Dangerous Refuge

by Elizabeth Lowell

  He glanced at his reflection in the mirrored glass that separated him from the receptionist’s area. He looked as bad as the night he had just spent. His sleep had been restless, filled with uneasy dreams and empty darkness. He’d been playing cards and there was something on the table that he didn’t want to lose, but every hand came up short.

  A dead Lorne was much harder to ignore than a live one. Even when Tanner slept, old memories and new questions poked like sharp, insistent needles under his skin.

  The receptionist came back into the lobby. A middle-aged man with short, graying hair, polished loafers, and a crisp suit followed her. His hand shot out with vigor before his receptionist could do more than open her mouth. He looked like the type who dusted off after walking in from the paved parking lot.

  “Mr. Davis,” Millerton said. “Pleased to meet you in person.”

  Tanner shook hands automatically. “Sorry I missed you yesterday. Accident down in the Owens Valley cost me more than two hours.”

  “No problem,” Millerton said. “My condolences on your uncle’s death.”

  Tanner made a noncommittal sound.

  “Come back to my office. We have a lot to discuss.”

  I hope not. I hate paperwork.

  Silently Tanner followed the lawyer to his office. Everything from the lush rug beneath his feet to the framed pictures on the wall stated that the lawyer was a big man in a small town.

  Tough to imagine Lorne dealing with this guy.

  Millerton waved Tanner into a leather chair close to a desk that was big enough to sleep four. “Now, Mr. Davis—”

  “Tanner,” he cut in. “Every time you call me Mr. Davis, I look around for my dad or my uncle.”

  “Tanner, of course. Coffee?”

  “No thanks. I tanked up at the Corner Café.”

  Millerton winced. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve never had worse.”

  Tanner just shrugged and let himself sink into the chair. “Then you’ve never had precinct coffee.”

  The lawyer looked startled, then cleared his throat. “Lorne’s death was a sudden thing for everyone.”

  “It always is,” Tanner said.

  “Uh, yes, of course.”

  Millerton took the hint that small talk wasn’t necessary with this client. He picked a fresh manila folder off a stack on his desk. Inside the folder was a pile of documents. Many of the papers looked old, but the ones on top were new.

  As the lawyer stirred through them, Tanner read upside down. Another habit of his past as an investigator. Nothing in particular caught his eye.

  “Are you in a suitable state to discuss matters of the will?” Millerton asked, his manner that of a man who kept smelling salts and boxes of tissues for his clients.

  Tanner nodded curtly. He’d been around death too much to be intimidated by it.

  Millerton nodded. “Yes, of course. As you probably know, you’re the only living relative. Normally this would be a cut-and-dried estate to handle.”

  Silently Tanner waited to hear why things weren’t normal.

  “Up until a few weeks ago, you were the sole beneficiary,” Millerton said.

  Tanner’s black eyebrows rose. “Huh.”

  “Lorne made it clear that his holdings would go to blood before they ever went to the state of Nevada. Even so . . . he was discussing an agreement with the Ranch Conservancy just recently.”

  “Is that like the Sierra Club?”

  “Not exactly,” Millerton said as he passed the monogrammed papers across the expanse of the desk. It flashed gold, just like the invitation had. “How long has it been since you left Refuge?”

  “A long time.” He skimmed over the document quickly.

  Millerton grunted. It came out judgmental. “A lot has changed since you left. Small family ranches are almost gone because it’s just too damn hard to compete in the global market.”

  “And not many kids want to work twenty-four/seven for low wages, high taxes, and guaranteed uncertainty,” Tanner added, scanning quickly.

  The desertion of the next generation had been a common theme of Lorne’s conversations. It was also true, particularly when there was a small pie divided by a growing number of family members.

  “A lot of what used to be family ranches have been snapped up by San Francisco or Vegas developers and turned into vanity ranches or luxury neighborhoods,” Millerton said.

  “Gentrification hits Refuge.” Tanner thought of all the For Sale and Commercially Zoned signs he had seen along the highway. “Looks like an uphill push.”

  “It’s changed the place some. Enough to make old-timers like your uncle cranky. The Ranch Conservancy is trying to slow down the pace of change. They take possession of a ranch on the contingency that the families keep on ranching or farming and preserve the character of the place.”

  “And they do this out of the goodness of their hearts?” Tanner’s tone was level. “Nice dream.”

  “And you’re not a dreamer?”

  “Look, my father left a long time back. There wasn’t enough ranch for both him and his brother. My mother couldn’t wait to get out. A love of the small-town ranching life doesn’t get passed down to kids like eye color or the family name. A hundred years ago there weren’t many choices in how to make a living.” Tanner shrugged. “Now there are.”

  “Well, the Conservancy thinks the small-ranch way of life is worth saving. I’ve helped them negotiate many transfers and trusts. There are plenty of people who think the same way. Even Lorne did, at the end.”

  At least until a couple days ago, if that torn invitation meant anything.

  “Amazing.” Tanner meant it. “He wasn’t a changeable, much less charitable, sort of man. But good for him. So, when does the Conservancy move in?”

  Millerton fussed with the edges of the file. “Uh, that’s the problem. Lorne changed his mind a few nights ago. He wanted to change his will, too. Cut the Conservancy out.”

  “Why?”

  Millerton closed the folder. “I don’t know. If I had to guess, one of the women over there pissed him off. He was ranting about a ‘she’ who thought he was ‘dumb as a sack of hair.’ Last time I saw him was the morning after the regular Tuesday night poker game. And he was none too happy.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first all-nighter he pulled over a poker table,” Tanner said, remembering. “High-stakes games?”

  “High enough for Refuge. We’re not Las Vegas or Monaco.”

  “Everyone still play in the back of the Stampede Bar?”

  Laughing, Millerton shook his head. “Haven’t played there since it flooded more than ten years ago. Now we go to the Silver Lode Lodge. There’s, oh, I don’t know, maybe twenty people who come in and out of the group, usually only ten at any time. I’m not what you’d call a regular. Lorne was. He loved cleaning out men with deeper pockets than his.”

  “He loved being on top, period,” Tanner said.

  “You know him better than I expected,” the lawyer said wryly. “Anyway, he soured on the Conservancy deal. Said he wanted nothing to do with it. He marched into the poker game and demanded that I change his will back to the original. I told him to go home and sober up. He cussed me out but good and left.”

  Tanner didn’t doubt it.

  “When I got here the next morning,” the lawyer continued, “he was camped out in his truck in the parking lot, waiting. Still dressed in his poker clothes. He was sober and stubborn as a field of mules, so I agreed to change his will to make you the sole heir again—ranch house, outbuildings, land, stock, water rights, and national forest grazing leases.”

  “Bet that went down with the Conservancy like a straight shot of gasoline,” Tanner said.

  Millerton shook his head. “It doesn’t help you, either. There will be legal reviews. There’s a good chance that Lorne will be ruled intestate, in which case everything will go to the state of Nevada.”

  “Sounds like I wasted a long drive.”

  “I really can’
t say. Legally it’s rather a complex question. If Lorne hadn’t made any amendments to the old will, then it’d be pretty ironclad, assuming no outstanding debts or liens or such.”

  “Is there a document that shows Lorne’s intentions to change his will to give the land to the Conservancy?”

  “I believe there was a witnessed handshake, sort of a deal to make a deal, which would be finalized at a big party. Then came his verbal, sober instructions to me Wednesday morning, plus a handwritten statement to revert to his original will. I gathered that he was writing his instructions to me when he saw that his dog was sick, so he just tore off the sheet he was writing on and headed to the vet, then waited for me until nine. I have those handwritten instructions, and the new will he requested, but he never came back that afternoon to sign the final document. It’s in a legal limbo.”

  And who benefits most from that? Tanner thought automatically. What he said aloud was, “So he died after he left his instructions with you and before he could sign the final will?”

  “Or he changed his mind again before he died. Nobody knows except Lorne. If I were the Conservancy, I’d certainly argue that case.”

  For a small town, this place is sure crawling with lawyers, Tanner thought. And all he knew about the law began and ended in the criminal codes. “What did the coroner say about time of death?”

  “I don’t think the death has been certified yet. Sometime yesterday or the night before that, but it’s unclear. Only thing I know for certain is that it happened before this could be set out in legal language.”

  Millerton took a sheet of yellow paper from the folder and handed it to Tanner.

  The paper had been torn raggedly at the top. Tanner would have bet good money that the tablet the sheet had come from was on the counter next to the phone at the ranch house. Lorne had written the words so vigorously that the pencil had broken several times, leaving impatient gouges on the paper. This was not the work of a drunk. The language was firm and straight to the point. His uncle had been coldly angry, but well in control of himself.

  Like he’d been at his brother’s graveside.

  Just because your father walked away from his heritage doesn’t mean you have to be stupid. Cities will kill you, boy. That was all Lorne had said, and it had been more than enough.

  “This letter is pretty clear to me,” Tanner said. “And it looks like his handwriting.”

  “Unsigned, it won’t be admissible. Perhaps as an indicator of intent, but it’s not a legal document and as such can’t automatically replace the witnessed, verbal agreement that Lorne previously had with the Conservancy.”

  “Interesting,” Tanner said. “Neither verbal nor written is definitive, so they’re both discarded and the state gets the ranch?”

  “The judge will probably rule in a few weeks. Until then . . .”

  “Which way is the judge likely to rule?”

  “Nothing’s sure. Depends which judge is assigned. Some will rubber-stamp this for the citizens’ benefit and a couple will let the two parties fight it out. How much money do you want to spend to hold on to the ranch?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll bet that the Conservancy has deeper pockets than an honest L.A. cop.”

  The lawyer frowned. “Unless you want to simply surrender your claim to the land and the water and lease rights, I’d advise you to stay here and look after your interests as best you can. The personal effects from the house are yours, no question. The truck, too. But without the land, I doubt you want the livestock, much less poor old Dingo.”

  “Did the dog die?”

  “Warren is a good vet. He’ll pull him through just in time to be put down at the pound.”

  Tanner shook his head. “Who do I talk to at the Conservancy?” Besides the woman I pissed off last night. Nice going, Mr. Charm.

  “I can’t advise that you talk to them. Not without someone looking after your interests.”

  “I’m a big boy. I’ll look out for my own rights,” Tanner said. “I’m betting the Conservancy is in the phone book.”

  “There’s more of Lorne in you than just his big bones and eye color,” the lawyer said ruefully. “Shaye Townsend is the Conservancy’s liaison with the ranchers. I understand she works all over the state and even on the California side of things, talking to ranchers about the Conservancy and what it could do for them.”

  Tanner tried not to wince at the name. “What’s she like?”

  “She’s smart and knows about the problems of small ranchers and modern economics. She’s become friends with a lot of old families. Being easy on the eyes doesn’t hurt. She’s been working with Lorne for some time.”

  “He could be a tough man to warm up to.”

  “Hard as flint,” Millerton agreed. “Honest, too, maybe to a fault. Not everyone liked Lorne, but they respected him. All the poker boys placed bets as to when he’d kick her pretty ass off his ranch for good. Nobody figured it would be that night, though.”

  “Maybe they weren’t getting all the, uh, benefits Lorne did.”

  The lawyer shook his head. “It’s not a secret that Lorne used to visit the ‘ranches’ at the far north end of the valley. But that was business, too. Whatever Shaye used on him, it wasn’t sex.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “The scavengers had been at your uncle’s body,” Millerton said. “When Shaye found him, it couldn’t have been pretty. Deputy August said she didn’t come apart, but she was really pale. Right now she’s trying to keep it together for Lorne’s memorial tonight, the one the Conservancy is giving in his honor.”

  Tanner thought of all the opportunities he and Lorne had had to reach out to each other in the past. Neither one had. Stiff necks ran in the family.

  He also thought about what kind of grit it must have taken for Shaye to come back to the ranch after finding Lorne there, particularly for a woman who wasn’t used to tripping over bodies as part of her job.

  “Is there any kind of dollar value attached to the ranch?” Tanner asked. “Any other reason for the Conservancy to want it so bad? I mean, it has a nice view, but so do a lot of places here.”

  “I’d have to evaluate it. There have been offers over the years, especially in the last couple, when real estate looked cheap here compared to Carson City or Reno. That’s one of the reasons Lorne hired me, actually. He’d gotten tired of fielding all the queries. He wanted to spend more time actually ranching and not doing the business side of things. He knew he couldn’t do everything forever. Frankly it’s something of a miracle he worked as long and as hard as he did.”

  “Any of his poker buddies interested in the land?” Tanner asked.

  “If they were, they didn’t come to me.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  Tanner stood up. “I’ll be in touch. You have my cell-phone number if you need anything from me.”

  “Of course,” Millerton said, standing quickly. “I’ll see you out.”

  “Not necessary. I have a good memory.”

  He also had a date with the nearest place that rented suits. Dress clothes were the last thing he’d expected to need in Refuge, Nevada.

  Five

  This dress is too small, Shaye told herself.

  You just like jeans better.

  She could almost hear her mother’s accusation echoing down from the past, louder than the party clatter in the Crystal Room of the Tahoe Sky Casino. Her mother was the original girly girl, from a family who could afford all the designer frou-frou anyone could wear.

  Shaye had been raised the same. She still wore designer armor, but only for business.

  This is business. Quit whining.

  The dress still felt too confining and too revealing all at once. The perfect cocktail costume.

  So why do men wear cloth head to toe and women wear a minimal, wet-Kleenex look?

  She gave a cool glance to a man ten feet away who appeared to be visually counting
the stitches in her neckline. When the man, who was easily twice her age, realized he’d been caught staring, he started counting the onions in his empty martini glass.

  She swept the large room with a glance, looking for a friendly face. All she saw was more of the designer crowd. The staff of the Ranch Conservancy fit right in. Not for the first time, she was struck by the fact that despite the Conservancy’s mission, it spent most of its time catering to the rich with galas like this. Even if the small ranchers had been on the gala’s A-list, they would have been be too tired and too broke to attend.

  Not to mention the currents of hostility the ranchers felt for the rich outsiders who were changing their life. Locals wanted nothing to do with the fancy Tahoe Sky Casino, much less the ostentatious Crystal Room.

  One day, maybe Kimberli will let me throw a barbecue and kids’ rodeo for the real people in the valley. In fact, the next time she apologizes to me for her dumb mistake with Lorne, I’ll insist on it.

  What’s done is done, she reminded herself. Learn from it, pick up the pieces, and move on. Just like you have before.

  Concentrate on all the good Kimberli is doing. She’s not IQ smart, but she’s a genius at fund-raising.

  Trying to look happy and alert rather than sad and weary, Shaye circulated, barely touching the champagne that glowed pale gold in her glass. It was hard not to think about yesterday, and how she had found Lorne. The contrast between then and now was just too stark.

  Last night’s run-in with Lorne’s nephew had been almost as bad. Just who the hell does he think he is, treating me like an intruder. I’m a better friend to Lorne than Tanner Davis was. Or anyone else in this room, for that matter.

  Giant capital letters silkscreened on a banner suspended from the ceiling spelled out LORNE DAVIS. Jewelry flashed among the attendees, and clothing gleamed with wealth.

  Lorne would have taken one look and walked out.

  Shaye certainly wanted to. But unless she planned on returning to San Francisco and being her parents’ trophy daughter, she had to make a go of the Conservancy job. None of the city jobs she had tried had worked out. Neither had her personal life. The men on the party circuit were too much like her ex—users and losers.