Plains Crazy (4 page)

Wynn was pretty confident that Daphne Alights on the Cloud wasn't the killer. Maybe she'd been at the scene, but she was obviously an innocent bystander. Wynn let his glance travel over the remarkable curves hardly disguised by the shorts and halter she'd put on after reporting the death. He was not the sort who would normally try to picture what things looked like while a murder happened, but he couldn't stop thinking about Daphne in the altogether. That, of course, was one of the reasons she couldn't be guilty. Where would she hide the murder weapon?

It was his job, he reminded himself, to recreate the crime scene in his mind. Unfortunately, he had a hard time putting the deceased in the image that resulted.

He was leaning toward the old Cheyenne guy, Mr. Stone, as the best candidate for an appointment with the state's executioner. Bud Stone was part of the village, though participating in a different capacity. The other families were descendants of Native Americans. But none of them had been living in their original culture in their day-to-day lives. They were from the outside world. That was the gimmick for this TV program. Get a bunch of modern Indians who had never lived like Indians, take them out in the middle of the Great Plains, and see how well they mastered a lifestyle that had been gone for nearly a hundred and fifty years. Not too well, from what he'd heard. That reassured him somehow.

Old man Stone and a couple of his kin were staying in the encampment with the rest of the Indians, only they were the real thing. The guy was a living, breathing Cheyenne. Of course, he didn't normally reside in a tent either, but he knew his culture and could tell them how his ancestors had lived. The old man was there to help see that this was done authentically—to guide the rest of the participants and make sure nothing sacred got mocked.

Since the kid was killed by a real Cheyenne arrow and the old man was the only person there who even seemed to know what one looked like, Wynn figured he was also the only one who might have made it. From which, his deductive powers led straight to a conclusion. Elementary, the old bastard was guilty. He even had a motive. The kids were out there fooling around, something real Cheyenne folks would have frowned on, or so Stone had said.

Wynn had a strategy for tricking confessions out of killers. He tried it now. “That why you killed him?” he asked Stone.

The old man was standing at the edge of the awning's shade, staring off across the flat pasture at a distant line of Osage orange trees.

“Didn't,” the old man said, not bothering to turn and look Wynn in the eye—one more reason for suspicion, in the deputy's mind.

“Who else could have made that arrow?” Let's see the coot answer that one, he thought.

“Good question,” the old man nodded. “You should find out.”

The guy was going to be tougher to break than Wynn had expected. “Where were you when the kid was killed?”

“Visiting my grandfather,” the old man said. “It was a good visit. I did not like to come back.”

Just how many real Cheyenne were here? And if this old guy was with his grandfather, the grandfather must be a truly ancient character.

“And he can confirm that?” Wynn prepared to jot the information in his notebook.

“Yes.” The old man turned at last to face the deputy. He had features that belonged on an old nickel, scarred and weathered.

“Where can I find him?”

“Where I left him.”

This was getting annoying. “And that would be?”

“Beyond the Milky Way,” the Cheyenne said. He wasn't smiling and neither was Wynn. “My grandfather, you see, he was murdered by Custer and his men on the Washita. In 1868. Guess he was more like a great-great-grandfather, as you reckon it.”

Wynn's jaw dropped, ready for fly trapping.

“I'll go have some coffee now,” the Indian said, “while you confirm my alibi.”

“How?”

Old man Stone paused and finally looked Wynn straight in the eyes. He raised his right hand. “How yourself,” he said, and turned and walked away.

***

Judy was packed and ready to leave in less than an hour. She filled a suitcase for Englishman too, though she didn't think he'd be going with her. She took their luggage downstairs to the living room and set everything by the door. She put Englishman's passport on the end table beside his bag. Her own went into her fanny pack along with her billfold and checkbook and flight confirmations. She wasn't letting any of that out of her possession in the hours before her departure.

She had put on jeans and a purple K-State tee shirt. The outfit she would wear on the plane was laid out up on the bed, along with Englishman's single pair of dress slacks, his best shirt, and his only presentable sports coat. Changing wouldn't take long.

Judy let herself out the door and was overwhelmed by a blend of rich aromas thick enough to cut and sweet enough to cause weight gain. The flower beds she'd spent years establishing in their otherwise dull yard were going insane this spring.

She wheeled her bicycle off the porch, down the walk, and out the front gate. She closed it behind her without thinking, even though they had reluctantly said farewell to the dog it was meant to contain months ago. Tears came as she realized what she'd done, along with a fresh tightening in her chest. She mounted the bike and pumped off, angry about letting her emotions surface so easily. She was going to be tough, she'd promised herself. This wasn't a good start.

She was getting used to doing without their station wagon most of the time. Things were tight with two daughters in their first year of college. They'd kept tuition to a minimum by sending the girls to the junior college in Hutchinson, but the combined incomes of a rural sheriff and the local school vice principal weren't enough to run a third car. Englishman used the departmental black and white when he could so she would have access to his truck, but that was mostly when he was the only officer on duty. They had decided the girls needed her Taurus more than she did, not only to get to and from Hutch, but to get around in such a big city. There were at least 40,000 people in Hutchinson. Buffalo Springs High was only a couple of blocks from the English household. Hell, the whole municipality was within a mile of where their house stood near the east edge of town. Bicycling and walking were useful tools for a middle-aged woman working hard to continue looking younger than her driver's license claimed.

She could have taken the station wagon this morning. She'd heard the girls come in late last night. Like most teenagers, they were heavy sleepers—thank goodness. They probably wouldn't be up before she got back. But she would leave the car for them in case they needed it. Frankly, on a morning as beautiful as this, Judy preferred the bike.

There weren't many places to go, other than visiting, in Buffalo Springs. Most of the old downtown was boarded up, or occupied by second-hand merchants disguising themselves as antique stores. Turning west on Main took Judy past three of the city's most prosperous businesses, the Bisonte Bar, Klausen's Funeral Parlor, and Dillons grocery store. The other three economic success stories, Bertha's Café, the Buffalo Burger Drive In, and the Texaco, were all visible and no more than a couple of blocks from her route.

It wasn't until she pulled up in front of the Farmers & Merchants Bank that she realized it was far too early for them to be open. She'd been awake since four. She felt like it should be almost noon. The rest of the county continued to run on central daylight savings time and it was only a few minutes after eight. She had two hours to wait. Even a few carefully chosen, magic words didn't change that.

The bank wasn't as impressive as it used to be. The old location, an ornate two-story sandstone, had been abandoned as too expensive to repair a decade ago. The new one stood in a former parking lot a couple of blocks south of Main. Manufactured was what they called these prefab buildings now. It was just a fancy trailer as far as Judy was concerned. She walked over and gave the front door a swift kick. It vibrated alarmingly, but the hours printed on the glass remained the same.

Patience. She needed a little patience. It wasn't her strong suit.

Millie's beauty parlor was a couple of doors down, and, according to the sign in the front door, was open. Judy hadn't had her hair done in ages. Suddenly, it felt like a good idea. Something to do instead of pedaling home and twiddling her thumbs, or, worse, snacking her way through the interval at the deli in Dillons or with one of Bertha's sinful cinnamon rolls.

“Judy English!” Millie was obviously surprised to see her. Millie was sitting in one of her styling chairs—actually a barber's chair since that had been her establishment's former function. She still had the mirrors on both walls that let you stare right past infinity to the end of the universe, though now they were festooned with plastic vines and garlands of fake flowers. Millie put the chair back in an upright position and stepped down onto the old-fashioned checkerboard tiles. “What can I do for you?” she asked, folding a magazine and putting it on the counter behind her.

“Blond,” Judy said, “and short.” She pointed at the rack that, in former days, would have held sports and hunting, and maybe even girly magazines. They were all girly magazines now, though in a different way. “Like that,” she said, indicating a cover where a minor movie star with platinum hair smiled beneath her pixie cut.

Millie raised her eyebrows and stared at the thick auburn curls that, even pulled back and held by a clip, hung below Judy's shoulders. “You're kidding,” Millie said.

Judy's request surprised even herself. She'd thought she could use a professional trim, a little touching up to make the sprinkles of gray disappear, maybe even a manicure—whatever it took until the bank opened. But suddenly she knew that wasn't enough. She wanted to be somebody else. She wanted to be someone who would hop on an international flight at a moment's notice, not a middle-aged, central Kansas mother and educator who hadn't been outside the state in years. This hairdo defined her look as an adult in Buffalo Springs. That's not who she was anymore. Just now, she needed to look anything other than Kansan.

“Very short and very blond,” Judy said.

“Lord, honey. Why would you want to cut off all that gorgeous hair?”

“I'm going to France,” Judy said, as if that explained it.

That seemed to shock Millie even more. “France? After the way they've turned on us?”

There were American flags hanging on either side of the entry to Millie's beauty parlor. There were lots of flags waving in politically conservative Benteen County these days. But more than a few hung beside anti-war slogans and peace signs. There were many fundamentalist Christians here, delighted that any Middle Eastern war seemed to put them closer to the end times they expected and the rapture that would be their salvation. Lots of just plain conservatives could be counted, too, who thought anyone saying anything opposed to the government in a time of war should be shot as a traitor. But this was central Kansas. There were also plenty of pacifist Christians. And isolationists. Even a few liberals.

“We haven't been trading shots with them, just verbal barbs,” Judy said. “Besides, I'm not going there to make a statement. I've wanted to see Paris all my life. It may not be the politically correct time, but, thanks to that, prices are finally where I can afford them. If I don't go now, I never will.”

“They do say it's a beautiful city,” Millie conceded, offering Judy the chair she'd been occupying as well as a flowered cloak to protect her clothes from clippings. Business probably wasn't good enough to let patriotism stand between her and the price of a haircut and a bleach job.

“Englishman going with you?”

“I hope so,” Judy said.

“You'd go on your own without him?” Millie paused in her selection of shears and chemicals.

“Yeah,” Judy declared, unable to hide her anger. “And if he doesn't come, I may not be back.”

***

“You're right, of course,” the sheriff told Deputy Parker as Doc's Buick, in its role as county mortuary transport (or meat wagon), disappeared in its own dust on the way to Buffalo Springs.

“I'm not the one who should question Mad Dog. If he's been out running around these back roads, taking pot shots into the bushes with a homemade bow and arrow, he's got to be held responsible, even if he had no idea anyone was down by the stream. I can handle that, but folks will think I've been too soft on him. Since I know my brother would never hurt anyone on purpose, I probably would be.”

“But you want me to start with this pipe bomb Mrs. Kraus found at the courthouse?”

“Yeah. I need a quick heads up to tell me how serious that is. I mean, are we dealing with some kids' prank, or might there be a legitimate terrorist in Benteen County?”

The sheriff ran a hand over his chin and realized he'd neglected to shave this morning. He wouldn't worry about it. He and Mad Dog were part Cheyenne. Mad Dog took that part a lot more seriously, but it was the sheriff who had inherited the high cheekbones, the dark complexion, and the relative lack of facial hair. It was likely to be evening before anyone noticed his second day shadow…and by evening, he was supposed to be on a plane to Paris.

He ushered Parker to the county's black and white, a high-performance Chevy that was old enough to vote. The last of the curious onlookers had packed up and driven off after the body left. All that remained were the black and white, the sheriff's pickup, and Deputy Wynn's Lexus. Daddy had paid for the Lexus.

“Wynn's probably confused enough witnesses by now. I'll send him along to the courthouse. You can put him on temporary guard duty, if you think there's any need, or send him home to rest before his next shift. I'll take a whack at this film crew and our celebrities. See if I get a hint of behind-the-scenes problems that might have something to do with the shooting.”