If she’d been one of the other visitors spending long hours in the waiting room, Sally thought, she wouldn’t have been too keen on the aroma of hospital cafeteria Salisbury steak just then. But she told Jimbo’s mother she’d see what she could do.
The cafeteria had made an attempt at cheer that fell some ways wide of the mark. There were “country” touches— warped wicker baskets stuffed with dusty plastic flowers in unnatural shades of pink and blue, tacked to the walls; straw brooms tied with calico bows behind the cash register; some kind of strawberry potpourri that must have been an attempt to mask disinfectant, if indeed that wasn’t the smell of the actual disinfectant. Sally got a tray and went through the line, choosing grilled cheese and tater tots and chocolate milk for the kids, and for Arvida’s mother, a truly monochromatic boxed dinner: chicken-fried steak with white gravy, mashed potatoes, a square roll, and a matching piece of gluey coconut-cream pie. The vegetable of the day was steamed cauliflower, but on behalf of the other waiting room folks, Sally demurred.
She paid and walked out into the dining area. There, at a corner table, Scotty Atkins sat staring steely-eyed at Nels Willen. She’d have loved to accidentally overhear what they were saying, but there was no way Scotty would have permitted her within a mile of their table. Sighing, she headed back upstairs and delivered the food.
But she’d forgotten Arvida’s coffee. A perfect excuse to make another pass.
She hustled back to the cafeteria, got the coffee, and nearly ran headlong into Scotty, who was on his way out.
He gave her the narrow-eyed once-over. “Visiting a sick auntie?” he asked.
“My bass player’s in the ICU. I’m taking dinner to his family.”
Scotty looked down at the cup of coffee Sally held in her hand. “They gonna share that?” he asked.
She blew out a breath.
Before he could say anything more, she decided to go on the offensive. She might as well. He’d be offended one way or the other. “What’s Nels Willen doing here?” she asked.
“I have the impression you know the answer to that question, although I’m damned if I know how.”
“I never divulge my sources,” Sally said, deciding she could use the coffee herself. She took the plastic lid off the plastic foam cup, inevitably spilling a little hot coffee on her hand, took a sip, and wondered if somebody had decided to reuse grounds from an earlier pot, maybe more than once. “I understood that a doctor found Jimbo, somewhere out near Albany. Nels Willen is a doctor, or was, anyhow. And he’s got business in Albany. I draw the obvious conclusion. You can try to bluff me, Scotty, but I think I can get that far on my own.”
“Forget about it, Sally,” said Scotty, shaking his head. “Do what you have to do for Perrine’s family, if you want. But stay out, I repeat, stay out of this case. You’ve got your million-dollar publishing deal. Go sit in a library, or punch a keyboard, and do some research. Don’t deceive yourself that you’re equipped in any way to assist the police in the investigation of suspicious shootings. You can’t help. You might get yourself shot in the bargain.”
At least Scotty hadn’t added another zero to her fictitious book contract. “So you consider this a suspicious shooting? Homicide, maybe?”
Scotty’s lips thinned. “You don’t give up, do you? Are you some kind of crusader, or do you just have a thing about violent death?”
The shock registered in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was out of line.”
They stood glaring at each other, pain—and something else—silently passing from him to her and back. And as they stood there, Nels Willen got up from the table and walked over to join them.
Willen nodded. “Hello, Sally,” he said.
Scotty looked from one to the other, as if he were choosing his words. “Stay close, Dr. Willen,” he finally said. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Whatever I can do to help, Detective,” Willen answered. “And if I think of anything more, I’ll call right away.”
Atkins pursed his lips. “Yeah. You do that.” He turned pale eyes on Sally. “Better get that family a fresh cup of coffee.” He walked away.
“You know the Perrines?” Nels Willen asked her.
“Jimbo’s the bass player in my band. When I heard he’d been shot, I came down to see if I could do anything. So, it was you who found him,” she said.
He closed his eyes, rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Yeah,” he admitted.
“I better get that coffee,” she said, fumbling for words.
“I’ll wait for you,” he said. “I want to go up and say goodbye to the family.”
Hospitals, Sally thought, were places that seemed to have had the sound vacuumed out of them. As she and Willen got out of the elevator on the ICU floor, the hallway seemed audibly silent. Hello darkness, my old friend.
They rounded the corner by the nurses’ station. A choking sob tore the air. Halfway down the corridor toward the waiting room, a tall, tired-looking man in green scrubs put a hand under the elbow of a crumbling Arvida Perrine. Within moments, she began to cry in earnest, and he moved to put an arm around her back, to hold her upright.
Sally looked at Willen. “I think,” she said, “we ought to leave.”
He nodded. “In my experience, his folks will want to be alone.”
They turned, took the elevator to the main floor, and walked out into the parking lot. The night was clear, lit by a crescent moon and a million stars. Their breath came in clouds.
“So are you driving out to Shady Grove tonight?” she asked him.
“It hardly seems worth it. Think I’ll get a motel room in town tonight,” he said.
“Feel like talking?”
He offered a wan half-smile. “What’s to talk about?”
She tooka deep breath. “I don’t know. If I’d found him, I’d want to talkabout it to somebody besides Detective Atkins.”
Willen laughed softly. “He isn’t the most sympathetic listener.”
Sally took a chance. “Why don’t you come over to my house and have a drink and something to eat?”
Willen’s face relaxed a notch. “That would be good,” he said. “Where are you parked?”
She gestured at the Mustang, halfway down a row.
“I’ll follow you,” he said.
As she walked to her car, it occurred to Sally that Nels Willen had been early to the scene of two fatal shootings. Anyone might reasonably conclude that he’d been involved. Some people, indeed, might think it a supremely stupid thing to do, to invite a possible murderer to come on over for a beer. She needed backup.
She unlocked her car, got in, dug in her big leather shoulder bag, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed her home number. Hawk answered.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Sitting around naked, imagining that you’re similarly attired, standing in the kitchen, whipping up a batch of hollandaise sauce. And I’ve got this basting brush, and you’ve got those very lovely—”
“Seriously,” she said, “what?”
“Drinking a beer and thinking about ordering a pizza,” he said. “You coming home?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Order enough pizza for three, and hold the pepperoni. Get the deluxe veggie.”
“How come?” he asked. “You aren’t bringing a Californian home to dinner, are you?”
“Certainly not,” she said. “A Coloradan. And with any luck, he’s not exactly homicidal.”
“I guess that’s good news. Do you care to explain?” Hawk asked.
“It’s a long story.” She took a deep breath. “There’s been another shooting death. Jimbo Perrine,” she said.
“Christ.” Hawk exhaled. “What happened?”
“He was out hunting.”
“Another hunting accident?” Hawk asked.
“It’s possible. But then there’s the fact that he was found by Nels Willen.”
“The doctor from Shady Grove? What the hell’s going on?” Hawk said.
“I’d really like to know. That’s why I asked Willen if he wanted to come over for a drink.”
Pause. Then Hawk, master of understatement, said, “Are you sure that’s wise?”
Sally gave it one moment’s thought. Willen’s Saab had pulled up behind her Mustang; he was waiting to follow her home. She could just tell him she’d changed her mind—was too tired. But, she reasoned, the poor man must be emotionally and physically exhausted. The least she could do was offer him a helping hand. “I don’t think he’ll shoot us tonight,” she told Hawk.
“Okay,” Hawk said. “In that case, there’s plenty of cold beer. I’ll order a couple of pizzas and put the Smith and Wesson in the silverware drawer.”
“It’s a comfort knowing you’re always prepared,” Sally said.
“I love you, honey,” he answered. “Just thought you ought to know that in case he shoots you on the way home.”
“You’re such a sensitive guy,” she said, and rang off.
An hour later, they sat in their living room, an open pizza box and a healthy array of long necks on the coffee table. Nels Willen had managed one slice of pizza and was working on his third Budweiser. He sat on the couch, hunched forward, forearms on his thighs, the beer dangling from the fingers of his right hand. They were beautiful hands, Sally noticed, strong and graceful. Musician’s hands, she’d have said under other circumstances. But, of course, his were surgeon’s hands.
He hadn’t seemed to be inhibited by Hawk’s presence. Sally had offered him a sounding board, and he was using it. But he’d yet to mention Jimbo Perrine. What he wanted to talk about was Nina.
“You have to understand about Angelina Cruz,” he said, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a swig. “She was the most passionate woman—the most passionate person—I’ve ever known. It extended to everything. First time I met her was in Aspen, at a party a friend of mine gave. She was just learning to ski. Thomas had brought her to Colorado. He’d skied for years, and he was damn good at it, but then, that’s how it is with him. Anything old Stone wants to do, comes pretty easy.
“But not for Angelina. She didn’t take more than one or two lessons before she got off the bunny slope and attacked the mountain. She told me that first night that by the end of two weeks, she’d be skiing right along with Stone, and since he was pretty much sticking to the black diamond runs, I thought I’d better keep an eye on her. Lucky thing. On the third day, she racked herself up good, sprained an ankle and an elbow, and I thought she was done for the duration.
“I didn’t know Angelina. Three days later, she had me taping her up tight and pushing her back out on the mountain. Skied the rest of the vacation, eating codeine at night.”
“Eating codeine? That doesn’t sound like Nina,” Sally said.
“Maybe not the Nina of now,” said Hawk, “but this was— what, back in the seventies?”
Willen nodded.
“Hell, I knew people whose idea of getting back to nature was living on fruit juice, marijuana, and enemas,” Hawk observed. “Coke-snorting vegetarians and bodhisattvas facing paternity suits. I knew one guy who insisted the only way to find harmony in the desert was to survive on roasted mesquite beans and rattlesnake jerky. He got pretty skinny and dried-out before he broke down and hit the Taco Bell.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Sally said. “There was a lot more room for creative mania in those days.”
Willen drained his beer. “Angelina wasn’t lacking in that department. With her, it was all or nothing. Take the time she busted up her leg in Switzerland, back in eighty-four. By the time I got there, Stone had gone off on a toot, and she’d spent four days in the care of some Teutonic quack who’d convinced her that the best way to get her body ready for surgery was a diet consisting solely of organ meats. Cows, pigs, sheep, and goats; kidneys, livers, brains, and balls. She was by God gonna stick to it, until I told her that, at the very least, she was working her arteries a hell of a lot harder than she had any business doing. Not long after that, she gave up meat entirely.”
No wonder she’d gone over to soy smoothies, thought Sally. “Goat liver, really?”
Willen ignored the question. “And once she’d decided to be a vegetarian, that was it. She made up her mind about things fast. First impressions counted—if she liked you on sight, she’d stick with you long after everybody else had decided you were boring or full of shit or bad to the bone. She had an incredible capacity for love and loyalty.”
“She loved you,” Sally told him. She had only Stone Jack-son’s word on that subject, but she wanted to give Willen some comfort.
“Yeah,” said Willen, and sighed. “Among others. I think she even loved you a little.”
“Me?” Sally said. “She hardly knew me.”
“But that was how it was with her. Snap judgments. She read your Dunwoodie book. She’d heard what you’d been through on that project. That was all she needed.”
“She talked to you about me?” Sally was incredulous.
“I asked her if she’d made any friends in Laramie. She mentioned you.”
Friends. Sally had considered Nina Cruz an interesting, pleasant acquaintance. A person who might someday become a real friend. But not yet. Maybe she’d been a little intimidated by Nina’s celebrity. Maybe fame made Nina a lonely woman.
“Unfortunately, Angelina could be a little too quick to trust sometimes. Especially in the last couple of years, she let people take advantage of her.”
“Stone Jackson said the same thing,” Sally offered.
Willen put the beer on the table and leaned back on the couch, eyes closed, braids trailing down his back. “Funny thing. The way we each felt about her, you’d suppose we’d hate each other’s guts. But it’s never been like that with Stone and me. Maybe it was because by the time Nina came to me, he knew he had to let her go, at least a little. Maybe I wasn’t jealous of him because—well, how could you be? It’d be like being jealous of John Lennon or Jesus or something. Or maybe it’s that when she moved on down the road, we both just went on loving her and trying to protect her.”
“From what?” Hawk asked. “She must have known there were people trying to scam her. It’s not like there’s any shortage of bullshit artists in L.A.”
“Sure,” said Willen. “Or Aspen either, for that matter. For Stone, it was dope dealers. For Nina, it was people with causes. Back in the sixties, it was radicals who needed lawyers, or somebody’s foundation that was supposed to set up medical care for migrant workers. Later on, they’d come pitching women’s shelters or Andean indigenous agriculture. Always sounded good, and the people were so convincing. Then she’d find out that the radical lawyers were buying condos in Maui, and the indigenous farmers she was bank-rolling were growing coca.”
“What would she do then?” Hawk asked.
Willen paused and took a drink. “She’d be terribly, terribly hurt,” he said. “And then she’d pick up and go on, gung ho for her next crusade. She said she wasn’t willing to let a few bad experiences trash her faith in the human race. She believed in progress.”
That sounded like Nina. Who else would move to Wyoming with the idea that you could convince people to give up their addiction to beefsteak and the Broncos in the name of living a more enlightened life?
“So what’s the deal with Wild West?” Hawk asked the question. Sally realized she had absolutely no idea what the answer might be.
“Angelina grew up in northern New Mexico,” Willen replied. “Some of her cousins are still hanging on to pieces of what’s left of a Spanish land grant, trying to make a living running cows and herding sheep and cutting a little timber. She did what she could to help them stay on the land, became a silent partner in their operations, sent checks for feed and seed and to pay the lawyers when the government canceled their grazing leases.
“She cared about their determination to hold on to their land. But she told me she thought they were killing the very thing they loved. Too many cows,
too many sheep, too many hooves and teeth grinding and chewing that grass right down to bare dirt. Riverbeds trampled, erosion, streams drying up—you probably know what happens to a place that’s been overgrazed.”
“It’s a vicious cycle,” Hawk said. “The worse shape the pasture’s in, the harder the ranchers have to struggle to pay the bills, so they run more animals. Was that why Nina didn’t get a place in New Mexico?” he asked.
“She wanted to start fresh, without the family baggage. A lot of the folks were already pretty mad at her for the Viet-cong stuff, and they wouldn’t have felt any warmer toward her once she started telling them to get rid of their cows and let nature take its course, maybe bring a couple of wolves onto the place.”
Sally could imagine the reaction. The ranchers she knew in Wyoming would have politely suggested that maybe such a person would be happier in California, living on redwood bark and roots. “What in the world made her think it would be any better here?”
Willen smiled. “The optimism of the ignorant, maybe. Or just plain longing. She fell in love with Wyoming when she came out to visit me and I took her up in the Snowies on a fishing trip. The land here’s still a bargain, compared to a lot of the rest of the West. Sort of a last best place.”
“That’s Montana,” said Sally. “A lot of people get confused.”
Willen grinned weakly. “No need to be touchy. I ain’t here to Coloradicate you all.”
“So Wild West was her attempt to do something about rangeland in Wyoming?” Hawk asked.
“Mmm-hmm. The foundation could support a number of activities, from green range management research to sponsoring public mediation of grazing disputes. I was advising her on some possibilities. But, of course, she was also concerned about the animals themselves. It wasn’t clear what direction she planned to go with that part of the agenda.”
“The animal rights part?” Sally asked.
Bye, Bye, Love Page 10
