Bitter Rain (Kate Fox Book 3) Page 7

  I waved him off. “No, thanks. I’ve got to get home soon. Diane said she dropped Poupon out there, and I want to make sure he hasn’t eaten the furniture.”

  Mom patted the top of the picnic table that not only served as open dining for Foxes and associates of all kinds but also as psychiatrist couch. “You can sit for a minute.”

  I pulled one of Mom’s hand-thrown coffee mugs from the cabinet and poured coffee, then joined her at the table. “You must have finished your piece.”

  A soft glow shone in her eyes. “I am pleased with it.”

  This was my favorite Mom. The normal woman, who’d worked hard, rested, and felt satisfied with her life. She’d probably stick around for several weeks or months before she started a new sculpture. When you were seven years old and the manic phases hit, followed by the lows, it could throw your life into chaos. At thirty-two, you accepted the good times with gratitude. “I’d love to see it.”

  She sipped her tea. “In a few days.”

  Dad washed his hands and joined us at the table. “You say Diane dropped her dog off?”

  I bristled. “Never asked, didn’t bother to see if I had plans. Just, boom, the dog’s at my house.”

  Mom tugged on her braid. “You can’t be too hard on her. It’s always been this way, and it’ll be hard to change the rules now.”

  Dad brewed coffee strong enough I should wear boxing gloves to manage it. “What rules?”

  Dad chuckled and looked at Mom for the explanation.

  She sat back and crossed her leg, bouncing it lazily, letting the silk of the kimono flap. “You’ve always been the one they go to. All of them. You help them out without asking much in return.”

  Dad agreed. “It’s one of the great things about you. You understand the importance of family.”

  What? They couldn’t be talking about me. Most of the time, I tried to avoid family. That’s one big reason I loved Frog Creek so much. I stayed out at the ranch in my own little world and could usually use work as an excuse to get out of too much family time.

  Mom smoothed the silk on her thighs, as if luxuriating in the texture of the fabric. “If you want them to quit relying on you to help them out every time, it’s going to cause some disruption. It’s okay, if that’s what you choose. You aren’t obligated to pick up the slack for your brothers and sisters, but be prepared for some fallout.”

  Dad placed a hand on Mom’s. “There is nothing wrong with being there for your family.”

  That was what served as an argument between Mom and Dad. I switched gears. “I stopped by to ask if you know anything about the Olson place.”

  He looked puzzled. “I haven’t heard anything for several years, why?”

  I had to give up on the sludge in my cup. “A couple with a teenaged kid moved in there. Fixed up the house, put up a pole barn, but camouflaged it to look aged.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “How did you find out?”

  I told him about the wreck. “I thought maybe they knew about the driver.”

  Mom’s concerned eyes drilled into me. “Did they?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m not sure what to do about that.” I explained about no sign of foul play and no ID and really, no reason to investigate. “What really chaps me, though, is the attitude of the other sheriffs.”

  Mom didn’t generally care for authority, and she lowered her voice, like a dog giving warning. “How do you mean?”

  I regretted bringing it up, and normally, I wouldn’t have. But I was feeling a little raw from this afternoon at the fairgrounds. “It’s like they’ve decided the car is from the rez and they don’t care.”

  Mom’s lips tightened. I assumed her inner yogi was advising some version of “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything.”

  Dad sighed. “It is a shame that racism and bigotry take so long to wash away. It’s better than it used to be, for sure. But it can still be bad. Usually, the two cultures stay separate.”

  I knew that was true. The reservation lay about a hundred miles away from Hodgekiss, and yet we had no Lakota families living here and hardly ever saw a Lakota person. “I can’t believe it was even worse than this.”

  Dad winced. “I remember when I was a little kid, there was a tipi village in Broken Butte. In that area just north of the depot. Seemed like a lot of tipis, but I was little. They had no running water or sewers, no electricity. They lived there year-round.”

  “Why didn’t they live in houses?”

  He looked at me like I missed the point. “It wasn’t allowed. Don’t know if there were laws against it. But I remember the signs downtown, at the drug store and the American Legion. ‘No Indians Allowed.’”

  I was speechless. Tears stood in Mom’s eyes.

  Dad stared at his coffee. “There are a lot of good people, Indians and white. But there is a lot wrong.”

  I took my cup to the sink and washed it. “I need to see about Poupon.”

  Dad met me at the door. “You know, that Kyle. He’s a good guy. I think you hiring him might help everyone.”

  I kissed him on the cheek. “I didn’t hire him because he’s Lakota.”

  Dad nodded. I waved at Mom and headed back to my car.

  The whole morning played back. The call. The wreck. Weirdos Rhonda and Marty. Even weirder Max. Maybe they had nothing to do with each other. But I’d bet they did.

  With Sunday sliding away and no real reason to investigate anything, I thought about what I ought to do. More than likely, Barnett had made the right assessment. Just because Marty and Rhonda lived off-grid and didn’t conform to Sandhills’ norms didn’t mean they were criminals. Almost everyone in the Sandhills kept guns handy. Rhonda and Marty hadn’t actually pulled them on me.

  I wrangled the cruiser up the bumpy dirt road that ran along Stryker Lake. Everyone I knew was out at the fairgrounds whooping it up and helping out a neighbor. Like a miserable troll, I pull up in front of my hovel and turned off the engine.

  The cooling late afternoon air filled my lungs when I stepped out, and I leaned on the warm car, craning my head to watch the sun flirt with the western clouds. The blackbirds chirped a jaunty tune, and fresh scents of green life tickled my nose. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  Just a little lonely. My phone appeared in my hand and Baxter’s number started to ring before I gave it much thought. Over the last few months, I’d called Baxter more frequently, not always about Carly. It wasn’t unusual for him to call me out of the blue, telling me something he thought I might find interesting. He gave me a different perspective than the Sandhills point of view, and I’d grown to enjoy his take on things.

  He answered on the second ring. “Did you know saguaro cactus only grow in the Sonoran Desert?”

  “Um. No. Guess I didn’t.”

  “I’m watching a documentary on climate change that we probably won’t air. I may not sleep for a week.”

  See? Not normal Sandhills conversation. “Why won’t you air it?”

  “Not our style. They’ll sell it to National Geographic, so don’t worry. You’ll still get to be terrified by it.”

  “Not unless I hook up to satellite TV.” I had the crickets and frogs in the summer and movies and books all the time, didn’t see much use for a lot of television.

  “Sacrilege.” He paused. “What do you do to relax?”

  He already put a smile on my face. “I love to saddle up and trot off across the hills.”

  “I’d rather hang from my thumbnails.”

  “It beats watching depressing documentaries.”

  “Television is the perfect anesthesia.” He changed the subject. “What’s on your mind this evening?”

  Sunlight reflected on the ripples frolicking on the lake. “Releasing irritation and insult and breathing in peace.”

  He laughed. “That sounds very Zen.”

  “That’s Mom’s influence. Truth is, I’m out of sorts with my brothers and sisters and trying to get some perspective.”

  �
��So you called me? The man who has no family and steers clear of emotional entanglements.”

  “Exactly. You can encourage me to revel in my independence and singlehood.”

  I imagined him in his office, the sun already set, the lights of Chicago’s skyline bright. “Independence is in your DNA. But, I won’t tell you singlehood is good for you.”

  That dropped a stone inside me. “I thought I could count on you for solidarity.”

  Sounded like he eased himself into a comfortable position. “For me, it is. I work twenty hours a day, and when I’m not working, I’m thinking about work. I don’t spend any time at home. I’m around people enough I don’t get lonely. It’s a life I’m comfortable with. You, on the other hand…”

  Clouds blocked the sun, and a chill rose goose bumps while I waited for him to continue.

  “You aren’t married to your job, even if it is a big part of your life. You love your family, and I know you won’t accuse me of being presumptuous when I say that your divorce and Carly’s disappearance crushed you, even if you won’t show it.”

  I popped back. “A crushed woman wouldn’t get up every day and go to work, buy a house, plant a garden.”

  “Here, I’m guessing, but I’m convinced I’m right. You value loyalty and commitment above self-interest. Since you married Ted and vowed to love him no matter what, you’re hanging on to him because you think that deep devotion is admirable.”

  “I don’t—”

  He didn’t let me interrupt. “But suffering isn’t noble, not if there’s nothing to be gained. And believe me, I’ve met Ted Conner. He’s not worth it.”

  “Because I’m not interested in dating doesn’t mean I’m burning a candle for Ted.” I hated the tightness in my voice.

  “Then what?”

  A chilly breeze ruffled my hair. “I’m enjoying freedom from having to take care of someone. I don’t miss cooking a meal every night or doing dishes while someone else watches TV.”

  He fired back. “Not all men think a woman is domestic help.”

  “Yeah, well, you live in Chicago, not the Sandhills.”

  “What about kids?”

  Sucker punch. I gritted my teeth and fought the image of Roxy and Sarah and their growing baby bumps. “There’s time for that.” Wasn’t there?

  He brightened his tone. “Okay, big brother lecture over.”

  I was ready for a new topic. “Thanks. I don’t need any more brothers.”

  “No. You need a date.”

  Back to that already? “That’s it. You don’t get to mention this to me until you have a date.”

  That stalled him. “Okay. I have a wager for you.”

  This wouldn’t be good. But he knew I couldn’t resist a challenge. “What?”

  “If I go on a date first, you’ll have to watch the five documentaries on climate change and population growth I’ve rejected this month.”

  That ought to be motivation. “And if I go on a date first, you have to take a half-day trail ride.”

  “Those are high stakes.”

  “Deal?”

  He sighed. “Deal.”

  “Okay, now I want to know how Diane knew Carly is in California.”

  Silence. Then, “Diane? Your sister?”

  “She said Carly was probably living it up in California. How would she know that?”

  Baxter didn’t often sound unsure, but he hesitated. “I think maybe she manages funds for the nonprofit our class from Kilner set up.” Kilner Military School was where Baxter and Carly’s father, Brian, met and became like brothers. “If I remember, Brian had us set it up at Diane’s bank because she was his sister-in-law.”

  I hadn’t known that. “Still, how would she find out about Carly?”

  Again, a little hiccup in his response. “Well, Carly’s been tracking our classmates for some reason. Maybe one of the board members said something to her.”

  Leads. Everywhere. I was ready to book a flight to California tonight. “Who? Where? I can go out there now and find her.”

  He sighed. “You can’t. The investigator already checked out those leads, and Carly is ahead of him.”

  I felt like yanking my hair out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Look, the investigator is doing his job. I told you she was in California. Try not to worry.”

  “Who else is on the board?”

  No wishy-washy stumbling this time. “Leave it, Kate. The investigator is good. If anyone can find that girl, he can.”

  He was right. California is a big state, and I didn’t know if Carly was north, south, east, or west. Baxter wasn’t about to give me names of board members.

  Baxter and I said our goodbyes, and I hung up and stared at my phone. Acceptance of the situation ground like shells in an egg salad sandwich.

  Time to deal with the next episode of Leave It To Kate.

  My boots clumped up the cement porch steps, and I pushed open the screen, crossed the porch, and burst into the house, worried I’d find shoes, furniture, and books chewed and scattered by a stressed poodle.

  I scanned the neat room, finally settling on the giant pile of fluff on my leather couch. Poupon opened his eyes but didn’t lift his head from the throw pillow.

  “Oh, no.” I took two steps across the room and fastened my fingers on his collar. “First rule of Kate’s house: no dogs on the furniture.”

  With a gentle tug, he rolled to his feet, stretched his front legs long, and then lunged forward to give the back legs equal time. Diane kept Poupon’s creamy-colored fur immaculately groomed in the classic way, with poofs on his head, ears, around his chest, and from his knees down.

  “Poor guy. How are you gonna be tough if she’s got you all dandied up?” I scrubbed the top of his head, and he allowed it.

  I wandered into the kitchen, not really hungry, but thinking if I cooked a meal, it would be ready by dinnertime and I might want to eat by then. I’d finally scored a refrigerator manufactured in this decade, something I’d coveted for years, and it remained empty, save for a small jar of mayonnaise, lettuce nearing the end of the line, and two eggs. I’d already eaten the pickled green beans my sister-in-law Lauren gave me. My freezer contained hamburger and steaks, another sibling contribution. This one from Robert and Sarah from their last butchered beef. I pulled out a package of burger and plopped it in the microwave to defrost.

  The light illuminated the kitchen, and I stood in front of the window as the meat carouseled. Poupon sat by my side, his head level with my hip. Without realizing it, I’d buried my hand in the fur at his head and massaged, my mind turning over Rhonda and Marty and the kid and the Olson place.

  I poked the button to shut the microwave off. “You need a walk.”

  Poupon seemed amenable and followed me outside with his usual arrogant aplomb. With barely a sniff of indignation, he stepped, not leaped, as any self-respecting lab would, into Elvis, my 1973 Ranchero.

  We maneuvered down the road toward the highway. “A drive, a walk, you don’t really care, do you?”

  Poupon sat with his regal posture and watched the oncoming road without comment.

  In fifteen minutes I turned right on the gravel road leading to the Olson place. Maybe the kid came home after the roping. I could justify showing up out there by saying I’d heard he was looking for my deputy. Thin, sure, but Poupon thought the idea had merit.

  By the time we pulled up to the locked gate, the clouds looked like pregnant whales waltzing in a brisk wind. I sat in front of the gate, impressed with Rhonda’s quick replacement of the padlock.

  Poupon sat next to me in the bucket seat, no less interested in the immobile steel than he’d been with the open road. A personality must be locked somewhere inside him, but he did a good job resisting it

  “How ’bout that walk I promised you?” No response, not even a turn of his head when I opened my door and climbed out, holding it open for him. I closed my door, walked around Elvis, opened the passenger door, and gave him a persona
l invitation. This time, he daintily stepped out.

  I trudged, Poupon strutted, and in several minutes, we’d made it to the top of the hill overlooking the compound. Nothing stirred below. I checked for sandburs and thistles before settling myself amid the faded gold grasses from winter and the lengthening green of spring.

  The Olson headquarters stretched below me, the barn doors closed against the buffeting wind. Both white pickups were parked under the covered cement pad. The sweep down the hill to the valley floor looked like an ocean with the grasses swaying like waves. The valley wound beyond the buildings to the north, following the natural trough between two ridges, until I couldn’t see it. Green tinges in the winter grass promised spring, and the vastness of the landscape required deep breathing to take it all in. Another ridge rose behind the headquarters, and another beyond that, with no trees to break it up, only one barbed wire fence in view. It was a cow’s paradise. For me, too.

  I pulled my jacket closer. Poupon sat next to me, head high, tongue hanging out in a most impolite way. What birds hadn’t settled for the night kept to themselves, so the night seemed to press out the day with heavy silence.

  After a time, I quit wondering about Marty and Rhonda and their kid and practiced my cowboy Zen by letting the Sandhills weasel under my skin and hug my heart into acceptance and contentment—a step closer, anyway.

  In dusky light, the bang of a door whipped me back to attention. Voices rang out, though I couldn’t make out words. The sounds ricocheted against the hills. The kid shot from the house with Marty close on his heels. Marty shouted while the kid stomped across the yard holding a plate.

  Rhonda popped out the door and stood with Marty, tossing off sharp words.

  The kid didn’t stop or turn but kept an angry pace toward the chicken house. He opened the wire gate and walked across the empty chicken yard, setting the plate down by the door. With jerky movements, as if angry, he fiddled with what looked like a padlock, eventually pulling it loose, dropping it on the ground, picking up the plate, and slipping inside.