Mesozoic Murder (9 page)

Ansel noticed the
Sky Sentinel
in his hands and frowned. “Daddy, we've got to talk.”

Chapter 11

Tuesday morning temperatures on the Arrowhead had soared into the upper seventies. A stiff westerly breeze flattened the gumbo grass and rattled the chokecherry bushes. The only tree in sight, a red-stemmed willow planted one hundred twenty years before, rustled and dipped. Scarred headstones surrounded the tree, funneling the wind's breath through a gap-toothed maw of granite. Gusts became moans.

Ansel braced her body against the zephyrs. She had spent the night at the ranch. Before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, she had made three telephone calls. One to Jessie Whitefish. One to Detective Dorbandt. The last to Andrew Henderson.

The conversation with Jessie had been quick and easy. She'd just left a message with Dorbandt, and he'd returned her call. Even her carefully constructed dialog with Henderson, president of the Montana Museums Association, had gone better than she expected.

She'd explained the known facts about Nick's murder and assured him that the Pangaea Society was just as much a victim of the incident as the MMA would be. Together, they could forge a united front and publically illustrate the merit of their impending long-term relationship with each other through the POP Center. There had only been one hitch.

“We've just got to keep our fingers crossed that none of the Opel heirs use this murder as a reason to contest the memorial gift,” Henderson's high-pitched voice announced across the wires from Billings.

“Have you heard something to that effect?” Ansel held her breath.

“Just some whispers. According to a clerk friend of mine at the Lacrosse County Courthouse, Opel's only sister went in and requested a filed copy of the Durable Power of Attorney papers from the will. Seems she was interested in the Power To Make Gifts clause.”

“Why?”

“Could be just curiosity. Could be the makings of a family dispute over the way Preston Opel distributed his assets. Too early to tell.”

Relatives, Ansel thought despondently, could be a burden worse than your enemies. She cast a glance around the cemetery. She always felt very far removed from her Anglo heritage, even as her father's ancestors now encompassed her on every side. They had immigrated from Germain-en-Laye, France, in 1876. A shiver shot through her as she remembered with vivid clarity how her French blood had almost been spilled the day before.

The graveyard began in 1878 when her great, great grandparents lost their firstborn infant to the scourge of yellow fever. Their grief had led them to choose this upraised ridge with a distant view of the Missouri River for their daughter's final resting place. They buried Brigitte Marie Fenix with a tiny stone cross and wrought iron fencing to keep the wolves and coyotes out.

More fencing had been installed in the early 1900s for other graves. The population explosion hadn't lasted. Most of the Phoenix clan, whose surname had been Americanized, drifted away from Montana during the “dirty thirties” when drought scoured the land.

Ansel sighed and stared at the only grave inside the cemetery belonging to a non-white. She was thirteen years old when piqued Anglo relatives avidly protested her mother's interment. They wanted her body sent back to the reservation, adamant that the Phoenix family tree should be judiciously pruned of dead, Indian branches.

Her father had been furious. As fitting revenge, Chase arranged to have the largest and fanciest memorial marker he could find installed at the front of the cemetery. Mary Two Spots Phoenix was finally laid to rest in a rectangular, above-ground granite vault with a six-foot-high white marble angel on top.

Ansel peered up at the angel. The intricately carved seraphim with her mother's face held her arms open and beckoning for all eternity. Her apparel was chiseled into a ceremonial, fringed buckskin dress, a beaded headband, and laced moccasins. Long tresses fell down her chest. Huge outspread wings rose from behind like a diving eagle. The celestial guardian was both beautiful and imposing. Ansel loved it.

On the tomb's brass memorial plate an inscription read
okie niksokowa
. This Blackfoot salutation meant “Greetings, Hello my relative!” Ansel had always wondered what the snooty Phoenix clan had thought about that.

She reached out and traced the tall, Raphael-style words with one finger. “
Okie Niksokowa
,” she said, wishing she had her Iniskim. After almost two decades without her mother, the hole in her heart was cauterized but gaping.

“You gonna be buried here?” queried a male voice behind her.

Ansel continued to stare at the tomb, fingers attempting to connect with Mary's heavenly spirit through earthly stone. She pulled her hand away and spun around. “You bet I am.”

Jessie Whitefish looked totally relaxed. He lounged against the waist-high fence, elbows resting on the ornate crossbar. His long-fingered hands, burdened with turquoise and silver rings, hung through the spear-tipped finials. His large concha belt buckle flashed like a mirror in the sun.

Jessie chuckled. His shoulder-length hair jumped in the wind gusting beneath his tan cowboy hat. “Gonna piss the pale faces off.”

Ansel grinned as she walked toward the gate. “Just keeping up a family tradition.” She had known the Siouxian man for years. He owned Frog Skins, Inc., which provided custom shirts and blouses for sale at Indian festivals, rodeos, and souvenir shops. Jessie came up with his own jokes or artistic designs, silk-screened them onto clothes, and sold them to tourists for outrageous prices.

“You shouldn't ambush a girl like that.”

Jessie flashed a boyish smile. “Habit. Got to keep you
winyans
guessing.”

Ansel noticed Jessie's black tee. There was a color photo of a Cavalry horse tricked out with regulation saddlery, blanket, and bridle. Block lettering asked, “
Ever wonder what would happen if Indians ran the NRA
?”

“Turn around, Jessie.” He did.

The back of his shirt read, “
ka-pow-wow
!”

Ansel laughed. “Talk about pissing people off.”

When Jessie faced her, his expression was serious. “Still can't compete with you, Sarcee. Your father told me about you aggravating somebody with a mean streak last night.”

“How much did he say?”

“Only that you chased away a guy who broke into your trailer. This son of a bitch didn't hurt you, did he?”

“No, I'm okay. Just a little paranoid.”

“I kinda doubted you asked me here to talk about tee shirts. What's going on?”

Ansel lifted the heavy black latch on the cemetery gate, and the barrier creaked on its ancient hinges. The gritty feel of rusted metal chaffed her fingertips like sandpaper. He was right. His wife, Lucy, was a distant Blackfoot relative and could be contacted by phone. She didn't want to expose Jessie or his family to danger, but she needed his help.

“This is just between us. Promise.”

He nodded. “Sure.”

Ansel opened her fanny pack. “The man who broke in last night wore this.” She passed the jewelry to him. “Do you know what that charm is?”

Ansel watched his broad, pock-marked face. He peered intently at the eye charm. Then he bounced the bracelet's weight in his hand as if gauging its importance with the forces of gravity. He grunted and tossed it back.

“High dollar quality, and the charm's custom made. Looks New Age. You know, stars, crystals, hexes. Maybe Egyptian hieroglyphic or that sort of thing.”

“You travel all over. Have you seen it anywhere?”

“Nope, and I've seen plenty of weird things. Can't help it with the crowd I sell shirts to. Grabbing a little mystical, Indian spirit is real hip with the Path To Enlightenment crowd. Some of my best wholesale customers are real nut cases, though.”

Ansel put the bracelet away. “Shoot. I need to know what this symbol means. I think it will help me identify Nick Capos' killer.”

“The murdered guy in the newspaper?”

“Yeah.”

“You're looking for a psycho who poisons people?”

“I'm looking, yes.”

“You're just as crazy as this killer. You go poking into magic and mischief, you're asking for more trouble. A lot of people who practice arcane arts take it very seriously. They don't want to be messed with.”

Ansel's eyelids narrowed. “You think I can't help?”

Jessie shook his head in distress. “No. I think you shouldn't help. This is police business. Let the
wasicuns
handle it.”

“It's not just white business. It's my business. Nick was my friend.”

Jessie gazed at her. “You don't get hopped up about things unless they're personal. Was Nick more than a friend?”

“Of course not. He was vice president of the Pangaea Society. I have to protect the organization's reputation.”

“You want to protect your reputation, make a statement to the papers or the news stations. You want to protect your butt, stay out of it.”

Ansel's temper flared. “I can't. There's a lot at stake.”

Jessie crossed his arms and sighed. “All right. I don't want to know any more. I hope you have sense enough to give the bracelet to the cops.”

“I'm not ready to do that. I need you to do something else for me, Jessie.”

“What?”

“Find Freddy Wing. Ask him to get in touch with me.”

“Freddy Wing?” Jessie questioned dubiously. “Last I heard, he was in New York. Has his doctor's degree and a fancy Manhattan office where he shrinks rich people's heads.”

“Yes, but he's in Montana for a visit. He called Pearl a couple weeks ago. Said he was here for a month doing research on a journal paper. He didn't leave a number. I'd start looking on the rez, but I don't speak the lingo. You grew up there. If Freddy's still here, the pipeline will know about it.”

Jessie frowned. “Wing gives me the willies.”

Ansel knew what Jessie meant, but it didn't change her mind. She had met Wing through Pearl, who had helped Freddy go to college on a Native American Scholarship. Even before Pearl had met her father, she had been concerned about the cultural direction of twenty-first century Native Peoples. Pearl had been Freddy's mentor since he was ten years old. With the help of an Indian Emergency Relief Fund adoption-sponsor program, she had been his emotional and financial support.

Freddy was very successful. He received his doctoral degree in psychiatry from the University of Montana. Now he de-programmed people involved in cultist organizations or groups. Freddy could also be a gifted shaman. Sometimes the information Indian spirits passed on to him was hair-raising.

“I need Freddy,” Ansel insisted. “If anyone knows what this symbol means, he does. And if he doesn't, he'll know where I can find out. Will you help me?”

Jessie sighed, looked toward the cemetery, and then rubbed a hand across his baby-smooth chin. When he turned, his face looked grim. “All right, I'll do it. It may take a few days. I can't go to Fort Peck until Thursday.”

“Thanks, Jessie. You want to hear something really spooky?”

“Probably not.”

“I lost my Iniskim before I found Nick's body. I still haven't found it.”

“What happened to it?”

“I honestly don't know. The stone disappeared after the cord fell off. A bad omen.”

“Maybe you just needed to lose it for some reason. A good reason.”

She'd never considered the loss of the fossil as a good thing. “Why do you think that?”

Jessie shrugged. “Maybe you're supposed to lose it, so you can grow in some way. Could be your mother wanted it to happen. Could be a message from her. When you get it back, you'll know the answer.”

Remembering the crow gut, Ansel pulled a signed check from her pack. “Thank Lucy for me. She's a lifesaver. If you can deliver the crow gut by eleven on Saturday morning, that would be perfect.”

Jessie nodded. “I'll keep in touch. See you at the buffet.”

“You bet.” Ansel waved as Jessie departed. The cell phone in her fanny pack trilled. “Hello?”

“Ansel, he's on his way. Just tore through the main gate.”

“Thanks, Seth.”

The Arrowhead covered fifteen thousand deeded acres, plus another twelve thousand Bureau of Land Management lease parcels. From nose to tail, the cattle ranch was ten miles long and six miles wide. Asking the ranch foreman, Seth Bartle, to scout the main entrance while on horseback checking range fencing had been a stroke of brilliance. Thank God for cowboys with Nokia phones in their saddlebags.

She took one last look at her mother's grave. Are you trying to tell me something, Momma? She couldn't worry about that now. Dorbandt had agreed to come to the ranch.

Time to dance with the devil.

Chapter 12

Dust swirled over Dorbandt's car as he drove through an enormous log beam archway above the east entrance of the Arrowhead Ranch. Winds whipped the pasture land spreading toward infinity on every side and an eight-foot-wide, weathered wood sign knocked viciously at the upper cross post. Creaking corner chains barely tethered it against the elements.

Dorbandt recognized the terrain as true Missouri Breaks country. Once a villainous no-man's-land for rustlers like the infamous Hole-In-The-Wall Gang led by Kid Curry, the open spaces made him edgy.

Born and raised in Billings, he was a citified Montanan proud of growing up in the largest metropolitan area between Spokane and Minneapolis. Nestled within the Yellowstone Valley and ringed by high sandstone rimrocks, the state capital's skyscraper buildings, asphalt arteries, and urban sprawl were his favorite stomping grounds.

At the moment, the only other person around was a grizzled old cowhand riding a buckskin horse. The cowboy gave him a friendly smile and a hearty wave as if he were kin returning home.

At least the ranch hands weren't firing shotgun pellets at him. He drove an unmarked car, but everyone on the ranch had to know he was coming. Given the history between Chase Phoenix and McKenzie, it was a wonder that a lynching posse wasn't thundering down on him. The sooner he got this talk over with the better, though he was anxious to see the rest of the Phoenix clan for himself. Cops didn't rely on hearsay.

Dorbandt gunned the engine. The well-maintained gravel road took him between herds of corpulent black Angus trundling across the grassland. Smaller dirt roads forked off as he drove past an array of ranch structures—feed lot pens, water towers, grain bins and elevators, wood sheds, and pole barns.

“Shit.”

Dorbandt slammed on his brakes. Something large and brown flew into his left windshield. The car fishtailed to the right, front wheels locking while the rear tires slid. He watched as a sage grouse thumped against the glass, flapped, and kept on moving, disappearing into the pasture.

A blood smear trickled down the glass. Wedged in the wiper blade, a downy brown feather flapped crazily. He released his breath and thought of the Capos crime scene feather. He wished the DNA results would come back, especially since the forensics results on Capos' car had been disappointing. So far, that feather was all he had in the way of potential evidence.

Dorbandt shifted into
park
, grabbed a napkin, and stepped onto the road. Warm gusts snatched at his suit, billowing his sleeves and pants and twisting his tie and hair. He reached across the hood and plucked the plume off the blade with one hand and scrubbed away the crimson blotch with the other. He released the feather into the wind. It was gone in an instant.

Dorbandt balled up the napkin, pushed it into a pocket of his flapping coat, and walked onto the dirt shoulder. No grouse. He saw only a huge Angus cow. It stood by the barbed-wire fence, mouth grinding side to side. Thick ears twitched while huge brown eyes languidly observed him. A black punch tag in the left ear bore the number 954.

Dorbandt's gaze was drawn toward the sound of an engine. A white double-cab pickup cruised down the road. He hustled to his idling car just as the truck stopped behind it.

An elderly woman with short gray-blonde hair stuck her head out the window. “Hey, you want to buy that cow?” she asked with a laugh. “She's for sale, you know. Her momma's a nice dam from the Black Licorice herd in Red Lodge.”

Dorbandt liked her smile. Wide and genuine. No hostility here, he assessed, walking toward the truck. “I'm Lieutenant Reid Dorbandt with the Lacrosse County Sheriff's Department. I've come to see Miss Anselette Phoenix.”

“Oh, hello, detective.” She pushed her hand out the opening. “I'm Ansel's stepmother, Pearl.” Her blue eyes sparkled, made even more compelling by blue-green paisleys on her long-sleeved shirt.

Dorbandt shook her hand, which was warm and surprisingly strong. “Hello, Pearl. Sorry I blocked the road.”

“Never mind that. Ansel's waiting for you at the house. Too bad you didn't want to buy Maisey though.” Pearl shook her head and withdrew her hand. “She's a rustler's steal for what we're asking.”

“I wouldn't think selling her would be a problem. She looks like prime cut.”

Pearl blinked, then started laughing. “Lord, you're a hoot, detective. You don't eat our cows. Didn't Ansel tell you? The Arrowhead is a breed ranch. We sell top quality genetic stock to beef ranches all over the country. Maisey's produced up to sixty-nine embryos from three intrauterine egg donor flushes alone. Most of our bulls produce semen at twenty-five dollars a straw. And we'll artificially inseminate anything that stands on four legs around here, too,” Pearl announced proudly.

Dorbandt's face burned. It didn't seem right talking about male and female innards with the wife of a man he didn't know.

A mischievous grin dimpled Pearl's rosy cheeks. “You're turning red, Lieutenant. Sorry to embarrass you. Let me pass, and I'll lead the way.”

Dorbandt nodded. He maneuvered the car so Pearl's truck could pull by and followed for another quarter mile.

Even before Pearl took another left, he saw the looming, multi-level log home topped by a pale blue, tin roof. The house was built on a nicely landscaped knoll ringed by a wall of Ponderosa pines, alders, Oregon grapes, and serviceberries. Dorbandt whistled as the gravel road turned into a long, brown paver-stone driveway. Pearl stopped the Ford and hopped out.

As Dorbandt exited his car, he noted a red Ford pickup and a blue Saturn parked on the west side of the house. The driveway led around to a detached garage. He took in the rest of the Phoenix homestead: milled spruce log exterior, peaked A-frame ceiling, tempered glass windows. The place had to be four thousand square feet under air.

“Come in and meet my husband.” Pearl went up stairs and onto a ten-foot-wide deck that ran the front length of the home. “Then you and Ansel can talk business. Terrible thing about Nick's murder. Unbelievable.”

Dorbandt followed up the stairway with thick, hand-carved ornamental posts and railings. Several high-back chairs faced the road. Dusty leather riding chaps were draped over some. Four pairs of dirty cowboy boots in different sizes and colors stood beside the door.

“Pearl, did you know Nicholas Capos?”

“I met him once. I liked him.”

Before Dorbandt could ask another question, Pearl opened the door and hustled through. Smiling, she waved the detective forward, then called out, “Chase? Ansel? We have company.”

Inside the tangy smell of cayenne spices wafted toward him. Pearl led the way into a great room made entirely of huge spruce timbers. The space was bathed in a warm glow. Sunshine flowing through tall, clad-wood windows bounced off the honey-colored logs. Intermittent columns of spruce supported a cathedral ceiling.

“They should be down any moment. Sit down. Can I get you a drink?

He walked over white throw rugs that dotted the slatted oak flooring and sat on a brown leather sofa facing the soapstone fireplace. “No, thank you. I had coffee earlier.”

“You're sure?”

Dorbandt smiled. “Absolutely sure.”

He drank in the walls which were decorated with Indian baskets, pottery, native design blankets, and framed Amerindian art prints. No wonder Captain McKenzie hated Chase, Dorbandt thought. Besides the fact that the cattleman had married an Indian woman, it must really stick in his supervisor's craw that Phoenix lived such a luxurious lifestyle.

McKenzie's father had been an open pit miner in Butte for almost thirty years before the Anaconda Company sold out its copper holdings in the 1980s. When the Berkeley Pit closed, Lee McKenzie had died angry and broke, blaming greedy rich men for his slide into depression and alcoholism. Well, Ed McKenzie's an asshole, Dorbandt mused. Just like his father.

A tall, broad-chested man clad in the usual cowboy attire descended an oak staircase. Except for the long white hair pulled back in a ponytail, he bore a startling resemblance to the actor Gary Cooper, who had been born in Helena.

Dorbandt held his breath, wondering how Chase Phoenix would react to having a Lacrosse County detective in his house.

“There you are,” Pearl chimed. “This is Lieutenant Reid Dorbandt. He followed me up. I think he was staking out one of our cows. Detective, this is my husband, Chase.”

A broad smile was etched across Chase's long, thin face, creating deep, leathery creases along his cheeks and nose. He moved quickly, crossed the distance between them, and stretched a large open palm in Dorbandt's direction. Dorbandt went with the flow.

“Good day to you, sir.” Chase clasped Dorbandt's hand, pumping it with gusto. “Welcome to the Arrowhead.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Phoenix. I've come to talk to Anselette. She called me,” he added.

“So she tells me.” Chase stared the officer in the eye with undisguised appraisal. His grip on Dorbandt's hand never slackened. “Have a seat for a minute. Ansel knows you're here, and I won't hold you up very long.” Chase released his grip and folded himself into a brown suede wingback chair.

“If you two bulls are going to kick up dirt, I'll just leave you to it,” Pearl said with a knowing smile. “A pleasure meeting you. Don't be a stranger. Come over to the Beastly Buffet this weekend. We'd love to have you.”

“Thank you for the invitation.”

Pearl gave Chase one last glance and left the room.

Dorbandt felt his insides twist. He knew Chase's informal chat and his daughter's noticeable absence had been pre-arranged. This was it. Chase was going to let fly and tell him what he thought of the department. Things might get ugly, but that wouldn't stop him from doing police business.

Dorbandt looked expectantly at the rancher. Chase leaned back in his chair and met his gaze. The seconds crawled by as both men silently waited for Pearl's footsteps to become inaudible. Chase leaned forward and cleared his throat. Dorbandt's hands tightened into fists.

“Somebody tried to kill Ansel last night,” the rancher declared, his voice steely. “I'd like you to see to it that nothing more happens to her in the future.”

Dorbandt's anxiety melted. Despite his surprise, he switched gears and went into cop mode. “Was she harmed?”

“No, thank God. I happened to stop by her place right after it happened. She spent the night here.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“Just the basics. A big, nasty cowboy, carrying a gun, ambushed her inside the trailer and roughed her up. He was looking for money. Money Capos had. He thought Ansel knew about it. She didn't, and things got ugly. The bastard insinuated he was going to rape her. She poured acid on him, and he ran out smoking skin.”

Dorbandt reached into his coat pocket for his pad and pen. “I don't want to miss anything relevant.”

“I don't want you to miss anything either,” Chase echoed. “I wouldn't be truthful if I didn't say that I'm not fond of the sheriff's department, Detective Dorbandt, but I blame that on certain people, not the whole shop. I'm approaching you with this request because Ansel's first impression of you is favorable. I trust my daughter's intuition. I don't want you to bush-tail if she gets herself into trouble. This Capos hoopla has nothing to do with her.”

Dorbandt wasn't so sure. If this thug thought Ansel knew about money, he had his reasons.

“I'll do whatever I can to protect your daughter. That's my job. Breaking into her trailer with a gun is an assault with a deadly weapon. The information Ansel can provide could be a turning point in the Capos case. Once she files a report, I can examine the trailer for fingerprints or trace evidence. With a description of this creep on file, I can get an APB out on him.”

Chase sighed and leaned into the chair. “Ansel won't file a report.”

“She has to. I need it to proceed. Is she afraid or does she just dislike the department, too?”

“You'll have to ask her. I can tell you that Ansel's afraid of very few things. She didn't know anything about my problems until a few days ago.”

“If she files a report, I can protect her much better.”

“It's her decision.” Chase sighed again, swiped a hand across his tanned brow, and bent forward. “She's like her mother. Stubborn.”

“Stubborn doesn't catch the bad guys. Stubborn could be viewed as obstruction of justice.”

“I understand, Lieutenant, and I agree with you. Ansel's being muley. You can't bully her. You've got to convince her to see things your way.”

None of this made any sense to Dorbandt unless Ansel Phoenix knew more about Capos' murder than she admitted. His antenna vibrated like a lightning rod into his gut. She was a well of information he needed to siphon. If he handled her right, he might get something solid. And maybe he could get McKenzie off his back. That newspaper article had sideswiped him.

“I'd better talk to your daughter, Mister Phoenix.” He stood and straightened his suit jacket before slipping the pad and pen into his pocket.

“Then we have a deal?”

“Deal?”

“You'll keep a special eye on my girl.” Chase's gaze was unwavering.

“You bet I will, Mister Phoenix.”

“I'll take you at your word. Thank you.” Chase stood, relief smoothing his furrowed brow. “Ansel's in the study. Follow me.”

Chase paced across the great room and took a sharp right-hand turn into the east wing of the house. They walked down a small hallway and passed a dining room. Another right past a kitchen and they reached a heavy cedar door.

“In here.” Chase stood aside.

Dorbandt moved into the room, to be enveloped in the delicious smells of cayenne, mustard, and garlic. The study contained built-in, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an antique redwood desk, and plenty of cushioned chairs. It looked empty.