Rode Hard, Put Away Dead

by Sinclair Browning

  I heard a loud, rasping noise overhead and looked up above the tree line of the cottonwoods. There on the morning currents was a family of Harris hawks hunting together. Mom, Pop and a colleague were looking for something yummy this morning—a mouse, lizard or small bird would serve as breakfast. This is a pretty handy arrangement and the Harris hawk is one of only two hawk species in the world where the husband and wife have a helper. The third bird, usually an older son of the pair, hangs out with them and helps them hunt and defend their hatchlings.

  As I watched the birds, I couldn't help but wonder if Abby had really been killed, could it have been a team effort? Did the killer, if there was one, have someone to help him or her? But what help would be needed to drown a woman out in a remote stock pond? Seems like all that would require were opportunity and one person stronger than the other, and unfortunately, J.B. met both criteria.

  I remounted and headed toward the north tanks using an old cow trail. The cows had trenched several paths through here, for they each had their own favorite routes to water. The Brahmas are tough cattle and I think a good choice for this country. Unlike a lot of the English cattle—the shorthorns and Herefords—these cows are good about browsing and can make do with just about anything they can find. They're also camel-like in that they seem to thrive in the desert heat without taking on much water. Some times of the year, they may only go to the tanks every few days.

  Heat was radiating from the rocks and the desert was quiet but for the buzzing of an occasional fly. Even the white-winged doves, chatty under the hottest of circumstances, remained silent. I guess it just took too much effort to open their mouths.

  Two hours later I was riding through the back gate. A squeeze was shuttling hay back and forth from the semi truck, which I knew must be parked up on the road. Martín was overseeing the stacking and placing of the tons of hay when I rode in.

  “Company.” He nodded to the shade of the tack room porch. There sitting on the weathered pine bench was J.B. Calendar. “He drove in right after you left. I'll take your horse.”

  I handed him Gray's reins and walked over to the tack room.

  “Morning, J.B. What's up?”

  “Trade, I'm sorry to bother you, but I've got a problem.” J.B. looked nervously over his shoulder toward the hay barn.

  “Well, maybe we better go in the house and talk about it, then.” Of course I knew what his problem was. Being the number one suspect in your wife's murder could indeed be classified as a problem.

  As we walked toward the house the thought occurred to me that maybe I was being premature in thinking J.B. incapable of murder.

  After all, I really didn't know him all that well.

  10

  “I DIDN'T DO IT,” J.B. SAID.

  We'd been sitting at the kitchen table sipping our drinks for a few minutes, making small talk, before he got down to it.

  I said nothing. Waiting.

  “I loved her. I know people think I just married Abby for her money, but it really wasn't like that at all. There was more to it than that, a helluva lot more.”

  At least J.B. wasn't negating the money angle.

  “But the cops don't believe me. I can tell.”

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Jim Carstensen handled most of Abby's stuff. He's helping me out with this. He went with me to the sheriff's department substation.”

  I shook my head. “A criminal lawyer, J.B.”

  “Shit, I don't know any criminal lawyers.”

  I found that encouraging as I went to the pantry and retrieved the phone book and looked up María López Zepeda's phone number. She was one of the hottest defense lawyers in Tucson. I'd done a lot of work for her and knew just how good she really was. I jotted her name and number on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.

  “I don't know how busy María is right now, but tell her I sent you.”

  J.B. didn't bother looking at the paper as he pushed it into his Western shirt and snapped the pocket closed.

  “Do you do this kind of work?”

  “Well, I do investigations, if that's what you mean.”

  “Do you think you could find out who murdered her?”

  Jesus, but he was simple.

  “Then you think she was murdered?”

  He looked like a deer caught in my headlights. “No, yes, I mean, I don't know. How would I know?”

  “But you think she drowned.”

  “Shit, that's what it looked like to me. Look, if we have a deal, is there a confidentiality thing or something?”

  I mulled this over. Of course there was a confidentiality thing, but what I was really wondering was whether J.B. was going to blurt out that he'd killed her. There was no way I wanted to be saddled with that.

  But confidentiality is a given in my business. Most people who hire you don't want anyone to know that they have done so. “If you become my client then, yes, we have a confidentiality thing. What that means is that your business stays right here.”

  “How soon do we have a deal?”

  “A deal?”

  “Do you need a check or something from me for you to be my investigator?”

  “No, I'll have you sign a contract at the office.” I'd thought about transplanting our conversation to the old stage stop, but J.B. seemed to be talking freely here at the old kitchen table and I didn't want to disrupt the mood with relocation. “If you like, you can officially be my client right now.”

  His face was washed in relief, making me feel guilty. I wasn't sure that I was going to be able to help him out at all, and was only taking the case because I was intrigued by it. The Van Thiessen money coupled with the dirty shirt cowboy and a murder at a remote stock pond had TV movie written all over it. Scandalous, tantalizing, all the things a PI hopes every case will bring to the table.

  “Okay, then, I didn't tell the cops the truth.”

  I suppressed a groan.

  “Let me get a pen and paper. I think you'd better start at the top,” I said, grabbing an old yellow legal pad from one of the kitchen drawers. Briefly, I wondered if Charley built me a computer if I'd ever use the damned thing for interviewing clients. I seriously doubted it.

  Since I knew J.B., this wasn't the same as taking on a new client. I felt he was of a sound mind and I had a good expectation of getting paid. Unlike my legal and corporate clients, individuals are usually one-shot deals where my assessment of a client's ability to pay is paramount. Good intentions don't buy hay or heifers.

  In this case, I was reasonably sure that even if Abby had cut him out completely, he would have access to some money to pay me.

  After we got through the usual stuff—his name, age, date and place of birth—we got down to that night in the Baboquivaris.

  According to J.B. they had driven in late Friday. They'd set up camp about a quarter mile from the stock tank where Abby was eventually found. Although they'd taken a tent, they didn't set it up, preferring to camp out under the stars in the double sleeping bag that Bevo Bailey had given them as a wedding present.

  Saturday morning they were up early for a long ride. They went as high as they could up in the Baboquivaris, turning back when they reached the Tohono O'odham reservation boundary. Then they rode to the north and back to camp. “We rode hard,” J.B. said. “And it was hotter than hell.”

  “Not too many people take overnight horse trips in June in southern Arizona,” I said, knowing it was something the police would eventually ask him about anyway.

  “It's cooler down there. Besides, it was Abby's idea. Sure, I knew it would be hot and uncomfortable, but I figured if she was game, so was I. With the bull school coming up this week, we didn't have time to get up north to the White Mountains.”

  I thought it was funny that they'd been married six months and she'd waited until the hottest, driest time of the year to request an overnight horseback trip, but I said nothing.

  “Anyway, there was a little breeze down there so it wasn't too terrible. And
we rested the horses a lot. But Abby really wanted to ride. She thought that the more hours she spent in the saddle, the better a rider she was gonna be.”

  “Did you see anyone that day?”

  “Lots of people, but I'm getting to that.”

  After dinner at camp that night, they decided to drive into Arivaca and have a few drinks. Although the small town was miles away, Abby was getting bored with the camping routine and wanted to add a little spice to their trip.

  They ended up at the La Gitana Bar in Arivaca. Saturday night it was packed. J.B. and Abby drank with a few of the locals. When I questioned him about this he said he couldn't remember any of their names and that no one in particular had paid them special attention. They shot a few games of pool, danced to a couple of slow country tunes from the jukebox, and then left.

  “Whoa, J.B. What time did you get there and when did you leave?”

  He scratched his curly head. “Oh, I guess we got there about seven-thirty. It was still light out I remember that. And we stayed until, um …”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, I guess about closing time?”

  “You guess or was it closing time?”

  He sighed. “Closing time.”

  “And you were drinking all that time?”

  He looked in his lap as though he could find the answer there.

  “Yep. We were both pretty soused when we left. Fact is, I was probably too drunk to drive.”

  “But you made it back to your camp all right?”

  “Oh yeah. That wasn't a problem.”

  “Was there anything strange when you returned? Any sign that anyone had been there?”

  “No.”

  “Could someone have followed you from the bar?”

  “I don't think so. That was a pretty black night and that road's pretty empty. Even though I was shit-faced I think I would have noticed if there'd been headlights in my rearview mirror.

  “When we got back, I checked on the horses and refilled their water buckets. We had a nightcap and then we went to bed.” His voice was beginning to crack. I jumped up and refilled his glass with water and brought it back to the table. He put it to his lips and drained it.

  “Did anything happen that night? Do you remember anything, any little detail at all?”

  He shook his head. “I was pretty out of it.”

  This didn't surprise me, since Martín had told me that J.B. had been drinking a lot lately, but even without that knowledge, he was a bull rider. Professional bull riders live close to the edge. They like the rush. As for par-tying, there's no one that does that better than cowboys, except really drunk cowboys.

  “Abby was out of it too. We unzipped the sleeping bag and fell in. Hell, we didn't even get our clothes off. We just kinda collapsed.”

  “And then what?” I asked softly.

  He jumped up and went to the kitchen sink where he refilled his water glass.

  “I don't remember anything from the time my head hit that sleeping bag. I was out like a light. The world could've come to an end and I wouldn'tna known it. Hell, I guess it did.

  “I woke up late. The sun was well up and when I rolled over I was surprised that Abby wasn't there, but I figured she was off draining her radiator or something.”

  I smiled at his cowboy euphemism for going to the bathroom.

  “I was pretty hungover so it took me a minute to figure out where the Russian army was in my head. When I finally sat up and looked at my watch it was about eight-thirty.”

  I jotted the time down on my pad, wondering what time the sun had come up that day. A little after five, I'd guess. And even at that time of morning, the temperature would have been climbing. Flies. Pretty hot and sunny for a guy to still be sleeping. That must have been one helluva hangover.

  “I could see both of the horses were still on the picket line, so I knew she hadn't gone for a ride. Not that she would have without me. She didn't ride bareback and I always saddled her horse. Anyway, I started yelling for her, but there wasn't any answer.”

  “And nothing looked any different from the day before?”

  He shook his head.

  “There weren't any car tracks or anything near your truck?”

  “Well, I didn't think to look right then, but I did later and I sure didn't see anything. Maybe the sheriffs did though. They went over everything.”

  “So then what?”

  “I threw a bridle on Lucky and went looking for her.” Not surprising since cowboys rarely walk when they can ride.

  “At first, I just rode in a wide circle around camp, hollering. Then I thought about the stock tank. When I got there, that's when I found her.”

  “Floating on top of the water.”

  “Right. We're getting to the part where I lied,” he said, running his hands through his thick hair. “I told the cops that Lucky wouldn't go into that tank, that I had to force him to do it. But that's not true.” Beads of sweat broke out on J.B.'s forehead as he started rubbing his knuckles. “Fact is, I didn't want to do it. I was a chicken-shit. I didn't want to go in there with a dead body.”

  “How did you know she was dead?”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “It didn't take a rocket scientist to know she was. Hell, Trade, she wasn't moving and her head was underwater.”

  “Right.”

  “So I worked the bank, back and forth with Lucky, trying to screw up my courage and go in and do what had to be done.”

  “And what was that, J.B.?”

  “Well, get her out of the goddamned stock tank. What did you think?”

  “And in the process, you made it impossible for the police to read any sign near the bank.”

  “I know, I know. They told me that. That I really screwed things up.”

  He then went into his litany about dragging Abby out. When I asked if he'd tried mouth-to-mouth or CPR he looked at me as though I'd clearly lost my mind. “She was fucking dead, Trade. I ain't no vampire and I couldn't bring her back to life!”

  In reality, I knew that if he'd had trouble even going in after the body, he probably wouldn't have wanted to touch the dead Abby any more than he'd have to. Some people just can't handle death, and it was looking like J.B. was one of them. The irony of this rough, tough bull rider not wanting to handle his dead wife was not lost on me.

  When we finally got to the subject of Abby's money, J.B. was uncharacteristically reticent. He swore he didn't know the details of her will, or have any idea if he was in it and said that he'd tell her lawyer it would be all right for him to talk to me. I got the distinct impression that Calendar was not happy talking about his wife's money.

  When I asked for detailed directions to the Baboquivari campsite and to the stock tank, he said he'd get a map to me.

  My interview with him was finished an hour later. I'd filled four pages of the yellow pad with notes, dates and names of people that I'd have to check out.

  Before he left, J.B. asked me to come to Abby's private service the next afternoon at the Brave Bull. He said it would give me a good chance to meet Abby's friends and staff, and that her brother, Peter, would also be at the ranch.

  As he walked out, I wondered if the lie about lacking courage was the only one he'd told.

  11

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON FOUND ME ONCE AGAIN IN THE GREAT room at the Brave Bull Ranch with soft canned classical music played over the sound system.

  Abby's service had been a tidy one. The black white-robed giant I had seen here earlier had given a brief glowing eulogy. Checking my memorial folder I saw that he was the Reverend Lateef Wise of the Church of Brotherly Love. He was followed by Peter Van Thiessen, Abby's brother, who thanked the congregants for their service and friendship to Abby. Now we were all in that Godaren't-we-glad-that's-all-behind-us phase drinking mimosas and nibbling on finger sandwiches.

  For a small, private memorial the room was packed. J.B. had told me to make myself at home, assuring me that he had already told the principal players—Abby's
brother and staff—that he had retained me to look into Abby's death. Protocol, of course, demanded that I keep my mouth shut and avoid any discussion of my new case at least until this affair was over.

  That was protocol. Practically, I welcomed this chance to zero in on the people who had been close to Abby. One of the burdens of being rich was the constant stream of people: staff, the accountants, attorneys, investment brokers, personal trainers and general hangers-on.

  I'd found a quiet corner and was watching Lateef Wise move smoothly through the crowd. While he seemed to know many of the people, the ones he didn't, he made a point of introducing himself to. Most of them gushed over his lovely service, and how he had done such a terrific job of capturing the essence of Abby.

  “He's doing a pretty good job of working the room, isn't he?” A voice at my elbow startled me. I looked up into the hazel eyes of Abby's brother.

  “He'd put a politician to shame,” I agreed.

  “Peter Van Thiessen,” he said, extending a tanned hand.

  He had a nice firm handshake, not one of the wimpy ones that some men reserve for women.

  “I'm—”

  “Trade Ellis,” he said. “J.B. told me you were coming.”

  Where Abigail Van Thiessen had been petite and blond, her brother was well over six feet tall, gaunt, with a nicely weathered face and startling hazel, almost green eyes.

  But it was his cheekbones that caught my attention. They were the highest, most angular ones I'd ever seen; including those of models who'd had their teeth pulled to achieve the look.

  A glistening silver crew cut capped off Van Thiessen's generally healthy look. J.B. had told me that his brother-in-law was a serious runner, and he looked it.

  I couldn't help but wonder if someone hadn't slipped into the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn't watching. Then again, lots of families were comprised of half- and step-siblings. Maybe Peter fell into one of those categories.

  “So what did you think of Dr. Jesus?”

  “Who?”

  He nodded in the minister's direction. “My sister's guru.”

  “I thought he gave a nice service,” I said, figuring my remarks were fairly innocuous.