Footprints to Murder

by Marcia Talley

  To my surprise, Brad Johnson had not made himself scarce. Jake and I cornered him near the swimming pool and waited at the snack bar nearby, eavesdropping on his interview with Randall Frazier about the lava tubes of Mount St Helens. ‘Ape Cave,’ Frazier was telling Brad’s camera when we arrived, ‘was discovered in 1947 when a logging tractor fell into a sink hole.’

  The interview continued – an unapologetic advertisement for Frazier’s upcoming expedition. The caves were cold, we learned, and windy. We’d need warm clothing. Three sources of light per person.

  His patience eventually exhausted by Frazier’s lengthy inventory of camping supplies, Jake yelled, ‘Johnson!’

  Brad lowered his camera and sneered, ‘Catch anything, Cummings?’

  I wanted to slap the insolent smirk off his face. ‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ I snapped.

  ‘We need to talk to you.’ Jake sounded unruffled but I’d seen his back stiffen.

  ‘About what?’ Brad wasn’t going to make it easy.

  ‘Colin and Shannon.’

  ‘Ah.’ Brad rested his camera on a nearby tabletop. ‘Everyone here is so freaking serious! It was just a harmless prank, you know. Liven things up a bit. Make the documentary I’m working on far more interesting.’

  ‘Harmless?’ I puffed.

  Brad looked genuinely puzzled.

  ‘The late Martin Radcliffe?’ I reminded him none too gently.

  Brad heaved a sigh. ‘Martin’s death had absolutely nothing to do with Colin’s little masquerade. Martin didn’t even know about it.’

  ‘No connection? How so?’ I asked.

  Randall Frazier, who had been silently listening to our conversation, chimed in. ‘Just because somebody is dressed up pretending to be Bigfoot doesn’t mean that there isn’t a real Bigfoot hanging out in the area, protecting his territory or her young.’

  After hanging around with whackos all weekend I had to admit there was a certain logic to that.

  ‘Lieutenant Cook sent me to find you,’ Jake said. ‘She wants to speak with you, Johnson. If I were you I wouldn’t keep her waiting.’

  ‘You may think it was a good joke, Brad,’ I said, ‘but Lieutenant Cook hasn’t got much of a sense of humor.’

  Brad sighed, picked up his camera and followed Jake back to the lodge.

  I trailed behind, walking side by side with Randall Frazier, chatting amiably. In the lobby, now knowing more than I ever wanted to know about lava tubes, I made my escape and headed for the dealers’ room. Susan had texted that she wanted me to thank everyone for coming and offer to help with packing up, if necessary.

  The minute I entered the room, Prairie Flower motioned me over. I joined her in front of her display tables, now semi-dismantled. Cardboard boxes yawned open at her feet. Rolls of bubble wrap stood nearby, their ends trailing.

  Fingering the crystal pendant that hung around her neck on a gold chain, Prairie Flower said, ‘I need to tell you something.’

  I set aside the box of assorted crystals I’d been admiring. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Brad Johnson killed Martin Radcliffe, you know.’

  I managed a smile. Encouraging her to go on, I said, ‘I suspect as much.’

  ‘I doused his name three times,’ she said. ‘Every time the answer was the same. Yes. Yes. Yes.’ The way she stared at me, breathing quietly, I figured Prairie Flower expected me to use my position of authority to do something about it.

  But was she telling the truth, I suddenly wondered, or simply blowing smoke to cover up her own involvement in Martin’s death? I touched her shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. ‘The sheriff is talking with Brad right now. We really need to leave it in their hands.’

  ‘I didn’t know Martin well,’ she said, swiping away a tear, ‘but even though we didn’t always agree, he had finally come around to treating me with respect.’

  ‘I’m glad you brought that up,’ I said. ‘Can you help me out with something?’

  The eyes she turned to me glistened. ‘I’ll certainly try.’

  ‘I watched Radcliffe’s show – the one with you on it. I’m surprised you didn’t strangle the man on the spot.’

  Prairie Flower pulled a tissue out of her breast pocket and blew her nose. Was she stalling? ‘It hurt at the time,’ she sniffed, ‘but it all turned out right in the end.’

  ‘How’s that?’ I asked.

  She chucked the tissue into a packing box filled with trash. ‘Who was it that said there is no such thing as bad publicity?’

  ‘PT Barnum?’ I guessed.

  ‘That’s the fellow. Well, if it hadn’t been for being on that show, Randall Frazier wouldn’t have known about me. That’s how I got the invitation to help plan his expedition. In spite of Radcliffe’s razzle-dazzle, Frazier was impressed with my gift.’

  ‘How about Radcliffe’s other claim, though? About you not being Native American. That had to sting.’

  ‘It’s true, Hannah, as far as it goes, but it’s not the whole story.’ She sighed, sounding deflated. ‘I was born in Calgary but my parents were killed in an avalanche while cross-country skiing in Kananaskis Country. I was only three so they sent me to live with my aunt in Taos. Kya’ah Tanzey was my father’s widowed sister-in-law. I never knew any other mother.

  ‘Believe it or not,’ Prairie Flower continued, speaking softly, ‘Martin later apologized. In writing! Pinned the blame on his staff’s shoddy research. I appreciated that.’

  ‘Being good to people is a wonderful legacy to leave behind,’ I said, thinking Prairie Flower was more forgiving than I ever would have been. ‘Can I help you pack up?’

  When she agreed, I picked up the stacks of her books (she had sold pitifully few, I noted) and packed them neatly in the box they had come in. Except for one. ‘Will you sign this for me, Prairie Flower?’ I held it out. ‘Twenty bucks, right?’

  She smiled – the first I’d seen since I met her on Friday. ‘Of course!’

  That done, I began looking around for another task and noticed that Jake’s plaster footprint had disappeared from the glass case. I figured he had already retrieved it.

  Five minutes later, I found the casting in the trash can.

  Later that afternoon, Susan and I shared a taxi into Sisters. We had no more responsibilities, so I’d talked her into leaving the lodge a bit earlier than our late-afternoon flights required. At the Cottonwood Café we tucked into some positively sinful Dutch apple crêpes, then I dragged her to Dixie’s, the western apparel store on East Cascade I’d discovered earlier, so that I could fulfill the promise I’d made to myself the previous Thursday. If all went well I would soon be the proud owner of a genuine pair of cowgirl boots.

  The leathers in my size included alligator, bison, calf, crocodile, goat, rattlesnake and lizard. I drew the line at elephant. And fringe. And lace. And definitely no Stars and Stripes Forever styles. ‘Can you show me this one?’ I asked the salesman, indicating a pair in brown calfskin with a simple but elegant stitch pattern that fit perfectly when he slipped them on my feet.

  Susan watched, trying not to laugh, as I tried on another half-dozen pairs. ‘What do you think?’ I asked Susan as I stood and took a few tentative steps.

  ‘Nice,’ she said.

  I twirled, gaining confidence. ‘I feel half a foot taller.’

  When I found the pair that made my heart sing – square-toed in ‘rebel russet’ with four rows of curly-Q stitching and a scalloped top – Susan enabled me, as all good girlfriends should, to buy them.

  I tucked the legs of my jeans into the new boots, stood in front of a mirror and strutted my stuff, feeling like Crystal Gayle at the Grand Ole Opry but without the hair or the guitar.

  I dropped the Doc Martens I had been wearing into Susan’s hands. ‘I’m wearing the boots home.’

  Parked at the counter while the salesclerk rang up the sale, Susan startled me with a sharp poke in the back. ‘Look who’s here.’

  Several aisles away Brad Johnson was perched on a stool
, trying on boots. He stood, stretched and strode right past us, seemingly oblivious to our presence, heading for the full-length mirror at the rear of the store.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ I whispered. ‘After what Colin told us this morning I was sure the police would have taken Brad into custody by now.’

  ‘No such luck. I saw Jake Cummings off on the van. Apparently they haven’t found a shred of physical evidence that connects Brad with the branch that killed Martin. Nothing that even places him at the scene. No witnesses. Nothing on tape. If he did it, Hannah, it may be the perfect crime.’

  ‘No evidence yet,’ I said.

  ‘True. According to Detective Cook the case is still wide open.’

  As Brad paced like a peacock in front of the mirror considering his purchase, I toddled over and checked the box his boots had come in. One-hundred-percent Caiman crocodile, handmade by Lucchese in Austin, Texas. Since 1883. And only $750. What a bargain.

  I was still holding the box when Brad snuck up behind me and spoke, making me jump. ‘A good look on you, Hannah,’ he drawled, bobbing his head at my recently acquired boots.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, just to be polite.

  ‘Well, ladies. What do you think? Should I get these?’

  I shrugged and set down the box where I’d found it. ‘Up to you, I guess. A little too expensive for my blood.’

  Brad stooped, picked up the New Balance tennis shoes he’d worn into the store and lobbed them into the boot box. ‘I’ve never owned a pair of boots before. Might as well do it right the first time.’

  ‘Don’t you …?’ I began then clamped my mouth shut. I looked at Susan and Susan looked at me.

  Brad was busy handing his Visa card over to the hovering salesman so he didn’t notice.

  ‘Don’t I what?’ he asked, turning around to face me.

  ‘Uh, don’t you need some kind of special cleaner?’ I said, pointing to a neatly stacked pyramid of Kiwi Saddle Soap cans.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, snagging one off the top. He tossed it to the salesman.

  ‘Good catch,’ I told the guy.

  The salesman grinned and headed off to the cash register.

  With Brad busy signing sales slips at the cash register, I leaned close to Susan and whispered, ‘He’s lying about the boots. We both saw him wearing them, right?’

  Susan nodded vigorously, her hair so close it brushed my neck. ‘Maybe he got rid of them?’

  ‘Why? Because they were splattered with Martin’s blood?’

  ‘That’s my bet,’ she said.

  ‘He’s leaving on a plane in a couple of hours. What should we do?’

  ‘Call the cops?’ Susan suggested sensibly. ‘I have Cook’s number. You keep Brad busy.’

  ‘Me?’ I hissed. ‘What am I supposed to say?’

  ‘Talk about anything,’ she said. ‘Just don’t let him get away.’ Susan headed outside but just before she got to the door she turned, gave me a thumbs down and mouthed, Don’t mention the boots.

  I gave her a look.

  After Susan left I stationed myself at a rack of ladies’ western shirts, keeping my eye on Brad and my back to the door while I slid hangers back and forth on the rack.

  Brad was also in the market for hats. I watched as he tried on a Stetson – a black felt number with a rolled brim – tipping it back, further off his forehead then considering the results in a mirror. The action freed the comma of hair that usually hung raffishly over one eye. He reached up and tweaked it. Good grief. So there was nothing casual about that dangling lock – he plans it that way.

  In the mirror, Brad’s eyes caught mine. A slow grin spread across his face. He winked.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ I whispered to myself. ‘He thinks he’s gotten away with it.’

  In six long, confident cowgirl strides, I closed the distance between Brad and me. I shot him a toothy, disarming grin. ‘So, the police let you go, then?’

  Brad took off the hat and caressed the brim. ‘Can’t lock a guy up for a little practical joke, can they? If they could the prisons would be full of twelve-year-old trick-or-treaters.’

  Arrogant jerk. I decided to rattle his cage a little. ‘You killed him, didn’t you? You killed Martin.’

  Brad laughed. ‘You think I’m going to confess?’ He glanced around the store. ‘Where’s the hidden camera?’

  ‘No cameras. Just you and me.’

  Brad plopped the hat back on his head. ‘Don’t expect any “If I Did It” speculation out of me, Hannah. I’m not as dumb as OJ.’

  I skewered him with my eyes. ‘Sounds like a confession to me, Brad. Are you telling me you did it but are just too smart to get caught?’

  I was fishing, expecting a clever retort, when Susan sidled up. ‘Well, fancy meeting you here, Brad.’ She turned to me. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’

  When I assured her she wasn’t, Susan said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about who’s taking over Martin’s TV show, have you?’

  Brad smiled. ‘It’s practically a done deal.’

  ‘You think?’ I said.

  ‘Marty died with his boots on, so to speak. Who else has exclusive footage of his last days on this earth? Of course they want it. They’ll even pre-empt one of those mind-numbing “famous for being famous” celebrity reality shows if they have to. Somebody will snap it up, guaranteed.’

  Not only a jerk, I thought, but a ghoul, too.

  ‘What do you do between now and then?’ Susan wanted to know.

  ‘Edit the footage, of course. Got a ton of gigs, weddings, anniversaries and the occasional bar mitzvah. Just waiting to hear, then I’m out of the special events biz for good.’

  He adjusted the Stetson to his satisfaction then drawled, ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have to be moseying along.’ Touching a finger to the brim of his hat in mock salute he sailed past us, heading for the cashier to pay for his hat.

  ‘Asshole,’ said Susan.

  ‘And his John Wayne imitation sucks, too.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Apex, North Carolina, March 5, 1883. ‘The appearance of an unknown animal near here has caused great excitement. The footprints are a foot long and eight inches wide. The animal has been seen twice from a train. Pursuit was begun yesterday by over a hundred men. It has killed three valuable horses at Charlotte, N.C.’

  The Newark Daily Advocate (Newark, OH), March 6, 1883

  Susan joined me on the sidewalk outside Dixie’s and we watched while Brad made his leisurely escape in a rented Nissan.

  ‘Where are the police when you need them?’ I asked rhetorically.

  ‘She’s on her way,’ Susan said.

  When Barbara Cook arrived I described my conversation with Brad. ‘He as good as confessed,’ I concluded.

  ‘“As good as” won’t cut it, Mrs Ives. We need solid evidence.’ She turned to Susan. ‘What were you telling me on the phone about a pair of boots?’

  I answered for both of us. ‘The first night of the conference, Susan and I noticed that Brad was wearing a distinctive pair of western boots.’

  ‘Pretty expensive ones, too, would be my guess,’ Susan said.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘after Martin’s murder, Brad started wearing sneakers. I didn’t think anything of it at the time – even cowboys don’t wear boots every day – but just now, in there, he bought another pair after telling us he’d never owned a pair of boots before.’

  ‘We figure he’s ditched the boots somewhere,’ Susan said.

  ‘We figure he was wearing them when he killed Martin,’ I added.

  ‘If he threw them away at the hotel they might still be in his room or maybe out back in the dumpster,’ Susan said. ‘Garbage at the lodge gets collected only once a week. While we were waiting for you I checked with the manager. They pick up on Wednesdays.’

  Although she thought it was a long shot, Cook promised she’d send an officer back to the lodge to look for the boots. We described them as
well as we could remember while she took notes, then accompanied her into Dixie’s where, after some discussion, we pointed out a similar pair.

  ‘Well, she didn’t laugh at us, at least,’ I remarked to Susan as we watched Lieutenant Cook drive away with her notes and a photograph of the boots on her cell phone.

  ‘At least we tried,’ my friend said.

  ‘OK. So what would you do with a pair of boots you desperately needed to get rid of?’ I asked.

  ‘Burn them,’ Susan said.

  ‘Too dangerous,’ I said. ‘This is wildfire season.’

  ‘Back home, I’d give them to Goodwill. Who’s going to notice when they’re jumbled up with a zillion other things in a donation bin?’

  I raised a finger. ‘Ah ha! Come with me.’

  Back inside the store, I waited until the clerk had finished ringing up a red plaid rodeo shirt for a customer, then asked, ‘I have a fleece jacket that I don’t want to take back on the plane to Maryland with me. Is there a Goodwill donation center in Sisters?’

  ‘Not that I know of, but if you go a block over on Main, Habitat for Humanity has a thrift store.’ He checked his watch. ‘They’re open until four on Sunday. They don’t usually take donations on a Sunday but if you explain your situation I’m sure they’ll be glad to help you out.’

  Five minutes later we arrived at the Thrift Store, a two-story, western-style structure with red siding and white trim. A porch stretched across the front of the building. White railings separated it from neatly planted flowerbeds where hollyhocks were already in full bloom.

  Inside the store we were welcomed by a stuffed fox, standing on a log, his glass eyes twinkling in the afternoon sun. A bit creepy but this was the Wild West, after all. Racks upon racks of used clothing, arranged by size, stretched out before us. Shelves held fabric remnants, neatly folded and tied with string. Other shelves, made of glass, were covered with dishes, small appliances, cookware and knickknacks. Hats ranged along one wall, and just ahead, on our right, stood a white metal rack displaying several dozen pairs of boots.

  I examined them closely. None of the boots were Brad’s.

  A tiger cat with a white bib slept curled up in a woven basket near the cashier. I reached out to pet it. ‘Hello, beauty, and who are you?’ I asked the cat.