When she felt flexible again, she went to the phone in the kitchen and dialed. A woman answered in that brisk business way of a secretary and when Heather asked to speak to Humphrey, the woman explained that Mr. DiEbola was not available, but that she would take a message. The tone implied that the caller would be very lucky if she ever heard from Mr. DiEbola. But Heather simply gave her name and number and hurried back to the stove. Humphrey rang back within two minutes.
“What is this, you're still in Montana?” Humphrey asked.
“Where am I supposed to be?” Heather answered.
“So what is this number? Is this a good number? Why am I even talking to you? You took my money and then you didn't do the job.”
“This number's all right,” Heather said. “It's a good number.” They both understood this to mean that it was a safe number, not a number that would be tapped. “I didn't do the job,” she said, “because you and your guys butted in. I had the job made, but then you kept sticking your nose in.”
“You were at the cabin?” Humphrey said.
“Hell yes, I was at the cabin.”
“But you didn't get burned. Hmmm. How did you avoid the cops?”
“I just avoided them,” Heather said. “I'm secure, nobody even knows I exist.”
“So now you're sittin’ and wondering.” There was a long silence. “Okay,” he said, finally, “what do you want?”
“What do you want?” Heather said. “You want me to follow through?”
“You still want to do it?”
“Why wouldn't I want to do it? I contracted to do it. The only thing is,” she said, “I don't know where to go. I mean, where is the prick?”
“I was kind of hoping you knew,” Humphrey said.
Heather thought about that for a minute, then she said, “If you want me to find your guy, I'll find him. Only it will cost you. Your guys barged in and blew my operation just when I was about to come down on the little prick. I mean, like within minutes. So now, I have to find the guy, too? I thought I was just supposed to do the number.”
This wasn't an accurate description of how things had gone, but Heather wasn't about to tell Humphrey that she had botched the job. She had seen the TV version. The so-called burglars were obviously Humphrey's boys. It was important that Humphrey should believe that she had been interrupted in the nearly successful accomplishment of her assigned task. Humphrey seemed to buy it.
She stood by the window, watching the barn. It was bitter outside, the wind whisking snow across the stiffened drifts, swirling about in the lane between the house and the bam. She didn't want Grace to catch her talking on the phone. But then she realized that was a foolish thought. It would make no difference whatever.
“So do you know where he is?” she asked Humphrey.
Humphrey was not inclined to let on to Heather that he had lost contact with Joe Service. He considered the value of keeping Heather on contract. It sounded to him like she was secure, had somehow gotten out of the trouble at the cabin, but for all he knew she might be talking on a police phone, trying to entice him into an incriminating situation at the connivance of the Butte cops or, worse, Mulheisen. But . . . he thought, why limit your resources?
“Don't get your tights in a tangle,” he said. “We got a line on him. How about you? You okay? You need anything?”
“I'm okay for now, but I'm going to need more money soon. Just point me in the right direction.”
What a refreshing attitude. Humphrey liked this. Everybody else seemed to need something. Mostly money. Well, always money—and up front. He hadn't liked Heather. He'd thought it wasn't a good idea to hire her in the first place, but this response was encouraging.
“Salt Lake,” he said. “That's what I'm hearing. I don't know exactly where the man is, but it sounds like he's hanging around there. He's got some kind of business, something he's up to.”
“Is he alone?” Heather wanted to know. She was thinking about Helen.
“He had some kind of little blond bimbo with him, but apparently she split. That's all I know.”
“You want me to go to Salt Lake?” Heather asked.
“If you're gonna do the job,” Humphrey said. “For all I know, he ain't there anymore. But he was there. By the time you get there I should know more. Call me when you get in.” He hung up.
Heather was happy with this exchange. Humphrey wasn't pissed, or not too much, anyway. He bought her explanation, such as it was. She was still on the job. She wanted the job. There was nothing she wanted more than to wring Joe Service's neck.
But first, there were other necks to be wrung. Only safety measures, but just as fatal. She crept back to the stove. It was so warm. She turned her back to the stove and hiked up the flannel nightgown, rubbing her naked buttocks. What could be nicer? But it made even more unpleasant the next step in her morning plans. She had to get dressed now and go out into the cold.
She was feeling pretty good. Her wound was healing nicely and, except for a little stiffness, she could move without any pain. She would have liked to have rested a few more days, but she knew better. So far, no one had come around to inquire about her, but how long could that last? Even if Cateyo didn't mention her to the police, someone would say, “Whatever happened to that young woman, that Heather?” Somebody eventually would seek her out. It was inevitable. And it might be happening at this moment. Even on Christmas morning a sheriff's deputy could be driving toward the Garland Ranch, looking for her. And there was the ditch rider. Through the kitchen window she could see the ditch rider's pickup truck up on the ditch road behind the house, a quarter mile away. She was feeding cattle. Apparently, even on Christmas day the cattle had to be fed. The ditch rider hadn't been a problem, yet. But the ditch rider knew that someone was staying at Grace's place. It was a problem . . . maybe. Heather had seen a check lying on the kitchen counter near the door, made out to Sally McIntyre.
So Heather had to leave. She was healthy enough. To stay any longer was begging discovery. Heather resented it, though. She was pretty sure that Grace was planning something special for today. She would have put together some kind of gift for her, Heather was sure. And her daughter was expected to come over from Bozeman. Grace would be planning a special dinner—there was a turkey thawing on the kitchen counter. In the evening she would read again from Dickens's The Cricket on the Hearth. Heather felt a slight pang. She had enjoyed the story. She wanted to hear the rest of it, about Dot Peerybingle and Tilly Slowboy and . . . oh well, one day she would buy the damn book and read it for herself.
Heather considered her plans while she dressed in jeans and a sweater, clothing belonging to Grace's daughter, stored in a dresser. They fit well enough. Should she wait until the ditch rider came by for the check, even if it meant having to meet the woman? The ditch rider could always identify her. But there was no telling how long it would be before the ditch rider came down to the ranch house. With luck, she could be gone by then, and it would look like she and Grace had driven into town, perhaps to church. The old lady had said something about going to Christmas services.
She pulled on her boots, found an old down jacket and some gloves, and stepped outside for the first time in days. It was a bright, sunny day, but the cold and the wind took her breath away. It was just about too damn cold for this business. But business was business. She stepped into the deep holes in the drifts made by Grace and huffed the fifty feet or so to the weathered wooden door of the barn.
Inside, it was surprisingly warm. Or, if not exactly warm, it was noticeably warmer, chilly but endurable. You could see your breath. Dust and chaff drifted in the shafts of light that slipped through the cracks between the siding planks. There was a great roaring of wind in the high space of the main chamber and the rich aroma of cows and hay. The milk cows were all crowded together at one end, and there it was quite warm. Grace had evidently already milked the cows and done something with the milk, probably put it into the gleaming metal device in another room beyond, a room
that was spotlessly clean and was kept heated electrically. Grace was not present here, either, however. Heather supposed she had gone on to the henhouse, which was a small, more weatherproof building just behind the barn. Grace had already cleaned the cows’ stalls, however, hosing down the manure gutters. The cows looked up placidly, munching on the remains of the hay that had been forked into their mangers yesterday.
Heather went back out into the main space of the barn. A tractor and a truck were parked there, and above, in the lofts, there were great stacks of hay bales, piled nearly to the roof. She could hear pigeons gently cooing. The wind rattled around the barn, but despite the great amount of light seeping through and the huffing of the wind, it was quiet and warm. It was a peaceful place. Heather could not recall ever being in a barn, but it seemed familiar, somehow.
“Heather!”
Heather spun around. Grace had come in through another door and was staring at her with surprise. She was carrying a basket of eggs. “Honey, should you be out?” the old woman asked solicitously. “Well, you look all right.” She smiled. She was wearing a wool hunting cap with the earflaps pulled down over her short wiry hair. Her eyes sparkled and her nose was red. “I guess it's time for you to be up and about, but it won't do to get chilled. Here, honey.” She handed Heather the eggs. “Why don't you carry these back in to the house and I'll be along as soon as I throw down some more hay.”
Surprised and incapable of responding, Heather simply stood holding the basket of eggs. The old woman, dressed in brown duck overalls, walked with a rolling gait over to the ladder and climbed stiffly and clumsily in her heavy pacs up the rungs. It was a homemade ladder and whoever had built it had set the two-by-four cross-pieces rather far apart for the short legs of Grace, but she hauled herself up. “Watch out below!” she called out cheerily, as she began to heave bales of hay onto a chute that led down into the cow byre. When the chute was full of bales, she clambered down and went into the byre, trailed by Heather. She took a utility knife from her pocket and cut the orange plastic twine that held the bales together, then she began to fork fresh hay into the mangers.
Heather dropped the eggs onto the floor. Grace turned, staring in horror at the broken eggs. Heather punched her in the face, knocking her down. But the old lady clung to the hayfork. Sprawled on the wet concrete floor of the cow byre, she lashed out with the fork and it ripped through the left leg of the jeans, biting into Heather's flesh. Heather hissed with pain and danced back.
Grace tossed the hayfork aside and scrambled with surprising agility on all fours toward the doorway. There she snatched up the .30-.30 and turned triumphantly toward Heather. To her surprise Heather stopped and laughed, then came forward.
“Honey, I will definitely shoot,” the old woman said. Her voice was so convincing that even though Heather knew that the gun was unloaded, she stopped. “What is it you want?” Grace asked. “What do I have that you want?”
Heather looked at her with contempt. “You don't have anything I want.”
“Then get the hell out of here, before I pull the trigger on this thing.”
Heather laughed and took a step forward.
The rifle made a surprisingly flat noise in the confines of the byre. The cows shifted uncomfortably, but didn't stop chewing. Heather was shocked and stunned. She looked down at herself. She hadn't felt an impact, but she expected to see blood. Then she realized she hadn't been shot. The bullet had missed. She started forward and stopped, staring in surprise.
Grace was sprawled on her back, the rifle lying to one side. She seemed to be staring at the dusty boards that formed the ceiling of the byre. Heather kicked the rifle aside, then knelt by the old woman. She was breathing faintly, a slight haze of breath hanging in the chilly air. Then that dissipated. The old woman was dead.
Heather was astonished. A heart attack? It must have been. How very, very fortunate. The body lay quite close to the spilled basket with its broken eggs. It would look completely natural. Heather picked up the rifle, intending to take it back to the house, where it belonged. But as she started out through the weathered wooden door, the ditch rider's pickup truck came into the lane, driving slowly through the snow. Quickly she set the rifle inside the door and stepped out.
The ditch rider pulled the truck up next to Heather and leaned out the opened window. “Hi,” she called. “You must be Red's cousin, eh? I'm Sally.” She stuck out her hand. Heather smiled and shook the gloved hand. “Where's Red—er, Grace?”
“She's in the barn,” Heather said. “You want to see her? Come on in.”
“Oh, I just stopped for the check and to drop this off,” Sally said, handing a brightly wrapped Christmas present through the window. “I got to get back to the kids. Christmas morning, you know. Tell Grace I'll stop by for the check tomorrow.”
“Oh, no, wait!” Heather said. “The check's on the counter. I'll get it. I'm sure Grace would love to see you. C'mon in for a minute.” She took hold of the door handle, as if to open it.
“Aw, I can't cash it till tomorrow, anyway. Hey, what happened there?” Sally pointed to the other woman's torn pant leg. Blood had stained the jeans.
Heather looked down, dropping her hand from the door handle. “Oh. Oh that. I'm such a klutz! I scratched it on some barbed wire, helping Grace. I was just going in to take care of it. I can get your check. Why don't you wait here, or go in and visit with Grace.”
“Sorry. Gotta run! You take care of that, now. You don't want to get blood poisoning from some old rusty wire. Merry Christmas!” Sally gunned the engine with a wave and drove on out the snowy driveway, her big four-wheel-drive tires blasting a nice path.
In the mirror she caught a glimpse of the woman standing in the drive, waving vaguely. Klutz, she thought. Flatlander.
After he hung up from Heather, Humphrey buzzed for Pepe. Five minutes later, Pepe sauntered in, still wearing his apron. “Pepe,” Humphrey said, “do we have some salsa? Anything.”
“Boss, I got salsa, I got some jalapeňos stuffed with hot cheese . . . you want me to do the jalapeňos? I got a turkey with corn-bread pepper stuffing for dinner. How many we got?”
“Has Miss Helen had breakfast?” Humphrey asked. “Bring me the salsa, then I want to talk to you. But be sure that Miss Helen is taken care of.”
The beauteous Caroline brought the deep-fried jalapeňos, stuffed with hot cheese. Humphrey devoured three of them, then stopped. The cheese was too fattening, he thought. That morning he had discovered that he weighed only 219 pounds. He hadn't weighed 219 pounds since he was fourteen. He didn't want to weigh less, or more. He felt terrific. He owed it all to the pepper diet and Pepe. He imagined that Caroline looked at him with desire. He nibbled on the salsa, dishing it up with Pepe's own oven-baked chips. It was incredible. Hot, totally vegetable, almost no fat. When Pepe came back Humphrey asked him about the chips.
“They are tostados,” Pepe explained.
“I can see that,” Humphrey said, “but why do they taste so good?”
“I bake him. I don't fry. Also, I put a little ground pepper, a little salt . . . you like, eh?”
“They're very good, Pepe. And they aren't greasy.”
“Almost no fat, boss.” Pepe smiled broadly. “You like, eh?”
“Pepe, when I tasted my first potato chip I didn't know if I liked it,” Humphrey said. “But it was salty. I ate another. Within a few minutes I was hooked. But I shouldn't have been. I make chips for a living, you know. Corn chips, too, but they don't taste like this and they aren't good for you.”
Pepe knew about Krispee Chips. It wasn't exactly Humphrey's “living.” But he nodded.
“Pepe, you are going to make these chips for Krispee. They'll be famous. The day after tomorrow, we'll go down to the factory. You'll be the boss. You'll still cook here, but you will become . . . mmmm.” Humphrey thought for a moment. “Production manager. Starting now, your salary goes up. Way up. Now get out of here.”
Humphrey felt great. It was Christm
as. He enjoyed doing things for people, especially competent people like Pepe. Good people. You had to have good people or you were nowhere.
After a while, Helen came in. She looked rested and very lovely. “Merry Christmas,” she said, without any warmth.
“Merry Christmas,” Humphrey said. “Listen, I been talking to some of my people out west. They're on to Joe. Can you give me a line on him?”
“Where is he?” she asked eagerly. Caroline came in with a Bloody Mary, the glass stuffed with celery and olives.
“A guy I know, an old friend, says he's in Salt Lake,” Humphrey said. He was wearing a black silk jumpsuit. He looked almost elegant in it. His great round face had become almost lean. He was actually not too bad looking. He still had all his hair and it was still black. His eyes looked larger, almost glowing. He got up to poke at the fire in the fireplace. Near by was a Christmas tree, which Caroline and one of the guards had decorated. Humphrey picked up a wrapped package from under the tree and tossed it onto the couch next to Helen. “Merry Christmas,” he said. Helen tore off the wrapping and found an antique jade necklace. It was beautiful.
“Unca Umby,” she said, “thank you. You're so sweet.” She held the necklace to her breast.
Humphrey smiled. He loved giving gifts.
“Salt Lake,” he said. “What is Joe doing in Salt Lake?”
“It's a place,” Helen said. She laid the necklace aside. “I'm sorry I didn't get you something.”
“Forget it,” Humphrey said. “What do you mean, ‘It's a place'?”
“Well, there's no place in Montana, for instance. It's all country. Do you know where he's staying?” She sipped the Bloody Mary.
“He was staying in a hotel,” Humphrey said, “but now he's split. But we think he's still hanging around.”
Dead Folks Page 16
