by K. C. McRae
“Hawkins put a rush on the ballistics, so we should know soon. And I understand Lester got some fingerprints off the gun itself. He does most of our in-house crime scene stuff, though the state takes care of some of it.”
“So you think the murderer left the fingerprints?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. But if it’s the weapon used to kill Lamente, and if the prints don’t belong to Denny Teller, I’m hoping they belong to a guy named Gus Snyder.”
“Who’s that?”
“Maybe the closest thing Lamente had to an enemy besides your cousin.”
“I don’t know if you could really call Lauri his enemy.”
“It sounds like she was stalking him. But listen, Denny Teller and Clay Lamente both roughnecked on the Hi-Sho well, out at Red Bennett’s place. Teller told us Lamente found out this Gus Snyder was doing coke while he was working on the oil rig with them. He managed to get Snyder fired. Apparently Lamente had absolutely no tolerance for drug use, especially at work. And after he got fired, Snyder had no tolerance for Lamente, either.”
“Have you talked with the guy?”
“We’re having some trouble tracking him down.”
“What about the footprints? Have you matched those yet?”
“Lester’s still working on it.”
Soon enough, the Jeep growled along the final dirt access. The river sparkled through the trees. They parked in the shade of cottonwoods and a few red-barked pines. Beyond, low scrub straggled to the narrow river beach, exposed now that the spring runoff had receded. Good fishing, with small boulders interspersed with smooth-flowing, crystalline water reflecting distorted portions of the cloudless sky above. Deep pockets, and hopeful-looking riffles. Downstream, a snag of branches and brush formed a handy hideout for lurking trout.
They got out and stretched. Jamie reached past the jumble of gear and pulled out a pair of waders. He shrugged into a mesh vest covered with a complicated array of pockets and zippers and opened a slick, brushed-aluminum box lined with foam. Inside, dozens of flies nestled, hooked into the pad. He selected one and passed the box to Merry.
“Stonefly?” she asked, squinting down at the water. A hatch was in progress. In the early evening light, the winged insects fluttered through the air, mating and dropping their eggs into the water below.
“Sofa Pillow.” He named a particular fly pattern.
She chose a Goofus Bug. Together, they moved down to the river’s edge, Merry managing to hobble along with the help of Mama’s cane.
“So, how’s Gayle?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
Jamie squinted at the uni-knot he’d just tied in his leader. “Fine.”
“What’s she think of this little fishing trip?”
He shot a quick sideways look at her.
She set her pole on the rock beside her. “Jamie.”
He shrugged. “I went fishing. Go all the time.”
“But not with me.”
“So, you going to call her up and tell her?”
Rolling her eyes, she picked up the pole again. “Someone might.”
His jaw tightened, and he turned to face her. “We’re not doing anything wrong. Just a couple friends out to hook some brookies.”
Their eyes locked. She hesitated, then nodded once.
“Let’s get to it, then.” He turned toward the water.
He moved upstream, casting toward the opposite bank and working the fly back. He stopped to finesse a riffle corner. Merry stayed perched on a boulder with her Sears rod, alternating casts between a boulder pocket and an area along the water’s edge where the flow gentled under the shade of a large willow.
An hour later, he had two rainbows, and she’d caught a fourteen-inch cutthroat. She thought of them rolled in cornmeal with salt and pepper, and fried in butter. He settled on the rock beside her.
“Someone supposedly wants to buy the ranch.”
Jamie swiveled his head toward her, eyebrows raised. “Really? When did this happen?”
“Yesterday, guy shows up, says Mama was going to sell.” She related her conversation with the realtor.
He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. You set the little ambulance chaser straight, right?”
“More like a hearse chaser. I think he got the message. What can you do about people like that?”
“Not much.” He looked rueful. “They’re skirting fraud, but the county attorney wouldn’t take something like that to court, so all you could really do is file a complaint for harassment.”
“Not even worth it.”
“Not really. But if you ran him off the other day, you’re probably rid of him for good.”
Maybe.
She thought of Spalding exiting the McCoy ranch and Izzy loose at the back of the house.
Probably not.
“Any news on what caused the fire?”
“They brought in dogs this morning, found evidence of accelerants. Took samples—carpet pad and some other stuff—and sent them off to the lab. Haven’t heard back yet, but from what I understand arson’s pretty certain.”
She watched the leaves of a large cottonwood twist silver and green against the azure sky, moved by air currents beyond her reach. Of course it was arson.
Jamie began assembling his gear. As she watched the way his muscles moved under his skin, she became aware of affection for his familiar form, for the body she’d shared so much with in their late teens. God, they’d had fun. The affection, of course, was really for the whole man. For her friend. For possibly the best friend she’d ever had.
He looked up. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head and blinked rapidly. It was as if his steady presence brought her other losses into sharp focus.
“Merry?” He stepped toward her, hesitantly, and then with his quick trademark strides.
She shook her head again and put her hand up. He stopped. His gaze softened, and he sidestepped her hand, bending to wrap his arms around her.
She flinched and he drew back, dismay on his face. But he didn’t remove his hands from her shoulders, and after a few moments she looked him in the eye, stood up, and hobbled forward with a kind of determination. If she couldn’t let this man, this one man in the world that she still felt safe with, touch her, she might never feel normal again.
The embrace felt awkward at first, and she willed herself to relax. One by one, her muscles unclenched until she gave herself up to the human comfort of his warmth.
And without warning she felt … need. Physical desire. She couldn’t have said whether that delicious feather touch began in her body or her brain, but she recognized it with a kind of hopeful joy. They stood immobile, Merry with her bad foot held behind her like some black-and-white movie heroine, while the feeling divided and increased, a mitosis turned to contagion, consuming both her will and her good sense.
She pressed her lips against the moist skin where his neck met his shoulder, parting them just enough to taste his salty sweat. She opened them further to slowly run the flat of her tongue up his neck.
And found herself being held at arm’s length, slack-jawed with surprise. She closed her mouth, feeling a little sheepish. “Sorry.”
“What the hell was that?”
“I … I don’t know. Old habit?” What was the big deal? He’d made it clear he still had feelings for her. It wasn’t like she’d tried to …
She saw Zeke’s face, twisted and ugly, looming above her …
… she’d only wanted … she’d only wanted. Having any kind of physical desire had felt like a victory. Now it tasted like sawdust in her mouth as she registered Jamie’s furious expression.
“Old habit? You’re the one who decided ‘old habit’ wasn’t good enough anymore. You’re the one who decided we should be ‘just friends.’”
“I decided?”
/>
“You fell in love—remember that wonderful conversation? About how you were going to marry that son of a bitch Green? Well, you made your choice, and it turned out to be one hell of a lousy one, didn’t it? But I dealt with it. And I found someone else. Now you think we can just start again where we left off?”
She stared at him, confused and ashamed, until the anger came to save her.
“Fuck you, Gutierrez.”
She turned and would have stomped off, but had to be content with grabbing her fishing pole and her cane and limping to the Jeep. Putting too much weight on her sore ankle sent pain stabbing up her leg, and that helped some. By the time she reached the Wrangler, her world had narrowed to putting one foot in front of the other, opening the door, and pulling herself into the passenger seat.
It was a long ride home.
eleven
Merry put her creel on the dresser in the guest room where she’d been sleeping. A lace runner draped white and delicate across the top of the dresser to protect the surface of the wood. The mirror hanging on the wall above reflected the room behind her and her own wary eyes.
It was the larger of the two spare bedrooms. But this room, tidy, barely decorated, sterile save for the flowery fragrance of the candle on the bedside table, had been her bedroom growing up. It bore little resemblance to the messy room she remembered: windowsill overflowing with Breyer model horses, corners full of fishing gear and softball equipment, books crammed into the little bookcase, leather crafting tools in a chest on the floor.
Clothes tumbled out of her duffel bag onto the rug by the bed. Merry bent and started to shove them back in, then paused. She moved to the closet door and opened it. Stacks of sweaters neatly encased in plastic marched along the top shelf. Two coats—one a long wool dress coat, the other a thick down jacket—hung next to wool slacks, two blazers, a knit dress, and several thick flannel shirts.
Thinking of pushing the garments aside in order to hang some of her own, she reached out to grab a handful. But instead of sliding the hangers down the rod, Merry found herself stroking the sleeve of the dress. Black and buttery soft, the cashmere offered up a trace of her mother’s scent in response to her touch. She slid the dress off the hanger and buried her face in it, breathing in the aromas of horsehair and cinnamon. Her knees bent until she was sitting on the side of the bed.
Cinnamon.
When she was eight years old, Merry had told her third grade teacher she would bring cookies the next day for the class Christmas party. Mama had promised to make the cookies that evening, but before she could start, a horse went down with colic. She’d spent the whole night in the barn, bundled up in sweaters, fur-lined boots, and Daddy’s big Carhartt coat. With the temperature around zero, Merry and Drew had walked out through the bitter cold to say their goodnights. It was a little warmer in with the horses, musky and sweet.
She remembered coming to breakfast the next morning. Mama told her she hadn’t been able to make the cookies for her class. She understood why, knew a horse’s health was more important than some dumb old cookies. Sparks, the horse, was doing better, and that was what counted. Still, she dreaded telling her teacher that she didn’t have the treats. She’d promised to bring them. Her teacher lived in town and didn’t have horses, so she might not understand.
At school that day she didn’t say anything about the cookies, putting it off as long as possible. Finally, it was time for the party. She began to tell the teacher about Mama and Sparks the night before, when she heard a familiar voice. Mama stood in the doorway of the classroom with a big Tupperware container full of colorful shapes. She’d baked and decorated all morning.
Merry flopped back onto the chenille coverlet, her feet still on the floor. With a sigh she tossed the dress aside. Stared at the ceiling, remembering. Tears blurred her vision, streaked hot and silent across her temples, and soaked into her hair. She welcomed them as another version of the river: washing, soothing, altering the light.
They faded. Stopped. She breathed deep, got up, went into the bathroom. Splashed some cold water on her face. Took some more Tylenol.
She went back into the bedroom and hung the dress, now slightly rumpled and damp, back on the hanger and took it and another armful of Mama’s clothes out of the closet. In Mama’s room she laid them on the bed. As she left, she closed the door behind her.
Back in her old bedroom, the mirror gauged her available courage. Merry looked away, feeling as if she was made of glass and the slightest jostle might shatter her into a thousand pieces.
The rest of the evening stretched out ahead of her, blank and lonely. She thought of the six pack of Moose Drool in the fridge, considered getting good and properly drunk, but figured it was a poor plan so soon after a concussion. Despite her mood, she wasn’t quite ready for suicide.
At least the Blazer was an automatic, she thought, driving toward town.
———
Merry spied Lauri sitting on a stool outside the Dairy Shack and pulled into the parking lot that had been beaten down to hard-packed, dusty earth. Lauri’s elbows rested on the counter, her head bent over a magazine laid open in front of her. She glanced over at the sound of the vehicle, and went back to her reading.
Squatting at the north end of Main Street, the Dairy Shack couldn’t really be called a restaurant, not even of the fast food variety. Rather, it was the permanent version of the kind of food booth lining the walkways at county fairs. You could walk up to the window and buy espresso and soft drinks, and ice cream in the summer. Behind a dirty pane of glass, glistening lengths of hot dogs and sausages constantly turned on their heated metal rollers. Their greasy aroma filled the warm evening air.
Outside, where Lauri sat on one of the four stools bolted to the concrete below the counter, customers could enjoy their tasty treat and stare at the brown wood siding. Sliding onto a stool next to her cousin, Merry tried to see the magazine article holding her attention. Lauri checked off boxes, answering multiple-choice questions. The part of the headline Merry could see read, “How You Can Tell If He’s …”
She waited. Minutes passed without either of them saying anything, and Lauri gave a good impression of being immersed in her magazine, except that she’d stopped checking the little boxes. Merry could see a smudge of fingerprint ink still staining the edge of one of her thumbs.
“Lauri.”
A quick sidelong look, then back to the page in front of her.
“Lauri. Look at me.”
She sighed the long dramatic sigh Merry was beginning to associate with her reluctance to deal with anything she found the least unpleasant.
“What?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”
“You don’t know what I want to talk about yet.”
“You want to talk about Clay. Or about me going to jail. Or else my mother sent you.”
“Why would she send me?”
Her eyes cut to Merry again. “To find out who knocked me up.” One shoulder rose and dropped. “She got real upset when I wouldn’t tell her this afternoon.”
“Nobody sent me. I stopped by to see how you’re doing. I know Clay’s death really shook you up, and I wanted to see if you were okay.”
Lauri turned and faced her. “Really? You were worried about me?”
The hope on her cousin’s face arrowed pity through her. “Sure I was. I know you’re upset. In fact, I’m a bit surprised you’re back at work already.”
“Yeah, it sucks. Mom said it would be good for me to come back to work instead of just moping around. What does she expect? I just lost the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with.” She shook her head.
“You were going to spend the rest of your life with Clay?” Merry asked, careful to keep her voice mild and nonchallenging.
Lauri nodded.
“So if
he was the father, why are you being so secretive about it?”
Her cousin looked away.
“Lauri?”
She shrugged, still avoiding Merry’s gaze.
“Clay was the father, wasn’t he?”
“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” Bitterness dripped from her response.
“I don’t understand.”
“No. You don’t.”
“Well, help me out,” Merry said, wondering if the girl was even capable of straightforward conversation.
“Clay might not have technically been the father, biologically, I mean, but he would have been a great daddy, once we got everything straightened out.”
It was like trying to maneuver in a swamp of conundrum without a map. “What did you have to get straightened out?”
“Barbie, for one thing. If it weren’t for her, he would have given in, slept with me one more time, seen things my way. I’m sure of it. He was an honorable man.” Lauri’s gaze willed her to see things her way.
Merry didn’t see what honor had to do with Lauri and her pregnancy unless Clay was the one responsible for it. Wait a minute. “What do you mean, ‘slept with you one more time’?”
She looked away but not before Merry saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “I wanted him to think he was the father. Then he would have married me and taken care of me and I could have moved out of Mom’s house.”
Stunned, Merry stared at her for a long moment. “So who is the, uh, biological father?”
“Why does everyone care so much about that? It was just a one-night thing. What matters is that Clay and I were going to have a family.”
Rubbing her face with both hands, Merry tried to take in what Lauri was saying. Apparently, she got pregnant from a one-night stand and had been trying to convince Clay it was his so he’d marry her and be a father to the child. But he had to sleep with her for that plan to work, and he hadn’t gone for it. It sounded like Clay had been an honorable man.
“So, are you mad at Barbie?” she asked, wondering if Lauri had gone in and slashed the woman’s waterbed like Anna had said.