A Killing in Zion (23 page)

He faced the waitress. “I'm sure Roy has some meat loaf left in the kitchen. Have him fix it up with a couple of sides. While you're at it, bring a bottle of Heinz.”

“And a cup of coffee,” said Roscoe. “Better yet, bring the whole pot.”

“We don't serve coffee,” said Talena.

“Bottle of cold beer, then,” said Roscoe.

“We don't serve beer either,” she added.

“Root beer?”

“No. Sorry.”

“What about water?” asked Roscoe. “Or is that not available either?”

“Two glasses of water coming right up.”

“With ice, if you've got it, toots,” said Roscoe.

“Yes, sir,” she said, heading fast to a swinging kitchen door.

“Nothing beats Roy's meat loaf,” said the marshal. “Mind if I pull up a chair?”

Roscoe mumbled, “To be honest, I'd prefer you—”

I cut him off: “Please, join us.”

Steed lifted an unused chair from the next table, saying something out of earshot to the couple seated there. He returned to our booth, slid the chair close, and sat down, letting out a loud exhale and grunt as he made himself comfortable. “Much better. Now, where were we?”

“Waiting for our grub,” said Roscoe.

“I didn't get your names,” said Steed.

“I'm Art Oveson. This here is Roscoe Lund.”

He shook hands with me. “Good to know you.”

We released our grips and he offered his hand to Roscoe, who waited a few seconds before capitulating.

“What brings you two fellas to this neck of the woods?”

“We're vagabonds,” said Roscoe. “Bitten by the wanderlust bug, making our way across this enchanting land of ours by auto.”

“We're detectives,” I said, giving Roscoe the
cut-it-out
eye. “With the Salt Lake City Police Department.”

“Oh? You're a little outside your domain.”

I set the picture of the girl on the table in front of him and he leaned forward to get a good look at her.

“Do you know this girl?” I asked.

“She looks familiar.”

“What's her name?” asked Roscoe.

“I said she looks familiar,” Steed told Roscoe. “I didn't say I
know
her.”

“So you don't know who she is?” I asked.

“Why don't you let me hold on to this picture,” he said. “I'll ask around.”

“I'm afraid I can't let you do that,” I said. “I need it.”

He picked up the photo, smiled tauntingly, and showed no signs of giving it up. “Does this pretty young thing have something to do with you men being here?”

“She's one reason,” I said. “There are others.”

“What might those be?” asked Steed.

“Can I get my picture back, please?” I asked, pointing to it.

“I'd like to hold on to it,” said Steed. “In case.”

“Give it back,” said Roscoe.

I gave Roscoe my best
let-me-do-the-talking
glare, but he ignored me.

“The young lady in that picture has gone missing,” I told Steed. “She's a witness in a double homicide. We need to find her. And I need to have the picture to show people what she looks like, I'm afraid.”

“Are you referring to Uncle Grand's murder?” Steed asked, finally handing me the picture.

“Yes.”

“He was shot in Salt Lake City, not here,” said Steed.

“But the girl is from around here,” said Roscoe. “We have reason to believe…”

“Well, I can save you time,” said Steed. “We're a town of law-abiding folk. You won't find any murderers around here. They're all running around up in Salt Lake City.”

“Just the same,” I told him, “we'd like to follow up on all of our leads.”

Our meat loaf arrived on a tray, along with a pitcher of ice water speckled with condensation droplets and a couple of glasses. The girl set our plates in front of us, filled our glasses, and placed cutlery inside of folded napkins on the table.

“Enjoy,” she said. She rushed back to the counter, perhaps fearful of a confrontation at our table.

Fork in one hand, knife in the other, I inspected the steaming contents of my plate. I raised the fork above the meat loaf when Steed slid the bottle of Heinz closer and uncapped it.

“You've got to have ketchup on it,” he said. “It brings out the flavor.”

I thanked him under my breath, doused the delicacy in ketchup, and spread it around with my fork. I dug in. It was the best meat loaf I'd ever had, probably because I was so famished. Roscoe was already a third of the way through his, washing it all down with water for a change.

“News of Uncle Grand's death hit folks 'round here hard,” said Steed. “Only thing you all are gonna accomplish is opening up the wounds.”

“Thank you for your advice, Marshal,” I said. “My partner and I would like to spend a day or so here to rule out certain things.”

“What exactly are you ruling out?” Steed asked, itching his cheek.

“Shit,” said Roscoe. “We're ruling out shit.”

Steed scowled at Roscoe. I butted in: “We're following up on leads.”

Steed's features softened when he looked at me. “What kind of leads?”

“Information that may help us capture Johnston's killer,” I said.

“I can't imagine what leads would bring you to Dixie City.”

“We prefer to play our cards close to our chest,” I said. “I'm sure you get it.”

“No. I don't, I'm afraid.”

“Why you doing this?” Roscoe asked Steed.

“Doing what?”

“Crowding us out.”

Steed grinned, showing teeth. “I thought I was being cordial.”

“Look, Steed,” said Roscoe, “if your little city upon the hill can withstand the scrutiny, then get the hell out of the way and let us do our work.”

The grin stayed on Steed's face as he leaned back. “You got quite a mouth.”

Steed's deputies, two of the heftiest men I've ever laid eyes on—twins with brown eyes, walrus mustaches, and round, shaven chins—strode up behind him. Both had on black Stetsons and their hands hovered near their guns. Steed sensed their presence on either side of him and gestured with a backward jerk of his head. “These here are the Kunz brothers. Dorland and Devlin. They assist me when troublesome elements rear their ugly head in town.”

I laid down my fork, having made a significant dent in my dinner. “I've had enough,” I said. “What do you say, Roscoe?”

Roscoe had initiated a staring match with the Kunz brothers, and his right hand dipped below the table, presumably to reach for his firearm. I knew Roscoe had the spine to challenge these men to a fight. Whether he'd come out on top was a different matter, one I didn't care to find out. When I squeezed Roscoe's arm, it brought him back from the brink.

I fished out my coin pouch, opened it, and stirred its contents: quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies.

“It's on me,” said Steed. “Your money's no good here.”

“You sure?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Thank you,” I said, snapping the pouch shut. “We'll be leaving now.”

“A fine idea,” said Steed. “You all get a good night's sleep. Leave bright and early in the morning, before the funeral. You can go out the way you came in.”

 

Nineteen

Water dripped at irregular intervals on my forehead. Lying flat on my back atop the cold escarpment, I puzzled over it, because there were no clouds in the night sky. Only stars. Yet these big dollops of water would plunge out of the heavens and nail me. Each drop made a sharp sound when it hit.

The dream ended when I opened my eyes. My vision adjusted to darkness. Moonlight filtered into the window through the leaves, and when the wind blew, shadows of branches danced on the floor.

I sat up in bed.

CRACK!

The sound at the window startled me. I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, got up, and walked across the room to the window. Roscoe snored without stirring, making me wonder what it would take to awaken him.

CRACK!

This time, I saw the rock hit the window. My wristwatch said 2:18
A
.
M
.

CRACK!

Open the window
, I thought,
before a rock hits too hard
. I lifted the window as high as it'd go and the next stone pelted me in the chest.
Ow!
It hurt. I backed away and rubbed the sore spot. I knelt and picked the rock up off the floor. That would've been the window breaker.

I peered out the window. Between cottonwood leaves I saw a silhouette of a girl or woman standing in the side yard.

“Stay there!” I called out, loud enough for the thrower to hear. “I'm coming down!”

I stumbled in the night, pulled on my shirt and trousers over my temple garments, and sat on the edge of my bed to put on my shoes.

“What's going on?” asked a groggy Roscoe. Lurching upright, he rubbed cinders out of his eyes.

“We've got a visitor.”

“At this hour?” Roscoe grunted as he rolled out of bed. “Time is it?”

“Not quite two thirty.”

“Where you going?”

“Outside.”

“Wait! How do you know it ain't some crazy polygamist come to kill you?”

“A crazy polygamist wouldn't throw rocks at the window,” I said. “Besides, I can see it's a woman.”

“You think it's her?” he said, clearly referring to the missing girl.

“I'm not sure. It's hard to see. I didn't get a good enough look.”

Roscoe's belt buckle clinked as he pushed a leg into his pants, then the other. He pulled his trousers waist high, zipped, and tightened the belt.

“Go back to sleep,” I said. “I'll take care of it.”

“Somebody's gotta watch out for your scrawny behind,” he said, buttoning his shirt.

“All right. C'mon.”

Roscoe followed me on the trek through the hall, down the staircase, across the foyer, and out the front door. Out in the warm air, a symphony of crickets performed as we rushed down the porch steps. I spotted the figure, a woman in a long dress, standing beside a tree in the side yard.

“This way,” I whispered back to Roscoe. “Watch your step.”

Closing in on our late-night caller, I got a better look at her face. It was Talena, the waitress from the Covered Wagon. A strap on her shoulder held a leather bag buckled shut.

“I'm sorry to wake you,” she said. “I overheard you earlier tell Steed that you were staying at Mr. Larsen's.”

“What can we do for you?” I asked.

“I'm as good as dead if anyone finds out I'm here.” Her voice trembled. She glanced in both directions. “That's why I came so late.”

“Sounds like you've taken a big risk,” I said. “Tell us why.”

She crouched, unbuckled her bag, and fished something out. She handed me a snapshot. I struggled to get a better look at it under the faint light of the moon.

“Here.”

She pulled a flashlight out of her bag and passed it to me, one of those long and heavy numbers. I switched it on and shined light on the picture. I instantly recognized the boy in the picture as the same boy in the cherished photograph belonging to the mysterious girl staying at my house. I am pretty sure that Talena saw my eyes widen with recognition, or maybe my Adam's apple jump.

“You know him,” she said, more a declaration than a question.

“I've never met him.”

“But you've seen him.”

Roscoe sidled toward me and saw the photo before I shut off her flashlight and returned it, along with the picture, to her.

“Is he alive?” she asked.

“I don't know,” I said.

Her eyes widened and her voice grew panicky. “What do you mean you don't know?”

I shushed her. “Try to keep it down. I've only ever seen a picture of him.”

“Who else has a picture of him? Nelpha? Is she alive?”

“Hold on, hold on,” said Roscoe. “We're getting ahead of ourselves. Why don't you start by telling us the boy's name?”

“I thought you already knew,” she said. “His name is Boyd Johnston. He's my brother.”

“You two any relation to LeGrand Johnston?” I asked.

“He is—
was
—our father.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said. I gave her a moment to collect herself. She shook when she inhaled and I feared she'd start crying. I headed her off with a question: “You mentioned somebody named Nelpha?”

“Yes. Nelpha Black, Rulon's youngest wife. That was her picture you showed to Steed at the Covered Wagon.”

“I see,” I said. “We're looking for Boyd and Nelpha and anyone else who might've gone missing around here. We'd appreciate you telling us what you know.”

Talena said, “I was hoping you'd tell me. I haven't seen my brother in a while. I'm scared something bad happened to him. You said you saw a picture of him?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact—”

“We got a few more questions to ask you first,” interrupted Roscoe. “Can you be a little more precise about when it was you last saw your brother?”

“This would have been, oh, late May,” she said. “I knew something wasn't right. He quit coming to church. I no longer saw him around town. It wasn't like him, never to come around like that.”

“Where do you suppose he went?” I asked.

“They banished him,” she said.

“Banished?” Roscoe asked. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes lit up in the darkness, and at first I couldn't tell if she was afraid to answer or relieved someone had the nerve to ask. “It happens around the time the boys reach their teens. They get sent away, forced to go off and fend for themselves.”

“All the boys get banished?” asked Roscoe.