Killing Custer

by Margaret Coel

  “You invested with him?” Vicky could sense the tension around them, like electricity crackling silently.

  “If I did, I wouldn’t have anything to say. It was between Skip and his closest friends. A real tight club. A lot of people wanted to get in, but Skip was particular.” He twisted the cloth and snapped it at the corner of the bar. “You didn’t just walk up to Skip and say, ‘I got some money I’d like to invest.’ He’d tell you to go see a broker.”

  “So who was in the club?”

  Hank was looking off into the bar, something unfolding behind his eyes. “We were having a beer, just Skip and me. Middle of the afternoon, like now, nobody else around, and I said, ‘Skip, old buddy. What’s this I hear about you getting real good returns on investments?’ I told him I’d heard rumors he was doubling people’s money in a short time. Hell, I’ve been working this place for five years, barely squeezing out a living. Then my old man died and left me ten thousand. So I thought, here’s my ticket. I had something to grow.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing, at first. Pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about. I told you, the club was private. Big locked door that only a few got past. I told him I had a lot of money I wanted to invest, and I remember he took a long drink of beer before he said, ‘How much?’ ‘Ten K,’ I told him, and he . . .” Colton shook his head, then brought his eyes back to hers. “He said, ‘Put it in the bank.’”

  Vicky made a little fist and blew into it. After a moment she said, “How much did it take to join the club?” She was thinking that Edward Garrett had walked away from the sale of his ranch in Laramie with five hundred thousand dollars.

  “I got the picture after that. Ten K was a pittance. Skip was interested in the high rollers. He knew what he was doing, all right. I mean, how much could he make off a measly ten K?”

  “Where did he find investors?” Vicky was thinking that Garrett had found him, an old army buddy, a man he trusted.

  “Jackson.”

  “Jackson.” Vicky spun sideways and studied the mixture of shadows and sunlight creeping across the tables and the floor, the little motes of dust floating in the sunlight. Skip spent a lot of time in Jackson, Angela had said. He had friends there.

  She spun back and faced the man across from her. “Then how did the rumors about the investments get here?”

  “Lot of people from Jackson stop in. Probably came to see Skip, check up on their money, collect their interest.” He shrugged. “The club was private, but folks like to brag, you know? Tell strangers how they belong to a real private club.”

  “Anybody you know?”

  Colton shook his head.

  “Anybody from this area in the club?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Nobody ever came right out and said so, but they’d brag about making a fistful of money on a great investment.” He snapped the cloth on the edge of the bar again, making a sharp whacking noise. “Try Reece Mishko, artist moved to town from Jackson last year. He liked to brag a lot about the great investments he had. Yeah, try that dude.”

  * * *

  REECE MISHKO WAS easy to find, as if the artist had laid out a pathway for anybody with enough cash and art appreciation to connect with him. Vicky stopped into the art gallery halfway down the block from Wind Bar. A pair of oil paintings, one of the Wind River range and the other of the Tetons, stood on easels in the front window. Scrawled in the right corner was the name Reese Mishko.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” The woman’s voice floated through the sound of the bell jangling over the door as Vicky stepped inside. “I saw you admiring the paintings.” She was short and wide-shouldered, dressed in a black blouse and a long black skirt with a belt studded in turquoise, coral, and silver. Her light brown hair, cut straight and shoulder-length, mingled with her dangling turquoise earrings. “Reese does a wonderful job of capturing the colors and grandeur of our local mountains.” She waved at other paintings on the wall. “Notice the shadows of the pines in the creek at the bottom of the Wind River scene.”

  Vicky moved toward the side wall and studied the arrangement of paintings. Buffalo, horses, a stunning portrait of a wolf with a glint of desperation in his eyes.

  “He’s great with wildlife.” A pencil had materialized, and the woman thumped it against her palm.

  “Are these the only paintings you have?”

  A look of annoyance flickered in her eyes. “For the moment. Reece is very prolific. He has other pieces in the gallery at his house, which we also represent. If you don’t find what you like here, I’m sure he’d be happy to show you more. Are you interested in making a purchase?”

  Vicky gave the woman a slow, assuring smile. She was thinking of the framed posters on the wall in her office, and the one original painting that she had bought when she’d started her practice, a beautiful rendition of an Indian village in the vastness of the plains painted by an Indian artist she had met at a powwow. She always imagined it was the village of her great-grandparents. “If I found something that appealed to me.”

  “Something different from the pieces here?”

  “Yes. I’m in the market for new art for my office, and I like Mishko’s work very much.” She extracted a business card from her bag and handed it to the woman.

  “You’re a lawyer?” The woman cleared her throat, as if she could clear away the sound of surprise. Then moved sideways to a large desk with a polished surface and an upholstered side chair pushed into the well. She picked up a mobile, pressed a key, and, throwing a watchful look Vicky’s way, said, “Reece! Are you busy?” A moment passed. “I agree. That was a stupid question. I have a client here, a lawyer looking for paintings to display in her office. She likes what we have, but”—she drew in a long breath—“it’s not quite what she wants.” She nodded at Vicky, as if to confirm the truth of what she had said, then shifted her eyes sideways, her attention focused on whatever the man at the other end was saying.

  “Fine, darling. I appreciate it. See you soon.” Setting the mobile back on the desk, she said, “If you go right away, he will take a few moments to show you his gallery. You can make your selection, and we’ll handle everything. We’ll deliver the paintings to your office, even hang them for you.”

  She opened a drawer, pulled out a small white pad, and started scribbling. Then she tore off the top sheet and held it out to Vicky. “His house and studio are not far from here. In the hills west of town. Large ranch style with a big porch and black-tiled roof.”

  30

  THE RANCH-STYLE house with white wicker sofa and chairs on the front porch sat isolated at the end of a road that corkscrewed uphill. The area was familiar. Dorothy Winslow’s place was on the other side of the hill, not far away. Vicky got out of the Ford as the front door swung open. Wild grasses bumped against the sidewalk to the wooden front steps. The wind gusted around her. The porch was like an oasis, the air quiet and ten degrees cooler. A young woman—not much older than Angela, Vicky thought—blond and curly headed, wearing cutoff denim shorts and a too-tight tee shirt, stood in the doorway. Chin hoisted in the air, eyes narrowed in disapproval.

  “Vicky Holden. I’m here to see Reece.”

  “Reece is very busy.” The blond woman had a little girl’s voice, a shaky edge to the confidence she was obviously trying to convey. “He doesn’t like to be bothered in the middle of the day. Annette . . .”

  “Annette?”

  “At the gallery, should know better. He has hours when the public can visit his private gallery. Two to four on Saturdays. Annette should have told you that. Trouble is, all she can think about is collecting her stinking commission. I don’t know why Reece . . .”

  “Invite Ms. Holden in.” The voice, low and raspy, came from somewhere inside the house.

  “All I can say is, make it quick.” She stepped to the side and nodded Vicky into an entry as large as her office, with
a ceiling that soared above an expanse of wood floors and white walls covered with paintings that resembled those in the gallery—a collage of the Wind River and the Tetons. She glanced around the paintings. Any of them would be beautiful in her office.

  “Reece has work to finish this afternoon,” the woman was saying. “Annette’s isn’t the only gallery that represents him. He has galleries in Jackson and Aspen, you know.”

  “Vicky Holden, attorney-at-law.” The man appeared in the arched doorway that led somewhere to the back of the house. Gray hair, thick and tangled, long, ropey muscles. He wore khaki shorts and a blue shirt with tails hanging loose, top buttons unfastened. He was in his sixties, which meant the girl could have been his granddaughter, except for the worshipful gaze she fastened on him. Enormous hands, like baseball gloves, dangled at his side. “See anything you like?”

  “They’re all beautiful.”

  “Well, Prissy here”—a glance at the girl standing first on one bare foot, then the other—“will be happy to show you through my private gallery on the second floor. Excuse me if I don’t accompany you. Works calls. I’m sure you can understand. Prissy was good enough to open up the gallery.”

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Mishko . . .”

  “Reece. We’re not in New York.”

  “I’d like a few words with you.”

  “I told you, work . . .”

  “About Skip Burrows.”

  Reece Mishko rocked back on the heels of his leather sandals, not taking his eyes from her. “You used subterfuge to get here.”

  “I do admire your work, and I could use more art in my office.”

  “Okay, okay.” The man put up the palm of one hand. “We can talk in my studio.”

  “Reece . . .” The name had hardly emerged from the girl’s mouth when his palm turned sideways and sliced the air in her direction. “Bring us some coffee.”

  She seemed to melt backward, past the large staircase and through a door on the other side of the entry. The door made a hissing noise as it opened and closed.

  “This way.” Reece swung around. Head high, gray hair brushing the collar of his shirt, calf muscles flexing, he headed through the archway. Vicky followed him into a large, light-filled room with black leather sofas and chairs and tiled tables arranged beneath a wall of windows that framed the foothills. The view resembled the view in one of the paintings in the entry. Large paintings covered the walls at either end of the room.

  Vicky realized that Reece Mishko had already taken a turn to the right and disappeared through a door in the corner. She walked over and stepped into another room filled with a suffused light from the overhead skylight. In the center was a large easel with a painting that looked half finished. Another view of the Wind River range. All of Mishko’s paintings seemed familiar, as if she could step inside and find her way.

  Scattered around the studio were tables with jars of different colors of paint crowding the surfaces. Paint dribbled down the sides of the jars. There were wads of cloth and paper towels, buckets of brushes, a desk in one corner cluttered with papers, and shelves along the far wall filled with books that toppled against one another. A mixture of odors—alcohol, turpentine, paint—clogged the air. From outside came the soft whooshing noise of the wind in a cottonwood.

  In front of the easel was a black metal stool that Reece Mishko spun around and straddled, leaning against the top bar of the back. “Sit anywhere.” He motioned toward a pair of chairs near the desk.

  Vicky went over and pulled one chair into the center of the room. She was about to sit down when she realized she would be looking up at the famous Reece Mishko, which, she also realized, was exactly what he had intended. “I’m more comfortable standing,” she said.

  “Whatever suits you.” A smile creased the corners of his mouth. They were playing a game, and she wasn’t sure of the rules.

  “Any news on Skip?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Vicky began pacing. Back and forth in front of the man with the bemused expression on his face. She forced herself to stand still and lock eyes with him. “My client is the widow of Edward Garrett.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “He was murdered last Sunday on Main Street.”

  “The crazy Custer guy.”

  “He was a friend of Skip’s. They were army buddies. He was a member of Skip’s club.”

  Reece Mishko dipped his chin into his chest and examined the paint caked under his fingernails. “And this affects me how?”

  “The money he invested with Skip is missing. I was hoping you could tell me about the Granite Group.”

  “You’re assuming . . .”

  “I know you were in the club.” Vicky held her breath. All she knew was that a man who ran a bar had told her Reece Mishko liked to brag about his investments. “Look, all I want to know is whether Skip paid you back your principal.”

  Reece was shaking his head. “The club was for a few friends of Skip’s who had money to invest and needed good returns. Once in a while, Skip made an offering to club members of securities in oil and gas start-ups. Skip said the securities were exempted from registration under the federal securities laws, since all of us are seasoned investors. He was a darn good lawyer. He knew what he was doing. The offerings were private. I suppose the widow told you about this. All I can say is I was privileged to know Skip. Privileged that he allowed me to invest with him.” He spread his hands as if he might take in the whole studio, the house, the grassy, wind-blown hills. “Things look good to you, right? I mean, I have a big house. Paintings on sale in galleries. Problem is, the economy tanked and even rich folks stopped buying paintings. Why art that feeds the soul should be considered nonessential is something I will never understand. Is food nonessential?” He shrugged. “So I tightened up, started watching my money. Moved here from Jackson to cut down on expenses. Then I got lucky. An uncle died and left me a nice sum of money. Of course, I knew Skip. Who didn’t? Spent a lot of time socializing in Jackson. Great skier. I’d heard rumors about Skip and his investment club from some well-heeled clients in Jackson, so I made a few phone calls. Skip had never mentioned anything about the club. It wasn’t his way.”

  “What was his way?”

  “You’d hear about it. Rumors, innuendos. You’d get Skip in a corner of a bar and ask about joining. If you were lucky, you got in. Very few got in. Usually he’d deny there was any club.” He pulled himself upright, straightened his shoulders, then went back to leaning on the chair. “Half a mil was the entrance fee. I made it in the club two years ago. Been collecting thirty percent every quarter since. Keeps this place and my business running. Why would I want my principal back?”

  “What kind of investments did he make?”

  “Real estate. Oil. Gas. Look, I’ve got the paperwork. Records for each investment, amount paid out. All in black and white.”

  Vicky started pacing again. She thought better when she was moving, not stuck to the ground like a fence post. Her people had always been moving, she knew. Moving, thinking, planning, deciding, all at the same time. The words black and white rang in her ears. Records composed on Angela’s computer, spit out of Angela’s printer, and saved on Angela’s flash drive. “Skip’s still missing,” she said.

  “He’s dead.”

  Vicky stopped and turned toward the man. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Indians killed him.” He tossed his head and shrugged, as if that were the end of the matter. “Killed that Custer maniac, then they killed Skip.”

  “Why would they do that?” Here it was again, the spokes of white-hot anger turning inside her.

  “Why does anybody do stupid things? For the money. You heard about Skip’s club. Other Indians heard about it, too. Probably from that Indian girl that worked for him. I figure she put them up to it, promised they’d get their hands on the money Skip had coming in. Let’s fac
e it, she was in a position to transfer interest payments to her friends. My guess is the interest on Garrett’s account started going to Indians. Must have seemed like Custer owed them. I figure Garrett caught on, so they killed him. Skip also caught on, so he disappeared.”

  “You’re not worried about your money?” The principal was gone, Vicky was thinking. Gone the way Garrett’s money was gone.

  Reece Mishko was smiling now, shaking his head and smiling. “They didn’t break into my account. Checks arrive like clockwork. I figure it doesn’t matter what hole they dropped Skip into, the Granite Group is still solid. Somebody will take it over and manage it, maybe a bank or a club member that knows finances.”

  The door opened and the girl sidled into the studio, balancing a tray, coffee cups rattling, a creamer and sugar bowl sliding toward the edge. “Coffee?”

  “You’re a dear, Prissy. Set it over there.” Reece nodded toward a table. The girl slid the tray against an array of paint cans, then drew herself upright. A satisfied expression printed itself on her face.

  “Leave us.”

  The young woman blinked, the look of satisfaction fading into one of confusion. She moved sideways, retracing her steps across the room and through the door.

  “Fresh coffee?” Reece wrinkled his nose.

  Coffee smells wrapped in the smells of paint and turpentine, Vicky thought, like the darkness wrapped inside the light-filled room and the big house with the soaring ceiling. “I’ve taken enough of your time.” She fought the urge to pivot about and run from the studio. From the house and the area, from the disaster about to take place. Half a million dollars gone, and Reece Mishko had no idea.

  Vicky opened the door, then turned back. “You should talk to Detective Madden,” she said. “Tell him what you’ve told me.” She waited, trying to gauge the man’s reaction. Was there a hint of discomfort in the way he clasped his hands and rolled his shoulders, as if she had seen something he had been ignoring, like a botched tree in a finished painting? “For your own good,” she said.