Chance looked up to see Adrienne standing over him.
“For a minute there, I thought you were in a trance,” Adrienne said with good humor.
Chance stood up. “Just thinking about you,” he said and took her arm. What was it about her that made him such a sap? Romance had never been his strong suit. His ex-wife would attest to that. But something about Adrienne made him feel gallant, when in fact she seemed to need less protection than any woman he had ever met.
Adrienne shook her head and ignored his comment. “Shall we meander down to the park?”
Emma Park, a memorial to the one Anaconda Company mine actually inside the taxable city limits, thanks to clever gerrymandering, covered two city blocks of uptown Butte. Its existence, plain and simple as it was, stood as a sad commentary on the company’s idea of reclamation.
A red-roofed white gazebo now stood where the Emma mine head frame once pulled hundreds of miners and ore up and down, twenty-four seven, in and out of the largest source of manganese in North America. Despite its once staggering profits, the mine’s yard was now no more than a grass-covered expanse where small children played and elderly people sat in lawn chairs to listen to the Community Orchestra’s last lunchtime concert of the summer. They were playing “A Bicycle Built for Two.”
Chance and Adrienne sat on the grassy slope on the north side of the park. Steam billowed from the cartons of thick minestrone soup Chance had bought at the Uptown Cafe. Adrienne licked her lips. She attacked with a plastic soupspoon, then looked up and said, “This must be an historic moment. I’m eating and you’re not. What’s going on?”
Chance picked up his spoon and began stirring his soup, “Soup’s hot.”
“In the three months I’ve known you, I have never seen you ponder over a single bite of food. You even eat the candy suckers at the bank. I’ve seen you pick up meat grilling on hot coals and toss it in your mouth. What’s wrong?”
“You ever feel like you know someone so well, better than they even know themselves sometimes, and then out of the blue they say something that totally shocks you?”
Adrienne sipped her soup, and said, “Like when Devlin told me he wanted a divorce?”
The story of Adrienne’s divorce did have its shocking elements, especially how her ex had apparently slept with every nurse in their bustling Los Angeles medical practice. Adrienne said she knew he was a jerk, just not how big of one.
“More like when somebody whose opinion you value makes a judgment that’s so off-base,” Chance countered.
“That would be like my sister in Seattle when I told her about you.”
Chance looked at her with a frown. “It must be in the air.”
Adrienne put her spoon down and said, “Why, who said something to you?”
“Mesa,” Chance said, trying to keep a light tone in his voice.
Adrienne sighed and shook her head. “Mine says you’ll break my heart. What’s yours say?”
Chance hesitated, looking around to avoid being overheard in case Adrienne reacted negatively. “I’m your boy toy.”
Adrienne chuckled discreetly, and gave him a little nudge on the thigh.
Chance suddenly felt uneasy. “Well, I’m glad you’re not upset.”
Adrienne smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to think you’re not excellent boy-toy material.” Then she sighed when Chance did not join in the kidding. “Does it really bother you that much?”
“Kind of like a paper cut. It’s not all that big a deal, but it’s hard to ignore.”
“Her opinion means a lot to you, I know. And it’s not that I don’t take it seriously, but what can you do? People form their own opinions without the slightest bit of information. Granted, I did tell my sister that I was through with men, so I can see why she was surprised, but she’ll get over it.”
“Wow, I guess I didn’t realize I was swimming upstream,” Chance said with an unexpected feeling of warmth.
Adrienne took hold of Chance’s hand. “How I feel about you has nothing to do with what other people think.”
When Chance still didn’t smile, she added, “My sister thinks I should gradually begin to dye my hair so you won’t notice.”
“No kidding. Mesa mentioned your hair too.”
“Would you like me to become a brunette again?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If anybody’s going to dye their hair, it’ll be me. Is there such a thing as reverse Grecian Formula?”
* * *
“I can’t believe she’d be involved in anything illegal,” Irita said and shook her head. “She’s a paralegal and won’t even walk against the traffic light.”
Which was exactly what Mesa and Irita were doing at that moment. Mesa strode briskly along Mercury Street toward Emma Park to keep up with Irita, who walked as fast as she talked.
“Her name is Kathy, but she used to be called Kate,” Mesa repeated to be sure she had heard correctly, “and she does own a maroon SUV.”
By now, they were at the edge of the park, headed toward the line in front of the vendor trailer for Pete’s Pasties. They walked past the community band, now playing, “In the Good old Summer Time,” complete with a tuba solo. Mesa finally interrupted Irita’s ramblings. “Exactly who are we talking about?”
“Kathy—you met at Stodden Park at the Labor Day picnic Monday?”
“With the two kids?” Mesa said, the surprise clear in her voice. Kathy looked like a soccer mom—certainly not like anyone who might be involved in hijacking a plane.
“Actually, she’s my step-daughter-in-law. My ex-step-daughter-in-law, to be precise.”
“Say again?”
Irita sighed. “It’s not as complicated as it sounds. When I was young and foolish, I married a good-looking son-of-a-bitch named Dominic DiNunzio who, besides having a mean streak as wide as the Missouri, had a son from his first marriage. I divorced Dom after he sent me to the hospital twice. But I kept up with the kid.”
“So where does Kathy fit in?”
“She married the kid, Phil, although it didn’t end well. Five years ago after the state deregulated electricity, the mine closed and he was laid off. Next thing you know, he started in on Kathy the way his father had on me. But she wised up faster. She divorced him, took the kids, and moved back to Bozeman to her mother’s. Unfortunately, her mother died last year. So, Kathy and the kids ended up moving back to Butte.
“Since then, I’ve been a kind of surrogate grandmother. She hasn’t got anybody else really. Her father died when she was small, so it’s just Kathy and her brother, the soldier. Remember? You met him too.”
Mesa nodded. She had met a lot of people in the past three days, but the polite soldier with the vacant eyes was hard to forget.
“So I help out picking up the kids from school when she needs me to. Take them to the movies when she’s ready to throttle one of them. That sort of thing,” Irita said, her tone a mixture of concern and confusion.
They were at the front of the pasty line now. The faint aroma of onions and pastry drifted toward them. While Irita ordered pasties for everyone in the office, Mesa stepped away to listen to the band that was now playing a lively rendition of “Seventy-six Trombones.”
She scanned the crowd, mostly parents with preschool children, office workers on their lunch hour. Beyond the gazebo along Silver Street, she saw adults from the sheltered workshop getting off a minibus. And on the hillside edge of the park, she saw Chance and Adrienne huddled together. They were deep in conversation. She wondered with a tinge of guilt if Chance was telling Adrienne about their conversation.
Mesa found herself looking around, wondering if anyone noticed the pair. She felt uncomfortable, but Irita didn’t seem to see them. She just kept right on talking.
“Kathy works at the new Legal Aid Office on Park Street.” They started back up the hill. Irita had opened her pasty. She stopped to rearrange its foil wrapper and take a bite. But her expression was ominous, as if her thoughts were far away.
“But she was with us on Monday at the Labor Day picnic, right?” Mesa asked.
Irita nodded.
Maroon and white were the school colors of the University of Montana Grizzlies, as well as the local Catholic high school. More than a few obsessed Montanans, male and female, liked to show their school spirit by the color of the car they purchased. “A maroon Bronco isn’t exactly an exotic vehicle in this part of the country,” Mesa said.
They were in front of the Messenger office now. Irita looked drained, as if telling the story of Kathy DiNunzio had given her time to realize the difficulty Kathy might be in. “Listen, don’t say anything to Chance yet. Let me talk to Kathy first. I can’t imagine she would have anything to do with this. She’s a bell ringer in the Methodist choir, for God’s sake.”
“Tell you what,” Mesa said, why don’t we give Kathy a call, see if she can clear this up right now?” She was tired of taking a backseat to the evolving story. Erin would still write the feature. Mesa would just do a little investigating of her own.
Inside the Messenger office, she waited in the reception area while Irita made the call. Mesa nibbled half-heartedly on her pasty—too much pastry and not enough innards for her taste, and tried to focus her thoughts.
They drifted to the night before and Hardy. Something in him had changed. Maybe it was the thirties career crisis—i.e., getting a real job.
Her address book was filled with friends who had avoided what they called the trap of corporate America, or any steady-paying job for that matter. She knew plenty of fishing-boat poets, taxicab-driving playwrights, not to mention voter rights volunteers who lived in dormitory digs because they couldn’t afford their own apartment.
Hardy was no different except that his dreams were of the extreme sport genre. Only his body had betrayed him, not social convention. She wanted to tell him to buck up. He could still make good, run the family business, marry one of a host of local babes who would love to have him and his children. Wait. Was this the first glimmer that she might really be over him?
“Kathy’s not in the office,” Irita said, her voice taut. “She called in sick yesterday and today. I don’t like it. I think I’ll go over to her place and see what’s up.”
“I’ll go with you,” Mesa said. She left Erin and Micah, now sitting at the table in the middle of the newsroom eating their pasties, to hold down the fort. Both of them expressed instant exhilaration, followed by panic. “If you hear from Chance anytime soon,” Mesa said, “have him call me.”
* * *
After lunch, Chance and Adrienne walked back up to Park Street where he left her at the Mining City Boxing Club, which ran a training gym on the second floor above Terminal Meats at Park and Dakota. Chance climbed the dimly lit staircase that led up from the sidewalk. Even before he opened the door to go in, he could hear the thwat, thwat of leather gloves finding their mark.
The cave-like interior—a high ceiling with black painted windows— made it impossible to tell it was daylight. Two boxers were sparring in the ring, which was banked on three sides by tiered rows of empty wooden seats. On the fourth side, several other boxers were working out on a speed bag, two others on the heavy bag.
Chance walked over to the far side of the ring to a stocky man with a broad nose and a broader smile. “Hey, Sam, I thought I might find you here. Whose corner you in?”
“Patrick Windy Boy, in the headgear. He’s gonna be a good one.”
Sam chewed raggedly on a piece of gum and watched the methodical punching of the sparring partners. They were light on their feet and both moved quickly, but their punches did not always land.
“He’s driving a haul truck on that seven days on/seven days off shift at the mine. He can’t train with my other boys, so I come in on his off days and give him a few pointers.
“Your grandmother need something?” Sam asked while they watched the boxers dancing around the ring.
Like a lot of guys in Club Boxing, Sam Chavez had learned the sweet science in prison. After a stint in the Deer Lodge penitentiary, he had moved to Butte and become Nana’s number-one handyman for years, especially after Gramps had died.
Sam could fix anything—the lawnmower, the snow blower, the car. He also fixed the roof, painted the house, and shoveled the snow, often without being asked, or paid. All because Gramps had befriended Sam when he first came to town.
“She’s fine,” Chance said and felt a warmness toward Sam for asking. “That’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”
Chance pulled the newspaper photo of Lowell Austin from his shirt pocket. “It’s about this guy. Did you happen to see him the other day? I heard he might have come in here.”
Sam held the photo in his thick rough hands, nicked, and scarred from years of working outside in a cold and dry climate. He nodded. “He come in here Saturday, I think it was. I figure he was just sprung. Takes a while before you let down your guard.”
Sam did not miss much. “Was he looking for somebody?” Chance asked, wondering if Lowell had another contact in Butte besides the mysterious Kate.
The boxing circuit welcomed guys who had done time, even the outcasts who didn’t have anything else going for them—of which Butte had more than its fair share. What with the pre-release center and the ne’er-do-wells who were rumored to receive free bus tickets to Butte from the Bozeman or Missoula police, Chance had heard the sheriff say his department had three thousand outstanding warrants in Silver Bow County, which was about ten percent of the population.
“Dougie Kincaid,” Sam said and shook his head.
“Strike out,” Chance said, his voice deflated. Dougie Kincaid was a Butte rat who in his day had a legitimate knockout punch for the middleweight ranks. Unfortunately, he had used it in a street fight and nearly killed a man in Coeur d’Alene.
Dougie’s was a cautionary tale. Welcomed home with open arms once he served his time, Dougie was often seen in the corner of numerous young fighters, at least until this past spring.
In March, he had been caught trying to pawn tools that, as it turned out, had been stolen from several construction sites in the county. Dougie maintained that he was doing a favor for a friend, but the friend was long gone and Dougie was left holding the proverbial stolen property. He was currently serving four months in Deer Lodge at the state penitentiary. “Did he talk to anybody else?” Chance asked.
Sam shook his head. “Wasn’t anybody in here except me and Patrick, and Patrick was working on the speed bag. I told this Austin guy about Dougie, and then we talked some. Said he had done some boxing and wanted to stay involved. Dougie could be out soon, I said, and told the guy to come back, that I would introduce him around.”
Chance liked the idea that Lowell Austin had gotten to talk to Sam, who would have treated him with some respect. Austin might have begun to think Butte was a decent place.
“Some guys, they come outta prison,” Sam said, “They go looking for trouble. But I didn’t think that about this guy. I thought I had a good read on him. Course, you can make enemies in prison. Too bad.”
Chance took the picture and replaced it in his pocket. “Yep, sounds like maybe somebody come looking for him all right.”
* * *
Kathy DiNunzio lived on Gold Street in a turn-of-the-century bungalow that had been added onto like most of the houses on the Lower Westside. Three blocks away from Nana Rose’s house, it was a neighborhood Mesa could see herself living in. Not that she ever seriously thought about settling in Butte.
Irita rang the doorbell. When no one answered, she opened the door to the enclosed sun porch and began banging on the front door. Thankfully, at two in the afternoon, presumably the rest of the neighborhood was awake.
“Kathy, you home? Let me in,” Irita called in between pounding the door. “I know she’s in there,” Irita said, nodding toward the maroon SUV at the curb and then shaking her head in disbelief. “We’re going to get this sorted out and pretty damn quick.”
Mesa looked at the late-model vehicle, parked in front of the house in the quiet, residential area. Most of the neighbors were professional people or professors at the college a couple of blocks away. Kathy DiNunzio must be doing all right for herself if she could afford to live in this part of town.
Finally, the door opened, barely. Kathy peeked out. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” Then dejectedly, “Come in.”
“I was worried about you when I couldn’t reach you at your office,” Irita said. Her voice echoed in the sun porch, sounding like the loud speaker at K-Mart. “Why aren’t you answering your phone? Are you sick?’
Kathy sighed. “You better come in.” Mesa wanted to explain her presence, but Irita beat her to it.
“You remember Mesa. I invited her to come along. We’re working on a story,” she said and looked back at Mesa with a conspiratorial glance.
Kathy wore jeans and a University of Montana sweatshirt with a stain on the front—a far cry from the soccer mom Mesa had met at the Labor Day picnic. She didn’t appear to be sick, but the bags under her eyes made it clear she had not been sleeping well.
“What’s happened? You don’t look good,” Irita said. “Are you home alone? Where’s Garrett? Has he upset you?”
Kathy shook her head miserably. “He’s long gone.”
She led them through a cozy, well-kept living room to a narrow den off the kitchen. A fireplace and mantel filled one wall. A half dozen framed photographs sat along the mantel. Family photos, Mesa guessed.
Built-in barrister bookcases stood along the far wall jammed with books, tapes, DVDs, and an empty couple of shelves where the CDs, currently piled on the floor, must belong. Kathy waved half-heartedly at the sofa for them to sit.
Mesa gingerly stepped around the several stacks of CDs. Kathy resumed her place on the floor amongst the piles, taking a handful of CDs from a wall shelf and continuing to sort. “I’m reorganizing,” she offered weakly.
Mesa wondered whether Kathy’s desire for order grew out of more than a love for domesticity. Mesa knew firsthand that ordering one’s surroundings gave comfort when life seemed too overwhelming.
Next to a half-filled cup of coffee, Mesa could see a stack of newspapers on the coffee table. The Tuesday edition lay on top. Mesa’s curiosity was piqued when she saw the paper folded to the photo of Lowell Austin. The Standard had devoted the lower half of its front page to the plane crash, complete with Austin’s last mug shot before leaving prison.
Considering that he had been locked up for two decades, he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. With metal-framed spectacles and graying temples, he stared into the camera with a docile expression. Perhaps he knew even then that he would soon be leaving prison. He reminded her of Nana’s cardiologist. Kathy matter-of-factly turned the paper over when her guests sat down.
“Bizarre story, isn’t it?” Mesa said not about to let Kathy off the hook. She was partly trying to make conversation, but she was keen to discuss the investigation and Kathy’s unlikely, but still possible, connection to it.
Kathy looked up but said nothing and began reordering a stack of CDs of female country music singers.
“Lot of irony in that story,” Mesa continued. “Guy survives twenty plus years in prison and then dies the week he gets out.”
Kathy had moved on to a group of jazz albums—Norah Jones, Diana Krall. “The article doesn’t say much about what happened to him,” Kathy said. “Do you know how he died? I mean, is your paper covering the story?”
Mesa nodded. “Not every day someone dies in a plane crash in uptown Butte.” She said this in a jocular tone, hoping to lighten the moment. But Kathy DiNunzio didn’t seem to notice. She put down the CDs and put her hand to her mouth, as if she were unsure what would come out.
Irita reached over and touched Kathy’s shoulder. “Do you know something about this man’s death?” she asked.
Kathy picked up the paper slowly as if it was a rare book, looked at the picture again, and said, “It says his death is still under investigation. Didn’t he die in the crash? What would that mean, ‘still under investigation’?”
Mesa looked at Irita, whose rolling eyes suggested that she was skeptical how to proceed. There was no need to upset Kathy. Aside from incurring Irita’s wrath, Mesa rarely found that browbeating a source made for a good story. “Apparently, he wasn’t killed by the impact of the crash,” she said finally.
“How could that be?” Kathy asked, her voice quivering with concern.
“A copy of the autopsy came into the office this morning,” Mesa said. “Somebody in the plane stabbed Lowell Austin. It looks like he was murdered.” She paused to let this unnerving information sink in. “A witness also saw two men leaving the wreckage.”
“Oh, my God,” Kathy whispered and sunk back against an ottoman behind her, her hands over her eyes.
Irita couldn’t take it anymore. “Kathy, I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this. What’s wrong?”
“It’s him,” she said finally and tapped Austin’s photo. “I knew him.”
And then in a low, almost shameful voice, she said, “He came to Butte to see me.”
Mesa was shocked. There they had it, straight up. Kathy DiNunzio was the Kate from Austin’s letter. But the realization of the statement was too weird to be believed. Kathy might as well have said that aliens had kidnapped her.
Time seemed to stop. Irita’s eyes widened as if she had just seen a rattlesnake. For a moment, Mesa thought Irita might faint. Finally, her survival instincts kicked in and she spoke.
“How did you know him?” Irita asked in a tone reserved for interrogating witnesses.
Kathy took a deep breath, picked up more CDs, and gently began sorting again. Then the words finally trickled out. “He killed my father.”