“First of all, I have to say that there is nothing in the coroner's report that isn't consistent with suicide,” he said finally. “And my reservations are just that—reservations.”
“But you do have reservations?” she asked, frowning.
“Yeah. I do. But only because I knew Josh and all the people involved. There was something going on between him and Milo Scott, but damned if I know what it was. The moment Josh started being so friendly with those two, Scott and Williams, I began snooping around, but I never caught them doing anything I could put my finger on—or at least arrest them for.”
Jeb sat back, fiddling with his coffee cup. “You should know that part of my reservations come from the fact that there have been one or two suspicious deaths over the years in which Milo Scott was suspected of either killing the person himself or ordering it done.” He made a face. “The problem was we could never prove anything. In one of the cases, we couldn't even prove it was murder—it had to be put down as accidental death. Suspicious as hell, but there you are.” He sighed. “Mendocino County is a big county area-wise, but it doesn't have a big law enforcement segment. It's also one of the lowest paid sheriff's departments in the state, and except for lots of space, lots of trees, a gorgeous coastline, and clean air, the county doesn't have as many amenities as people from other areas have come to expect.” He smiled crookedly. “It's just been during the last half dozen years or so that we even got a Walmart in Ukiah—and there was a huge fight over that. Willits only got a Burger King a few years ago. No doubt about it, Mendocino County is changing, growing, but the entire county is still pretty much small town, ranching and farming, and that sort of life doesn't appeal to everyone—a majority of people expect malls, pizza delivery, and six-theater complexes and fast-food places on every corner. Most of the time, after a new deputy gets some experience and can start to be of some real use, he—or she—usually ends up moving away for a higher-paid job, better career advancement—even if it's just into the Ukiah or Willits Police Departments. Which leaves us, the sheriff's department, constantly playing catch-up. Despite the turnover we do a damn fine job, but there are problems, and one of them is that there aren't many of us and there's a bunch of ‘them.’” When Shelly looked puzzled, he added, “You've maybe forgotten that Mendocino is part of the Emerald Triangle and one of the largest marijuana-growing regions in the state. We're remote, have mostly rugged terrain, and we don't have much legitimate industry—or a big population. Logging, one of the biggest employers, has practically disappeared, and a lot of people, aging hippies and their offspring and the like who drifted in during the sixties, don't think that there's anything wrong with growing a little patch of weed to supplement their income. Hell, a few years ago one of our county supervisors was campaigning for the legalization of pot—and he had tons of support.
We're not a rich area, and it can be hard to make a living here. There are cases where the pot patch is the only income for some people.”
Shelly frowned. “You don't think that Josh—?”
He shook his head. “No. Not growing it. But it wouldn't surprise me to find out that he was paid to turn a blind eye to others growing it on Granger land.”
Shelly sucked in her breath. “You mean, his gambling debts were paid off and for that he virtually leased the ranches for pot production?”
“Possible,” Jeb said neutrally.
“But you never found anything like that, did you?” she asked sharply.
“Honey, you're forgetting how many thousands of acres your family owns, and where it is and how rough the terrain.” He looked disgusted. “You could hide an army out there, and no one would find it—especially not with the number of men we have.”
“So your reservations about Josh's death are mainly because of his association with Milo Scott and Ben Williams?”
“That and the fact that in the weeks prior to his death he gave no sign, that anybody noticed, of being suicidal. Besides, I knew the man. Not once during all the years I knew him did he even give a hint of being the type of person who would commit suicide.”
Shelly grimaced. “Is there a type?”
Jeb sighed. “No, I guess not. I just can't accept the idea that he did it—even though all the evidence points in that direction. Call it my gut reaction.”
“Mine too,” she said softly. Those odd entries in the ranch books crossed her mind. Standing up, she said, “Bring your coffee with you. There's something I want you to see.”
In Josh's office—she'd not yet been able to think of it as hers—Shelly walked over to the desk. Flipping through the account books that lay scattered across the top of the desk, she said, “Something strange was going on—he put down receiving fifty thousand dollars for some land, but I can't discover which piece of land. But what's really disturbing is that Josh sold off most of the herd, and while he claimed the money on his tax returns, the sums he received for the individual cattle were exorbitant.”
Jeb frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Take a look at this.” Her finger ran down the column in the small black book that had been underneath the account books. “Three years ago there was deposit of a hundred thousand dollars in Josh's account when he supposedly sold off ten cows with calves at side to a Rangemore Corporation. In fact all of the sales are to this same Rangemore Corporation. Now I haven't paid attention to cattle prices, but ten thousand dollars per cow/calf pair seems really, really high to me. And look at this—six months later is a deposit for more than double that amount—almost three hundred thousand. In the Granger Cattle Company books he claims the money—he didn't try to hide it, but there's no way he could have gotten those kinds of prices for the number of cattle he sold. Here's another one early last year for about the same sum, and the month before he died there's another one—which was when he apparently sold off the remainder of the herd. Most of it disappeared as fast as it appeared—that account currently only has about five thousand dollars in it. What really disturbs me, though, is that about four years ago Josh started selling off the stocks in his trust fund. Before these other amounts started appearing, he'd depleted his trust fund and begun to raid mine.”
“Could he do that? Raid your trust fund?”
Shelly made a face. “Yes. I trusted him, remember? He had a power of attorney signed by me. I never questioned what he did. And probably never would have if he hadn't died and I had to go over the books. He could have always told me that we'd bought some bad stocks or whatever to explain the shrinking fund, and I would have believed him.”
Jeb studied the notations, shaking his head, as if something had finally fallen into place. “The timing of the depletion of his trust is about right. Lots of rumors were flying around the valley at the time about his losses at the casinos. And it's about the time he suddenly took up with Scott and Williams.” His finger following the questionable figures, he asked, “Is there anything left of the Granger Cattle Company herd?”
“He sold just about every head of cattle we own. The entire Granger Angus operation is down to one bull and four very old cows.” She made a face. “According to the books, five animals is it.”
Jeb looked shocked. Granger Angus were known all across the country. At one time, the Granger family had been the largest breeder of fine registered Angus on the West Coast. The family had been breeding cattle for generations and doing a damn good job of it. Granger stock was legendary for meat production and cow/calf pairs; the cows maturing early, calving easily, their bulls in demand all across the country, and their market steers finishing out lean and flavorful. He'd even bought several cows and a couple of bulls from Josh over the years to add to his own growing herd. It was hard to believe that Josh had decimated his own herd the way it appeared he had.
Jeb shook his head. “I'm sorry, Shelly. Your family had some excellent stock.”
“And we will again,” she said firmly. “The bull, Granger's Beau Ideal, is one of the best. He's old for a herd sire—pushing thirteen, but if
I can get a couple of calf crops out of him, we'll do fine. Nick and I have discussed it—we're going into a partnership. Granger Angus will be small at first, and it'll be tough going, but we'll rebound. I'm a rancher's daughter, remember? And I come from a long line of cattle ranchers. Nick's got stock that goes back to Granger stock, and he's young, hardworking, and ambitious. I may have been gone for years, but don't forget, I grew up right in the middle of the cattle operation. I've forgotten a lot, it's true, but with some help and guidance, I can get this outfit going again. And I intend to.”
His brows rose. “Do you really think you can do it?”
She grinned at him. “You bet your sweet ass!”
He laughed. “And to think that after all these years, I had you figured for a prissy city gal.”
They smiled at each other, then almost as one, turned to look down at the account books. The light moment was gone.
His jaw set, Jeb said, “These entries don't prove anything. In fact, they could give a motive for suicide. It's clear he was in deep financial difficulties.”
Shelly nodded. “I've thought of that myself.”
“On the other hand…on the other hand, he was getting money from this Rangemore Corporation,” Jeb said slowly. “Which is probably a dummy corporation for Scott and Williams. And they wouldn't give out that kind of cash without getting something in return. It's possible Josh balked at some of their demands and they, er, took care of business.”
“You mean, murdered him,” Shelly stated flatly.
“Yeah. I guess I do.”
“But what would that have accomplished? I mean besides sending a signal to others or something. With Josh gone, control of the ranch and everything connected with it falls into my hands. And I'm sure as hell not going to play into their hands!”
“Chances are, knowing the Granger roots in the valley, they probably figured you wouldn't sell—at least not right away. The odds were in their favor that you'd stay nice and comfy in New Orleans and put the ranch in the hands of a manager—someone they could control or pay off. And if that had been the case, killing Josh was a smart business decision.”
Her face tense, Shelly wandered over to where a large topography map of the area hung on the wall. “A business decision,” she said tightly. “My brother might be dead because of a business decision?”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Jeb said as he came to stand behind her.
Together they studied the map. “Lots of land out there,” Jeb said finally. “Lots of places to conceal some good-size marijuana gardens. And if Josh had been paid to look the other way and then changed his mind, or wanted a bigger piece of the pie…”
Shelly found it difficult to think that Josh had been murdered, and it was even more horrible to believe that he might have died so some pot growers could make a profit. Suicide had been hard to accept, but murder was almost impossible for her to connect with her brother. “Maybe it was a suicide,” she said at last.
Jeb nodded. “Probably.”
They sighed simultaneously and stared at the map as if the answer were somehow written on it. The valley itself lay in the center, the foothills and mountains rising up all around it. Some landmarks stood out; town, Town Creek, the abandoned Louisiana-Pacific Mill site; the high school, the airport and the sanitation pond, just beyond town. The Granger lands were all neatly outlined in blue ink, dotted with happy face stickers, the Ballinger lands were delineated in heavy black ink and skull-and-crossbones stickers pasted along the boundary lines—Josh's idea of a joke. A thick scarlet line ran through the north end of the Ballinger holdings, and, seeing it, Shelly smiled.
The Granger right-of-way. Grangers and Ballingers had been arguing over it since York Ballinger had first sighted the small valley through which it ran and had claimed it for his own. He had planned to dam the narrow end of the valley and create a hundred-acre-or-so lake, piping the lake water down to the valley floor to irrigate his fields of wheat, barley, and alfalfa. York had barely touted his plan before Jeb Granger, the original, had asserted a prior right to cross through the valley to reach some Granger land that adjoined the area. Jeb did have a document that attested to the fact that a right-of-way had been granted to him, but there had always been a question about when the document had been signed, before or after the sale to Ballinger. Through some misfortune that was never satisfactorily explained, the document had gotten wet and the date had conveniently smudged. The county records were equally and suspiciously unclear. The previous owner of the land, the town drunk, had averred that the deed of right-of-way had been given prior to the sale and was therefore valid. Of course that was when the Grangers were plying him with liquor. If the Ballingers were buying his drink of choice, his story changed dramatically, and he would happily admit that he'd signed the deed after he'd sold the land. It was a stalemate, neither side willing to go to court on the word of a drunk to settle it once and for all. The right-of-way remained a bone of contention.
“It's our poke in the eye,” Josh used to say, “at the Ballingers. Can't let them have everything their way. They need to be reminded that they're not Lords of the Valley and that the Grangers were here first. They might be richer than we are, but we have more land than they do—and a right-of way smack-dab in the middle of their land.”
Shelly hadn't thought much about the right-of-way. It was seldom used anymore, although Josh had made certain that at least once a year they drove a small herd of cattle across it. “Just to keep my hand in,” he'd said when she questioned him about it. “It's our duty to carry on the family traditions. Can't have old Jeb Granger turning in his grave.” The twinkle in his eyes at variance with his solemn tone, he'd added, “Our family honor is at stake. The right-of-way must stay. All else is folly.” She'd giggled, and the subject was dropped.
His eye on the Granger holdings outlined on the map, Jeb said, “One thing's for sure; if you're going to run cattle, you've got enough land for it. You've got a lot of timber and rough ground, but there's also some fine grazing land mixed in with it all.” He traced a couple of areas with his finger. “Lots of prime grazing land.”
Shelly nodded. “And it's been a long time since I've ridden over it.” She smiled. “The weather is supposed to clear. I think I'll call Acey in the morning and see if he wants to give me a tour—reacquaint me with the area.” She smiled. “Think I'll even keep up the family tradition and check out the Granger right-of-way.”
“Uh, you sure you want to do that?” When she glanced at him questioningly, he looked uncomfortable, and muttered, “Well, uh, I mean, it's been a while since you've been rid-ing—you might find it tough going. Steep country out there.”
“Don't worry about me, I'll be fine—I rode some in New Orleans, so it's not as if I haven't been on a horse in years. There are just a few places I want to check out.” She grinned. “Acey won't let me get lost.”
Jeb left shortly after that, loaded down with plastic containers filled with leftovers. The rain had stopped, and Shelly had walked out to the car with him. Jeb slid into the dually one-ton red truck and turned on the ignition. Above the muted roar of the engine he said, “Go on, get back in the house. And thanks. The food and the company were great. Next time dinner is on me. The Steak House outside of Ukiah.”
He watched until she was inside, and then, with a toot of his horn, swung the big truck around and headed down the road. The rain had been just enough to make the road slick and he concentrated on his driving until he reached the valley floor, then he hit the gas. His own place was on the other side of the valley, and it was only a few minutes later before he had parked the truck and was bounding up the steps to his house.
Jeb walked straight to the phone hanging on his kitchen wall. Though the hour was approaching eleven he was pretty sure Sloan would still be awake. He punched in the familiar numbers, and when Sloan answered, he said, “I just had an interesting conversation with Shelly. She's planning on riding out to inspect the Granger right-of-way tomorrow.”
&n
bsp; “Shit,” said Sloan.
“Yeah. My sentiments exactly.”
As had been predicted, the rain had moved on, and the day was dry, if chilly. Acey had agreed to accompany Shelly on her ride and had supervised as she had tacked up her horse. It wasn't really her horse; it was a horse, a quarter horse bay gelding, one of three or four that Josh kept in the small stables behind the house. Acey had picked out the gelding, saying, “I know you rode in New Orleans some, but you ain't rode regular, and I don't intend to be lugging you back here with a broken leg or some such nonsense because you got bucked off. Lucky is quiet and steady, and he don't get all spooked and snorty by a swaying branch or a covey of quail flying in front of him.”
Shelly hadn't argued. She hadn't ridden that often in New Orleans, although she had been an intrepid rider in her youth. Like many in the valley, she'd practically grown up on a horse.
Despite the slight overcast and the coolness of the day, it felt good to be outside. Garbed in an old pair of Levi's, well-worn boots, her hair tucked under a faded baseball cap blazoned with the logo of the New Orleans Saints, and a jean jacket, she didn't look much different than she had seventeen years ago. Only the logo on the hat was different.
The Granger holdings were scattered throughout the foothills, with several tracts of land separate from the main holdings overlooking the valley. Since the area she wanted to ride across was some miles from the house, they trailered the horses for the first part of the journey, climbing up off the valley floor and into the mountains.
Forty-five minutes later, Acey's truck and the stock trailer they had hauled the horses in were parked off the side of the Tilda Road. Ten minutes after that, the horses were unloaded and they had mounted up and were heading into the brush and forestland. Acey's cow dogs ambled out in front of them.
Dragging in a lungful of the cool, pungent air, Shelly savored the scent of fir, pine, and the musty smell of the oak and madrone trees. She was happy, she realized with a start. Really happy. Perhaps for the first time in years. Her horse, Lucky, was a steady mount, and she could relax and enjoy the scenery, drinking it all in like a dying man finding a pocket of springwater in the desert. Again it dawned on her how much she had missed the valley. Missed the mountains and foothills.
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