by Ron Levitsky
“Oww!” She’d hit her head against the sink’s cabinet.
“Sorry.”
She giggled, bending toward him.
“No.”
“You’re not married, are you?”
“I used to be.”
“Still hung up on her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the idea of being married. It’s like having your leg amputated and still feeling it afterward.”
She patted his leg. “As long as that’s the only appendage cut off, you’ll be okay. Well, guess I better get dressed and straighten the place up. Why anybody would break in here . . . Oh, my God!”
Struggling to her feet, Andi pushed past him and stumbled into the darkroom. She turned on the overhead light, then opened a large metal cabinet.
“It’s here, thank God!”
Reaching inside, she removed a small, squarish camera. She caressed it, her hands trembling.
“My Hasselblad. It’s what I take my best portraits with. Half my portfolio . . . God, if I’d lost it.”
Beside the cabinet ran a long counter with an enlarger and boxes of various chemicals. Two file cabinets stood against the wall in the corner.
Rosen looked over the counter. “Nothing’s missing?”
Staring down at her camera, eyes half-closed, she didn’t seem to hear him.
“Andi, is anything missing? Andi?”
Blinking hard, she looked at the counter. “No . . . wait a minute. I’d left out the file with the negatives of Gates’s murder. It was the last big project I’d worked on. It’s gone.” She ran a hand across the counter. “The whole file’s gone. Why would somebody steal it? The police and D.A. have copies.”
“Not copies of everything. Did you ever take a photo of what was in Gates’s hand?”
“I shot one picture at the murder scene . . . Tom was holding whatever it was. I never printed the photo, ’cause Tom didn’t think it was important. It’s one of the negatives that’re missing. Why?”
“Whatever was in Gates’s hand is also missing.” Taking out the nail Ike had given him, Rosen laid it on the counter. “Think back to the night of Albert Gates’s death, when you photographed that small, discolored, squarish piece of metal.”
She nodded.
“Now look at this iron nail. Suppose it’d been in the ground eighty or ninety years. The shaft, rusted and brittle, would be ready to crumble apart, maybe into a grayish powder. Remember, I found a thin piece of oxidized metal by the Indian remains. But the nailhead, with its thicker mass, might keep its shape—the same squarish shape it once had when the blacksmith pounded it on his forge. Could what you saw have once been a nail like this?”
“Wait a minute.” Flipping up the Hasselblad’s viewer, she aimed the camera at the nail and took a long look.
“Well?”
“Don’t rush me, I’m an artist.”
Finally putting down the camera, Andi said, “That’s it. Gee, I like it when you smile.”
“At least that’s one mystery solved.”
“Is it really important? I mean, maybe Gates just picked it up by accident.”
Rosen shook his head. “Then why’s it missing, and why were your photographs stolen? At least it’s something.”
“Hell, yes.”
“I’m going to get some ice.”
She grinned. “For a celebration?”
“No, for that thick skull of yours.”
Chapter Eleven – SATURDAY MORNING
As Andi’s Mercury rumbled up the dirt road of the Double G Ranch, Rosen blinked from the sun and adjusted his Chicago Cubs cap. They had both dressed for a hot summer day, she in a tank top and cut-offs, he in his Bill of Rights bicentennial T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
Andi said, “With that cap, you almost look like one of us natives.”
“What else do I need?”
“Shit-kicking boots, and maybe my pack of cigarettes rolled up in your shirtsleeve. And, of course, talk in fewer syllables. Got it?”
“Yup.”
Laughing, she rubbed the back of her head gingerly.
“Sure you’re all right?”
“I don’t know why you’re so worried, after dragging me to the medical center. The doc said everything’s okay. I swear, you’re one of those Jewish fathers.”
“It’s ‘Jewish mothers,’ and I still think you should be home in bed.”
“Why, Nate, is that a proposition? I was beginning to lose faith in you.”
Shaking his head, he turned to look out the window. They were about a quarter mile from the ranch house, a rambling frame building that had been added onto a time or two. The field to their right was filled with rows of cars, pickups, and horse trailers. Andi parked behind a jeep with a gun rack and bumper sticker: “Guns don’t kill people/People kill people.”
Slinging the camera case over her shoulder, she waved to an old couple leaving their Cadillac.
The man tapped his forehead. “Good thing you’re as hardheaded as your old man, God rest his soul. Got a bodyguard, or is this young fella your new boyfriend?”
Grinning, Andi led Rosen through the parking lot.
He said, “I suppose, by now, the whole town knows what happened to you.”
“Word travels pretty fast around here. Sometimes I wonder why Bear Coat even bothers to have a newspaper. ’Course, now the Hendersons can scoop everybody about me having a new boyfriend. You won’t be too hurt, honey, if I leave you to take some photos for the paper?”
“Not if they’re from under a horse at full gallop.”
They walked under a banner stretched between two tall spruces: “Double G Reining Championships.” It seemed like a company picnic for the entire town of Bear Coat. Hundreds of people strolled across an open field, while boys chased each other back and forth, yapping dogs nipping at their heels. Lemonade stands gave away free lemonade, popcorn stands popped free bags of popcorn, and cotton-candy machines swirled pinkish clouds that babies reached for in wonder. In the center of the field lay a deep trench.
“A vision pit?” Rosen asked.
“If you’re Porky Pig. This afternoon, Elroy Baker’s making his famous Carolina barbecue. He roasts a couple of pigs, adds his special sauce—it’s really something. I think he waits all year just for this event.”
Between the pit and the arena, a dozen horses were tethered, each animal being groomed like a little girl before her birthday party.
Andi pointed a few yards along the fence. “Doesn’t Curly look great!”
Grace wore a cowboy hat, Western shirt with a thin ribbon at the neck, new blue jeans, and flat-toed boots. Her hair, ebony smooth, was tied in a single long braid. Brow furrowed and lips tight, she brushed Curly’s long mane with quick strokes, while Jack Keeshin currycombed the horse’s back. Raising Curly’s left hind leg, Stevie cleaned the inside hoof with a metal pick. The boy looked freshly scrubbed; even his Motley Crue T-shirt was clean.
Glancing at Andi, Grace frowned. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? I heard you took a real nasty knock on the head.”
“Don’t you start babying me too.”
Keeshin asked, “Do the police have any leads?”
“No. Weren’t any fingerprints, and nobody in the neighborhood saw anything. It was pretty early in the morning. Hold him just like that, Gracie.”
Andi began taking pictures. As the camera clicked near the animal’s face, Curly suddenly spooked and kicked his leg free.
“Easy, fella,” Grace said. “Stevie, you know better than to let him do that. Lean into his rump and hold his leg tight.”
“My fault,” Andi said.
“No, the boy’s been around horses enough to know better. All I need is for Curly to come up lame on me.” Her strokes on the horse’s mane quickened.
Keeshin said softly, “I think you’re a little nervous.”
“Damn right I’m nervous.”
“And maybe a little hard on Stevie.”
She stopped in midstroke and looked at her son. �
�I’m sorry. With everything that’s gone on, you know how much this means to me.”
As the boy reached for Curly’s hoof, Rosen extended his left hand to hold the horse’s rump steady. Stevie stared at the bandage on Rosen’s hand, where he had cut him two days before. The boy’s eyes widened, then he quickly finished cleaning the hoof. Dropping the pick, he raced into the crowd.
Grace shouted, “Where the hell . . .!”
“Let him go,” Keeshin said, putting his hand over hers. “Just tell me what to do. You know, putting on all of this tack isn’t exactly like stringing a tennis racket.”
She smiled, almost hiding her face in Curly’s mane. “Hand me the bridle. Right—that one.”
Snapping another picture, Andi said, “I’ve got to circulate. Don’t want the paper to show any favoritism in next week’s photo spread. Good luck.”
Rosen nodded. “I’d better be off too.” He checked his watch—almost ten. “Belle Gates said she’d see me for a few minutes. Do you know where she is?”
“Probably with the judges,” Keeshin said. “They’re in a box along the arena fence, just off to your left. More questions about the case, I take it.”
“I want to find out more about her late husband.” To Grace, “I’m looking forward to seeing you ride. Good luck.”
He followed Andi toward the fence. She suddenly grabbed his arm, as Will and Wendy strolled toward them.
Wendy said, “Hi, Andi. We were just talking about you. Sure hope you’re all right.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, we was just lazying around this morning . . . together, and our thoughts naturally went out to you.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. Nate’s taking good care of me. He’s been really sweet and so attentive, in spite of all the important calls he’s had to make to Washington. That’s the Washington with the president, not the one with all the rain and big trees.”
Rosen said, “I really need to see Belle Gates. If you’ll excuse me.”
“And I’ve got work to do. Meet you back here in an hour, honey. That’s when Gracie’s scheduled to ride.” She kissed him hard on the lips, touched his cheek, then hurried into the crowd.
The judges’ box, decorated with a floral horseshoe and red bunting, was only a few yards away. Belle Gates sat with her back to Rosen, talking to two well-dressed men and a woman. Chick Cantrell, the engineer, snug in a red polo shirt, stood beside her.
Rosen started forward, then stopped. He still felt Andi’s kiss upon his lips, and his cheek burned where she’d touched him. It was silly to feel embarrassed, considering what men and women did in public. But he remembered what his rabbi had said in yeshiva about the proper decorum between the sexes. What would the rabbi have thought of Andi?
“Rosen, you wanted to see me?”
Belle Gates stood beside him. Unlike the other women, who wore Western skirts or jeans, she had on a simple gray dress. Less than a week had passed since her husband’s death.
“You know Chick Cantrell,” she said. “He was at our council meeting the other day.”
Cantrell stepped forward and, bicep bulging, gripped Rosen’s hand. “Nice seeing you again.”
Rosen said, “Actually, I saw you Thursday evening in Deadwood, playing poker with Mr. Huggins.”
Cantrell scratched his beard. “Yeah? You should’ve sat in—maybe you could’ve brought him some luck.”
Belle glanced at her watch. “I can spare you about twenty minutes.”
“Fine. I’m flying back to Washington in a few days. This was our only opportunity to talk about your late husband.”
“Well, best place for that is in Albert’s museum. Chick, Elroy Baker should be here any minute to start that pig roast.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ll get it all set up.”
The smile between Cantrell and Belle lingered. Taking Rosen’s hand, she led him through the crowd to her house. Despite her limp, she moved quickly.
A loudspeaker announced, “Our first rider is Peggy Tolliver, from the Clearwater Ranch, riding White Lightning!”
They walked to the end of the house, where a room had been added on. Above the door a sign read “Double G Western Heritage Museum.”
The room was long and narrow. On either side of the aisle were a series of glass-enclosed exhibits. Across the left wall were the words gates family, and, across the right, gardner family. The exhibits encased a variety of Old West paraphernalia—clothes; pots and pans; rifles and pistols; playing cards; gold-mining equipment, including panning plates and a rocker for separating nuggets from gravel; and assorted historical documents, such as bills of sale, deeds, surveys, and letters. The Gates side included a model grist mill and old burlap bags lettered “Cap Gates Flour.” The Gardner side displayed lassos, chaps, and horse tack, as well as a series of photos of ranch life during the past hundred years.
Belle said, “You can see that both our families go back to when South Dakota was a territory.”
Rosen nodded. “How long had you been married?”
“Only ten years. Albert was twice a widower—lost one wife to cancer and one in a car accident.”
“And you?”
She hesitated a moment. “Never married, but when I was seventeen, I got pregnant. The guy joined the Army and was killed overseas. I had twins, a son and daughter living out East now.”
“Were they at the funeral?”
“No. I didn’t tell them until after Albert was buried. They never particularly cared for him, and I didn’t want no crocodile tears shed at his funeral. I know why you’re here, to find out the kind of man Albert was. Well, he was a bigmouth and schemer, but he had a good heart, and he made me laugh. For me that was enough.”
“And for other people?”
She shrugged. “Everybody around here knew Albert’s bark was a lot worse than his bite. There was that one customer, about eight years ago, who tried to shoot him, but hell, that comes with selling used cars. I swear, Mr. Rosen, you won’t find anybody in these parts who’d want my husband dead.”
At the end of the aisle stood one final exhibit, a small gold nugget, inside a glass case. Above the case, a series of panels told the story of “The Salted Stream.”
Belle chuckled. “You know what salting a stream meant?”
“Wasn’t that putting gold into a stream or mine to make the claim appear valuable?”
“Yes, indeed. My grandad Salty Gardner salted a stream with gold nuggets, sold it to Albert’s granddad, and used the money to start this ranch. Old Cap Gates didn’t do so badly. The stream didn’t have any gold, but he used the running water to start a grist mill. Albert often said it was the last time any Gates ever got swindled, and I believe it was. How Albert loved to tell the story of his granddad and old Salty Gardner.”
They walked into an adjoining room, “Indians of the Dakotas.” More glass cases containing Native American clothing, a case of painted rawhide decorated with feathers, pipes with tobacco pouches, various weapons, and a buffalo skull.
On a shelf at the end of the aisle, a half dozen human skulls watched Rosen approach. Below them lay the remains of four bodies, like those of White Bear. The bones of White Bear hadn’t bothered Rosen, perhaps because they seemed to belong on True Sky’s ridge. But this was different; it was like a charnel house. He remembered the Torah’s strictures against touching a corpse; it was an impurity that took seven days and a secret potion to make clean. He took a step back.
“Creepy, ain’t it?” Belle said. “In our ten years of marriage, this was the one thing Albert and I fought over. I never felt it was right.”
Rosen pulled his gaze from the bones. “Some museums have returned Indian remains for reburial.”
“That’s what I wanted to do. But Albert believed this museum was his legacy to the West, maybe to make up for the children he never had. Funny, thinking of these old bones as his children. Some of them, up on that ridge, got him killed.” She held her arms, as if shivering. “Let’s get the hell ou
t of here.”
Leaving the building, they heard the crowd around the arena cheering.
Rosen asked, “Do you think that Saul True Sky killed your husband?”
“When I got pregnant, my old man was so mad he threw me out of the house for a month. Eleanor True Sky, Gracie’s mother, took me in. She was the best person I’ve ever known. Now, Saul’s a different story. Maybe he’s found God or the Great Spirit or whatever, but he used to be a crazy son of a bitch.” She shook her head. “Bad enough I’ve lost Albert. I’d hate to believe that Eleanor’s husband could’ve killed mine.”
As they walked toward the arena, Rosen said, “Mr. Cantrell seems quite taken with you.”
She smiled. “It does appear that way. Can’t say I’m not just a bit tickled by the attention. Does that shock you, my Albert barely cold in the ground?”
“I try not to make a habit of judging people.”
“You’re too good a lawyer to really believe that. Anyway, Chick’s got some rascal in him, like Albert did. But I seen Chick’s eyes follow lots of the gals, all a lot younger and prettier than me. You don’t think his infatuation might have anything to do with him working for the town and me being mayor?” She winked.
More cheering could be heard from the arena as Belle and Rosen joined the crowd. The loudspeaker reported one rider’s score, then announced the next contestant.
Rosen said, “People get pretty excited at these events.”
“You don’t know anything about a reining competition, do you? Folks are expected to cheer. They say that judges keep their eyes on the rider and their ears on the audience. Gracie’s up next.”
They passed the barbeque pit. Deputy Elroy Baker was inside, spreading the bottom of the pit with charcoal, wood, and a mixture of leaves and herbs. Crawling out, he lit a rolled newspaper, leaned over the edge, and started the fire. Several people applauded, and Baker shook their hands enthusiastically.
Rosen said, “Looks like he’s running for something.”
“Police chief, maybe?”
“People wouldn’t seriously vote for him over Tom Cross Dog.”
“Tom’s a good cop, but he’s still an Indian. If it turns out that Saul True Sky did kill Albert . . . well, that’s not gonna make voters feel kinder toward any Indian. Look, I’ve got to go over to the judges’ box. See you later.”
