Killing Custer

by Margaret Coel

  She shook her head. “Well, some things about the present do not make sense. We must agree to disagree, but I can tell you that my husband . . .”

  “Edward,” he said.

  “Yes, Edward, and Custer, both believed there was a place for Indians and a place for whites. They should be separate, free to go about their own lives on different sides of a border.”

  “Edward believed that?” Father John was thinking that the man had imbibed nineteenth-century prejudices. Playing the role of Custer. Thinking like Custer. Maybe they went together.

  “I can see that you don’t.” She was shaking her head hard. “It doesn’t matter. What I want is justice. I want the Indians that killed my husband and the woman who put them up to it to pay for what they’ve done. Do you understand? I want them to pay!”

  * * *

  FATHER JOHN DROVE back through the RV camp, past troopers sitting about on canvas stools, smoking cigars and drinking beer out of aluminum cans, then turned onto a paved road. In a couple of minutes he was on Main Street. It was as if he had stepped out of a time machine. People sauntering about, some with Styrofoam cups of coffee. Everybody dressed in jeans or shorts and tee shirts and high-soled running shoes. Tourists and townspeople, and all of them from the present. He didn’t spot any Indians.

  He swung onto 789 and followed the curves along the Popo Agie River into Hudson, then crossed the border into the reservation and drove down Rendezvous Road, trying to make logical sense out of what Belinda Clark had said. A daughter who hated what her father did for a living, willing to have him killed for his money? It was difficult to reconcile the Dorothy Winslow he had talked to—the sadness and reflection in her eyes—and the picture her stepmother painted. People could assume roles, play parts. He had heard enough confessions and counseled enough people to know the roles people played. Some were better than others. Some were professionals. But Garrett’s daughter was not a professional actress. Even so, that didn’t mean she couldn’t be very good.

  He stopped at the sign on Seventeen-Mile Road, then turned right. Ahead, the blue billboard with St. Francis Mission in large white letters winked in the glare of the sun. Something Belinda had said nagged at him. Veraggi and Osborne had hated her husband. They were jealous of him. Why? Did he make more money playing Custer? Get more attention? No doubt that was true, but was that enough to cause them to hate him?

  The logical conclusion spun in his mind like a tumbleweed in the wind. Logic, so relentless, so unforgiving. Hatred could lead to action. If Veraggi and Osborne hated Garrett, what action might they have taken?

  Father John turned into the cottonwoods, the thick branches blocking out the sun and leaving the road in deep shadow. He shook off the conclusion. Sometimes logic only made sense in a syllogism, not in the actual world. Hatred enough to kill the man who made their own roles possible? Without Garrett, Veraggi and Osborne would have to wait for another Custer impersonator to take part in the Battle of the Little Bighorn reenactment.

  Without Custer, there were no roles for Benteen and Reno.

  15

  THE REAL-ESTATE OFFICE sat between a barbershop and a Chinese take-out in a low-slung building with yellowing white paint. Plastered across the plate-glass windows were white cards with photos of houses and lines of black text. Above the cards, black letters spelled out Hometown Realtors.

  Vicky parked in the middle of the lot and threaded her way around the other parked cars to the sidewalk. The burning asphalt worked through the soles of her sandals, the sun beat through the cotton of her blouse, and a dry wind whipped at her skirt. Sounds of traffic from Federal drifted on the wind. She let herself through the glass door. It was like stepping into a refrigerator, and she fought the impulse to grab her arms and hug herself against the cold air blowing out of vents in the white tiled ceiling.

  “Howdy!” The man with the wide grin and mop of curly black hair behind the reception desk looked about thirty, close to Lucas’s age, she thought. But there was something unfinished about him: thin shouldered and long necked, skinny arms that protruded from his blue short-sleeve shirt, and long fingers that grasped a ballpoint pen, which he tapped on a pile of papers. “How can we be of service?” he said, hope and curiosity in his tone. The metal nameplate at the front of the desk read Eugene Carmody.

  Vicky walked over. “I’m here to see Deborah Boynton.”

  “You have an appointment?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She slipped the small leather envelope out of her bag, extracted a business card, and laid it on the pile of papers.

  The grin dissolved as Eugene Carmody studied her business card. “Lawyer? Any problem?

  “I’m here on behalf of a client,” Vicky said. “Is Deborah in?”

  The man stared at her a long moment. “Sorry. I haven’t seen her today. She comes and goes. You know how it is in the real-estate business. Half your time is spent out showing properties. I can leave her a message.”

  “Perhaps you can help me,” Vicky said. “I represent the widow of Edward Garrett. She needs to know whether her husband closed on a ranch he was interested in before he was killed.”

  Eugene Carmody rolled his chair back and jackknifed to his feet, long arms and long legs in motion like a puppet’s. “You’d better talk to our broker.” He stumbled around the side of the desk. “Linda Lewin,” he said over one shoulder as he disappeared through a door into the rest of the office. Footsteps reverberated off the thin-partition walls. A door opened and closed, followed by the muffled noise of voices that sounded strained and deliberately low pitched.

  Vicky walked across the reception area and studied the portraits on the wall. Deborah Boynton, third photo, second row: red curly hair that brushed the shoulders of a blue blazer, green eyes, and a wide smile turned toward the camera. Thirty or thirty-five, Vicky guessed, confident and wary looking at the same time. So this was Skip Burrows’s former girlfriend. The same Realtor who had represented Edward Garrett.

  Several minutes passed before the footsteps pounded again, coming closer, and the door swung open. Eugene Carmody stood with one arm extended, urging her forward. “Second cubicle on the right,” he said.

  Vicky stepped past him into a narrow corridor that resembled a maze through the warren of small cubicles with half-glass walls. Inside the cubicles, Realtors sat at desks that looked like counters, heads curled over computer screens, phones jammed against ears. The tap tap of keyboards punctuated the soft buzzing undercurrent. Ahead, standing in a doorway, was a tall woman with brown hair smoothed back into a bun with strands that flowed down her neck. The smile that creased her face was filled with impatience, as if she hoped the interview would be brief.

  “Linda Lewin.” She held out a hand with red-tipped fingers.

  Vicky shook her hand, then followed her into the small cubicle. With one foot, the woman guided a chair across the floor until it stood at a right angle to the narrow desk. “Have a seat.” She perched on the chair in front of the computer screen.

  “I was hoping to speak with Deborah Boynton.”

  The woman gave a slow, understanding nod. “Deborah’s been very busy lately. What is it you want to know?”

  “I represent Belinda Clark. I’m sure you know her husband, Edward Garrett, was shot to death Sunday afternoon in Lander.”

  “In front of hundreds of people! Who would have thought the Indians would be so bold.”

  Vicky could feel her skin prickling, her cheeks flushing. She waited a beat before she said, “The killer hasn’t been identified.”

  “Well, excuse me,” Linda Lewin said, the smile frozen on her face. “You ask me, Garrett took a big chance coming to Indian country pretending to be Custer.”

  “The investigation is still open.” Vicky emphasized each word. “My client needs to know if her husband completed the purchase of a ranch near Dubois.”

  “Deborah would be the one . . .�
��

  Vicky held up one hand. “You’re the broker, and Deborah isn’t here. I have Mrs. Garrett’s power of attorney and I have filed a probate action.”

  Linda Lewin lifted a hand and turned toward the computer. Head down, hunting for the keys, fingers crossing one another. Finally, she looked up at the monitor. “The Stockton Ranch. One thousand acres, twenty-five-hundred-square-foot ranch house, one story, three bedrooms, two baths, barn and two outbuildings, fenced corral. Very well priced at five hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Garrett made a cash offer, which the owners accepted. Sale contingent on buyer producing payment.” She made a quarter turn toward Vicky. “Appears the sale was not final. Too bad the poor man was killed.”

  “Cash offer?” That tallied with what Belinda Clark had said. Her husband had sold the ranch near Laramie. The money had been in the bank, unless he had invested it somewhere else. “Did Deborah say why the sale was delayed?”

  “This is a busy place.” Linda Lewin waved a hand at the cubicles around her and the low rumble of noise and ringing phones. “Realtors work on lots of deals at once. No one has time to stand around and jawbone about the details.”

  “When do you expect Deborah?”

  “I never expect Deborah or any other agent.” The woman gave a quick shrug. “They’re here when they’re here. Deborah often works at home. I believe she plans to work at home all week. On the other hand, she could pop in at any minute, but I wouldn’t suggest you wait.”

  “Where can I find her?

  “You expect me to give you her address?”

  “My client has the right to know the exact status of the real-estate deal and why it didn’t close,” Vicky said. Running through her head were the words of Belinda Clark: Five hundred thousand dollars. Where is the money? “I can get a subpoena . . .”

  “No. No. No.” The woman lifted both hands, then let them fall against the edge of the desk. “No subpoenas. Pardon me, but we don’t need lawyers, either. Deborah lives three blocks west of here. Turn left at the corner. White house with wrought iron fence in front. Keep ringing the bell. Sometimes she gets so engrossed in work she doesn’t hear it.”

  * * *

  VICKY WAITED FOR a line of pickups and SUVs to lumber past before she pulled onto Federal. Air rushing across the opened windows battled the stifling heat inside the Ford. The voice of LeAnn Rimes rose over the hum of tires on asphalt. Through the laughter and the madness and every moment in between. Oh, I want you with me. She took a left into a neighborhood of identical houses. Bungalows painted white with front door stoops that mimicked small porches. In the middle of the block was the house with the wrougt iron fence and flowers spilling out of window boxes and a ragged sidewalk with grass growing in the cracks. A large elm threw shadows over the lawn.

  She pulled to the curb, let herself through the small iron gate that whistled on its hinges. She picked her way up the sidewalk to the porch. The doorbell button felt limp and unattached when she pushed it. No sounds inside, only stillness. She knocked hard and listened for a disturbance of some kind, footsteps or scraping chairs. Nothing. She knocked again, then glanced around. The neighborhood was almost as still as the house. Branches of the elm swayed in the wind, causing the shadows to ripple like water in a creek.

  Vicky turned back and knocked again, a perfunctory rap, like an exclamation point that merely emphasized she was there. She didn’t expect an answer. If Deborah Boynton was inside, she had remained quiet, answering the intrusion by ignoring it.

  Vicky retraced her route down the uneven sidewalk and through the gate. A young woman behind a baby stroller stood at the corner of the wrought iron fence. Small, fat white legs protruded from the stroller. Inside, Vicky could see the blond head drooped in sleep.

  “Hello,” she said, walking over. “Do you know Deborah Boynton?”

  The woman was probably in her mid-twenties, serious and nervous looking at the same time, with long, blond hair that straggled over the front of her black tee shirt, and thin white legs below cutoff jeans. She wore flip-flops that made a little squishing noise as she stepped from one foot to the other. “We live next door.” She shrugged toward the rectangular house that looked like a clone of the Boynton house.

  “I understand she often works at home,” Vicky said. “I was hoping to find her.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone? When?” She might have just missed her. On the other hand, if Deborah Boynton had been gone awhile, she might return soon. Vicky looked back at the quiet house, a sense of emptiness about it, debating whether to wait or come back later.

  “She left Sunday.” The baby started to stir and made little crying sounds. The fat white leg bucked up and down.

  “She hasn’t been back since then?”

  “She went on vacation,” the woman said, jiggling the stroller back and forth. “I seen her wheel her suitcase out and put it in the trunk of her car. She drove off and hasn’t come back. I been picking up her mail and keeping it for her.”

  “How long will she be away?” It struck Vicky as odd that the broker hadn’t seemed to know about any vacation plans.

  “It’s not like we’re best friends,” the woman said, a hint of regret in her tone. “We visit sometimes. She picks up our mail when we leave. Me and Dale don’t go away much, only to see his folks in Cheyenne. I get Deborah’s mail when she goes off. Usually just for a weekend. Don’t blame her none for wanting to get away. Clients calling all the time, expect her to drop whatever she’s doing and take them around. I hear her phone ringing all day. Been ringing since she left Sunday. Like I say, can’t blame her for getting out of here.”

  “Did she happen to mention where she was going?”

  The woman shook her head in a long, careful motion, as if a sudden memory might cause her to nod. “She never said. But . . .” She hesitated. “You her friend?”

  “Vicky Holden,” Vicky said, putting out her hand. The woman took hold of Vicky’s fingers and gave them a little shake. “I’m an attorney.”

  “Attorney.” The woman bit at her lower lip. “Is Deborah in some kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  A look of relief flooded the woman’s face. “Oh, that’s good. You never know . . .”

  “Is there some reason to believe she might be in trouble?”

  “Oh no. I wasn’t saying that. It’s just that, you know how boyfriends can be.”

  “How can they be?”

  The woman shrugged, then leaned over and patted the baby, who had begun to stir again. White legs jumping. “Best not to cross them,” she said, looking up. “Just do what they want. Everybody gets along real good then.”

  “Do you know the boyfriend’s name?”

  “Seen him around from time to time. Don’t know how serious they are. But whenever he said ‘Let’s go someplace,’ she packed up and went. Like I say, mostly for a weekend. Never asked his name. None of my business, when it comes right down to it. Between you and me, I never liked the looks of him. One of them happy, smiling guys that’ll punch you out, you say the wrong thing.”

  “Was he around when she left Sunday?”

  “She usually went off with him, but not Sunday. She got in the car alone and drove off. Come to think of it, maybe she wanted to get away from him.”

  Vicky dug in her bag and extracted another business card. “If Deborah comes back,” she said, handing the card across the top of the stroller, “please give her this and ask her to call me?”

  “Yeah, sure.” The woman stared down at the card, then folded it between her fingers.

  As Vicky drove away from the curb, she watched the woman in the rearview mirror slip the card into the pocket of her cutoffs.

  16

  A PENCIL LINE of sharp light slid past the bottom of the curtain. Angela pulled the covers over her head, then threw them off. The bedroom was hot and
stuffy; her skin felt clammy. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and pushed herself upright. She had spent most of the day in bed. The clock on the nightstand glowed 2:14, which was probably somewhere near the correct time. The clock hadn’t worked since Skip knocked it to the floor a month ago. He hadn’t meant to do it, and he had been calm and thoughtful ever since.

  Skip. She could feel her heart jumping. Out there somewhere beyond the window and the dirt driveway and the wide afternoon streets. Alive. Let him be alive. She prayed out loud to the Creator, the Great Mystery. Behe’teiht. So many words for God, she wondered how he knew when someone called him. All she cared about was that the Creator would keep Skip alive.

  She made herself get to her feet and wandered across the glorified corridor that was the living room and bedroom into the closet-sized kitchen, drawn by her own hunger and thirst. She poured a glass of water, took a slice of bread out of the package on the counter, and flopped down on the stool, stuffing the bread into her mouth, gulping the water.

  “What a mess you are.” Out loud again, and the sound of her own voice gave her a start as if someone else were in the house. She was no good to herself or to Skip. She had to clear her head, be ready when the phone call came. She was sure the call would come. How long could it be before whoever had taken Skip and trashed the office twice realized there was no flash drive? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who had the flash drive.

  Angela reached along the short counter, grabbed her bag, and dug out her keys. Attached to the key ring was the flash drive. Hidden it in plain sight, that’s what she had done. She had read a mystery novel about how the killer had hidden evidence in front of the detective’s nose, and he never saw it, not until the last pages when—what do you know?—the evidence had been there all the time. It had made her laugh. So clever and smart, nobody had figured it out.