The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “That’s the one,” Skye smiled. Unexpectedly, she felt something tucked firmly into her hair beneath her hat brim in front of her left ear. Startled, she twisted around in time to see Holmes sitting back in his saddle, his hand returning to his side, his horse almost abreast of hers. She put up curious fingers, touching the object he’d placed in her hair, finding a spray of lupine. He must’ve dismounted and picked one while I was identifying them, she thought. She gave him a shy smile. “Thank you.”

  “Hm. It matches your eyes.” Holmes nodded. “I hope I do not offend. I have a vague recollection that to place the flower behind one ear means one thing, and behind the other, another. But I have no idea what. Such things never meant much to me.” He turned his horse to continue their ride. “What a pity the flower itself represents dejection.”

  “Does it?” Skye wondered, nudging her horse into a brief trot to catch him up. “How odd. How can something that looks like a piece of the sky on earth possibly represent dejection?”

  “It can also mean voraciousness, and imagination. Perhaps we may arrive at it via the story of Icarus and Daedalus. Desire exceeding reach.” Holmes shrugged.

  “Oh, nice,” she commented, grasping the idea. “Good illustration.”

  “In your case, however, I should think it represents imagination…for the most part.”

  * * *

  He watched as she pondered his remark for several moments. Finally she nodded to herself. Then she threw him a meditative glance, as if wondering how much he knew or suspected; Holmes smiled innocently, returning his attention to the lovely spring day.

  “Today could not be a better day for an outing,” he observed contentedly. “Comfortable, warm, and strikingly beautiful.”

  Skye smiled, then expressed his sentiments in her own way.

  “‘When it’s springtime in the Rockies,

  I am coming back to you,

  Little sweetheart of the mountains,

  With your bonny eyes of blue.

  Once again I’ll say I love you,

  While the birds sing all the day.

  When it’s springtime in the Rockies,

  In the Rockies, far away,’” she sang happily.

  Skye had a good voice, pitched low and soft, and Holmes listened with obvious pleasure as her song echoed among the stones.

  “Lovely,” he praised when it ended. “No doubt some young man has sung this to you; it fits you perfectly, my dear.”

  * * *

  “Oh,” Skye said, a hint of warmth creeping into her cheeks. “No. No one’s ever sung that to me.” Her voice sounded flat, even to her own ears.

  “Oh?” Holmes remarked, casting a skeptical glance her way. “I find that surprising.”

  “Why?” Skye wondered, wishing mightily she hadn’t broken into song.

  “You are hardly unappealing, Skye. I should have thought, with your looks and your intellect, you would have suitors and to spare.” Holmes cocked his head.

  * * *

  “You’d be wrong. Aside from the fact most men my age are already taken…”

  “Wait. How old are you?” Holmes blinked in surprise.

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Thirty-eight? I took you for…” he broke off, pondering. ‘Twenty years of work…It’s your whole career…’ he recalled. Holmes’ eyebrows rose. “No, that would not match your career history. You do appear younger, my dear. So what is the true reason you have no suitors, when you are so pleasant to the eye and so intelligent?”

  “The intellect seems to be the very thing scares ‘em off.”

  “You jest.” Holmes’ eyes widened.

  “Don’t I wish,” she sighed. “You can’t imagine. There was this one guy—when I was an undergraduate at university—he was pre-medicine. He thought I was a nursing student and started flirting with me. When he found out I was a physics major, he literally jumped backward. Knocked over three desks to get away.”

  “Now that IS a joke.” Holmes stared.

  “Nope. Really happened.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she averred, then pointed out the golden eagle in the rock cleft ahead.

  She has sharp eyes and a talent for diversion, Holmes decided, observing the eagle, as well as a distinct tendency to hide or even suppress her feelings. We seem to have common ground, do Skye and I.

  * * *

  They stopped for a late luncheon at the Garden of the Gods Trading Post, tying their horses to the hitching posts outside. Inside, Holmes wandered about in fascination at the Native artwork of all kinds before Skye took him to the small restaurant in back. Their bison-burgers were made to order, and they got mugs of one of the locally brewed beers to go with the sandwiches. Skye led Holmes to a table beneath a monstrous stuffed grizzly bear, and he examined the artifact with interest while they ate. He also remarked on the flavorful meat, asking Skye how it was obtained, and if the Great Plains were still full of the animals.

  That launched them into a discussion of the history of the West. Holmes was saddened to hear of the decimation of the buffalo herds and the resultant devastation upon the Native American tribes of the region, not having realized what was happening in his own time, due to the slowness of international news. Skye explained there were still a few wild herds left, but the meat they were eating was ranch-raised. She also went on to explain how the Ute Indians and others had used nearby Ute Pass to ascend to the higher elevations, traveling from plain to mountain depending on season.

  “This is the route we shall use to reach your ranch later?” Holmes questioned, and Skye nodded. “I recall something about a gold rush. ‘Pikes Peak or bust.’ Is there still gold in the area?”

  “Oh, yes. As well as silver, copper, uranium, turquoise, lead, zinc and any number of other valuables. The ores are usually inside the necks of ancient volcanoes. If you like, our next outing can be to the gold mines around Cripple Creek, southwest of Pikes.”

  “You mean, the next time you can convince Morris to let me off my leash?” Holmes sighed.

  “Oh, give me time. I’ll get rid of that leash altogether soon.”

  “…I believe you.”

  * * *

  The map on the computer screen had been enlarged, focusing on the Garden of the Gods park area. The red X was stationary.

  “Subjects are in the trading post,” the hoarse voice reported into the phone. “Prepare Little Joe.”

  * * *

  After eating, they explored the niches of the trading post. Holmes found the items contained therein intriguing, ranging from the simplest trinkets to valuable handmade weavings and jewelry. He spent considerable time examining various items and finding he could deduce much about the artists from their works. Finally he met Skye at the front doors. She was carrying a bag of candy and a small parcel.

  “What do you have there?” Holmes wondered with a hidden smile, noting the way she held the parcel. She has a surprise of some sort, which she intends to reveal soon. She holds it discreetly, with expectation, yet has not placed it out of sight.

  “This?” she held up the bag of candy, offering him a piece. “This is my all-time favorite candy. Butterscotch drops, or as my dad used to call ‘em, ‘scutterbotch.’ Or did you mean this?” Skye held up the parcel, which she handed to him as they exited the post. “Here. A little present.”

  Holmes’ eyebrows rose, and he opened the paper bag, peering inside. A delighted smile spread across his face, and he pulled out a lovely pipe. The bowl was hand-carved from buffalo bone in a smooth, almost organic shape, and the long stem was likewise made from the horn of that animal; it nestled in Holmes’ hand as if it had been made especially for the long thin fingers. Alongside it was a package of organic, heirloom tobacco in a traditional Native American blend—the conversation with the medic immediately came to mind—and a velvet-soft deerskin pouch in which to keep it. Skye grinned sheepishly as he studied the gift.

  “Listen, you don’t have to use that if you don’t want it,
or don’t like it,” she added, nodding at the package he was already tucking into his shirt pocket. “I just thought…” She shrugged diffidently as they reached the hitching posts and untied their mounts. Holmes turned to face her, touched by her consideration. Multiple levels of consideration, he noted.

  “Why on earth would I not like it?” he wondered, swinging into the saddle, and they were off.

  * * *

  The afternoon was as delightful as the morning, marred only by one incident: An unexpected run-in with a park ranger who asked to see their identification, as they were running a park-wide security check. Holmes glanced at Skye, who returned the look calmly.

  “Here, hold this,” she murmured, handing the reins to Holmes, then dismounting. Reaching into her hip pocket, she extracted her wallet with one hand. Taking the ranger’s elbow with the other, she led him away from the bridle path. Holmes watched as she spoke to the ranger for several minutes, opening her wallet and extracting various cards and badges. The ranger’s eyes widened, and he nodded vigorously. Finally he walked Skye back to her horse and gave her a leg-up into the saddle.

  “Thank you, Doct—” he broke off, flushing. “Um, yes, well. Let me know immediately if you should need backup. Good hu…um, good afternoon.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Skye gave the ranger a friendly smile. “I do appreciate your being so understanding. You know how it is around here.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” the ranger grinned. “Never know what’s gonna turn up anymore. You two enjoy your ride, and like I said, call if you need backup.”

  “We’ll do that,” Skye grinned back. “C’mon, Holmes, let’s go.”

  Holmes handed over the reins, and together they nudged their horses into a trot. Behind them, the ranger waved until they rounded a bend in the trail and he disappeared behind some brush.

  * * *

  Eyes shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat peered between two boulders at the pair of horses, the couple riding them, and the ranger. A set of binoculars was raised to those eyes, and trained intently on the tableau. As the woman re-mounted and the horses set off, a small radio was raised as well.

  “Tracker, this is Little Joe. I’m on ‘em. No, no indication. Male subject may not be all he’s cracked up to be. Affirm. Wilco.”

  The binoculars, and the eyes behind them, vanished into the rocks and scrub.

  * * *

  Once they were out of the ranger’s earshot, Holmes drew his brows together and glanced around sharply, surveying the terrain, then shook his head ever so slightly, as if in dismissal.

  “That must have been an interesting cover story,” he murmured loudly enough for Skye alone to hear.

  “Well, you ARE a special investigator here from Great Britain…on a classified mission, working out of the air force base, and as you’re not here ‘officially,’ you had no identification that could be publicly utilized,” she smirked. “As your American liaison, identification and escort is my responsibility.” Skye chuckled devilishly.

  “All true.” Holmes’ lips twitched in amusement.

  “All true. Highly abridged, but true.”

  “My dear Skye, you are a quick thinker! There have been several cases in my career in which I would have welcomed your assistance.”

  “Oh, you never know, you might get it, yet.”

  * * *

  By the time they returned to the horse trailer, it was time to untack the horses, load up, and go. Holmes had already demonstrated his familiarity with the process that morning, and Skye was grateful to have his assistance in untacking. But she wouldn’t let him help her load the horses into the trailer.

  “No, that’s something you won’t be used to, and it can be dangerous. I’ve heard horse trailers described as ‘mobile bear caves,’ and sometimes that’s about what the horses think of ‘em. I’m used to this, and it won’t take me five minutes. If you would, though, you can put the saddles and bridles back in the tack room in the front of the trailer. There’s a rack for the sweaty saddle pads.”

  So Holmes put away their equipment while Skye loaded the horses. He was closing the door to the tack room when he heard her call.

  “Holmes?”

  “Yes, Skye?”

  “They’re out of hay. I’ve got a square bale on top of the trailer, in a brown cover. Can you run up the ladder and toss it down, cover and all? They’ll be a lot quieter and happier if they’ve got plenty of hay in their nets to eat on the drive.”

  “Of course, Skye.” Holmes had noted the ladder on the side of the trailer and his long legs made short work of it. He unfastened the restraints and tossed the bale over the side to a waiting Skye, and by the time he was down, she had the cover off and the twine cut, breaking the bale into flakes.

  “There we go,” she said in satisfaction. “Wanna help me feed ‘em?”

  Holmes smiled and scooped up several flakes of hay, following Skye into the trailer. They slipped between the horses until they could reach the hay nets. Skye plopped the hay into the net, and Iris greedily grabbed a mouthful.

  “There ya go, girl,” Skye soothed, stroking the mare’s neck while Holmes deposited his hay into Blaze’s net. “All fed. You two were good today. I’m proud of you. Ready to go?”

  Holmes almost answered before he realized Skye was still talking to her horses. He watched with a slight smile as Skye petted the animals, and it came to him that here was a brilliant woman who had somehow managed to integrate her intellect with her softer side. Quite unique. I am pleased to have had the opportunity to make her acquaintance.

  “How about my human friend?” Skye addressed Holmes. “Is he ready to go, too?”

  “Indeed. But not back to the base.”

  “Oh, no. We’ve got a long time before you go back there.”

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon went well. Holmes enjoyed his ride up the pass, periodically popping his ears as they ascended U.S. Highway 24.

  “How high are we going?” he asked after the fourth time his ears popped.

  “Oh, let’s see. Colorado Springs is about six thousand feet; and my ranch is about eighty-seven hundred, give or take,” Skye estimated. “So we’re going up almost three thousand feet. Take it easy when we get there. It’s definitely high enough to feel it. You won’t want to exert yourself too much. Let me know right away if you get a headache.”

  “Very well.”

  At the top of the pass, the road leveled out and the mountains opened up into high meadow. Ahead in the distance, Holmes could see the next ridge of mountains, the Mosquito Range, and they drove toward them along the broad highway for several more miles before Skye turned left, off the main paved road. Several miles on, they made another left turn onto gravel; two more miles and they topped a hill.

  “There’s my place,” Skye said, pointing ahead.

  Holmes studied the ranch. It was broad, green—though not vividly so—and gently rolling. A large, timeworn log cabin with modern side wings and a cedar deck around most of the south and east sides nestled inside the fence, on a gentle rise of land facing west. The varying ages of the house’s components did not detract from its appearance; the wings and deck had been added with an eye to harmony. The overall effect was homey and pleasing. The front of the house was landscaped, and two tall arborvitae stood guard by the front door, while juniper and some variety of what seemed rhododendron flanked the sides. Behind the house lay an L-shaped barn and a few smaller outbuildings. Pastures spread out behind those, and straight ahead, in the middle distance, the snowcapped pink mount of Pikes Peak rose to the east.

  Skye turned into the driveway, drove through the gate and past the house to the barn, and parked beside a black Infiniti G35 sport coupe. Holmes emerged from the truck and gasped; the altitude was indeed sufficient to notice. His breath seemed short, and for an instant, he was dizzy. It puzzled him.

  “Skye?”

  “Yeah?” She was already in the back of the trailer, unloading the horses. In the barn, loud whinnies wer
e heard, as the two Percherons became aware of the return of their friends, and a trumpeting bellow sounded from the trailer in response.

  “I am rather noticing the altitude,” Holmes began, ambling somewhat cautiously toward the back of the trailer. Skye’s head popped around the door, peering at him anxiously.

  “Are you okay? Do you feel sick?”

  “No, no, merely breathless. I do not understand: I have been higher than this, in the Alps and, yes, the Himalayas, before. And I was already in the Alps when you…when I came here. Why…?”

  “Oh, I see,” Skye nodded, leading Silver Blaze down the ramp. “You’ve never felt like this before, despite having been at altitude.”

  “No.”

  Skye pondered, then answered as if talking to herself, “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it. My guess is, when you went into the mountains before, you went by foot or by horse, right?”

  “Yes, of course. There was no other way to travel. Automobiles had only recently been invented, and were few and far between. And could never have managed a mountain trail, in any event. In a few places there were trains, but…”

  “Well, Holmes, you had the time to acclimate to the altitude,” Skye nodded. “If you make the change gradually, you don’t feel it much, if at all. If you make it fast, you really notice it. We just came thirty miles west of Colorado Springs. And we climbed three thousand feet during those thirty miles. Now, the road we took has existed for centuries. Like I told you this afternoon, the Ute Indians used it to go from the plains up to the mountain meadows and back. Then it became a wagon road, which is what it would have been in Queen Victoria’s reign—your era. A wagon, coming up that pass, would have taken two days, minimum, to get from the Springs up here, and possibly longer, because it’s so steep. We drove it in about an hour.”

  Holmes’ jaw slackened, although he managed to keep his mouth from dropping open. Theoretical physics was one thing; but he had not fully understood how much the science of transportation had advanced until that moment. It brought home to him the tremendous difference between the world he came from, and this one. Skye evidently saw his expression and added, “A helicopter could have made it in fifteen minutes. Commercial airplanes travel at speeds around four or five hundred miles per hour.”