George pulled on the front of his down jacket. He and Abraham were standing to the side of the path Mrs. Murray was clearing to the snow machine shed, which was uphill from the lodge and on the edge of a clearing. Tall, snow-covered pines loomed all around them. “Yes, ma’am. I will. I’m very excited about it. I’ve brought Abraham with me, so we’ll have two guides every time we take a group out. We gave the trails a light packing this afternoon, the ones I broke last weekend. They’re in good shape. Two sleds, two passes on each. I don’t anticipate any trouble.”
Abraham dipped his upper body. “Ma’am. Nice to meet you. We will take excellent care of your fine guests.”
Debbie narrowed her eyes at him. “I haven’t seen you around town.”
“I am from California.”
George puffed up his chest. “He raced El Tigres in the Sierra Nevadas.”
She raised her brows. “You’re not planning on racing with the guests, are you?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. We’ll take it nice and easy with them. Abraham just has a lot of skills and experience, that’s all.”
She grunted. “I only have the one room for you. It’s a single with a twin bed.”
Abraham nodded. “I brought a sleeping bag. The floor will be more than adequate and much appreciated.”
“Good. Food is family style in the dining room at six thirty, a.m. and p.m.”
George glanced into the building behind her. The snowmobile shed matched the wooden barn on the far side of the clearing, only smaller, and it was so new you could get splinters just from looking at it. Yellow and black Ski-Doos were lined up in rows of three each inside. He breathed in the scent of fuel and sawdust. Almost nothing better. “We’ll just be testing the machines until then. If any need a tune-up, we can do that after dinner.”
“First group is booked for nine in the morning, weather permitting.”
“We’ll be ready.”
“Great.” Debbie went back to shoveling.
George was itching to test the machines, especially with her working like a dog while he and Abraham were not, but he couldn’t go without asking one more question. “I haven’t seen Jenelle lately. How’s she been?” George had always thought the Murray girl was a looker. She even had her mother’s dimples. He hadn’t known her well—she went to high school in Buffalo, while he’d graduated from Sheridan High. But what he’d known, he’d liked.
“Living in Gillette these days, working for the city in Planning and Building, but she’s coming up for the weekend tomorrow.”
A spark flickered in George. He wasn’t leaving until Sunday. Given a chance, he wouldn’t mind getting to know Jenelle a little better.
Down in the parking area, a line of vehicles pulled up in front of the lodge. The building was single story, built in the log cabin style, with wings branching out like an octopus’ legs. The place had been around forever so far as George knew, but it shined like a new penny. New coat of sealer, he guessed. Nestled up in the trees along a narrow road were additional, smaller guest cabins, mostly used in the warm months.
Mrs. Murray tented a hand over her eyes. “Looks like the guests are arriving.
“Permit me to finish for you.” Abraham gestured toward the shovel.
She frowned, then handed it to him. George frowned, too. He should have offered first. “Thank you. I guess there’s plenty for me to do back at the lodge. Hang it on the hook there outside the door and strap it down when you’re done.” She pointed to the outside wall of the building.
“With pleasure.” Abraham began shoveling.
With pleasure. That was laying it on a little thick.
Debbie walked back to the lodge. George started to head into the snow machine shed, then paused when he saw a blond-headed kid that looked familiar. Debbie stopped to greet the two men with the boy. Suddenly, he was racing up the incline toward the snowmobiles. As the kid got closer, George recognized Perry Flint.
“Young Mr. Flint.” Twice in one day. George waved.
Perry shouted, “George! What are you doing here?”
“I’m in charge of the snowmobiling. But I could ask you the same question.”
“Cool! Me and my dad and uncle are with Dr. John and his friends for the weekend.”
“You’re running with the big dogs, buckaroo.” George socked him in the shoulder.
Perry grinned. “Heck, yeah.”
“This is Abraham,” George said. “He’s helping me with the snowmobiles. Abraham, this is my buddy, Perry Flint.”
“Yo, Abraham,” Perry said in a deep voice, his eyes sparkling.
George grinned. The kid had butchered the “Yo, Adrian” quote from Rocky. Rocky had been one of George’s favorite movies the year before—he’d seen it twice—so he caught the reference from Perry’s phrasing and intonation.
Abraham’s face wrinkled in confusion. “Hello, Perry Flint.”
“Which snowmobile am I going to be on?” Perry asked.
“Which one do you want?” George said.
Perry walked over to the two snowmobiles parked by George’s trailer. He patted the seat of the blue and white Boss Cat. “This one is sweet.”
“You’ve got good taste. But that’s what I ride. You can have anything inside the building, though.”
Perry trotted inside. “They’re all the same.”
George pointed at one on the back row. “Yeah, but this one has a little bit more get up and go than the others.” In all honesty, he had no idea if it did or not. But it would make Perry happy to think he got the best one.
“Dibs!”
“It’s all yours then.”
Perry climbed on the seat and pretended to rev the engine.
“What’s new with you, kid?”
“Not much. I don’t have to go back to school for another week.” He manhandled the steering on the snowmobile and moved the skis to the right and then the left. “Oh, one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Yesterday we went to look at a horse at this ranch—my dad got bucked off and broke some ribs. He’s going to try to pretend like nothing’s wrong, but I thought you should know.”
“Ouch.” Snowmobiling was going to be tough for Dr. Flint.
“That’s not even the most exciting part, though. While we were there, two of the hands were murdered. Sliced up with a knife. There was blood everywhere. Or, that’s what I heard anyway. My dad wouldn’t let me go see it.”
Abraham drew in a sharp breath. He lost his grip on the shovel and it fell into the snow. George glanced at him as the man leaned over to pick it up.
“Where was that?” George said.
“The O Bar M. And get this. One of the guys told my dad who did it right before he died. Now there’s like a massive manhunt.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense. Who was it?”
“An Arab.” Perry hopped off the snowmobile. “One of the hands that worked there, Muhammed, he’s an Arab, and he’s missing, so it’s probably him. Deputy Harcourt is going to catch him.”
Abraham put the shovel up on the building and strapped it into place. Without looking at them, he said, “I’ll be moving our things into our room now.”
“If you wait, I’ll come help,” George said.
He lifted a hand. “It is no problem.”
“Then I’ll start testing the machines. Come on back after you get us set up if I’m not there yet.”
“I will be sure to do so.”
George turned back to Perry. “Now, where were we on those murders you were telling me about, kid?”
Chapter Thirteen: Treat
Denver, Colorado
Thursday, December 29, 1977, 9:00 p.m.
Trish
“I adore room service.” Dian patted her belly and flopped back against the pillows stacked at the headboard of one of the beds.
They’d arrived in Denver too late to eat out. Trish, her mom, and Dian ordered cheeseburgers and fries from the hotel restaurant instead. Esme only wanted a chef sala
d. Trish thought Esme needed to eat about ten hamburgers. She was way too skinny, and it seemed like it was on purpose.
Trish liked the décor. A million different blues with shiny gold and silver accents and paintings of mountains on every wall. Dian had gotten them the flight attendant rate, so they were sharing a room in one of the fancy chain hotels. Esme and Trish in one bed. Dian and her mom in the other. Maybe someday when Ben and I are married we can stay in a hotel like this one.
Trish pushed the comforter back with her feet on the other bed. She’d folded it down so she wouldn’t get ketchup on it. But she couldn’t eat. She picked up a French fry from her plate then set it back down. She was too worried about Ben. He should have arrived in Laramie a couple of hours ago, and he’d promised he’d call her. Just one quick minute to let her know he was all right. But no one was home at the Flint residence to take his call. Perry and her dad were in the mountains, and she and her mom were in Denver. Ben would be worried about her. Maybe he’d think she had gone out with her friends instead of waiting for his call. What would he do on his first night of freedom from rules and adults if he thought his girlfriend had ditched him? Especially after Trish had been a complete mess that morning.
She didn’t have the phone number for his dorm room yet, so she couldn’t even call him and let him know where she was. If her mother would have let her, that is, which was a big “if”. She’d already lectured Trish about hotels charging an arm and a leg for local calls, much less long distance.
“Oh, Trish, turn that up.” Her mom was seated at a small round table with Esme. Her plate was empty. Esme’s salad bowl was still half full, like Trish’s plate.
Video of a reporter in front of a familiar courthouse filled the screen. The one in Buffalo? What was big enough in Buffalo to make the news in Denver?
Trish walked to the TV and dialed up the volume.
“…near Buffalo, Wyoming. The police are asking you to call the number on the screen if you see an Arab man with olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes, about five foot ten inches tall, who goes by the name Muhammed, and was last seen at the O Bar M ranch prior to the murders. An update on this story, and more of the news that matters to northern Colorado, at ten.”
“Isn’t that where you were yesterday, Trish?” her mom asked.
“Yeah.” Her mom narrowed her eyes at her, but Trish didn’t change her answer to yes ma’am.
“Did you see the guy they’re talking about?”
“No.”
Dian sighed. “I’ve gone my whole life and never met a person from an Arab country. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them except on TV. What would one be doing in Wyoming?”
Esme put her fork down. “My daddy is in the oil business. We’re not even allowed to mention Ay-rabs in our house.”
Dian sat up and away from her pillows. “They’re the reason it took us seven hours to drive here at fifty-five miles an hour.”
“Don’t be fuelish,” Trish’s mom said, and the other women laughed.
Trish frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t they teach you current events in school?” Esme asked.
“Uh, some.”
“Well, a few years ago, OPEC raised their prices and quit shipping oil to countries that supported Israel in the Arab-Israeli war. The United States was one of them. And we didn’t produce enough oil here to meet our own energy needs. We needed the OPEC oil. When supply was cut off and demand remained high, it led to high prices and severe shortages.”
“Long lines at gas stations in Irving, when we lived in Texas,” her mom said. “Do you remember that?”
Trish thought back. “Yeah. Kinda.”
“A lower national speed limit,” Dian said. “Conservation campaigns.”
Trish felt dumb, but she really did want to understand. “What’s oh-peck?”
Esme said. “O-P-E-C. The Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries, most of which are Middle Eastern countries.” She nodded. “Ay-rabs.”
Which explained why OPEC sided against Israel and its allies in the Arab-Israeli War. “We don’t talk about this stuff at school. Why aren’t there people from those countries in the U.S.?”
The women looked at each other. Her mom shrugged.
Esme said, “We have pretty restrictive immigration policies. Not everyone who wants to come is allowed in. My mother’s family is from Mexico, although I was born in the U.S. It took her parents many years to get permission to move here.”
Trish decided that even if Esme wasn’t very smart about her body size and food, she knew a lot of other things. “But Muhammed worked at the O Bar M. He was here.”
Esme nodded. “Some Ay-rabs are here, definitely. I had classmates at the University of Texas who were from Middle Eastern countries. Iran and Egypt, I think.”
The way Esme said it made Trish think of a song. “Ahab the Arab.” One of the many songs her dad used to sing at the top of his lungs, usually about the time he pulled up in front of her friends, windows down, to give her a ride to or from school. Her mom had made him stop, though. That song, not all the rest of them. Trish said, “There are none at my school.” Thinking about her school turned Trish’s thoughts back to Ben. Everything turned her thoughts back to Ben. “Mom, Ben was supposed to call me when he got in and give me his phone number. Can I call Mrs. Sibley and get it from her?”
“He hasn’t even been gone a day.” Her mom made a sour face.
Dian laughed. “Says the woman who married in high school when her boyfriend moved away to college.”
“Bite your tongue,” her mom said.
“Let the girl check on him, Susanne.”
“But it’s long distance,” her mom said. “Plus, a surcharge per minute by the hotel.”
“I know, Mom,” Trish said, trying not to whine. “You already told me all that. I just need his number. And to know he’s okay. You can even make the call to Vangie so it’s short. One minute. How much does one minute cost?”
“Come on, Mom,” Dian said.
Her mom frowned. “Okay. I’ll make the call. But only one minute.”
“Can you do it now?” Trish said.
“Fine.” Sighing, her mom picked up the phone and dialed. After a few moments of silence, she said, “Vangie, it’s Susanne. I’ll make this quick since it’s long distance. I need Ben’s phone number, if he’s called with it yet, and Trish wants to know if he’s okay. He was supposed to check in with her, but we drove to Denver to go shopping, so she hasn’t been reachable.” Her mom grabbed a pad of hotel stationary and a pen from the desk and started scribbling. She repeated the number back. “I’m glad he made it safe and sound. If he calls, tell him Trish is fine but we’re not home. Thanks. I’ll talk to you when we get back.”
“Well?” Trish said.
Her mom handed her the note pad. “Romeo made it before dark and is unpacked. He starts work tomorrow. All is well. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And you’re welcome.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Trish stood and rubbed her hands on her hips, nervous energy seeping out of her. Ben was fine. Everything was fine.
Dian crawled across the bed and reached for Trish’s left hand. “What a beautiful ring, young lady. On your ring finger.”
“What?” her mom said. “Where’d you get a ring?”
Trish jerked her hand away from Dian and put it behind her back. “It’s my birthstone.”
“Who gave it to you?” her mom demanded.
“Ben.”
Dian laughed, high and tinkling. “Susanne, your daughter is wearing a promise ring.”
Her mom shook her head. “It’s her birthstone.”
Dian snorted.
“What?”
“Ask her.”
Trish wanted to duck under the bed and hide her head, like Ferdinand did sometimes, with his big body sticking out.
Her mom turned on her. “Is that a promise ring, Trish?”
Trish studied the toes of her boots. “Um
. . . sort of, I guess?”
The silence hurt Trish’s ears.
Finally, her mom said, “When were you going to tell your father and me about it?”
“He just gave it to me this morning.” Trish saw her mom’s throat working.
“We’ll talk about this later, young lady.”
Or never if I can help it.
Esme winked at Trish, which was sort of surprising, but Trish guessed they’d bonded over the OPEC discussion. “Now that we have that settled, who’s up for watching a movie?”
“Me, me, me!” Dian said.
Trish’s mom said, “Patrick would not approve. We’re shopping, ordering room service, and charging movies to our room.”
“Remember when he used to sneak people into the drive-in in the trunk?” Dian giggled. “He’s always been cheap. But loveable. You married a good one, Susanne.”
Her mom smiled. “And with a cute tush, too.”
“Mom!” Trish shouted.
The women laughed. While they selected a movie, Trish ripped the page with Ben’s number off the pad, folded it, and put it in her pocket. She hated not talking to him, but knowing he was safe would have to do for now. Until she could sneak a moment to call him herself when her mom wasn’t around. Trish wasn’t sure when that would be, but, where there was a will, there was always a way.
Chapter Fourteen: Party
Laramie, Wyoming
Thursday, December 29, 1977, 11:00 p.m.
Ben
Hank Williams and “Your Cheatin’ Heart” blared from the juke box. So loud it hurts. Smoke clouded the air, and the place stank of cigarette smoke and stale beer. This was Ben’s first experience in a bar. He guessed this one would be called a honkytonk. Plank walls. Scuffed wooden floors. A pool table in one corner, popular from the looks of the people waiting for a chance to play. Bare walls. A long bar worn smooth.
The men outnumbered the women two to one in the place. That was fine by Ben. He wasn’t here for the women—he was only humoring his new roommate Chad, who insisted they celebrate Ben’s first night as a University of Wyoming Cowboy. He’d even bought Ben a beer, which was a good thing, since beer wasn’t in Ben’s budget. Maybe after he got his first paycheck from his work study job in the cafeteria, he’d have a little for extras. If he did, though, he’d use it for gas to visit Trish.
Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 8
