The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volumes 1-4 (12 page)

“What was that about?”

He shifted his wide hands on the digging bar. “He didn’t like Indians.”

“How could you tell?”

He poked at the hole. “The usual. He sat there and gave me hard looks till he worked up his nerve.”

“He said something?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“The usual shit.”

“You say something?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

He grinned with bad teeth. “The usual shit.”

It felt strange to have somebody working on my house. It felt strange just to have anybody there. I looked over at the little red Jeep and figured I’d give her a call later.

* * *

It was one of those beautiful, high-plains days, where the sky just blinks blue at the earth and you have to remind yourself to take it in. The second cuttings were all up and tarped, and the perfectly round shadows of the bales looked surreal stretching across the disc-turned fields toward Clear Creek like stubble fields at harvest home. I didn’t pass a single car on the way into Durant. It was a little before eight when I got to the office, and Ruby already had five Post-its plastered on the doorjamb of my office. I spotted them when I came through the front door. “It’s a five Post-it day already?”

“Vic’s been here.”

I sat on the corner of her desk. “I thought she wasn’t coming in today.”

“She’s not, but she dropped some stuff off for you.” She looked up, and her hand went to her mouth. “What happened to your face?”

I didn’t think the scratches were that bad, but there were a lot of tumbleweeds in the ditch. “It’s a long story. Turk head back for Powder Junction?”

“After he decided how he was going to arrange the furniture when he got to be sheriff next year.”

I rolled my eyes as I got off her desk, headed for my office, and snatched all the little yellow Post-its as I went in. This was the system she had devised to get me to do all the things I was supposed to do during the course of my workday. On the top of my desk was a Tyvek envelope from the Federal Bureau of Investigation via FedEx. It still gave me a cheap thrill to get stuff from the Bureau, kind of reassuring me that I was on epistolary terms with the big guys: my pen pal, Elliot Ness. Vic must’ve brought it in. She wasn’t as impressed by the federales; considered them a case of dumb-asses-with-degrees. I broke open the nylon-reinforced filament tape and pulled out the mummy-wrapped container as an envelope fell to my desk. It was from the General Chemical Analysis Division, file number 95 A-HQ 7 777 777. Hell, with all those sevens we were bound to get lucky. And we were. The FBI laboratory said the foreign chemical compound on the ballistics samples had been identified as Lubricant SPG or Lyman’s Black Powder Gold.

Son of a bitch, that narrowed the field. That meant that whoever shot Cody Pritchard had done it with a black-powder shotgun. That didn’t make sense, though. I wasn’t even sure if you could shoot solid slugs out of antique shotguns without having them blow up in your face. And why use an antique shotgun? As the ultimate in nostalgia, at least thirteen American firms produced black-powder muskets, rifles, pistols, and shotguns, including flintlock and percussion designs. Traditional muzzleloaders are occasionally used for hunting, but black-powder arms turn up more frequently at pioneer celebrations, traditional turkey shoots, and in the hands of Civil War reenactment groups. They come with the original drawbacks of slow reloading, inconvenient ammunition, and lots of smoke. On the other hand, as certified antiques, their sale and ownership is generally not regulated under current firearm legislation. Two sides of the coin and neither one any help. Who had antique shotguns in this part of the country? The answer to that came roaring back: everybody. Even I had an old double-barrel Parker that had belonged to my grandfather and an old Ithaca 10 gauge coach gun. Okay, so it didn’t narrow the field. I looked up and found Ruby leaning against the doorjamb. “Yep?”

“I just wanted to see your response.”

I held up the letter. “To this?”

She smiled. “Underneath that.”

I slid the envelopes aside and picked up a pair of what looked like sweatpants. In blue screen printing it said CHUGWATER ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT XXXXL. “Very funny.” Chugwater was a little town about two-thirds of the way down to Cheyenne and is known for its chili mix and Hoover’s Hut, a gas station/gift shop. I held the pants up for inspection. “You could fit three of me in here.”

“Maybe she thinks you’ll grow into them.”

“Everybody’s a wise guy.” I tossed them over my chair. “Do you think you can track down Omar?”

“It’s hunting season.”

“I know.”

Her shoulders slumped a little. “If we had infrared satellite capabilities, I would say yes.”

I eased my sore legs into a sitting position. “I guess what I’m asking is if you could make a few phone calls and see if he’s around and not in Rwanda?”

“Sure, but I’m not making any promises.” She started to leave but not without a parting shot. “Read your Post-its, you have a busy day ahead of you.”

I tossed the letter from the FBI onto my desk and picked up the little pile of notes. The first was a vehicle inspection that needed to be done down on Swayback Road, south of town. No one had done it yet because it was a twenty-mile loop, and there was nothing else down there. How was I supposed to keep Gotham safe when I was out in the hinterlands reading VIN numbers? The next was from Kyle Straub, the prosecuting attorney for the county; he probably wanted to know why it was that I had released a crime scene without consulting with him. Another one was from Vern Selby, the circuit court judge, about my trial date on Wednesday, and Ernie Brown, Man About Town, had called and wanted a statement for the
Durant Courant
. The final one simply said WE HAVE AN OCCUPANT. Hell. I yelled after her, “Who is it?”

“Jules Belden.”

Shit. “PI or D and D?”

“Both; and assaulting an officer. I’ve got the report in here.”

I got up, walked out, and sat on her desk again. Before I could get settled, the file was under my nose. I flipped through quickly enough to let Turk’s childlike scrawl piss me off and stuck it under my arm. “Anybody feed Jules?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Do you want to go down to the Bee and get him something?”

“Do you want to finish these reports?”

I stood up. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll alert the press.”

As I made my way out the back door, I mused on the little bed and breakfast that we had behind our offices, two holding cells upstairs and the regular jail downstairs. Not too many people understand the differences between jails and prisons. Jails are county or municipal facilities; prisons are state facilities. Jails usually hold two types of lodgers: those awaiting trial for both felonies and misdemeanors and those who have been convicted of misdemeanors punishable by a sentence of one year or less. Prisons, on the other hand, only hold those convicted of felonies punishable by sentences of one year or more. Hence, in my opinion, the major difference between a felony and a misdemeanor was that you either got to stay out back and eat Dorothy’s cooking or share an eight-by-eight room with Bubba the Sheep Squeezer in Rawlins.

The downside of sheriffing a jail was we had to provide three squares a day. The upside was that the Busy Bee Café was only three hundred yards away, past the Owen Wister Hotel and the Uptown Barber Shop, down a pair of crumbling, old steps behind the courthouse. The only time things got lean was on Sundays when Dorothy was closed and we fell back on the varied selection of potpies in the minifreezer in the back.

As I slipped behind the building, I looked up into the windows of the courthouse and hoped that neither Kyle Straub nor Vern Selby would see me. I spotted their cars in the parking lot and made a mental note to deal with the powers that be later in the day, possibly with the charm of a personal visit. By the time I got past the barbershop, the thought of biscuits and sausage gravy quickened my aching step considerably. The Bee was perched next to the bridge alongside Clear Creek and, with its definite slant toward the water, was vintage Alistair MacLean. The little bell on the door announced my entrance, and a couple of hunters looked up; nobody I knew. I sat at one of the end stools by the cash register and picked up the paper. There was a picture of Ferg and the Search and Rescue team standing around eating donuts and drinking coffee near the Hudson Bridge. I was glad to see the
Courant
had captured the spirit of the thing. Above the picture, in medium print, was the headline LOCAL YOUTH DIES IN SHOOTING INCIDENT. Incident, that was good; at least everybody in town wasn’t referring to it as a gangland-style slaying. I guess I owed Ernie Brown a cup of tea and an interview. I folded the paper back and laid it on the counter for a quick read, as a steaming cup of coffee slid in front of me. “Somebody took the funnies.”

“I usually find the whole paper funny.”

Seemed like this country was loaded with good-looking older females, even if the pioneers deemed it hard on horses and women. Dorothy Caldwell was about sixty-five as near as I could figure and had run the Bee as far back as I could remember. The place had gotten its name from Dorothy’s claimed spiritual attachment to Napoleon and from the impressive bee collection that resulted from this fondness and that rested on the shelves above the cutting board. There were wooden bees, ceramic bees, stuffed bees, glass bees, every kind of bee imaginable. It was a small town crusade to provide Dorothy with bees from every corner of the globe, and I noted with satisfaction the little porcelain one on the end that had come all the way from Tokyo via Vietnam. The name was also due to the fact that Dorothy knew every piece of gossip circulating about the entire county. If I really wanted to know what the hell was going on around here, I would talk to her. Hell, she probably knew who killed Cody Pritchard. So I tossed it out. “Who killed Cody Pritchard?”

Her face was immobile. “As opposed to Cock Robin?”

“He’s missing too?”

She rested her knuckles on the counter and leaned into me. “This is the second time this week you guys have been in here questioning me about this. Should I consider myself a suspect?”

I bit my lip and thought about it. “As much as everybody else.”

“Good. Things were getting boring around here, and I rather like having an air of mystery and danger.” She looked at my armpit; it was not the first file I had brought to the Bee. “Who’s that?”

“Jules Belden.”

She sighed. “Oh, God.” She looked up. “Do you want the usual?”

“I didn’t even know I had a usual.”

“Everybody’s got a usual.”

“I’ll have the usual.”

I took a sip of my coffee, sat the folder on the counter, and began reading the newspaper. “In the cold, gray dawn of September the twenty-eighth . . .” Dickens. “. . . The slippery bank where the life of Cody Pritchard came to an ignominious end . . .” Faulkner. “Questioning society with the simple query, why?” Steinbeck. “Dead.” Hemingway.

Ernie had been an English Literature major at University of Wyoming before landing the job of lone employee and chief editor for the
Durant Courant
in 1951. I had two favorite parts of the paper: the Man About Town on the editorial page, which was Ernie; and the Roundup, which was Ruby’s contribution to the fourth estate. The dispatcher’s log was transcribed and documented under police reports in a rather surrealistic style. This resulted in profound statements, such as “A pig was reported on Crow Street, officer dispatched. No pig was found.” I considered them my moment of Zen on a daily basis.

A heaping mound of biscuits and spicy gravy slid over top of the paper, quickly followed by a napkin-rolled set of flatware. The usual. She reached over and grabbed the pot of coffee from the burner and poured me a fresh cup. “So, I’m assuming Jules Belden did it.”

“Only if it had been alcohol poisoning.” I cleaved off a section of biscuit dripping with gravy the consistency of wallpaper paste. It was the only place in the state where you could get spicy sausage gravy, and it tasted wonderful.

A lacquered fingernail tapped on the folder. “Do you mind?”

“Go right ahead.” She flipped the file open and began reading Turk’s report.

After a moment, “What does the little pissant mean by . . . ?”

“Please . . . I haven’t read it yet. Don’t ruin the ending.” She propped her elbows on the pebbled Formica and rested her chin on her fists, cool, hazel eyes directly over me. “What . . . I’m chewing too loud? What?”

“I just like watching you eat.”

“Why?”

“You enjoy it so much. You’re very appreciative.”

I rubbed my stomach. “Yeah, a little too appreciative.”

“Oh, Walt. All the women in town chase around after you now. Can you imagine what it would be like if you were good-looking to boot?”

I chewed for a moment. “All right, I’m not sure which part of that statement I’m going to take umbrage with first.”

A modicum of silence passed. “I hear Vonnie Hayes is sparkin’ around after you now.”

I looked up into the twinkling mischief in her eyes. “I’m supposed to be eating my breakfast.”

“Oh, excuse me.” She went off in mock indignation to recoffee the hunters, and I shook my head in amazement at the speed in which information could be transmitted in this damn place. I spun the folder around and started decoding Turk’s scrawl.

The Jules Belden Incident, as it shall hereafter be known, began at the Euskadi Bar in downtown Durant at approximately nine-twenty last night. At least that’s where the altercation took place, in the alley out back. Finding the men’s room occupied, Jules had decided to avail himself of the great outdoors and relieve himself in the fashion most convenient. It must have been a grand relieving, because it lasted long enough for Turk to pull up, get out of the Thunder Chicken, walk around, have a short discussion with Jules, and be irrigated. Damn, I’d have paid money to see Turk assaulted with urine.

* * *

I put down the folder and started thinking about the other boys involved with the Little Bird rape case: Bryan Keller and George and Jacob Esper. I would have to give them a call; see if they’d had any contact with Cody Pritchard. Did I think there was some kind of connection? Did I want there to be? I just had to keep a lid on the situation long enough to find some pieces. I did my best work when I wasn’t thinking, sometimes considering my mind to be a body of water that worked best once things had settled to the bottom. The trick was not getting mired in the mud.