by C. J. Box
Cassie was struck by how regal she looked in comparison with the other customers, most of whom were men. She seemed to be living in her own bubble and no one appeared to be bothering her.
“Is this seat taken?” Cassie asked before sitting down.
The woman looked up and noticed Cassie for the first time. “By you,” she said. It was a neutral statement—not exactly welcoming but not off-putting, either.
“Thank you.”
A platinum-haired server in a sparkly black tank top appeared and raised her eyebrows to Cassie.
“What can I get you?”
Cassie looked around. Most of the males were drinking draft beer and shots, and the attractive woman was sipping on what looked like bourbon on the rocks.
“A glass of wine, please.”
“Red or white?”
“Red.”
“Red we got,” the server said.
Cassie watched as the server filled a wineglass to the top from a cardboard box with a spigot.
“I don’t think they serve a lot of wine here,” she said to the woman.
“Are you surprised?”
“I guess not.”
The woman turned slightly away on her stool as if to signal that she found her phone more interesting than Cassie. Cassie got the message, but she couldn’t help not doing a quick visual profile on the woman.
Her big diamond ring glinted in the overhead bar lights, and beneath a gold pendant necklace a dime-size ruby hung at the plunge of her breasts. The ruby matched the color of her lipstick and manicured nails.
Cassie felt dowdy sitting next to her. What didn’t add up, though, was why an attractive woman in a place like the Hayloft would be sitting alone.
The question was answered a few seconds later when one of the drunk fishermen approached from behind them and leaned on the bar with both elbows and turned to her. “I was wondering if I could buy you a—”
“Fuck off,” the woman said quickly and firmly before he could finish.
“Drink,” the man finished.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me?” the woman asked.
“I heard you loud and clear,” the fisherman said.
“Then fuck off,” she repeated.
“Okay, I got the message.”
*
Rather than continue to glare at the exchange and watch the wounded fisherman skulk away, she studied the mirror and the backbar. Above the bar was a long row of ancient beer cans. Cassie recognized some of them from her youth: Great Falls, Schlitz, Hamm’s, Grain Belt.
“Would you like to see a menu?” the server asked when she delivered Cassie’s wine.
“Sure.”
Cassie was careful when she raised the glass to take her first sip. It was so full she didn’t want to spill it on her clothes. The wine was better than she would have guessed it would be.
She glanced around the bar. There were three female employees serving drinks and food. One was a severely thin blonde with huge breasts, the other a cowgirl with tight sequined jeans and a massive buckle, and the server who poured Cassie’s wine. All wore the tight black tank tops and any of them could be Lindy, she thought.
It was a long menu but several items were highlighted as local favorites, including the patty melt, chicken-fried steak, and fried chicken gizzards. Cassie ordered the patty melt.
“It goes excellent with your wine,” the server said unconvincingly.
“Thank you,” Cassie said. “Can you tell me—is Lindy working tonight?”
She hoped the server would say, “I’m Lindy.” Instead, she frowned at the mention of the name.
“Not tonight, I guess,” the girl said.
“When will she be in?”
The server rolled her eyes. “Your guess is as good as mine.” Then she left to put in Cassie’s order.
An odd thing to say, Cassie thought. Didn’t the employees have a schedule posted somewhere of their shifts?
“You’re looking for Lindy Glode?” the woman next to Cassie asked.
“Yes.”
“Let me guess,” the woman said, leaning back to give Cassie the once-over. She did it in a way that was full-on, not in the furtive way Cassie had profiled her. “You’re either a pissed-off wife out to tell Lindy off for flirting with your husband or you’re a cop.”
“More the latter,” Cassie said. She was impressed but not flattered.
“I know all the cops in this neck of the woods so you’re from out of town.”
“Bozeman.”
“So why is a cop looking for Lindy?”
“I want to ask her some questions. Her name came up in an investigation. She’s not in any trouble.”
“Ah,” the woman said with a sly smile. “You don’t want to tell me.”
“Do you know her pretty well?” Cassie asked.
The woman continued to smile as if she was in on the conspiracy, whatever it was.
“I’m in here two or three nights a week, honey. I’d say I knew her pretty well.”
“Do you know where I can find her?”
The woman turned and sipped the last of her drink. She signaled the server for another, and nodded toward Cassie’s wineglass as well.
“ Really, I’m okay,” Cassie said.
“That’s what you think.”
Another odd statement, Cassie thought.
“Lindy kind of sets her own hours,” the woman said. “I think she’s using again. When she jumps back off that wagon her appearances here can be few and far between.”
“Do you know where she lives?” Cassie asked.
“Now why do you think I’d know that?”
“Just asking.”
The server delivered another full glass of wine to Cassie and a bourbon on the rocks to the woman. She said, “Do you want me to put both of these on your tab, Cheyenne?”
“Yes.”
Cheyenne. Cassie tried not to let her mouth drop open in surprise.
“You’re Cheyenne Kleinsasser?”
The woman nodded. “I was three husbands ago. Now I go by Cheyenne Kleinsasser Porché, or Cheyenne K. Porché, which I prefer because of the musical sound it makes. I’ve been told it sounds more like a brand of perfume or brandy.”
She laughed huskily at that and it made Cassie smile.
Then it got quiet between them. It was Cassie’s move.
“I’m a private investigator,” she said. “I talked with your brother John Wayne just an hour ago.”
Cheyenne took a long drag on her cigarette and squinted through the smoke at Cassie.
“You’re Franny’s mother,” Cassie said. “I’m sorry for what happened to her.”
“We all are,” Cheyenne said. “So you’re working for my big brother Blake?”
“His defense attorney,” Cassie clarified. “As I told John Wayne, I’m simply here to verify all of the evidence in the case.”
“And you’re looking to talk to Lindy why?”
Cassie had nearly forgotten about Lindy now that she had Franny’s mother sitting right beside her. Cheyenne was a much bigger fish in the pond as far as the investigation went.
Cassie said, “In the time line we’re checking on Blake’s movements before the assault”—she deliberately left out the word “alleged” this time—and Blake said he was with Lindy. He was unclear on the details and he couldn’t even remember her last name. I got that from the sheriff’s report. Anyway, I wanted to verify that her recollection matched his.”
Cheyenne did the laugh again. “Blake couldn’t remember the last name of the barmaid he was fucking? That’s … so Blake.”
Then she waved her hand as if erasing Cassie’s explanation. “You’re assuming that Lindy knows what month it is right now, which is quite the stretch. If she can remember details about her and Blake back in July I’d be astounded.”
“She gave a statement back then,” Cassie said.
“That’s before she was using again, I’m sure.”
Cassie nodded. She still want
ed to talk with Lindy, but she now doubted it would be helpful.
Her patty melt arrived. Cassie was hungry but she didn’t want to dive in and lose Cheyenne’s attention or company.
“Do you remember when you and John Wayne took Franny to the sheriff’s department?”
Cheyenne looked offended. “Of course I remember. She’s my daughter.”
“Why did John Wayne go with you?”
“He insisted on it,” she said. “As soon as he found out Blake was involved, he was all over it. Before that he pretty much ignored Franny. And me, for that matter. See, if Blake is the black sheep in the eyes of the rest of my family, I’m the gray sheep. Or brown sheep. I don’t know which. The only reason I’m tolerated is because of my two X chromosomes. Therefore, I’m no threat to them or the ranch. They haven’t approved of me for quite some time. Because of my bloodline, they had no choice but to provide me a house to live in when I moved back here from France with Franny, but they weren’t enthusiastic about it. They were pleased I left Mr. Porché behind, however.”
She stubbed her cigarette out with more force than necessary.
“I was the only one who was kind of happy to see Blake when he came back,” she said. “After all, I spent the most time with him growing up. John Wayne was a squirt when Blake left, and Rand didn’t hardly know him at all. Rand knows the stories my father and John Wayne told him. They hated Blake and they despised the fact that he left the ranch. They thought he was the devil himself.”
Which might have proved to be true, Cassie thought but didn’t say.
*
Cheyenne finished her drink quickly and crooked her finger at the server for another. Since Cassie was still sipping her first glass she didn’t order another for her, for which Cassie was grateful.
Let her drink, Cassie thought. Let her drink and keep her talking. The scenario playing out was a private investigator’s dream.
Cheyenne slipped her phone into a bejeweled handbag on the bar. Cassie hoped that was an indication that she wanted to continue the conversation.
“Were you surprised when you heard Franny’s story?” Cassie asked her.
“Fucking shocked is a better description,” Cheyenne said. “I knew Blake was a hound dog, but this …” She shook her head in disgust. “And leaving her out there to find her way home. That was so low.”
“Prior to the attack,” Cassie asked, “what would you say Franny’s relationship with Blake was?”
“Cordial,” Cheyenne said. “Nothing special, but Blake was nice to her without being over-the-top. I got the impression he was looking for friendlies in hostile territory and he’d be happy with anyone who didn’t hate his guts. Why do you ask?”
“I’m just tying up loose ends,” Cassie said. “One of the things that kind of puzzles me was the fact that Blake picked her up at the church. That suggests a closer relationship than I would have guessed.”
Cheyenne nodded. She said, “What you have to understand is that everything is a long way from everything else here. The ranch is twenty-five minutes from Horston, so nearly an hour round-trip. I was meeting with my lawyer at my house about some changes I wanted to make in my divorce settlement and I knew Blake was somewhere in town. I texted him and asked that he pick her up. Of course, I really regret that now.”
Cassie sat back. “That you asked him to pick her up wasn’t in any of my documents. Even Blake didn’t tell us that.”
Cheyenne rolled her eyes. “He probably doesn’t remember. From what I understood later, he was in the midst of a blackout drunk at the time. He claims not to remember anything from that night.”
“That’s true.” Cassie glanced at Cheyenne’s bag on the bar. “Do you still have that text exchange with Blake on your phone?”
Something passed behind Cheyenne’s eyes, and Cassie took it for a second of panic. Then it was gone just as quickly.
“I’ve replaced my phone since this summer,” Cheyenne said. “Not all of the data got moved over to the new one, including my texts. Sorry about that.”
“That’s okay. Just asking.”
“I dropped my old phone in the toilet and it didn’t work after that,” Cheyenne explained. Cassie wasn’t sure why she’d provided the detail.
“Do you mind if I take some notes?” Cassie asked. She wanted to remind herself to do a check on Blake’s phone to confirm the text. As far as she knew it hadn’t been done.
“Please don’t,” Cheyenne replied. “If you start to take notes like this is some kind of interrogation I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again. People in here will notice that you’re interviewing me. This is just talk as far as I’m concerned. Woman-to-woman.”
“Woman-to-woman,” Cassie repeated. She didn’t dare reach for her notebook or the digital recorder in her bag.
“Along those same lines,” Cassie asked, “did Franny ever get her phone back?”
“Her phone?”
“She said Blake took it and put it in the console of his rental car so she couldn’t call for help.”
Cheyenne nodded her head. “She’s got her phone with her. I guess they gave it back to her. I didn’t know it was an issue.”
“It isn’t. It’s just one of the items I had on my list to account for.”
Cheyenne looked at her suspiciously, and Cassie knew she needed to soften her line of questioning.
“If you don’t mind,” Cassie said while taking a sip of wine, “I think I understand the relationship between Blake and the rest of the family to some degree. There’s a lot of hate and resentment toward him.”
“Envy is a word you might throw in there as well,” Cheyenne said. “But don’t ever tell my younger brothers or my father I said it.”
“They envy Blake?” Cassie asked, surprised.
“They’d never admit to it but they do. At least John Wayne does. He absolutely hates the fact that his brother went out into the world and made something of himself. It’s an irrational hatred. John Wayne thinks anyone who leaves the ranch and the family is despicable. Especially if they do well.”
She chuckled and said, “Unfortunately, I reinforce his view on that. Every time I leave I end up coming back with my tail between my legs.”
“You said Franny and Blake’s relationship was cordial,” Cassie said. “What about Franny and her other uncles?”
“This is getting very personal,” Cheyenne said.
“I’m sorry. I just want to understand the family better.”
“You’ll never understand this family,” she said. “I’ve never understood this family. An army of psychologists would never understand this family. Suffice it to say that it’s rotten to the core. Lawyers use a term called the fruit of the poisonous tree. Maybe that describes the Kleinsassers.”
Blake said a similar thing, she recalled. But she didn’t bring that up.
“Franny’s relationship with Rand is the same as mine— nonexistent,” Cheyenne offered. “I see him strut around town from time to time, but he’s usually gone from the ranch. John Wayne uses him to deliver things around the state or pick them up. What Rand actually does is a mystery to me, and I don’t ask.”
“What about Franny and her grandparents?” Cassie asked.
“She’s scared of them, especially my father. He has dementia and he’s turning into a nasty, bitter old man. She stays as far away from them as she can get.”
Cassie observed that Cheyenne’s face tightened and her mouth turned down when she talked about her father.
Cheyenne said, “My parents didn’t really raise us like normal parents do. They just sort of threw us out there and observed us for flaws. My father, especially. I think we all spent more time with ranch employees growing up than with our parents.
“We didn’t do things together like families do,” she said, looking away from Cassie toward something in the middle distance. “We never went on a vacation together, or got together for holidays. We still don’t. My mother tried for a while, like insisting that we all g
o to church together. But that didn’t last. My father used my bad behavior or Blake’s moodiness as reasons why we couldn’t do that anymore.
“I’m close to my mother but I resent that she never stood up to him. I know she saw that as her role. His role was to lecture us about upholding our good name so we wouldn’t disappoint him or our legacy in this stupid fucking valley. He instructed us about the Kleinsasser Trust and all of the rules laid down by my creepy grandfather. I’ve always thought my father disliked Blake because his oldest son had absolutely no interest in the legacy, which is true.”
“And John Wayne?” Cassie asked. This was the question she wanted answered most of all, especially since her exchange with him earlier in the evening.
“John Wayne ate that shit up,” Cheyenne hissed.
“And you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m a girl.”
“What about Franny and John Wayne. How do they get on?”
“They’re close, I’d say,” Cheyenne said with a roll of her eyes. “He loves to school her on the importance of the family name and what goes with it. She eats that stuff up, or at least pretends to. I’m not sure she isn’t just kind of shining him on because she’s good at that. I’ve tried to talk to her about it, you know. I tell her not to necessarily treat everything John Wayne tells her as gospel. I think she gets it, but she’s her own person. Young people of a certain age are suckers for family lore, I think. Not because they really care about history but because it maybe helps explain who they are, you know? It gives them an anchor as well as an excuse to act badly because they can say it’s in their genes. I think she’ll eventually figure him out,” Cheyenne said. “I certainly hope so.”
Me, too, Cassie thought. Little she’d heard about the Kleinsasser legacy thus far seemed like something to aspire to.
“I have to say this about John Wayne, though,” Cheyenne said. “When Franny showed up that night saying Blake had attacked her, John Wayne was right there. I know some of it was his animus toward Blake, maybe most of it. But he was there when both Franny and I were a mess. He took charge and thank God he did.
“Oh, my,” Cheyenne said with a laugh. “Did I just say something kind about my brother?”
