A Nose for Justice (37 page)

Baxter did just that. King threw his weight on the struggling man. As his larger jaws closed around the exposed throat, Baxter’s puncture wounds oozed blood. With a savage clasp and shake, King ripped out the man’s throat.

A shot of blood arced upward, then spilled over the front of his zipped jacket. His right hand, badly mauled, went to his throat. Mags stood over him ready to finish the job. A gurgle told her it was done.

Far too angry to be frightened at this point, she let out a yell of victory and relief.

“
He tried to kill my person!
” Baxter growled, still hyped up.

King, satisfied the killer was dead, said simply,
“We took care of that!”

Mags turned and ran back to the ranch, her adrenaline so high she barely felt her feet touch the ground.

Bursting through the door she hollered, “Aunt Jeep! Aunt Jeep!”

In her robe, Jeep hurried to the top of the stairs. “What?”

“Someone tried to kill me. The dogs killed him. He’s lying down on Dixie Lane.”

“I’ll be right there. Call the sheriff. I’ll call Enrique.”

Within ten minutes, Jeep, Mags, and Enrique were wide awake, dressed, and in the truck. Enrique pulled up to the 4Runner, the door hanging open. The three got out of the car.

“You can see the bastard’s windpipe.” Enrique reached down to pull off the ski mask.

The dogs, who’d hopped into the truck, already knew who it was, thanks to scent.

“Craig Locke!” Jeep’s hand went to her forehead.

Mags’s legs felt a little shaky. Enrique put his arm around her waist.

T
wo hours later, Pete and Lonnie sat in the living room with Mags, who had mostly recovered. She patiently and accurately recounted the attack.

Pete sat next to her, Lonnie across from her. Jeep was in one of the longhorn chairs.

“Why didn’t he use a gun?” Mags wondered.

“The noise would have carried all the way to the Old Ross Ranch. He knew that,” Pete said.

“I think I know what happened,” Jeep said quietly.

Enrique came into the room, having checked on the cattle, and sat down. “Sorry to be late.”

“Craig called on Enrique and me yesterday,” Jeep continued, “trying once again to pry loose some of my water rights.” She shrugged. “Anyway, in the middle of this, Mags bursts in and says she’s close to finding the killer. She meant our Russian’s killer, but Craig must have thought she meant Oliver Hitchens’s killer. That’s why he tried to kill Mags.”

“Thank God for the dogs,” Mags said.

T
he next day, Teton Benson turned himself in at the Sheriff’s Department. He’d driven up from Indio, California, in a brand-new Mustang. The sheriff immediately called in Pete and Lonnie to question him, down at the department’s interrogation room. Teton admitted to stealing the Blazer. He said he did nothing else wrong.

“We need to know how you became involved with Craig Locke,” said Pete.

“I knew him through my sister. I knew most of the SSRM people until I got so bad my brother-in-law told me not to come to any of their functions. As I began to slide, Craig noticed. At first he offered help. He actually drove me to the rehab clinic. Once I was out, he said we could make money together.”

“He pointed you to the small parcels of land?”

“He also gave me the money. I know he’d done this before. He had a large cash reserve so he could front money. The deal was he took seventy
percent and we took thirty. He wanted me to find people to buy the other parcels—again, he’d front the money. People who could never be traced back to him. I did. They never spoke to anyone but me.”

“The friends you made in rehab?”

“Right. The problem was Egon. Once the money came through—I mean, once Wade Properties anted up—Egon wanted to keep a larger percentage. He badgered me and kept at it—he could be really nasty, especially if he had too much to drink. He couldn’t stay off the booze. He cut out drugs, but he couldn’t shake the sauce. I got sick of it so I told him it was Craig. He buttonholed Craig. Craig cussed me out, but he knew that Egon would be back time and time again. So he killed him. I left. Figured I’d be next.”

Pete leaned back in his chair. “Do you know why Craig killed Oliver Hitchens?”

“He told me someone at work was getting nosy about Horseshoe Estates and a future project, which Craig felt would net even more money. He blew the pumps to scare people about the water supply. He thought it would divert Oliver. Didn’t. He told me some things, but not everything. As I said, he’d done this over the years in small ways, using college friends, people out of the SSRM loop, not his immediate friends. But now he was trying to do it big, just in case the environmental groups and the ranchers upended everything. Craig wanted to own water rights in Bedell Flat before it became even more difficult. Sooner or later, he believed SSRM would have to utilize this overlooked area. He’d made so much money on Horseshoe Estates he was getting arrogant.”

“And Oliver knew this?”

Teton frowned. “Oliver figured out that Craig was going to try to buy up rights in Bedell Flat. I don’t know what else he knew.”

“Did he ever mention Sam Peruzzi or Friends of Sierra?”

“He hated Friends of Sierra. Craig didn’t name names. Look, I’ve told you all I know. I stole a car, but buying land on a tip-off isn’t a crime.”

Pete stared at him coldly. “You must have suspected he’d killed Oliver and maybe even the Friends of Sierra member, Sam Peruzzi.”

“I didn’t want to know. Egon’s death woke me up.”

After questioning Teton, Pete called Mrs. Peruzzi to tell her he’d found her husband’s killer and he was dead. He said it might never be proven but he was sure it was Craig Locke.

Then he called Sergeant Evans.

After informing him about Craig Locke, Pete remarked, “Sorry I can’t give you five minutes in the cell with him.”

“I hope the bastard suffered.”

“Sergeant Evans, he did. The two dogs protecting the jogger brought him down and ripped his throat out.”

“Then there is some justice in the world. Give those dogs a steak on me.”

“Will do.”

“S
omething bright.” Pete handed a bouquet with tiny orchids and pink roses to Mags, and a dramatic one with birds of paradise to Jeep.

“Let me put them in vases.” Jeep took them both as she headed for the kitchen.

“Excuse me. More presents.” Pete dashed outside, returning with two T-bone steaks from the supermarket.

“Supper?” Mags took the steaks.

“These are from Sergeant Evans in Susanville, for Baxter and King.”

Jeep had just walked back, one large vase in hand, which she placed on the hall table. She saw the steaks in Mags’s hands.

“Rewards for our heroes,” Mags said.

“Perfect!” Jeep took the steaks and hurried back to the kitchen to put them in the fridge.

P
ete hugged Mags again and kissed her. “I am so glad you’re all right.”

She hugged him back. “I am but I’m still in shock. That fast, Pete, it happened so fast.”

Solemnly looking up at the handsome fellow, Baxter said,
“I knew.”

Pete bent on one knee, rubbed the dog’s head. Then King came back from the kitchen and he petted him, too.

“Well, I think I found the Russian and his killer.” Once he stood, Mags took Pete by the arm and walked him into the den.

She showed him the close-up of Remington’s drawing. Showed him again the bracelet of colored square bones on her wrist.

“Sure looks the same. He has more beads.” Pete put his arm around her shoulder. “’Course, he hadn’t lost his bracelet in what might have been a fight to the death.”

“I think our Russian is Sergei Makharadze. Prince Ivan Makharadze, his brother, originally led the Cossacks in Buffalo Bill’s show in 1892 or 1893. When the Prince returned to Georgia, Sergei signed up to replace him. Everyone else I’ve managed to track, but I find no mention of Sergei after 1902. Before he signed up with Buffalo Bill, he was posted to Persia, what they called Iran then.”

“Looks like you found two killers.” Pete kissed her cheek.

“I can’t prove that Major James Plunket did it, but he and Colonel Wavell were in close touch. Wavell, if the online information is correct, ran a web of military intelligence. Remember, Great Britain and Russia were still at odds over what we now call Iran and Afghanistan. In other words, both men were spies and I guess Sergei found out something important—what, we’ll never know. But our country was developing more sophisticated weapons as were the Germans, English, and French. The First World War was the first war with machine guns. Perhaps that was it as the U.S. really advanced the science of armaments, spurred by what we endured during the Civil War, the first war where railroads were used. I just don’t know.”

“You make a good detective, know that?” He kissed her again. “Every time I think of Craig lunging for you, I don’t know.” Pete couldn’t express himself. “I just know I don’t want to lose you.”

Baxter loudly added.
“She’s safe as long as I’m with her. Don’t worry.”

Preceding Jeep, who could be heard coming down the hall, King came over and licked Baxter’s head.
“For a city dog, you’re okay.”

Jeep appeared at the doorway, beverages in hand. “Let’s celebrate. Funny, isn’t it? No matter how smart we are, fate steps in.” She looked down. “Or dogs.”

O
n March 10, 2010, about two hundred women who had served as Women Airforce Service Pilots received the Congressional Gold Medal, the highest civilian honor given by Congress.

Three Nevada pilots: Julia Bartlett of Reno, Dorothy Ebb of Gardnerville, and Madge Moore of Las Vegas were among the honored. Were she flesh and blood, Jeep Reed would have stood with them.

Deanie Parrish, eighty-eight, of Waco, Texas, said the women had volunteered without expectation of thanks. “We did it because our country needed us,” Parrish said.

Nine hundred or more of the WASPs have passed away. Thirty-eight were killed in service. Still considered civilians, “the flygirls” were not entitled to the pay and benefits given to men.

Of the two hundred still living, no attempt is being made by Congress, as far as I know, to correct this oversight.

M
s. Carol Lloyd, a Red Rock resident and professional researcher, helped me enormously. Apart from her formidable and speedy skills, she’s good company.

Ms. Patricia Hodges, M.D., also provided a wealth of information. A graduate of Washoe High School, and then the University of Nevada at Reno, she knows the territory. Her recollections and understanding of Nevada politics proved invaluable.

Special thanks to Marion Maggiolo of Horse Country, Warrenton, Virginia for alerting me to the presence of Cossacks in America. A woman of high intelligence and energy, she continually delights me with new ideas.

Mr. John Schafer, MFH, who owns a casino in Virginia City, shared his insights on Nevada history and its current economic condition. He and Mr. John Edwards invited me and four other ladies to high tea, which was a wonderful way to learn just by listening to these people. We ladies would have been happy to simply sit and look at the two aforementioned gentlemen as they are rather handsome.

I couldn’t have written this book without the help of the above people. I hope I have the opportunity to abuse them again, too. What fun they all are.

Jeep, Mags, King, and Baxter will return to sniff out more crime in their next mystery.

Meanwhile, don’t miss
HISS OF DEATH
by Rita Mae Brown and Sneaky Pie Brown

Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen, along with sleuthing cats Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, Corgi Tucker, and the other residents of Crozet, Virginia, return in the latest
New York Times
bestselling Mrs. Murphy mystery, on sale in spring 2011.

And look for the trade paperback edition of

ANIMAL MAGNETISM
My Life with Creatures Great and Small
by Rita Mae Brown
ON SALE NOW

R
ITA
M
AE
B
ROWN
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the Mrs. Murphy mystery series (which she writes with her tiger cat, Sneaky Pie) and the Sister Jane novels, as well as
Rubyfruit Jungle, In Her Day, Six of One, The Sand Castle
, and the memoirs,
Animal Magnetism
and
Rita Will
. An Emmy-nominated screenwriter and a poet, Brown lives in Afton, Virginia, with cats, hounds, horses, and big red foxes.

www.ritamaebrown.com