Dead Dry

by Sarah Andrews

  Something about that ranch was bothering me. A ranch is a small economy unto itself, a closely-managed system of resources, especially one that is “off the grid.” I said, “Hey, Gilda, where were you guys getting your water out there at the ranch?”

  Gilda froze like a pin-ball machine that has just gone TILT.

  Had I asked something important? Or was she one of those creatures who knew absolutely nothing about the origins of the natural resources she consumed in such quantity? I said, “I mean the water you drank. What you washed in.”

  Irritably, she said, “From the tap.” As in, Where else, silly?

  “And how did the water get into the tap?”

  She began to look a little insulted, as if I were making fun of her. “Why, out of a pipe, of course. Afton was in charge of all of that.”

  Michele said, “Why do you ask, Em?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just this drought. It’s the worst I can remember, and yet even in lesser droughts, there were years when we were hauling water from the creek to water the horses. So I was just wondering, what with this green lifestyle stuff and not driving a car or that truck in the barn, how you got your water.”

  Gilda said, “I do not know,” enunciating the words sharply, as if they were separate sentences.

  Michele let the silence widen again. Finally, she said, “So now, Gilda. I understand that you came here for a purpose, and that perhaps your purpose has not been completed. How can I help?”

  Gilda’s response was explosive. “I need to see his body!” she cried, flailing her hands. “I need to have … have …”

  Michele shot me a warning glance. Don’t finish her sentence for her, her eyes told me.

  I clamped my lips together and waited.

  Gilda looked back and forth between us, measuring our response to her performance. “I need closure,” she said finally.

  “Okey-dokey,” Michele said, getting up from the straight-backed chair in which she’d been sitting. “Get your satchel and cosmetic case, honey, and let’s have us a visit to the morgue.”

  FOURTEEN

  ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER, I MADE A COLOSSAL MISTAKE. I phoned Fritz and invited him to dinner. This was a mistake because he wasn’t alone. In fact, he didn’t answer the phone. A friend of his did. A woman friend. “Hello?” she said, in a mellifluous voice.

  “Oh, I must have the wrong number,” I told her.

  “Are you calling Fritz?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m just answering for him. He’s in the shower.” She laughed, as if there were some joke I should understand.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” I said.

  “Who shall I say called?”

  “Nobody. I mean—”

  “Wait, here he is!” she said triumphantly.

  There was a short pause, during which I dearly wish I’d broken the connection, but I couldn’t remember if I’d given my name.

  Fritz came on the line. “Hello, who is this?”

  “Oh, it’s Em. Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t know you had company.”

  He paused awkwardly. “Um, that’s uh, okay. What’s up? I mean, I’m sort of busy now, but is there something you need?”

  “Want to go for a hike tomorrow?” I asked, trying to sound like good old hiking pal Em.

  “Uh, no. Tomorrow’s kind of booked.”

  I heard the woman’s voice in the background again. “Fritz! Dinner’s getting cold, Big Guy!”

  Big Guy? “I’ll let you go,” I said.

  “Okay. I’ll give you a call.”

  “Great.”

  “See ya ’round.”

  “Ten-four.” As I hung up the phone the world went all dim around me.

  IT’S ALWAYS SAID THAT IF A HORSE BUCKS YOU OFF, it’s best to get right back on, but in this case, the horse in question was busy, so the only solution was to get busy, myself.

  The only thing busy enough to take my mind off of what was going on at Fritz’s house was Afton McWain’s murder. Afton’s murder got me to thinking about Julia’s reaction to the news, and thinking about Julia reminded me that she had been planning on coming to Utah for some kind of convention. Any convention Julia would attend would be geological in nature, so why couldn’t Afton have been here for the same reason?

  I reached for my laptop computer, fired up a search engine and screened for SALT LAKE CITY, the date, and CONVENTION, which gave me the schedule for the Salt Palace Convention Center. Unfortunately, there was nothing listed that might even remotely have drawn the likes of Afton McWain—or Julia, for that matter.

  I got out her number and dialed.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice heavy with dejection.

  “Julia, it’s Em,” I said, already matching her tone. “I’m sorry I took off so quickly yesterday. I wanted to … to find out how things are going.”

  “That’s okay, Em,” she said, an edge working into her tone. “I was getting kind of worked up, so why stick around?”

  “I deserve that.”

  Silence, then, “I’m … just … so mad at Afton, going and getting himself killed! I mean, what was he thinking? Sure, he hadn’t done dick for the kids for a year or more, let alone have the decency to communicate with me unless it suited him, but really, getting himself flattened under ten tons of gravel!”

  My stomach about dropped out of my body. “H-how did you know that, Julia?”

  “What?”

  “Where he was found.”

  “The gravel quarry? Under a collapsed bank?” she said. “Shit, Senator White just phoned half an hour ago, told me all about it. Wanted particulars for her eulogy, in case she can get some air time out of it.”

  “Who’s Senator—”

  “She’s a Colorado state senator. Serves on some sort of commission or committee. Apparently Afton got her to appoint him to a task force. What a roast. ‘Task force’ is one of the most meaningless buzz-terms government hacks have to offer the world, right up there with ‘stakeholder’ and ‘we’ll review this and then revisit our decision.’ Just the sort of thing Afton was into these past few years.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Always looking for something noble to do so he could qualify for canonization. Afton, the geology saint. Shit.”

  Afton McWain involved in politics? His ego was big enough, but geologists typically stay out of such frustrating wrangles. “What task force, exactly?”

  “Ground water.”

  “What about ground water?”

  “More like, ‘What ground water?’ We’re running out of it, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “But how did Senator White hear about the quarry?”

  “An investigative reporter for The Denver Post called her for a comment. She told me all the grisly details, said it was going to be in tomorrow’s paper.”

  “Wait, investigative reporter? Why—”

  Julia laughed derisively. “You didn’t know about Afton’s involvement with the Clearwaters Project?”

  “No … what’s that?”

  “Shit, Em, you really have been gone from Colorado for a while. Clearwaters was a proposed development down along Jackson Creek, south of Afton’s blessed ranch. Afton advised the citizens’ group that opposed it.”

  “But why investigative … that makes it sound like there was some dirty doings,” I said grabbing a piece of paper and a pen so I could take notes. Michele had to hear about this, and soon.

  “There’s been a lot of speculation. Rumors of unmarked black helicopters coming and going from there, and one promoter had a record of swindling in another state. Afton and his pals hired a private investigator who used to work for the FBI, and he said there were maybe connections to the Chinese mafia or something. They managed to block the development, which would have turned a 2,400-acre ranch into a country-club-style setup with over a hundred luxury homes, half as many cottages, and who knows how many holes of golf.”

  “Not my idea of ecosystem conservation, no.
”

  “They said they were going to leave two-thirds of it in open space, but a promise like that is no comfort once the camel’s nose is under the edge of the tent, and you’ve got a bunch of pampered fat cats driving golf carts around the wild plum trees and chokecherries and scaring off the game. And besides, where’s the water for all those spas and steam rooms and golf greens? The whole thing looked like a big drug-running and money-laundering scheme to Afton. He wanted to ‘leave the drylands for the coyotes’—I think that was his personal slogan.”

  “Coyotes. That sounds like him. But let’s get back to this investigative reporter. How did he hear that Afton was dead?”

  “He quoted the guy who drove the front-end loader and found the body.” A fresh wave of rage swept over Julia, and she tried to take me with her. “So why didn’t you tell me this? Huh? You left me to get it the hard way!”

  “I was ordered not to talk about it,” I said guiltily, biting my tongue before I could add, You didn’t have to see what I saw.

  Julia decided to use her advantage to grill me for further details. “So, how’d you like the lovely Gilda?”

  “Well …”

  Julia said, “Okay, so she’s a looker. Ha, ha, ha on Julia.”

  I said, “Come on, Jules …”

  “I think I’ll take up drinking. Don’t you think? A nice fifth of vodka might really cheer me up about now.”

  I said firmly, “Booze didn’t work for my mother. Or her children.”

  Silence. Then, trying to pull herself together, she said, “Well, nice of you to call.”

  “Not all that nice. In fact, I’m looking for information.”

  She laughed raggedly. “Well, at least you’re honest. Good old honest Em. Okay, let ’er rip, Sherlock.”

  “That conference you were coming here to attend. Where was that being held?”

  “Snowbird. Why, you want to get into the ground water game?”

  “No, just chasing down some possibilities. We’re trying to figure out why Afton was in Utah. Maybe as part of that task force he—”

  “Could have been,” she said. “Trust him to not tell me he’s going to be out of the state on a child custody weekend and make it to a conference I myself was going to attend.”

  I said, “Julia, get a grip! This is beneath you.”

  Silence.

  I said, “What is it they say in Al-Anon? ‘Resentment is like taking poison and expecting someone else to die’?”

  Nearly spitting with frustration, she said, “What, are you a Twelve-Stepper now?”

  “An old boyfriend’s into it. It’s not hard to memorize their slogans, and there’s wisdom in them even if they grate on the nerves.”

  She was silent for a while, then sighed. “You’re right, I should get off my pity pot. So tell me, do you think I’m obligated to throw the man a funeral? Or do I get to leave that to Gilda?”

  “I don’t know. Who’s his next of kin?”

  Julia said, “The kids are.”

  “Then you do right by your children. Schedule that memorial service. Have all your old buddies from the oil patch attend, and I mean ‘your’ plural; they’re your buddies, too. You’ll get closure, and the kids will get a view of their father in his prime, because you know? Lots of people held him in high esteem.”

  She sighed again. “You’re right,” she said, and suddenly she caved through her anger into her pain and began to weep for the man she had loved.

  MY NEXT INTERNET SEARCH DELIVERED ME TO A MEETING of a group of regional ground-water societies, which were holding a summit in Snowbird starting the next morning. It was my experience of such meetings that if they were in session on Sunday, they’d have registration open Saturday evening.

  I telephoned Ray. He at least had the decency to be home alone. “Hey,” I said. “I need to run up to Snowbird and find out if Afton McWain was here to attend a meeting there. Want to come?”

  “Well … why do you need my help with that?”

  “Why? Oh, come on, Ray, meetings at Snowbird are ‘for old times’ sake’ with you and me. Besides, if I go in there and flash my Utah Geological Survey ID it’s going to mean nothing to them, and I need to get into their records. I thought a cop would get them moving.”

  “Shouldn’t you ask Michele instead? This murder isn’t my jurisdiction, Em.”

  “Michele’s down at the morgue with Miss Wonderful.”

  Ray laughed nervously.

  I was making progress. “Pretty please?”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  IT WAS GETTING ON PAST DINNERTIME, SO I GOT RAY to stop at the Lone Star Taqueria for take-out fish tacos, which we managed to drip all over ourselves as we drove up the tight curves of Little Cottonwood Canyon. We were laughing and getting pretty well relaxed by the time we pulled into the lot at the Snowbird resort.

  “What’s the conference about this time?” Ray asked, as we got out of the car and started toward the conference hall. “The last time we were here for one of these, it was all about dinosaurs.”

  “Ground water,” I said.

  “Right.” He pushed open the door to the conference hall. “Whatever.”

  Everything went smoothly. Ray flashed his badge at the appropriate moments, and the lady at the registration tapped into the electronic list of attendees. Sure enough, there were two McWains: A for Afton and J for Julia. “Your Afton McWain is scheduled to speak at the plenary session tomorrow afternoon. Is there anything else we can do to help?” she asked, looking nervously at Ray.

  I said, “Would you be so kind as to issue me a complimentary pass, just for tomorrow?”

  The woman jumped on it. Anything to get rid of the fuzz, I suppose.

  Before heading back to his car, Ray and I took a walk along Little Cottonwood Creek, reluctant to give up the cooler air that rested at that elevation. Evening was quickly descending, and with it, the scented air of even higher slopes. The first few golden leaves twinkled on aspen trees high above, and a crescent moon hung on the western horizon.

  “So how’s life been treating you, Ray?” I inquired, making small talk.

  “Okay.”

  “Ooo! A one-word answer! Something’s bugging you, old friend.”

  “Emily …” He hunched his shoulders and dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

  “I’m sorry. I seem to be stepping on your toes lately.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said, too quickly. He stopped walking and squared his shoulders as if preparing to make a speech. “It’s I … I’m stepping on yours.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “What do you mean?”

  Ray flung his hands wide. “It’s none of my business who you sleep with!”

  My jaw about hit my toes. “What?”

  He held out a hand in panic. “That didn’t come out right.”

  “You’re damned straight that didn’t come out right! And just who in hell’s name do you think I’m sleeping with, smart guy?”

  His face flushed with embarrassment and anger. “The man you were with yesterday morning?”

  I exploded. “Fritz? You think I’m sleeping with Fritz? Oh, bullshit I’m sleeping with Fritz! He’s …” What was Fritz to me anymore? “He’s just a friend,” I said firmly, then, with defiance, added, “But maybe I would sleep with him, if he’d have me. So what’s it to you?”

  “Just … just be careful!” he said, his voice cracking.

  I stared at him. “What’s eating you, Ray? It’s not like you to butt in like this.”

  “Well … what if you’re … pro-choice,” he said miserably. “You could get into—”

  “I am pro-choice, Ray! The government has no right to say what goes on inside my body, and as importantly, populations stabilize and societies flourish when a woman has control over her reproductive choices and not just because she can end a pregnancy if it’s going to ruin her life and those of everyone around her! I’m for preventing unwanted pregnancies before they
happen. That’s because I’m pro-life as well. Abortion is a damned ignorant, last-ditch way of dealing with things, but you either respect every last one of my choices or you don’t really respect me at all. It’s all one ball of wax, Ray. A woman has to keep the keys to the castle or it becomes a prison.” I ran out of steam. “Now tell me why we’re having this conversation.”

  “Because you should be protected from … from …”

  I shook my head. “Ray, old friend, I’m living my life as responsibly as I know how.”

  Ray squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. “I know …”

  My anger spent, I looked on my friend and felt instead his concern. “Ray,” I said gently, “You grew your beliefs from the outside in—received them from your family and your church—and if that works for you, I’m glad for you. But I get my wisdom from the inside out, by living and making my mistakes and learning from them, and by doing things that work better the next time and then learning from that. So no, I’m not sleeping with anyone—euphemism for having sex, Ray, making love, creating something, but if I was, part of that something would be making children.”

  “But you’ve been with men before!” Ray said.

  It occurred to me that Ray saw himself as more of a father to me than an old boyfriend, which was kind of sweet. “That’s right,” I said. “I guess I’m not the saint you are. I’m forty years old, and you’re right, I’m not a virgin. I got curious about sex just like everybody else, and you know what? A body has needs, and good sex is one of them. So burn me at the stake, Ray, but I’m damned well going to live my life by my conscience and not yours.” When this still did not seem to satisfy him, I whispered, “A life means more to me now than it did when I was younger, Ray, and I’m finally ready to take that to the place it needs to go. The next time I make love with anyone, it will be because I’m going to love him for the rest of my life, and have children with him.”