Montana (17 page)

Lola’s breath came quick. “Bag it. It’s not mine. But I think I know whose it is. And I think he killed Mary Alice.”

F
IFTEEN MINUTES
later, the sheriff and Lola remained at an impasse. The sheriff tried again. “Do you know how many people here have red bandanas either riding in their back pockets or tied around their necks?”

“That may be. But I’ve only ever seen one. And each time, Frank was wearing it. Wilson Bird thinks he was smuggling booze. What if Mary Alice had figured that out and was going to write a story about it?”

“I don’t know how many different ways to tell you that Frank didn’t do it. You’re going to have to take my word for it. Besides, booze smuggling is no story at all. People have been doing it for generations. Different gangs come and go but nothing ever shuts off the spigot. Any other bright ideas you want to lay on me?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. And it’s not about Frank, either.” She showed him the campaign postcard. “I’m sure this is about Johnny.”

Charlie handed it back to her. “I told you. He was in Denver.”

“What about this?” She turned it over and held it up so that he could see the telephone number scrawled there. “I thought it was Johnny’s, but somebody else answered. Does the name Gallagher mean anything to you?”

Charlie’s disinterest was clear. “No. Probably somebody else who couldn’t have done it. When you find out who, let me know.”

“I found the card with the liquor. Up there.” She pointed. “Don’t you see?”

The sheriff opened the cupboard and retrieved the bottle and held it up to the light, assessing the level. “You did this in one day? Is this par for the course for you? It’s not a good idea, you know. Drinking alone, especially when you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset!” She lowered her voice and tried again. “I’m not upset.”

The dog and the sheriff stood side by side, heads tilted at identical angles, eyes accusatory.

“Mary Alice’s note. The one she left me. It said, ‘You know where the liquor is.’ But I didn’t. I had no idea. The only other thing in that cabinet besides the Jameson’s was a stack of bills. Who keeps bills over the refrigerator? She’s got a whole file cabinet next to her desk for stuff like that. And this card was tucked in the bills in the cabinet. You can’t tell me that was just happenstance. There’s something else, too.”

Charlie sloshed the Jameson’s around in its bottle again and sat it down. “What?” he said. “Convince me that none of this is the booze talking.”

“Campaign literature has to say who paid for it. Something named TMResources funded this.” Her finger skittered across the microscopic type at the bottom of the card.

“Never heard of it.”

“Me, neither. But—
TM.
Couldn’t that stand for Two Medicine? The note said, ‘Camping on the Two Medicine.’ Maybe she meant that as some sort of signal.”

“Half the things around here are named Two Medicine. It’s because of the river.”

“What river?”

“The Two Medicine River. It doesn’t look like much but if it weren’t for that water feeding all the irrigation ditches, nobody could ranch here. It runs along the edge of this place and drops down into a canyon not far from here. You should check it out. There’s a trail that cuts right behind the cabin. It’s a great hike.”

“I don’t hike.”

Charlie put the Jameson’s back in the cupboard and picked up the bags with the rock and the bandana, the dog moving shadowlike beside him. “You’ll want to get that window fixed. Call down to the hardware store and give Hank the measurements. He’ll help you out. He was supposed to come up here anyway, take out a couple of these trees. There’s too many, too close to the cabin to be firewise. You’re probably best off going back to the motel, but you need to cover up the window, keep the place protected after you leave.”

“I’m not going back to the motel,” Lola said.

Charlie stopped at the door. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

L
ola sat back in surprise at her own words.

Charlie dropped the bagged rock onto the counter with a thump. “Ma’am—Lola. I’d have to advise against that.”

“So?”

“I’m ordering you not to.”

Lola tried to sound more sure than she felt. “Sheriff. I do not understand a single thing about what’s going on here, but I do understand my rights. You may have the legal authority to order me to stay here as a witness, although I’m pretty sure if I pushed it, it wouldn’t stand. You have the authority to jail me if I don’t cooperate, and God knows, you have the authority to arrest me and charge me for bashing you over the head. Although I appreciate that you apparently aren’t going to. I appreciate that greatly.”

“I’m considering changing my mind.”

“But you do not have the authority to tell me where I’m going to stay while I’m here. And I’m going to stay right here in this cabin.”

Bub’s head whipped back and forth, regular as a metronome, following the conversation.

“You’re crazy.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Charlie sat down again. He slid his hand around to the back of his head and then studied his fingers anew. The blood was darker, finally coagulating. “Miss Wicks. I need you to listen to me. Which I don’t think you’ve done, not to a single word I’ve said, since you showed up here.”

The sun announced itself above the ridgetop, turning the kitchen into a sudden hullaballoo of light. “I’m listening.”

“You’re up here a good twenty miles out of town, all by yourself, right where Mary Alice turned up dead and where somebody seems to want to do the same thing to you.”

“It was just a rock,” Lola said with considerably more hubris than she felt. “If somebody had been trying to kill me, he could have. I think he was just trying to scare me.”

“And I’m saying that I think you should be scared.”

She forced a laugh.

“Stop it. It’s no laughing matter. You’re really going to do this?”

“Yes,” she said, nearly as surprised as the first time she said it. “I really am.” She stood up. “I’m really going to make some coffee, too. Am I allowed to do that?”

He slumped and rested his head in his hands. “Just tell me why.”

“Because I need caffeine.” She switched on the coffeemaker that she’d set up the night before. She held a mug beneath it and waited until the cup was nearly full, then slid another beneath the stream of coffee and handed the first to the sheriff. When she’d filled the second cup, she put the pot back onto the coffeemaker and sat down. She spoke slowly, not convinced she’d truly made the decision until she heard her own words.

“I’ve been moving for a long time. Forever, it feels like. But it seems like wherever I go, somebody’s always trying to chase me away. Either it’s the Taliban trying to keep me from working the border, or it’s an editor in Baltimore trying to keep me from working overseas, and now some creep doesn’t want me here, and apparently you don’t, either—even though you won’t let me leave. Well, to hell with all of you. I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Not until I’m ready.” She drained her coffee, and stood. “Refill?”

He shook his head more adamantly than necessary for a simple refusal of coffee.

“I’ve got to get going. If the last few days have been any indication, today is going to be a continuation of hell.” He looked at the rock on the counter as though he’d never seen it before. He picked up the baggie. It swung heavy in his hand. “Do you have a gun?”

“No. Don’t want one. I’d probably shoot myself.”

“Go buy yourself some more of that bear spray, then. You seem to have emptied the whole can on me. I’m glad you’ve got the dog. He’s not big enough to stop anybody, but he’ll let you know if something’s coming. If you hear anything, call 9-1-1 right away. Better yet, call this.” He took a business card from his wallet and wrote a number on the back of it. “That’s my cell. Don’t waste time by calling 9-1-1 and waiting for dispatch to track me down.” He stood on one foot, then the other. Lola wondered if he was waiting for her to change her mind. When she’d first met him, his uniform shirt strained to contain his stomach, but already, after only a few days of strain, it bagged loose. “About that horse. Don’t forget to exercise him.”

“You told me. And give the dog some jobs.”

“You’ll always want to latch that corral gate,” he said, still going on about the horse, “even if you’re just stepping in with him for a minute. Spot’s an escape artist. One day he let himself out and ran all the way into town. Ended up in front of Jolee’s store. She fed him a slushee and got a rope on him, tied him to the newspaper box and kept him there until Mary Alice could come get him. Speaking of trips to town, you might as well unload that rental car.”

“Then how am I supposed to make those trips to town?” Staying at the cabin alone was one thing; being trapped there another entirely.

“You could ride the horse,” he said. Then, at the look on her face, “I was joking.”

“Not funny.”

“Use Mary Alice’s truck. You can drop off the rental car at the gas station in town. Mel’s got a contract with the rental company. I’ll talk to him, tell him it’s special circumstances, so he won’t charge you the one-way fee. I’ll give you a ride back up here. The dog should be okay here while we’re gone. Maybe along the way, I can change your mind about staying in the cabin. In the meantime, come on. I’ll show you how to take care of the horse. Then we’ll get out of here.”

D
ESPITE HIS
vow to harangue her about her decision, Charlie drove in near silence after they’d dropped off the rental car, humming or occasionally singing under his breath, bits drifting her way. “Prairie lullaby . . . sweet Montana home.”

“What’s with the tunes?”

He flashed a not-quite smile, the closest she’d seen him come to one yet. “It’s genetic. My dad used to dance my mom around the kitchen every night, singing this song to her. It’s really about Wyoming, but he changed the words. They’d make me join them while our food just sat there. I ate a lot of cold dinners, but I know how to dance.”

Lola tried to imagine him shambling bear-like around a dance floor and fought the amusement rising within her. “Sweet Montana home. I guess that’s how Mary Alice thought of this place. She said coming here was like”—Lola hesitated, the words so sentimental as to embarrass her—“falling in love. I don’t get it. It’s just so empty.” She turned her head toward the window, the desolation emphasizing her point, and caught a flash of movement across the road. The sheriff stomped the brake. The seat belt yanked tight between her breasts and a moment later, she felt Charlie’s arm across them, bracing her from hitting the dashboard. A tailless brown dog darted off into the brush. Lola looked down at the arm across her chest.

Charlie jerked it away. “Sorry.” His face was red. “That’s Old Man Frazier’s dog. It’s always out along here. Someday it’s going to be nothing but a grease spot right in the middle of the road. For my money, that day can’t come soon enough.”

The dog’s rear end protruded from a bush, its nub of a tail helicoptering excitement. Its haunches bunched and relaxed, bunched again as it tugged hard at something on the ground. Charlie lifted his foot from the brake and put the car in gear.

Lola looked back. “Is that . . . ?” she cried. “Stop the car!” She unlatched the belt and flung open the door. She took the irrigation ditch in a bound and sprinted toward the dog, which raised a low, warning rumble, its jaws clamped tight around a dead man’s ankle.