A Nose for Justice

by Rita Mae Brown

  Bunny feigned surprise. “You read the letters to the editor?”

  “Unlike you, my lips don’t move when I do it.” Twinkie teased him back.

  “Personally, the way my fingers feel right now, I don’t think I’ll ever write again,” Lonnie’s low voice informed Pete.

  Pete looked down at the stenographer’s book. Lonnie’s penmanship deteriorated the farther down the page he read.

  “Hell with it. Put your gloves back on. We’ll remember.” He turned to Bunny. “Apart from our shared opinion of Oliver Hitchens, could he know something he’s not telling?”

  Twinkie and Bunny looked at each other, then back at Pete, the lawman.

  Twinkie spoke first. “All the time, but if you mean is he crooked, no, I don’t think so. What do you think, Bun?”

  “He’s a shithead, but he’s straight up. I mean Oliver isn’t stealing from the company in some way or making deals behind Silver State’s back.”

  “What kind of deals?” Pete, alert now, lifted his chin, which he’d dropped into his mouton collar for warmth.

  “Oliver knows where water rights are being purchased, where someone refuses, that kind of stuff. He’s always on Craig Locke’s tail, asking about what and where have we bought. He’s nosy, but then again, after all the bigwigs look at the aerials and the topo maps and decide where a pump has to go in, Bunny and I usually go out with Oliver because he has to make the equipment call. We don’t use the same kind of pump each time. There’s a lot to this. How deep do we have to sink the shaft, what kind of drill bits? What will be the draw on the pump? How many gallons per minute during peak use now and what about projected peak use five years from now? Plus you never really know what you’re going to hit when you go down. So the truth is, the three of us figure it out. Much as I hate his guts, Oliver’s good at it.

  “If Oliver wanted to, he could have bought up the water rights to some small parcels, some properties that didn’t cost millions. He’s shrewd with his money, but he never sneaked around like that,” Twinkie finished.

  “We’d know,” Bunny said resolutely.

  “How would you know?” Pete asked.

  “Oliver’s not a big spender, but little things would show up. He’s in love with his wife. Not a bad-looking woman. He’d buy her a new car or earrings or something,” Twinkie offered.

  “And he’d yank his kids out of the University of Nevada–Reno.”

  “Bunny, why?” A devout Wolfpack man, this touched Pete’s pride in his alma mater.

  “Snob. If he could afford it, he’d put those two kids of his in Yale or some East Coast school.”

  “Stanford.” Lonnie spoke up.

  “Oliver thinks the East is best. I sure as hell don’t. It’s those East Coast buttheads that got us all in this mess.” Bunny snapped his lips shut like a turtle.

  “Got that right.” Twinkie nodded vigorously.

  “Let me go back to one more question and I won’t take up too much more of your time. You said Oliver kept things from you but you didn’t think he was—what did you say—crooked?”

  “Oh, he likes to hint there are rumbles in the office, George W. is going to make a change, stuff like that. It’s a snide way to try and scare us into working longer and harder for no overtime claims. We’re onto it.”

  “George W.?” Pete asked Twinkie.

  “George W. Ball, head of equipment. I think his official title is some more bullshit like Infrastructure. Anyway, he makes all our purchases, everything down to the last wrench. He’s an easy man to get along with, one of those techno guys. He’s up on the latest, whether it’s a computer or better pumps. Guess he has to be.”

  “I don’t know him. Not that that means anything.” Pete recognized that while he knew many people in his own generation and his parents’ generation, Reno was big enough that he wouldn’t know all the natives and he sure couldn’t keep up with the newcomers.

  “He’s from Elko. Grew up by the Ruby Mountains,” Bunny added.

  “I like Elko,” Pete said offhand. “Last question. Jake Tanner. He’s a talker. Did he say anything, you know, how his neighbor hates Silver State or he’s seen a blue truck he doesn’t recognize? With Jake, you’ll get everything, including the last time he slept with his wife.”

  “October.” Twinkie quickly said as the three of them laughed with him.

  “Jake ranted on about the weather,” said Bunny, “about who might blow up a pump, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Hey, thanks a lot. For the record, I won’t report our conversation to Oliver. Given his need to constantly stress how important he is, it wouldn’t go down so well with him that I’d spoken with you first.”

  “Thanks,” they responded in unison.

  “If you should think of anything, even if it seems crazy, let me know,” Pete asked.

  “We’re good at crazy,” Bunny replied.

  “I’m counting on it.” Pete waved as he headed back to the SUV.

  Back down on Red Rock Road, Lonnie asked, “What do you think?”

  “They’re telling the truth.”

  “Hey, we did our duty.” Lonnie checked his watch, then checked the time on the SUV clock. “We might find out who blew up the pump. Then again, we might not. It won’t hurt us if we don’t.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “People don’t care all that much what happens to a Silver State pump. Neither does the department.” He meant the Sheriff’s Department. “Solving murders, robberies, that’s what gets the headlines and that makes the department look good.”

  Pete tilted his head slightly. Lonnie was right.

  They rode in silence.

  Lonnie noted it. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I, well, I don’t know, but I feel like we’re standing at the edge of an arroyo and we think the ground is solid. Then it starts to slip. You hear a little slide first, see a few rocks. Can’t shake it.”

  “Hope you’re wrong.”

  “Me, too.” He turned left onto Dry Valley Road.

  Jeep had called earlier about the skeleton and they were just now getting to it. Given recent events and the fact that Jeep felt this was quite an old skeleton, it wasn’t first on their list.

  Lonnie brightened. “Jeep?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Isn’t that something? Finding an old skeleton in the barn?”

  “Yes. And going back to what you were saying, if we find out who that old body is and then find out who killed him, that would make the news, but probably no one will much notice if we catch our bomber.”

  Lonnie smiled broadly. “Crazy.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “How’s that strike you?” Standing next to Pete in the barn, Jeep cast her eyes upward to meet his warm brown ones, eyes much like her own. “Sounds like a plan, but you know I’ll have to run it by Sheriff Haley.” Pete was a deputy sheriff and a young one at that—testimony to the regard in which Pete was held by his superiors.

  “They should give the human bones to us.” Baxter felt strongly about this. He looked from Mags to Jeep to Pete and Lonnie.

  “I can find better bones than these.” That said, King did not disagree with the wire-haired dachshund.

  Baxter glowed at his small social victory. Given the few phone calls he’d overheard Mags make back to New York City, he realized they would be at Wings for a long time. Of course, Mags had told him that, but hearing it over and over in her conversations drove the fact home. He knew he’d better work out some accord with the shepherd mix.

  He agreed with King. “Bet you can.”

  “Easier when the snow melts.” King sniffed Lonnie’s shoes.

  Jeep suggested to Pete that given budgetary restraints and the fact that this murder most likely occurred one hundred and thirty years ago, at least, it wouldn’t look good if the department spent taxpayers’ money carefully unearthing these remains. Better to let the UNR do it and keep the whole story quiet until they found out who he was, if they coul
d. No telling what kind of gold diggers would show up, claiming this was their long-lost great-grandfather.

  As did all Reno residents, Jeep referred to the University of Nevada–Reno as “UNR.”

  “Do they have an archaeology department?” Mags inquired, as this was the first time she’d heard this idea from Jeep. Not that her great-aunt discussed her ideas all the time.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Pete smiled. “Mostly they work with Native American sites, sometimes abandoned mine towns. This would be different. A novelty, maybe. Great idea, Miss Reed.”

  “And they’ll be careful.” Jeep motioned for the two men to follow her out of the building. “Come on, let me warm you up. I know you’ve got a million things to do, but fifteen minutes in my kitchen won’t put you that far behind. And, Pete, if you call me Miss Reed one more time I will beat your ass with a wooden spoon. I’ve known you since you played second base in Little League. You’re old enough now to call me Jeep to my face. What you call me behind my back, keep to yourself.”

  Before Mags could step up to Aunt Jeep, a grinning Pete gallantly offered his arm. Lonnie offered his to Mags, not sure whether this big-city girl would take it the right way, but she slipped her arm through his, so he relaxed.

  In the kitchen, Carlotta fussed over the officers, taking their coats, pouring coffee, offering cinnamon rolls freshly baked that morning. She was vaguely acquainted with both of them. Everybody loved Carlotta; Pete and Lonnie were no exceptions.

  “You keep telling me you’re going to find me a wife just like you.” Lonnie kissed her on the cheek.

  “Give me time. Give me time. You’re special.”

  Now seated, Pete drawled, “Lonnie, that means bullheaded. Will take a special woman.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “Anyone tell you two that you’re getting like an old married couple?” Jeep poured half and half into her coffee.

  Lonnie wrinkled his nose as he looked at Pete. “Too hairy.”

  Even Mags burst out laughing at this.

  Jeep had shown the policemen the Nicholas Cavalry School ring. She’d also handed them an envelope with photographs of the ring for their records since she wished to keep it. Pete said since it was found on her property, and given the time frame of the crime, why not?

  Pete knew Sheriff Haley would readily concur. He was a practical man. Allowing the university to remove and study the bones would save his department money. It wasn’t as though the murder occurred yesterday.

  “Haven’t talked to you since I called you about that explosion,” Jeep said to Pete while pouring herself another mug of coffee. “What happened up there?”

  “Someone blew up the pump.” Pete was enjoying Carlotta’s coffee. “Our department has a pretty good explosives expert, part time. I gave her the fragment and some paper bits Lonnie and I found and she was able to come back with answers.” Pete stirred his coffee after Carlotta refilled his cup. “It was a small pipe bomb. Small enough that you or I could have slid it into our coat pocket. Residue inside indicated that whoever did it had access to high-grade materials and knew what he was doing.”

  “That’s hardly consoling.” Jeep sighed.

  “Based on her conclusions—oh, I forgot to mention, he used some paper wadding.”

  Lonnie chipped in. “A grocery list.”

  “It wasn’t me!” Carlotta held up her hands in surrender.

  “Carlotta, you’d throw a grenade instead.” Jeep laughed.

  Pete continued. “But here’s the thing, again according to Mindy, our explosives expert: The perp didn’t want to cause a great deal of damage. Just enough.”

  “Enough?”

  “Either to divert our attention or as a warning. Then again, this could be a fruit loop.”

  “Fruit loops with pipe bombs usually do things like ride buses to take out a lot of people, isn’t that right?” Mags joined in.

  “More or less, ma’am. We’ve not had to deal with anything like that in Reno and I pray we never will; people whose sole purpose is to kill others they don’t even know. This is something else entirely and I don’t know why it happened. I could try and impress you ladies with solid-sounding theories, but I just flat-out don’t know what motivated our bomber.” Pete didn’t sound frustrated so much as puzzled.

  “No one claimed responsibility,” Lonnie added.

  “Why would someone do that?” Although Mags had spent periods of time throughout her life in Nevada and knew more about the state than most, she wasn’t up-to-date on recent politics or problems, whereby a radical group would claim a bombing.

  “For political gain,” Jeep answered. “If a movement, say environmental—labor in the old days—is extremely well organized, well led, there’s always an arm that is violent. The main group disavows this fringe element but actually directs its actions.”

  “Why?” Mags wondered, and so did Pete and Lonnie.

  “Violent or outrageous acts, whether from the left or the right, make any nonviolent position appear more reasonable. It’s another way to move the center off center, shall we say? Forty years ago the center of American politics would seem quite leftist now. The Republican Party’s conservative wing has managed to move the center rightward with great success. Of course, now they’re fighting among themselves, but that happens. Not just their problem. It’s an old strategy and a very effective one. You know, these days Nixon would be considered too liberal by his own party.”

  Lonnie thought out loud, “Someone bombs Pump Nineteen. Eventually claims that this was done to protect water rights for all individuals or something like that. Everyone is shocked, right?” Jeep nodded, so he continued. “The politicians push harder to limit Silver State’s control of water.”

  “Seems to me if that’s the drill, it’s better than one well-trained person acting alone.” Pete wiped his hands on a napkin.

  “It is. There’s governance within the group, but one person alone does whatever they want. Even if they aren’t mentally unstable, one person without any feedback from others ultimately presents a greater danger. At least that’s how I see it.” Jeep tapped her forefinger on the table.

  “Last thing we need, another self-righteous bastard.” Pete said low, then blinked. “Excuse me, ladies.”

  Jeep smiled. “As I recall, I used that very same profanity to describe this creep.”

  Walking the men to the back door, Jeep put her hand on Pete’s shoulder. “How’s Rebecca?”

  “Good. She goes every six months for her checkup and she’s great. Thank you for asking.”

  “Give her my love.”

  “I will.”

  As they drove away, Mags asked, “Who’s Rebecca?”

  “His mother. Had a bout with colon cancer. I don’t remember this much cancer when I was young, but don’t worry: I’m not going to sing that tiresome tune about the good old days.”

  Mags said, “No. I agree with you about cancer rates. It’s like an unacknowledged epidemic.”

  King looked down at Baxter. “He liked her.”

  Baxter twitched his neatly trimmed moustache. “She liked him, too.”

  “They don’t know it, of course.”

  “Can’t smell a damned thing. The odor is quite sweet. No wonder they make such a mess of it.” Baxter plopped down on the kitchen floor.

  “Kind of sad, isn’t it?”

  “King, if Mags would have listened to me, or if she had any kind of nose, she’d know the last fellow she liked wasn’t worth an old Milk-Bone.”

  “You like Milk-Bones?”

  “Not as much as Greenies,” Baxter promptly replied. Nothing was better than gnawing on those dog biscuits.

  “Greenies really are the best, but expensive. Mom complains about the cost.” King laid down next to Baxter, a sign of acceptance.

  “Jeez, your mom has more money than God.”

  “Doesn’t stop her from complaining.” King laughed, put his big handsome head on his brown-tipped paws, and fell asleep.


  Jeep and Mags sat in Jeep’s office, paneled in cypress. The cypress, at four hundred pounds a tie, had been used for railroad ties in the 1930s in Mississippi. When some were torn up, Jeep—who was beginning to see some return on her business—bought the lot of them and had them shipped to Reno. She took them to a sawmill to be cut into planks for her office. She’d always loved the soft platinum glow of cypress.

  Unlike many offices, hers was shorn of plaques and displayed no degrees (she had none) or photographs of so-called important people. A large Frederic Remington painting hung over the fireplace. That was trophy enough. A small Frederic Remington sketch hung on the wall and one was in the hall, too. The smaller ones were often overlooked. People not conversant in the arts did not recognize this important artist’s distinctive gift.

  In her bedroom, photographs of Danny Marks; Dot; Jeep’s beloved sister, Sarah; Mags; Grandmother all reposed in silver frames on a table near her bed. A large picture of Glynnis Rogers; John, her husband; Mags and Catherine as grade-schoolers sat on her dresser, along with a photo of a wonderful old quarter horse she had purchased with the first profits she made from the mines. Framed photos of various deceased beloved dogs and cats filled a table, along with a picture of Thor, a now-deceased attack goose, who lived in the memory of everyone who’d had the occasion to be chased by him. The bird’s hissing alone scared the bejesus out of most people.

  Her office was for business. A big sofa at a right angle to the fireplace gave Jeep a spot to read. She liked curling up with a book as the fire crackled, looking up from the pages to see the flames. She thought of books as kindling for the mind.

  Jeep directed Mags to the chair behind the desk and computer. “Find the graduates of the Nicholas School from 1887.”

  “Wouldn’t the revolutionaries have destroyed the records?”

  “That’s your job. Find out. But I’m willing to bet you a new computer there are records somewhere. Those that lived, escaped, might have been able to take their yearbooks with them or what passed for yearbooks then. Graduates from this prestigious school were very proud.”