by Pamela Cowan
She shut the door behind her and followed him down a short hallway that opened to a combination living room and office. In one corner a river rock wall and hearth held a large woodstove. Through a small window she could see flames dancing across a trio of logs, pouring heat into the room. A couple of recliners faced the woodstove and the small television perched on a TV table nearby. The biggest roll top desk she’d ever seen sat against a back wall that was covered from floor to ceiling with ribbons. She couldn’t help but stare.
“Horses,” he said. “Quarter horses. Cutting horses, barrel horses. My wife and I trained and showed them.”
“And you won a lot,” Emma said, not failing to notice that most of the ribbons were blue.
“I did.”
“You must have loved it.”
“We did. Mostly because the sheep and cattle wars are still not over and being a sheep raiser who had the best horses . . . Well, I guess you can figure it out.”
Emma smiled. This old man, with his direct gaze and obvious sense of humor, was someone she could fall heavily in like with. “I’d like to ask you some questions about your truck,” she said, as she took one of the recliners he indicated.
“My truck?” he asked, a frown forming between his eyes. “Why she’s in the shop. I got in an accident out on the highway Saturday. T-boned. My front fender got shoved clean into my tire. Tore it to hell. Put a good dent in the door and along where the gas fill is too. Big mess. So why do you need to know about my truck.”
“Well, it’s the strangest thing, but the morning Mr. Keller was killed, Sunday morning, your truck was seen going through town heading this way.”
Harry shook his head. “No, can’t be. She’s been in the shop since she got towed Saturday. Tow truck got here about the same time as the ambulance. I remember that clear as day.”
“Is it possible someone has a truck like yours”
“Like Maggie? I don’t believe so. She’s pretty special. You know that old song by Johnny Cash, the one that goes, ‘I got it one piece at a time, and it didn’t cost me a dime.’ Well, that song is about a man who works at a car factory and decides to steal one piece at a time and build himself a car. Only he does it over a lot of years so the parts don’t exactly match up right. That’s kind of Maggie’s story.”
“I guess that explains why the bed and cab are different colors.” suggested Emma.
“Exactly. I’m pretty sure the driver door is cursed. This’ll be her third. Her tailgate and bumper aren’t original either, but only car nuts notice that.” He gave Emma another of his smiles. “So who said they saw my truck on Sunday?”
Emma hesitated, then realized in a town the size of Muddy Creek he’d have no trouble finding out.
“It was Audie, down at the Chevron Station,” she admitted. The admission had her a little worried. She didn’t want him mad at Audie. She also wondered if it was a trick question. His way of seeing whether she’d protect a source or be a rat. She was relieved when his response told her there was no double meaning to his question.
“Oh sure, she’d be in a good position to see most folks going through town. Gal puts in the hours too. Seems like no matter what time I go down there she’s the one working. Don’t know what her story is though. Hasn’t been there long.”
He sat musing about Audie until Emma said, “She does seem nice, and she’s very attractive.”
Harry sat back and slapped his thigh with his good hand, then winced. “Good try, but even if I was twenty years younger she wouldn’t be for me. Men always got a type, and she’s the only type I ever had.” He swept his hand toward the mantel above the fireplace.
Emma noticed a row of photographs that changed, left to right, from black and white to color. In each one the same attractive dark-haired woman with huge brown eyes and generous lips stared at the camera. In each, her expression was both playful and sensual, as if she’d just teased the watcher and was about to run away laughing, but at the same time expected to be followed.
Emma looked at Harry and he looked quickly down and adjusted the cuff on his bad arm.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a sling?” she asked, diverting both of them from the moment of raw emotion that had crossed Harry’s face. Emma knew too well how painful it could be to share such things.
“They gave me a sling, yes. but I broke my collarbone as well as dislocating my elbow and it hurts to wear the dang thing.”
“Oh, I thought you broke your arm. I guess a dislocated elbow must hurt just as bad.”
“Yeah, but they have good drugs in the hospital and it’s getting better. Long as I don’t bang into anything it’s okay. Just funny that the fix for the elbow makes the collarbone worse.”
There’s a saying in my family, ‘The universe has a sense of humor, but it’s always ironic.”
“There’s a saying by Woody Allen, ‘If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.’ “said Harry with a chuckle. “I guess he agreed with your family.”
“I guess so.”
“Now, back to Audie seeing my truck. It’s a real puzzler.”
“Could someone have brought it out here? Maybe someone from the shop who wanted to talk to you about the damage or—?” Emma shrugged. She knew her suggestion was unlikely but she had no other ideas.
“On Sunday? Don’t seem likely. Like I said, it was pretty smashed up. Quick way to figure it out though.” He leaned forward, reached into a back pocket and brought out his cell phone.
Emma internally chastised herself for her ageism. Harry having a cell phone, instead of a landline, had surprised her. Obviously she thought older people were stuck in a time loop. Shame on her.
“The name of the shop is, My Bodyshop. Hard to forget. They’re in my most recent list. Here they are.”
He punched a button and Emma could hear the muffled ringing as the phone called out.
“Hello, this is Harry Olstad, I’m calling to check on my truck. Yes, that’s the one. Right. Yes, that’s right, Ingot Silver. No. No. That’s fine. Just wanted to check. Say, did one of your guys bring the truck out last week? Muddy Creek. No, I didn’t ask . . . Yes, I understand. Of course. No, that’s fine. I’ll wait for your call. Thanks.” He hung up.
“That sounded like a no.”
“I think they think I’m a doddering old fart whose mind is going.”
He said this with a wide grin, so Emma knew he didn’t care what they thought.
“The man who answered said that they will occasionally test drive cars in the area of the shop but never as far out as Muddy Creek. Also, the body work was finished today and Maggie is sitting outside the paint bay awaiting her turn. The insurance is popping for a paint job for the whole truck, so why not,” he explained.
“The mystery continues,” said Emma. “Well, I’m sorry I bothered you. Guess I’d better get going.”
“I’m sorry. I’m a bad host. I’ll blame it on the pain pills. I should have offered you a cup of coffee or something.”
Emma enjoyed his company but the heat, so welcome when she’d first entered his tidy home, had become hard to bear so she said, “Oh no, that’s fine. I’ve had plenty today. I spent some time chatting with your neighbor, Mrs. Mackie, and she had a pot going.”
“Norma gave you coffee, and you’re not shaking like a leaf? Must have a good constitution.”
Emma nodded, remembering the strong coffee Emma served. “I never believed that expression, “so strong you could stand a spoon up in it,” until I had her coffee.”
“I think that saying was written specifically for Norma’s coffee.” Harry joked. “I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here again. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ll bet Jelly found your card and note and put them somewhere. He’s been taking care of the place while I couldn't.”
“Jelly? Is he the one some people call Charles?”
“Sure is. That’s his actual name, but when I met him he said people call him Jelly, so I have. Jelly,” he scoffed. “Awful nicknam
e. Meant to ask him about how he came to get it, but he’s not much of a talker.”
“So he’s been here,” Emma said, excited to gain another bit of information. “He’s been taking care of your place since when, Saturday, Sunday?”
“Oh, I didn’t call anybody Saturday. They knocked me out like a light. Sunday is when I called. Early Sunday morning. Jelly said he had to run his wife to work but he’d come out and take care of things when he got back. He’s an early riser, they both are. I’ve had to deal with night owls all my life and let me tell you, it’s a relief to be able to call someone in the morning and know you're not waking them up.”
Emma gave what she hoped was a sympathetic smile, then said. “I guess I should get going. You should probably get some rest.”
Harry shrugged, then winced again.
“And maybe some of those pills. It was nice meeting you. I hope you feel better soon.”
“Don’t you worry. They haven’t got me just yet.”
They stood and Emma said, “Do you mind?” She gestured toward Harry’s loose sleeve. He smiled and held his arm out. Emma carefully rolled up the sleeve he hadn’t been able to.
“You’d make a fine nurse,” he told her.
“I’d rather be a fine investigator,” she told him.
“Bedpans?” he asked, humor shining in his eyes.
“Bedpans,” she agreed.
After waving goodbye and driving away from the Olstad place, Emma decided it was time to do as she’d planned. Go back to Muddy Creek and start talking to anyone she could find. There were several questions she wanted to have answered and some things she needed to verify.
First though, she’d make a quick stop at what she was starting to think of as Audie’s store. She was in desperate need of a bottle of water and some mints to kill the bitter aftertaste of Norma’s poisonous coffee.
Leaving her car at the gas station, she headed on foot down Main Street. Though she stopped at every store, cafe, and business her only win was when she talked to the manager of the community center. He was the elderly man with braids who she’d noticed before. All he could offer was that he’d seen Harry Olstad’s truck Sunday morning. Confirmation was good but something new would have been better.
Once she got back to her car she sat back and thought about what her next steps should be.
Online at her office, she’d found Willy’s address easily. When she’d looked at the place using satellite imagery it became obvious how isolated it was. Tracking down a possible killer in the middle of nowhere didn’t seem smart. Instead, she pulled out the map to Jansen’s Mill Audie had drawn for her. It wasn’t very far away.
Spotting the turn off, Emma drove off the highway onto the shoulder of the road a little too quickly and felt her tires slide. She touched the brakes and the car slowed and straightened.
The dirt road to Jansen's Mill was rutted and uncared for making her glad she drove a Jeep. Although it wasn’t so rough she had to use the four wheel drive, the extra clearance was useful. Pulling into the driveway of the first house, she got out and looked around cautiously. The neighborhood looked as sketchy as Audie had described. Maybe she should have brought someone with her, at the very least someone to be a lookout for dogs. It was definitely Pitbull territory.
Crossing to the door of the old single-wide trailer which seemed to be rusting slowly away, she knocked. An elderly man came to the door and stared out at her with bloodshot eyes before barking, “What?”
“I’m trying to find Leena, but I don’t know which house is hers. I was hoping you could help me.”
He rolled his chew from one side of his jaw to the other, turned his head and spit. Emma gave him her brightest smile.
He jabbed his thumb to the left and said, “Two houses down.” Then he shut the door and Emma heard the trailer creak as he walked away.
Getting back in her car she drove to the house he’d indicated. It too was a worn single-wide mobile home, it’s paint peeling, revealing raw metal beneath.
Climbing the rickety makeshift cinder-brick porch, she knocked on the door. A woman opened it. She was thin, and wore a t-shirt over pajama bottoms and dirty panda slippers. She said nothing, just stood in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at Emma.
“Hi,” Emma said, feeling awkward. “Are you Leena Keene?”
“Who are you?” was the woman’s reply.
“My name’s Emma Richland, I’m a private investigator from Hollis.” She reached in her purse, pulled out a business card and handed it to the woman, who took it gingerly, as if it might be too hot to touch. Then she read it, her lips moving.
Looking up, she said, “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Willy Keene. I’d like to ask him some questions.”
“About what?” She pushed up the sleeve of her sweater and scratched her forearm.
Emma noticed the small red scabs on her arms, the deep set eyes. She looked sick, like someone going through a final round of chemo, but the pick marks and a missing canine said it was a different kind of drug that was slowly killing her.
There was a noise inside the trailer. The woman turned her head then turned back to Emma. “He’s not here.”
“I didn’t think he was here. I just need to reach him and thought you might have his phone number.”
“Hey Bonnie, do we got Willy’s phone number?” She called into the trailer. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned back to Emma and said, “I don’t think we got it.”
“That’s too bad. I’d give you . . .” Emma reached in her pocket and dug out all the cash she had, twenty three dollars and a bit of change. “I’d give you twenty-three dollars if you could find it.”
The woman took a step back, said, “One minute,” and went into the house, shutting the door behind her. A moment later she returned with a piece of lined paper torn from a notebook. On it had been penciled a phone number. “Here it is,” she said, holding the paper against her chest.
Emma got the message and held out the money. The woman took it and handed Emma the triangle of paper. “That’s the number he gave my daughter. Should be good.”
“Thank you,” Emma said, relieved that their interaction was at an end. The woman gave her the creeps and she didn’t want to think about the conditions any daughter of hers was living in. She wondered how old the girl was. Maybe she should call someone when she got to town. She’d found family for foster kids and still had a couple acquaintances in social services who might be able to help.
Heading slowly back down the bumpy road, Emma thought about what she’d learned. Though she had a better idea of the time her suspects had been seen, and the direction they were traveling, that information told her very little. Instead there were additional mysteries.
Rose Jamison had lied about her husband being out of town. Why would she do that? What was she hiding? How could Harry Olstad’s truck have been seen on Sunday if it was in the shop? Did someone have a truck similar to his? Was that person the killer?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Friday, September 14
After leaving his father’s place, Willy went home and slept in his own bed. He slept hard but woke suddenly, a dream of falling startling him from his sleep. He sat up, rubbed his hands across his face, noticed he needed to shave.
When he’d pulled up to his cabin yesterday afternoon the scattered sheds and shops that held his trade goods had never looked more pathetic. Wind had torn the side off of his greenhouse and the cold had taken care of his sad little marijuana patch. Inside the cabin, he took off the top of the cookie jar and dug out the cash he kept there. He counted it twice. One hundred and eighteen dollars. With the money in his pocket he was just short of one fifty. That wouldn’t get him very far. Certainly not far enough to start a new life.
His father’s words came back to him. “They catch you they’ll cage you for the rest of your life.” He went outside and looked around, for what he thought might be the last time. The wind brought him the smell
of pine and something that hinted of snow. His cabin stood at the end of a barely used road, its edges fading into wildness. A squirrel scampered up a nearby tree. Beyond it he could see mountains, one after another rising up all shades of blue gray until they faded into mist. The sky was so blue it made his eyes tear up. Clouds as thin as torn tissue raced endlessly above.
Being locked in a cage, especially for something he never did. That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. He suddenly remembered the bottle of gin someone had traded him long ago. He didn’t like gin, but he went in and found it under the sink, took a swig. It made him cough but it wasn’t that bad.
He grabbed an old duffle bag and started shoving clothes into it. Tossed it in the cab. He wandered around, packing tools, things he thought he might be able to pawn easily. Then he tied a tarp across the whole mess. By the time he finished ratcheting down the last strap the gin was half gone and he was staggering just a bit. He screwed the top down, slipped the bottle onto the front seat, hidden under his bag but within reach.
The whole time he’d been getting ready to run his mind had frantically leaped from one impossible solution to another.
He needed money. That was the main thing. He considered robbing The Banker. There was a sweet satisfaction in that idea. He thought through the whole thing. How he’d drive up, bust into the truck, cut the lock on the safe, take the bundle of cash. There were probably thousands in there.
Then he remembered the razor wire, the hidden traps. Mostly he remembered his father’s stern expression and the one time he’d seen him deal with a thief. Willy couldn’t forget the man fumbling to get in his car, his shirt wrapped around his hand, blood dripping on his jeans as he managed to start the car and get the hell out of there.
Two of the man’s fingers had been sitting on top of the chopping block near the wood pile for days, until Willy had gingerly scooped them up with a shovel and buried them.
For a moment, he let himself drift into a fantasy where he held a gun on his father and commanded him to get the money. He’d take it, then order his dad to get on the porch before slowly backing to his truck and driving away.