"Well, yes," I said, surprised that Ronnie Mae's passing got side-tracked so quickly. "I'm sure Western True Adventures will publish the story."
She chortled. "Wouldn't that just fry old Elton Rydell." She took a big chug from her mug of frosty tea, then quietly contemplated the rivulets of condensation traveling down the side of the glass.
I sipped my tea and—guilt be damned—took another cookie, savoring it slowly, letting the chunks of chocolate melt sweetly on my tongue while Opal's words washed over me.
"That old hog ranch is in my blood, you know. My great-great-grandfather started that roadhouse way back in the eighteen seventies, then started buying up the land around it. It's been all kinds of things since, but nothing more than ruins the last seventy-five years or so."
"Was there ever a store there?"
"Yes, my grandpa built a little store there by the ruins and ran a post office for awhile, but it was never very successful. Then in the 'fifties Clyde wanted to build another store closer to the road."
"And was it always called Hog Heaven?"
"I wanted to call it the Four Mile, for history's sake, you know, but all the folks around here had called the old ruins Hog Heaven for so long that it just stuck. I'd sure like to see what's left of the Four Mile rebuilt, or at least protected so's they don't disappear altogether." She drained her mug and set it down on the coffee table with a thud. "All that's left now is a string of cribs used by the women to entertain the men. Kind of spooky to go in the place sometimes, but I've always been drawn to it."
She shook her head and sighed heavily. "Poor Ronnie Mae. Nothing ever turns out like you think it's going to, does it? Don't know what Danny will do now that she's gone. He's her husband, you know. Don't imagine he'll stick around here for long. He never liked it much as far as I could tell."
She shifted her weight around, beginning the struggle to rise from the deep couch. I drew myself up from the depths to help her.
"Only the Lord knows what's going to happen next," she said with the optimistic outlook that seemed to be part of her nature.
"Here, let me help you," I said, once again offering my arm for leverage.
"Thank you, dear. I guess I've really talked your ear off, haven't I?" She heaved herself to her feet and shifted her skirt and loose top back into place. I handed her her cane. "And maybe changing the will now isn't such a bad idea. Clyde might just be changing his mind about how much land he wants what with all these new things happening. We're pretty excited about the Astral Projection people. They want to put in a whole conference set-up out by Hog Heaven. Going to put up some renovation money for the Four Mile, too, maybe even rebuild the site, call it giving back to the community. It'll mean more money—and excitement—than Clyde and I have seen for forty years."
I told her I had stopped by the Hog Heaven store that morning, but hadn't seen the old Four Mile.
"You come on out tomorrow and I'll show you around. I've got all kinds of stories and even some old pictures I can show you."
"Oh, but..." I hated to remind her that she would have other things to do tomorrow.
"It's all right, I know what you're thinking. But Danny will want to make all the arrangements for Ronnie Mae himself. I'll have nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs," she said, with a surprising touch of bitterness. "Twila's coming out, too, but she won't get there 'til noon, probably. She's got all kinds of animals to take care of in the morning. So you just come on out around ten o'clock. Won't bother me none, in fact it will help take my mind off things."
I heard the doorbell chime for the third time, and the sounds of voices began to drift into our retreat. I wanted to find Max and get out of here before I became part of a wake, surrounded by too many people, none of whom I knew.
I gave Opal my condolences and a hug, surprised to find I truly felt as if I'd known her for years rather than hours.
I found Max huddled in a corner of the kitchen with Jennifer, she of the amber tresses.
"Hello, there," I said brightly. "What are you two so deep in conversation about?" I regretted my bitchiness almost immediately, but was too tired to be cool.
Max raised his eyebrow in sardonic inquiry. Yeah, right, I thought. He put his hand on the nape of my neck.
"Hi," Jennifer said, with what I thought was a rather smug smile. She tossed her hair, and it was just like one of those slow-motion tosses you see on shampoo commercials with shimmering strands flying out to catch the light, then falling back perfectly in place. I'd kill for hair like that.
"I've been telling Max about the new things I've bought for his bedroom."
I declined to react, but cringed when she gave Max another one of those you-are-the-most-wonderful-man-in-the-world looks.
"Have you seen his house yet? I hope you like what I've done for him."
You bet. "No, I haven't seen it yet, but I'm very much looking forward to doing so," I said, just as sweetly as she. Max's lazy-lidded eyes revealed nothing.
A tall cadaverous man with a leonine head of brilliant white hair came through the door. "What you all doing hiding out back here?" he asked, slapping a hand on Max's shoulder.
Max stood upright and twitched his shoulder imperceptibly away from the hand. I knew instantly that he detested the man.
"Hi, Ivar," Jennifer said gaily.
He was dressed rather theatrically in jeans, lizard boots, and a soft yellow leather jacket with fringe on the sleeves and yolk. I expected Max to introduce me, but he remained silent. Jennifer stepped into the breach.
"This old man is Ivar Norquist, Charlotte's father. Ivar, Thea Barlow, Max's..." she couldn't bring herself to say the dreaded F word, so settled for a more innocuous one, "...friend from Chicago."
"Always glad to meet a beautiful woman," Ivar Norquist said. He grasped my hand warmly in both of his, holding it a bit longer than necessary. His eyes slid over to Max, then back to me. "Sure hope you're not hooking up with this tight-assed bastard." His laugh had a malicious bite. "I'm a much better catch."
Max's fingers tightened on my shoulder, but before either he or I could make a snappy comeback Ivar was on to something else.
"Charlotte sent me in here to tell you all to come get a plate of food. The old biddies have loaded down the table already and it's up to us to ease the burden. Come," he said with a mock bow and flourish. "We must join the merry band of mourners for the most vicious little bitch I've ever known."
"Shhh," Jennifer said, stifling a giggle and jabbing his arm with her fist. "You're awful."
"No, I'm truthful." He grabbed her elbow—I wouldn't have been surprised if he put his hand on her fanny—and walked her out of the kitchen with the loose-jointed, gimpy gait of a broken-down cowboy.
Max shook his head in disgust. "Let's find Rusty." We followed them into the living room.
Opal sat in a big easy chair with a plate of food on her lap surrounded by sympathetic friends. She glanced up as we entered the room. If she'd heard Ivar Norquist's remarks, she didn't let on, but then she'd said something similar to me herself, hadn't she? What was it? That Ronnie Mae was an unpleasant person, or something like that.
She snagged Max and me as we walked by and introduced me to more people whose names I wouldn't be able to remember, until I finally pulled Max aside and said, "I've got to get out of here."
"Right. I'll find Rusty," he said. "I know he wants your version of what happened when Ronnie Mae went down, but there's no reason he can't talk to you tomorrow. Wait here." He slipped off down the hall.
I looked for Charlotte Metzger, ready to leave regardless of what the sheriff might say, and found her holding yet another offering of food, her head bent close to hear the words of a new arrival. Though she appeared attentive, I could see her eyes darting around the room over the woman's shoulder. Charlotte looked frazzled, distracted, as if she were trying to watch over too many things at one time. The newcomer moved off and Charlotte put the plate on the table and pulled nervously at the sleeves of her blouse. I di
dn't envy her role as sheriff's wife if it entailed this kind of thing very often. She might as well be married to a minister.
She jumped when I touched her arm. "Ah, Thea, there you are," she said, as if I'd been truly lost for ages. "I'm afraid I've been neglecting you. This must be awful for you."
"No, it's awful for you," a voice said coming up behind us. I turned and saw the elegant woman with the wise eyes I'd met earlier in the day with Jennifer. She took Charlotte's and my elbow and walked us to a quiet alcove. Her prematurely gray hair was caught up in a fat French braid now, but she still wore the pale sand-colored long skirt and fabulous silver jewelry. Up close I could see that the necklace I'd thought was Indian fetish beads was actually a new-agey piece of filigree-capped crystals interspersed with symbolic silver beads of ankhs and what have you.
"Thea," Charlotte said, ever the hostess, "this is Yvonne Sullivan."
"We've met." Yvonne gave me a smile. "This woman," she confided, indicating Charlotte with a nod of her head, "needs to learn how to say 'shit' now and then."
Charlotte grimaced, her eyes still searching the room distractedly. "Have you seen Dad? I don't know what he—"
"Last I saw him he was out front smoking and trying to charm the pants off Jennifer, though what he'd do if he succeeded, I can't imagine."
I shot a quick glance at Charlotte, but she took no objection to the wry comment, or wasn't paying attention.
"I just wish I knew what he—"
Yvonne cut her off again. "Now stop trying to change the subject. How did you get talked into this?" She gestured at the crowded room.
"I didn't, really," Charlotte said with a glance around the room. "It just sort of happened. It's all right, really. Opal needed a place to wait. Clyde's on his way in, and Twila's coming to pick them up. She'll take them—"
"Twila Pettigrew? She's not bringing that damn chicken, is she?"
"Lord, I hope not. That's all I need."
Max came down the hall, gave me a high sign and motioned to the door. Relieved, I gave up trying to pretend I knew and/or understood what they were talking about.
I thanked Charlotte for her hospitality, and said goodbye to both of them, suddenly so tired I could hardly keep my head up. I tried to pull my hand from Charlotte's, but she gripped it tightly, staring at me intently.
"There it is again," she said, turning to Yvonne. "Do you see it?" The two women exchanged looks mixed equally with incredulity and excitement.
"Yes, of course," Yvonne said, "now, and when I first saw her."
"What are you talking about?" I asked impatiently. I'd about had it with all this mumbo-jumbo.
Yvonne shrugged and looked reluctant to speak, but Charlotte burst out with it. "It's your aura. Unbelievable! You have the most astonishing aura I've ever seen!"
Chapter 6
Aura, my foot! I stomped out to Max's truck.
"What's wrong with all these people?" I groused at him. "Auras, astral projection, sleeping dragons! Have they all gone mad?" Max recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one, and let me rail on. "What happened to all those salt-of-the-earth folks who talked about the weather and heifers and bum lambs?"
"Like Sheila Rides Horse?" Max asked dryly, handing me up into the truck. He closed the door and walked around.
I felt like a punctured balloon. How could I have forgotten Sheila Rides Horse? We had shared some horrendous experiences on my last Wyoming venture two years ago. Sheila, a wonderfully phlegmatic native American woman of uncertain years, claimed her tribe was South Dakota Catholic. She introduced me to my first psychic experiences through Tarot cards, and scared the living bejesus out of me in the process. I'd done my best to forget those events.
"Oh, Max," I said, settling into the seat with a sigh of pleasure. So heavenly to be alone with him at last, away from everyone else. "I'm sorry I'm being so bitchy. Auras are just a bit more than I can take at this point." I rubbed my cheek against his arm, and he pulled me close. "I even like all these people, particularly Yvonne, and Charlotte, too, but is she always so... so nervous?"
"Nervous?" he murmured against my ear. "What do you mean?"
"That might not be the right word, but she seemed so kind of overwrought, you know, just this side of taking off for Mars or something."
He grinned and shook his head. "I know Rusty a lot better than Charlotte. He and I've been doing some team roping together, but I haven't been around her that much." He shrugged and started up the truck. "She didn't seem any different to me."
"It might have something to do with her father."
Max snorted. "He'd make anyone nervous."
"What do you mean?"
"The guy's a crook. Wherever there's dirty money to be made you'll find Ivar Norquist lurking around. He's made and lost more fortunes than I'll ever see."
"Sounds like you've had dealings with him."
"Yeah." He pulled away and started up the truck. "Back in the 'seventies, he was all over the oil fields. He damn near brought my partner down with one of his scam deals."
"Well, Charlotte didn't seem real happy to have him around. What do you suppose he's doing here?"
"Who knows? Probably sponging off Charlotte and Rusty 'til the heat cools off some deal."
Max pulled away from the curb and we forgot about Ivar and Charlotte and settled into one of those silly routines about who was going to do what about my car, which was still parked in the lot by the Town Hall. Max made the decision by driving two blocks and parking in front of a small clapboard house with a gingerbread-trimmed front porch.
"This is it," he said. "Your first home in Wyoming." Escorting me to the door, he presented the key with a flourish. "Go on in and look around. I'll get your car and bring it down. It's only three blocks away." He held out his hand for my car keys.
"Bless you," I said with a tired grin, then plopped the keys into his palm. Max walked off into the soft evening darkness, and with a thrill of anticipation, I unlocked my front door.
I'd spent hours on the phone with Max and a real estate agent trying to find a suitable rental. Max had made the final decision among the few things available. He'd chosen well.
The house was darling: old, with built-in china cabinets, bookcases, and other fanciful touches of wood trim one just doesn't find in newer homes. There was even a tiny front parlor that would be perfect for my office.
The furnishings were minimal, but adequate, just like I'd asked for. Bare bones until I decided what I wanted to get out of storage. Gamboling like a kid in spring, I poked around in the closets and kitchen cupboards, which Max had stocked, or had Jennifer done the honors? But even that thought didn't daunt me.
A bottle of wine with a note tied round its neck signed Love, Max, stood on the dining table. When he returned, I threw my arms around his neck and said, "I love it. It's perfect. Thank you."
We unloaded the car, and while I put away my personal stuff, Max did something marvelous in the kitchen with eggs, tomatoes, onions, and crisp, fiery chunks of sausage. The man forever surprised me.
We ate and talked, catching each other up on recent events in our separate lives, forgetting for a moment this day's events. We took the last of the mellow, raspberry-scented wine to the living room and, snuggled into the sofa, I finally got around to the question that had been nagging at me off and on all day. "Tell me about the house you're building, and Jennifer. She's in love with you, you know."
"Oh, come on, I wouldn't put it that strong."
"It's obviously true, and I'll have you know I'm wildly jealous."
He laughed and pulled me close. That he thought I was joking felt oddly satisfying and I found myself—at least for the moment—reassured.
"And the house?" I asked.
"The house began as a business proposition, not something I planned to live in. It's a straw bale house."
"A what?"
He laughed. "The walls are built with tightly packed, forty-pound bales of straw encased in mortar walls. Ultra en
ergy efficient and ecologically sound." He gave me one of those flashing devilish smiles that turned my marrow to mush. "You should see your face."
I suppose my mouth was hanging open. "But wouldn't it go up like a torch in the first lightning storm?"
"Not since it's protected by mortar walls, and besides, the straw is packed so tightly it becomes more fire resistant than wood."
I was amazed and, I must say, totally fascinated. I'd read about some movie star's western home built with a foundation of old tires, but straw bales?
"The house was Chet's idea. Chet Overbeck, the mayor," he added, detecting a lapse of memory on my part. "I bought a piece of land about fifteen miles north of here that took my fancy. Actually," he added as a point of interest, "it abuts the Bodies' land, but more about that later.
"Anyway, Chet's hot about alternative building methods, thinks it could be a big attraction for this area. He put up two modest straw bales on spec himself, and plans to showcase them during the job and business fair. He thought it would be great to have an up-scale example, too."
That Max had bought land here didn't surprise me at all. He owned bits and pieces of property throughout the state, ranging from very small to quite sizable. It satisfied his need to be a landowner, the result of childhood poverty and being ridiculed during his school years for being the child of an itinerant sheepherder.
"And Chet wanted you to finance the house?"
"Yeah, but I was glad to. Actually the building process is pretty damn interesting. Volunteers helped stack the bales and did a lot of the other work, too. Jennifer and Yvonne took on the decorating. It's been more like a community project. I'll show it to you in the morning."
But in the morning we decided to postpone the excursion until later in the day. Max had business he wanted to tie up that would then free him for the rest of the week, so I decided to take Opal up on her invitation to tour the ruins at Hog Heaven.
Dead in Hog Heaven (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Three) Page 4
