“I’ll see you when you get home,” I yelled at Elias, but by then Richard’s lips had covered mine, so I don’t know if Elias understood me or not and, frankly, I didn’t much care.
The chief wrangler, Art, had an old kitchen chair tilted against the barn door. He sat in the sunshine reading the morning paper and sipping coffee around the home-rolled cigarette that’s permanently embedded in his lower lip. “I thought you all wanted to ride before breakfast, not lunch,” he said, not looking up from the paper. It was six-thirty. “You going to start sleeping this late when you’re old married people? Day’s half over.”
I laughed. “Okay. Okay.”
We followed him into the barn, where our horses were saddled, just waiting for their cinches to be tightened. He had the team of golden Percherons—Blackie and Blondie—ready to go, too. Fully rigged for another test run, they stood ready to be harnessed to the buck-board I would ride to our wedding. Tomorrow. It gleamed with fresh varnish.
“I didn’t think buckboards ever looked this fancy,” I said to Art. “Even in the movies.”
“Don’t. Just yours. Look at this.” He slapped his hand on the tufted black-leather seat. “Innerspring bench. That’s what Richard here said he wanted. ‘Don’t want my bride with any splinters in her butt.’ That’s what you told me. Isn’t that right, Mr. Opera?”
“Yup.” Richard laughed, drawing up Hotspur’s cinch. Richard and Art had a strong mutual-admiration society.
“Don’t you think this is sort of overkill on the horsepower?” I patted Blondie’s thick neck. “I mean, its not exactly as though they’re dragging a fully loaded stagecoach over the pass. It’s just for my father and me.”
“What your daddy wants,” Art said, and we all knew that that was that. “Should be down here any minute. Here he comes now.”
True enough. The old 1975 hailstone-pitted yellow Wagoneer bucked to a stop next to my pickup, and my father, the epitome of the West, the son of the son of the son of a pioneer, wearing what looked as if it could have been his great-grandfather’s original Stetson it was so mauled, stepped to the ground and slammed the old Jeep’s door with an authoritative crash.
“Have a good ride?” he asked us and moseyed into the barn. “How’re my girls today?”
The massive animals gobbled up handfuls of cut-up apple from Daddy’s gloved hand, and then he walked slowly around each of them the way a pilot inspects his aircraft before takeoff, sliding his hand over their glowing withers and rumps, up and down their legs. Rubbing their noses and foreheads. Checking their harness.
Nobody needs Percherons anymore. In the U.S. anyway. They’re a throwback to a way of life that no longer exists. No one needs horses to haul sleds full of boulders or move two-ton safes up Main Street from the railroad station to the bank. Art uses our team occasionally to drag one of our fancy four-wheelers out of the mud, but he could use one of the big tractors just as easily. When you go to draft-horse power-team shows these days, the only people who compete look as though they’re from some lost part of Appalachia. They all have on dirty T-shirts, backward baseball caps, few teeth, and probably use the horses to haul tree stumps out of the way of their new stills or outhouse sites.
He and Art hitched up the team and led them into the farmyard while Richard and I watched.
“Your mother says don’t forget the rehearsal dinner tonight,” my father called over his shoulder as he and the rig rolled away at a bright-eyed clip. He’d been working the team for a couple of hours every morning so there wouldn’t be any surprises when the big day came to drive me down into the meadow next to the river to give me away to my man.
THIRTY-ONE
I’m glad you’re here,” Linda said when I got to the office. Richard and I had decided to forget our ride. She looked at her watch. “Seven forty-five. I’ve got to get back to town and take Elias home.”
“Back to town?” I asked.
“I spent the night at the hospital again, but I thought I’d better get out here first thing to see what’s going on and get you set up for the day.” She squared off a stack of faxes and marched them into my office like a teacher handing back disappointing tests. “Not much here. Wade left a message. He’d like you to come by the house around noon for cocktails and a light lunch before the funeral. Fax from London.”
She handed me the sheet. Scrawled across a piece of Connaught Hotel letterhead were the words “I DID NOT DO IT.”
“Kennedy McGee,” I said.
“Do you believe him?” Linda asked.
“Yes. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Whoever did this, and I’m pretty sure I know who it was, had a scheme that was extremely well planned. It was thought out over a long period of time, but went off course with the first shot and now has gotten totally out of control.”
I scanned the offered, uninteresting correspondence and tossed it onto my desk, then pulled my notebook out of my purse. I flipped through the pages that were black with my notes. “All this other stuff,” I said. “Russian letters, Russian payoffs, Russian dictionaries—it’s a bunch of last-minute dust. I still have two big pieces missing, but I’m going by the airport on my way to Wade’s, and I think I’ll find one of them.”
“Speaking of the airport”—Linda pushed her glasses back up on her nose—“the Frontier Airlines crew supervisor called a few minutes ago and said the crew you’re looking for from the flight Wade was on the other night came in yesterday afternoon. They’ve told all but one of them you’d be wanting to talk. No problem.”
“Great,” I said. “Why all but one?”
“One of the flight attendants didn’t check in at the crew office, and they’re trying to track her down now.” She reached up and tucked an errant lock of hair back into the curly pile. I realized she looked completely exhausted. “Oh, and Mercedes called and wants to see you. She’s at home. Do you think she did it? I do.”
“I think she may be involved. I’m just not totally sure who else is, whether it’s Duke Fletcher or Wade or Johnny Bourbon. Or all three.”
“Duke Fletcher would never do such a thing.” Linda was incensed.
“I wouldn’t like to think so. If you’re looking for me,” I said, putting on my dark glasses, “I’ll be down at Buck’s.”
* * *
“Redford’s mad at you,” Buck said once I’d sat down across from him and accepted a cup of regular coffee and a banana-nut muffin from Ecstasy, who had plucked her eyebrow in honor of the movie company. She now actually had two: one two inches long, the other three. She had also put on socks. They weren’t particularly clean, but they were there, and they were cleaner than her feet.
“Why?”
“Stood him up.”
“Oh, you mean because my brother got shot and I’m getting married? And because I never accepted his invitation in the first place? Tell him to get over it.” I laughed and sipped the strong brew. I’ll say this for poor old Ec, she sure could make a fine cup of coffee. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s having Robert Redford always moping around me. He’s such a whiner.”
“Speaking of your brother, I went to see him the other night after you all had left. Few hours after his surgery.” Buck rolled his empty cup back and forth between his bear-paw hands. His eyes overflowed with tears that streamed down into his beard. “Scared the shit out of me. He’s too tough of an old bull to be laid up like that, all helpless. We already did all that shit in ’Nam. He doesn’t need to do it again.” Buck ran his arm across his face. “I told him good-bye. I love that old bastard so much. I hope when you catch that son of a bitch that killed him you’ll bring him by here so I can kick the shit out of him.”
I reached over and put my hand on his. “He’s fine, Buck. He’s coming home this morning.”
The look on his face was worth a million dollars. I’d given him a shiny red bike on Christmas morning. He didn’t want to look as if it was true, because it was too good to be. His chin quivered and his eyes sparkled.
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“You serious?”
“I am.”
“Praise God.” Buck buried his face in his hands and burst into tears. “Oh, Lord, I’m so happy. I didn’t know what I was going to do without him. I haven’t slept in two days.” He pulled a large handkerchief out of his back pocket and blew his nose and wiped his wet cheeks. “You serious?” he asked again.
“He’s going to be fine. Linda’s on her way to get him now.”
“You aren’t shittin’ me, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Hey, Ec,” he yelled. “Bring me a double. Elias’s comin’ home.”
Buck tossed off the shot, slammed the glass on the wooden table, and stared out the window for a minute without speaking. “Well,” he finally said. “Tomorrow’s the day. You can still bolt.”
“I’m not going to bolt, Buck. I want to get married. Are you going to show up at the rehearsal dinner tonight? You did accept, and there are place cards.”
“Who am I sitting with?”
“I have no idea.”
“I’ll do it if I can sit with Elias and Linda.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’m not sure Elias will be able to make it.”
“I’ll escort Linda, then. I’ve bought a new tuxedo and all. Valentino. Pretty damn sharp. You ought to invite Redford, too. He’s pretty upset.”
Oh, for Heaven’s sake.
The squeal of the saloon’s swinging doors filled the empty bar, followed by the unmistakably solid footfall of good boots.
“Will you look who’s here,” Buck said.
THIRTY-TWO
Johnny and Shanna Bourbon.
Sunlight filtered through her hair like Helena Bonham-Carter’s in some arty Tuscan movie.
Buck, in spite of his bulk, jumped to his feet—he was so happy he was flapping around like an angel—and pulled over a couple of chairs. “Let’s get some coffee over here for our guests, Ecstasy.”
“Heavy on the cream and sugar, if you please, sister,” Johnny called across to the bar, where you could hear the china rattling. When Ecstasy reached the table, her hands were shaking so badly, she tipped over one of the cups.
“It’s all right, Ec,” Buck said to his sister-in-law. He mopped up the mess while Ecstasy stood stock-still, knotting and unknotting her apron in her bony hands, gawking at the Bourbons. “She watches your show every afternoon,” Buck explained to them, “and even though we’ve had Robert Redford and his crew around here for a week, you’re a much bigger deal than he is in Bennett’s Fort.”
“Well, God bless you, honey,” Johnny said to her, and I saw her smile for the first time in my life. “Is there anything I can do for you? Any trouble in your life I can help you with?”
Ecstasy shook her head, too happy to speak.
“This is a surprise,” I said. “It must seem like the middle of the night to you.”
Shanna nodded and sipped her coffee. She wore large dark glasses and tight, tight jeans. “Johnny thought it was too important to call in about, so here we are.”
“What’s too important?”
Johnny leaned his elbows on his knees and turned his white cowboy hat around and around in his hands. “After our services yesterday, when I went down to meet with the audience and pray with them, a young woman came to me. She’s a regular member of our congregation, but I’d never talked to her before.” He glanced at his wife with imploring eyes.
Shanna cleared her throat and turned in her seat, studiously ignoring him.
“It’s God’s truth, honey.” Johnny was full of repentance today. “I don’t know this girl. She waited until everyone was gone and then, while Shanna was getting set up, she told me she wanted to talk to me privately.”
Johnny shot his attention over Shanna’s way again, but her eyes remained hidden behind the glasses. I sensed this was probably an old, familiar tune. She drummed her fingers on the side of her cup. Her nails were filed sharper than arrowheads.
“Stewardess,” she said.
“She’s a flight attendant, Shanna. Flight attendant. Anyhow, that’s the whole point. She flies for Frontier Airlines, and she said she’d seen the picture of Alma and Wade in the paper announcing that Alma had died, and explaining how and all. Anyhow, she said she’d been working the flight from Billings to Roundup that night and the man who said he was Wade Gilhooly … wasn’t.”
I thought my stomach would jump out of my body. “Who did she think it was?”
“Didn’t know.”
“What’s her name?” I said. “I want to talk to her.”
“Well, that’s sort of the problem.” Johnny turned his hat in the other direction. “She wants to remain anonymous. Won’t talk to anyone but me.” He paused and shot his eyes back at his wife. “As her pastor and all.”
“In private, if you can stand it,” Shanna jeered. “She’s camped out in Johnny’s office. Says she wants the sanctuary of the church until all this is over because she’s afraid if she identifies the man who did it, he’ll come after her. Well, let me tell you something.” She took Johnny’s cheeks in her fingers, pinched them hard, and talked right into his face. “I’m sick of all this adulterous fornication. We’re changing our ways, and if she tries to as much as peek into my man’s pants, she’ll be praying it’s the murderer who’s coming after her instead of me.” She let go of Johnny as if he were a head of lettuce. There were big red blotches on his cheeks. “And, brother, you can take that to the bank.”
Shanna’s anger had generated a furnacelike energy field. The air around her and Johnny sizzled like an explosion from the sun, and I let it diffuse for a moment or two before I said anything.
“If I give you some pictures,” I asked Johnny, “will you show them to her? See if she’ll ID him that way?”
“Sure. I think that’d be all right. Don’t you, sugar?” he asked Shanna.
“I suppose that’ll be fine.”
Johnny rubbed his face and looked at his wife and prayed the lightning wouldn’t come back and strike him again today.
THIRTY-THREE
I wracked my brain as I drove into town to Mercedes’s house. I didn’t even notice that there was not a cloud in the sky. My pager went off. It looked like Elias’s number at the hospital. I tried it. Busy. I checked the office voice mail as I charged down the interstate.
There was a message from Linda saying to call Elias, that it was urgent. I tried him again. Still busy.
The Frontier Airlines flight attendant who was camped out in Johnny Bourbon’s office had saved me a trip to the airport, but she hadn’t answered the question: Who had been on the plane?
Was it Duke? While Wade did the shooting and Mercedes made sure the coast was clear? Were they all in it together? There was certainly motive enough, and the fact that Mercedes frequently hightailed it up to Billings to be with Wade and Duke whenever Alma was out of town certainly could imply conspiracy. Why did Mercedes want to see me? We couldn’t possibly be getting back to the Russians. Or could we?
Mercedes never moved out of her family’s house next door to my parents’, and as I pulled through the gates into her driveway, I could see that, even though her father and stepmother were now gone and she lived there alone, she had changed little about the Federal mansion. The same yellow-silk drapes still hung straight down inside the windows that were as big as doors, the same wrought-iron benches still flanked the front door, and the bell still chimed the same three notes when I pushed it.
I waited what seemed an unusually long time and then heard the sound of strain and wrestling on the other side of the door before it unstuck and flew open, almost flattening a butler so small he looked like a bug. He was practically colorless. His sparse hair, his skin, his eyes behind clear-plastic-rimmed glasses, all blended together in a sort of soulless shade of pale. The only color about him was his suit, and it was gray. He wasn’t particularly old and he wasn’t particularly young.
“Good morning, Miss Bennett,” he said in a vaguely British acc
ent. “Madam is expecting you in the lounge.”
Lounge?
“Do you know the way?” He shouldered the complaining door shut. “I must see to this,” he muttered and then fought it open again and examined the jamb. “Excuse me.” He was talking to me again. “I thought this was repaired. Now, do you know the way?”
“No,” I answered. “I don’t believe I do.”
“Then I’ll be happy to direct you.”
I followed him up the stairs, past a solid floor-to-ceiling parade of oil portraits of relatives—most of them purchased—in a backwash of constant chatter about the lovely weather and how perfect it would be for my wedding tomorrow. “Madam is so looking forward to it.”
“Me, too.”
At the landing, he led me to what had been Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford’s private domain. When I was growing up, Alma’s parents’ bedroom had been one of those majestic places we all feel a little uncomfortable entering because it’s not our own parents’ bedroom and it seems a little improper to be going into someone else’s, a little too familiar, maybe even a little disloyal. Consequently, I’d never been in any Rutherford bedroom before except Alma’s bitter-apple-green wedding cake.
He knocked on the closed door and then opened it slightly. “Miss Bennett’s here, Miss Rutherford,” he called and stepped aside to let me pass. “I’ll bring the coffee straightaway.”
The room was magnificent—what a realtor today would call a stunning Master Suite—large windows and a set of French doors to the balcony all open to let in the cool morning breeze. Outside, beyond the balcony, the formal gardens were exquisitely laid out. Originally designed by the first Mrs. Rutherford, Mercedes’s English mother—who must have been astonished to find herself so unbelievably rich from oil profits, but in Wyoming nevertheless—they exploded in a riot of summer’s last roses, interspersed with wide swaths of budding yellow chrysanthemums. A fire crackled in the hearth beneath an ornately carved, old French marble mantel.
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