“No,” I answered. “And I wouldn’t want her deciding to take a little wade in this tarn, either. It shelves off so fast even Fargo had to work at pulling himself out.”
“Not only that,” Cindy added. The water is terribly cold and never really warms up and is very deep. The old locals still call it bottomless. You can get cramps in no time. All you need is one kid mauled by a bear and another drowned and this place would be a ghost town. No one would be able to sell the houses or condos they had bought but no longer spent time in, and Advantage would be stuck with any they hadn’t already sold. And in a month, half of the bears would have been shot on sight.”
“So everybody loses, including the animals.” I shivered and took the last sip of wine.
Fargo gave a low rumble in his chest, and following his line of sight I spotted mama bear and the two little teddy bears watching us. Thinking they might be thirsty, I suggested we vacate the pond-site. We quickly put the water bottles and jar into the backpack, and slowly walked back to the trail.
As we went over the crest, I looked back and—sure enough—mama was on her hind feet giving us a final look. I waved and started the downhill trek.
Along the way, we picked up the three river rocks I had set aside earlier. Cindy put one in the pack and said the others were all mine. I carried one in each hand, and we reached the cabin just as my knuckles were about to drag the ground. My calves had already turned to Jell-o from the downhill hike, and visions of deck chairs danced in my head.
I did manage to hose the dried mud off of the rocks and line them up with the other one along the edge of the back porch. I could hear Cindy talking to Fargo on the front deck. I headed for the shower and happened to notice Cindy’s bottle of bubble bath stuff.
With absolutely no guilt I poured a slug of it into hot, hot water and disappeared from the chin down.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Why is it bad habits are so pleasantly easy to adopt? Thursday morning found us back at Gertrude’s caloric trough, smiling at familiar faces, saying good morning to people we now knew—at least casually.
As we made our way past the counter to the tables area, I said good morning to Deputy Spitz, who had been a member of our cattle roundup team a few nights back. Usually, the few times I had seen him in town, he reminded me of my brother Sonny…with a perfectly pressed, spotless uniform and boots polished to a shine that made one blink. Not this morning.
His uniform was spotted with dirt, the knees of his pants stained by grass and the handsome boots a muddy mess. More disturbing than the condition of his uniform was the strained look on his face.
“Good morning, Deputy Spitz. Rough night?”
“Hi. You know, I thought about calling you. You got a coupla minutes?”
“Sure.” By now Cindy had chosen a table. “Bring your coffee and come on back.”
He flopped tiredly into a chair. “Well, ladies, we’ve got real troubles brewing around here, I think.”
Whatever the trouble was, it waited a minute while we both ordered breakfast.
“Please.” Cindy tapped her chest and said, “Call me Cindy,” and then pointed at me and said, “and Alex. What on earth has happened now?”
“And I’m Dave. You know the Lauters?” he asked.
I laughed. “No, but I think I know their sheep. I noticed them the other day. It must have been right after shearing time. They looked like a big, wrinkled bunch of aging nudists caught at the church fair…all huddled together like they were embarrassed at being seen in public. I noticed their name on the mailbox.”
Cindy smiled, but Dave just nodded. “That’s them all right. Well, there’s one less of them this mornin’. Somebody shot one of them last night and, we think, tried to shoot the herd dog…Sammy, scrappy little border collie and smart as a whip. We believe he heard the first shot and started trying to get the others into the shelter. He’s got a scrape along his ribs that looks like a bullet just grazed him. He’s okay. Thorina is dead.”
With an alarmed breath intake, Cindy asked, “Who’s Thorina?”
“One of the sheep. Would you believe the Lauters have got every one of them named, and they know which is which. I got there last night to find Elsie Lauter sitting in the middle of the field beside Thorina, cryin’ and rockin’ Sammy in her arms. She looked up at me, and I swear that woman is heartbroke. She said, ‘Dave, they’re killing my babies. You got to stop them.’ She damn near had me cryin’ with her.”
“Do you know who did it?” I sipped my coffee and tried to look casual.
“I think so, but I can’t prove it. Nobody saw him. I crawled around on my knees half the night and finally found one of the bullet casings. That will tell us something; the state police have it now. I got Mickey McCurry out of his motel bed at daybreak, but I had no cause for a search warrant and he wasn’t thoughtful enough to leave the gun on his night table.”
“Do you know where he was when all this happened?” I moved my arm to let the waitress serve my ham and eggs.
“He said he was over at Jake’s Dew Drop Inn till about midnight and then came back to the motel and went to bed. Well, I just got back from the Dew Drop. Jake says McCurry was there at the bar from about eight o’clock till they closed at midnight. The cook swears McCurry ordered a hamburger and fries, the last order before he shut down the kitchen, which would have been about eleven thirty. That pretty well clears him except for two things.”
He snagged a piece of Cindy’s uneaten toast and waved to the waitress for more coffee. She gave us all refills.
“And the two things are?” I prompted.
He swallowed a large bite of toast. “Excuse me. One thing is: I asked the cook to show me the order. They’re numbered, and it should have been the highest number and the top slip of paper on the spindle. He said there was no written order, that Mickey had stuck his head in the window and ordered it himself. The other thing is: for a twenty-dollar bill, either Jake or his cook or both would swear in court that Jesus Himself dropped in and had a dance with one of the women who hang out at the bar.”
Cindy grinned and then looked serious. “Where was Branch?”
“I just talked to Clay a little while ago. Apparently Branch was in Knoxville all day yesterday at Advantage Construction, and got back to Clay’s a little after ten. He’s livin’ there now, couldn’t pay his office/apartment rent. He helped Clay filling out some pedigree papers on a couple of colts he’s got for sale. They watched the news and went to bed. Branch is clear. He wouldn’t do this kind of stuff anyway. He’d promise you anything and lie like a trooper, but he wouldn’t kill an innocent animal.”
“Everyone seems to credit him with being nonviolent. What’s with Branch, anyway?” I had begun to find something both sad and likeable about the guy.
“Oh, let me make it brief, then I got to run. First there was Clay and Sara and their mom and dad, all-American family. Clay Senior had a tractor and farm implement franchise and did real well. Then one day they were unloading some hay balers from the delivery truck and one of them tipped off onto Mr. Rodman. Bye-bye dad. Fortunately the money was mostly in trust for Sara and Clay. Sara was a farmer from the time she could lift a hoe, and Clay loves every horse that was ever born. They both went to U-Tenn, and learned what they needed to know and it has paid off for them.”
Dave yawned and checked his watch. “Anyhow, their mom was none too bright and let Branch’s father sweet-talk her into marrying him. Branch came along about the time his father was slipping into alcoholism and losing his job. He managed to drive off the side of a mountain in the fog and Mrs. Redford was left with little Branch and even littler money. They both felt deprived, although Clay and Sara were both generous. Branch has always figured he was left out somehow. Sara and Clay sent him to university, but he didn’t like the work, and quit. He’s been lookin’ for the end of that rainbow ever since. And I am looking for a hot shower and some clean clothes. If you’ll excuse me…”
“Just one thing.” I
held out my hand to stop him. “My brother is a cop, too. Detective lieutenant in Provincetown. You’ve probably thought of it, but let me say something I imagine Sonny would be thinking right now. Mickey definitely has made some threatening verbal statements to property owners. He may have set the trap that caught Jasper’s leg. He probably cut the wires on Mr. Dermott’s fence. He almost certainly killed the Lauters’ sheep and tried to kill their dog. What do you think, Dave?”
“I think he is escalating, Alex. He’s escalating and I am frightened for my town, because I do not know how to stop him.” He turned and walked away.
Cindy and I had stood up to follow him out, but we were now trying to cobble together a tip—neither of us could find any small bills or much change. We didn’t notice Mickey McCurry approaching until he had reached our table. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair uncombed, his face unshaven, and his clothing a mess. His breath could kill from three feet out. Either he had really tied one on or had spent much of the night raising hell on the Lauters’ farm. Or both.
I looked up as he slammed some papers onto the table. I noticed we were about eye-to-eye. In some way I had thought him taller than I was. Perhaps a bully always seems bigger than he really is. He had a hefty build, but was no taller than I. Somehow I felt better.
He spread the papers on the table. “I suppose you seen all this shit. I understand it was your bright idea to begin with.”
I looked down at two eight-by-ten photos. One showed a building leaning slightly to the right, looking rather raffish with its tilt. The other was a picture of what looked like a basement after a flood. A man stood in water that came just above his knees, holding a measuring stick that indicated a depth of slightly over two feet.
Then I picked up a sheet of stationery from the law offices of Peter Minot and Paul Aspen. It was a letter to all owners of property in the Crooked Creek Mountain vicinity, warning them that some of their neighbors had recently suffered verbal threats and others actual injury and/or death of livestock and/or pets, possibly connected with easements sought by Advantage Construction.
The letter went on to urge them to refuse to speak with any representative of Advantage Construction and to demand that he leave their property at once. If he did not, they should call the sheriff and report a threatening trespass. They should take extra security measures around their properties and families. They were urged to attend a meeting at the Baptist Church, Monday at eight p.m., at which the discussion would include a demand that Advantage recall its representatives in the Beulaland area and pay damages to owners who had been coerced into granting property easements, or suffered any out-of-pocket expense or emotional distress.
It was one pisser of a letter and I was grinning by the time I handed it to Cindy.
I picked up the last letter—a fax that had come in over Clay’s line addressed to Branch. Apparently Minot had overnighted a letter similar to that of the owners to Advantage, and they were boiling.
Their fax ordered Branch to be in the Knoxville office at nine sharp on Monday and have McCurry with him. Meantime, McCurry was not even to say hello to anyone in Beulaland. Had they both lost their fucking minds? Signed by the CEO. Obviously Clay and his attorney had wasted no time.
Grinning even wider, I handed the fax along to Cindy.
Mickey wasn’t smiling.
I shrugged. “Sorry, Mickey, I’m not responsible for your comeuppance. I do not know Mr. Minot, I do not know many of your victims—and none of them well—and I certainly do not know the CEO of your employer.”
White with anger, he turned to Cindy. “Just because you’re Ken Willingham’s cousin you figure you can come down here and just run things and have people bowing right ’n left. You think you and your smart-ass friend and your junkyard dog can tell me what to do? Well, you fucking well can’t! Understand? You’ll pay for this!”
He grabbed her shoulder and shook her so hard she lost her balance and crashed into the table, scattering papers and dishes.
I brought my half-filled coffee mug down on his wrist with my full strength. He yelped and grabbed his wrist; I hoped it was broken in a thousand pieces. I grabbed the front of his shirt and threw my weight against him, backing him against the wall. I got my arm across his throat and leaned hard.
“Listen, you no-good son-of-a-bitch, you ever touch my girl again, you ever touch me or my dog—hell—you ever touch a dirty sock of mine, and you will live just long enough to be bloody sorry that you did. Now get out of my sight.” I removed my arm, which was choking him, kicked his feet out from under him and turned to find myself face-to-face with Gertrude as she wielded an enormous iron skillet over Mickey’s head.
She pulled him upright by his shirt. “Get out, you lowlife, and don’t never come back. Less’n you want to be wearing this skillet around your neck!”
He scuttled out, clutching his left wrist with his right hand.
I turned to Cindy, now sitting down again. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, just a little out of breath—and surprised.” She covered my hand with hers. “My God, Alex, I’ve never seen you like that. I thought you were going to choke him to death.”
I put my finger to my lips. “Don’t tell the audience, but I couldn’t have held him much longer. I’m as tall as he is, but he’s a lot heftier. Another few seconds and I’d have had to break a chair over his head or run for it.”
I turned and began to apologize to Gertrude for the ruckus, but she held up her hand to stop me.
“No need. He started it. Guess those pictures and letters has got him crazy…he must know he’s fired…plus whatever trouble he’s into up here. I saw them all early this morning. Minot and Clay had them hand-delivered late last night. I figured it was prob’ly you girls’ and Clay’s ideas plus Paul’s fancy words. But you two be careful. That bastard would be mean on Christmas Day.
“Now.” She looked almost benign. “You’ve had a hard mornin’. What you need is some of my special tea. It will fix you right up.”
The last thing I wanted was tea and the sympathy I knew would be forthcoming from many of the Delly’s customers who had witnessed the scene. But I could think of no way to refuse. Cindy was equally mute, and we just sat for a few minutes until Gertrude returned with a tray bearing three tall glasses of iced tea. Apparently she, too, had had a hard morning.
When I saw the frosted glass, I realized something cold looked good and noticed I had been sweating. I took a long swallow of good Darjeeling tea…heavily laced with the smoothest rum I’ve ever tasted.
Cindy took a sip and her eyebrows did their trick of climbing halfway up her forehead. Then she smiled and clinked her glass against mine.
“Here’s to you, my dear—protector of the innocent, woman in shining armor against the forces of darkness, and the toughest cream puff I’ve ever known!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We had the canvas roof rolled back on the boat, enjoying the early afternoon sun. The little electric motor hummed quietly to itself, racing us across the lake at about four miles an hour. These were the only “power” boats allowed on the lake, and sailboats used their motors in emergencies only. It was delightfully peaceful.
Gertrude’s “tea” had helped us over the hump of shock after our set-to with Mickey McCurry, but we felt the need of something pleasant to offset the morning in general. And we didn’t want to rehash it a dozen times with people we’d run into at the Bromfield. And so, the lake.
Cindy had the tiller, and I took the occasional picture of her, of the billowing cumulus clouds, of the infrequent sailboat looking condescendingly elegant as they always do. We edged along to where Crooked Creek entered the lake with the last few feet of its bubbling mountain creek personality.
Also enjoying the tiny waterfall and slow-moving pool beyond it were three—I think—otters. They moved so fast it was hard to tell. I was snapping pictures as quickly as I could, and still couldn’t keep up with their antics. They leaped and chased and dived, and then pop
ped up here and there like bright-eyed, mischievous periscopes. I have no idea as to the life span of the otter, but I will give you ten to one they have more fun within it than we do in the three score and ten allotted us.
We left them, finally, and began our leisurely progress back to the docks at the Bromfield Inn. We had fishing tackle and bait with us, but by some unspoken agreement, we did not use it. I think neither of us wished to take anything from the lake that day.
I was at the tiller when Cindy turned, finger across her lips, and pointed. I cut the motor and we drifted a little way toward a deer and her fawn, standing at the edge of the lake and drinking daintily of its cool waters. I took several shots of them, and I’m certain that one of them will be our Christmas card. We were close enough to hear them drink. The only other sound—and one I wished I could record—was the territorial song of a cardinal as he staked out his summer locale.
I am not sure why deer and their offspring are so loved by so many. Perhaps they epitomize the gentle serenity most of us yearn to glean for ourselves.
The rest of us shoot them.
We docked the boat and paid the pleasant young woman at the shelter for the time we had been out. We had left Fargo in Jerry’s care, and from his lack of excitement at our return, I had the strong feeling he had been well entertained—and probably well fed—by the Bromfield valet corps. I made the executive decision that he would survive another hour while we polished off our delightful afternoon with a couple of Joe’s perfect cocktails.
As he placed our Cosmo and bourbon old fashioned before us, I took his picture. I wanted it partly as a pleasant memory of our vacation, partly to tease Joe at the Wharf Rat that he had competition deep in the hills of Tennessee, and with the thought that if it turned out well, I’d enlarge it and send a print back to the Bromfield.
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