Ice and Stone

by Marcia Muller

  “Meruk County’s been unfairly ignored by the press,” I said to the Old Man. “I understand your family owns a large cattle ranch, Mr. Harcourt, which is why I wanted to meet you. Ranching is a primary business here, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. It’s our lifeblood.”

  “I also understand you have a large airstrip. I imagine it’s necessary to patrol your land from a plane.”

  He nodded. Kurt said, “Patrolling by air is standard procedure on a ranch as large as ours. Cattle…well, frankly, they’re not very well endowed with brains or good sense. They wander off, get in trouble, and then it’s up to us to rescue them. We pinpoint the location and then send the ranch hands out.”

  “Do all three of you fly, Mr. Harcourt?”

  Ben Harcourt said sharply, “You don’t intend to write about us, do you?”

  “Well, I hear you’re very prominent citizens.”

  “We value our privacy, miss.”

  “So we’d rather you didn’t use our names in your article,” Paul added with a scowl.

  Kurt’s manner was less hostile. “If you want to mention cattle ranching, I can put you in touch with some knowledgeable people in the county agriculture department.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  Then the Old Man drained his drink and said to his sons, ignoring me, “It’s getting late. If you boys don’t mind, I’ll ask Andy to drive me home now.”

  “Sure, Dad.” They spoke in unison and stood up. Paul helped him from the booth. The Old Man tried to protest but gave in as his son guided him out into the lobby.

  Kurt said, “I need to be going too. Thanks for your interest, Ms. McNear.”

  “Wait. The story will run in the San Francisco Chronicle and the Sacramento Bee. The L.A. Times too, although we haven’t firmed up our agreement yet. That’s excellent coverage.” Fortunately I had friends and acquaintances at many newspapers who would back up any inquiries.

  “I’m sorry. As my father said, we have no interest in publicity.”

  I watched as he joined his brother and they went outside.

  10:05 p.m.

  Jake Blue was sitting in the same booth as before, staring into a half-full beer stein when I arrived at Billiards ’n Brews. The place was doing a fair amount of business, the jukebox playing retro rock, but nobody was dancing. The patrons slouched in their chairs, some chatting with their companions but most not. A curiously subdued scene.

  Jake ordered a beer for me. Then he said, “You have a good time at the casino?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that, but your friend Tom put me in touch with the Harcourts. Thanks to you.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking him to help you out.”

  “Depends on why you did.”

  “Just wanted to make sure you were okay. That casino can be a pretty rough place for a Native. What did you think of the Harcourt bunch?”

  “I couldn’t get a good read on them. They’re unusually shy of publicity.”

  “They should be. The Old Man used to mix it up pretty much—bar brawls, started wrecking cars back in the nineties.”

  “Drunk driving?”

  “Oh yeah. Drunk and entitled—bad combination. Both of the boys there too?”

  “Yes, but they’re hardly boys.”

  “They are to me. Two cases of arrested development. Overprivileged, overeducated bastards with more money than good sense.”

  “They really make you angry. Why?”

  For a few seconds he stared down at his beer glass, and his fingers tightened on it. He took a deep swallow, expelled his breath slowly.

  Finally he said, “My sister, Josie, was killed four years ago. I think one of them might have done it.”

  10:27 p.m.

  Over our drinks, Jake told me about his sister’s murder. Josie had gotten her degree in education from UC Berkeley and returned to teach on the elementary level in the Meruk schools. Four years ago, her body had been found in the woods a mile or so from where the two other Indigenous women later died; she’d been roughed up and strangled. No one had ever been arrested for the crime.

  Could her murder be related to the recent murders? It seemed unlikely because of the four-year time difference and the fact that the methods were not the same. Still, it was possible that there was some sort of connection.

  “I still don’t understand why you think one of the Harcourts was responsible,” I said. “Were they friends of Josie’s? Did she date one of the sons? Did she owe them money?”

  “She didn’t believe in borrowing money. She may have dated one of the sons, I’m not sure. She was seen with either Paul or Kurt shortly before she died.”

  “With either Paul or Kurt?”

  “The person who saw them wasn’t sure. It was from a distance and they look a lot alike.”

  “Josie didn’t say anything to you about it?”

  “No. When we were growing up together, she was open, confided in me, but after she came back from Berkeley, all that had changed. She was very private. No, more than private—secretive.”

  “Were you able to get a look at the sheriff’s department’s files of their investigation?”

  He laughed bitterly. “They didn’t want to release them to me, even though I was her next of kin. They gave in when I mentioned the Freedom of Information Act. Stupid bastards didn’t know that it only applies on the federal level.”

  “Did you keep the copies?”

  “Sure I did.”

  “May I see them?”

  “Why? You’re not going to write about Josie’s murder?”

  “No. Call it journalistic curiosity. But I am going to mention the murders of the Native women.”

  “What for?”

  I decided to go with the most believable explanation. “I’m Native myself and I have a vested interest.”

  He was silent for a time, glowering into his glass. Then he said, “All right, you can see the files. But I want them back.”

  “Of course.”

  “I could bring them to you at the E-Z Rest.”

  “I’d prefer to pick them up at your place.”

  He frowned, then shrugged. I could tell that talking of his sister’s murder had taken a lot out of him; all the flirtatiousness he’d displayed when we first met was gone. “All right,” he said listlessly. He signed a tab that lay on the table, and we left the Brews.

  It was a short walk to a side street where he entered a small, brown-shingled cottage and returned with a thin folder. I tucked it into the pocket of my parka and headed back to the shack.

  11:47 p.m.

  I was shivering by the time I reached the shack. A thick layer of clouds covered the sky, making the night inky black, and with the windchill the temperature must have been close to zero.

  The shack was frosty white in the beam from my flashlight as I stepped up to the door. I couldn’t wait to get inside and warm up. I switched the light to my left hand, got the padlock key out of my pocket, and started to insert it.

  Scraping sounds behind me.

  I tensed, turned in time to see a shadowy form with an upraised arm but not in time to duck out of the way. A glancing blow landed on my arm, jarring the flashlight loose, then strong hands shoved me to the ground.

  The light went out when the flash landed on the muddy ground. Stunned, I lay prone in the darkness. The hands pawed at my upper body, then my neck, as if the attacker intended to strangle me. I sucked in my breath, my throat and lungs burning from the cold, and lashed out with my legs, connecting solidly with some part of the attacker. He—yes, definitely a male—yelped and his hands jerked off me. I drew back to kick again, but he’d had enough. I heard his footsteps running away down the slope.

  Had the son of a bitch been trying to kill me? There didn’t seem to be any other reason for the attack. He hadn’t made any effort to get at the folder or the pouch containing my identification and the .38 in the inner safety pocket of the parka.

  I lifted onto my hands and
knees. When I turned my head, wincing, I saw the beam of his flashlight come on, pointed away from me, making erratic splashes of light in the darkness as he ran. Seconds later I heard him splash through the water under the stone bridge, and he and the light disappeared into the woods.

  Still groggy, I groped for the flashlight. Luckily it hadn’t broken; the beam came on when I shook it and flicked the switch. I’d dropped my keys too, but I was able to find them with the light. I got to my feet and leaned against the door while I fumbled the key into the padlock and got it open.

  Inside I lit the lanterns and took one of them into the bathroom to inspect the damage in the mirror. There was a small bump on my head and a little blood where the skin had been broken, and a thin red scratch around my neck. I fingered it, wincing.

  And then I realized that the silver pendant was gone.

  The attacker hadn’t tried to strangle me; it was the pendant he’d been after. Who? Jake? Henry Howling Wolf? I couldn’t imagine why either of them, or anybody else who’d seen me wearing it, would want it badly enough to assault me to get it.

  Had he followed me here from Aspendale? I’d been alert when I left the village and on the walk through the woods, as always, and hadn’t seen or heard anyone. Or had he somehow found out I was staying here and lain in wait for me?

  My head ached and my vision was slightly blurred. I didn’t think I was badly hurt, but my body cried out for rest. I got into the bunk and used an old breathing trick to relax so I could sleep.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 8

  8:50 a.m.

  I still had a headache when I woke up, but it was muted and tolerable. I ate a light breakfast, even though I wasn’t hungry, and that helped ease the pain and let me concentrate on the sheriff’s department files Jake had given me.

  The files were sketchy, proving out my theory that Indigenous women—even murdered Indigenous women—weren’t high on the government’s list of priorities. Josie Blue had become a teacher at the Meruk Unified Elementary School, popular with the students because she shared their roots and understood their problems. Then, just short of four years ago—a year after her brother told me she’d become remote and unsettled—her body had been found by a hiker in the woods near St. Germaine.

  Josie’s time away at UC Berkeley had changed her. The woman who returned to Meruk County was not the woman who had left. While not truly sophisticated, she’d become polished: nearly six feet tall, she was thin, with straight hair falling to her waist; her clothing had a bohemian touch, and most of her ensembles were her own creations. Many of the local men were interested in her, but when she didn’t reciprocate, the inevitable rumors began to spread: she had a secret lover who was probably married, she was a lesbian, she was just plain stupid for not appreciating them, she was allied with some strange Berkeley-type cult.

  Some men will blame a woman for anything rather than themselves if they can’t get a date.

  When Josie’s body was found, there was an outcry from the more liberal citizens of the area, but no suspects were interrogated. And there was no mention of any of the Harcourts.

  I understood Jake Blue’s frustration. The files raised more questions than they answered.

  11:00 a.m.

  After I finished with the files, I put them back in the folder and went into Aspendale to return them to Jake. As I walked toward the lumberyard I passed several people on the streets. Most walked quickly with their heads down, not acknowledging me or anyone else. Odd behavior for residents of a place where everybody must know everybody else. Even though it was a beautiful day, an atmosphere of gloom that I hadn’t noticed the day before seemed to have settled over the town. Maybe the residents were just having a collective bad Tuesday.

  When I reached the lumberyard I found Jake on a coffee break, leaning against one of the trucks at the loading dock and talking with its driver. When he saw me, he came over and gave me a long, searching look as I handed him the folder.

  “Nothing much in them, is there?” he said.

  “Aside from the information on your sister, no.”

  “I’d rather not talk any more about Josie. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I went back to the Brews after you left last night and Bart Upstream was there. I told him about your interest in the murders and he said he’d talk, maybe bring Fowler Runs Close with him.”

  “Fowler Runs Close?”

  “The dead woman’s younger brother. He and Bart work construction together. Can you be at my house at three this afternoon?”

  “Sure. Thanks for setting it up.”

  “No problem. Bart has a key. He and Fowler should be there waiting when you get there.”

  3:00 p.m.

  They weren’t at the cottage when I arrived. I sat on the porch for ten minutes before they showed up in a Ford Bronco. Bart introduced himself and Fowler Runs Close, then unlocked the door and ushered me into a comfortable room where shabby, overstuffed furnishings centered on a native stone fireplace.

  Bart Upstream was a handsome man in his early twenties, with strong cheekbones, large amber eyes, and a silky ponytail that fell below his clavicle. Fowler was in his late teens, short, and walked with a hunched gait, hands thrust into the pockets of his brown faux leather jacket. As he sat down he rubbed self-consciously at a rash on his left cheek.

  I opened the conversation by thanking them for talking to me.

  “Don’t thank me,” Fowler said. “Damn journalist trying to make money off of our grief. Why do you think my sister’s murder is any of your business?”

  “For one thing, I’m not going to make much money, if any. Freelance journalists aren’t well paid. And second, it’s natural I’d be interested, being Native myself. The local law doesn’t seem much concerned.”

  “Fuckin’ white pigs! Wouldn’t be surprised if the scumbag was one of them.”

  “Cool it, man,” Bart said.

  Fowler ignored him. “You’re supposed to be skin like us,” he said to me. “What’re you doin’ sidin’ with those white pigs?”

  “I’m not siding with them. Just the opposite. You may be right that somebody in law enforcement is covering up, if nothing else. Bad seeds can turn up in almost every police agency.”

  “Yeah, like that asshole Arneson.”

  “Do you really think he had something to do with the murders?”

  “How the hell should I know? If I find out he did, he’s dead meat.”

  “Cool it, Fowler!” Bart half rose from his seat.

  “Shit!” Fowler stood and pushed past him. “I got no time for this.”

  He stalked out and slammed the door behind him.

  “He’s upset about Sam…about everything,” Bart said. “And about all of a sudden having the responsibility for their pa being dumped in his lap. Sam was so capable, she took care of both of them and the house and worked too. Fowler can’t measure up to that. He can’t cook or clean, and he’s never held a job more than a month at a time.”

  “Anybody can learn to cook and clean and hold a job.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sam spoiled him.”

  “Or maybe she just did everything because it was easier.”

  “Not Sam. She never did anything the easy way. She was kind of a free spirit. Did what she did when she wanted to, and the hell with what anybody else thought. Her father abandoned the family—familiar story around here—when she was maybe ten. Her mother died of tuberculosis—another familiar story—about five years later. In addition to Fowler, Sam had a younger brother Bobby, and she tried to take care of him, but he hooked up with one of the gangs and got stabbed to death during a fight. After that she went wild: booze, men, outrageous behavior. Everybody but her closest friends abandoned her, but finally she turned around and put her energy into Indigenous causes.”

  “You were one of those friends who didn’t abandon her,” I said.

  “Yeah, I was. And that’s why these murders are tearing me up. She had so much to gi
ve. So did Dierdra, in her way.”

  “If you don’t mind, let’s talk about you and Dierdra.”

  He was silent.

  “Jake said the two of you might’ve gotten married.”

  “Might’ve. I was thinking we could get away from here, move over to Reno. I worked in a casino there for a while; I’d already called them and they said they’d be glad to hire me back. Dierdra, she had experience waitressing in the café; she could’ve gotten on someplace too. We could’ve made it. But then she decided she didn’t want to be tied down and started running around with other guys. We had a big fight about it the night before she—” He shook his head, clamped the palm of his right hand over his eyes.

  I waited until he got control of himself. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted her dead? One of the other guys she was running around with?”

  “Maybe. Her mother might know who they were, but I don’t.” He paused, frowning. “Fowler mentioned Arneson before. For all we know he’s the one going around whacking Native women—maybe thinks it’s his civic duty.”

  “What about those cattle ranchers, the Harcourts?”

  Bart looked thoughtful. “I don’t see what they’d have to gain by killing.”

  “Kicks?”

  “Nah. Those are serious people. You should’ve seen the Old Man when he came into town a couple of years ago: he looked like the guy in that picture of the farmer with his wife and the pitchfork.”

  I’d seen American Gothic once at the Art Institute of Chicago, and I had to agree the comparison was apt.

  “Not that he comes in much any more,” Bart added. “I hear he’s pretty sick. And they’ve got an airstrip, have a lot of supplies flown in. It’s a pretty fancy one, a guy I know who flies told me. Paved, with lots of lights, not a grass strip like most of the others around here. Guess they figure grass is for cattle.”

  He tried to smile at his feeble joke, but his lips trembled and the smile fell apart. He looked at his watch. “Gotta get back on the job.”

  I stood when he did. “If you think of anything about Sam’s last days that might—however unimportant—have to do with her murder, will you let me know?”