Killing Custer (21 page)

30

THE RAN
CH-STYLE
house with white wicker sofa and chairs on the front porch sat isolated at the end of a road that corkscrewed uphill. The area was familiar. Dorothy Winslow's place was on the other side of the hill, not far away. Vicky got out of the Ford as the front door swung open. Wild grasses bumped against the sidewalk to the wooden front steps. The wind gusted around her. The porch was like an oasis, the air quiet and ten degrees cooler. A young woman—not much older than Angela, Vicky thought—blond and curly headed, wearing cutoff denim shorts and a too-tight tee shirt, stood in the doorway. Chin hoisted in the air, eyes narrowed in disapproval.

“Vicky Holden. I'm here to see Reece.”

“Reece is very busy.” The blond woman had a little girl's voice, a shaky edge to the confidence she was obviously trying to convey. “He doesn't like to be bothered in the middle of the day. Annette . . .”

“Annette?”

“At the gallery, should know better. He has hours when the public can visit his private gallery. Two to four on Saturdays. Annette should have told you that. Trouble is, all she can think about is collecting her stinking commission. I don't know why Reece . . .”

“Invite Ms. Holden in.” The voice, low and raspy, came from somewhere inside the house.

“All I can say is, make it quick.” She stepped to the side and nodded Vicky into an entry as large as her office, with a ceiling that soared above an expanse of wood floors and white walls covered with paintings that resembled those in the gallery—a collage of the Wind River and the Tetons. She glanced around the paintings. Any of them would be beautiful in her office.

“Reece has work to finish this afternoon,” the woman was saying. “Annette's isn't the only gallery that represents him. He has galleries in Jackson and Aspen, you know.”

“Vicky Holden, attorney-at-law.” The man appeared in the arched doorway that led somewhere to the back of the house. Gray hair, thick and tangled, long, ropey muscles. He wore khaki shorts and a blue shirt with tails hanging loose, top buttons unfastened. He was in his sixties, which meant the girl could have been his granddaughter, except for the worshipful gaze she fastened on him. Enormous hands, like baseball gloves, dangled at his side. “See anything you like?”

“They're all beautiful.”

“Well, Prissy here”—a glance at the girl standing first on one bare foot, then the other—“will be happy to show you through my private gallery on the second floor. Excuse me if I don't accompany you. Works calls. I'm sure you can understand. Prissy was good enough to open up the gallery.”

“If you don't mind, Mr. Mishko . . .”

“Reece. We're not in New York.”

“I'd like a few words with you.”

“I told you, work . . .”

“About Skip Burrows.”

Reece Mishko rocked back on the heels of his leather sandals, not taking his eyes from her. “You used subterfuge to get here.”

“I do admire your work, and I could use more art in my office.”

“Okay, okay.” The man put up the palm of one hand. “We can talk in my studio.”

“Reece . . .” The name had hardly emerged from the girl's mouth when his palm turned sideways and sliced the air in her direction. “Bring us some coffee.”

She seemed to melt backward, past the large staircase and through a door on the other side of the entry. The door made a hissing noise as it opened and closed.

“This way.” Reece swung around. Head high, gray hair brushing the collar of his shirt, calf muscles flexing, he headed through the archway. Vicky followed him into a large, light-filled room with black leather sofas and chairs and tiled tables arranged beneath a wall of windows that framed the foothills. The view resembled the view in one of the paintings in the entry. Large paintings covered the walls at either end of the room.

Vicky realized that Reece Mishko had already taken a turn to the right and disappeared through a door in the corner. She walked over and stepped into another room filled with a suffused light from the overhead skylight. In the center was a large easel with a painting that looked half finished. Another view of the Wind River range. All of Mishko's paintings seemed familiar, as if she could step inside and find her way.

Scattered around the studio were tables with jars of different colors of paint crowding the surfaces. Paint dribbled down the sides of the jars. There were wads of cloth and paper towels, buckets of brushes, a desk in one corner cluttered with papers, and shelves along the far wall filled with books that toppled against one another. A mixture of odors—alcohol, turpentine, paint—clogged the air. From outside came the soft whooshing noise of the wind in a cottonwood.

In front of the easel was a black metal stool that Reece Mishko spun around and straddled, leaning against the top bar of the back. “Sit anywhere.” He motioned toward a pair of chairs near the desk.

Vicky went over and pulled one chair into the center of the room. She was about to sit down when she realized she would be looking up at the famous Reece Mishko, which, she also realized, was exactly what he had intended. “I'm more comfortable standing,” she said.

“Whatever suits you.” A smile creased the corners of his mouth. They were playing a game, and she wasn't sure of the rules.

“Any news on Skip?”

“I'm afraid not.” Vicky began pacing. Back and forth in front of the man with the bemused expression on his face. She forced herself to stand still and lock eyes with him. “My client is the widow of Edward Garrett.”

“Do I know him?”

“He was murdered last Sunday on Main Street.”

“The crazy Custer guy.”

“He was a friend of Skip's. They were army buddies. He was a member of Skip's club.”

Reece Mishko dipped his chin into his chest and examined the paint caked under his fingernails. “And this affects me how?”

“The money he invested with Skip is missing. I was hoping you could tell me about the Granite Group.”

“You're assuming . . .”

“I know you were in the club.” Vicky held her breath. All she knew was that a man who ran a bar had told her Reece Mishko liked to brag about his investments. “Look, all I want to know is whether Skip paid you back your principal.”

Reece was shaking his head. “The club was for a few friends of Skip's who had money to invest and needed good returns. Once in a while, Skip made an offering to club members of securities in oil and gas start-ups. Skip said the securities were exempted from registration under the federal securities laws, since all of us are seasoned investors. He was a darn good lawyer. He knew what he was doing. The offerings were private. I suppose the widow told you about this. All I can say is I was privileged to know Skip. Privileged that he allowed me to invest with him.” He spread his hands as if he might take in the whole studio, the house, the grassy, wind-blown hills. “Things look good to you, right? I mean, I have a big house. Paintings on sale in galleries. Problem is, the economy tanked and even rich folks stopped buying paintings. Why art that feeds the soul should be considered nonessential is something I will never understand. Is food nonessential?” He shrugged. “So I tightened up, started watching my money. Moved here from Jackson to cut down on expenses. Then I got lucky. An uncle died and left me a nice sum of money. Of course, I knew Skip. Who didn't? Spent a lot of time socializing in Jackson. Great skier. I'd heard rumors about Skip and his investment club from some well-heeled clients in Jackson, so I made a few phone calls. Skip had never mentioned anything about the club. It wasn't his way.”

“What was his way?”

“You'd hear about it. Rumors, innuendos. You'd get Skip in a corner of a bar and ask about joining. If you were lucky, you got in. Very few got in. Usually he'd deny there was any club.” He pulled himself upright, straightened his shoulders, then went back to leaning on the chair. “Half a mil was the entrance fee. I made it in the club two years ago. Been collecting thirty percent every quarter since. Keeps this place and my business running. Why would I want my principal back?”

“What kind of investments did he make?”

“Real estate. Oil. Gas. Look, I've got the paperwork. Records for each investment, amount paid out. All in black and white.”

Vicky started pacing again. She thought better when she was moving, not stuck to the ground like a fence post. Her people had always been moving, she knew. Moving, thinking, planning, deciding, all at the same time. The words
black and white
rang in her ears. Records composed on Angela's computer, spit out of Angela's printer, and saved on Angela's flash drive. “Skip's still missing,” she said.

“He's dead.”

Vicky stopped and turned toward the man. “What makes you so sure?”

“Indians killed him.” He tossed his head and shrugged, as if that were the end of the matter. “Killed that Custer maniac, then they killed Skip.”

“Why would they do that?” Here it was again, the spokes of white-hot anger turning inside her.

“Why does anybody do stupid things? For the money. You heard about Skip's club. Other Indians heard about it, too. Probably from that Indian girl that worked for him. I figure she put them up to it, promised they'd get their hands on the money Skip had coming in. Let's face it, she was in a position to transfer interest payments to her friends. My guess is the interest on Garrett's account started going to Indians. Must have seemed like Custer owed them. I figure Garrett caught on, so they killed him. Skip also caught on, so he disappeared.”

“You're not worried about your money?” The principal was gone, Vicky was thinking. Gone the way Garrett's money was gone.

Reece Mishko was smiling now, shaking his head and smiling. “They didn't break into my account. Checks arrive like clockwork. I figure it doesn't matter what hole they dropped Skip into, the Granite Group is still solid. Somebody will take it over and manage it, maybe a bank or a club member that knows finances.”

The door opened and the girl sidled into the studio, balancing a tray, coffee cups rattling, a creamer and sugar bowl sliding toward the edge. “Coffee?”

“You're a dear, Prissy. Set it over there.” Reece nodded toward a table. The girl slid the tray against an array of paint cans, then drew herself upright. A satisfied expression printed itself on her face.

“Leave us.”

The young woman blinked, the look of satisfaction fading into one of confusion. She moved sideways, retracing her steps across the room and through the door.

“Fresh coffee?” Reece wrinkled his nose.

Coffee smells wrapped in the smells of paint and turpentine, Vicky thought, like the darkness wrapped inside the light-filled room and the big house with the soaring ceiling. “I've taken enough of your time.” She fought the urge to pivot about and run from the studio. From the house and the area, from the disaster about to take place. Half a million dollars gone, and Reece Mishko had no idea.

Vicky opened the door, then turned back. “You should talk to Detective Madden,” she said. “Tell him what you've told me.” She waited, trying to gauge the man's reaction. Was there a hint of discomfort in the way he clasped his hands and rolled his shoulders, as if she had seen something he had been ignoring, like a botched tree in a finished painting? “For your own good,” she said.

* * *

VICKY SAT IN
the car several minutes, engine humming, the air hot and dry in her throat. The picture clear now, as clear as a photograph with none of the smeared edges of oil paints on canvas. As clear as if she were in Skip Burrows's office, a witness to what was happening. Edward Garrett demanding his principal so that he could buy the ranch near Dubois. Skip trying to put him off. Cajoling. Reasoning. Why would he want the principal withdrawn from the Granite Group when he was making thirty percent? Where could he get that kind of money? They had a great thing going.

Garrett insisted. They had argued, Angela said, and Garrett had stormed off. But what had he said before he stormed off? What had he threatened? To go to the police? To blow the whistle on Skip Burrows's Ponzi scheme?

Because that was what he was running. Collecting money—a half mil was the minimum—from new investors to make interest payments to old investors. It worked, as long as new investors came in, and Skip had made sure that happened. Visiting Jackson, but not living there! Not staying too close, where people could ask too many questions. All working, until Edward Garrett demanded to withddraw his money.

She shifted into reverse and twisted around to watch the driveway unfurl behind her. Then, in drive, she started down the winding road and struggled to contain the fear that welled inside her. Skip had cashed out on Friday afternoon. He had decided to take off with what he had. A briefcase full of money. Then, a moment of what? Panic? Remorse? Fright? He had called her office. Another lawyer. Maybe he'd had second thoughts. Maybe he wanted to stop the whole thing, the running, the waiting—there had to be the waiting—for the moment when everything crashed down around him.

She hadn't been in the office. And he hadn't run. He'd gone to Jackson with Angela. On Monday morning he was back in his own office. Had he intended to call her again?

But Angela had seen the briefcase of money. What if she had told Colin?

Vicky turned into the outskirts of Lander and slowed for the stoplight ahead. She swallowed hard against the taste of acid erupting in her throat. Maybe everybody was right. Madden, the bartender, Reece Mishko. Colin had killed Garrett. Then, Monday morning, he had abducted Skip and his briefcase of money. My God. She hadn't wanted to believe it could be true. She had been blindfolded.

At the red light, she drew out her mobile and punched the key for St. Francis Mission. John O'Malley would test her theory, tell her where she had taken a wrong turn, set her back on the right trail. She had to speak with him! The need running through her was like a dull ache she had tried for a long time to ignore.