The Winter Widow (20 page)

When the sheriff's deputy arrived, he escorted Vic out, to be taken to the county jail and booked for assault.

“Look around at this place,” Susan said after they left. “Everything is broken-down and grubby, except for some very expensive new items. Like the Cadillac in front, and this.” She tapped the television set. “And those.” She nodded at the rifles propped in the corner. “You think maybe Vic has gotten his hands on some money lately?”

Parkhurst's dark eyes took inventory of the room.

He grunted, and they searched the small house, being very careful not to get in each other's way, not to look at each other, like two dogs who weren't obliged to fight as long as they didn't acknowledge the other's presence.

Dirty dishes caked with rotting food teetered on the kitchen counters and sink. The dog curled up under the table as far away from them as she could get.

“This is Lulu,” Susan said.

Parkhurst squatted on his heels, spoke softly, and stretched out a hand. The dog crept forward and licked the hand, then rolled over so Parkhurst could rub the exposed belly.

“I'll take her to a neighbor,” he said, as he rose to his feet. “Probably better off there anyway.”

The bathroom sported a tub and basin coated with grime. The bedroom, tangle of dirty sheets on the bed, exuded an even stronger odor of predator's den. One room was filled with junk. Parkhurst was efficient and thorough, and she understood why Daniel had appreciated him. They found nothing that belonged to Emma Lou—no clothing, jewelry or cosmetics. No pictures, letters, bills. Nothing. Every trace of her presence had been removed.

“How much land does he own?” Susan asked.

Parkhurst smiled, one of those rare smiles that dramatically changed his dark look. “Over three hundred and fifty acres.”

*   *   *

THE sky was a sullen gray on Saturday morning when she drove back to Vic's farm. Parkhurst and Osey, standing inside the dilapidated barn, both turned to look at her as she crunched through ice-crusted slush toward them. Parkhurst, in faded denims and black leather jacket, acknowledged her presence with a short nod; Osey, collar of his sheepskin jacket turned up, grinned and hitched up his blue jeans. Beside the barn sat a pickup and horse trailer with two saddled horses.

“Whose are they?” she asked.

“Otto's,” Osey said. “Borrowed. Always lets us if we need to.”

“Nothing in the barn,” Parkhurst said.

Good. She didn't relish clambering around through junk in a structure that looked as if it might come crashing down if anything was disturbed.

Behind the barn was a small shed that held a jumble of tools: spades and shovels, ropes and chains, empty gas cans, odds and ends, all rusted and uncared-for.

Several feet from the shed was a large rectangular pit, eight feet long and four feet wide, filled with burned, blackened refuse. A new layer of garbage had been thrown over the top, and it was covered with snow. Parkhurst crouched on his boot heels at the edge of the pit and with a gloved hand brushed away snow, picked up a handful of ashes and let it filter through his fingers.

“Vic doused this with gasoline,” he said. “I'd guess he threw a mattress on top, soaked everything and set fire to it.” He looked up at Susan with a gleam of malice in his dark eyes. “We need to go through every inch of it.”

She nodded.

“We're looking for bones,” he said. “Human bones.”

“Indeed, I did know that.”

Osey loped to the pickup and brought back a tarp, which he spread over the snow at the side of the pit. Then he began to shovel out small mounds of debris and tip them onto the tarp. He whistled softly while he worked.

She sifted through muck. Beside her, Parkhurst did the same, working carefully. They didn't speak, and Osey every now and then threw them an anxious glance, like a child upset by friction between the grown-ups. As the morning went on, the sky turned a brighter gray and the chill of the wind softened. She felt gritty with ash; it blackened her gloves, got in her eyes, coated her mouth and grated against her teeth.

For their trouble, they found metal belt buckles, metal hardware from a suitcase, a few melted lumps that were probably buttons, and pieces of jewelry. They also found bones: small bones and pieces of bones. Each item was put into a plastic bag and labeled. As the pit got deeper so did Parkhurst's look of dissatisfaction.

It was past noon before they finished. She stretched and twisted her aching back. Osey cheerfully shoveled the mess back into the pit.

“Well?” she asked Parkhurst.

“Nothing.”

“The bones?”

He shrugged. “I'm not a pathologist, but my guess is animal bones.”

Yeah, she thought so too.

Squinting, he looked past the barn and across the hills. “A lot of space to dump a body, if there is a body.”

She brushed filth and ash from her jeans, then washed her hands and face in the icy water from the outside pump. Osey washed, drifted away, and ambled back with a paper sack and a thermos.

“Sandwiches,” he said. “Hazel thought we might need them.”

In Parkhurst's Bronco with the motor running and the heater on, they munched through thick ham-and-cheese sandwiches and drank coffee. The relief from the cold was welcome.

“Vic still isn't talking,” Parkhurst said. “Probably by this afternoon he'll have sobered up enough to want a lawyer. Then he'll get out on bail.” Parkhurst's mouth tightened against his teeth in a smile. “For our own safety, any searching ought to get done before Vic gets back. Let's go.”

They all climbed out of the Bronco and traipsed to the horse trailer. Osey was eager, like a Boy Scout on a camping trip, but Parkhurst, she felt, had some reluctance and it puzzled her. He was a hunter and the closer he got to the quarry, the more coldly satisfied he became, so why the reluctance?

Osey backed out a trim chestnut mare with a white blaze. Skittish after the long confinement, she arched her neck, tossed her head and pranced sideways with her white stockings flashing. She was a beauty.

Osey dropped the reins and the mare stood, but couldn't resist a waggle of her rear with a fast up and down of back hooves. Osey cinched up the girth, then backed out the other horse, a placid bay gelding.

Parkhurst stood well back, his face impassive, making no offer to assist, and she suddenly understood his reluctance. He didn't ride, or at least was uneasy about his ability. Well well, so you can't do everything. Ha. All those riding lessons she'd wheedled from her father had just paid off. Osey tightened the girth on the bay, picked up the reins and handed them to Parkhurst.

“Drive along the access roads,” he told her. “Take any possible side tracks and keep an eye on the terrain. Look at anything suspicious. I doubt Vic would want to lug a body very far. He'd pick a spot fairly accessible by vehicle.”

“You take the roads, I'll take the horse.”

He looked at her, then with a caustic twitch to his mouth, held out the bay's reins.

“I'll ride the mare,” she said.

Osey looked worried, and stammered, “Oh well— I don't—The bay is—”

She winked at him and he blushed. Gathering the reins, she swung lightly into the clunky western saddle and the mare danced with eagerness.

Osey, moving fast, caught the bridle. “Ma'am, this little horse is … frisky. I don't think— You could get hurt. Have you ever ridden before?”

“Yes, Osey, I can handle her.”

“Take the bay,” he pleaded. “He's a nice easy—”

“Osey, for heaven's sake, if you want to do something, adjust the stirrups.”

He did so, slowly, dragging the job out, and the mare shifted impatiently. When he finally stepped back, Susan gave the horse her head and the mare took off with a leap that nearly unseated her. Probably serve her right. It had been years since she'd done any riding, and getting dumped on her rear would be mighty embarrassing after her great show of authority.

She brought the mare to a controlled canter and, looking back, saw Osey, white-faced, streaking after her on the bay. She waved at him and smiled with reassurance, then she simply rode. Despite the clunkiness of the saddle, she enjoyed the feel of the animal beneath her and the wind whipping in her face. She wanted to ride forever, cantering across the shallow hills on the responsive, surefooted mare with those powerful muscles bunching and stretching.

Concern for the animal made her bring the mare to a trot and then a walk. There might be patches of ice or small holes beneath the snow, and she could hardly hope to spot anything like a grave while skimming across the landscape.

Osey trotted up beside her and grinned. “I guess you're all right.”

She smiled and patted the horse's neck.

“If you want to go that way,” he swung his arm to the south, “I'll do the other way.”

Nodding, she reined the mare off at an angle and realized how difficult this would be, only a matter of luck if they found anything. If Emma Lou was killed over two months ago, the ground would have had time to settle and there wouldn't necessarily be any noticeable evidence of digging. The snow made it even harder: Any spot that might look suspicious would be covered.

She scanned the horizon. In the distance was a clump of trees and she made her way more or less in that direction. When she came to what looked like a track, she dismounted and brushed away snow. She found tire marks, remounted and followed the track. After a mile or so, either she lost the track or it petered out. Angling back and forth, she tried to pick it up again and came to a fence with the barbed wire sagging and hanging loose. She turned the mare and rode along the fence.

They neared a ravine and the mare gathered muscles to jump, but Susan held her back and walked her along the edge. It was eight feet deep and three across at the widest section, with nothing inside but snow. At one point, she saw Parkhurst's car several miles away and after a time, she reached a gravel road and saw his tire tracks.

Crossing the road, she trotted the mare up to a stock tank with a huge windmill, tank half full of scummy, dirty water, frozen in the center. The windmill wasn't moving and obviously hadn't worked for some time. Above the trees in the distance, a hawk circled in the gray sky and she wondered what kind it was. Daniel would have known. Riding gradually uphill, she saw a small black-and-tan dog trotting toward the trees. Cottonwood trees?

Purposefully, the dog went about his business, stopping now and then to investigate an interesting scent. She followed and he stopped once to look at her and wave his tail, then disappeared over a rise. When she reached the top, she headed for the trees and then made her way through them. She saw the dog again, busily pawing at the ground at the base of a tree.

The mare stopped, pointed her ears, snorted and pranced sideways. Susan urged her forward. The mare balked. Susan nudged her. The mare took dainty, mincing steps and tossed her head.

“Where did you learn to ride?”

Startled, Susan lost a stirrup and almost lost the mare, who reared and wheeled. She tightened the left rein, forcing the animal into a tighter and tighter circle, finally getting her under control.

“Sophie, what are you doing here?”

“Sorry. Stupid thing, frighten a horse. Know better.”

“How did you get out here?”

“I can still get most places I want to be.” Sophie had on the long black overcoat and a black scarf around her head. No wonder the mare had spooked; she was an eerie figure standing by the tree.

“Found anything yet?” the old woman asked.

“How did you know we were looking?”

Sophie snorted. “Won't work with me, child. I'm nosy and don't intend to change or apologize. What are you looking for?”

The mare, dancing and fidgeting, was difficult to restrain, and Susan fought with her.

“Emma Lou?” The old woman smiled slyly. “Trash. Do better to look for her in Kansas City. If you're expecting to find something, you're looking in the wrong place.”

“What?”

“Over there.” Sophie pointed. “Try in that hollow.”

The mare tossed her head and made an unexpected sideways jump. When Susan again got her under control, the old woman had gone.

“Sophie!”

Susan nudged the mare, coaxed her forward. She planted her feet, but Susan convinced her they were going on. A creek gurgled along at the bottom of the slope, and across it was a barbed wire fence with wire missing in one section. Sophie had disappeared; she could have slipped behind any of the trees.

“Dammit,” Susan muttered. Turning the mare, she allowed a canter toward the area Sophie had indicated and came to another track so deeply rutted beneath the snow, it had obviously been used by a heavy vehicle. She followed it to a point where the ground sloped steeply down to an irregular, depressed area. A few stunted trees grew around the rim.

Dismounting, she tethered the mare to a tree and clambered down the slope. Tumbled into the floor of the hollow were about twenty metal drums partially covered with dirt and snow. She brushed at the snow and examined a drum. It had no marks of any kind to identify it.

“Ma'am?”

She looked up. Osey dismounted, dropped the reins and slithered down. He tossed straw-colored hair from his eyes. “I saw the mare, wondered if you fell off. What have you found?”

“Not what we were looking for.”

Osey ambled around looking at the drums, now and then thumping them. “What's in 'em?”

“I can make a pretty good guess. Can you find Parkhurst?”

Osey nodded, trudged up the slope, jumped on the bay and trotted off. She stared at the drums. Toxic waste; she hadn't a doubt. Was this why Daniel had been killed? She shivered. The temperature was dropping, the sky was turning a darker gray, and the wind was no longer soft as daylight began to fade.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN