Ice and Stone Page 4

  The “Old Man” must be the one Gene and Vic worked for.

  “Do you know anything about their employees? Particularly a pair of men named Gene and Vic?”

  He paused. “I’m not personally acquainted with either of them, but I know thugs when I see some.”

  “What do they do at the ranch?”

  “Beats me. Mainly when I see them, it’s in town.”

  “They ever show up here?”

  “Nope. Like I said, that bunch keeps to themselves, and that includes the employees. Sorry I can’t tell you more. When I said I came up here for peace and quiet, I meant it.”

  Hal and I had another cup of coffee and did some catching up on his, Hy’s, and my varied activities. He’d turned into a glider enthusiast and offered to take me up. I said maybe, but meant no. I don’t mind the capricious winds that buffet airplanes, but I don’t trust updrafts and downdrafts when I don’t have an engine to rely on.

  12:28 p.m.

  Back in Aspendale, I walked along the main street, looking for someone else to talk with. There was a lumberyard, a fairly large one, at the eastern edge of town, and near the front gate, two men were lifting sheets of plywood onto a flatbed truck. I wandered down there, stopped close by to watch them.

  It didn’t take long for both men to notice me. The closest looked longest, but I couldn’t tell if he was staring at my face or the pendant around my neck.

  I said, “When you’re done there, maybe one of you could help me.”

  The one who’d stared at me paused in his loading. “Help you how?” According to a logo on the shirt he wore, he was an employee of the lumberyard. He was the younger of the two, with a tanned face marred by a jagged scar above his right eyebrow and thick black hair down to his shoulders. The other, perhaps in his late forties, was bald, with a fringe of red hair, a flushed face, and an enormous belly.

  “I’m interested in what grades of lumber you carry, and what has to be special-ordered.”

  “Sure. This won’t take long.”

  When he finished and came out to talk, he gave me the usual male once-over and seemed to like what he saw. “So, what are you thinking of doing with this lumber?” he asked.

  “I’ve been toying with having a cabin built in the area.”

  “Oh, where?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far yet. I’m a travel writer, doing a piece on the county, and the idea of a getaway cabin has always interested me. I’m at a motel right now, and it isn’t too great.”

  “Which one?”

  “The E-Z Rest.”

  He made a face. “A dump.”

  “It is, but for now it’s all right.”

  “Where is it you want to get away from?”

  “The Bay Area.”

  “Well, I don’t blame you. As for lumber, we carry the standard varieties—pine, oak, redwood. You want anything exotic like mahogany, we can order it.”

  I laughed, returning his appreciative look with one of my own. “I don’t think mahogany would fit in with a rustic cabin motif—or my budget.”

  “You have an architect?”

  “What I’m thinking of doesn’t require an architect.”

  “You’ll need a real estate agent, though. I can recommend—”

  “Maybe on my next trip here. Right now I’ve got to familiarize myself with the area and write my article.”

  “I gotcha.”

  To prolong the conversation, I said, “I was also wondering about snow tires for my car. There’s already been some snow, and I wonder what kind you’d recommend I buy?”

  “That would depend on what kind of car you have, how far you want to drive, and other factors.”

  “I see. I don’t have it here with me, but I’ll have a Jeep pretty soon.”

  “A good vehicle for these parts.” His gaze lowered. “That’s a nice pendant you’re wearing.”

  “Thanks, Mr.—”

  “Blue. Jake Blue.” One of the hunters who had found the bodies. “And your name is?”

  “Sharon McNear.”

  “Well, Sharon, how about I buy you a beer at the Brews? Say about four?”

  “At the…Oh, the bar over there.” I motioned toward the nearby building.

  “Yeah. A good way to wind down the day.”

  “That sounds fine.”

  As I walked away, I wondered about Jake Blue’s reaction to the pendant. Had he recognized it? Known who the owner was? Or that Henry Howling Wolf had made it? Was his interest in me only the reaction of a man to a new woman in town, or something else? Well, one way or another, I’d find out this afternoon.

  2:21 p.m.

  After a late lunch I made a few purchases in the hardware store that would make me feel more secure in the shack: a sturdy length of chain, two new padlocks, a heavy-duty hasp, and the tools to install them. The man who rang me up was as uncommunicative as the one in the food store. I assumed it was because they didn’t care for Native women.

  4:01 p.m.

  Billiards ’n Brews, aka the Brews, was housed in a long corrugated iron building that might once have been a warehouse. Inside it was dimly lit and hollowly echoed the sounds of two men playing dice at the bar. Two pool tables sat unused. Booths lined the side walls, and in one of them Jake Blue sat, a pitcher of beer and two glasses in front of him.

  “You’re a minute late,” he said, smiling. “I hate to be separated from my first beer of the day that long.”

  “Pour! Drink!” I smiled back and sat down across from him.

  We drank. His eyes left mine; this time I knew he was looking at the pendant. Abruptly he said, “I have to ask you about that pendant you’re wearing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Where’d you get it? It doesn’t look new.”

  “Found it.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  “On one of my walks in the woods.”

  “My sister, Josie, had one like it. It’s pretty rare.”

  “Henry Howling Wolf told me he only made three, one for a woman who died. Would that be your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake.”

  “So am I.” His voice was bitter. “Josie loved her pendant, hardly ever took it off. It was buried with her. Who did this one belong to?”

  “I don’t know.” I didn’t add that it probably belonged to Henry’s girlfriend, Sally Bee.

  Jake took another swallow of beer. “So what did you do after you left the lumberyard?” he asked.

  “Wandered.”

  “Now that would be the life—wandering.”

  “I don’t have anything better to do. I’m just waiting…well, maybe for an insight.”

  “Huh?”

  “Into which way my article’s going to go. I was told something today that makes me wonder if I’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “About Native women being killed around here.”

  “Yeah. That.” He expelled his breath harshly, took a long drink of beer.

  “The person who told me didn’t offer any details. Would you mind telling me about it?”

  “I guess not, if you want me to. So happens I found them.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Yeah. The way it went, my buddy Bart Upstream and I were out hunting. Pheasant season. There’s an old monastery that’s a good place for birds. So we were moving along, real quiet like, and I practically stumbled over Sam Runs Close on the ground with a bullet hole in her forehead.”

  “Runs Close? Who was she?”

  “Good kid. Kind of strident when she got her back up about Indigenous women’s rights, but her heart was in the right place.” He finished his beer, poured more into his glass. “Then Bart yells, and there’s Dierdra Two Shoes, dead too.”

  “Must’ve been awful for you.”

  “Christ, yes, but seeing Dierdra was worse on Bart. They’d been involved pretty heavy a couple of years ago. Of course, that was over quick enough when she started going out on him.”<
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  “Going out? With whom?”

  “Don’t know. All of a sudden, little Dierdra wasn’t available any more. Who told you about the murders, anyway?”

  “Somebody in one of the stores. A tourist, I think, who was kind of freaked out by it.”

  “Well, it’s damn freaky, all right.”

  “Do you have any idea who committed the murders? Or why?”

  “It’s got to be somebody who hates Natives, hates women. Maybe…” Jake paused, anger coloring his face. “Maybe one of the Harcourts.”

  “Who’re they?”

  “Big cattle ranchers, own a forty-five-thousand-acre spread out past the buttes.”

  I made an effort to underplay my interest. “I’ve noticed there are a lot of ranches in the area.”

  “Not so many as there used to be.”

  “How come?”

  “Ben Harcourt has been buying out the others. It’s like he wants to own all the grazing land.”

  “He’s not somebody new in the area, is he?”

  “Nope. One of the old-timers.”

  “An old man?”

  He laughed without humor. “Ben’s not that old—he’s probably no more than sixty. But everybody calls him the Old Man.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Autocratic. Acts like he’s trying to establish a dynasty. You’d think he’d have more sense, given the quality of his sons. Well, Kurt’s not so bad, but I don’t think his interests are in cattle. He’s got an education from some eastern college, used to teach at USC. Chemistry, or something like that.”

  “Why’d he come back here?”

  Jake rubbed his fingers together. “Money, baby. Daddy called, and Kurt said, ‘Yessir.’ Now, his brother Paul is a piece of work. Or maybe I shouldn’t link the word ‘work’ to him. Lazy son of a bitch, hangs out all day at the Back Woods Casino. Most nights, the whole damn family’s there.”

  “I gather you don’t like them.”

  “Not one bit. Assholes, all three of them.”

  “What about the guys who work for them—Gene and Vic? I ran into them at the Good Price Store and they offered to buy me a beer.”

  “Gene Byram and Vic Long. Yeah, the same applies. You should stay away from them. They’re bad news.”

  “I’ll keep a wide berth. Is the Back Woods a Native casino?”

  “No. It’s an illegal operation, owned by some of the powerful white interests around here. Probably that’s why they hang there; they hate Natives. According to the Old Man, our people are the worst thing that ever happened to America.”

  “He doesn’t have too much of a grasp of history, does he?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where is this casino?”

  “You planning on going there?”

  “Maybe. I’d like to get a look at the Harcourts.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, they’re prominent citizens in the area. I might want to mention them in my article.”

  “The Harcourts are against any sort of publicity. Besides, you’d stand out at the casino.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re Native, aren’t you?”

  “Yes—Shoshone. But I was raised by a white family, who claimed I was a ‘throwback’ to a Native ancestor. I only found out about my roots in my thirties.”

  “That must’ve been a shock.”

  “It was, but after I’d tracked down my birth parents, I suspected I’d known all along that something wasn’t right. And now I have two families and love them both.”

  “Well, Natives aren’t welcome there, women or men.” He studied my face. “Of course, if you were raised white, you’ve got the right mannerisms. They’ll put up with Natives if they clean up nice.”

  “I clean up nice, when I want to.”

  “Maybe you’ll get by, then. The casino isn’t all that fancy.”

  “Do you go there?”

  “Hell, no. I avoid the place like the plague.” He took a fresh napkin from the holder and drew me a map through the surrounding forest. “It’s about a fifteen- or twenty-minute walk. You need me for anything, I’ll be right here, probably in this same booth. In fact, why don’t you meet me at around eleven, let me know what you found out.”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  8:21 p.m.

  I selected a pair of black jeans and a red silk blouse from the limited wardrobe I’d brought along and coiled my hair into a knot on top of my head. I put on my own parka, which was in far better shape than the Sisters’, a wool cap, and gloves. Before leaving the shack, I placed the plastic packet containing my identification and .38 in an inside pocket.

  Following the directions I’d gotten from Jake Blue, I set out through the forest, my flashlight showing the way. The night was bitter cold, and there were patches of ice that I was extra careful to avoid. I hoped it wouldn’t snow again before I got back.

  I wasn’t planning to gamble at the casino. Fortunately, gambling is one of the vices left out of my makeup. But I would attempt to connect with the Harcourt family if they were there.

  The casino was housed in a big geodesic dome with several smaller ones attached. I’d seen its garish flashing lights reflected on the trees from at least half a mile away. Music filled the surrounding forest—a monotonous rock beat. Cars and trucks were parked helter-skelter in the dirt lot, and a few people huddled together outside, smoking or indulging in whatever was their pleasure.

  There was a doorman at the entrance to the big dome who looked at me skeptically but made no attempt to stop me from entering. Inside, a pair of blond, fur-coated women shied away from me as if I had a communicable disease. The place was crowded with similar white types. They acted as if I smelled bad.

  Actually it was the casino itself that smelled bad; it reeked of smoke, both tobacco and marijuana. Smoking in public establishments is illegal in California, but then so is gambling, except on the reservations. That hadn’t stopped them here.

  Tables—blackjack, poker, roulette—crowded the dome, and there were banks of slot machines. Waitresses in scanty red outfits and preposterously high heels served drinks to the players and kibitzers. Chips clattered, bells bonged, shouts went up from the tables. Women in workers’ gloves pulled tirelessly at the handles of slots. Dim lighting gave permission for people to perform acts that they never would have in the privacy of their own homes: men fingered cocktail waitresses’ asses; women cozied up to much younger men; drinks spilled, bettors staggered, arguments erupted. And yet there was a kind of innocence about all this frantic activity: they were greedy children on the playground before the final bell rang.

  As I stood looking around, a young brown-haired man in a security guard’s uniform approached me. “Ms. McNear?” he asked.

  “Yes?” I said warily.

  “I’m Tom Williams, a friend of Jake Blue. He called and told me you’d be in. Said you were interested in the Harcourts.”

  I smiled and shook his hand, concealing my annoyance at Jake’s interference. Did he think I needed help in finding the Harcourts? Or was he checking up on me for some reason?

  Williams and I walked through the main room, which also contained two cocktail lounges and a large snack bar. As we went, I was on the receiving end of a few dark looks that reminded me yet again of the prevailing attitude toward Natives. A man in a denim jacket started to jostle me, then turned away when he saw I was with Williams.

  The reactions surprised me. I had seldom been the target of blatant racism before. I’d been raised in a section of San Diego where white, Hispanic, Black, and various other races lived in relative harmony. In college at UC Berkeley being a person of color was considered a plus. And San Francisco was much the same. Here, however, my eyes were being opened to all sorts of negative behaviors.

  “This is where the action is,” Tom said. “See that blond gent over there at the craps table? That’s Paul Harcourt, tonight’s big winner.”

  An impressive pile of chips sat in front of Harcourt, and a sma
ll crowd of onlookers were cheering him on. He was tall, well over six feet, and handsome, with a trim, athletic body clothed in what reminded me of a 1970s leisure suit. He laughed a lot with his audience, his blue eyes crinkling at their corners, his ultra-white teeth flashing. He raked in chips and laughed some more, and when he cashed out, he left a generous tip for the croupier.

  “Aren’t his family major stakeholders in the casino?” I asked Tom.

  “Sure, they practically live here. He’ll join the rest of the family in the cocktail lounge.”

  “I’d like to meet them.”

  “I’m not sure they’ll welcome a journalist, but I’ll introduce you.”

  In the lounge, Paul Harcourt sat down in a booth with a silver-haired older man and another blond man who looked enough like him to be his twin. Tom and I loitered near the entrance as the waitress delivered them draft beers.

  “The Old Man,” Tom said, “is supposedly very ill—kidney trouble, arrhythmia, bladder problems. But that could change; I hear that he’s going to start having some experimental treatments pretty soon.”

  “Oh? What kind?”

  “Don’t know.” He steered me closer.

  Paul Harcourt’s eyes focused on me, narrowed. He elbowed the white-haired man next to him, and they both stared. Then the other man shrugged and looked away. Still staring at me, Paul started to get up, then changed his mind and stayed put.

  Tom said, “Hi, folks. This is Sharon McNear, a journalist who’s here to do a travel piece on the county.”

  The Harcourts exchanged looks. The Old Man shook his head. Paul said, “We don’t encourage publicity.”

  I said, “Not even in the interests of improving tourism in this area?”

  “We get plenty of tourists in season.”

  The other blond, who I assumed was his brother, Kurt, added, “You can’t judge a place by what it’s like in January.”

  “But I can extrapolate what it’s like at the height of the summer season.”

  “I’m not so sure there is such a thing as the summer season here.”

  Tom gave me a look that said, “You’re on your own,” and moved away from me.