A Nose for Justice

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I wonder what he was up to.” Jeep had admired the late Sam’s efforts. “I had hoped we’d solved the development issue.”

  “Since Mags didn’t know about the initiative in 2008 to link development to water supply, Jeep briefly recapped it for her great-niece. Seventy-three percent of Washoe County voters had approved it.

  “Should the population go beyond our water supply,” Jeep explained, “the Regional Planning Commission can impose conservation.”

  “And they can import water if necessary.” Pete had voted for the initiative, as had just about everyone. “If all those strategies fail, then we legally would have to limit growth, which would really create a firestorm.”

  “How many people live in Washoe County?” Mags asked.

  “Just about four hundred ten thousand,” Pete replied.

  Jeep chimed in, “The commission thinks our population growth will reach about six hundred twenty thousand in twenty years. There’s no way we can handle that many people. Of course, the developers want growth like that—Silver State, despite what they may say, wants it. More customers equals more money.” Jeep paused, then asked a question. “So, in all these recent purchases of water rights, how many were bought up by developers or Silver State? I should know, but I’m behind in my visits to the courthouse.”

  “Aunt Jeep, just use a computer.”

  “Mags.” Jeep slapped her hand on the table lightly. “People, people, people. You need to talk face-to-face. That’s how you find out what’s really going on. I know those girls down there and I know the recorder. They’ll tell me plenty of things a computer won’t.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Your generation doesn’t. For one thing, one simple thing, Mags, how can you possibly know for certain that what comes up on your screen is the truth or backed up by the correct facts? Why you all believe in this technology amuses me, but it frightens me, too. Yes, you can get information in the blink of an eye, but it might be the wrong information. At least if you’re looking directly at a person, you can judge their facial expressions, their voice.”

  Pete said nothing. Like Mags, he’d grown up with computers and had more faith in them than Jeep, but he had to admit the old adage was correct: Garbage in garbage out.

  Baxter picked up a rubber dumbbell and carried it to King. He didn’t give it to King, but laid it down next to the big dog so if King wanted to take it, he could.

  Pete noticed. “Those two are getting along.”

  “Mutt and Jeff.” Jeep laughed, then realized they didn’t know what that meant. “An old comic strip. Back to the sales. Most of Red Rock Valley is safe unless, of course, the rights are seized by the government. That might happen if our population explodes as some predict. Right now it seems farfetched.”

  “Yes, but what about your personal safety?” Mags was glad Pete was there.

  “Don’t worry about me. For one thing, I have King, and I swear he can smell an enemy.”

  “I can.” King lifted his head proudly.

  “I won’t take up more of your time. Thanks.” Pete started to get up, then spotted the bone beads on Mags’s wrist. “I think they’ll bring you luck.”

  “Hope so.”

  “I wear the ring, she wears the beads.” Jeep held out her hand, ring shining silver, the Star of the Guards quite beautiful.

  “I found a Colonel Saltov, a Russian, who came to visit in 1902. His picture was in the paper with Senator William Stewart.”

  “Think he’s your guy?” Pete asked, sitting back down, the interest apparent in his voice.

  “No, because I looked him up. Saltov was middle-aged in 1902. Stayed loyal to the czar during the Revolution, and fought with General Deniken for the Whites. He survived by getting out through the Crimea. Saltov wound up in Constantinople, where he died in his early seventies. Not our Russian,” said Mags.

  “Ah. Well, maybe he knew your man.”

  “I’ll tell you what is odd,” said Mags. “My research shows that Colonel Saltov attended every Buffalo Bill show, and he was here when Buffalo Bill visited this ranch. Further, in 1902, Colonel Wavell—he married the Fords’ daughter Felicia—also went to all the Buffalo Bill shows in the far West. That sure must have been a terrific show. They saw it in Ogden, Utah, two days in Salt Lake, August 13 and 14, and then on September 3. Both officers were in Sacramento for that show.”

  Jeep said, “Maybe Saltov was studying how Buffalo Bill managed to move all those people and horses to each location. Remember, at that time no one realized just how mechanized World War One would be. Transporting horses had military significance. The Revolution wasn’t until 1917 so when Colonel Saltov was in Reno, he was still an officer of the czar’s.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that. If the colonel was on a mission, I’ll have to find out.” Mags sounded resolute.

  Mags walked Pete to the door. She asked him how his Christmas had been.

  “Good. My sisters bought me a leather sofa.”

  “Nice sisters.”

  “How was yours?”

  “Good. Aunt Jeep gave me a cool new computer, even though she complains about them.”

  Baxter said to King as they stood in the hall. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah. Maybe we can convince Jeep to give us more food.” King thought that a wonderful idea.

  “Snowed three inches.” Pete grinned.

  “You win the first bet, but I’m going to win the second.”

  “Wednesday?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  New Year’s Day dawned cold but clear. Mags started the day early, helping Enrique with the cattle and horses.

  King and Baxter reposing on the bench seat, Mags cruised the streets of downtown Reno in the old Chevy 454. As it was Friday, people would be in the casinos through Sunday. As many had Monday off, the diehards wouldn’t leave until then. Circus Circus, the Sands, the Eldorado, the Nugget shouted their presence with lights. Some even had moving messages, like the famous news crawl in Times Square. Huge light bands around some of the casinos rolled with color. While it dazzled some, Mags thought it was a huge waste of electricity.

  Much as she disliked the garishness of it, she thought: If this is what the average resident of Reno tolerates or even wants, then who am I to criticize? She didn’t know if she would ever feel part of Reno, but she realized she would never return to New York City nor would she go back to Los Angeles, a place she once loved. Better to move on. She still looked for her mom and dad when in L.A. Whenever anyone swooned about San Francisco, then derided Los Angeles, it irritated the hell out of Mags.

  She passed the Jolly Roger, remembering Pete talking about Sam Peruzzi, who’d died there. How awful to die in such a seedy place, and why would anyone meet someone there? Maybe if one had limited funds and that was the only place for a tryst, but otherwise, why even pull into that parking lot with the cracked macadam? Made her shiver.

  She cruised over the Truckee River, then turned left on Mountain Ridge Road, which was in a better neighborhood. She wound up on Wells Avenue, the town sliding a bit, then diving straight into seediness as she headed up toward the Livestock Events Center. As with most cities, the money had marched out to the suburbs, where people lived in huge houses with small yards.

  “King, if you lived down here I’d have to walk you on a leash.”

  “I’d hate it.”

  Baxter, eyes bright, wagged his tail. “Mom, we don’t have to do that anymore.”

  “One last errand. Let me run into this supermarket and get milk. I drank the last of it.” She parked the truck and checked a note she’d written to herself.

  Within twenty minutes she was back at the truck where she put two shopping bags behind the front seat. They squeezed in there.

  “Bologna,” King said definitively.

  “Smells delicious.” The little guy inhaled deeply.

  Mags fired up
the engine but sat a moment as the heater kicked in. Three young people, perhaps in their late twenties, not badly dressed, were rooting through the Dumpster at the side and to the rear of the supermarket.

  “I’d forgotten about that,” she mumbled, then pulled out into the sparse traffic. “In New York, it’s alkies or drug addicts. Here, it’s people who have lost all their money in the casinos. Guys, having an obsession must be a frightful way to live, not to be able to control yourself. Makes me sweaty just thinking about it.”

  Her two companions didn’t reply. They could smell alcohol, drugs, and the sweat that accompanies a racing heart. Mags couldn’t. She could only see the sad result. Humans could fool one another in ways they couldn’t fool dogs. Even someone who appears relaxed and normal will give off the odor of failure if obsessed or addicted.

  She drove past the Sheriff’s Department. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She laughed at herself for wanting to see where Pete worked, then headed out and up 395. The western side, California, received a bit more rain than the eastern side of the Peterson Range. She went past Red Rock Road and all the way up to the cut through the canyon. As she turned right onto Red Rock Canyon she saw the rock for which the place was named. The canyon was really red. Then she continued south down Red Rock Road and turned left on to Dry Valley Road.

  She passed Pump 19 without noticing. Instead, she looked at the ranches, the houses small and not so small out here where most people still ranched.

  When Manhattan had overwhelmed her, she’d pull her car out of the garage (that cost six hundred dollars per month to rent), and drive up through Dutchess County, sometimes farther than that, just to be outside a city, to see crops, cattle, horses. Now, she turned on Dixie Lane off Dry Valley Road, drove into Wings, and parked the truck around back in the shed.

  Jeep was over at Enrique and Carlotta’s so Mags had the house all to herself. She checked her email, many fewer messages than when she had been on a winning streak.

  A message from her sister read: “Happy New Year. Love, Cath.”

  She sent a note back wishing Catherine love and laughter. Then she sent other messages to the friends she’d kept through it all.

  Finished, she turned off the computer, stood up and stretched, then walked down the wide, long hall. She studied the drawings and paintings that the highly cultured Dot had carefully acquired over a lifetime. A John Singer Sargent painting hung at the top of the stairs. It was a huge, beautiful society portrait of an elegant lady, but all the rest of the art was of the West. Charles Russell, more Remingtons. A twelve-by-eight drawing, hastily sketched but marvelous, drew her eye. It was a Cossack riding at a full gallop, sword drawn. He was coming straight at her. Signed in the right-hand corner: “Remington.”

  Turning on her heel, she hurried back to the den, and started searching for the life of Frederic Remington.

  Also searching was Mrs. Oliver Hitchens. Karen and her husband were to attend a large New Year’s dinner party, but he was two hours late coming home. If he walked through the front door that minute, he’d barely have time to change clothes. It wasn’t like him. She couldn’t reach him on his cell, which was very unusual. Furious, she called those closest to him, including George W. Ball.

  “George, Karen. I know you all didn’t work today, but have you by any chance heard from my husband?”

  “No.”

  “He’s not home and we need to leave here in twenty minutes to make the Nielsons’ party.”

  “Karen, I haven’t heard from him. You know if there was a problem, he’d call.”

  “Well, he hasn’t.”

  “Maybe he lost his cellphone. It happens.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother. I’m sorry you’re upset. I’ll bet he has a good explanation when he walks through the door.” He chuckled and thought to himself, “At least it better be good.”

  But Oliver Hitchens didn’t walk through the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next morning, a frightened and frantic Karen Hitchens sat in her dining room with George W. Ball, Craig Locke, and Darryl Johnson. The sheriff had already been to the Hitchens home. They were treating this as a disappearance and tried to reassure her that people did show up unharmed. So far they had not found Oliver’s Explorer, so there was some hope he might be in it.

  Prudently, Karen had sent the kid off to her sister’s.

  “Strange things happen,” Darryl Johnson said. “Karen, he could have suffered a mild stroke and forgotten crucial information.” He was looking for any kind of explanation.

  Twisting a handkerchief in her hands, she nodded. “The sheriff said that, too.”

  Craig said, “Has anyone in his family ever had a stroke?”

  She shook her head. “No. Cancer runs in his family, though. That wouldn’t affect him. I mean, he just had a physical two months ago and passed with flying colors. He’d call if he could. I know he’d call.”

  “Not if his mind is affected. People do get amnesia.” George W.’s voice was consoling. “Has the Sheriff’s Department called hospitals?”

  “Yes. No one has shown up who looks like Oliver.”

  “That doesn’t mean he isn’t out there hunkered down,” Craig suggested. “If you tell us some of his favorite spots, we’ll go look. He might gravitate toward familiar places.”

  “Golf. The country club. We called there.”

  George W. thought a moment. “He often checked on equipment both on the inventory list and what we had on hand. Thanks to his farsightedness, we were never caught unawares, waiting days for a pump to be shipped to us. I’m going down to check the warehouse. Just in case.”

  Darryl was relieved at hearing any suggestion. “George, that’s a good idea.”

  “And I’ll call the team he’s been working closely with, thanks to the blown pumps. Twinkie and Bunny might have some ideas.”

  “He’s been so worried about those blown pumps,” Karen said. He went back to check, uh, Twenty-two. Yes, Twenty-two.”

  George W. inched forward in his seat. “He did? He didn’t tell me.”

  “Oh, he just wanted to check. Since there wasn’t anything wrong, he probably didn’t tell you. I tell him when he comes home to leave work outside the door, but he can’t. Sometimes I think Oliver is only truly happy when he’s fretting about something.”

  “He’s always been conscientious.” Darryl praised him.

  “You know, before the big storm he actually rented an ATV and drove all over the Bedell Flat right up to the top of the Sand Hills,” Karen told him. “Oliver, he could see all of Wings Ranch up there. I told him he was crazy to drive one of those things in cold weather. The one he rented went up to seventy miles an hour.”

  Craig smiled. “Maybe he was switching from golf to off-road running.”

  “He said going out there had to do with work.”

  All three men stared blankly at her, then Darryl spoke, “Karen, Silver State doesn’t have any business over there. No one does.”

  “That’s funny. Oliver said he felt there would be future problems with Bedell Flat.”

  Stumped, but not wishing to argue or push, Darryl stood up. “As I said, he was farsighted so perhaps he was thinking decades down the road. If you hear anything, anything at all, please call me.”

  “Karen, call any one of us if you need to.” George W. took her hand and held it for a moment, then turned to Darryl. “If you hear anything, let me know.”

  Craig also offered his support. When the three men stepped outside, for a moment no one spoke.

  “I’m going down to the warehouse,” George W. remarked, feeling deeply uneasy.

  Before he moved toward his car, Craig said, “What was Karen talking about—Bedell Flat? We have no interest there.”

  “I don’t know, but Oliver wouldn’t be scouting that area if he didn’t think something was brewing.” Darryl folded his arms over his chest, then asked Craig, “Have you ever investigated wat
er rights over there?”

  “In a cursory manner. I discounted it because it would be fantastically expensive to get the water to Reno from there. The Sand Hills are an effective barrier.”

  George W. surprised them. “Not necessarily. If you came down through Whitney Spring and Juniper Spring, it would be possible to lay pipe underground and tap into that aquifer.”

  Craig answered, voice rising. “George W., those rights are tied up. We couldn’t get them if we offered triple-digit millions. Jeep Reed bought most of them back in 1962.”

  George W. knew that. “Right, all I’m saying is Bedell Flat isn’t unthinkable. One could also put holding tanks on top of the Sand Hills. It could be done.”

  Darryl, listening hard, stepped toward George W. “I suppose it could. It would make more sense to tap into Antelope Valley and swing around Freds Mountain.” He named another towering barrier between Antelope Valley and Reno.

  “Guys, if you want the water rights in Antelope Valley, better tap into the U.S. Treasury first.” Craig shrugged.

  Darryl looked down at his shoes. “I tell you it makes no sense, but Oliver wasn’t given to flights of imagination. If he was out there, he knew something, or he thought he knew something. Damn, I hope he shows back up.”

  Craig softly added, “Alive.”

  Clipboard in hand, George W. double-checked every pump in the warehouse. He wanted to know if any of them had been taken or even moved. They had not. In fact, the warehouse was a testimony to order, cleanliness, and Oliver’s amazing capacity for detail. He hung up the clipboard on the pegboard, putting his initials in the right-hand column with the time and the date.

  Back in his truck, George W. called Twinkie at home, giving him the news.

  “Jesus.” Twinkie walked to his living room window, where reception on his cell was better. “And you say Oliver drove over to Pump Twenty-two?”

  “That’s what his wife said.”

  “Checking up on my work,” Twinkie grumbled. “I know everyone is worried, but my God, what a son of a bitch to work with. ’Course he never thought you worked with him, only for him.”