A Nose for Justice

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Some do. Some don’t. Step one: take a thousand acres of my land and irrigate them. Step two: let people see how it works. Step three: hold their feet to the fire.”

  “Whose feet?”

  “The company or companies that own some water rights along Dry Creek. Whoever owns what I can’t buy. If I can convince them to irrigate those acres, then they’ll look ever so generous and public spirited.”

  “Oh, Aunt Jeep, that will be a hard sell.”

  “We’ll see.” She put her hands on her hips. “I think this will be my last great fight.”

  “I hope not the last.” Mags meant it, too.

  “Well, that’s a happy thought, but if it is my last, I’ll be glad I can go down swinging. I’ve gotten a little too comfortable, you know. Then again I always had Dot and Dan beside me. They gave me heart. Both could get me back on course if I veered off. You know, I never realized just how much I depended on them until they died—and within a year of each other. I just sat down in the middle of the road. Took me a good two years to get up again.” Jeep used an expression for grief.

  “Two thousand, two thousand one. Seems like yesterday.”

  “Does. I had two wonderful partners in my life. A business partner can be as close, sometimes closer to you, than a life partner, you know. I was a lucky, lucky woman.”

  Before Mags could reply that she thought Dot and Dan were lucky as well, Jeep hit the start button; the motor roared and she flew down the ridge. Mags had a hard time keeping up with her while dodging the large sagebrush and trying to avoid those rocks still covered in snow.

  As they pulled up to the back of the house, inside King barked, followed by Baxter. Mags hurried off the ATV to open the door. Out flew the two dogs.

  There was still enough snow down that Baxter had to follow behind King. He longed for the snow to melt so he could run ahead just to see if the larger dog could keep up with him.

  “Hurry up, boys,” Mags ordered.

  “Maybe I’ll pee on her,” King suggested.

  “She has a temper,” the dachshund warned. “And she’s watched The Dog Whisperer.”

  At this, they both cracked up. Then again, why dash human illusions that they trained canines instead of vice versa?

  On the back porch, the two women peeled off their layers. When the dogs returned, Mags opened the door and they trotted in, leaving little snowprints.

  “Aunt Jeep, you think partners are fate, too?”

  “Sure.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  She ran her eyes up and down Mags’s lovely body. “Two. You have a beautiful figure. Show it off. And don’t look.”

  “What do you mean, don’t look?”

  “The minute you look for a partner is when you will find Mr. Wrong. Go about your business and fate will send you Mr. Right.”

  “I’d settle for Mr. Right Now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Shopping offered as much appeal for Pete Meadows as a rectal exam, but given that his two sisters were arriving very soon with husbands and children to stay with his mom and dad, and it was his day off, it was now or never for getting presents. Bewildered in the middle of the upscale Summit Shopping Center, he plucked the list his mother had made for him: Lucky jeans, an Arizona Cardinals football jersey with “Warner” on the back, and two pony halters for the twins. Rebecca had carefully written sizes and styles; everything he would need.

  Pete’s two older sisters, Jamie and Audrey, had married well—in Jamie’s case extremely well. She lived in Greenwich, Connecticut. He’d visited her two years ago, needing a compass to find his way from his bedroom to the kitchen. Her twins had ponies—hence the halters. Audrey had married a careerist in the Defense Department. When the Republicans returned to power, the rumor was that Bryson would be named Undersecretary of Defense as he’d be too young to be the Secretary. They hoped to win the presidency in 2012. Failing that, it would be 2016. Americans grew bored with whoever was in power for eight years. Dress it up in issues, scandals, personality, it really came down to boredom. Time for a change.

  Once Pete asked Audrey if the Washington life was tough.

  She said, “You have no idea.” Then she brightened, adding, “But I meet the most interesting people.”

  His older sisters rarely missed a chance to boss him around, even after he’d developed into the broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, handsome young man he remained. A star athlete in high school, Pete was deemed too small for college ball, but he had played baseball for UNR and was a standout. He had a chance at the Minor Leagues, but somehow knew he wasn’t cut out for professional sports. Pete loved Nevada. He wanted to stay home and he wanted to do something worthwhile.

  To an outsider, Pete might look like the failure in the family. Law enforcement was rarely deemed a suitable or lucrative career. However, his sisters strongly supported his choice. His mother feared for him. His father was quite proud. The family was still close, even though scattered geographically. Traditionally, the Meadows enjoyed their big family meal the evening of December 25. The kids would have opened their presents in the morning. And the night before, all would have gone to Trinity Episcopal together.

  His sisters suggested they buy Mom a bracelet inset with every child’s and grandchild’s birthstone. Jamie took charge. Neither Jamie nor Audrey told Pete the true price. His slender means were so overmatched by their own, both sisters agreed to lie, telling him he had to ante up $200 and they’d give Mom her gift when all were together at Christmas dinner.

  Audrey, closer to Pete in age, being two years older to Jamie’s four, had asked their mother to take photos of his small cottage. When Pete and his wife divorced two years ago, Lorraine, his ex-wife, took everything. The good news was he didn’t have to pay alimony since his ex had made more money than him. No one in his family suggested he ask for alimony. The Meadows did not think that way.

  Everyone knew he was lonely. While he kept himself busy—played ball in the summer, worked out in the winter, read voraciously—he still needed a partner. The human race marches in twos.

  No one had particularly disliked Lorraine. They’d met in college, she was in journalism, switched to media studies, and now was on the nightly news. Lorraine, quite pretty, could also be quite self-centered. Pete usually gave way, but what really split them apart was that they’d agreed to have children once established. As her career took off, she decided against this. A woman who doesn’t truly want to be a mother shouldn’t. Pete finally realized Lorraine wouldn’t backtrack. He also came to understand that she would wind up in a much larger market than Reno and he’d be left behind. It was a matter of time.

  By late in the afternoon, he’d bought everything his mother had listed. Frazzled, he turned his dark blue Jeep Wrangler toward UNR. As a student, the Getchell Library had served his research needs. With the university’s growth, a new library had been opened in 2009, the Mattheson, IGT Knowledge Center.

  Once inside, Pete was as lost as he was at Summit Shopping Center. However, the librarian pointed him to the Nevada history section.

  Glad to be in a quiet place—a nearly empty place since Christmas vacation created the usual diaspora—he draped his coat over a chair, pulled a notebook out of the inside pocket and a pen, too. What he wanted were the names of Reno residents from 1887 to 1900 with Russian surnames. With help from another librarian, after an hour, he had fourteen names, including one Romanov who surely had been a crook.

  Then, like Mags, he tried to find what he could about the Nicholas Cavalry School. Not much.

  Leaning back in the chair, refreshed by not hearing various renditions of “Jingle Bells,” he wondered why it mattered to know about Reed’s Russian, which is how he thought of the skeleton.

  Pete had joined the police force to prevent crime, to help people in severe distress. If a crime had been committed, then his job was to find the perpetrator. He had known early in his career that justice rarely followed but, like everyone else in law enforcement,
did his best and tried not to despair at the aftermath. If ever found, there could be no justice for whoever killed Reed’s Russian yet some form of peace would follow—for Pete, anyway. And it would make an old woman happy, a woman he admired and one who had helped his family even before he and his sisters were born.

  A flash of Mags made him sit up straighter. He pushed the image back. He wasn’t going to think about a beautiful woman who wouldn’t look at him twice.

  By seven, he was hungry. He picked up his notebook, slipped his bomber jacket back on, then stopped by the reference desk.

  “Ma’am, do you have copies of the Reno newspaper from 1887 to 1900?” He held up his hand. “Don’t want them now. I know it’s late and it’s the holidays. I’ll come back later.”

  “We have everything on computer from the Gazette-Journal’s morgue. So does the public library downtown if that’s more convenient for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  As he drove to his place he turned on the radio and “We Three Kings of Orient Are” blared out at him. He listened a moment, then smiled and sang along, suddenly ridiculously happy without knowing why.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Racing across the frozen sandy loam to the original barn, King called over his shoulder. “Can’t you keep up? It’s those dwarf legs of yours.”

  The snow had melted in places, packed down in others. The dry high-desert air blew steadily over the frozen terrain, gradually making movement easier for man and beast.

  “I’m watching out for the footing.” Baxter, insulted, called forward.

  “Yeah, yeah.” King broke into a lope to further torment the dachshund.

  Now angry, Baxter hit a good stride and passed the shepherd mix. “Can’t you keep up?”

  King, ears pricked up, dug into the ground to draw alongside the small dog. Almost to the barn, King finally nudged ahead of the surprisingly fast Baxter. He veered from the closed big side doors to the side where the old exterior tack room door was, a dog door still in place. He bustled through. Baxter followed with a little whoosh of air.

  Although not ready to admit it, King liked having a companion. Oh, he loved Jeep but human limitations occasionally plucked his last nerve. Finally, another truly intelligent creature, even if he was a sawed-off shotgun.

  Vapor streams flowed from the dogs’ noses and mouths as they inspected the rectangular space where the Russian had lain. His remains, dusted, photographed, and measured by university students, had finally been moved to the university for further study. The students had left behind piles of dirt, which rested like rounded berms at each corner of the grave.

  King stopped in front of the northeast pile, looked at the other three, put his front paws in, and started digging, throwing dirt everywhere.

  Baxter, puzzled, observed the mostly black dog with glossy thick fur, grinning as his paws rapidly made a mess.

  “Whoopee!” King stopped. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I was about to ask the same thing.” Baxter sat on his haunches.

  “It’s a pile. You dig.” King stepped back a moment. “Take the pile opposite me.”

  “Hmm.” Baxter walked around the pile in a semi-circle. If he’d completed the circle he’d have fallen into the grave. No point in hurrying that process. Tentatively he put one paw into the dirt, then pulled it backward. Didn’t hurt. Felt pretty good.

  “Is there a reason I’m to do that?”

  “You’re a dog.” King was incredulous.

  “I’ve never seen a dirt pile.”

  “There’s no dirt where you come from? How can there be no dirt?”

  Baxter lifted his bushy eyebrows. “Concrete. There’s some dirt in the parks but you can’t dig. And you have to walk on a leash. You can’t even run in the parks. I mean, you can try but someone gets pissy about it.” He sighed. “I never raced another dog before now.”

  “That’s awful. How can your human be so cruel?”

  “She’s not cruel.” Baxter took offense. “We lived in a giant city. She took good care of me, but that’s just the way it is. At night you can’t even see the stars because there’s so much light from the buildings.”

  “All night? There are indoor lights on all night?” King just couldn’t believe it.

  “I only know about stars because every summer Mags rents a place in the Hamptons. I saw them then, plus I could walk along the ocean with her. No leash!”

  “Saw the ocean once with Jeep. Too noisy.”

  “Mine is a different ocean but it’s noisy, too. I like it here. I like not having people everywhere. No sidewalks. No horns or traffic. Being a dog in New York City is dangerous.” Baxter cocked his head, looked at the pile, then jumped in the middle of it. “This is fun.” He jumped out, shook himself, and began digging with a vengeance.

  Five minutes passed. The two stopped to admire their progress. King walked over to Baxter’s pile while Baxter checked King’s.

  “What’s this?” Baxter noticed some tiny colored square bits spread about.

  King returned, touched one with his nose. It wasn’t even as big as a piece of square kibble. “Old bones.”

  Baxter touched it. “In little squares? What kind of animal is that?”

  King again touched the little squares, one white, one red, one faded blue. “Don’t know, but, see, they’re cut. This isn’t natural. They’ve been dyed. There are no blue bones.”

  “Greenies.” Baxter so loved his Greenies.

  “Not real bone.”

  “Oh. Well, King, this is your world. What’s the point of tiny bones cut in squares and dyed?”

  “Jeep will know. She knows things I don’t. Not about animals or weather or real stuff, but human stuff. She also knows what’s under the earth. It’s almost like she has a nose that can smell things like gold, silver, copper. Stuff we don’t much need but they do.”

  “What’s it like to live with a human that old?”

  “I never lived with a human that’s young. Even Enrique is half old. Mags is young. I like her. She moves without pain. Jeep hurts, but she doesn’t whimper. She’d be furious if anyone noticed. She hides a lot. She is very, very old, really. She plays ball, though. She never gives up. I love her.”

  “I love mine, too. She’s pretty dumb, though.”

  King laughed. “They are what they are. All you can do is love them.” He thought a long time. “Let’s get Jeep to look at these odd bones. You know these ones didn’t come from the skeleton they took away.”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “Baxter, we start with barking. I’ll show you all the steps. You haven’t properly trained your person. But then,” King said in a kindly voice, “you didn’t have an older dog to teach you. I had my mother and she knew every trick in the book.”

  “I barely remember my mother.” Baxter mentioned this with little emotion.

  “Follow me and learn,” King said bursting through the dog door at the back of the house, Baxter on his heels.

  Taking a deep sniff, King realized Jeep wasn’t in the kitchen.

  “What’s the fuss?” Jeep called out from the den.

  King hustled through the kitchen door and down the hall, skidding out as he turned into the room where Mags, at the desk, peered at the computer screen. Jeep sat by the fireplace, replacing a worn headstall on a still-serviceable bridle. As her fingers stiffened, she forced herself to do more and more of what her mother called “close work,” to retain some nimbleness.

  “Come to the barn.” King barked up in her face, then called to Baxter. “Go do the same thing to Mags.”

  The wire-haired dachshund scurried over and stood on his hind paws, placing his front paws on her thigh. “You’d better come with me. King will be upset if I don’t get you out of this chair.”

  King turned in small circles, sat down, whined, turned a few more, then yelled, “Baxter, turn in circles, jump up and down. Make noise!” Then as an afterthought, “But don’t pee on the floor.”

/>   “I would never do that!” Baxter did turn a few circles, which made him dizzy, so he patted Mags’s leg again.

  “King, will you stop barking!” Jeep shook her finger at him.

  “It’s really important.” King circled, ran to the open door of the den, ran back to Jeep.

  Jeep put down the bridle and stood up. “I wonder if the coyote have come close?”

  Mags pushed away from the desk to follow. “I hear them at night but I didn’t think they’d come up to the house.”

  “If you hear one, there are many more. If they’re hungry enough they’ll root around or kill anything you haven’t made safe. I imagine it’s been slim pickings since the storm.”

  “Come on. Come on.” King danced. “Baxter, you have to make it very obvious.”

  “All right. All right.” Baxter dashed ahead of Mags, stopped, looked up at her, then dashed ahead again.

  Jeep grabbed her heavy jacket, then yanked on a wool lumberjack cap. Mags did the same and the two women followed the dogs from the house.

  “Look for tracks.” Jeep ordered Mags. “Like a dog’s, but, um—” She paused. “King’s. See how King’s are wide? The coyote print is more narrow.”

  “She’s not completely stupid.” King waved his tail.

  “Right.” Baxter agreed.

  “We can run way ahead now,” King said.

  The two ran to the original barn and disappeared through the tack room door.

  Jeep, relieved, noted the location. “At least it’s not the cattle barn. We don’t have any heifers due but sometimes they abort. That brings in the marauders if food is scarce. I swear they can smell that hot blood for miles. And if enough of them get in the barn—” She paused. “Coyotes can hunt singly but they prefer to hunt in a pack. The larger the pack the bolder their actions. If they’re desperate enough, pumped up by numbers, they’ll go in the barn and start killing.”

  “Can’t you shoot them?”

  “Yes. But I haven’t had much trouble and we’ve shut up the horses at night and some of the younger cattle.”