At this, the two laughed some more, Catherine’s tears turning to tears of laughter.
The plump waitress returned.
Mags looked up. “We’re having a sisterly moment.”
The young woman nodded. “Couldn’t live without mine.”
“Coffee with half and half,” Catherine ordered.
“Tea.” Mags smiled back at the waitress and wondered what the young woman’s chances were in life. “Have to tell you about Baxter, the male in my life. He’s a wire-haired dachshund. Had him for three years. Couldn’t live without him.”
“Really? I can’t have a dog, I’m not home enough. I still think about Spot.” The dalmatian they’d had as kids had been named with a lack of originality but not love.
“Without Baxter, I don’t think I could have gotten through that bloodbath back in New York. It was such a disaster. Pretty much everyone on Wall Street refused to read the handwriting on the wall. I suppose we’d suffered a kind of dreadful optimism. We’d been high so long no one thought we could come down, you know?”
“Of course I know.” Catherine refolded her napkin.
“I blame myself. Of course, there’s plenty of blame to go around, unfettered greed going for broke, literally. You’d think Congress would get serious about financial reform after such an unmitigated disaster, but, of course, they’re all on the take, too.”
Catherine smiled. “They make my sins look tiny.”
“Well, your sins are far more exciting.”
“That’s why they turned the camera on. Hey, we’re all sinners, right? What’s church but a workshop for sinners?”
“You’re going to church these days?”
“Not exactly. By necessity, Jorge spends a good deal of his time at chapel services, so I go with him. I’m inching into the fold. If Mary Magdalene could do it, why not me?”
“Magdalene.” Mags exhaled. “Ah, my distinguished namesake.”
“You and Aunt Jeep bear a very interesting name. Hell, make the most of it.” Catherine laughed another deep, throaty, provocative laugh. “With a name like Catherine, I should be ruling Russia.”
“You still might.” Mags happily sipped her tea.
As untrustworthy as Catherine was, Mags appreciated how good it was to have a sister. They shared memories, little catch phrases, even facial expressions—these things forged hoops of steel binding people together over generations. Perhaps that’s why no fight is as ugly as a family fight.
“What are you going to do now?” Catherine asked.
“Help Aunt Jeep with her dream. Last night at three in the morning, when the coyotes woke me up, I decided I’m going back to school.”
“Really?”
“Auto repair. I want to work with my hands and I’ve always loved motors. I want to fix a problem and see it work. I don’t want paperwork or phone calls or BlackBerrys, breakfast meetings or ritzy expense account lunches and dinners. I don’t want to go to parties that are just an extension of business.” She leaned forward toward Catherine. “There’s a mass delusion on Wall Street where everyone is convinced of their own importance. When I cut the lights off in the garage at the end of a workday, I want to leave my work there. I guess Dad will turn over in his grave.”
“Nah, he would be proud of his little girl. He was wrong to make fun of you back then. You always had a gift. I remember when you took my bicycle apart and put it back together. Got grease all over Mom’s living room chair, too.”
“Someday I’ll open my own garage specializing in restoration. Solid machinery built before computer chips. Machines where parts hummed, slid against one another, beat out a rhythm. Machines built by human hands, not robots. I don’t give a shit if anyone thinks I’m crazy.”
Catherine looked down at her folded hands, then up at her sister’s brilliant eyes. “Mags, go for it. Mom and Dad, Nanna, and even Aunt Jeep did what they thought was right. They prepared us to fit into the world. But I don’t think either one of us ever really wanted to fit in. We just wanted to be ourselves. Aunt Jeep gave us the most freedom but she’s a creature of her time no matter how independent. Nanna was born in 1922. Aunt Jeep in 1924.”
“Never really thought about it that way, being prepared to fit in. Well, I’m not going to fit in now.”
“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me? You know, about Enrique?”
Mags looked across the room, to the window outside. “I don’t know, Catherine. He’s her son. I don’t know what possessed you to try and get him cut out of her will.” Mags turned back to her sister, and their eyes met. “Jesus, there’s enough for all of us.”
“I was strung out, marriage coming apart, whole life going up in smoke. All I thought about was me.”
“If you’re asking for advice, I can offer some or I can keep my mouth shut.”
“No. What? Tell me what you think I should do.”
“Do nothing. Let another year pass. Once you’ve been on your feet for a while, write a letter of apology. Don’t call. By that time Jeep’s dream just might be reality. Then she’ll be most likely to make peace.”
Catherine watched the half and half swirl around in her coffee cup as she’d added more with a refill. “All right. God knows if she’d give me some money, a small part of what should be my inheritance, life would be easier. I’m tired of all the worry.”
Outside the restaurant in the parking lot, the air was cold.
“The Camaro is rented. I’ll have to take it back. But it’s a good car and really affordable. The engine note is heaven.”
Catherine laughed. “Only you would notice an engine note.”
Just then a hearse pulled up: an attractive man in his mid-thirties emerged from the driver’s side.
Catherine greeted him with a kiss. “Mags, this is Jorge Batista. Jorge, my little sis.”
“Pleased to meet you.” He noticed Mags’s eyes scanning the hearse. “Taking the departed to Los Angeles. Since I have some business here, when this drive was mentioned, I thought I’d do it myself. Also, it was an excuse to keep my princess at my side. She wanted to come and see you.”
Catherine gave him another kiss, then turned to Mags. “Like I said, people want to go home.” She nodded at the hearse. “This was a frat boy. Killed auto surfing. One thing I’ve learned through Jorge is that there are so many ways to die. A lot of them are bone stupid.”
Pete checked the clock on the wall. Off duty, he stayed behind to read a report from the Susanville Sheriff’s Department. Since he was going to pick up Audrey and her family at the airport there was no point in going back to his cottage.
The Susanville department had gone through Sam Peruzzi’s files, his computer at work, too. The deceased, an obsessive researcher, had identified the aquifers on both sides of Highway 395. Those lots that were still privately owned were marked. He also had maps of Sierra County and Washoe County, in which he had marked areas recently rezoned for development.
Among a huge amount of amassed information, Peruzzi had listed those local companies involved in water purchases and management. All the employees of Silver State Resource Management were listed along with the Board of Directors. The salaries that Peruzzi thought they earned were put alongside the employee’s name with question marks, noting stock options since that would not be noted as salary. Each board member’s business, school affiliations, and charities were neatly listed, along with supposed net worth. Compensation for those politicians working for more water for Reno were also noted.
Sam Peruzzi carefully listed those plants, animals, and agricultural pursuits that would be most negatively affected if water became scarce, paying a great deal of attention to Jeep Reed’s ten thousand acres. Peruzzi had written in the margin that Jeep’s property was filled with wildlife and harbored a lot of water underneath. He had placed a big star by Jeep’s name, but Pete couldn’t infer its meaning. Another document showed individuals selling water rights and others purchasing some. Yet another document identified acreage or parcels wher
e the state engineer granted water rights being changed from agricultural use to municipal.
Sam Peruzzi’s death was not the result of stupidity. He’d gotten too close to something, or someone. Pete looked more carefully at the pages of names and companies, wondering.
He looked at the clock again, closed the folder, and hurried out. He didn’t want to be late picking up Audrey. Good thing he’d borrowed his dad’s car. The whole brood would not fit into the Wrangler.
On the way to the airport he kept returning to the blown pumps and Sam Peruzzi. They were linked by water. Then he couldn’t help but think about Mrs. Peruzzi and their children spending their first Christmas without Dad.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After picking up odds and ends her great-aunt requested from town, Mags pulled into Wings just as the sun set behind the mountains. A few long diffuse rays pierced the valley through the Vs in the mountains. The winter light, so soft, faded as a thin gold line above the range slowly turned a lavender blue.
How beautiful, Mags thought to herself, a shopping bag in each hand as she stepped onto the porch. She paused to drink in the various shades of blue, pink, mauve, and deep purple—all in straight lines across the sky as though painted by a giant using a straight edge. The moment the sun dropped so did the mercury. She’d rarely seen a sunset when she lived in Manhattan, but had enjoyed the sunrises over the East River. After her gym workouts she’d return to her apartment in the east seventies and get Baxter. The two would run as close to the river as they could. The buildings in Queens would turn from light gray to soft pink, the East River tagging along in the same colors. But when the sun finally crested, a path shone over the East River, deep red, then scarlet, and finally molten gold. By the time she and Baxter would turn back toward home, the windows in all those east-facing Manhattan buildings shone gold, too.
She wasn’t morose but she missed the city; its steel canyons, the traffic lights blinking, headlights, lights in shop windows, the wonderful colored lights atop the Empire State Building changed to celebrate various events, but always red, white, and blue on July 4. Other big buildings, too, sported tops awash in colors. She loved the brashness of it. She did not, however, miss the noise. As to the famed rudeness of New Yorkers, Mags never found them any more rude than anyone else. The pace meant fewer extraneous chats, but most New Yorkers were matter-of-factly kind and helpful.
It was pretty much this way in any American city and, observing the changing shadows, the slashes of Prussian blue now over the range, the darkening gray shadows on the steep sides of those Petersons, Mags thought she knew why. The first emotion the early settlers felt, whether they came on their own hook or as slaves, was loneliness. They encountered a vast land filled with wildlife and other strange humans, with not one castle, crossroad, or livery. Virgin. Even when the East Coast hosted one million people in 1776, one had only to go a few miles west of any city to again be facing deep forest. As the decades wore on, American settlers moved west but the loneliness followed. To see another person, to find out the news, to offer what little you had as hospitality, for you must, created what we are. Hold out your hand, and another American will grasp it and pull you up.
A lick of wind brushed her face, tears welled up. Seeing Catherine had brought small arrowheads of emotion to the surface. She wondered why she’d never given much thought to that core of loneliness. She’d felt it in herself, even on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street. No amount of urbanization could eradicate it.
Nevada, seemingly barren itself, stripped you bare. In a place like this, it was up to each individual to find their inner riches.
Mags knew crime and old prejudices still existed. The prejudices were fading like the light, but there remained pockets, like those deep-gray slashes on the east side of the Peterson range. Every society had them. Didn’t matter if it was the Athens of Pericles, a rollicking London in 1664, or today; still, she thought, We are a great people. We are a good people. We’ve lost our way. I know I did. We’ll find the road again.
The tears streamed down her cheeks, stinging cold. If only she didn’t love Catherine, then she’d never be betrayed, hurt, wretched. That was another revelation: Pain is a purifier. Mags reckoned she was getting quite pure in every area. Wiping her tears, she heard Baxter barking, King, too.
She opened the front door, her little fellow on his hind legs, front legs pawing in the air, so happy to see her. She set down the shopping bags, lifted him up, hugged him and kissed him.
Then she bent over and solemnly petted King. “You’re too big to pick up, King, but I’m so glad to see you.”
“Likewise,” King replied.
“Jeep, where are you?”
“Hiding.” Her great-aunt’s voice filtered down from upstairs.
“I’ll put your bags on the kitchen table.”
“Be down in a minute.”
And she was. Jeep opened the shopping bags wide.
“Ready for your scotch and water? Sun’s down.” Mags volunteered to make it for her.
“Excellent idea. Let me take this upstairs and I’ll be right back.”
“I have a better idea. I’ll carry the bags upstairs. You make your drink.”
“No. You can’t go in my bedroom. I have presents on the bed. Still have two to wrap.”
“You weren’t supposed to get me Christmas presents.”
“Who said they were for you?” Jeep winked at her, looked in the bags again. “Oh, you found those socks. The ones were you can pull down that little extra layer on the top of your work boots. Hooray.”
“Right where you said they’d be, on Kuietzke Lane. Prices are good in that store, too. The other good thing is the sales people actually want to help and know the merchandise. How refreshing.”
Jeep laughed. “I’d be naked if it weren’t for them. You know, old as I am, I’m in good shape.”
“You’re in fine form.”
“You’d better believe it. Had some success today. Tell you about it after I make my drink. Are you having one?”
“Blanton’s.”
“Good. A lady hates to drink alone.”
“Which one of us is a lady?” Mags handed her the bags, which Jeep handed back.
“Touché,” Jeep said. “Go ahead. Take them. Just leave them at the top of the stairs.”
“I’m going with you.” Baxter padded after Mags.
“Careful you don’t scrape your belly on the stairs.” King followed Jeep.
“One of these days you’ll be glad I’m made the way I am.” Baxter made a swift retort. “I can do things you can’t.”
“Name one.”
On the stairs now, Baxter poked his long nose through the railing. “I can go into dens and kill varmints. You can’t.”
Stumped for a moment, King trotted to the base of the stairs for the two had already reached the top. “You can go in. Can you get out?”
Saucily, the little dog barked. “I can do anything!”
Mags looked down. “You’re talkative.”
Back in the living room, drinks in hand, dogs by the fireplace, Jeep asked, “Well? Let’s get a report.”
“The usual, charming, funny, self-deprecating Catherine.”
“How’d she look?”
“Drop-dead gorgeous.” Mags took a swig. “Don’t worry, I know the leopard doesn’t change its spots. Well, I suppose some do or those rehab clinics wouldn’t stay in business.”
“Still on drugs?”
“Seems to be under control, but she’s never going to give up partying, Aunt Jeep. She was a social butterfly when we were kids. Catherine lives to be the center of attention.”
“She’s succeeded in some ways.” Jeep put her feet up on the hassock. “I can feel the cold in my hip. Funny. Anyway, thanks for taking the bags upstairs. I’ll climb them when I have to.”
“Hurt?”
“It’s just the damn cold goes so deep. Why I waited so long to get my hip replaced I’ll never know. I thought I’d magical
ly rebuild my joint through willpower. Anyway, that was”—she paused—“six years ago. I do have a little hitch in my giddyap.”
“Not noticeable.” Mags fibbed, for there was that slight roll to Aunt Jeep’s walk now.
“Um. Want to hear about my day?” She held up her drink.
“She sat at the desk all day. Boring. Boring. Boring.” King grumbled.
“She hummed while she did it,” Baxter added.
“Humans can’t sing.” King spoke with authority. “They try but who sounds better than a dog? Be honest.”
“They do rather squeak.” Baxter agreed, which made King happy.
“What worlds did you conquer today?” Mags meant it.
“Pulled out my old books, early Nevada history stuff. Studied the photographs and colored drawings. Our beads were probably part of clothing or a swagger piece. I think of them as swagger pieces. You know, a fellow has a crop and a beaded tail hangs from it. The beads are Lakota. I have no idea what specific tribe. If we had the entire artifact, we might be able to figure it out.”
“Isn’t that something?”
“Our Russian, let’s call him Nicholas, may have worn or owned this piece, or the beads dropped from whoever buried him. Maybe there was even a struggle before Nicholas was killed. Curious, but we are learning a little more.”
“He was stabbed from the front. The marks on the ribs were right where his heart would be.”
Jeep studied her. “Yes.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m afraid I often underestimate young people. It’s the sin of age.”
“Just because I noticed where the marks were on the rib cage?”
“Uh-huh.”
Mags continued, “Now whether or not he struggled, I didn’t see anything else. No broken jaw, knocked out teeth. I wonder if he knew who killed him? I hope, for his sake, Nicholas landed at least one blow. And, in a way, I have some sense of his killer.”
“Why do you say that?” Jeep raised her eyebrows.
“He didn’t sneak up on him from behind.”
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