“Curious.”
Back in the car, Lonnie remarked, “Can’t get that skeleton out of your mind, can you?”
Pete turned the key. “Nope.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The front office of the towering Silver State Resource Management sparkled with a twenty-foot Douglas fir; all the lights and balls were blue, the icicles silver. Inside, the lobby tastefully celebrated the Christmas season.
On Christmas Eve, the staff worked a half day. Christmas this year fell on Friday. They also had Monday off so it would be a long weekend.
President Darryl Johnson invited George W., Craig Locke, and Elizabeth McCormick, head of public relations, for an informal meeting before noon. These three people, gathered in the twenty-first floor conference room, had Darryl’s confidence. George W. could work with his hands and his head, Elizabeth knew how to reach people and how to throw a good party—always useful—and as for Craig, he was tireless in the pursuit of purchasing water rights and identifying parcels where ownership had changed.
“Eggnog?” Darryl pointed to the bar, which had a small silver bowl filled with a potent holiday mix.
“No, thanks.” George W. took one of the wing chairs that was set around the massive, expensive coffee table whose top was a slab of black marble with deep green veins.
Craig ladled out a small cup and sipped. “Did you make this?”
“If I made it, it’d be straight scotch.” He laughed. “Lolly concocted it. I think it’s one of the reasons our Christmas gatherings keep everyone happy.”
“Happy?” Craig whistled. “This stuff is lethal.”
“Exactly.” Darryl smiled slyly.
“Elizabeth, courage up?” Craig held up a cup for her.
“Thank you, no. I have a long drive home. Looks like we’ll get flurries, too.” She looked out the large glass window at the gray sky.
The three men glanced out.
“Does.” George W. agreed.
Once seated, Darryl, as always, steered the conversation. “I’d like a streamlined response to these troubles. Here’s what I’ve come up with and nothing is written in stone. In fact, I hope you can improve on this. First off, Elizabeth, can you develop a series of advertisements, both TV and newspaper, which demonstrate our response to the explosions? The point being, we serve our customers, no matter what. The second series of ads would highlight our development of water resources and our concern for the environment.” He stopped. “Our detractors would find the two incompatible. I suppose their answer is to just let people die of thirst because more and more are coming and Reno needs water.”
“Does this mean my budget gets a bump?” Elizabeth asked.
“You will have what you need, but I expect you to be prudent as usual. In other words, don’t hire Brad Pitt as a spokesman.” He laughed and they chuckled with him.
“Rats.” Elizabeth appeared crestfallen then brightened. “My suggestion would be to create the explosions ad, for lack of a better term, as reportage. The ads for our future would be more of a narrative. One minute each. Right?”
“Right. Unless you can get a better price, use Crecy’s.” He named a local ad agency.
“They’ve been outstanding, really. High quality.” Elizabeth nodded.
“George W. You’ve been the man on the spot and I can’t thank you enough for your quick responses. I know you’ll help Elizabeth, but my question for you is what is the worst thing this bomber or group of people could do to us? Cause the most damage?”
“Oh, God.” George W.’s face registered dismay. “Blow all our pumps at once. But the worst they could do is to contaminate our water supply.”
All three listeners sat up straight.
“How could they do that?” Elizabeth asked.
“We have reservoirs. They’d go there first. It would be harder to taint water drawn up from the aquifers, but it’s not impossible.”
Craig placed his cup in the saucer. “Anyone who would do that once caught would be in jail for the rest of their life. What if people died? I mean, that’s pure evil.”
“So it is.” Darryl exhaled through his nose and looked at George W. “You’ve given us all something to think about. Darryl, Liz, Craig, I seriously doubt we’re up against an individual or individuals who want to actually kill others, but the misguided goal of disrupting service, of calling attention to SSRM’s management, seems obvious. It seems to me this is just the beginning. It’s not like we have a competitor. We are Reno’s water supply.”
Craig formed a steeple with his joined fingers, resting his chin on it. “Securing water rights seems more important now than ever.”
“The longer we wait, the more expensive it gets.” Elizabeth stated the obvious.
“True, but we can’t buy what people won’t sell. Craig has been masterful at identifying interested parties when land changes hands or when there is a significant change in an owner’s situation.”
“Thank you,” Craig said.
“George W., do you think our repair crews could be in danger, say, if there’s another explosion?”
“Not likely. The person, or persons, sets the pipe bomb and slips away without being seen. Our pumps aren’t hidden but people driving the roads wouldn’t exactly look to them as a thing of beauty.” He smiled. “Actually, I think we’re all safe because murder is a far worse crime than blowing up a pump. That’s why I don’t think our water supply is in danger but, Darryl, you asked for the worst-case scenario.”
“Worse than I imagined.” Darryl rose to pour himself a Coke. The alcohol could wait until the evening.
“Boss”—Liz admired his crisp shirt, tie, pants—“timetable?”
“Forgive me, this is a push. Can you have the first series of print ads ready for New Year’s?”
“Yes.”
“The TV ads, ummm, if we can have the first one running by mid-January, that ought to help. I know that takes longer than print, what do you think?”
“I can do it.”
“George W.”—Darryl liked George W. enormously—“we’ve got a skeleton crew for the holidays, right?” George W. nodded, so Darryl went on. “If anything does happen, are we prepared?”
George W., voice grave, simply stated, “Two of our flatbeds have pumps and pipes loaded on them, just in case.”
“Good.” Darryl was pleased. “Craig, before it slips my mind—” This was amusing because nothing slipped Darryl’s mind. “Have you encountered hostility lately in your dealings with people or down at the courthouse going over property transfers?”
“No. The recorder of the county and the girls down there are helpful, but even when I call on ranchers, they aren’t rude. People simply decline or say, ‘I’ll think about it.’ The only rudeness I ever encounter is, and this is rare, water conservation groups. The last time anyone got in my face was quite a while ago, maybe three years ago. I’m fine.”
“Liz, George W., I’ve thrown this at you and I apologize.”
“No apology needed.” George W. replied for both of them. “Very unusual circumstances.”
“Merry, merry Christmas. You know, I can suffer from tunnel vision, forget to thank the people around me. Thank you, truly. Whatever the New Year brings our team will handle it.”
Pete worked an early shift so he was off at sunset. His mother had asked him to deliver to Jeep a mince pie, Rebecca’s traditional Christmas present.
Snow swirled on top of the Petersons, a few lazy flakes making their way down to Wings Ranch. The weatherman had predicted snow off and on, no great accumulation. It shouldn’t create transportation problems.
Once at Jeep’s house, Pete carefully lifted the still-warm pie from the footwell of the Wrangler’s passenger side. He took no chances of having the pie slide off. Shutting the vehicle door, he sprinted up the porch steps, grabbed the brass horseshoe, and knocked.
“Just a minute,” Mags called out as King and Baxter barked.
Pete heard their claws tapping down the hall as
the dogs raced for the door.
Mags opened it and smiled broadly. “Officer Meadows.”
“He’s a deputy sheriff.” Jeep called from her den, emerging. “Pete, how are you?”
“Miss Reed, I mean Jeep, Merry Christmas.” He handed her the pie.
“Aunt Jeep, let me take that into the kitchen for you.”
“Put it in the oven. Not on the counter. King will steal it if it’s not in the oven.”
“Not true.”
“Can you reach up on the counter and stove, too?” Baxter thought that just wonderful.
“Can,” King smugly said.
“Come sit with me for a spell.” Jeep took Pete’s hand, leading him into the living room. “Sit down and tell me everything you know.”
He laughed. “That should take about two minutes.”
“If I tell you everything I know, we’ll be here for days.” She settled in an easy chair opposite him. “The advantage of age.”
Mags and Baxter entered the room. Pete stood up. She noticed.
“Deputy, please sit down,” Mags said, as she dropped in the other chair across from him.
“Please call me Pete.”
The living room furniture had been made from the horns of longhorn cattle and their hides. Apart from being comfortable, it looked as western as one could get.
“Can we get you anything to drink?” Jeep asked Pete.
“No, thank you.”
“How’s the family?”
“All here.” Pete laughed. “Kids running all over the house. Mom and Dad love it.” He looked around the room. “This place is big enough for a baseball team of kids.”
“So it is,” Jeep agreed. “Mags, before I forget, Rebecca’s gift is under the tree. Remind me to give it to Pete.” She turned her warm brown eyes back to him. “We saw you on the news. Hollywood is waiting.”
“Sure.” He smiled.
“It is strange, isn’t it?”
“That it is. We’ll track down our bomber. Sometimes you get a lucky break, but I think of this like a mosaic. You collect tiny pieces in all these colors and perhaps a pattern suggests itself. Generally, it’s lots of knocking on doors, reading, thinking. It looks glamorous on TV, but mostly my job involves lots of patience.” King nuzzled the policeman’s leg.
“’Spect it does,” Jeep agreed. “King, leave him alone.”
“He likes me.” King defended himself, but went and sat with Jeep.
“I called Darryl Johnson today,” Jeep said. “Craig Locke shows up here once each season to try to convince me to sell my water rights, which I won’t do, of course. But I like Darryl. He’s got a big job and one open to criticism from all corners, not unlike law enforcement. Everyone has an opinion, which they are eager to express. Anyway, the Reno Gazette-Journal ran a series of articles six years ago about the impending water crisis based on population growth, the water underground, and so forth. You might want to look through it also.”
He smiled. “I did.”
“Aren’t you smart?” Jeep smiled at him. All her teeth were still hers and white, too.
“Not as smart as you.”
“Devil.” She loved to flirt, especially with a handsome man. “You say that to all the girls.”
They all laughed.
Pete sighed. “I’d better get back home to help. It’s sure been nice seeing you.” He stood up and Mags stood up, too. “You’re wearing the dead man’s ring.”
“Ah, I look at it and wonder about our Russian, you know. Don’t forget Rebecca’s gift,” Jeep said as they walked into the hall.
“Won’t.”
Baxter trailed the two humans while King stayed with Jeep.
The large tree, now festooned with Victorian ornaments, reposed in the den. The living room may have made more sense, but Jeep spent most of her time in the den when in the house. She loved Christmas and wanted to look at her tree.
Mags knelt down, checked tags, and found Rebecca’s huge present. Kneeling, she pulled it out with both hands. She stood, grunting as she lifted it.
Pete placed his hands on the large box to help her. She looked up at him, green eyes filled with light.
“Thanks,” he said, hefty box in hand.
“Let me walk you to the door. I’ve been poking around about our Russian.”
“Funny, I have, too.”
“We found little bone beads in the grave. I made a bracelet out of them. I grow more and more curious. Haven’t found out too much, yet. Aunt Jeep pulled out a visitors’ book and Buffalo Bill was here.”
“No kidding.” Pete imagined the man in buckskin, with long hair and vandyke beard. Then he looked at the bracelet as she lifted her arm to show him.
“Want to make a bet?” she challenged.
“Depends.” He liked looking at her.
“Bet you dinner that I find out who he is before you do.”
“You’re on.” Pete smiled. “’Course, we could both be fifty before we find out. I’ll make you a faster bet.”
“Here, let me walk that out with you.” Mags opened the door for him, a knife edge of cold air sliced in along with flakes. “Jeez.”
“Just keeps coming.”
“Put on your coat,” Baxter chided.
Paying no attention, she hurried out and quickly opened the door to the Wrangler since the box he carried was heavy. He placed it in the footwell, where he’d had the mince pie.
“Cool wheels.”
“Thanks. Dad runs the BP station. He found it for me. Fixed it up. Goes through anything.”
“Your dad’s a mechanic?”
“A good one.”
“That’s what I want to do,” Mags blurted out.
“Fix cars?”
“I really do.”
The corners of Pete’s mouth turned up. “Stop by and talk to Dad.”
“I don’t know anything yet. I have to go back to school. Then I will.”
“Never met a woman who wanted to fix cars. Sounds like a good idea to me. People sure love their old cars; you’ll never be out of work.”
“Hope so.” She shivered.
“Hey, go on back in. You’ll catch cold. Didn’t mean to keep you out here.”
“You didn’t. What’s your bet? The quicker bet?”
“This snowfall will accumulate to three inches. The weatherman predicts just flurries.”
She held out her hand. “It’s a bet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lying on his side, Baxter snored in front of the den fireplace. King, next to him, rested on his back, four feet high in the air. He, too, snored. The dogs, worn out by the Christmas celebrations over at Enrique and Carlotta’s, passed out once home.
Jeep believed the fastest way to corrupt children was to give big presents. She provided good quality gifts, but her philosophy was that one had to earn the big stuff. What she would provide was a college education.
“Put your money in your head. No one can steal it from you there.” The proclamation was issued from her lips so often that anyone who knew her remembered it.
Mags bought Jeep an early Nevada photo book. It was about all she could afford. Jeep gave her great-niece the new computer that would benefit them both.
Once back from Enrique’s, Mags worked at the old computer. As it was a holiday, she wasn’t able to set up the new one and transfer the service.
Jeep had stayed back at the little house for a while longer.
Mags tried to get graduate lists from the Nicholas School of Cavalry from various sources without luck. She thought about the number of people who passed through this area thanks to the big silver strike. She searched for information on the old mines of the Comstock Lode—mines like Yellow Jacket, Potosi, Savage, Grosh, Hale, and Norcross—to see if any Russian names appeared. In payroll accounts and accident lists, twenty-one names showed up that were Ukrainian, Georgian, or Polish. No Russians.
Someone from an elite school probably wouldn’t be setting charges in the mines with temperatur
es above 100°F. She’d need to look for buyout offers, visitors from perhaps a Russian company.
It occurred to her that Christmas night might not be the optimum time to do this. But in one last stab, she looked for visiting dignitaries. In the archived Gazette-Journal files, she found one cited photo included as he stood in front of William Stewart’s law office in Virginia City. Stewart, one of Nevada’s first senators, had been an endless self-promoter. He contrived to have his photograph taken with any and all visitors he deemed sufficiently glamorous. No one ever accused William Stewart of being glamorous so he borrowed it from others. For all his bullying ways, Stewart did advance the water use efforts, promoting new ways to store water for the dry months.
Stewart looked like a dowdy crow next to Colonel Dimitri Saltov of the Chevalier Guard, the Star of Guards on his helmet. The Russian’s accomplishments were duly listed, though not his military school if he had attended one. He was on leave from service in Baghdad. Tall, lean, sideburns and moustache, Saltov cut quite the handsome figure. Stewart must have talked him into it or paid him to be in full dress uniform for the photo. It was not a uniform designed for Nevada conditions.
The reporter noted that the colonel spoke excellent English and quoted him as saying, “I’ve always been curious about the American West, especially Nevada, where men became millionaires overnight.”
Delighted that she’d finally found at least one Russian, Mags determined to do more work tomorrow.
The back door opened and closed. King opened one eye, groaned, and rolled over but did not rise.
A few moments later, Jeep ambled into the den. “Two dead dogs.”
Mags shut off the computer. “Baxter’s never played with children. He didn’t really know what to make of the one that just got here in October. So little.”
“Amazing, isn’t it? Life?” Jeep sank into the sofa. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for Nicholas.”
“Ah.” Jeep listened as Mags told her about Saltov. “Baghdad. Strange, isn’t it, that from the nineteenth century up to today, various powers have been facing off over there? Buying off sultans, being betrayed by the same.
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