Murder of the Prodigal Father

by Mark Wm Smith

  Jasia deftly lifted the carry-on from my shoulder. “Still charming the ladies, I see.”

  “Who, me?”

  She grimaced and bobbed her chin.

  “Just a fellow passenger making sure I’m behaving myself.”

  She started to simper, but decided to frown. “I’m sorry to hear about Dixon. I know you didn’t like him much.” She began striding for the door. “Still.”

  I fell behind a step, my gaze on the ground. “Thanks.” My breath came in tiny gasps. I was here to do right by my family, and to discover what killed my father. Exploring smoldering passions with Jasia wouldn’t get either of those things done. I turned my thoughts to Nansi packing school gear and whisking the kids to the car.

  Jasia slowed and we exited the terminal side by side. An ice-blue sky stretched tight and thin to the edges of the earth. Winter nipped my ears and nostrils, strengthening my resolve.

  She touched my sleeve. “We went well together.”

  “That was a long time ago, Jasia.”

  “It’s a memory.” She pointed her chin toward a grouping of four vehicles. “Over there.” A shimmering silver sports coupe sat between a dented, red Chevy four-wheel drive and a grimy tan Buick sedan. “It’s a memory I like.”

  Once I’d married Nansi, whenever Jasia surfaced I chased those recollections like a herd over a buffalo jump. “I like it too,” I said, letting the drone of the twin-prop’s take-off smother my words. When it passed, I added, “Still, it’s a long time ago.”

  Jasia unlocked the trunk of her petite BMW M3. “This all right?”

  The duffel bag and suitcase fit snugly into the lushly upholstered trunk. “It’ll do.” Pushing the lid shut, I glanced toward the Miles City sprawl.

  Frank Wiley Field sat on a plateau that dropped two hundred feet to the Yellowstone River. On the opposite bank, the promise of springtime floodwaters provided a natural reminder of the Yellowstone’s superiority. Homes crouched together for protection just beyond the bridge.

  A gust of chill wind dipped under my coat collar. I hunched my shoulders, trotted to the door and squeezed into the passenger seat.

  Jasia bumped my elbow climbing in on the driver’s side.

  “Miles looks bigger.”

  “Listen, I need to make one quick stop. Check on a job.”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “Things don’t grow very fast in this climate. Folks leave, others arrive. I’d say it’s the same.”

  “You sound disappointed.” Maybe the town’s isolation under such a big sky made it appear smaller. Didn’t matter. I dropped it, focusing on adjusting the form-fitting bucket seat. “Beats airplane seats.”

  She grinned. “It’s a business expense. Prosperity attracts clientele.”

  “Say what?”

  Her teeth glistened. “Catering. I’ve been doing it about eight years now.”

  My gaze lingered. Full lips, shiny and inviting. The natural curve of her clearly defined by the seatbelt strap. Desire surged downward from my chest.

  “You okay with a stop, then?” she asked.

  A stop. A chance to touch you again. Turning quickly, I considered the flatness of the plateau’s grade.

  “Connor?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’ve got to make a stop. For business.”

  “Sure. No problem.” My heart raced on. “They picked a good place for the airport.”

  “A good place for what?”

  “Hey, airplanes are my life. I’m just admiring their foresight. Their vision.”

  She laughed with a silken huff. “Where else would they put an airport in this town?”

  I’d forgotten that gentle snort. It stimulated and unnerved me at once. “Well it’s too bad you can’t see the brilliance behind a well-constructed airport.”

  “You’ve been gone too long, Connor Pierce,” she said.

  “That’s probably true.”

  She rested her hand on my thigh.

  It felt warm and comfortable. For about five seconds.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Welcome Back, Connor

  Clasping my fingers around hers, I lifted them. “Jasia. I’m married.”

  Her hand jerked free. “You think you’re all that?” Giving the key a violent twist, she cranked the engine into a soft purr. “Like I haven’t gotten a life all these years? You think I’ve been sitting around waiting for your glorious return.”

  “Let’s just keep things clear.”

  “Clear? Look around!” She jammed the five-speed auto into gear.

  The tail of the sporty coupe drifted toward the grime-covered sedan.

  I clutched the armrest, feeling my heart rate double.

  “I’ve done okay, Pierce. I’ve done just fine without your masterful presence to guide me.”

  The tires spun halfway to the parking lot exit.

  My shoulders squished into the seat. Bile rose to my throat. “I didn’t mean—”

  Jasia accelerated as we approached the highway entrance.

  Pressing my left hand into the ceiling, I swallowed hard to hold onto the turmoil in my gut.

  “I drove out of my way to give an old friend a ride. And for what? Abuse? Get over yourself.”

  I squeezed out a word. “Appreciated.”

  “Your daddy owns a car dealership, so you’re big news in town?” She downshifted.

  Our bodies lurched into the seatbelt straps. We slid broadside before she recaptured the trajectory.

  I reached for the dashboard.

  Flying through the entrance gate with a hop, Jasia slid the little Beemer onto the highway, easily correcting for our new direction. The wheels chirped on the blacktop.

  My back hit the seat with a slap.

  “I’ve got a page one story for you, Connor. Your arrival ain’t going to be in the Miles City Star! We do have things going on besides your historic—” Her voice stopped.

  I peeked from the corner of my eye.

  Her mouth hung open. She glanced quickly my way, and then back to the road.

  We hurtled downhill toward the Yellowstone River Bridge.

  My eyes searched for obstacles waiting to flick the little rocket into the freezing waters ahead and below.

  Jasia slammed the brake pedal.

  The car skidded onto the roadside pullout next to the north side of the bridge, making a nice arc in the gravel.

  My heart went with it, sweeping across the loose rocks on a free bound slide over the edge of the icy cliff. I stared, wide-eyed at the hood of Jasia’s beautiful little sports car painting an abrupt end to my long journey home over Montana’s frozen canvas.

  The world slowed its turning until we came to rest facing the highway.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Connor.”

  Olive colored tufts of scrub brush poked through the snow on the other side of the road.

  I peeked out my side window.

  The ice lined river crept eastward, sixty feet below the steep embankment.

  “Don’t worry about it.” The air I’d trapped in my lungs came out in a nearly audible sigh. “I was acting stupid.” I turned and gave her my best glad-to-be-wheels-down smile.

  “I am so sorry.” She leaned her forehead on the steering wheel. “I wasn’t even thinking about what you might be going through.”

  My hand found itself on her trembling shoulder. “My fault. You were right. I assumed.” The heat of our mutual past stirred below my belly. “I guess I sold that horse a long time ago.”

  She rolled her forehead on the steering wheel to look into my eyes. “Aren’t we pitiful?”

  “Pity well placed.” I pulled my hand free and pushed my fingertip against the end of her nose, a gesture I’d started in high school.

  She scrunched her face like she used to. Those brown irises went deep and dangerous.

  I drew my hand away, turned and stared at the shrubbery across the road. This was not the plan. I was here to put the family affairs in order and find out if I’d end up li
ke my father, not jump into bed with an old lover. No matter how hot I thought she was. I needed to get my life figured out and get home to my wife, Nansi. Nansi, Nansi, Nansi— I love Nansi. “I really am glad you took time to pick me up.”

  “I’d do it for any one of my friends,” she said, making me want to believe it.

  “Let’s get the preliminaries over with.” I tipped my head toward town. “Take me to that infamous foreign auto dealer, Driver.”

  Jasia settled back. “I’ll ‘Driver’ you, soldier. I expect a very good tip for my taxi service.”

  The tires sprayed loose gravel behind us giving the rear end a playful shimmy. A friendlier chirp reintroduced us to Highway 59 Business Route.

  I let the innuendo pass, forcing myself to recall Nansi’s blue-eyed concern after the call about my father’s death. Being grateful to Jasia could be hazardous. I needed to keep my distance.

  My one-time true love kicked the 6-cylinder up a gear and zipped south across the Yellowstone River Bridge into the city limits.

  I surveyed forgotten neighborhoods on either side of what was now North 7th Street.

  Trailers and shotgun homes lined unpaved streets on the left. A large woman in a plaid jacket shoveled crisp edges into the walk of her neat bungalow. Most of her neighbors had let Old Man Winter landscape their yards with snow-covered dilapidation. Yard art on the other side of the tracks. Before I’d abandoned this town twelve years ago, I believed the less fortunate could purchase a parcel of this ground cheap, due to the area being less protected from floodwaters. Now I realized my spoiled childhood kept me from knowing these people at all.

  Jasia braked smoothly and made an unexpected turn onto Tatro Street. The Beemer floated over the graded roadway. At the transition to washboard gravel, the road noise became a considerate rumble.

  “Smoothest ride I’ve ever taken over here. Showing off?” I asked.

  “Change of scenery. Besides, I told you I needed to make a stop.” Her eyes never left the track as she wheeled her $50,000 sports car around a curve onto North 1st. She took a hard right onto Vinton Street toward the Tongue River access known to city planners as Yellowstone Boulevard— River Road to the rest of us.

  Jasia pointed the car toward a little shanty tucked among a grove of elm trees near the top of the gravel packed levee.

  “Not concerned about locals getting excited over a German invasion?” I tapped the dash with three fingers.

  “Ha ha, Connor Pierce.”

  “I just thought the occupants might be concerned. A sweet ride like this in the low rent district screams drug dealer.”

  Jasia tugged at the wheel and whipped in beside an out-of-place white Chevy Suburban with purple lettering on the side. An attractive young woman stepped out of the Chevy and glared.

  “Just take a sec.” Jasia hopped out.

  I shivered at the gust of cold that jumped inside the cozy interior.

  While Jasia talked, the girl kept glancing at the car with her brow pinched. When Jasia moved over to the truck and peeked inside the back, the younger woman’s glower almost torched my recently thawed forehead.

  Clearly she was angry that I was taking up her boss’s time and she had to do all the work. The lettering on the side of the SUV read, Culinary Weaver. Weaving Goodness Into Your Life.

  A second blast of frigid slapped me as Jasia climbed into her seat.

  “Catchy.” I nodded toward the logo.

  “Huh? Oh yeah. Nicole helped me with that.”

  “The angry girl? Doesn’t look very creative from here.”

  “Connor!” Jasia’s eyes widened as she gave me a pained once over. “Nicole is a sweet girl.”

  “I don’t think she likes me taking up your time with taxi service.”

  She frowned and popped the car into reverse. “She’s had some problems. Who hasn’t?” The tires scratched gravel onto the undercarriage as we backed onto the narrow track.

  I let my suspicions about Nicole’s attitude go. “More of the tour?”

  “Of course.” Her smile held that impish secret that usually melted my will.

  I snorted a fortifying breath.

  We skulked along the dike, headed south, leaving the larger river behind us.

  As a youngster, Dad took me fishing where the Tongue River fed the mighty Yellowstone. We rarely caught fish, but Dixon always went home grinning.

  The car dipped under the Burlington Northern Railroad Bridge.

  My gaze jumped to the water, recalling Jasia’s lithe, olive colored, fully naked body, striking a modeling pose beside the support pylon. Our first skinny-dipping adventure, and she wanted me to know how much she liked me. I could clearly evoke the soft, dark stroke of her, thigh-high in the water. My loins tingled. I suspected this to be a purposeful diversion, but kept it to myself, half-hoping to stumble into the ploy.

  We rolled up the hill and I glanced past Jasia’s exotic looks into the KOA campground site.

  She kept her warm brown eyes forward.

  I refused to look directly at her face.

  Our youthful adventures inside my Boy Scout pup tent had begun right over there, next to Orr Street, with the motocross trails just over the hill, and their revved two-stroke engines as backdrop for our teenage sexual romps. Not memories I should be indulging.

  “Place hasn’t changed,” I said, fighting the recollection of our first night in a sleeping bag.

  High school. Hot summer breeze blowing invigorating river-water aromas that rustled the flap of the two-man tent. Judgmental eyes peering from tiny, popup campers scattered across the sparsely treed grounds. Both of us giggling at the fascinating discoveries of hot, naked skin.

  I could smell her sweet sourness from those nights even now, in the temperature-controlled, leather-bound present of her BMW.

  “I think you’re right,” she said. Her lip curled up a little at the corner. Maybe.

  I couldn’t chance a direct peek to be sure.

  When she turned onto Pleasant Street, I released an audible sigh of relief.

  “It’s not that bad, I hope,” she said.

  “Oh no. Not bad.”

  We headed past Cook Lake, or the small, manmade boat pond the city elders had tagged a lake. Right now it was no more than a frozen mud puddle.

  Jasia gave the steering wheel a light twist at the end of the pond, and the Beemer glided onto Sloan Road. We jogged past the Conoco over to Main Street.

  I caught a glimpse of the swimming hole on Scanlon Lake across the main thoroughfare. Roping trails scuffed the frozen surface where children had tested it for ice-skating safety. Even a quick scan of the modified swimming hole with its fading white piers and manufactured beachfront stirred memories. Hours working my muscles toward lifeguard and swim teacher. My arms, shoulders and back quivered with the recollection. A warm ache grew in the center of my chest for that simpler time.

  She turned on Business Route Interstate 94. A tap of her foot on the throttle sent us sailing west-southwest toward Fort Keogh. “I thought you might like a short memory tour.” Jasia tipped her head toward me, revealing a glistening, white-toothed grin.

  I acknowledged her with a nod.

  Once we crossed the Tongue River Bridge, she stepped into the small-boned M3 and we zipped gracefully along the final quarter mile.

  E-Z Deals Auto waited patiently on the corner of Waterplant Road and the highway, near the edge of Miles City’s limit, and butted against the stockyards. “Dixon told me he felt safer with the water treatment plant so close behind him.” I could feel the corner of my lips turning with his. “Did I ever tell you that?”

  “Not that I recall,” Jasia said, as she swooped off of the highway and decelerated.

  Thirty Toyotas and Hondas lined up in a two-column memorial to Dixon Pierce, each one tagged with a cleanly printed “For Sale” sign.

  “Kept bigots and nationalists from setting the place on fire,” I said turning to face her. “He’d tell folks that and then he would beam his
big, salesman smile.”

  “He did have that smile.” She weaved the car around the stationary parade and stopped next to a glaringly American 1990 Chrysler New Yorker parked near the showroom door. “I see your mother is still rooting for the home team.” It made her snicker.

  I cracked the latch. “Of course,” I said, stepping out and pushing the door closed. “Thanks for the ride.”

  Jasia popped the trunk from the driver’s seat.

  I yanked my bags out, realizing how rude I’d been as I elbowed the lid down. Scurrying to her window, I searched my brain for a more thoughtful expression of gratitude.

  She pulled away with gusto, leaving me staring as the gleaming bumper shrank into downtown.

  Shrugging the duffle to a more comfortable position, I surveyed the backlit, fading yellow E-Z Deals lettering board.

  Two-foot tall red characters proclaimed, BUY NOW, PAY LATER.

  The glaring signage brought other phrases to mind. Along with the freezing hours spent tacking their pithy slogans up there. “Trade Now. Save Long Term.” “DIXON’S Deals Done Dirt Cheap!” And my favorite, “A New Standard In Reliability.”

  That last one inspired a bullet hole. Its circular opaque reminder persisted under the “E” and “R” where Dixon and I had patched it with a fiberglass repair kit, working by the lights inside the sign.

  I shook the nostalgia off, and turned toward the showroom. Something moved in my peripheral vision.

  “Hey there!” a voice called from twenty feet away. High energy pitched his tone upward between male tenor and adolescent boy. “Can I interest you in a great deal?”

  I’d hardly shifted position before a young man in a blue, down jacket with a splash of blonde hair swooped upon me. He was maybe five-ten, with tight curled hair cropped close. He reminded me of a surfer. A high-energy surfer.

  “No—.”

  “We’ve got a really sweet Acura that purrs like a kitten.” He shoved his hand at me.

  I gripped it. Soft on the outside, rough and well used in his palm.

  “I saw you ride over in that Beemer. Acura’s as smooth and stylin’. Without the price tag.” He grinned a question mark. His smile held a glint of superiority, like he knew something others couldn’t.