Dark Paradise (39 page)

questioned him. He didn't take much from any one place. In his own

larcenous heart he considered the ill-gotten gains "gratuities." A

street lawyer in a place like New Eden, Montana, didn't get a whole lot

more. Most of his clients were ranchers whose wealth was tied up in

land, livestock, and equipment. The new wealth in the Eden valley had

come equipped with their own lawyers. Miller made out on divorces and

the odd wrongful-death settlement. And his "gratuities." And his

schemes.

He eyed the woman on the other side of his cluttered desk and smiled

benignly. She had already put a fair amount into his piggy bank without

having a clue. His avaricious brain buzzed with thoughts of what more

she might give him.

"Hey, there, little missy!" he boomed, slapping his fat hands against

what little desktop showed through the mess of fishing flies and reels

and documents that needed filing. "What brings you out on a night like

this?
 
It's a real toad strangler out there, hey?
 
You decide to sell

that land?"

Marilee forced a smile. Daggrepont's eyes were swimming behind the

Coke-bottle lenses of his glasses. Not even that nauseating special

effect could hide the gleam of greed. "No, not yet."

"Well, now, you just say the word and I'll take care of the whole ball

of beeswax for you."

"Thank you. You're very" -opportunistic, exploitative,

vulturelike- "industrious."

Daggrepont took it as a compliment.

"I'm still in shock, to tell you the truth," she said. "I can't think

about the land yet. There are just so many unanswered questions. I was

driving by and saw your lights on. Thought I'd just drop in and see if

you might be able to answer any of them for me."

His brow furrowed into burls of flesh. He rubbed his sausage fingers

over his third chin. "What sort of questions?
 
Financial questions?"

"Sort of." She cast about for a place to sit, finally settling a minimal

portion of her fanny on a chair taken up by a towering stack of old Life

magazines and a shoebox half full of old military medals. She set the

shoebox on the floor and leaned back against the magazines. "I thought

you might know something about the inheritance Lucy came into before she

moved here."

Daggrepont heaved out a gust of pent-up breath.

"'Fraid I can't help you there, little lady. I wasn't privy. She had me

draw up her will, named me executor, that's all."

"Did she say
 
why?
 
I mean, she was young, healthy, not the kind of

person given to planning that way."

"She owned property and livestock. Had money in the bank. It's just

sound thinking!" he shouted up at the ceiling. His eyes narrowed and

swam in Marilee's direction.

"You ought to think about having one yourself. I'd be more than happy to

take care of that for you. I've got the forms right here-"

"Not just now," Marilee said, halting his search of the desktop. "Thanks

anyway."

He stared at her hard, his fat hands dripping fishing tackle, his mind

calculating what he might have made in additional fees. "Well, if you're

sure."

"Maybe later on."

She sighed and glanced around the room. This had been a shot in the

dark, but now that nothing had come of it, she realized she had actually

hoped Daggrepont might prove to be something other than chronically

weird. Her gaze scanned the bookshelves that were crammed with legal

tomes, collector's price guides, and mail-order catalogues.

"Did you know anything about her finances at all?"

God, what's he supposed to say, Marilee?
 
You mean, was Lucy a

blackmailer?
 
By golly, little missy, she sure was!

Daggrepont looked at her sideways. "How do you mean?"

"I mean, she seemed a lot more well off than when I knew her. I was just

wondering how that came to be."

The grin that split the lawyer's face made him look like a cowboy - kitsch

Buddha. Buddha with a string tie and Don King hair. The image didn't

faze Marilee, which told her just how far gone she was.

"You're the first client I ever had who worried about getting too much

money!" He let loose a belly laugh that shook the cobwebs in the corners

of the ceiling.

"No. I was just curious, that's all. Lucy and I kind of lost touch over

the last year."

"That's a shame."

"Yeah, well . . ." His collection of the Martindale-Hubbell directories

caught her eye as she stood. He appeared to have volume nine dating back

to the time of Moses. Also the volumes that included Idaho and Wyoming.

No California A-O. "Mr. Daggrepont, Lucy didn't leave anything else for

me that you may have forgotten about, did she?
 
She mentioned a book in

her letter. I haven't been able to find it."

Daggrepont frowned like a bulldog as he rocked himself to his feet. The

springs of his desk chair shrieked in relief. "No, ma'am, there was no

book. If she'd left a book, I surely would have passed it along to you.

I'm not the sort of unscrupulous shyster who keeps things he isn't

entitled to."

He graciously offered her the use of a thirty-year-old umbrella to get

out to her car. Marilee was wrestling to get the thing closed, when an

old pink Cadillac pulled up alongside her Honda on First Avenue. Nora

Davis buzzed down the window on the passenger side and shouted to be

heard above the rain.

"Hey, there, Marilee, let's go honky-tonkin'!"

The umbrella turned itself inside out. It seemed like a sign.

The Hell and Gone was an oasis of life in a night canceled due to

weather. Amber lights and Coors signs glowed a welcome out the windows

and swinging front doors. Sweethearts of the Rodeo harmonized above the

dull roar of pool games and high spirits.

Nora squeezed her boat in between a pair of ranch trucks a dozen feet

from the side entrance of the bar.

"Aren't you worried about getting your doors bashed in?" Marilee asked.

She had to hold her breath to get out of the car.

Nora laughed as they dashed up onto the boardwalk and out of the rain.

"Honey, you won't find a cowboy on this earth willing to get pink paint

on his pickup. That's a bonus to having that old car -the Mary Kay-mobile

I call it. My mama won that ugly thing selling miracle night cream to

homely old ladies in Bozeman. It sucks gas by the gallon and uses a

quart of oil every thousand miles, but there's not a red-blooded man in

Montana who'd steal it or put a dent in it."

"You're a wonder, Nora," Marilee drawled.

The waitress tossed her frizzy dark hair and grinned.

"Don't you forget it, girlfriend."

Laughing, each slung an arm around the shoulders of her new friend and

they headed inside.

The rain had driven the cowboys into town early.

Most of them were well on their way to hangovers. All of them were glad

to see unescorted females. Shouts went up as Nora and Marilee walked in.

They all knew Nora.

She basked in the glow, waving to friends, shouting hellos and smart

remarks as she led the way through the throng to a booth. She had traded

her waitress uniform for a tight T-shirt with Garth Brooks's likeness

plastered across her flat chest and tighter jeans that hugged her wide

hips and disappeared into the tops of red, highheeled,

looking-for-trouble cowboy boots.

They ordered beers. Marilee ordered a Hell and Gone Bull Burger with the

works and double onion rings.

Nora raised her thinly plucked brows. "You eating for two, honey?"

"I haven't had anything since breakfast. I worked up an appetite."

"Like a ranch hand. What you been doing all day, riding wild horses?"

"Something like that." Marilee glanced away, hoping the warmth of the

bar would explain her blush.

She'd been in her share of working-class bars, not for the liquor or the

horny tough guys, but for the music. A lot of great music got played in

places like the Hell and Gone. A poster on the wall advertised a band

called Cheyenne coming in on the weekend. She wondered if she might

persuade J.D. to come listen with her, then almost laughed at herself. A

date. God, what would he do if a woman asked him out?
 
Was that done in

Montana?
 
The cowboy code would probably require him to perform ritual

suicide.

Nora launched into a narrative of who's who, pointing out this cowboy

and that cowboy and the mechanic from the John Deere place and the best

hairdresser at the Curl Up and Dye. Marilee memorized their faces, their

grins, their laughter. She took in everything about them and stored the

images in her mind to be called upon later. She drank in the rowdy

atmosphere of the bar, the smell of beer and cigarettes, and warm male

bodies and strong perfume.

The Braves were playing baseball on the TV that was crammed up on a

shelf above the bar. People booed them enthusiastically. Ted Turner was

not a popular man here bouts. He had bought up most of the next valley

and promptly declared the land off limits to local hunters, then sold

off his cattle and replaced them with buffalo, angering all the area

ranchers who feared his buffalo herd might spread diseases to their

cattle.

Over the speakers Alan Jackson shouted out above the hoopla-"Don't Rock

the Jukebox." Half a dozen couples zoomed around the small dance floor,

twisting and twirling, trying to impress one another in a courtship

ritual as old as time.

A crowd gathered around an old Ping-Pong table on the far side of the

room, where pinball machines blinked and billiard balls cracked

together.

"They're fixin' to start the mouse races!" Nora called, her face bright

with excitement. "Let's go!"

They were across the bar in a flash, Marilee squeezing her way between

cowboys for a better view. The betting was lively as the entries were

held up above the crowd for introduction. A mouse named Pink Floyd was a

narrow favorite. She put a dollar on Mouse O'War and screamed at the top

of her lungs with the rest of the fans as the doors were pulled up on

the tiny starting gate and the racers started their mad dash down their

lanes for a reward of peanut butter and stale cheese.

Mouse O'War nosed out Godzilla for the win. Pink Floyd jumped the rail

and made a mad dash for freedom, miraculously dodging the heavy boots of

his disgruntled followers and disappearing under a video poker machine

along the wall.

Marilee collected her winnings and made her way back to the table just

as her supper was being delivered. Nora intercepted a cowboy en route

and herded him onto the dance floor as Hal Ketchum came roaring over the

speakers-"Hearts Are Gonna Roll."

The burger was heaven. Marilee sank her teeth in, closed her eyes, and

groaned in heartfelt appreciation. Half a pound of prime Montana beef on

a spongy white bun.

She could barely get her hands around it. Melted cheese oozed out the

sides and over her fingers.

"I never saw a woman eat the way you do, Marilee. How do you keep that

sweet figure?"

Will slid into the booth across from her and plunked a long-necked

bottle of Coors on the table. By the looks of him, it wasn't his first.

His blue eyes had a blurry sheen to them. The incorrigible grin was

lopsided. His dark hair tumbled across his forehead. He hooked a giant

onion ring off her plate and bit into it, flashing handsome white teeth.

"I work it off."

"J.D. work it off for you?" he said archly.