“But you didn’t.” Because Dad was dead. “What kind of stuff happened?”
“Small, random fires. Kathy Lohstroh was run off the road twice. Fences ripped down. More’n just usual kids’ pranks. Let me ask you something else.”
I nodded.
“After Frank Jackson died, why didn’t Wyatt snatch up his place when everyone knew he’d had his eye on that chunk of land forever?”
Easy: no money. We might be land rich, but when it came to cash, we were dirt poor. “You think we need another fifteen thousand acres to worry about?”
“Never know what kinda land baron you’ll end up being; it’s in your blood, that’s for damn sure. You might could get another chance to add to the Gunderson legacy. I heard the Quinns was looking to get out.”
Why were all our neighbors bailing? A weird feeling rippled through me. Had the Swamp Rats approached them? Or another group?
I’d bet a year’s worth of hay that Kit was circling the Quinns and the Lohstrohs like a vulture. So if Kit got his hands on my land and the Quinns, he’d have most of Eagle River County turned into hobby ranches.
Why was that a bigger betrayal than the corporate hunting groups? “Why didn’t anyone tell me this before now, Rollie?”
“Don’t know. I’m just as curious as you are as to why all this land is going up for sale, besides the drought. This part of flyover country is considered the armpit of the nation. Makes you wonder why it’s becoming so popular, eh?”
“Good clean air, good clean living, low taxes, and a low crime rate.” My stomach clenched and I scowled. “Guess with two unsolved murders in two weeks, the crime rate claim isn’t necessarily true anymore.”
“From what I’ve heard, Dawson is a real stickler on patrolling. He picked up Junior for speeding over by the Newsome place last week.”
A perfect opening. “So, what do you think of Dawson?”
“Sneaky.”
“That’s it?”
Rollie blinked at me. “Ain’t that enough?”
He had a point. “Yeah. Thanks for the help, boss. I gotta run.”
“Boss. Heh.” He smiled, even as he said gruffly, “G’on, Mercy girl. Get outta here.”
It was still early enough to tackle a few names on the list. Estelle mentioned Albert’s friends didn’t show up at the rec center until evening. She hadn’t mentioned whether they held jobs, but since the unemployment rate on the Eagle River Reservation runs 80 percent it was unlikely they’d be pulling fries at Burger King.
Jake’s remark about Chet Baker seeing Levi and a bunch of boys a few weeks back prompted me to stop there first.
Chet delivered propane for the local co-op. When I rolled up to his place on the other side of the Viewfield city limits, I wished Rollie had given me an official PI badge.
As I waited for Chet to get off the phone, I studied his cramped office. The place stank of cigarettes, motor oil, and body odor. Catalogues were piled on top of dingy filing cabinets. Grungy windows lined one side of the building. The linoleum was stained black from never seeing a can of Mop & Glo. The coffee machine hadn’t been near a scrub brush in months. Several years worth of “girlie” calendars-circa 1970-decorated the paneled walls. The joint harkened back to the days when ladies avoided men’s domains-garages, filling stations, and hardware stores.
Chet hung up the receiver, plucked a yellowed hankie from the front pocket of his denim coveralls, and blew his nose. “So what can I do for you, Mercy?”
I asked him what he remembered about Levi and his friends riding around in the back of a pickup.
“Was the damndest thing. I figured they was up to no good, so I followed them.”
“Where’d they end up?”
“By that abandoned silver mine offa County Road Nineteen. I seen beer cans around there, so I knew it was a place them fellas partied.”
“Were they drinking?”
He shrugged. “Probably. But that’s not the main reason they was up there.”
Because he didn’t get many visitors, Chet dragged out the drama.
“What were they doing?”
“They were loading rocks in the back of that truck.”
“Rocks?”
“Yeah. Know those big flat ones? Kinda yellowish-orange shale? Well, some of the Indian guys on the rez use ’em for different kinds of ceremonies. Couldn’t imagine what those punks wanted with ’em.”
That stumped me. Entertainment was a scarce commodity on the rez. “Did you see them doing anything else?”
“Nah. When I saw they were ready to take off, I did, too. Didn’t want them to see me taking notice of what they were doing. Don’t need trouble from them.” He fiddled with the stapler in the center of his desk. “Mind if I ask why you’re asking all these questions, Mercy?”
It was tempting to play the I’m-a-PI-and-I-work-for-Rollie card since it was brand-spanking new, but I refrained. “I’m trying to track down some things Levi loaned out. Now that he’s gone…” My gaze fell to my boots, then I looked at him with sorrow that wasn’t faked. “Hope would like to have those things back. We don’t want Levi’s friends to think we suspect they ripped him off, so we’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”
“No problem. I sure hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Oh, I will.
I hopped back in my truck and hit the road. My next stop was my best friend Geneva’s house, to talk to her daughter, Molly, about the names on the list. Although I knew Geneva was busy with a houseful of kids and a ranch to run, it bothered me a little that she’d come around only a few times in the aftermath of my father’s and my nephew’s deaths.
Still, Geneva was my oldest friend. She’d married her high school sweetheart, Brent Illingsworth, right out of high school, and they took over Geneva’s family ranching operation. I wasn’t the only one who’d bailed from Viewfield; Geneva’s parents had flown the coop with the rest of the snowbirds and hightailed it to Arizona.
A hot, hay-scented breeze stirred my hair as I motored down Geneva and Brent’s driveway. I parked in front of the small two-story farmhouse. Chaos ruled here. A Big Wheel was overturned in the sandbox next to an orange plastic slide. Vacant tree swings swayed in the wind. Boards were hammered in a haphazard line up a gigantic elm tree, a tree house in progress, or one that’d been abandoned. Clothes in graduated sizes flapped on the line. The doors flew open on the huge metal barn and kids raced from every direction.
Six-year-old Krissa grinned at me. “Mercy! Wanna see the new kitties?”
“Sure. In a minute. Let me-”
“She don’t wanna look at no dumb cats. Leave her alone.” This from twelve-year-old Doug.
Two tugs on my pant leg. I peered into Nikki’s angelic face. Wispy blond ringlets, enormous blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a shy smile. At age three, she was still small enough for me to scoop up. “Hiya, Nikki.”
She set her head on my shoulder. I melted.
“We’re s’posed to bring you inside. Right away. No goofing off.” Doug rolled his eyes. “Mom and Molly are so bossy.”
The old ranch house had seemed bigger when Geneva and her brothers Rome and London lived here. The kitchen still smelled like molasses, sugar, fresh coffee, and laundry soap.
Geneva saw me holding Nikki and smiled. “You’re a sucker. Next she’ll be rifling through your purse for candy.”
“I don’t mind.” It surprised me how easy it was to indulge in my softer side with Geneva’s kids and how easily they accepted it. And me.
“There’s cookies and Kool-Aid in the sun porch. Then I wanna see some kids outside picking up the toys in the yard. And keep an eye on Tiffany.”
At the mention of cookies they vanished.
“Sit,” she said. “Coffee?”
“Sure.”
She poured two cups and joined me at the table. Molasses cookies were piled on a china plate.