Cold Dish

by Craig Johnson

  I slapped her small feet and continued on to my office. She followed after me and watched as I eased into my chair. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’ve been running.” I was watching, but her expression didn’t change.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Honest.” I didn’t have to tell her how far.

  “How far?” I smiled at her. “I mean from the Bullet into the office doesn’t really count.”

  “Sure it does.”

  “Or up to the drive-through to get more beer.”

  “It’s a cumulative effect, right?” She tossed another registered packet onto my desk; this one was from the Store. “And this is?”

  “You’re king of the big words this morning, you tell me.” She turned and swaggered out of the office. “I’m getting another cup of coffee. Should I get you one, or do you want to run out here and get your own?”

  I was reading the cover letter when she put my coffee in front of me. She sat in the chair opposite and now propped her feet up on my desk. I looked at the Browning tactical boots laced up past her ankles. I followed them up to her big, tarnished gold eyes, one of which winked at me over the Philadelphia Police mug. “Glad to have me back, aren’tcha?”

  I grunted and turned the letter around for her to see. “We have a state ornithologist?”

  She sipped her coffee. “Makes you proud, huh?”

  “Haliaeetus leucocephalus?”

  “Sounds dirty, doesn’t it?

  I shook my head. “Boy, are you in a mood.”

  “I actually got some sleep; you ought to try it sometime.” She continued to look at me over the lip of her mug.

  “Are you going to help me out with this gobbledygook, or do I really have to read this?”

  “Haliaeetus leucocephalus, the national bird of los estados unidos.”

  I read a little farther. “Meleagris gallopavo?”

  The gold rolled to the ceiling. “Think Thanksgiving.”

  “Turkey?”

  “The feather they found on scene with Cody Pritchard.”

  “So, they’re saying that it wasn’t an eagle feather, that it was a wild turkey?” I let that sit awhile. “I wasn’t aware that eagles or turkeys were suspect; I thought we had all agreed that the gunshot wound might have had something to do with the cause of death.”

  She uncrossed her legs, put her feet on the floor, and sat her cup on the edge of my desk. “Wait, it gets better.”

  “If you bring Cock Robin into this, I’m going to send you back to Cheyenne.”

  “It was a turkey disguised as an eagle.” She reached across the desk and reopened the extended envelope, plucking out the feather, and handing it to me in its cellophane wrapper. “It’s a fake.”

  I turned on my desk lamp and examined it under the light. It looked real enough to me.

  “They sell ’em all over the place, even got ’em down at the pawn shop with all the shells and beads and shit.” I thought about the eagle feathers hanging from Omar’s rifle sheath. “They use them for crafts and such. You can fit your thumbnail into the spline of a turkey feather, but not a bird of prey like an eagle.”

  Sure enough, my thumbnail fit in the spline ridge. “What was Cody Pritchard doing with fake eagle feathers?” She sat back in her chair. “You don’t think . . . ?”

  “I do.”

  I looked at the feather again; it was about a foot long and the quill was about a quarter inch thick. It was dark about three-quarters of the way up, then solid white where it had been bleached. “A calling card.”

  “Knowing Cody’s predilection for all things Native American, I would say that’s a safe bet.”

  I continued to look at the faux feather. “Damn, I don’t like the direction this is taking.”

  Her eyes dropped; she didn’t like it either. “I confiscated some samples from the pawn shop and FedExed them down to Cheyenne to check the dye lots, but they said not to hold our breath. They said the majority of Native Americans just dip them in Clorox themselves.” She laced her fingers together and leaned forward. “I could get some more samples from over in Sheridan. Bucking Buffalo Supply Company over on Main Street carries them, too. I don’t know about Gillette.”

  I held up the feather and looked at it. “Working on the supposition that this is a calling card, who should we say is calling?”

  “Good question. I guess this means we can keep our shingle out.”

  “Yep, business is good.” I turned the feather in my hand. “All right, bearing this in mind, we’re looking at a murder.”

  “Yeah.” She looked resigned.

  “But we’re going to have to go back and check the feather thing with Cody’s family, friends, and such.”

  “Let me guess who’s gonna have to do that.”

  “I can stick the Ferg on it. His fishing career is about to get cramped.” I held the feather up between us. “This immediately points to Indian involvement.” I looked at the feather some more. “Well, on the surface of it.”

  “And a fake eagle feather?”

  I shrugged. “Fake Indians?”

  “I’m getting confused. Running with the supposition that this is real Indian mojo . . .”

  “Doesn’t make sense. I don’t know everything about Indian medicine, but I don’t think they tolerate this fake stuff. Not when it’s this big.”

  “What is the significance of the feather?”

  “Not a clue, but I know this guy . . .” I punched up automatic dial number two, and Henry’s number at the Pony began ringing. “How was Cheyenne?”

  She took another sip of her coffee. “The wind blows, along with everything else.” Nobody answered. He was probably waiting at my house to make me run. “Nobody?”

  “Otherwise engaged. I’ll get him later.” I handed the feather over to her.

  “Fuck.”

  “Yep. Looks like we’re gonna have to go talk to some Indians.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  I reached over and opened the flap of the canvas bag and tossed her a cartridge. It was as long as her index finger and about as big around. Her eyes shot to mine and then returned to the shell.

  “Fuck.”

  “Yep.”

  I put Vic on tracking down all the Sharps buffalo rifles registered in Wyoming under curio and antique registration. It wasn’t required, but maybe they would be registered for insurance purposes. Then she was going to check all the gun shops in the area and call up the replica companies that might have sold such a weapon or ammo. I thought we might have a better shot at the ammunition but that was balanced out by the possibility that the shells were loaded by the shooter. That meant tracking down reloading dies and paraphernalia for big calibers. It was going to be a lot of work, but she smiled when I gave her the slug shot from Omar’s gun to have compared with the original. The smile faded when I told her she was going to have to go out with him for a quick spiral search of the site this afternoon. “How’s Myra these days?”

  “Last word from her was that Paris, half of Omar’s money, and none of him was suiting her just fine.”

  She took her empty coffee cup and started for her office. “I wish Glen was rich.”

  I thought about Vic being rich. She already had the fuck-you attitude; fuck-you money might be too much. I trailed after her and asked Ruby if she’d heard anything from Ferg. “Nothing; they must still be biting.”

  “I’m gonna have to drive down to the Espers.”

  She paused to look at me. “Not really. I think Ferg was fishing down on the north fork of Crazy Woman; as soon as he gets on the highway he’ll get the message and head over there. It’s on the way.”

  “Any Post-its?”

  “Vic got them all.”

  I stood there. “Any pencils need sharpening?”

  “Why don’t you go talk to Ernie Brown, Man About Town? He’s called here about six times since yesterday.” She went back to her keyboar
d and began typing. “Maybe he’s afraid of being scooped.” I gave her a hard look as I shambled out of the office with my tail between my legs. “Should I call and tell him the great man is on his way over, seeing as how you have nothing else to do?”

  I didn’t slam the door; it would have been undignified. It was still gorgeous outside, so I decided to walk over to the Durant Courant’s office, a block down and over. That would show them.

  Omar and I had had a brief conversation on the more practical aspects of what I had still hoped wasn’t a murder case. Who could do it? What were the logistics of shooting an almost .50 caliber rifle more than five hundred yards? Omar had his own theories. “I can narrow it down to almost a dozen men who could make a shot like that on a consistent basis.”

  “In county?”

  “In county.” He stroked his goatee and pulled on the long hairs at the end. “Me, you, Roger Russell from down on Powder, Mike Rubin, Carroll Cooper, Dwight Johnston in Durant, Phil La Vante, Stanley Fogel, Artie Small Song out on the Rez, your pal Henry Standing Bear and . . .” He shrugged.

  “Let’s go with the ‘and’ first?”

  “A sleeper. Somebody who does this stuff, is very good at it, and who nobody knows about.”

  “Let’s move on to you.”

  He looked back at the pumpkin without smiling. “I’d either be a liar or a fool to tell you anything different. I’ve got the talent and the weapon, just no motive.”

  “You mind if I check the ballistics on your rifle?”

  “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

  “Me.”

  “Yep.”

  “Roger Russell’s a shooter?”

  “Yes, he is. You know that turkey shoot they have out Tipperary Road, near the Wallows?” I nodded. “He won that three years in a row.”

  The last time I’d seen Roger Russell was at the Red Pony the evening of the shooting. I’d have to ask Henry if he was a regular. “Mike Rubin?”

  “Best gunsmith in the state; he could do it.”

  “Carroll Cooper?”

  “Same as Roger, one of those reenactment crazies. Does a lot with the Little Big Horn people.”

  “Dwight Johnston?”

  “Drinks, but he used to be a damn good shot. He was on the NRA National Shooting Team back in the late seventies.”

  “Phil La Vante is seventy-two years old.”

  “That old Basquo can still shoot.”

  “Stanley Fogel? The dentist?”

  “He’s a shooter.”

  “Artie Small Song?”

  “I don’t know a lot about those guys out on the Rez, but him and Henry immediately come to mind. I like Artie, and I’ve used him to guide for me. He’s good, and the dollar dogs love Indians.”

  I set my jaw. “Henry?”

  “I knew that was one you didn’t want to hear, but he could most definitely do it. Jesus, Walt, the son of a bitch used to jump behind enemy lines in Laos, air extract NVA officers for interrogation. You ever stop to think how many he didn’t bring back?”

  It had crossed my mind about the NVAs. “Out of this list, how many do you figure are capable of killing a man?”

  He didn’t pause for a second. “Half.”

  “Are we in that half?”

  He looked at me. “One of us is.”

  I turned the corner at the bridge, resisted the temptation of an early lunch at the Bee, and crossed the street down the hill to the little red brick building that had served the Courant since before the turn of the last century. The bell tinkled as I pushed open the antique beveled-glass door. “I wanna speak to the editor of this so-called newspaper!” He looked over his trifocals and smiled. I walked over to Ernie’s train set. The train was legendary around these parts in that it passed through an exact replica of our town, proceeded into the mountains, where it disappeared into a maze of tunnels only to reappear on the plains east, followed the flow of the Powder River, and returned to town. I leaned over Durant, past my office with me getting out of the Bullet, and looked at the mountainside to the little logging operation that had begun about a third of the way up. “That’s new.”

  He got up and codgered his way over. “I’m not sure about it.”

  I looked at the trucks, miniature sawmill, and diminutive little loggers. “Looks like a responsible operator, ‘long as he doesn’t overwork the tree line.”

  “I suppose so . . .” He still didn’t sound sure, but his eyes met mine. “I’m sorry to bother you, Walter. I know how busy you must be these days.” He smiled. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Thanks, Ernie, but if it’s not going to take long . . . ?”

  He made a gentle waving gesture with his hand. “Just a few statements.” He drifted over to his desk and came back with a small, spiral-ring notebook and a pencil that had probably been sharpened since yesterday morning. I had to smile at the importance of being Ernest. “Just a few general questions.” He pursed his lips and poised the pencil over the pad. “How is the investigation progressing?”

  I flipped a switch and went into publicspeak: “We’re very satisfied with the cooperation we’ve received from the Division of Criminal Investigation in Cheyenne and the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington.” Where the hell else would it be, Peoria? “We’ve been able to make significant progress on the case with the help of some of the top-flight ballistics labs in the country.”

  “That’s wonderful. People will sleep better knowing the scope of response to this incident.”

  I looked at him, just to make sure facetious sarcasm hadn’t entered the office when I wasn’t looking. “We’ve put a substantial amount of our force on this case and are making every attempt to bring this particular incident to a quick conclusion.” What else was I going to say? That there were only three and a half of us and that we were going to drag the case out as long as we could, just so we could have something to do? I dreaded the running monologue that accompanied these public statements and lived in fear that my mouth would someday open and I’d accidentally speak the truth. So far, it hadn’t happened; that worried me too. When I looked back up, Ernie had stopped talking. “I’m sorry, Ernie.”

  “It’s perfectly all right. I can’t even imagine all the things that must be going on in your head right now.” I was at least glad of that. “Any breakthroughs in the case?”

  “Nothing that I can relate, as the investigation is ongoing at the moment.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Anybody else said anything that might be of any use to me?”

  He blinked; it’s possible I derailed him by asking him a question. I watched as he stared at the little train tracks. “There have been a number of unfortunate statements concerning the young man. It is still an accidental situation, isn’t it?”

  I thought about it. “Yes. Nothing strong enough to lead me to believe otherwise, at this time.”

  It was close enough to publicspeak to get me through. I half turned toward the door. “Anything else?”

  “Oh, no.” Lost in thought, he tapped the notebook with the pink, oversized eraser pushed onto the end of his pencil. “Do you ever get the feeling that the world is tired, Walter?” I stood there, not quite sure of what to say next. He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I sometimes forget myself and wax philosophic in the afternoons.”

  I walked over to the door and pushed it open, pausing to lean against the frame. “I don’t know about the world, but I sure as hell get that way.” He smiled, I smiled, and I left. It was only eleven forty-five.

  I climbed the hill and turned the corner on Main and became untired. The jaunty, little red Jeep sat at the curb just outside the Crazy Woman Bookstore. I went over and sat against the fender. It was a long walk back to the office, and I needed a rest. After about three minutes, she came out.

  “Hey, you.” She was wearing a black cashmere sweater, a fancy western jacket all of fringe, vintage jeans, and a pair of high-heel boots. Her hair was loose and kind of rumpled. She looked
great. “What, am I parked illegally?” She opened the door and tossed her paper bag of books onto the front seat. She did not come back around the door.

  I continued to smile, but I was worried. “How’s your dog?” That at least got a partial smile.

  “He scare you?”

  “Yep.”

  She smiled at a young couple walking up the street. “He has that effect on people.” She pulled her keys from her purse and then tossed it on the same seat as the books. Her eyes came up, steady. “Do you really want to talk about my dog?” I wanted to talk about anything. I wanted to run for my life. “Look . . .” I dreaded female statements that started with “look.” In my limited experience, there was nowhere to hide after they were made. “You’ve probably been pretty busy lately . . .”

  “That seems to be the consensus.”

  She flipped the butterscotch hair back and laid those frank, lupine eyes on me again. “I’ve been thinking that this is probably a really bad time for both of us to think of starting a relationship.”

  I nodded and pushed off the fender and thought about sweeping her into my arms and giving her a big wet one right on Main Street. Fortunately, I always check my shots, just buried my fists deeper in my jacket pockets, and stood with my legs apart on the other side of the door so that I could absorb the impact. “I thought we already had this conversation.”

  It was the wrong thing to say, I could tell that right away. Her eyes sharpened along with her voice. “Maybe we weren’t clear.” I looked around to see if anybody was around to watch the sheriff get gunned down at what I’m sure was approaching high noon. “Walt . . .”

  “Before you say anything else, let me get this out, because I might not get a chance later, or I may not want to . . .” I drove ahead, looking for light. “That measly, little, pathetic attempt at the beginnings of a romance, I refuse to use that word relationship, are all I’ve had to go on for the last three years. It may not seem like much to you, but for me it was giant steps, and if you think that you’re going to take it away from me with a few curt words here on the sidewalk, then you’ve got another think coming.” In my limited experience, women dreaded male statements that ended with “then you’ve got another think coming.” It usually meant there was a lot more coming, but in this case there wasn’t. It had taken everything for me to get that out; so, I just stood there, watching the tired world fall apart around me.