My dark philosophy had disappeared with the thought that we were on vacation, we had no easements to sell or buy, and Advantage Construction had no bearing on our lives.
I was, of course, dead wrong.
Fargo heard the car first and ran to greet Cindy. He was particularly attentive to the paper bag she carried, and shortly, so was I. From Gertrude’s she had procured a luncheon designed to please us all.
Finishing our goodies, we put on the smallest rubber boots in the mudroom and slogged up the road with our fishing gear, already planning what to have with our trout dinner.
Some boots may be made for walking, but these were not, and by the time we reached the little pool Clay had recommended, we were both out of breath. The big tackle box grew heavier by the step, and my camera banged uncomfortably on my chest. Fargo barked at and chased everything that moved.
As we reached the pool, Cindy managed to grab him before he leaped into it, put him on his lead and tied him to a small tree, where he immediately went into his second sulk of the day. He serenaded us with whimpers, whines and the occasional howl.
Cindy chose a fly, added it and a leader to her line and cast. She flicked it neatly right into the center of the pool, as if she did this every day. I smiled and followed suit, except that I held the rod a little too high, and the line went back over my head into a bush of mountain laurel. Was Gertrude a witch?
It took some time to get the line free, during which time Cindy had gotten a strike and reeled in a fair-sized trout. Suffice it to say that the only thing I caught that afternoon was a terrific picture of Cindy, with a triumphant grin, trout held high.
Suffice it also to say, sometimes God is good. On her next cast, Cindy slipped on one of the brick colored river rocks that eons of water friction had given smooth rounded shapes, lost her balance, and sat down in about two feet of water.
Before I went to her rescue, I made the mistake of shooting my second great picture of the day. I helped her up, retrieved her rod, released her catch, since it would not feed the two of us, and dumped the water out of her boots. Our walk home was quiet. Even Fargo had the sense to pad silently at my side while Cindy squished grumpily behind us.
In the process of rescuing—well, assisting—Cindy, I had noticed that the rock which had been her literal downfall had some interesting quartz patches in it, sparkling from time to time when the light hit it right. If I could find another like it, or just another interesting one about the same size, they would make a unique pair of bookends. So I crammed it into the tackle box, although it added a good three or four pounds to my burden. Cindy did not offer to take turns.
All the meat we had was frozen solid, and neither of us was in a cooking mood, anyway. Going out apparently was not on the menu, either. After her long, hot shower Cindy’s attire consisted of pajamas and an enormous terry robe she had found somewhere.
I made one of my famous grilled cheese sandwiches, served with pickles and potato chips. I offered to make one for Cindy, but she opted for a can of Campbell’s chicken soup, of the type that was probably meant for one of the Willingham kids. We watched the news, which eliminated the need for light dinner-time conversation, and afterward Cindy retired to the bedroom with a book. I remained with Fargo in the living room to watch Victor Victoria on TV for the third or fourth time. I was beginning to know the dialogue.
About an hour into the film, Cindy padded into the room and knelt beside me with her finger across her lips.
“Someone is trying to get into the bedroom,” she whispered. “I can hear them fooling with the screen.”
I removed my shoes and followed her down the hall. Poised at the bedroom door, I could hear the scraping noise she had described.
“Let’s give them a nice surprise,” I murmured. “We’ll go into the bedroom and over to the window. When I nod, you yank up the blind, I’ll yank up the screen and punch him one in the nose.”
We followed only part of my plan.
As the blind went up and the screen went up and I pulled my fist back, Cindy screamed and I realized my face was about three inches from that of a large, strange-looking black bear. Behind him in the night I could see other dark shapes moving in the trees. Did bears travel in packs? Could they break down a door?
It was no time for questions. Quickly I slammed the screen back down, catching the bear with a smart smack on his large black nose. He let out a loud, startled, feelings-hurt…moo-oo-ooo!
“Oh, my God! Cindy, it’s a cow! It’s one of those Angus things, and his buddies are all up among the trees. You can barely see them, but they’re there. This poor guy was just scratching his back on a rough log, and I walloped him on the nose. I thought it was a pack of bears.”
Cindy was laughing helplessly at my face-to-face encounter. “Bears don’t travel in packs, they’re pretty solitary,” she managed to gasp. “Oh, Lord, the look on your face was priceless!”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. It was you and your ‘intruder’ who put it there. What do we do now? I’ve no idea who they belong to, do you?”
“No.” She sobered quickly. “But we can’t let them go farther up the mountain or a bear may well nab one of them. I guess the best thing is to call the sheriff’s office—they’ll probably know the owner. Get a big flashlight out of the mudroom and try to head them off, while I phone. I’ll be right out.”
“Cindy, there are ten or twelve of those things out there.”
“Yes, just get above them and point them downhill and kind of shoo them gently. They are tame, Alex, they are tame.”
They may have been tame, but they were also stubborn. I fought a losing battle. I’d just about get one of them turned around and five others would saunter past me, nibbling noisily at delicacies along the way. Cindy soon joined me, announcing that deputies were en route along with some people named Dermott who owned this errant ebony herd.
Once we accumulated our full complement, the chore was easier. Perhaps recognizing their owner’s raspy voice, the now-docile black blobs turned downhill and went home. Mr. Dermott thanked us all profusely, and shook his head when the deputy asked him if he knew how they got out.
“I didn’t stop to look. I’ve got electric fence all around that pasture, it’s always been foolproof.”
“Could the wires have been cut?” I asked.
“Now who would do a thing like that? But I thank you again for your help. Weren’t for you ladies I coulda lost a steer, maybe more than one.”
I tried another question. “Did Advantage Construction offer you a fee if you’d sign an easement allowing them to put a road across some of your property?”
“You mean that crazy idea of a nature lovers’ commune or something that Branch Redford’s tryin’ to sell? Him and that bully boy he’s got with him?”
I nodded and the deputy looked at me sharply.
Dermott laughed. “That guy with Branch told me I really oughta sign, that I could use the money to put up stronger fences. I told him if he thought my fencing was weak, just to grab aholt of it on his way out. He did, and jumped about three feet. Guess that shut him up.”
“Or made him buy some insulated cutting pliers,” Cindy suggested. “You might want to talk to Clay Rodman. He’s trying to get some injunction against the bully boy—his name is Mickey McCurry, by the way—and get Advantage Construction to take their plans to some other area. Preferably in North Dakota.”
I turned my flashlight back on and shined it over one of the insulators. The copper wire lay limply on the ground beside it.
Dermott swore long and loud, and this time the deputy made a note.
We went home to a worried Fargo and Cindy took him out on lead, while I made some tea. The night had grown chilly, and I had grown tired. I realized that tea just seemed right. Especially with a wee tot of rum. Cindy agreed, her earlier snit forgotten.
“We spoke too soon this morning,” she said thoughtfully. “Mickey has now destroyed personal property and endangered livestock.”
I awoke ravenous. Cindy was already up, dressed and drinking coffee in the kitchen.
She put her cheek up for a kiss. “I thought you were going to sleep all day, my love, and I am getting weak from hunger. These cattle roundups really take it out of you.”
“Indeed they do. I’m hungry, too. And the fridge is loaded. So what are you making for breakfast?”
“Reservations. People who have worked long into the night do not make breakfast.”
“Do we have to go to Gertrude’s?” I asked.
“The only decent place in town…Gertrude’s. Perhaps she will grow to love us as time goes by.”
“That’s a ghastly thought, but I suppose you’re right. Their food is good.”
“I knew greed would triumph,” she said loftily.
Gertrude’s seemed even more popular this morning than when we were last there. They weren’t the breakfast crowd; these people had an early breakfast at home. They were here at this hour for coffee, maybe a pastry and news. I imagined the Dermott’s late-night roundup had been recounted countless times by now.
It was a little strange. It started with Gertrude approaching us with menus and a toothy grin, asking, “What’ll it be, girls, booth or table?” Then several people I didn’t know nodded and smiled or said hello.
Lou approached us, in obvious good spirits. “I understand you two earned your spurs last night.”
“Yep.” Cindy tucked her thumbs in her waistband and added, “Next week we start lasso lessons.”
A number of people smiled, and one man said, “I saw you riding Clay’s Princess yesterday. This time next year you’ll be in the Johnson City horse show.”
I turned to Lou. “How did Jasper the English setter make out?”
“Barring complications, he’s got his leg. But he’ll also have a permanent limp. Oh, don’t look so sad, he’ll get around fine. Dogs—most animals—adapt better than people. He’s a great boy, he’ll handle it.”
“That’s wonderful, really. I’m sure his owners are grateful. This town is lucky to have you and your partner.”
She bobbed her head in thanks and moved on to pay her bill.
Greed did win out. Surprisingly I saw cheese blintzes on the menu and—wary but hopeful, I ordered them. They were delicious, with crisp bacon and a peach chutney to die for. I asked the waitress if I could buy a jar and she brought one to the table. The professionally printed label read: Homegrown Peach Chutney from the kitchen of Sara Blackstone.
She raised horses, she raised vegetables, she made preserves. Did she ever sleep? No wonder she stayed so slim.
Cindy—for her—also let greed have its way. A Denver omelet complete with home fries. Amazingly, she left Fargo only about half of everything. I generously added a bite of one blintz to the doggie bag.
I started toward the door, while Cindy paid the check, and I noticed a woman struggling to open the door as she juggled a rather large carton. I took a couple of quick steps and pushed it open for her.
“Thank you.” She was a little out of breath. “You’re one of the women who saved the cattle last night, aren’t you?”
“Well, I helped a bit. I’m Alex Peres and…” I turned to Cindy, now beside me. “This is Cindy Hart, who also helped. Probably more than I. Being originally from Tennessee, she is apparently a natural farmer and livestock expert.”
“I’m Sophie Dermott. Robert, my husband, and I just wanted you to have a little ‘thank you’ for all your efforts. There’s a couple of nice steaks in here. Oh, and I must tell you. Rob fixed the fence this morning and said to tell you, there’ll be an alarm put in tomorrow to go off if it happens again. And he’s warning the neighbors to be on their guard.”
She held the box out toward me and I automatically took it—and nearly dropped it. It felt more like half a cow was in there.
We thanked her profusely, and then Cindy inquired, “Sophie, how did you know we were here?”
“Oh, a friend stopped by, happened to mention she seen you going in. I figured I could catch you. The steaks are frozen, so you’ll probably want to go straight home. I must run, Rob will be needing the truck.”
Ah, the joys of a small town.
At home we opened the box, and no longer wondered at its weight. Six filets mignon and six glorious T-bone steaks were still frozen solid as we popped them into the freezer. We left two filets in the refrigerator to thaw; dinner was no longer a question mark.
The question was what to do for the rest of the day. I felt lazy after the large breakfast but knew I wasn’t going to get away with it. I was right. Cindy suggested we take Fargo and climb up to the tarn near the top of the mountain.
“What, exactly, is a tarn?” I wanted to know.
Cindy smiled. “Well, according to my grandmother it’s a body of water larger than a pond and smaller than a lake, whatever that may be. It’s kind of like her recipe for devil’s food cake: you start with a large cup of flour. My grandfather said tarn was short for tarnation, because the water is always so tarnation cold. I believe both are basically correct. But if you are the scholarly type, you will wish to know it’s an Old English word left over from Anglo-Saxon days—meaning small mountain lake.”
What none of Cindy’s family, nor she, had mentioned was that you reached a tarn by one helluva hike. Uphill.
But the climb was beautiful. The trail ran beside the creek and then away and then back to it. I discovered three more river rocks of the right size, so we had two pair of bookends now—or would, when we picked them up on the way home. Periodically, the trail was covered with last year’s pine needles. Our hiking boots caused them to give off a clean, slightly acrid odor.
I saw a small flat piece of wood that looked like it might have been part of an orange crate. It had a nail hole in one end. What it was doing here, I couldn’t guess. But I picked a large oak leaf, jammed the stem of it in the hole and set my sailboat on the water.
Cindy picked a nearby dog-tooth violet and laid it on the craft, intoning, “I christen thee the Argo II.” We watched until it sailed jauntily out of sight and I wondered if it would make it to the lake far below. I looked at Cindy and we both laughed: it was fun to play.
We passed a small meadow dotted with some yellow flowers. Across the far end of it trotted a fox, dutifully followed by her two kits. Fargo wanted to play and barked twice. As smartly as a unit of the Marines, the threesome made a right turn and disappeared among the trees.
A blue jay flew low over us, squawking loudly at our trespass upon his territory. Less aggressive, a red-headed woodpecker ceased drilling on a dead pine limb and watched us warily until we passed, and then went back to his lunch.
Finally, we reached the tarn. It was a deep blue even as it reflected the lighter blue and white of the sky. I wondered how deep it was. I unclipped Fargo’s leash and he ran forward to get a drink. Then he decided to wade a few steps forward and suddenly found himself swimming. Obviously it shelved off quickly, and obviously it was too cold even for the intrepid Fargo. He clambered out, shook himself and found a sunny patch of grass to roll in.
We had been warned against taking any sort of real picnic into the uninhabited areas where bears might get a whiff and decide to join the party. Consequently, all we had with us were a couple of peaches and two chunks of cheese, which we hoped would lack the charm of fried chicken or ham sandwiches or whatever for Br’er Bear. Even so, we ate rapidly and kept Fargo close beside us as he devoured his biscuit.
Our only “garbage” was the pair of peach pits, which we put back in their plastic bag and returned to the backpack. Then Cindy produced her surprise.
“Reward time!” She announced and pulled a peanut butter jar from the pack. It was filled with claret, and as we took turns sipping it from the jar. I lit a cigarette and figured it really didn’t get any better than this.
I waved my arm around. “Now who in their right mind would want a bunch of cottages and condos added to this landsca
pe? And who would want a nice paved road where fox babies go to play?”
“Greedy people who don’t endorse the rights of animals…or other people,” she replied. “And stupid people who think they can buy a house in the middle of a forest and that nothing will change.”
“It would be a crime.” I dipped my cigarette in the water, fieldstripped it and put the filter in my shirt pocket. “But how do you stop it?”
“Well, the people who have bought property along the foot of the mountain fall into two groups, mainly. They are either farmers who have bought as far up as pastures and land good for crops or pigs can be found. Or they are people like Ken and Frances. They bought a lot of extra property to block off access to the wild part of Crooked Creek Mountain. It will work for a while, anyway. In the meantime, you try to get protective laws.”
“I’ve noticed a bunch of signs like No trespassing, No hunting, No motor vehicles. Do they work?”
“Fairly well.” She reached for our elegant wineglass. “The Rangers do what they can. They pretty well keep the little four-wheelers off the trails. Even the sheriff shoos furriners away, although he turns a blind eye to the farmer who takes an occasional deer on posted property.”
She took a sip of wine and set the jar back on the ground between us. “The sad thing about this whole mess we now seem to be involved in, is that a lot of people would lose money on these houses even if they weren’t jerry-built.”
“How’s that?”
“Think about it. The bears are not going to move out overnight. Would you send your child out to play over there?” She waved an arm toward the woods. “Especially if she were eating a fat tuna salad sandwich?”
Murder Takes to the Hill Page 11