Cold Dish (24 page)

I looked at the white fringe on the silk yoke of the western shirt-dress she wore. She always had on flamboyant western clothes when she competed in the tournaments. Somehow, it didn’t seem fair. She looked back toward the bar. “What’s he doing in there?”

“Getting some wine for me.”

“Wine . . . for you?”

“What, I don’t look like a wine guy to you?”

She reached in and felt the feathers on the rifle with her fingertips. “Owl.” She looked closer and her hand froze. “Ohohyaa . . .”

“That mean owl?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, it means . . . terrible. Sehan . . .” Her eyes narrowed, and her hand came away from the gun as though the rifle might bite. “This is a weapon from the Camp of the Dead.”

“Actually, it’s from Lonnie Little Bird.” Her hands went to her hair, and I could tell she was unbraiding it for a reason. “It’s for a ballistics test.”

Her eyes met mine, and she continued to undo her long braid. “This is a ghost weapon, a weapon sent from the dead to retrieve.”

“Retrieve what?”

“Not what . . . who.”

“What, they need a fourth for bridge?”

Her eyes sharpened to slits of flint. “This is not funny. It’s big medicine.”

“Big medicine.” I started to make another smart-aleck remark but thought better of it. “I was just . . .”

“Lonnie Little Bird gave this to you?”

“For ballistics, we’ve got to check it against the one that killed Cody Pritchard.”

She finished unbraiding and shook her head, the dark hair falling loose over her shoulders. “Give it back to him.”

“I will, after we shoot it.” I reached out to touch her arm, but she shifted away. “What’s the story with the hair?”

“It is a sign of respect and protection. There are spirits that linger near that weapon, and they can easily take away the soul of someone still living for the enjoyment of their society.”

The hand that held the rifle suddenly felt cold, so I shifted to the other one. “I’ll get it right back to him, just as soon as we get a test fire.” Henry had exited the bar with the two bottles of wine and opened the door of the truck, his eyes meeting Dena’s.

“What is up, Toots?” He climbed in, but her eyes stayed on him as he concerned himself with the shifter and with shutting the door. Finally, he cocked his head and looked at her again. “What?”

“You let Lonnie give him this?”

His voice growled, low and steady. “It is his job.” A full fifteen seconds passed before she exhaled, turned, and walked into the Red Pony without looking back; the fringe on her dress matched the sway of her hair. I turned to look at him. “Women.” He put the truck in gear and backed away from the bar, hitting the tired brakes, shifting into first, and pulling out toward my place. I continued to look at him. “What?”

“What? I’ve got ‘the’ Cheyenne death rifle here?”

He shook his head. “So to speak.” He glanced over. “Bother you?”

“Only if ghosts are going to fly out of the barrel and carry me off to the Camp of the Dead.” He laughed a hearty, honest laugh. “What?”

He laughed some more. “Your company is not that good.”

The rifle, Henry, the ghosts, and me drove up the road and deposited me at my cabin. The rifle and I went in, Henry went back down the road, and where the ghosts went was anybody’s guess. I carefully sat the rifle on the arms of my easy chair and looked at it.

 

Retriever of the Dead. The thing was worth a million dollars—was priceless probably—and leaving it lying around my little house that had no locks didn’t seem like a good idea. I was going to have to take it with me over to Vonnie’s, but I could always leave it in the Bullet. I wrestled a shower out of the bathroom and put on clean clothes. The phone machine in my bedroom was blinking, but I ignored it. The rifle was still there when I got back to the living room, so I looked around the place for any apparitions and was a little disappointed when none appeared. Maybe Henry was right; maybe I was lousy company, even at a dead man’s party. I walked back into my bedroom and stared at the answering machine. I hoped that Cady had called, but the little blinking red light was looking angry. Maybe the ghosts had left a message, so I pushed the button.

“Okay, we had three mailboxes at Rock Creek reportedly hit, got a call on some kid chasing horses with his snow machine, turns out the kid owned the horses and there’s no law saying you can’t herd livestock with a snow machine . . . that from the eleven-year-old perpetrator. Earl Walters slid off the road at Klondike and Upper Clear Creek and took out a yield sign; I always knew the ancient fucker couldn’t read. And our crime of the day, Old Lady Grossman reported somebody stealing the snowman out of her yard and driving off with it. Ferg stopped the suspect, who turned out to be her nephew who had taken it as a joke.”

We weren’t likely to make America’s Most Wanted with a selection of crimes such as these, but it was premium Roundup material.

“So, out of our list, the only ones that have reloading equipment are Mike Rubin and Stanley Fogel.”

The dentist.

“The dentist.” There was a pause, as the machine recorded her thinking. “Wouldn’t it be a pisser if it turned out to be the dentist? I know it doesn’t have the ring that the butler does, but wouldn’t people be surprised?”

I nodded my head in agreement.

“Anyway, I went over and checked on him. He’s cute. I think I’m going to change dentists.”

Jesus. There was a rustling of papers, and she continued.

“I also went out to Mike Rubin’s shop while you were out joyriding on the Rez. Is that fucker goofy or what?”

I nodded.

“I don’t know if he was more rattled by having a sheriff’s deputy there or a woman. He doesn’t get out much, does he?”

I shook my head this time.

“I got samples from both, and neither match up with what we think we’ve got. The Ferg finally got around to checking on the Esper place, and he says that there weren’t any tracks in the snow leading up to the house. I called the post office and, sure enough, they put a hold on their mail that goes off tomorrow. I called the mine and asked them. They said he was down in Colorado, visiting his sister, no number left. The sister is married, and nobody here seems to know the name or where in Colorado they live, so here we are at the beginning. I’ll swing around there tonight and see if they’ve gotten back from the other square state.”

There was a pause, then the machine beeped, and she spoke again, “Okay, so I swung by the Espers and left a note behind the storm door telling them to contact us as soon as they get in. Ferg’s right, there hasn’t been anybody there for days. If they call, I’ll call you. I’ll be here tonight, if you need me. All night. Glen and I are fighting, so I’m sleeping here.”

I stared at the machine.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing big, just the usual shit. Don’t call to check on me and don’t come in here. I’m fine. Oh, and by the way, Phil La Vante died about three months ago, so should I take him off our short list?”

I nodded, and the machine clicked off. I hated marital discord; I hated it when I was married. I often wondered about Vic’s marriage. There were times when she and Glen appeared to get along, but most of the time it seemed like they led separate but unequal lives. This wasn’t the first night she’d spent at the jail. She wasn’t the frequent lodger I was but, only a month ago, I’d been in my office one night catching up on paperwork when I heard somebody open the front door. As she walked into her office opposite mine, all she said was “Don’t ask” and slammed her door behind her. After a few moments though, she reappeared with her Philadelphia Police mug and a bottle of tequila, had sat down in the chair by my door, threw her feet up on my desk, poured herself a drink and hissed, “All men are assholes, right?” I nodded vigorously, quietly finished my reports as she drank, and then crept out, my back to the wall.

I fought the urge to call her and went back to the front of the house to collect the two bottles of wine and the rifle; it weighed enough to be haunted. The emotional toll of the day was having an effect on me, and I wondered if I wasn’t already in the Camp of the Dead. I wondered if I hadn’t been for the last four years. I sat the bottles down and pulled the old girl from the scabbard, looking at the rubbed spots. The barrel was round, the heavy military model rather than the expected octagonal like Omar’s. I looked at the beads attached to the hide covering on the foregrip.

Dead Man’s Body was an intricate design of triangles, points, and geometric figures showing not only the body itself, but the wounds and the spears that had done the deed. Henry had explained that it was more of a Sioux pattern, but that that might have been the reason for using it, to warn the Lakota that they should not take their alliance with the Cheyenne lightly. They were the small Venetian seed beads that had become more predominant around 1840 and had a richer color than the earlier pony style. The stitching was overlay, not the usual lazy stitch you saw nowadays, and when you held the rifle up to the light there was no space between the rows. I thought about all those little strings of beads sailing across the Atlantic from Italy. Maybe Vic’s ancestors had supplied the ornamentation for Henry’s in six degrees of beaded separation.

I smiled and made a conscious effort to be better company for the Old Cheyenne and, to prove it, I raised the rifle high over my head and gave out with the most blood-curdling war cry I could manage. I’m pretty sure I could do it better when I was seven, but the shout rattled around my little house and made me feel better, so I did it four or five more times. The last one hurt but was the best. I felt like an extra in a fifties B movie, so I put the rifle back in its scabbard, picked up my wine, and headed for the truck.

 

The temperature was dropping, and it was starting to look like we might get more snow. I hit the NOAA band on my radio and listened to the little computer-generated Norwegian tell me that two to four inches was expected on the mountain but only an inch down here. So far, not a flake had fallen, but I figured I could always call Henry; he could tell me exactly when it was going to begin.

I started digesting Vic’s oral report; the Espers worried me. If Reggie Esper and his wife had taken off for Colorado, and I believe his sister lived in Longmont, had the two boys gone with them? It didn’t seem likely that two college-aged boys would go with their parents to visit an aunt for a week. I had honestly believed that Cody’s death had been an accident, at least mostly, until the feather. I was getting that fretful, nagging feeling that this case might end with all the loose strands that I had picked free. The old police adage says, when you’re done and there’s nothing there, go back to the beginning and start over. So, here I was, staring at the beginning and trying to figure out what it was I’d missed the first time.

 

I turned into Vonnie’s drive, pulled through the opening gate, and parked in front of the house. All the motion-detecting lights came on again, and I gathered up the stuff and started for the house. By the time I got to the porch, she had the door open. “You still look tired.”

“That bad, huh?” The light from the entryway was warm and tawny, reflecting the reddish highlights of her hair as she stood in the doorway.

“Your voice is hoarse. Are you all right?”

“Yep, I just had to do some shouting today. Sorry.”

She took my arm as I got there. “No, I like it. It’s sexy.”

I was feeling better and gave her the two bottles of wine after she shut the door. “Here, I brought wine. I picked it out myself.”

She looked at me for a moment, then her eyes dropped to the scabbard. “What’s that?”

I raised the rifle and shrugged. “This is a very long story . . .”

“Is it a gun?”

“Yep . . .”

“Not in my house.”

I looked at her face for the contention I expected to find, but there wasn’t any. It was a simple statement of fact, and her eyes still held the warmth that had invited me in. I felt the need to explain. “It’s an expensive piece, it doesn’t belong to me, and I thought it would be safer in here.” She looked down at the rifle again but didn’t say anything. “I’ll put it back in the truck.” I started to turn, but she caught my arm.

“No.”

There was a moment as she tried to weigh the options open to both of us. “It’s okay, I’ll just lock it up in the truck.”

“No. I’m sorry.” Her face came up, and the smile was a little sad, but generous. “Is it okay here, by the door?”

I smiled too. “Yep, that’ll be fine.” I propped the rifle in the corner and for the first time noticed my sheepskin coat draped across the chair that was also there. I turned and looked at her. “You gonna send me packing?”

She cocked her head and was instantly delicious. “No, I like the way it smells, and if you don’t take it with you tonight you’re not likely to get it back.” With this, she turned and started down the hallway and through the living room where I had left her the last time I was here. She was wearing low-heeled ropers, buckskin leather-laced pants, and an off-white silk blouse with western accents. The effect from the rear was breathtaking. I left the Cheyenne Rifle of the Dead to commune with the smell of my coat and pursued some preferred company myself.

The elevated area between the arches was a dining room and on the other side of it was the kitchen. The smell of something wonderful was drifting through the doorway, a delicate smell, tangy, but with an underlying sea scent that spoke softly to the base of my stomach. The olive loaf sandwiches had worn thin.

The kitchen was a study in contrasts. The floors were Mexican tile, and the walls were the same reworked plaster as in the other parts of the house, only these were differing shades of red. Massive hand-hewn beams straddled the room overhead, and the cabinets looked like they had been salvaged from somebody’s line shack. The actual appliances were huge stainless-steel brutes that reminded me of the DCI coroner’s lab in Cheyenne. A number of things seemed to be simmering on the eight-burner stove, but my attention was drawn to the center island where a small glass vase of tulips sat between festively painted plates and silverware that looked stately enough to have been used at the Queen’s coronation. There were linen napkins in brass-and-silver rings, and I was getting that diminishing feeling that I was there to read the meter.