“I’m Charlotte Swift. I have an appointment with Mr. Johnson.” I handed her one of my cards.
“I’m afraid he won’t have time to see you this morning after all,” the woman said, not sounding apologetic. “There was an emergency and he’s running behind schedule, and he’s got to be in Denver by noon. So—”
“Look,” I said, trying to repress my irritation, “I only need a couple of minutes. If you’ll just tell him—”
The door to the inner office opened as the word “no” formed on the secretary’s lips. A man I took to be Seth Johnson, tall and gangly and with gingery hair and mustache, wearing a well-cut suit and cowboy boots, shook hands with a shorter, squatter man in a sheriff’s uniform. “Thanks, Carl. I appreciate your taking care of it personally.”
“Of course, Mr. Johnson,” the sheriff said. “Rustlers are a plague on all of us.”
Tipping his hat to me and the secretary, he left, letting in a blast of wind that gleefully spun a stack of papers off the desk. As the secretary bent to retrieve them, I took advantage of her distraction. “Mr. Johnson? I’m Charlotte Swift.” I held out my hand, and he shook it, looking down at me with sharp eyes. Patricia Sprouse had been kind: I’d put his age at closer to fifty than forty. “Do you have a few minutes to talk about your fiancée?”
He looked at me blankly as the secretary gasped and dropped the papers she’d just finished collecting. “Elizabeth Sprouse?” I prompted.
He forced a laugh. “I wasn’t engaged to Elizabeth. I don’t deny I had some discussion with her father, but it came to nothing. I was saddened to hear about her death, however.”
“Not sad enough to attend the funeral,” I said. I’d’ve noticed him if he’d been there. In addition to his height and coloring, he had an indefinable air of command that set him apart.
“I was out of state on business,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Who did you say you were again?”
“Charlotte Swift. Call me Charlie.”
“Mr. Johnson, I’m so sorry! I told her—”
Johnson waved his secretary to silence. “It’s okay, Jean. I’ve got a few minutes before I need to leave for Denver. Walk down to the barn with me, Charlie.” He held the door, and I ducked out into the wind, resisting the urge to send a triumphant smirk Jean’s way.
“We lost fifteen head of cattle this week. We’re not sure exactly when,” Johnson said, speaking close to my ear to be heard over the wind. He put a hand to my elbow to steer me toward the large barn. “Rustlers.”
The word conjured images of the Old West, of greasy-haired desperados in black hats cutting cattle from a herd and hiding them in an arroyo or box canyon or some such feature of western geography. The theme music from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly whistled in my head. “Is rustling still a problem for ranchers?”
“Hell, yeah. Rustling is high-tech now, with the thieves using ATVs to round up the cattle and load ’em into a semi. They truck the cattle to market on the other side of the country before you even know they’re missing. Every rancher I know counts his rustling losses in the tens of thousands of dollars each year.”
Who knew? I wondered briefly if this might be a new line of work for me. I could expand the agency’s portfolio from finding missing persons to tracking missing cows. I could see it now: photos of cows’ faces on milk cartons. How apropos. Somehow—maybe because I suspected the victims ended up as hamburger before anyone could trace them—the idea didn’t resonate with me, and I didn’t pitch it to Johnson.
We crossed the threshold of a barn large enough to hangar a 747, and the ammonia smell of cow urine stung my nose and made me blink. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight penetrating the dim space, and cows lowed from stalls marching horizontally across the barn. Grandy and Gramps had kept two cows for milk, and the feeling in this barn, though much larger and more modern, blasted me back to the time I first crossed the threshold of the shed housing Buttercup and Lulu. I couldn’t have been more than three or four, but I still remember Grandy solemnly introducing me to the cows and telling us how much we’d like each other. Not so different from what Delicia Furman had said to Gigi, now that I thought about it.
Seth Johnson didn’t offer to introduce me to any of the cattle currently inhabiting his barn. He read notes posted on clipboards on the front of each stall, cast an eye over the inmate, and moved on. All he needed was a white lab coat to impersonate a doctor on rounds. With no clue what he was looking at, and less interest, I felt my time with him slipping away and decided to wrest his attention away from the bovine world.
“So, what are the chances you’re the father of Elizabeth’s baby?” I asked in the tone I’d use at a cocktail party to inquire about someone’s job or hobbies.
He didn’t turn a hair, or even look up from the clipboard he was studying. “Zero.”
“Really? I understand you got pretty cozy with her in a Sunday school classroom.”
That brought his head around to me, and his eyes were flinty as he said, “Your sources are ill-informed.”
I considered the possibility Elizabeth had lied to Linnea about the encounter, especially since she’d misrepresented the nature of her dealings with the Falstows. “Possibly,” I conceded. “Are you saying you never had sex with Elizabeth?”
“That would be illegal,” he said smoothly. “It’s called statutory rape.”
“So you’d be willing to give a DNA sample for comparison with the baby’s?”
“Get real,” he said. “My lawyer would have a coronary.”
“Otherwise, of course, you’d cooperate.”
“Of course,” he said with a smile as false as my own.
A caramel-colored cow stuck its head toward me, and I absently scratched her between the ears. She rewarded me with a slurp on my hand with her sticky tongue. Johnson laughed at my dilemma: wipe cow drool on my tan wool-blend slacks, or let my hands air dry with a film of spit.
“Here.” He handed me a handkerchief, which I took gratefully.
“Thanks. So, why is an obviously successful, attractive, and mature man like yourself interested in marrying a sixteen-year-old? For that matter, why do you attend the Church of Jesus Christ the Righteous on Earth when, I’m sure, your generous donations would get you the front pew at any church between here and Denver?”
“Pastor Sprouse speaks God’s truth. His ministry is based on the Lord’s word. I know he can reach millions of sinners with the right backing.” Johnson shot back the cuff of his pin-striped suit. “I’ve got to go.”
He started for the barn door, and I trotted to keep up with his long strides. “So, you’re buying in? What do you get from your investment? Certainly not money.”
His profile was unrevealing, but a muscle jumped near the corner of his mouth. “The Lord has blessed me with an abundance of money,” Johnson said. “I am privileged to use it to do his work.”
A nearby cow snorted, and I felt like doing the same.
Johnson continued, “Some men give millions to see their names blazoned on a hospital wing, or an engineering school at their alma mater, or a library. I’ll leave a legacy of salvation, not a building of stone and sand that will crumble to dust.”
I took a shot in the dark. “If you’re so big into legacy, it must really piss you off that there’s no Seth Junior to carry on when you’re gone.”
He spun to face me, a white line rimming his lips. For a moment I thought he was going to strike me, but he breathed in twice through his nostrils, exhaling forcefully. “You don’t want to mock me, Charlotte Swift.” He leaned down until his face was inches from mine, and I could see the flecks of amber in his hazel eyes, deep pores in the grooves of his nose, and a few gray brow hairs growing longer than the ginger ones. “I don’t take that kind of sass from U.S. senators, never mind third-rate private investigators or smart-ass teenagers.”
He held my gaze for another moment, to make sure I wouldn’t venture a reply, then turned on his heel and strode out of the barn, getti
ng into the backseat of the Lincoln that was waiting to take him to Denver.
I let my breath out, not aware until then that I’d been holding it, and let Johnson’s crumpled hankie fall from my hand. The wind caught it before it hit the floor and chased it into a pile of straw and dung. Apparently I’d hit a sore spot. Maybe Johnson’s young wives were no more than brood mares and he discarded them when they didn’t produce offspring. Shades of Henry the Eighth. Hadn’t Henry’s second wife, Anne Boleyn, lost her head to the guillotine, when her princely hubby decided he stood a better chance of getting an heir from Jane Seymour? A dark thought wormed its way into my mind: I wondered if there’d been any witnesses to the second Mrs. Johnson’s hiking accident.
As I made the long drive back to Colorado Springs, wondering what Elizabeth could’ve said to Johnson to merit his comment about “smart-ass teenagers” and wishing I’d had a snappy comeback for his remark about third-rate investigators, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.
“Ms. Swift? Charlie?”
“Yes?” The female voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“This is Linnea Fenn. You wanted to finish our conversation, and I thought I’d let you know I could meet you during track practice right after school. Coach is out sick, and we’re just supposed to be working out on our own. No one will care if I take a break in the stands.”
“I’ll be there. Thanks for calling.”
I hung up, wondering if it’d be worth my time to track down one of the former Mrs. Johnsons and see what she had to say about Mr. Legacy. I decided to wait until after I’d talked to Linnea; unless I thought there was a good chance Johnson had fathered Elizabeth’s baby, then it wasn’t worthwhile finding his ex-wives. Anyway, given his apparent obsession with having a child, wouldn’t he have claimed Elizabeth’s baby was his if he had, in fact, fathered it? Even if he’d have to face down some scandal to do so? Or—I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel—maybe he was only interested in having a son, and Olivia, a mere girl, didn’t make the cut.
With my cell phone still out, I called information and got a number for Russell Ziegler, the adoption lawyer who’d apparently matched up Elizabeth with the Falstows. It was remotely possible Elizabeth had confided in him about the father of her child. Even if she hadn’t, he might know something that could point me in the right direction. His secretary informed me he was in court all day and asked what I was calling in reference to. I told her nothing, thanked her, and headed for downtown Colorado Springs and the courthouse. I figured I could talk with Russell Ziegler during a break in the court action and still make it to the high school track in time to talk with Linnea after school. I called Gigi to update her on my whereabouts, but the answering machine picked up at the agency. Good . . . I hoped that meant she was out delivering summonses and beefing up our bottom line.
12
Gigi tucked the summons paperwork Valerie Driscoll’s paralegal had given her into the depths of her capacious purse, wedging it between the pepper spray and the plastic container of sanitary napkins she couldn’t afford to leave home without now that her period—once as punctual and regular as the CBS News with Walter Cronkite—stayed away for two months and then arrived without warning in a flood of Niagara proportions. Once, menopause had looked attractive because it meant she and Les could stop fussing with condoms and spermicides and their lovemaking could be more spontaneous. Now, with no Les and no sex, menopause had no upside that Gigi could see.
“How’d you break your arm?” the paralegal, an intense woman in her midthirties with her corkscrew curls corralled by a headband and wire-rimmed glasses, asked.
“Drug bust,” Gigi said.
“Oh, it must be exciting being a private detective.”
“Well, I’ve only been doing it for a bit more than a week,” Gigi said, pleased by the interest lighting the woman’s eyes, “but so far it’s been more than I expected.” And less, she added to herself, returning to the elevator. She pushed away memories of Charlie’s lukewarm welcome—how could anyone object to a coffeepot, for heaven’s sake?—and the disquieting thought that her partner would be happy if she up and quit. She wouldn’t, though. She couldn’t. Not with the bills for Kendall’s skating to pay. And the maintenance and taxes on their house. At least Les had had the decency not to sell it out from under her. And college expenses looming in the future, assuming the kids managed to earn grades high enough to get admitted anywhere. She didn’t figure Les was planning on sending tuition checks from Costa Rica. And insurance, and . . .
The elevator dinged open in front of her, and she forced herself to plan a strategy—or was it a tactic?—for delivering the summons. The paralegal had assured her it would be easy. She’d handed Gigi the address and told her the woman, Connie Padgett, should be home after she’d dropped off her kids at Mountain View Elementary and Challenger Middle School until time to pick them up again in midafternoon.
“This should be a piece of cake,” the paralegal said, striking superstitious fear into Gigi’s heart.
Hiking her skirt to clamber into the Hummer, Gigi headed toward the Pine Creek subdivision on the north side of town. Twenty-five minutes later she pulled up across the street from a large house with a stone front and huge picture windows and contemplated her next move. Finding no reason why she shouldn’t just ring the doorbell and hand over the summons to whoever answered, she crossed the street, devoid of traffic at midday.
The doorbell played a snippet of something classical Gigi didn’t recognize. After a moment, the tap-tap of heels on tile told her someone was approaching. Shifting nervously from foot to foot, she bit her lip as the door swung open.
“Yes?” A woman a few years younger, but with similarly expensive hair and an immaculate manicure, dressed in a Betsey Johnson dress no one over twenty-five should have attempted, stood in the doorway, an enquiring look on her face. Before Gigi could open her mouth, the woman said, “Look, my kids are selling those Gold C books, too. Sorry.”
“But I don’t have—”
“And we’ve got a pantry full of Girl Scout cookies, so I’m afraid—”
“I’m not selling anything,” Gigi cut in, flustered. “I’ve got paperwork to serve you from—”
“That bastard,” the woman said, tears welling in her brown eyes. “He really filed? He’s throwing away eighteen years of marriage to set up house with Reed’s orthodontist? I can’t believe it!”
“I really don’t know the nature . . .” Hampered by the cast, Gigi fumbled in her purse for the envelope, reluctant to look the poor woman in the face.
As Gigi dragged the packet free, Connie Padgett suddenly whirled and sprinted into the depths of the house, yelling, “I won’t take it. You can’t make me.”
Without thinking, Gigi plunged into the house after her, following the clicking of the woman’s heels. A door slammed, and Gigi skidded around a corner into the kitchen in time to see Connie Padgett taking the stairs down from her deck two at a time and racing across the backyard. Gigi followed, grateful she was wearing her low-heeled Joan and David pumps and not the Stella McCartney vegan sandals she’d considered when dressing that morning. Clutching the rail, she made it down the deck stairs and started across the yard, lifting her royal blue skirt to midthigh as she hurdled down the shallow terraces to the open gate in the back fence. She paused for breath at the opening, her head swiveling from side to side.
The smooth green expanses of the Pine Creek golf course lay before her, dotted with golfers and carts. A commotion from the left caught her attention, and she started in that direction, pretty sure Connie must have run afoul of the foursome in the middle of the nearest fairway. An octogenarian golfer was shaking his 9-iron in the direction of a figure disappearing from view over a hill. Gigi trotted after her target, her breath coming in gasps. She really needed to get back to her cardio step classes; yoga was just not keeping her fit enough. Coming level with the irritated golfer, now lining up his shot, Gigi got an idea.
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She paused respectfully to let him hit the ball—Les just about took her head off when she made a noise during his backswing—and then darted toward the empty golf cart. “So sorry,” she said, climbing in and depressing the pedal. “It’s an emergency.” Before the startled golfers could react, she sped across the fairway, the two sets of clubs in the back of the cart threatening to fall out with every jounce. Cresting the hill, she saw Connie running pell-mell down the middle of the fairway, now carrying her shoes in her hands.
Gigi pointed the cart downhill and floored the pedal. The breeze generated by the cart’s movement tossed her hair, and she felt herself flush with the thrill of the chase. Or maybe it was another hot flash. As she gained on the fleeing woman, exhilaration coursed through her. She felt like an olden-times posse chasing an outlaw, or a U.S. Marshal pursuing a fugitive—like the character Jennifer Lopez played in the movie where she got to make out with George Clooney. Gigi wondered if J-Lo had done the movie for free, just for the opportunity to kiss Clooney. She would. Not that anyone would hire her as an actress. J-Lo’s bum was trim compared to hers, and just look how much grief the media gave her about it. Out of Sight, that was the movie.
Gigi’s quarry looked over her shoulder and cut toward a pond. Was she going to swim to freedom?
“Connie, stop,” Gigi called.
In response, something thudded onto the roof of the cart, and Gigi ducked. What was— A second shoe came flying at Gigi, landing in her lap. A blue python Jimmy Choo. The woman was really desperate.
“It’s not worth this, Connie,” she said, almost abreast of her, the pond to their left. Geese honked at them, and turquoise dragonflies skimmed the surface of the water. A ball plopped into the murky depths, and an irritated “Shit!” came from the parallel fairway. Connie held up her middle finger and jogged on, but she was losing steam. Gigi kept pace with her until she slowed to a walk. Climbing out of the cart, Gigi descended the incline sloping toward the pond and put her good arm around the now crying woman.
Swift Justice: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Books) Page 15
