Death Without Company

by Craig Johnson

  Joe piped up, “She always had a glass of Metamucil in the evenings as a fiber supplement.”

  “Who mixed that up for her?”

  Joe shrugged. “I did.”

  “Did she eat or drink anything else that evening?”

  They all looked at each other, and Louis was the first to speak. “She probably had her dinner at six with the rest of the clients.” He looked puzzled. “Do you think something disagreed with her?”

  I looked at all their faces. “Mari Baroja was poisoned.”

  Jennifer crossed herself, Louis stared at me in shock, and Joe paused and then translated to Walks Over Ice. They all looked sad, but they didn’t look like killers; they looked like people that cared a lot and got paid very little for their concern. The Indian woman said something to Joe, who looked at me, shrugged, and translated. “She says she will pray for Mrs. Baroja.”

  We all sat there in silence for a moment.

  The shock was still in Louis’s voice when he spoke. “Walt, this is horrible.”

  “Yep, that’s the official view as well.” I studied them a while longer. “You can see how important this is?” They all nodded again. “Joe, do you have the Metamucil container?”

  They all joined me in looking at Joe as his eyes widened. “Yes. Do you . . . ? I mean, do you think . . . ?” They all looked worried, images of other patients flopping around on the floor crowded in on them.

  “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. The amount of this particular poison wouldn’t have an effect on most people.” I leaned back in my chair. “I’m going to need the can of stuff that was used to mix up her dose for that night. I’m also assuming that her meds would be with her personal effects?” Louis nodded. “Were there any glasses or plates left in her room?” After a brief conference, it was ascertained that there had been but that they had all been run through the dishwasher and were now perfectly safe.

  There didn’t seem to be any more questions to ask, so I invited them to go down to the jail to be fingerprinted and called Vic to ask her to accompany them back to the home after she finished to collect the rest of the evidence.

  It was 4:15, and I had three-quarters of an hour before they read the Will, so I punched the intercom. Ruby answered, “Are you through terrifying the people from the old folks home?”

  “Laugh it up, I’m sending you there next. Do we have anything to eat?”

  “Potpies in the jail refrigerator.”

  It didn’t sound like it would hit the spot. “Vic didn’t bring any bread back from the bakery?”

  There was a pause. “No, that would constitute stealing, and we try and refrain from that type of activity within our sheriff ’s department.” There was a murmuring on the other end. “But somebody just came in, and he says he’s willing to buy you a late lunch-early dinner as long as it doesn’t come in a bag.

  I put my hat back on and hurried out before the Cheyenne Nation changed his mind. As a precautionary measure, I left my office door open.

  He was staring at his chicken-fried steak sandwich; the long dark hair hid his face and muffled his voice. “How many murders have we had in this county since you became sheriff?”

  I counted up quickly, then recounted. “Five.”

  “Three in the last month?”

  “Yep.”

  He picked up the sandwich and looked at it. “You should retire . . . quickly.”

  I chewed on my usual as Dorothy came over and poured us more iced tea. “It’s very tempting to go with the lawyers.”

  “They have the most to gain.” He growled it, the way he always did when talking about violence. “Assuming Lana did not beat her own brains out with a tire iron . . .” The chief cook and bottle washer looked over at the brave, and they both nodded.

  I looked at them and wondered if people in other parts of the country were as smart-ass as the ones that I had to put up with. “You two are a lot of help.” Dorothy shrugged and went back to work. I took a sip of my iced tea and looked at the Bear.

  He chewed. “Tell me about the timing on naphthalene poisoning.”

  “Five to twenty minutes, so it had to be introduced to the victim less than a half an hour before her death.”

  “Then it had to be someone who saw her at the home that night.”

  “Possibly, but it could have been left for her in some form of consumable; of course, they washed all the glasses and dishes that were in her room.” I turned and caught Dorothy’s eye. “I need your phone.” She brought it over and sat it in front of me. I looked at Henry. “Why are you in town during a blizzard?”

  He looked out the window behind us. “In case you have not noticed, it has stopped.”

  I turned, and it had. “I’ve been kind of busy.”

  He sat the glass down and continued. “I needed filing supplies and discs for the photo collection I am working on.”

  I went ahead and dialed the number of the jail. “How’s that going?”

  The lines at the corner of his lips pulled south, pinning his mouth like a pup tent. “The problem with leading Indians is you are never quite sure if they are following or chasing you.”

  The telephone began ringing. “Absaroka County Sheriff ’s Department, Officer Saizarbitoria speaking. How may I help you?”

  I stared at the phone. “Wow.” I jumped in before he could deliver another schpiel. “Sancho, it’s me. Is Vic around?”

  “No, she’s done fingerprinting and went with the staff over to the Home for Assisted Living.”

  I had seen her fingerprint before; with her Philadelphia technique, I was pretty sure she was the fastest fingerprinter in the West. “How long do you think it will take you to go through the boxes?”

  “I’ll be done tonight.”

  That’s when his trial period would be over, and I suspected he would hightail it back to Rawlins after that. I waited for a moment and then spoke again. “Hey, Troop? I want you to know that what you’re doing is important, and I really appreciate it.” He didn’t say anything. “About Isaac’s car, what makes you think somebody fooled with it?”

  “There was brake fluid all over the place, and two of the bleeder valves were left just loose enough to leak over a short period of time.” He paused for a moment. “It was a front wheel and a back one. The car has a two-reservoir master cylinder, so it could only fail if both systems lost pressure. It just seems like too much of a coincidence.”

  “You sound pretty sure.”

  “My father was a shade-tree mechanic his whole life. It’s something I’d know.”

  I hung up the phone and looked at the Bear. He had put his sandwich down but continued to chew. “Was that Anna Walks Over Ice in your office?”

  I nodded and started to take another bite of mine but sat it back down. “She works at the home.” I drank the last of my iced tea and glanced over at Dorothy. “She doesn’t speak English?”

  “No. Some of the elders believed it diluted your power.” He drew a deep breath. “She did not speak when she saw me.”

  I continued to look at the 220-pound man who looked like he could have stepped from a Curtis photograph or a Remington oil. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “If you get a chance, would you talk to her?” It seemed like I was always asking the Bear to help me out in an unofficial capacity. I smiled. “You speak Crow well enough not to embarrass yourself?”

  He nodded. “Chiwaxxo diataale, baalaax bishee.” He stood and reached for his long leather coat hanging on the hook behind him, then turned and looked at me as he pulled it over his shoulders. “Anything else?” I was disappointed that he was leaving; I was just remembering the pleasure of his company. I suppose he read my disappointment. “Where are they reading the Will?”

  “Jarrard and Straub, on the corner of Main and Gatchell.”

  He nodded. “Maybe I will stop by.”

  “Bring a lawyer, everybody else is.”

  His mouth stiffened before
he flipped on his Wayfarers. “Perhaps I will.”

  He thumped me on the back and made me spill a little iced tea on my pants. One of the big bronze hands reached out to touch fingertips with Dorothy as she passed him. They did it with the casual assurance of professional basketball players. “Ha-ho, Queen Bee.”

  She nodded to him, and he swung the door open. She refilled my glass. “You paying for the Noble Savage?”

  “Yep, he’s working undercover.”

  He stood on the snow-laden sidewalk and raised his arms to the brief strands of sunshine cascading down on Main. His arms stayed stretched out, the duster splayed like wings, and the dark hair dropped across the black leather to the small of his back. He looked like a six-and-a-half-foot raven, gleaning what warmth he could from the available light in a full Technicolor moment.

  “He looks it.”

  The war cry rattled the glass in the closed door.

  Jarrard and Straub was the premier law office in the county, having been started by Jim Jarrard and Larry Straub back before Lexis-Nexis and an hourly rate above two hundred dollars. I was more comfortable in the old place with its partners’ desks and tortoise shell lamps and quiet-voiced men. There used to be a remarkable mount of a bugling elk that Larry had taken up near Rock Creek before it became unfashionable to sport such things on the wall of a law office. The elk, of course, was gone, and all I saw were walnut-paneled walls with tasteful watercolors of the area carefully illuminated by recessed lighting.

  “Good to see you, Walt.”

  “Hello, Kyle. Thanks for letting me sit in.”

  “No problem.”

  Sarcasm was lost on the man. “Where is everybody?”

  “They’re in the conference room upstairs. I just wanted to check a few things with you before we went in.” He stood there for a moment, nodded and looked at the wall-to-wall carpeting. “If I were to give you a copy of the Will now, would you still feel compelled to participate in the reading?”

  This was an unexpected turn. “Why would you do that?”

  He crossed his arms and sat on the corner of his desk. “I have been in communication with both Kay and Carol.” He hugged himself a little tighter and continued, “With the Will being what it is, I think it might be best for all concerned if you were not present at the time of the reading.”

  I gave Kyle my undivided attention. “And why is that?”

  “I think they may become agitated.” He handed me a closed manila envelope with the firm’s address neatly affixed in the upper left-hand corner. His eyes came up to mine. “You might tell Lana that I’ll be by later with a copy for her.”

  I nodded but, as I opened the door leading from Kyle’s office to the hallway from the reception area, what looked to be the entire Baroja-Lofton-Calloway clan was headed our way. Since Kyle had not appeared on time, they had decided to go looking for him en masse. Kay was in the lead, sweeping and clattering jewelry as she came, husband in tow. A blowzier version of Kay, with a few more pounds of bosom, was bringing up the rear in a full-length mink coat and what looked like a full-body tan.

  I rolled up the envelope and stuffed it in my coat pocket. “Hello.”

  Kay pulled up a stride away and looked past me. “Is this the reason we’ve been cooling our heels in your conference room?”

  I leaned over and blocked her view. “I had some official business with Mr. Straub. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”

  She stared directly at the manila tube sticking from my coat pocket. “Is that the Will?”

  I turned to look at Kyle, figuring it was his play, but Kay actually started to snag the envelope from my pocket. I suppose if I’d had time to think about it, I wouldn’t have grabbed her hand with so much force. She yanked back, and about twelve hundred dollars worth of silver, coral, and turquoise came off in my hand.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  I tried to give her her jewelry back, but she stepped away. I tried to hand it to her husband, but he backed away, too. I was getting ready to hang the Baroja-Lofton Collection on the doorknob when Carol, at least I assumed she was Carol, extended her hand, so I deposited the bracelets with her. “I’m sorry, I . . .”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Tears were welling in Kay’s eyes, and she clutched her hand as if she had just pulled it from a #16 bear trap; I had to admit it was a pretty good performance. I looked up and became aware of Henry standing with a young woman behind the Barojas in the overcrowded hallway. The young woman pushed her way through the lawyers and held up a piece of paper in a freshly manicured hand. “Division of criminal investigation. I’m looking for Sheriff Walter Longmire?” She was a tall redhead, long-legged, with an athletic figure and frighteningly direct gray eyes.

  “Uh, that would be me.”

  She turned to regard me as the very red, full lips kicked to one side in painful annoyance. “I just flew through a blizzard to get up here at your request, Mr. Longmire. The least you could have done was to meet me at the airport.” I looked up at the stone-faced Indian behind her as she stared at the ceiling and expulsed a strong gust of dissatisfaction. “Do you mind if we head back to your office to get me up to speed on things?”

  If the Barojas had looked a little closer, they might have seen that the paper she was holding was an airline itinerary. When we got to the steps leading to the parking lot, she paused and cut loose with a toothsome grin. “Hello, Daddy.”

  9

  “You identified yourself as division of criminal investigation.”

  She sat in the chair opposite my desk with her expensive Italian boots curled around its front legs, something she had done with her feet since first grade. “No, I didn’t. I simply stated division of criminal investigation, period, and then said I was looking for you.” She smiled and sipped the coffee Ruby had given her as she studied the Will.

  I looked over at Henry who was sitting in the other chair and at Ruby, hovering in the doorway; neither of them was going to be of any help.

  She glanced up but not at me. “Ruby, can you believe he hasn’t said a word to me about how good I look?”

  Ruby shook her head. “Shameful. Honey, you look great.”

  “Thank you.” She flicked her eyes at me before returning to the document.

  The phone rang, and Ruby disappeared after giving me a warning look. I glanced back at my daughter. “You can get into a lot of trouble . . .”

  “You can get into a lot of trouble manhandling lawyers, but you don’t see me dressing you down, do you?” She took another sip of her coffee, careful not to muss her lipstick. “Can you believe that woman was actually going to grab the Will out of Dad’s pocket?” She turned. “For a professional, that seems like suspicious behavior, if you ask me.”

  I sighed and looked at my nameplate on the door, desperately trying to convince myself that I was there, even though no one seemed to be hearing me. “Does that Will say what I think it does?”

  She cocked her head to one side and placed the Denver Broncos coffee cup on my desk. “The Testatrix, Mari Baroja, has bequeathed specifically a very large portion of tangible personal wealth and property to the beneficiary hereafter known as Lana Baroja.” The lips pursed again. “Your little baker with the broken head is now a multimillionaire.”

  “What about the twins?”

  Her mouth kicked to the side again. “Well, they didn’t get chicken feed, but in comparison . . .” She looked up. “They got chicken feed.”

  “They’ll contest it.”

  “They can try. It’s not my field of expertise, but it looks like a good Will, a Revocable Living Trust with Mari as the Trustee and all properties placed in the Trust. Lana is the appointed Successor Trustee with very specific duties in how the inheritance should be divided. I guess with this amount of money, Ms. Baroja was trying to avoid probate.” She flipped through the pages. “It’s been transposed from the handwritten original, but that’s included.” She turned the pages around and showed me. “Mari Baroja had b
eautiful handwriting.”

  “Who attested it?”

  “Two people, which is pretty much standard.” She searched through the signing portions of the document. “Kyle . . . I can’t make this out.”

  “Straub?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Her lawyer. Who’s the other one?”

  She smiled. “Uncle Lucian.”

  I was getting ready to take my hat off but froze as Henry and I looked at each other. “Does it make any difference if she was married and then divorced from one of the witnesses?”

  She continued to scan the papers in her lap. “The Baroja woman was married to this Straub character?” Neither Henry nor I said anything and, after a moment, she looked up, her eyes wide. “No way. Uncle Lucian?”

  I went ahead and tossed my hat on my desk. “I’ll give you the details later. If it was annulled, does it make any difference?”

  She shrugged. “Not if the annulment was legal; if it wasn’t, it would still be an abandoned marriage and any subsequent marriage would undercut any previous claim.” She looked back at the figures on the papers. “He should have stayed married to her.”

  “I don’t believe he had much choice in the matter.” I stayed quiet for a moment.

  “It all keeps pointing back to the daughters, doesn’t it?” I listened to the phone ring in the other room and hoped it was Vic. Cady watched me and anticipated my next question. “Are you wondering who gets the money if the little baker should meet with unforeseen circumstance?”

  “It was on my mind.”

  She looked back at the Will. “The sisters.”

  Henry shifted his weight in the chair and looked at me. “Are there other family members?”

  “Well, there’s the priest who is Mari Baroja’s cousin.”

  “Mari Baroja’s father had three brothers, and they only had one other child among them?” He studied me. “For a very Catholic family that strikes me as unusual.” He waited for a moment. “How about Charlie Nurburn?”

  “Who is Charlie Nurburn?” She had been watching us like a tennis match.