Burn Out

by Marcia Muller

  “So, McCone, I hear you married Ripinsky.”

  “I did.”

  “I’m married, too.” She held out her left hand; a wide gold wedding ring circled her third finger.

  “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Fellow officer—Denny Rabbitt.”

  “You look good,” I said. “Marriage agrees with you.”

  “Marriage to another deputy, yes. Anybody else couldn’t’ve put up with the crazy schedule. Hy up here with you?”

  “No. I’m taking some time off, but he’s busy with a corporate reorganization.”

  She nodded, clearly having asked only for politeness’ sake, placed a tape recorder on the table, and asked, “So what were you doing at the lodge tonight?”

  I outlined everything that had happened since I spotted Amy Perez outside the Food Mart, while Lark taped the conversation. “I didn’t mean to get involved in a police matter,” I finished. “It just occurred to me that Amy might be squatting at Willow Grove, and I thought I might be able to persuade her to go to her aunt and uncle’s.”

  Lark shrugged. “Seems we’re having a regular crime wave this week. You want to help me on an official basis? You did before, remember.”

  I solved your case for you and nearly lost my life in the process, you ingrate.

  Lark waited for my answer.

  I didn’t want to help out. I didn’t even want to be here talking with an officer of the law. But maybe I could find out some inside information about Hayley’s murder that I could pass on to Ramon and Sara.

  “Okay, but I told you everything I know; it’s got to be a two-way street.”

  “Deal.”

  Lark turned off the tape, got up and went to the bar for another drink. When her back was turned I switched on the sensitive voice-activated recorder in my purse. The deputy hadn’t asked if I minded being taped, and I wasn’t going to ask her, either. She was fair, and a good law officer, but I was aware that our arrangement could backfire if I didn’t have documentation.

  “Okay,” she said as she sat down again. “We didn’t have the info on the sister having taken out the life-insurance policy. Hadn’t really looked at Amy yet because we were concentrating on the Boz Sheppard angle. So far we haven’t located him.”

  “You have any background on Hayley?”

  Lark smiled. “Now that is where it really gets interesting.”

  Friday

  NOVEMBER 2

  On my drive back to the ranch, I didn’t dwell on the facts that Lark had confided to me. She’d insisted on buying another round before we’d left Zelda’s at twelve-thirty, and even though I’d left most of my wine in the glass and was under the legal limit, I needed to pay close attention to my driving. High-desert people are generally hard-living folks, but it seemed to me that Lark, a law-enforcement officer and supposedly happy woman, had been pushing the envelope with her three double shots of bourbon.

  The country around Tufa Lake is largely devoid of traffic at that time of night, and no wildlife sprang into my headlights, so I arrived home unscathed. There was a message on the machine from Hy: “Just wanted to let you know my ETA tomorrow—four p.m. See you then.” Pause. “Does your absence indicate you’ve been ‘sucked in’ by the Perez murder?”

  Damn! He knew me all too well.

  But sucked in I was—and with official sanction. I curled up in the armchair in the living room and listened to the tape I’d made of Kristen Lark’s confidences.

  Haley and Rich Three Wings ran off nine years ago, ended up in Reno. He dealt blackjack at Harrah’s, she worked someplace as a waitress, but pretty quick she started turning tricks on the side. . . .

  Around three years after they got to Reno, this high roller came to the casino. Hayley was waitressing there by then, and next thing she ran off with the guy, leaving Rich with only his old car and the clothes on his back. . . .

  No, we haven’t found out who the high roller was. Rich claims he doesn’t know. We’ve got an inquiry in to the casino, though. . . .

  That’s another thing we don’t know—where she was during the period between when she left Reno and three years ago when she turned up in Vegas. Living off the high roller, no doubt, but it didn’t last. . . .

  In Vegas, she worked cocktails in a casino—the Lucky Sevens. Kind of downscale and dingy, LVPD says. So she went out on the streets again, got busted a few times, but always brought in a high-powered attorney who got the charges dropped. . . .

  How could she afford the lawyer? Damned if we know. . . .

  Name’s Brower. Frank Brower. With a big firm that’s rumored to be connected—Brower, Price and Coleman. Of course, everybody in Vegas is rumored to be connected. . . .

  No, we haven’t been able to get hold of him. He’s on a cruise, or some damn thing. . . .

  Yeah, we checked out the address on Hayley’s driver’s license. A mail drop. We’ve got no idea where she was living in Vegas. . . .

  Apparently nobody here knew she was back in town, except for that insurance agent you told me about. And Boz Sheppard. And maybe Amy. We’ve questioned everybody, including Rich Three Wings and her high-school boyfriend, Tom Mathers. . . .

  Here’s something: you might take another crack at Three Wings. I mean, he might open up more to you. . . .

  I turned off the recorder. When, I wondered, would people stop assuming that because you’re Indian, other Indians will feel a natural connection with you? There are hundreds of tribes in this country; historically some have been mortal enemies, and today they’re squabbling over gaming rights. It’s like saying any American ethnic group—be it blacks, Chinese, Italians, Irish, Japanese, or Germans—is drawn together because of its background. Ridiculous. The Scotch-Irish family who adopted me at birth frequently fought like they were out to kill each other. Still do, sometimes.

  But what the hell, in the morning I’d take a crack at Rich Three Wings. Tom Mathers, too.

  It was the least I could do for the sake of the Perez family, I told myself.

  Well, yes, for their sake, but also for my own. Cases change both the investigated and the investigator. Maybe one last effort would show me the way to the new life I was reaching for. It wouldn’t be any worse than dreaming of trying to climb out of a deep, dark pit.

  Elk Lake was a small, placid body of water surrounded by forest, some twenty miles southwest of Vernon. Dirt roads led into clearings where rustic cabins stood. Many of them had cutesy names: Gone Fishin’, Bide a Wee Longer, My Lady and the Lake. Rich Three Wings’ had no such sign and was one of the shabbier: warped shingles, sagging roofbeam, rusted stovepipe. A large prefab garage sat next to it, and an old International Harvester truck was pulled close to its side. From the rear I could hear the sound of someone chopping wood.

  I rounded the cabin, and a spectacular view of the lake opened up: close to shore waterfowl swam and dove for food, far out two fishermen floated in their rowboat, the opposite shore was rimmed by tall pines. The scene was so peaceful that it stood out in sharp contrast to the man wielding the axe.

  Wide-shouldered and narrow-waisted, he was without a shirt on this chilly day, and the muscles in his back were strong and sculpted. He attacked the log as if it were an enemy, with hard, rhythmic strokes and frequent animal-like grunts. He didn’t hear me approach until I was halfway to him, and then he whirled, axe upheld. I stopped, braced to run.

  “Rich Three Wings?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Who’re you?” His face was beaded with sweat, his long black hair trapped in a damp red bandana.

  I introduced myself, taking out one of my business cards. He lowered the axe and leaned it against a larger log. At that I covered the rest of the distance between us and handed the card to him.

  “I’m working in cooperation with the sheriff’s department on the Hayley Perez case,” I added.

  He looked at the card, then crushed it in his large fist. His face twitched, as if he felt a sudden pain.

  He asked, “They send you on acco
unt of you’re Indian too?”

  “That was the general idea.”

  “And you don’t like it.”

  “I hate it. And so do you.”

  He studied me for a moment, then nodded, having made a judgment. “Come inside, we’ll drink some coffee.” When I hesitated, he added, “I’m harmless. I didn’t kill Hayley and I’m sure as hell not gonna do anything to you.”

  No, he wasn’t. That much I sensed. As to whether he’d killed his ex-wife I couldn’t hazard a guess yet.

  I followed him to the cabin and into a spotlessly neat room with beautifully hewn wooden furnishings and woven rugs like the ones we had at the ranch. Rich Three Wings noticed my surprise and said, “Appearances can be deceiving, huh?”

  “I’ll say. This is beautiful.”

  “Thanks. Have a seat.” He motioned at a small table that gleamed with polish and shrugged into a sweatshirt that was draped on a chair. “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Black.”

  “Me too.” He went through a doorway, returned with two pottery mugs. “This place, I inherited it from my grandfather, who was a real traditional guy. Material possessions didn’t mean a thing to him.”

  “Sounds like my . . . father.” I still couldn’t call Elwood Farmer my father without hesitation. “He’s an artist and lives very simply on the Flathead rez in Montana.”

  “You born there?”

  “No. It’s complicated. This furniture . . .” I motioned around us.

  “I made it. I’ve got a shop in the garage. And the rugs—my girlfriend weaves them. Between the two of us we do pretty well, sell on the Internet and a few shops down in Sacramento and the city.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “But that’s not what you came here to talk about. Your card says investigative services, and the county sent you.”

  “I’m a friend of the Perez family, but the deputy in charge of the case said it was okay to talk with you.”

  “How’re you their friend? I haven’t seen you around.”

  I explained my relationship with Ramon and Sara.

  “Ripinsky’s wife. I’ll be damned. He was my hero, back when I was in high school. Real rabble-rouser, but the good kind. If it hadn’t been for him, Tufa Lake’d be nothing but mud and crumbling towers by now.” He paused. “So what d’you want to know about Hayley?”

  “Why don’t you give me a chronology of your relationship with her.”

  “Okay. She was in high school. Dating this asshole, Tom Mathers. I’d come back from a stint in the army; I’m six years older than her. I’d seen her around while I was growing up, but didn’t pay her much notice. Then we met at a party. Mathers passed out in the bathroom, so I took her home. She told me how much she hated it here, one thing led to another, and a few weeks later we were on the road to Reno to get married.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. Crappy little wedding chapel, plastic flowers, JP and his wife were both weird. That kind of start, it’s natural the wedding vows didn’t take. Plus we didn’t have much money and fought about it all the time. Three years later she split and I decided to come home. I couldn’t take the crap I had to deal with at the casino and this place was waiting for me.”

  “Kristen Lark told me Hayley was hooking.”

  “Yeah, she was. I should’ve realized it, but I didn’t—not till it was too late.”

  “I understand she took off with a high roller, but you don’t know his name.”

  “I just told Lark that to keep the guy from getting in trouble. I mean, he couldn’t’ve cared enough about Hayley to follow her here and kill her. His name was Jack Buckle. From someplace in the Pacific Northwest. I should’ve guessed what was going on with them, but I never thought . . . well, Hayley was not in this guy’s class at all.”

  “How so?”

  “He was rich, smart, and seemed educated. Hayley was just a small-town slut. I know that now, but at the time I was blind in love with her. But a lot of these rich guys, they either don’t care or don’t look farther than the end of their dicks.”

  “Did you hear from her again?”

  “Only through the divorce papers six months later. By then I’d come back here, started woodworking. After that I never gave a thought to Hayley.” He paused. “Well, that’s not true. I thought about her some, sure. I hated her for what she did to me, but when I met Cammie—my weaver girlfriend—and things started working out with us, I cooled down.”

  “You didn’t look so cooled down when I got here earlier.”

  He clasped his hands around the coffee mug, looked into its depths. “Yeah, well, when somebody you once loved is murdered—no matter how much bad they did to you—you get angry. I take my anger out on logs, not people.”

  “And you didn’t know Hayley was back in Vernon?”

  “No way. I’m pretty isolated out here. I make a point of going to town only when I need to. Maybe Cammie knew; she lives in Vernon, spends the weekends here, working on her loom in the shop. But if she did, she didn’t tell me.”

  “I’d like to talk to Cammie.”

  “I’m sure she won’t mind. She works part time at the flower shop in town. In fact, she should be there this morning.”

  There was only one flower shop in Vernon—Petals, on the main street two doors down from Hobo’s. When I walked in I breathed deeply of the fresh and fragrant scents; although a bell rang as I passed through the door, no one appeared, so I studied the simple arrangements in the cold case. Roses, carnations, the usual types. Not much variety, but they probably had little call for anything out of the ordinary.

  As I was examining a shelf of houseplants, a woman came through a curtained doorway. She was around thirty, blonde, wearing red-rimmed glasses and a sweater to match. Dimples flashed when she smiled.

  “Help you?”

  “Are you Cammie?”

  “That’s right. Cammie Charles. And you are?”

  I gave my name, handed her my card, and said, “I just had coffee with Rich Three Wings. He said you might be able to help me out.”

  “Sure. What d’you need?”

  “Information. I’m cooperating with the sheriff’s department on the Hayley Perez case.”

  A shadow crept into her gray eyes. “Poor woman. Rich was really upset when he heard she’d been murdered. I mean, they’d had some bad times, but she was his first love.”

  “He didn’t know she was in town. Did you?”

  Her gaze slid away from mine, down to an open book of FTD offerings. “Yeah, I did. Bud Smith mentioned it to me when we ran into each other on the street. I figured it was best not to tell Richie.”

  “Why?”

  “Selfishness, mainly. I didn’t want him to see her and maybe get involved again. She was so pretty. . . .”

  “You knew her, then?”

  “No. I’m not from around here. I came up from the Bay Area for a vacation, met Richie, and never left. But Hayley came into the shop a couple of weeks ago—the day after Bud was here—to order a funeral arrangement to be sent FTD. I recognized her name from her credit card. She’s not as pretty as the picture of her I found in a box at Richie’s place, but still . . .”

  “You have a record of that sale?”

  “Somewhere. Is it important?”

  “Might be.”

  “Okay.” She rummaged in a drawer under the counter for an order book and paged through it. “Here it is—Jack Buckle, address in Olympia, Washington.”

  Jack Buckle sounded very much alive when I called the phone number from the flower shop’s order form. Amused, too.

  “Hayley’s idea of a joke,” he told me. “She’s sent me a funeral arrangement each year on the anniversary of the death of our relationship. I pass them on to the local cemetery.”

  “So you broke up on October . . . ?”

  “October nineteenth, three years and some months after she came up here with me.”

  “And you’ve received an arrangement every year since?”<
br />
  “The first arrived five days after the split. But why does your flower shop need that kind of information?”

  I hadn’t told him I was a flower shop employee, had just given him my name. Now I explained myself.

  “Hayley’s dead? Murdered?” He sounded genuinely shocked.

  “Yes, Mr. Buckle. I’m sorry.”

  “. . . Poor kid. She was a whore, and greedy like they all are, but she didn’t deserve that.”

  “Tell me more about her.”

  “Let’s see. . . . I was in Reno for an annual high-stakes poker game at a friend’s home. Hayley was serving catered food from the casino to us. Pretty little thing, and afterwards I asked her to come back to my hotel with me. In the course of things she told me that she was with this guy who abused her, that she hated Reno and wanted to get out. So I said, why didn’t she come along home with me? When I took her to their apartment she packed her stuff in fifteen minutes. I brought her back here to Olympia and we had fun till the fun ended.”

  “And why did it end?”

  “Like I said, whores are greedy. She behaved for a couple of years, acted like a lady even, but I caught her sneaking cash from my wallet. As if I wasn’t footing the bill for everything and also generous with an allowance. Finally, my maid told me Hayley’d been going through my home office, probably looking for the combination to the safe, and practicing signing my signature so she could forge checks.”

  “So you threw her out.”

  “No, ma’am. I politely told her to leave and asked her where she wanted to go. To tell the truth, I felt sorry for the kid; she’d had a miserable upbringing. I didn’t want to throw her onto the streets with nothing. She said she guessed she’d go to Vegas. So I bought her a plane ticket and gave her a little money to tide her over till she found a job—or another man. She must’ve done all right on one front or the other, because this year’s funeral arrangement was an expensive one.”

  “Do you know an attorney in Vegas, Frank Brower, of Brower, Price and Coleman?”

  “I’ve heard of him, but I’ve never made his acquaintance.”