

  Carter got out of the truck, slammed the door closed, and made his way to the front porch. He'd picked up Forrester's keys back at the restaurant.

  I slid out and pulled the deputy with me. Once he was on his feet, I pushed him towards the house. Carter had the door open and was waiting for us.

  Forrester stumbled up the steps, nearly tripping but managing to catch himself in time. He brushed up against Carter as he made his way across the threshold. Laughing, he said, "Come on in, boys. I have something I wanna show you."

  I looked up at Carter. "We should at least make sure he gets to bed."

  He frowned. "I have a real bad feeling about this."

  . . .

  Having pointed out the bottles on a sideboard in the small dining room, Forrester had disappeared into his bedroom saying, "Help yourselves, fellas. I just need to freshen up."

  Neither of us had anything to drink. Carter, arms folded, was standing in front of the short hallway that led to the two bedrooms. The house was small, but neat and comfortably furnished.

  I heard Forrester open the bedroom door. As he did, Carter muttered, "Oh, shit, Nick."

  "What?"

  He slowly backed up and put out his hands defensively. "Be careful, Ron."

  "Sure," replied the deputy. "This is my favorite toy."

  I jumped towards the hallway opening as Carter said, "Nick!"

  Forrester was buck naked, at full mast, and waving a Colt .45 Peacemaker around in the air. He grinned at me and said, "Wanna play with my gun?"

  I smiled as big a smile as I could manage. "Yeah. That's some big piece you got there, Ron."

  He lurched forward and nearly dropped the revolver. "You think so, punkin'?" Somehow, he seemed to be getting drunker by the minute. "I think you got just about the sweetest mouth I've ever seen." He got up in my face. "I've thought so since the first time I saw your face in the papers. Real sweet." He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.

  I kissed him back and managed to grab the Colt by the barrel and take it out of his hand. I slowly put my arm behind my back. I heard Carter walk up behind me. He gripped the handle. Once I could feel his fingers holding it, I let it go.

  As I slowly pushed the deputy towards the bedroom door, still kissing him, I heard Carter removing the bullets from the gun. I then broke into a sweat realizing what an idiot I'd been.

  . . .

  "Come on, Nick." We were standing in front of the bed. He was trying to unbutton my shirt.

  I pushed his hands away. "That's OK, Ron. I can undress myself."

  He leered at me, swaying as he did.

  I could hear Carter walking into the bedroom.

  Forrester looked over my head and said, "I bet you have a real big one, doncha, fireman?"

  Carter didn't say anything. I felt his left hand grab my shoulder. He leaned against me and then brought his right hand down on Forrester's neck. The deputy's eyes rolled up in his head. I caught him as he began to slide to the floor.

  Carter picked him up and unceremoniously dropped him on the bed.

  "Pick him up, Chief. He'll get cold if we leave him like this."

  Carter did as I asked. As I pulled the covers back, I said, "I don't think he's ever gonna be Sheriff of Monterey County."

  Carter dropped him again. "I hope to hell not."

  I pulled the covers over the man and turned off the bedside lamp.

  "You gonna kiss him goodnight?"

  I knew Carter was angry, but I leaned down and kissed the deputy on the forehead anyway. It seemed like the right thing to do. I felt sorry for the guy.

  Carter pulled me away from the bed, put his hands on my face, and began to kiss me deeply and passionately. We stayed t
hat way until Forrester started to snore.

  We turned off all the lights, left his keys, along with the Colt and five bullets, on the dining room table, and headed outside, making sure to lock the door behind us.

  Chapter 12

  The Condor's Nest

  Monterey County, Cal.

  Monday, November 14, 1955

  Half past 8 in the morning

  Another fog bank was lurking off the coast. It was about a mile out and looked the same as the one on Friday had looked. It was a big wall of fog that was illuminated by the morning sun.

  We were both standing on the cliff in front of the house, looking out at the ocean below and buttoned up against the wind. Carter had his hand on the back of my neck and I was enjoying the warmth of it.

  After grabbing a quick breakfast, we'd headed down the coast to have another look at the house. I wanted to go over the place and see if there was anything that stood out. Carter had correctly pointed out that it was still a crime scene. I'd just nodded and said, "Yes, it is."

  I walked over to the side of the house and found the box Forrester had mentioned the day before. On the right side of the gray box was a simple red switch, just like he'd said. The box was installed in the center of the exterior wall. A wire led from the box to the electric pole about twenty feet south of the house.

  I looked down at the ground. It was hard-pack dirt with bits of grass here and there. There was no way that shoe prints would have made an impression on the ground.

  "Why didn't we hear anyone creeping around on Friday night?" asked Carter.

  I shrugged. "The house seems to be pretty well insulated. I never noticed much external sound at all, from what I remember."

  Carter nodded. "Me, neither."

  I looked around. "OK. So, I dragged us down here. Now what?"

  Carter grinned down at me. "Let's see if we can trace Carl's steps."

  That made me think of something. "Good idea." I thought for a moment, not moving. "Did you see his body?"

  Carter shook his head. "No."

  "I just remembered there wasn't any flour on his boots. And there were boot prints in the flour in the kitchen and then a trail that led through the storeroom to the back door."