Dead Silver hd-2

by Neil Mcmahon

  "Thanks for doing this," she said. "Seth will be here in a second."

  Right on cue, Seth Fraker's pickup truck came rolling in and parked beside us. He opened his door and jumped out briskly, wearing an outfit that astonished me even more than Darcy's-brand-new Carhartt overalls. I wondered if he'd bought them for the occasion.

  He was in his mid-thirties, six foot plus and athletically built. He came at us with a comradely grin and firm handshake, projecting sincerity, although the impression was somewhat undercut by a baseball cap pulled down low and wraparound sunglasses that looked like the Darth Vaderized windows of his truck. I couldn't see much of his face except his very white teeth.

  I'd been betting he wouldn't show, but Madbird had gauged him correctly. He could justify his evasions up to this point, but this one would have been a flat-out admission of cowardice. His ego and confidence in his status had won the day.

  But behind his glued-on friendliness, he was still nervous, and pissed that he'd been maneuvered into this.

  "I've sure been hearing a lot about you," he said to Madbird, with a trace of blustery challenge.

  "Surprised you had the time to listen," Madbird said. Ignoring Fraker's fading grin, he stepped to a corner of the couch. "Let's do it."

  He and Fraker took the upstairs end, harder because they had to climb backwards. Fraker made a show of lifting more than his share, and Madbird let him. Darcy stepped in beside me, and she was a strong young woman; with the four of us, we had the couch up the stairs and inside her apartment in no time.

  Our physical effort had momentarily set aside the real business of this event, but once we dumped the couch, unease hung in the air as loud as gunfire. Darcy was still smiling, but there was no offer of coffee and donuts. She wanted us out of there.

  But Madbird started prowling, poking around in the chaos of half-unpacked boxes that littered the floor.

  "You still got that set of china Gramma Maude give you?" he said to Darcy.

  She hesitated, then said, "Sure."

  "I'm asking 'cause I don't see it."

  "It's somewhere." Her voice was taking on an edge. "Look, I've got stuff all over the place. I can't carry everything around with me."

  "You ever hear from her?" Madbird said, still picking through the boxes.

  "Gramma Maude?" she said warily. "What are you talking about? She died."

  "Yeah, I know. I put her ashes in a elkskin bag and hung it in a tree."

  Darcy spun around, hurried into the bedroom, and shut the door hard. Madbird walked out of the apartment without a glance at Seth Fraker, who had watched the exchange like he was frozen in place, except for his mouth opening slightly.

  As I started after Madbird, Fraker recovered enough to turn to me.

  "Is he a little crazy?" he said.

  "He's a lot crazy."

  "You work with him, right? He must make sense to you."

  "More than I make to him."

  "Hearing from a dead grandmother?" Sarcasm was creeping into Fraker's tone. He wanted to get back what he felt he'd lost, and I was a safer target than Madbird.

  "He was talking about people messing around where they don't belong," I said. "Not knowing jack shit, but thinking they do."

  His face, from the little I could see of it, took on a haughty look. It warned me that guys like him had all the juice, but that kind of shit also angered me almost as much as it did Madbird.

  "I don't care for the way you put that," he said.

  "Must be close to eight. Time to lose that bunny suit and head to your office."

  The corners of his mouth turned down in a way that suggested he could be really unpleasant.

  "You've got quite an attitude," he said. "That why you got your face smashed?"

  In fact, the purple crescent scar under my left eye had come from a light-heavyweight boxing match years ago. Attitude hadn't figured in at all.

  "It's a private story, Congressman-only for friends," I said, and walked on out of the apartment.

  13

  Madbird and I had already agreed to blow off going out to our job at Split Rock today. My time was going to be chewed up by the funeral, and we both had chores that we hadn't been able to get to yesterday.

  There was also the chance of fallout from the photo cache we'd found-especially if Renee took me up on my offer to talk to Gary Varna. I was anxious to see her, find out how she was feeling and what she was thinking. But this would be a particularly hectic morning for her, so I held off calling and spent the next couple of hours running errands.

  The funeral was held at St. Thomas Presbyterian Church, a grand old red brick structure built in traditional style, with ten-foot wooden doors and a high arched nave. I got there at a quarter to ten, wearing the one sport coat I still owned-a Harris tweed that looked tolerable because it had spent most of the last ten years hanging in a clothes bag. The other dressy vestiges of my former life, suits and slacks and the like, had long since gone to the Goodwill store. I'd kept one necktie, but decided not to wear it; while it was fine hand-painted silk, its image of an eagle plunging with outstretched talons didn't seem appropriate for this occasion.

  As I walked up the building's stone steps, I caught sight of Lon and Evvie Jessup approaching-the Realtor-rancher couple who'd dropped by Renee's yesterday. I hesitated, thinking it might be impolite not to wait and say hello to them, but not really wanting to. I raised a hand in greeting. Lon waved back, but Evvie looked right through me. That jibed with what I'd sensed yesterday-that she'd judged within the first few seconds whether Madbird and I were worth knowing, the answer was no, and, essentially, we no longer existed. I went on inside.

  St. Thomas, one of the town's biggest churches, was nearly full. I made a quick estimate of more than three hundred people. I decided I'd be more comfortable standing than shoehorned into a pew, and I'd also be able to duck out if there were too many long-winded speakers. I found an unobtrusive spot in a rear corner, settled back against the wall, and scanned the crowd.

  The most prominent guest was Professor Callister himself, reduced to the contents of a brass urn on a table in front of the altar.

  I picked out Renee by her dark brown hair and slender shoulders, sitting near the front. I didn't recognize most of the people flanking her. At a guess, they were Callister relatives from far eastern Montana. I recalled that the Professor had grown up on the family ranch there, but those ties hadn't stayed strong. Besides the long physical distance from Helena, that area tended to be very conservative, and his politics had separated him further. Still, they were the kind of salt-of-the-earth people who wouldn't have dreamed of disrespecting him by not attending.

  The Seibert family, Astrid's side-who believed that he was guilty of the murders-was conspicuously absent.

  The rumors of other prestigious guests hadn't been overblown. Along with the mayor and a slew of dignitaries and prominent citizens sat Montana's brash young governor, Riley Winthrop. He was currently riding a wave of popularity and using that to implement an agenda of progressive reforms, although it remained to be seen whether his ass could cash the checks his mouth was writing.

  More surprising was the sight of U.S. Senator Bart Ulrich, in a pew at the very front and center. He certainly hadn't been any friend to John Callister-he had opposed environmental protection measures as determinedly as Callister had backed them. I guessed that he was here today to counter that image, and no doubt he'd be stumping at the reception afterward; he was up for reelection and it wasn't looking good for him in spite of a lot of big-money backing, most of it from out of state.

  Ulrich was popular among some factions in Montana because he took care of wealthy constituents, loudly proclaimed what people wanted to hear, and brought home a lot of pork. But he hadn't done much for the nation as a whole, and it was substantiated by now that his heels were among the roundest in the Congress. Without doubt, a certain amount of influence peddling went with the turf, and even was necessary for political survival. But he'd gone
way over the line, with his ballot on the block for just about anything-which explained why lobbyists and special interest groups that had nothing to do with Montana were anxious to keep him in D.C.

  While that was injury enough to citizens and government, he piled an infuriating insult on top of it-he was also an appallingly cheap date, at a price of a few thousand bucks per vote. With pols from other regions pulling down five and six figures, it made our great state look like a two-dollar whore.

  Then I realized that I was slipping into a familiar old cynicism, a holdover from my newspaper days that surfaced without fail when I started looking at politics. I tried to clamp down on it; at a funeral, it had to be bad karma.

  My spirits lifted a minute later when a familiar figure stepped into the church-Tom Dierdorff, a good friend since we'd gone to grade school together. He spotted me and walked over to join me in leaning against the wall.

  Tom was powerfully built, with a strong Teutonic face-he'd been a formidable wrestler-and a dry, sharp sense of humor. He came from one of the area's big ranching clans, but he never played that up-or the fact that he'd gotten a degree in electrical engineering from Northwestern. That could have taken him just about anyplace he wanted to go, but he'd realized that he was unwilling or unable to leave the land he'd grown up on. He'd come back to Montana, gone to law school, and now divided his time between his legal practice and ranching.

  I'd made a similar decision some years back and, while Tom had handled his far more gracefully, that still enhanced our common ground. He'd helped me out in a couple of minor legal situations; no way could I afford him, but the way it worked was that he'd forget to send me a bill, then I'd drop by his place and find something that could use a repair, and I'd spend a few days evening the score. In terms of dollars per hour, the arrangement favored me by a factor of ten to one, but this was on a different kind of clock, and he'd made it clear that that was how he wanted it.

  We exchanged a quiet greeting. Then it occurred to me that he might be a good source of information about the Callister case. He'd been living here at that time, and he was well connected on the levels that counted.

  "Tom, I know this is out of place, but I have a good reason for asking now, not just morbid curiosity," I said. "Do you have any take on the murder story, behind the scenes?"

  Tom was also a guy who considered his words before he spoke, the more so if they pertained to something weighty. His face didn't change for half a minute.

  "I know some things that weren't made public, but that's because I represented a client in a spinoff case-a nasty little situation with that Dead Silver Mine," he finally said. "I don't want to be coy, but there are confidentiality issues, sealed evidence, that kind of stuff. On the other hand, it's ancient history." He raised one eyebrow. "If you told me about this non-morbid curiosity of yours, I might have a better notion of how much leeway I've got."

  The organ music was starting, the rustlings and murmurings of the crowd dying down.

  "I'll give you a call," I said.

  "You got it."

  The minister was a spare, gentle-seeming man who nonetheless ran the show with authority and precision. Everything was solemn and tasteful. There were no lengthy testimonials, just a couple of brief statements about the positive aspects of the Professor's life and accomplishments. No mention was made of the tragedy that had ruined him. The ceremony lasted just an hour.

  Renee was escorted out first, in the company of the people she'd been sitting with. She looked pale but poised, wearing a simple black dress that was very becoming.

  But I was startled to see that instead of a strand of pearls or other tasteful jewelry, a large silver pendant hung around her neck.

  I only got a glimpse, but I was just about certain that it was Astrid Callister's earring.

  14

  The reception was held at the Gold Baron Inn, a classy older place not far from the capitol grounds. The funeral guests filled the big convention room, and I didn't have a chance to talk to Renee right away; she was busy greeting one person after another. Understandably, they wanted to pay their respects to her father, and she was the natural recipient.

  But I confirmed that her pendant was that earring. She must have looped a chain through it. I could practically see some people trying to ignore it, while others gave it sidelong glances.

  Now that the solemnity was over, this was pretty much like any other big party. The buffet line was doing a brisk business; people chatted over food and wine, the buzz of conversation punctuated by the clinking of silverware. The governor, known for his peripatetic schedule, either hadn't come or was already gone. Senator Ulrich was working the room like the pro he was, all smiles and handshakes. If there'd been any babies present, he'd have been unstoppable.

  I stayed on the fringes of the crowd, waiting until Renee broke free. Eventually, I noticed that she was waving her hand and looking at me, beckoning me over to her. She was talking to another well-wisher, a bland, smooth-faced, fiftyish guy named Travis Paulson. I recognized him from the occasional big commercial jobs I'd worked; he was some sort of planner for the state. When Renee introduced us, we agreed that we'd seen each other around. But while his handshake was hearty, I didn't think I was imagining that he wasn't happy about my joining them.

  "Travis saw the mess outside my house," she said.

  His gaze shifted nervously. "Just happened to be driving past."

  "I told him you were getting rid of those awful rats." She gave my sleeve a comradely little tug.

  "Yeah, they put in a lot of work," I said. "Wish I could find laborers like that."

  Paulson responded with a quick, tight smile: nice try, pal, but not funny.

  "If you get in over your head with it, give me a call," he said to Renee. "I know everybody in the business around here-all the best people."

  "We could sure use somebody to haul that trash away," I said. "You got a recommendation?"

  He glanced at me coldly. "I only deal high end." Then he swung back around to Renee and stepped between her and me like he was cutting in on a dance, enfolding her in a lingering hug.

  "I'm there for you anytime, honey," he said. Without another glance at me, he took his leave.

  She sighed. "Sorry about that. I really hardly know him."

  "From what I've seen of him, he mostly deals with the high end of sitting on his own fat ass. Renee, what are you doing with that earring?"

  "I found something else last night," she said, dropping her voice, but excited. "I couldn't get to sleep, thinking about it. That's why I look like shit."

  "You look terrific. What did you find?"

  "You're a liar, but sweet. There's a pile of wood chips a few feet away from the jewelry box-with gunpowder mixed in."

  I blinked. "Gunpowder?"

  "It's hard to see because of the rat gunk."

  "There was black powder all over the floor," I said. "Your dad had it in containers and the rats chewed them up. It probably just sifted down through the gaps."

  She shook her head emphatically. "This was deliberate. Go take a look."

  "Where are you going with this?"

  "Suppose the gunpowder caught fire. It would burn those wood chips, and that old dry building would go up like a torch. The firemen would find the jewelry box. That wouldn't burn because it's enamel, right?"

  She watched me anxiously while I thought it over, but I ended up having to shrug. "I still don't get it."

  "It's like I've been saying all along. Daddy didn't put the box there-he didn't even know about it. The real killer did. He set things up so he could start a fire that would seem accidental. Then when they found the jewelry box, it would make Daddy look a lot more guilty."

  I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to get my mind around the implications.

  "So how come he never lit the fire?" I said.

  "Maybe he didn't need to. He was waiting to see if the police got suspicious of him. Then he'd use it to throw them off, turn them back on Daddy. But t
hey never did."

  I could only judge by the way it sounded, and that was that she was clutching at increasingly thinner straws.

  But I said, "Okay, I'll go look. Now let's get back to why you're wearing the earring."

  "What if he's still around-maybe here in this room?" she said heatedly. "He knows Daddy just died. He's going to be paying attention to what's going on. If he sees the earring he'll recognize it and it will shake him right down to his boots. For instance." She pointed unobtrusively toward Travis Paulson, the man we'd talked with a minute ago. "He stares at it every time he thinks I'm not looking."

  "He's not the only one noticing it, Renee."

  "He's really noticing. Watch."

  She turned casually away from him. I followed her cue, but kept him in sight peripherally. His restless gaze did keep returning to Renee, and it did seem to be aimed below her face-although I guessed it was her breasts he was staring at.

  "Is there anything more solid to connect him?" I said. "Like a motive, or being a suspect back then?"

  "I don't know. I'm going to start looking into all that. But I'm not just talking about him. Whoever it was, they'll want to find out how I got the earring, how much I know, what I'm going to do. So maybe they'll come around prying."

  First I was flat-out stunned, then angry.

  "You're trying to lure the guy? Jesus, Renee, this isn't Nancy Drew-we're talking a double murder. Take that thing off and put it away."

  Her eyes turned defiant. "I'll wear it whenever I want. And don't you dare bark orders at me."

  I was starting to realize that sweet, shy Renee had a stubborn streak.

  "Sorry," I said. "Will you please take it off?"

  "Me too. And no."

  Several people were hovering nearby, waiting with polite impatience for their chance at her. It was time to cut this short.