The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volume 1-4 (71 page)

Red had retired to ranch in the southern part of the county, had listened to the wind until he had grown loopy as a barn swallow in late elderberry season, and had finally shot himself in the heart. A drunk fourteen-year-old cowboy had knifed Del; Otto was crushed under a team of horses; and, as near as we could tell, Charley and Conrad had just disappeared. I knew why Lucian had called it quits. Things had changed in the seventies, and the world could no longer leave his peculiar brand of law enforcement well enough alone. He had ridden the trail for more than a quarter of a century and that was enough. It wasn’t a happy collection of fortunes, but it did help to put Room 32 at the Durant Home for Assisted Living in perspective.

The old sheriff was a little roughed up, but he was going to be fine. I had saved a small strand of the hair, but the rest was already on its way to Cheyenne and DCI.

I scared up the coffee, folded a paper towel in lieu of a filter, and stepped back to the satisfying gurgle of impending caffeine and thought about another nine months in office. Somehow, it seemed longer than the past twenty-three years and three months altogether.

I noticed the blinking red light on the wall phone in the hallway, picked up the receiver, and tried to think of what Saizarbitoria would say, finally settling on. “Jail.”

“It’s Bill Wiltse. He says he wants to talk to you about this Gaskell character.”

I punched line one. “Hello?”

“Have you got Leo Gaskell?”

I raised my eyebrows and looked at the phone for my own entertainment. “Hi Bill, how are you?”

He was quiet for a minute; I think for emphasis. “Do you have him?”

“No, actually I don’t.” I looked in at the coffee pot, but it wasn’t quite full. “You wanna tell me what this is all about? He doesn’t seem to have any outstanding . . .”

“He assaulted one of my off-duty officers at the Lander Saloon about two weeks ago and broke the orbit around his left eye and dislocated his jaw.”

The coffee was ready, so I turned over one of our rare official mugs with the sheriff ’s star, poured, and watched as a few drops sizzled on the warming pad.

“What’s this all about, Walt?”

I took a sip of the coffee, a little strong but it would do. “Oh, I ID’ed a Datsun pickup last night, and we’ve had someone over here attempting to do that thing that ends all other deeds.”

“What?”

That’s what I got when I quoted Shakespeare to other sheriffs. “You wanna fax over a copy of your files and a photograph of Gaskell?”

“You bet. Hey, Walt?”

“Yep?”

“Be careful with this jaybird, he’s bad news.”

Leo Gaskell fit the bill, but what connection could he have with the Barojas or Lucian? I would have to deal Leo around like a bad card and see what came up. Just for the luck of the draw, I had put out an all points bulletin last night.

* * *

I started up the stairs with my cup of coffee. “Anything on that APB with the HPs?” Ruby shook her head. “Add the plate number.” I called back to her as I made for my office. “You find anything on the priest?”

“He lives at the rectory over at St. Mathias. Father Thallon looks after him.”

I could go find the old priest but, without Saizarbitoria, I couldn’t do much. I could check on Lana, Isaac, or Lucian at the hospital, head over to the home and ask around, or maybe even call in the Baroja twins and have a little chat. The opportunities were endless.

I swiveled my chair around and looked at the orange mountains that paled to lighter shades in the morning light. The sun was out, but it was doubtful we’d get much higher than the teens during the course of the day. The foothills were covered with a deep drift of snow that had piled on from the northwest so that the whole county looked as if it were leaning to the southeast.

I knew better than to call the greatest legal mind of our time before noon on a day she wasn’t billing on an hourly basis. It was still relatively early, and I needed company for breakfast. I figured the Log Cabin Motel was a good place to look.

* * *

“What if I want the special rather than the usual?”

Dorothy crossed her arms and smiled at me like a magician forcing a card. “The special is the usual.”

I nodded, looked at Maggie Watson, and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have the usual special.”

She looked to Maggie. “Me, too.”

Dorothy opened the waffle iron, set up for Belgian. It wasn’t the usual usual. I looked at the menu absentmindedly and wondered, if I were a breakfast, which one I’d be? Probably the usual. “So, how are our abandoned safe-deposit boxes measuring up?”

She sipped her coffee. “Pretty boring, actually.”

“How much longer do you think you’ll be?”

“Maybe two days.” It was quiet in the little café. “How’s your case going?”

“Don’t ask.” A thought occurred to me, and I looked at the chief cook and bottle washer. “Hey Dorothy, who in this county is bigger than me?”

She was still but didn’t turn. “Bigger in what way?”

“Taller.”

“Brandon White Buffalo.”

I took a sip of my coffee, glanced toward Maggie, and dismissed that suggestion. “Anybody else?”

She sat the bowl against her hip and tilted her head. “There was a guy in here about a week ago, construction worker, really big.”

“Not a local?”

“No.”

“Working around here?”

“Maybe. Outside work; wearing those big arctic Carhartts.” She motioned to the farthest stool at the end of the serving counter. “Sat down there, kept to himself.”

Maggie was watching me prime the pump. “Did he say anything that might’ve given you an indication as to who he was or where he was working?”

She shook her head. “No, he hardly said a word, and it was busy.”

I decided to go with the big indicator. “What’d his hat say?”

“I don’t read every ball cap that comes into this place, life’s too short.” She poured the batter into the waffle iron, closed it, and then turned back to look at Maggie. “Asks a lot of questions, doesn’t he?”

When they had stopped steaming, she flipped the Belgian waffles from the iron, drenched them in maple syrup, and dressed them with confectionary sugar and a few strawberries for good measure. She slid the hot plates in front of us, reaching back for the pot after noticing our cups were about empty.

I started eating as she watched. Dorothy liked to watch me eat, and I’d gotten over it. Maggie seemed to be enjoying her usual usual. “You ever hear of Jolie Baroja, the cousin?”

She poured herself a cup. “Some talk about the ETA. He was over there for a few years during and after the war.”

“That’s a nasty little terrorist group for a priest to be tied up with.”

“Like I said, just talk.” She took another sip of her coffee. “He must be older than dirt. He did the mass at the Basque festival a few years ago in Euskara. As a matter of fact, I don’t think he speaks English, at least not anymore.” She glanced at Maggie, who was doing her best to ignore us. “You know what they say about the Basques; like a good woman, they have no past.”

* * *

I dropped Maggie off at the Durant State Bank and picked up Sancho at the office.

St. Mathias is near the creek where the giant cottonwoods tower over the aged stone buildings that make up the abandoned portion of the Pope’s compound. They built a new church back in the sixties, a really ugly one, the one I always associated with Pancake Day, but the old rectory and chapel still stood by the creek where they always had.

I froze as Saizarbitoria dipped his fingers in the water, knelt, and crossed himself. I stroked my beard and felt like a Viking, there to raid the place. I followed him down the aisle and passed through the sunlight that skipped onto the hardwood floor. The stone pillars stretched to a small gallery where there were ornate stained-glass windows. They were not the usual Jesus lineup but were odd, with strange depictions of biblical passages foreign to me; at least I couldn’t remember any parts of the Bible where Goliath stacked rocks or tiny angels flew around people’s heads.

We shook hands with the amiable blond-bearded priest and followed as he led us to the kitchen where Father Baroja was seated at a table with some hot cocoa. He paid us little attention as Father Thallon put the kettle on and pulled out a few more mugs. “Jolie, you know you’re not supposed to operate the stove without Mrs. Krauss.” The old priest gave no response. “We had a little accident about a month ago.”

I sat at the end of the table and studied the old man. He continued to look at his hot chocolate and pulled it a little closer as if we might take it away from him. He had a long face with a bulbous nose, dangling earlobes, and wrinkles that all congregated at his mouth. He looked like some ancient monk with a heavy wool cardigan that buttoned up around his neck. He could have been any of the hard men I’d seen on horseback in Mari Baroja’s photographs.

Gene Thallon had warned us that Basque was not his second language, or his fifty-seventh for that matter, but that he knew that the language had four distinct dialects, and that the vast number of grammatical tenses included a subjective, two different potentials, an eventual, and a hypothetical. I looked over at my secret weapon and hoped we could get out of there before Father Thallon had us diagramming sentences.

He brought over some cups for us and, with this ecumenical distribution of cocoa, the old priest loosened the guard on his own. It seemed rude to not say anything to the old guy, so I said hello.

He studied me for a moment but dismissed me for the cocoa. I looked at Father Thallon. The young priest smiled. “He can be a little incommunicative at times.”

“Kaixo, zer moduz?”
Saizarbitoria casually sipped his own hot chocolate and glanced sideways at Jolie Baroja after speaking.

“Zer da hau?”
The gravel in the old priest’s voice could have filled a driveway.

Sancho set his mug back down with a tight-lipped smile.
“Bai?”

Jolie Baroja’s head slipped to one side, and then he leaned in close to Santiago, placing a hand lightly on the young deputy’s arm.
“Ongi-etorri . . .”

They talked at an impressive rate for a solid five minutes before my translator turned back to me. “Was there anything specific you wanted to know?”

“What was all that about?”

“Cordialities. He thinks I’m a local, and I didn’t dissuade him.”

“Good.” I had watched Sancho carefully, the way he actively listened to what the old man had to say, didn’t interrupt, and maintained eye contact. It was all textbook and well done. It looked as though he had adopted the role of friend and ally with the old priest, a posture that would enable Jolie to speak freely within the coded language they shared.

I looked at Father Thallon, who had been watching the proceedings with great interest, and then back to Saizarbitoria. “Can you gently ask him about his cousin, any family contact he might have had?”

The kid looked at me for an extra moment, then turned and renewed the conversation.

“I had no idea you had deputies that could speak Basque.”

I nodded. “We try and stay close to the constituency.”

The old priest glanced back at me, and Sancho weighed his next words carefully. “He doesn’t like you.”

I glanced at him and then back to Santiago. “He doesn’t even know me.”

“He thinks he does.”

I stood and gestured for the younger priest to lead on. “Well, we know when we’re not wanted.” He paused for only a moment and then led me back into the cathedral. It was small by modern standards, but exquisite. It had been pieced together by the sturdy and articulate hands of not only the Basque but also the Scottish, Polish, Czech, and German faithful. They had been tough men who had brought the old ways with them along with the skills to build beauty such as this. I followed the king’s-bridge truss system of hand-adzed beams that held the roof and admired the wide-plank floors with no board less than a foot wide; the altar and the adjoining walls were local moss stone with the lichens flourishing in the cool of the open stillness.

I took a sip of my cocoa. “Must be tough with all these Basquos around.”

“It’s difficult, especially with the older parishioners; they’re still not sure if I’m going to last.” He smiled. “They have a saying, the Basque. That just because the cat has kittens in the oven, it doesn’t make them biscuits.”

I laughed and looked at him. “You’re probably wondering why we’re here. We’re interested in his relationship with his cousin, Mari. Did you know her?”

Thallon nodded. “Mari? Yes, I did know her. I visited with her last Friday. A terrible shame.”

I nodded. “Do you know any of the rest of the family?”

“I’ve met the granddaughter, the one that owns the bakery. Lana?”

“Seems like a good kid.” The priest remained silent. “Have you met either of the twins?”

“I’ve met Carol; she’s come over to meet with Father Baroja a number of times.”

“How many times?”

He thought. “A half a dozen or so, over a lengthy period. I would imagine that it’s very difficult to visit more often from Florida.”

“Can you remember when she was here last?”

He thought some more and exhaled very slowly. “About two years ago, I think.”

I thought about it. “Was Father Baroja very close with Mari?”

“No.”

“That was a pretty definitive answer.”

“I think there was some tension there.” He glanced back toward the chapel as Saizarbitoria entered from the doorway.

Sancho asked about the church, the congregation, and the community. As they talked, my attention was drawn back to the stained-glass windows. The stone church wouldn’t get long beams of sunshine today; only short blasts of golden light that illuminated first one window, then another. I watched the seemingly random pattern and wondered if I concentrated would I get the message. Probably not.