Elton Rydell, the pompous businessman, popped up again. "The mayor's right. We don't need any more tourist attractions. My lynching pageant always brings in good money."
"The town doesn't get any of that money," Opal Bodie hollered. "You and your damn store are the only ones who profit from the pageant. Besides, we been doing that for years now. Like the mayor says, we need new blood."
The meeting deteriorated into a shouting match. The mayor gave up in frustration and let the mike dangle listlessly at his side. More people pushed through the door, curious about the commotion. I saw the blond from Hog Heaven jostling her way in, followed by a man close to her own height. He wore jeans pressed with sharp creases and a starched, wide-striped cowboy shirt. Even his closely cropped hair, receding slightly from the temples, looked neat and precise in this room full of sweating, wilting human beings. They looked through the crowd, then turned, and Ronnie Mae saw me. Her face darkened and her eyes darted from me to Max. She shook free of her partner's grip on her arm and shoved toward us. I poked Max in warning, but by the time he saw her, Ronnie Mae was in his face.
"Is that your green Dodge Ram out there?" she demanded. Max eyed her coldly. "We got trespassing laws around here." She rapped her knuckles on his chest, for emphasis. "I catch you out on our place again and you're dead meat." Her strident voice rang clear. Everyone in the back few rows turned to cheer on this new bit of excitement.
"Hold on a minute," the mountain man bellowed, banging the floor with the butt of his black powder rifle. "I'm still talking. The floor's mine." He banged the butt again and the gun went off with a deafening roar. The discharge fired through the fan and light fixture with a piercing whine followed by a shower of glass and a billowing cloud of sulfurous smoke.
"Aw, shit," Monty roared in the instant of surprised silence. Then someone screamed, and Ronnie Mae fainted dead away at Max's feet. The noxious fumes descended, chairs were flung aside, and people ran for the door, coughing and choking.
"Watch out," Max cried as the shoving began. "We got someone down here!" He spread his arms and legs, trying to form a protective barrier around the woman sprawled limply on the floor. The man who came in with her knelt beside her, rubbing her wrists. Jennifer Wilcox and another man dropped down beside him to help. Then the Aussie voyageur and his Indian friend, shoveling through the crowd, stumbled into them and they all sprawled on top of the downed woman.
"Get up," Max yelled, grabbing arms, jerking them to their feet. "Get her up."
A side door opened somewhere, sending the smoke and the crowd swirling in another direction. I tried to cling to Max's belt, but got knocked away and crammed against the wall.
"Get out," Max yelled at me. He scooped up the unconscious Ronnie Mae from the floor and muscled his way to the door.
I got caught in the jam, immobilized. My eyes burned. I couldn't breathe and nearly screamed with relief when I popped out the door and into the fresh air with the others. We poured down the stairs, fanning out on the wide green lawns.
I joined the chorus, hacking, rubbing my eyes, then stumbled over to where Max knelt by Ronnie Mae, sprawled now on the grass. I touched his shoulder. He turned and stared up at me with a shattered look on his face.
"She's dead," he said.
Chapter 4
I gasped and stared at Ronnie Mae, momentarily paralyzed. I couldn't take my eyes from her. Strands of blond hair escaped from their binding, curled softly across her cheeks and forehead. No longer raging, she looked like a gentle Ophelia lying on a bed of grass, hands crossed over her breast. All she needed was a lily.
The man I'd seen with her earlier knelt close beside her, his fingers pressed to her neck. He removed them and placed his hand over hers. His fingers were trembling. My throat tightened.
"Danny, get Metzger," Max told him. "Fast."
The man stood, unconsciously rubbing his hands over and over again on his thighs, his eyes flickering through the crowd like a frightened deer. I didn't need the ring on his left hand to tell me he must be Ronnie Mae's husband. His face said it all, his expression a heart-wrenching mix of fright, pain and incomprehension.
"The sheriff, Danny," Max prodded him urgently. "Get Metzger."
The words brought Danny around. He shot a glance at Max, then pushed through the gathering curious and raced off. I backed away and made room for the gapers crowding in, wanting to distance myself.
I stood by the foot of the stairs, surprised to see people still pouring out the doors and into the fresh air, many coughing, some laughing at the experience now that they were safe.
"That fool, Montgomery," a man said to the woman clinging to his arm. "Shot his ramrod into the ceiling." He coughed and spat, nearly hitting my shoe.
"What?" his wife asked, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.
"The ramrod. He forgot to take the ramrod out of the muzzle. Shot out of there like a dammed missile."
"Hell, it's stuck up in the ceiling at least six inches," another man crowed, racing down the steps two at a time.
Halfway down the stairs, I saw Opal Bodie clinging to the railing with both hands, her cane awkwardly tucked under her arm. She descended the steps sideways, moving her swollen legs ponderously down one step at a time. Another surge of people burst through the door and enveloped her, slamming her against the railing. Alarmed, she clung to the rail. The cane dropped and slid down the steps. I picked it up and shoved my way up to her.
"Here, take my arm," I said, helping her down the last few stairs.
"Well, thank you. I do appreciate it. Stairs are the hardest thing." She smiled at me, pausing a bit to catch her breath. "My stars, that was some scene in there, wasn't it? Don't know how I got out, but that crowd just kind of picked me up and pushed me along. Haven't moved so fast for ten years or more." She chuckled, showing some of the same giddy relief felt by everyone else.
Clumping down the last stair, she heaved a sigh and readjusted her blue cotton skirt and loose knit top. "What happened over there?" she asked, indicating the people clustered tightly around the dead woman. "Is someone hurt?"
An emergency vehicle pulled up to the curb and two men jumped out. "Over here," Max called to them, opening a path.
"Who is it?"
I handed her the cane, but she still clung heavily to my arm, pushing me determinedly forward.
"Here's Opal," someone said, standing aside to make room, but the opening quickly filled with others crowding in. Between arms, legs and jostling bodies we saw the emergency crew kneel briefly by the woman's side, checking vital signs.
"Oh, my stars in heaven!" Opal gasped. "It's Ronnie Mae. What's wrong with her? Did she have one of her spells?" Opal cast the question out as the crew eased the still form onto the stretcher and hurried through the crowd to the vehicle.
With a death grip on my arm, Opal lurched after them, pushing people and their questions out of her way. Those who understood what had happened avoided Opal's eyes. No one wanted to be the one who told her Ronnie Mae was dead. Including me.
"Where's Danny?" she asked me.
"He was with her," I said, assuming she meant the man I believed was Ronnie Mae's husband. "He went for the sheriff, I think." How had I gotten mixed up in this, anyway, I wondered. I didn't know any of these people.
"She's diabetic, you know," Opal confided.
"Oh!" The exclamation burst from me as if I'd been punched in the back. With a surge of relief I thought, "It's a natural death." Unfortunate, but at least from a known cause. I hadn't realized how frightened I'd been, how certain this must have been some kind of violent reaction to a violent woman. And that maybe—just maybe—Max might be mixed up in it.
I cringed a bit at my callousness. A woman was dead, a young woman. Her vitality, her life force snapped in an instant and all I could think about was—
"Opal, Opal, what's going on?" A midge of a woman dressed in boots, jeans and a cotton work shirt overtook us.
I welcomed the distraction. She was Opal's age
, or maybe older, it was hard to tell. Her face showed the wear and tear of too many years out in the open without protection. Her thatchy gray hair appeared swept back from constant leaning into the wind. "Was that Ronnie Mae?" she asked.
"Oh, Twila," Opal said, stopping to squeeze the woman's hand. "Yes, it's Ronnie Mae. I think she had one of her diabetes attacks. I'm trying to find out."
I made another attempt to disengage my arm, thinking it was time to turn Opal over to her friends, but she just drew me forward.
"This is my new friend," she told Twila, then looked at me with surprise. "Landsakes, I don't even know your name; you must be one of the new people come to town for the excitement."
I laughed. "I guess you could say that. I'm Thea Barlow."
"Well, this is my neighbor and best friend, Twila Pettigrew."
The woman gave me a long look of consideration, nodded briskly, as if she approved of what she saw, and shook my outstretched hand.
"Were you in that meeting?" Opal asked her, momentarily distracted from Ronnie Mae. "I looked for you, but didn't see you anywhere."
"I certainly was," Twila said. "Tell me it isn't so, Opal. You didn't really sign a lease with those Astral Projection people, did you?"
"I did. I'll show that Elton Rydell."
"I don't give two figs for Elton Rydell. I can't believe you'd do something so stupid!"
With a couple of hoots from its siren, the ambulance took off, startling the three of us. Opal spun around and saw Max and the uniformed man he was talking to. "There's Rusty Metzger over there. Come with us, Twila. I've got to see him."
"I can't, Opal. I've got to pick up Sugar, but I'll catch up with you later. Somebody's got to talk some sense into you. They taking Ronnie Mae to the clinic, or to Rock Springs?"
"I don't know, but I'll find out. Oh, wait," she called as her friend hurried off. "Can you come over tomorrow in your truck? I need to get out..." She cast a quick sidelong glance at me and let the sentence dwindle off.
"Sure, early afternoon," Twila called over her shoulder as she hurried off.
"Twila's a good friend to me," Opal said, disregarding the little squabble. "I haven't been out to the winter pasture for, oh, I don't know, but it's been a long time. I do like to keep my eye on things."
Why she felt she had to defend her actions to me, I didn't know. I was beginning to feel like Alice down the rabbit hole. This time I took her arm and urged her firmly toward Max and the man he was talking to, whom I certainly hoped was the sheriff. I needed to turn this woman over to someone in authority.
Undaunted, she chatted on, "It's not right to just leave everything up to the kids, but it's hard for me to get around anymore, and I'm not driving that old pickup of Clyde's. Risk your life in that fool thing."
"Is Ronnie Mae your daughter?" I asked, not sure what "kids" she referred to.
"No, no. She's my niece. My brother's child. He's been gone now twelve years last September." She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and wipe the perspiration from her forehead with a handkerchief she had tucked in her sleeve. "Ronnie Mae's not a very pleasant girl, but..." She shrugged, letting the thought take care of itself. "She's had her trials, too. All the kin I got left, her and Danny. They been helping us out the last several years. Me and Clyde don't get around so good anymore."
I waved at Max until I finally caught his eye. He and the sheriff hurried to meet us.
Max put his arm around me. "Are you all right?" he murmured. I nodded and leaned into him a moment.
Opal didn't miss the little show of intimacy. "Oh," she said, momentarily diverted, "Max's girl." She gave me a quick smile. "Then you must be the one who's interested in the hog ranch?"
"Yes, she is," Max said, patting Opal's shoulder. He let his hand rest there, lightly massaging the soft flesh while he turned to the man who stood beside him. "Thea," he said, "this is Rusty Metzger, the sheriff."
He was nearly as tall as Max and a little older. Mid-forties, I thought. He had a rugged, heavily freckled face and a ready smile that took the edge off flinty pale eyes that didn't seem to miss anything.
We nodded cordially, both aware that this wasn't really the time for formal introductions. Opal touched his arm. "What happened to Ronnie Mae, Rusty? She have one of her spells?"
He tucked Opal's free arm under his and patted her hand. She looked wisely from one man to the other. "All this patting of an old woman must mean bad news."
"Ronnie Mae's gone, Opal," the sheriff said softly.
She gave a sharp intake of breath. "Dead?" she asked, as if wanting to make sure she understood him correctly. "You mean she's dead?"
Rusty nodded. "I'm sorry."
"Oh my," she whispered, then more strongly, "the diabetes?" She seemed bewildered, not quite able to take it all in.
"Looks that way. Possible insulin shock. They'll have to do an autopsy."
He gave her a quick little hug and said, "Look, I want you to go over to the house now, Opal. We've sent someone after Clyde; you can wait for him there."
"Danny?"
"He went with the ambulance. He'll come by the house later. You two might as well go with her," he said to Max and me. "I'm going to have to talk to both of you later, anyway. I need to finish up with Montgomery here then I'll be right along."
I don't know what I expected, but was truly amazed to discover that "over to the house" meant exactly what it sounded like. We'd been invited to wait for the sheriff in his own home.
Just two blocks away on the other side of the city park, the house sat deep on a generous lot with bright beds of zinnias, marigolds and petunias protected from the scorching winds by well-grown silver maples. The sheriff's wife, Charlotte Metzger, a lovely woman dressed in white slacks and a blue silk blouse, met us at the door. Her golden brown hair was piled into a delightfully frowsy knot that threatened to spill from the top of her head with every movement. A slightly ski-jump nose with a finely chiseled tip, and a too-large mouth, lent a whimsical touch to her face, which might otherwise have been thought too sweet.
She ushered us in, enveloping Opal in a flood of sympathy and concern that actually brought a few tears to the stolid woman's eyes. Then Charlotte Metzger turned her full attention to me, taking my hand in both of hers.
"And you must be Thea Barlow. Welcome to Garnet Pass." Her brilliant hazel eyes widened a bit as she scrutinized my face. With a smile she glanced knowingly from me to Max and back again, gushing, "We've heard so much about you. What a treat to finally meet you in person."
A bit much, I thought, but her smile was mesmerizing, and I found myself responding like a simpering idiot, completely caught up in her intense brand of friendliness.
She turned back to Opal and said, "I'm sure the news is out by now, Opal, and as soon as your friends hear where you are they'll be stopping by. You know how they are. So I'm just going to tuck you all in Rusty's office, where you won't be bothered 'til you're ready to be bothered."
She led us down a hallway lined with beautifully framed oil paintings of aspens, mountains, and stark desert scenes. Above them, filling the upper reaches of the walls, hung exquisite pieces of American Indian art and artifacts: bead and quill work, painted hides, basketry and leather coup sticks dark with age. The displays continued into the office with pottery on shelves and a Navajo Two Grey Hills weaving as the piece de resistance above the desk. I'd priced a few Indian rugs in my day, and knew one that size with its beautiful gray, black and beige pattern would be worth a small fortune. So would the bronze that stood on a pedestal in the corner. A Charlie Russell, if I wasn't mistaken. There had to be some money around here other than a small-town sheriff's salary.
Charlotte motioned us to sit on the leather sofa, disappeared down the hall, and reappeared almost instantly with a plate of cookies and mugs of iced tea.
"Here now." She placed the tray on the coffee table. "Relax as long as you like. There's a bathroom through there. Max, Rusty's on the beeper and would like to talk to you, and
—"
She stilled at the sound of the doorbell and cocked her head as if she heard something none of the rest of us were able to hear. Her lids dropped over her eyes briefly while she rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers. "And that," she said, with a startling edge of anger, "will be my father."
Chapter 5
Her composure quickly recovered, Charlotte Metzger turned to Max and said brightly, "Dad blew in from Jackson Hole last night. Be a dear, Max, and keep him out of my hair while I get some sandwiches going, will you, please?" I almost thought I'd imagined seeing that sweet tranquil face contorted in a flash of fury.
Once more Charlotte urged Opal and me to relax for as long as we wanted, and took off down the hall after Max, closing the door behind her.
The cookies, thick and lumpy with chunks of chocolate and pecans, were wonderful. The bathroom was inviting as well, but I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to get up from the wondrous comfort of the soft leather cushions to take advantage of it. All systems were on pause for the moment.
We munched in silence. Opal sighed and took a second cookie. "Poor Ronnie Mae. She was really good about taking her medicine. I don't know what could have happened."
I murmured something inconsequential.
"I guess I'm gonna have to change my will now. I was going to leave all my land to Ronnie Mae. Not that there's much more than a couple sections left. Clyde and me been selling it off over the years. All Clyde ever wanted was the store and the few acres around it. He don't care two hoots for the Four Mile ruins. But Ronnie Mae, she took a fancy to it, used to love digging around out there when she was a kid. She even found an old growed-over grave of one of the whores called Diamond Dovey. The Historic Society came out and made a to-do about it, looked up the old girl's history and everything. Guess she had a diamond chip inlaid in one of her front teeth. But then it all died down. Anyway, I knew Ronnie Mae would take care of the ruins when I was gone."
We munched some more, then Opal dusted off her hands and said, "So, Max says you're a writer. Said you might want to do a story about the Four Mile? Would you actually get it published in a magazine?"
Dead in Hog Heaven (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Three) Page 3
