Cold Dish (10 page)

“Why?”

“Short-range weapon did the deed, no way you could sneak up on somebody out there. I’d hazard to guess that there aren’t many hunters looking to shoot pronghorn or mule deer with a 12 gauge. And there are some things that just don’t make sense.”

He stirred the contents of the pitcher. “Powder burns.”

She was following, but I figured I should explain the details. “When you shoot a shotgun at any range . . .” I paused and weighed the next question. “You know what a shotgun is?”

Her eyes stayed steady to show no offense. “My father used to shoot skeet.”

“Right. Well, this is looking like a rifled slug.”

“Slug. Doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“It’s not. Slugs basically convert shotguns into oversize rifles with enough power to crack automobile engine blocks.”

“Why would somebody want to shoot somebody with something like that?”

“Emphasis.”

It rumbled in his chest, and I wondered about all the people who would consider it a good thing that the world was shed of Cody Pritchard. “Cody wasn’t exactly beloved by the . . .” I gave him a sidelong glance. “Indian community.”

She placed a hand on the counter to get his attention. “It’s not Indian anymore, it’s Native American. Right, Bear?” She nodded for confirmation.

He looked up and pursed his lips sagely. “That is right.” He turned his head toward me ever so slightly. “You must learn to be more responsive to Native American sensibilities.”

Bastard. “The problem is the slug decreases the range of an already relatively short-range weapon.”

“But wasn’t he shot in the back?”

“Yep, but you’d still have to get close.”

“Could he have been drunk or asleep?”

“Drunk, certainly.” Henry wandered over to look at the blobs moving in the television. I had forgotten about the game. “Even with the complications of extensive tissue damage, his posture was likely erect. And since Henry was the last to serve him food and see him alive, I can take his word that Cody was at least capable of driving his truck and walking.”

She turned her stool. “You saw him last?”

He stared at the television screen, his arms crossed. “Do not ask me how I can tell, Walt, but I think your team is winning.”

She turned back to look at me, then back to him again. “Bear, have I said something wrong?”

“No, you did not say anything wrong . . . We will just say that I was the next to last person to see Mr. Pritchard alive.” He smiled to himself and crossed back to the counter. “Sangria, anybody?” He poured the liquid into three tall glasses and handed one to each of us. “How about a toast?” He raised his glass. “Here is to the three thousand one hundred that get away.”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.”

I looked into the big, brown eyes with wisps of butterscotch slipping by. “To Doctor Zhivago.”

 

The game was uneventful and, as near as we could tell, the Broncos won by two field goals. By six-thirty we had dispatched the casserole, and Henry had made excuses that he had to go check on the bar. At the moment, I was massaging Vonnie’s foot from the opposite stool, with the gentle warmth of what remained of the sangria seeping into every relaxing muscle in my body. It had been one of those spectacular Wyoming sunsets, the ones everybody thinks only happen in an
Arizona Highways
magazine. Broiling waves of small bonfires leapt on top of one another as far as the horizon with injured purples drifting in multilayered, frozen sheets back to the skyline.

“So, I didn’t hurt his feelings?”

“No, I can guarantee that wasn’t it.” Her toenails were burgundy; the color matched the sangria, and I figured she had them done in Denver on a regular basis.

“You must know him best?”

I thought about what knowing Henry Standing Bear best meant and that that opened up a lot of country. “I don’t know about best.” I paused for a moment, but it wasn’t enough for her. “About ten years ago we were over in Sturgis for that motorcycle fiasco that they have every year. They put out this desperate plea for assistance and, if you’re an off-duty police officer, you can make a lot of money in one weekend. I was saving for Cady, to get her a car, and figured an extra thousand wouldn’t hurt. Henry hadn’t ever been over for the big wingding, so he decided to tag along. So, we’re sitting there at this little greasy spoon near the motorcycle museum the morning after, and I’m telling Henry that if I ever get this bright idea again to just slap me in the back of the head with a stilson wrench. That’s when this Indian fellow . . .”

“Native American.”

“. . . This Native American walks over to our table and just stands there. He’s a big guy like Henry, and I’m quickly running through the faces I’ve locked up for DUI, public indecency, aggravated assault, reckless endangerment, and jaywalking that weekend alone. I’m not making any connections, but the longer I look at this guy’s face, the more I’m sure that I’ve seen him somewhere before. That’s when Henry stops chewing his bacon, still looking at his plate, and says, ‘How have you been?’ I’m looking at this guy like never before, but damned if I can make the reach. He’s good-looking, maybe thirty, but he’s got a lot of miles on him. The guy says, ‘Good. You?’ I look at Henry and all he says is, ‘Cannot complain.’ You know how he never uses contractions. Well, the fellow just stands there for another minute, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it. Then he says, ‘Who’d listen? ’ And with this he just kind of turns and glides out of the place. I’m watching him walk out, and it hits me. He walks just like Henry. I turn to look at him and start to speak, but he cuts me off. ‘Halfbrother. ’ And that’s all he says. Come to find out, he hasn’t talked to the guy in fifteen years. As far as I know, he hasn’t talked to him since.”

She looked puzzled. “Big falling out?”

“Who the hell knows?” I squeezed her foot and leaned back on my stool. “I don’t think you hurt his feelings. I think it’s just a lack of windmills.” She laughed. “That, and probably there’s a part of Henry that wishes he had done it.”

“You’re joking?”

I wished mildly I hadn’t brought it up, because it was going to be hard to explain. “Nope.”

“You really think he’s capable of something like that?”

“I think under certain circumstances, everybody’s capable of doing something like that.”

She exchanged feet, tucking the other one under her, and thought for a moment. “I guess I don’t, but then I haven’t seen all the things you’ve seen.” Her eyes held steady as they met mine. “Is there part of you that wishes you’d done it?”

I thought for a moment, but she had me. “Yep, I guess there is a vicious little part of me that does.”

I looked out the front window and watched the big cottonwood at the end of my road sway in the breeze that had just come up. It wasn’t bone cold, but it would be by the end of the night. Probably in the teens, and I could see the frost on the windows even though it wasn’t there. Winter was almost here, and I had to start remembering to look for the fall.

She seemed lost in thought too, staring at my hands that were wrapped around her foot; but as long as I didn’t give it back, she had to stay. “Well, since we’re sort of telling our deepest, darkest secrets . . .” She trapped her lower lip in her teeth, let it slide out slowly, and continued, “When Cady was trying to fix us up a few years ago?” I waited. “I think a little part of me really was kind of hoping that it would work out.” She paused. “I’m telling you this because I don’t want to be sending mixed signals.”

I was getting a sinking feeling, but I still held on to the foot.

“I just don’t want to get moving too fast. The last relationship I was in was not a good one, and I think a lot of it had to do with the fact that I was in too much of a hurry.” Her eyes dulled and the angles on her face flattened and grew sad. “I think there was an awful lot about him that I thought I knew, but the truth was I was just coloring in the missing parts with colors I liked.” Her eyes sharpened again when she looked at me. “I can’t afford that with you; I like you too much.”

“Thank you.” I still wasn’t giving up the foot. “What if you don’t like the way I look when I sleep with my mouth open?”

We both laughed. “I’m willing to take that chance.”

I sniffed and bit my own lip. “Vonnie . . .”

She did her best Gene Tierney. “Walter?” We laughed again.

“Don’t let this lusty, youthful appearance fool you. I’m not seventeen anymore, and I don’t have the expectations of a seventeen-year-old.” I took the last sip of my sangria. “I, uh . . .” I cleared my throat and forged ahead. “At least you had a last relationship . . .” I cleared my throat again. “I haven’t had any relationships since Martha died. Talk about pushing a virtue to vice . . .”

And to my absolute shock, her eyes welled and a single tear streaked like lightning across her face. I fought back the sudden burning in my own eyes and squeezed her foot. It was a fine foot, long and narrow with toes that looked like fingers. Aristocratic, as feet go. My mother used to say it was a sign of royalty; that, and eating one thing on your plate at a time. I’m not sure how much royalty my mother ever met and whether she ever got to break bread with them or examine their feet, but she felt strongly about things. It’s a family trait.

I took one of my calloused paws and drew the soft part on the back across her cheek, smearing the seawater to her hairline. She sobbed a broken sob and pulled at a loose strand of hair, tucking it behind an ear, and then caught my hand. She placed it on her knee. She wasn’t a small woman, but it took both hands to conceal my one. She pushed my knuckles apart, stretching the fingers around her calf and securing them there. She seemed like a child, satisfied with her work. Pulling back, her fingers spread to examine her creation, she smiled through the contractions of her diaphragm. I wanted her more than anything in the world. I set my jaw and just looked. It was more than enough.

 

I drove her home through the fog that crept off Piney Creek, which was desperate to find its way through to the Clear and, in turn, the Powder. One stream started in the high reaches of the Bighorn Wilderness Area, at the very top of Cloud Peak, dropping a couple of thousand feet to shoot past Lake Desmet through the valley of the Lower Piney and making a left at Vonnie’s house. The other flexed its hydraulic muscles from Powder River Pass to the south, widening like a river at the flats through Durant till it met its lover about a half mile from my place. The small patches of snow were melting in the last warmth of the day’s heat before the night could get a firm grasp, and the low-lying fog was like riding on clouds.

I shifted gears, making the turn at Crossroads, and looked down 16 toward the Red Pony. The lights were on, and I thought about my friend, patiently listening to another drunk telling another drunken story about getting drunk. Vonnie moaned a little and then readjusted her head. I put my hand on her shoulder, and she snuggled under my sheepskin coat, her legs curled up in the passenger seat. I listened to the heat blowing through the vents, the hum of the big V-10, and thought back.

She argued at first, but the sangria and the emotional impact had layered her with fatigue. She was surprisingly light, and I was surprisingly smart enough to open the truck door before I carried her out. I figured she could get a ride back over the next day to get her little red Jeep or send somebody over.

It took about ten minutes to get to her place, and I didn’t pass another vehicle the whole way. I had the feeling I was involved in some sort of clandestine operation as I pulled through the wrought-iron gates. Tucked in a hillside in Portugee Gulch, I was impressed by the size of the place. Cady had told me all about Vonnie’s house, about the indoor pool, spiral staircases, massive stone fireplaces, and statuary everywhere you looked. It wasn’t the usual big box log house; instead, it looked like it had started out at a reasonable size and geometrically evolved as Vonnie’s lifestyle had developed. As a reflection, I wondered where her lifestyle was headed.

I pulled the Bullet up to the front door of the largest part. A number of movement-activated halogen lamps came on, but there were no lights in any other part of the house. I climbed out and went to the door; roughly four thousand dollars for a highly intricate, electric home-defense system, and it was unlocked. It was a large Spanish-style one that clicked solidly and opened to reveal an expansive living room with numerous leather sofas. I figured she could sleep on one of them for the night. I went back outside and got her, carefully easing her through the doorway and down the three steps that led to the larger part of the room. The walls were an oversanded plaster that looked like they had been done and redone by numerous old-world crafts-men. Three archways led toward an elevated dining room that overlooked a pool in the back, and the Saltillo tile gleamed with the luster of polished mahogany. There were paintings on all the walls, mostly abstracts, and I felt like I lived in one of my cardboard boxes.

I placed her onto the largest of the sofas and arranged her head on one of the Indian-blanket pillows. I was at a loss as to what to do next, thinking I should leave a note or something, finally deciding that my coat was enough. I pulled the scruffy, sheepskin monstrosity up around her chin and kneeled there, looking at her. She truly was an exquisite female and a remarkable thing to take in, even with the little furrows that now crowded the bridge of her nose; it was probably the smell of the coat. I stood and backed toward the door, sad to see the evening come to a close. I was feeling very tender, and I didn’t know how long it would be before I felt that way again. Then I saw him.

About halfway across the elevated dining room in the archway to the left, he stood looking at me. He hadn’t made a sound as we pulled up, hadn’t made a sound when I opened the door, not even when I brought her in and laid her on the sofa. That’s what worried me. Here, at Portugee Gulch amid the fog of Piney Creek, stood the Hound of the Baskervilles. She hadn’t said anything about having a dog. He must have weighed close to 155 pounds, most of it chest and head. The yellow reflection in his eyes blinked once, and then he slowly walked to the edge of the stairs. The better to see you with, my dear.