CHAPTER 7

EDDIE RUNYON erupted from the driver’s door of his rust-mottled truck, swung around toward her and stumbled a step or two, and stood there red-faced and squinty-eyed, fists clenched, breathing as if he, not the truck, had made the running. Rosemary took a firmer grip on the leash and regretted her recent attempt at dog discipline. At him you can growl was the silent message she sent to Tank.

“Well Jesus H. Christ, Mrs. Mendes, I could have run you over! What the hell are you doin’ out here anyway?”

Rosemary, who up to now had considered Eddie little more than pose and bluster, wondered whether she was about to be proven a poor judge of character. But Tank, pressed against her leg, was rumbling low in his throat and trembling just a bit, she thought more from total alertness than fear. And Eddie’s gun was still in its rack. “Well, I—”

He drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly, making an obvious effort at self-control. “The dumb dyke—the woman that called herself Mike Morgan—got shot dead, you know that? Just off the back of the property there,” he added with a vague wave in the direction of the house.

Called herself Mike Morgan? “Yes, I’d heard about it,” Rosemary admitted. “I understood it was a hunting accident.”

“Most likely, and deer season’s still on and plenty of guys with guns still out looking to get their buck. So you just come out here all by yourself to watch, maybe?”

Had Mike Morgan’s lack of the proper deference somehow offended yet another male ego? Or had she challenged this irascible man in some personal way? And how and when? Deciding this would be a poor time and place to explore such questions, Rosemary drew herself up to her full five feet of height and widened big brown eyes she knew to be nearly as soulful as Tank’s. “Oh, dear. I suppose I was careless. Thank you for reminding me.”

“Well, sure.” He ducked his head and shuffled his feet.

“Did you know Ms. Morgan?”

That brought back the frown. “I knew who it was lived here. And I figured now she’s dead, them postings she put up against hunting wouldn’t count no more. And a piece of ground don’t get hunted for a few years, the deer start to think it’s safe. So…”

“So you thought you’d come have a try?”

“Right. So what about you? You ain’t hunting deer, I guess.”

“Uh, no. I was out this way for a drive and a hike, with Ms. Morgan’s dog.” She tipped her head at Tank. “And he got excited when we came to her gate.”

“That’s the Morgan woman’s dog? How come you’ve got him?”

“Dr. Campbell asked me to take care of him for a while.”

“Huh. Well, he’s a good-lookin’ guy, for sure.” Clearly happy to shift to a neutral subject, Runyon came closer and reached out a big hand. The dog’s response was a tooth-baring bark that said clearly, Back off!

Eddie did, quickly. “You know, one of my buddies has been talking about getting a good Lab for duck hunting, I think he had black in mind but this guy looks real strong. You know if he’s had any field training?”

“I don’t believe he has. He’s been a companion dog. A pet.”

“Shit, that’s a waste of a solid guy like that, been bred for about a million years to hunt and not just lay around in that little house of yours. I’d be happy to take him off your hands for my buddy.”

She simply shook her head. “I like having him. As you can see, he’s good protection for a woman alone. Besides, it appears that a bullet grazed him when Ms. Morgan was hit. Dr. Campbell thinks he’s probably gun-shy now.”

“Oh, too bad. Gun-shy dog, nothing to do with him but shoot him.”

“I don’t think so!” snapped Rosemary so sharply that Tank barked again. “We’ll be on our way now. I have an appointment in town.” She gave him a brisk nod and strode off with Tank to her own truck.

Safely locked in with her dog, she started the engine, backed and turned, and peered down into the bed of Eddie’s truck as she drove past it. Big red plastic gas can, metal toolbox, spare tire, several soggy bags of sand. If it was Eddie Runyon who’d ransacked the cabin, he’d already disposed of his loot.

Which reminded her of the not-quite-legal booty in her own truck. As an honest and law-abiding citizen, she’d stop by the sheriff’s office on her way home and report on the state of Mike Morgan’s cabin.

SHERIFF Angstrom, Gray Campbell’s fishing buddy, had gone home for lunch. Rosemary learned this from Deputy Raymond Olds, a large, red-faced man who would probably not be chosen Chamber of Commerce poster boy for Weaverville. Maybe those pointy-toed boots were too tight. Maybe her Portuguese last name had hit an ethno-racist nerve.

“Yes, Rosemary Mendes,” she said firmly. “I’m here because I just discovered what looks to me like vandalism and possibly burglary at the cabin owned by Michelle Morgan, the woman who—”

“I know who Michelle Morgan was,” said Deputy Olds, “and what happened to her. So her property is part of a criminal investigation. What were you doin’ out there?”

Momentarily rattled by the hostile tone and stance of this complete stranger, Rosemary closed her mouth. Clearly she’d run into one of those cops who consider all civilians potential criminals, or even worse, busybodies. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll sit down,” she said, and did, in one of the molded-plastic chairs against the wall.

“Be our guest.” He crossed his ankles, crossed his arms on his chest (really his belly, she noted unkindly) and leaned against the counter behind him to listen, or pretend to.

Rosemary took a deep breath, exhaled, and smiled her sweetest smile. “I never met Ms. Morgan, but I know a little about her, because after the accident, Dr. Campbell brought her dog to me.”

Deputy olds didn’t change position, simply let the corners of his mouth draw down in an expressive grimace: Get to the point, woman.

“So today I drove out into the national Forest to give him a run, and he got excited when we came to his old home. When I drove in and let him out, I saw that the place, Ms. Morgan’s cabin, had been trashed.”

“Lady, we searched the property after her body was found, turned the place over real good, but we didn’t ‘trash’ it. When we locked the place, put our sign on the door, and left, it was fine.”

“Well, someone certainly did,” she insisted in grimly polite tones. “Outside, someone had dug big holes. Inside, furniture was slashed and floorboards pulled up, everything thrown around; it frightened me to see it.” Remembering the scene, Rosemary did feel a chill.

“You have a key, do you?”

“The door was open, not even latched. And there wasn’t any sign, either. I guess someone, or some people, remembered the old story about the hermit-miser’s hidden money.”

“Where did you hear this old story?”

“From Leona Barnes, when we were cooking lunch for seniors at Enders Center.”

“Oh, yeah, Leona,” he said. Leona Barnes was one of those community pillars all small towns have. Rosemary knew Leona could eat this guy for lunch and look around for a snack afterwards.

Olds turned to the counter, pulled a pad of paper close, took a pen from his shirt pocket, and rather ostentatiously, Rosemary thought, made a few notes. “Now,” he said, turning his chilly gaze on her again, “Mrs. Mendes, do you have any personal knowledge of how this damage occurred, or what items might be missing?”

“I told you, I didn’t know Ms. Morgan. I’d never been to that cabin before today and I know nothing about its contents.” Except for the books and discs in her truck, right out front. “Well, except for—”

“Okay, Ray, you can go.… Oh, sorry.” The voice came from the now-open door leading to the interior of the building, the speaker a tall man whose bright blue eyes and faintly silvered fair hair made his weathered face look younger than it probably was.

“I’ll just finish with this little complaint first, Chief.”

Aha, the sheriff. Rosemary got to her feet and held out her hand. “Sheriff Angstrom? I’m Rosemary Mendes.”

“Mrs. Mendes, pleased to make your acquaintance. I guess you’ve heard from Captain Diaz?”

Rosemary stood straighter. “Captain Diaz? In Arcata? No, what should I have heard?”

“Nothing bad, ma’am,” said Angstrom in reassuring tones. “We had a call last week from somebody claiming to be secretary for a lawyer in Arcata, wanted us to give her your address and telephone number. I told her we didn’t have or give out that kind of information, not without a request from another law enforcement agency.”

“Oh. Good.”

“And then I checked with Larry Diaz, and he told me there was just some family bad feeling, nothing of interest to his department or mine.”

Rosemary had been bothered by silent hang-ups several times recently—with the read-out on her phone saying only “Private.” “So you definitely didn’t give anyone my phone number?”

“Absolutely not.”

Deputy Olds cleared his throat. “Mrs. Mendes came in with a tale about vandalism out at Old Man Kelly’s place—where the Morgan woman lived.”

Angstrom looked pained. “Bound to happen, I guess. We don’t have the personnel to keep a regular eye on something so far out in the woods. Probably kids decided it would be a good place to party.”

“The damage was really—mean,” said Rosemary.

“So are some of our teenagers,” Angstrom told her. “Did you see anybody there or nearby?”

Rosemary could manage mild evasion, but not a direct lie, not to the sheriff. “Just Eddie Runyon. He’s a neighbor of mine.”

That got the attention of both men; Olds looked offended, Angstrom interested.

“He drove in as I was leaving, and he didn’t go near the house while I was there,” she said. “And there wasn’t anything in the bed of his truck except a gas can and toolbox. Anyway,” she hurried on, “we talked for a few minutes. He said he was looking the area over for deer, and he was upset with me for being out in the woods alone during hunting season.”

“Damn right,” muttered Olds.

“We’ll have somebody go out and take a look,” said Angstrom. “And thank you for the information.”

Rosemary decided to keep the air absolutely clear with the sheriff. “One more thing. Ms. Morgan’s books and CDs had been dumped on the floor. I—rescued them or something, I don’t even know why. They’re outside in my truck.”

“What the hell…!” Deputy Olds snapped, but Angstrom waved him to silence.

“I’m sorry,” Rosemary said meekly. “I just hated to see them lying there like trash, for the next vandal to step on.”

“Tell you what,” said Angstrom, “I’ll just come out to your truck with you, take a gander at the stuff you collected.”

“Of course.” Rosemary dug her keys from her pocket and hitched her shoulder bag into place.

“And Mrs. Mendes?” said Angstrom, reaching a long arm past her to open the door. “Ms. Morgan’s death is pretty clearly one of those ugly accidents that happen now and again in hunting country. She had on a nice wristwatch when we found her, and her wallet was in her pocket, with some money and the usual stuff.”

“Nobody robbed her, you mean.”

“Right. Like I said, we have no evidence, and no reason to believe, that her death was anything but a hunting accident. We probably won’t find out who did it, unless the guy’s conscience starts to bother him and he turns himself in; that happens sometimes. We probably will hear from any family she’s got before long. Point is, it’s the sheriff’s business and the department’s job. Not that we don’t appreciate your information, you understand.”

“Oh, I surely do,” said Rosemary, biting back an added “Sir” as overkill.

Angstrom’s reply was lost in a “Hey, Gus!” from Deputy Olds. “CHP’s got a real big mess over by Junction City!”

“Right, coming. Mrs. Mendes, I’ll catch you later.”

“No, you’ll just have to wait until we get home,” Rosemary told Tank moments later, as the siren of Sheriff Angstrom’s car faded into the distance. “Abusing the sheriff’s bushes would be a very bad idea. Sit down and be quiet.”

 

1982

MISS ACERO… Interesting name, that Spanish?”

 “Ms. And it’s Mexican, originally.”

“Ms. Acero, I know my daughter is a little headstrong, comes of not having a mother. My wife died when Brianna was only two years old, and I’ve had no luck at all finding a full-time nanny for a job at an isolated ranch. So,” he added with a shrug, “I’ve had to depend for help on Brianna’s grandmother, who’s elderly though I don’t dare say that where she can hear me.”

“Mr. Conroy—I believe it’s likely to be Assemblyman Conroy soon?”

“I’m busy working in that direction, ma’am, and I’d appreciate your vote.”

She made no response to this, verbal or otherwise. “Mr. Conroy, your daughter gave one little boy a bloody nose and punched another in the belly so hard he had to be sent home, and that was just in a fight over a soccer ball. You should thank god it wasn’t baseball they were playing; imagine what she could have done with a bat.”

“Brianna told me she just wanted to participate in the boys’ game. She says she’s as good a player as any of them.”

“She’s better than any of them, including the fifth graders,” Ms. Acero said flatly. “But she has no sense of limits.”

“Hey, I thought it was a new world now, where girls—women—don’t have limits.” Brian Conroy shrugged broad shoulders, grinned, ran a hand over thick brown hair lightly touched with gray. His eyes registered appreciation of the young woman standing rump-propped against her desk, Levi’s and dark ponytail in no way undermining her grace or her teacherly authority.

“Everybody has to accept limits,” she said. “I can’t believe there’s a rancher alive who doesn’t know that.”

“But not at age eight,” he protested. “Look, my daughter is at the top of the class in all her work, isn’t she? She helps a lot on the ranch; she’s a whole lot more at home on a horse than her seventeen-year-old brother. Looks to me like some of the the other kids, and some of the teachers, too, just don’t appreciate her energy.”

Ms. Acero crossed her arms and shook her head. “I like your daughter. And I grew up with three brothers, I know little girls have to assert themselves. But you and her grandmother are not doing Brianna any favors by letting her think rules somehow don’t count for her. Or by buying off the parents who had good reason to be angry.”

“That wasn’t buying off!” His abrupt move to his feet sent the child-size desk rocking. “I had access to better medical circum-stances, that’s all. And I offered it because my kid had been…out of line. All right?”

Celia Acero looked at the angry man looming over her and decided she wasn’t making a dent in his attitude. “Mr. Conroy, Brianna is a good student, an often funny and entertaining kid, and a potentially fine athlete. I can cope with her ‘energy’ in the class-room. But I won’t let her play soccer, or any other team sport, unless she agrees to the rules of the game, and of sportsmanship. Do you plan to make a fuss about that?”

He sighed. “No, ma’am, I think that’s more than fair. I’ll talk to her.”

“Do that, please. I’ll do the same. And good luck to both of us.”

He nodded, shook her hand, and took himself out of the classroom, along the hall and out to the parking lot, where Brianna waited in the truck. She put her book down as he slid in under the wheel.

“Ms. Acero eat your ass out? Bitchin’ lady, isn’t she?”

“Brianna, watch your language.”

“I didn’t mean anything bad.”

“You never do.” Conroy looked hard at his daughter, and watched her shoulders come up square and her jaw set. “Oh, come on, Princess. Here’s the deal. If you want to play sports, you have to obey the rules.”

“Well. Okay, I can do that. Did you think Ms. Acero was pretty?”

“Yeah, I guess I did,” he said, and started the truck.

?She’s got this boyfriend, he’s really good-looking and even bigger than you. They’re not married, but all the kids say she has sex with him.”

“Brianna, that sort of stuff is none of your business. And I can’t believe your grandmother lets you talk like that.”

“hey, she talks like that herself, except she told me I can’t say ‘fuck.’ I just wanted you to know about the boyfriend in case you were thinking about having sex with her yourself.”