Ice and Stone

Tuesday, January 8

8:50 a.m.

I still had a headache when I woke up, but it was muted and tolerable. I ate a light breakfast, even though I wasn’t hungry, and that helped ease the pain and let me concentrate on the sheriff’s department files Jake had given me.

The files were sketchy, proving out my theory that Indigenous women — even murdered Indigenous women — weren’t high on the government’s list of priorities. Josie Blue had become a teacher at the Meruk Unified Elementary School, popular with the students because she shared their roots and understood their problems. Then, just short of four years ago — a year after her brother told me she’d become remote and unsettled — her body had been found by a hiker in the woods near St. Germaine.

Josie’s time away at UC Berkeley had changed her. The woman who returned to Meruk County was not the woman who had left. While not truly sophisticated, she’d become polished: nearly six feet tall, she was thin, with straight hair falling to her waist; her clothing had a bohemian touch, and most of her ensembles were her own creations. Many of the local men were interested in her, but when she didn’t reciprocate, the inevitable rumors began to spread: she had a secret lover who was probably married, she was a lesbian, she was just plain stupid for not appreciating them, she was allied with some strange Berkeley-type cult.

Some men will blame a woman for anything rather than themselves if they can’t get a date.

When Josie’s body was found, there was an outcry from the more liberal citizens of the area, but no suspects were interrogated. And there was no mention of any of the Harcourts.

I understood Jake Blue’s frustration. The files raised more questions than they answered.

11:00 a.m.

After I finished with the files, I put them back in the folder and went into Aspendale to return them to Jake. As I walked toward the lumberyard I passed several people on the streets. Most walked quickly with their heads down, not acknowledging me or anyone else. Odd behavior for residents of a place where everybody must know everybody else. Even though it was a beautiful day, an atmosphere of gloom that I hadn’t noticed the day before seemed to have settled over the town. Maybe the residents were just having a collective bad Tuesday.

When I reached the lumberyard I found Jake on a coffee break, leaning against one of the trucks at the loading dock and talking with its driver. When he saw me, he came over and gave me a long, searching look as I handed him the folder.

“Nothing much in them, is there?” he said.

“Aside from the information on your sister, no.”

“I’d rather not talk any more about Josie. I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Yes?”

“I went back to the Brews after you left last night and Bart Upstream was there. I told him about your interest in the murders and he said he’d talk, maybe bring Fowler Runs Close with him.”

“Fowler Runs Close?”

“The dead woman’s younger brother. He and Bart work construction together. Can you be at my house at three this afternoon?”

“Sure. Thanks for setting it up.”

“No problem. Bart has a key. He and Fowler should be there waiting when you get there.”

3:00 p.m.

They weren’t at the cottage when I arrived. I sat on the porch for ten minutes before they showed up in a Ford Bronco. Bart introduced himself and Fowler Runs Close, then unlocked the door and ushered me into a comfortable room where shabby, overstuffed furnishings centered on a native stone fireplace.

Bart Upstream was a handsome man in his early twenties, with strong cheekbones, large amber eyes, and a silky ponytail that fell below his clavicle. Fowler was in his late teens, short, and walked with a hunched gait, hands thrust into the pockets of his brown faux leather jacket. As he sat down he rubbed self-consciously at a rash on his left cheek.

I opened the conversation by thanking them for talking to me.

“Don’t thank me,” Fowler said. “Damn journalist trying to make money off of our grief. Why do you think my sister’s murder is any of your business?”

“For one thing, I’m not going to make much money, if any. Freelance journalists aren’t well paid. And second, it’s natural I’d be interested, being Native myself. The local law doesn’t seem much concerned.”

“Fuckin’ white pigs! Wouldn’t be surprised if the scumbag was one of them.”

“Cool it, man,” Bart said.

Fowler ignored him. “You’re supposed to be skin like us,” he said to me. “What’re you doin’ sidin’ with those white pigs?”

“I’m not siding with them. Just the opposite. You may be right that somebody in law enforcement is covering up, if nothing else. Bad seeds can turn up in almost every police agency.”

“Yeah, like that asshole Arneson.”

“Do you really think he had something to do with the murders?”

“How the hell should I know? If I find out he did, he’s dead meat.”

“Cool it, Fowler!” Bart half rose from his seat.

“Shit!” Fowler stood and pushed past him. “I got no time for this.”

He stalked out and slammed the door behind him.

“He’s upset about Sam... about everything,” Bart said. “And about all of a sudden having the responsibility for their pa being dumped in his lap. Sam was so capable, she took care of both of them and the house and worked too. Fowler can’t measure up to that. He can’t cook or clean, and he’s never held a job more than a month at a time.”

“Anybody can learn to cook and clean and hold a job.”

“Yeah, I know. Sam spoiled him.”

“Or maybe she just did everything because it was easier.”

“Not Sam. She never did anything the easy way. She was kind of a free spirit. Did what she did when she wanted to, and the hell with what anybody else thought. Her father abandoned the family — familiar story around here — when she was maybe ten. Her mother died of tuberculosis — another familiar story — about five years later. In addition to Fowler, Sam had a younger brother Bobby, and she tried to take care of him, but he hooked up with one of the gangs and got stabbed to death during a fight. After that she went wild: booze, men, outrageous behavior. Everybody but her closest friends abandoned her, but finally she turned around and put her energy into Indigenous causes.”

“You were one of those friends who didn’t abandon her,” I said.

“Yeah, I was. And that’s why these murders are tearing me up. She had so much to give. So did Dierdra, in her way.”

“If you don’t mind, let’s talk about you and Dierdra.”

He was silent.

“Jake said the two of you might’ve gotten married.”

“Might’ve. I was thinking we could get away from here, move over to Reno. I worked in a casino there for a while; I’d already called them and they said they’d be glad to hire me back. Dierdra, she had experience waitressing in the café; she could’ve gotten on someplace too. We could’ve made it. But then she decided she didn’t want to be tied down and started running around with other guys. We had a big fight about it the night before she—” He shook his head, clamped the palm of his right hand over his eyes.

I waited until he got control of himself. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted her dead? One of the other guys she was running around with?”

“Maybe. Her mother might know who they were, but I don’t.” He paused, frowning. “Fowler mentioned Arneson before. For all we know he’s the one going around whacking Native women — maybe thinks it’s his civic duty.”

“What about those cattle ranchers, the Harcourts?”

Bart looked thoughtful. “I don’t see what they’d have to gain by killing.”

“Kicks?”

“Nah. Those are serious people. You should’ve seen the Old Man when he came into town a couple of years ago: he looked like the guy in that picture of the farmer with his wife and the pitchfork.”

I’d seen American Gothic once at the Art Institute of Chicago, and I had to agree the comparison was apt.

“Not that he comes in much any more,” Bart added. “I hear he’s pretty sick. And they’ve got an airstrip, have a lot of supplies flown in. It’s a pretty fancy one, a guy I know who flies told me. Paved, with lots of lights, not a grass strip like most of the others around here. Guess they figure grass is for cattle.”

He tried to smile at his feeble joke, but his lips trembled and the smile fell apart. He looked at his watch. “Gotta get back on the job.”

I stood when he did. “If you think of anything about Sam’s last days that might — however unimportant — have to do with her murder, will you let me know?”

“Sure. Where can I find you?”

“Tell Jake. I’ll keep in touch with him.”

3:41 p.m.

Jake had suggested I wait at his cottage until he got home from work. It seemed a waste of time. I thought again about going to the sheriff’s headquarters and trying to speak with Noah Arneson, but that would mean borrowing a car for the thirty-minute drive, and there was no guarantee that he’d even be there. Besides, I’d need a good excuse to see him, and then I’d have to be very careful not to say anything that would blow my cover. And I wasn’t about to schedule an appointment either; throughout my career I’ve found that just showing up works best with unwilling and potentially hostile subjects.

After half an hour I yielded to impulse and began snooping through the house — after all, there was no guarantee that Jake Blue wasn’t the man who’d attacked me last night, or the perpetrator of the two murders. He had given me no reason to suspect him, but for all I knew he could have withheld something or other that had relevance to my investigation. I couldn’t afford to trust any of these strangers.

I started with the bedroom, where secrets are often found. The bed was neatly made, the socks, T-shirts, and underwear in the bureau drawers aligned precisely. The single nightstand held tissues, nail clippers, aspirin, and a mild analgesic for muscle pain. The closet contained work clothes, a few ties, and a single suit whose extra-narrow lapels were several years out of date. There was nothing unusual in the adjoining bathroom and medicine chest.

The kitchen: a fifties-style range showing signs of use, but scrubbed clean; a fridge of the same vintage containing eggs, milk, beer, orange juice, carrots, and a badly wilted bunch of kale; its tiny freezer compartment held a few boxes of Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese. The cabinets were full of mismatched dishes, bowls, and pots and pans, the drawers a jumble of equally mismatched utensils. Jake, I thought, had no claim to culinary expertise.

I stood in the middle of the room, my eyes narrowed as I took a final look around. Kitchens had been the source of some of my better finds in the past. Including refrigerators. I opened the freezer compartment again, removed the mac and cheese. The crusted ice was thick. I scraped at it here and there, and one of my fingernails hit what felt like glass. I got a soft spatula from one of the jumbled drawers and moved it carefully over the spot. A narrow unlabeled vial, perhaps three inches in length, came into view. I worked with the spatula until I could remove it.

A cloudy substance. What the hell was it? And why had Jake Blue hidden a vial of it in his freezer?

I put the vial in my pocket and returned to the living room — and in good time too, because shortly after five, Jake came through the door. “Ah, good, you’re still here. I’ll get us drinks!”

He went through the door to the kitchen, and I heard the whirring of a wine opener. When he returned he had a bottle of Sangiovese and two glasses. “This is from a winery down in the hills in Mendocino County. Friend of mine works there, gets me a deep discount.”

Together we sipped in silence, neither of us anxious to discuss the issues of the day. The wine was excellent.

There’s a myth about Native people: they can’t drink alcohol without becoming crazed drunks. Not so. The “genetic theory” of Native Americans’ intolerance to alcohol has largely been refuted, but it still is accepted by many people because of unscientific motivations — one of them being bigotry. In truth, the Natives had no alcohol until they were introduced to it by Europeans, in an attempt to influence them to give up treaty rights. High alcohol use can be attributed to helplessness, poverty, and a bad lifestyle — none of which the Natives have cornered the market on. Yes, some Natives get drunk and raise hell — as do people who are Black, white, Asian, and possibly extraterrestrial.

I myself have gotten drunk and raised hell, but I’ve never been accused of my behavior being caused by genetics. Jeez, I was just having a good time!

We discussed my meeting with Bart and Fowler. Jake gave an exasperated sigh. “Fowler’s always been a shithead. I’m surprised that Sam didn’t cut him loose years ago. But that was Sam — too big a heart for her own good.”

“She must’ve had a lot of patience too.”

“More than Fowler deserved. I wonder what’s going to happen to him now.”

“There’s no other family he can turn to?”

“Maybe on the rez. But Fowler, like a lot of his generation, doesn’t want to be seen as Native. And he certainly doesn’t want to live hardscrabble, like they do out there. For that, I don’t blame him.”

We drifted off into other topics. I probed a little further about his sister Josie’s murder, but today he didn’t seem to want to discuss it, so I let the subject lapse. An hour later, I told him I had to go. He offered to walk me to where I was staying, and I declined.

6:10 p.m.

Seated on a bench outside an eatery called the Owl Cafe, I put in a call to M&R in San Francisco. Ted Smalley, the agency’s office manager, answered and immediately said, “We’ve been wondering when you’d check in. How are you? Any progress?”

“Some. Nothing definite to report as yet.”

“Who do you want to talk with?”

“Hy and Mick. And you.”

He sighed and said grumpily, “So I come in last. An afterthought.”

“You sound like you’re in a snit.”

“Just lost an auction on eBay.”

“For what?”

“A terrific Botany 500 sport coat. Black Watch plaid with hand-applied glitter strips. I’m in mourning.”

Ted has been making what he calls “fashion statements” for most of his adult life. They’ve ranged from grunge to Hawaiian to cowboy to Edwardian, but the most lasting has been Botany 500, a long-defunct producer of sartorial atrocities.

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

“You’re being insincere. I’m thinking of going back to grunge.”

The first time I’d met Ted, when he was the receptionist at All Souls Legal Cooperative in San Francisco’s Bernal Heights district, he’d been deeply into grunge. All I could see of him at first was his big, bare feet propped on the desk, and only his winning smile as he peered over them kept me from fleeing my interview for the job of staff investigator.

“What does Neal think of you going back to grunge?” I asked. Neal Osborn, his husband, dresses like an English barrister.

“Not much, I guess. Although he suggested I consider wearing caftans.”

“Why not? There are a lot of beautiful ones available.”

“No way. They’re too long, and I trip a lot as is.”

“Uh-huh. Is Hy in his office?”

“No, he left a while ago, said he was heading for L.A. — some CEO getting nervous about his so-called enemies.”

I was disappointed, but not surprised. Hy is a top-flight hostage negotiator, but many of his jobs in executive protection are simply exercises in hand-holding.

“What about Mick?”

“He’s here. I’ll buzz him.”

My nephew came on the line quickly. “Shar! I was wondering when we’d hear from you. Are you calling on your cell? The connection’s kind of staticky.”

“No. One of the clients gave me a phone with a local provider. Mine doesn’t work up here.” I gave him the number, then said, “Listen, I have a vial of some liquid I need analyzed. There’s a pilot up here whom I think I can bribe to fly it down to you. You still have your lab contact?”

“Of course. Just tell the pilot to notify me about when he’s arriving. Oakland, right?”

“Yes.” The landing fees at SFO were outrageous. “Also,” I went on, “I need information about a number of people. You ready?” I read off a list: the two murdered women, the Harcourts, Gene Byram and Vic Long, Henry Howling Wolf, Sally Bee, Jake Blue, and his sister, Josie.

Mick said, “I suppose you want this tomorrow morning?”

“ASAP.”

“Well, Derek and I are at loose ends these days, so he can help.” Derek Frye was his counterpart at the agency as well as a partner in several outside computer services ventures.

“Why at loose ends?”

“No prospects. No possibilities. I don’t know what’s wrong with the women in this town.”

“Maybe they’re all wondering what’s wrong with you.”

“Shar... Okay, I’ll get back to you. But how can I?”

“I’ll get back to you.”

As I disconnected, I also wondered what was wrong with the young straight women of San Francisco. Mick and Derek were stars of the tech world, having built and sold two innovative sites that had made them millions. Yet he and Derek — in spite of being good-looking, personable men — were dateless most nights these days, easily available for my many requests to which any ordinary employee would’ve said, “Stuff it.”

A good deal for me, since that meant I could tap into their expertise at almost any time, and I was grateful for their willingness to help out at a moment’s notice. I didn’t know much about Derek’s private life, but Mick had been through several disappointments in his relationships that had left him scorched and extremely wary of becoming involved again.

I called Hal Bascomb at the airstrip, explained that I needed a package delivered to Oakland.

“No problem,” he said. “I’ve got a chichi couple who want me to take them to SFO so they can catch their flight to Argentina. I can put the package in your nephew’s hands by midnight. Give me a number where I can reach him.”

I did, then asked, “How can I get the package to you?”

“I’ll come get it. Where are you?”

I told him.

“See you in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks, Hal.”

I wondered why Hy was on his way to L.A. and considered trying to call him while I waited. No, no point in it. When he was in transit, he almost always switched his cell to voice mail.

Hal arrived. I’d wrapped the vial in several plastic freezer bags also appropriated from Jake’s kitchen. After turning the parcel over to him, I headed back through the forest to the shack, making my way slowly and warily over the ice-slick ground. I held the flashlight in my left hand, my right hand on the .38 in the parka’s outside pocket. I wasn’t taking any chances on being caught unawares after what had happened last night.

No one had been at the shack since I’d left it; the new chain and lock hadn’t been touched. I went inside, made myself a sandwich, and settled down to read some more of the tattered paperback of War and Peace that I’d brought along.

I’ve actually read the entire book — including the battle scenes, but now I take it with me whenever I have to travel, hoping that one day I’ll understand it. Or at least understand why Leo Tolstoy had wanted to gift the world with a mostly boring novel of over a thousand pages. It’s still a mystery to me, and I keep hoping I’ll come upon some gem-like insight that will explain it.

But not tonight.