Winterkill (12 page)

Joe’s socket wrench slipped on a spark plug and he struck his knuckles hard against the engine block and cursed. He looked up. “I don’t know, Marybeth. But that woman gives me the willies. There’s something . . . off . . . about her.”

“Then you believe him? Do you think he’s innocent, like he claims?”

Joe pulled the wrench out of the engine, slipped off his glove, and examined his skinned knuckles. His bare fingers immediately stiffened in the cold.

“He’s either innocent, or he’s an excellent liar,” Joe said.

“I do know one thing he might not be lying about,” Marybeth said, arching her eyebrows. “Mary Longbrake was seeing a much younger man. It could have been Nate.”

“How in the . . .” Joe caught himself, and rephrased, “How could you possibly know
that
?”

“From the library,” Marybeth said, smiling. “A couple of the women who work there used to play bridge with Mary every week. I guess they talk about all sorts of things in that club. Apparently, Mary made it very clear that her life had changed for the better since she had met this man.”

T
he closed-casket funeral
for Lamar Gardiner was held on the morning of New Year’s Eve, while another dark winter storm front was forming and boiling in the northwest. The wind was icy and withering. The service took place at Kenneth Siman’s Memorial Chapel on Main Street in Saddlestring and was attended by about fifty mourners, most of whom were family, employees of the Forest Service office, or local law enforcement.

Joe sat with Marybeth in the next-to-last row of chairs. He wore a jacket and tie, and had left his hat on the coatrack. Carrie Gardiner, wearing black, sat in the front row with her two children. Behind them was Melinda Strickland, surrounded by Forest Service employees. Strickland’s hair, Joe noted, was a different color than when he had last seen her. Now it was tawny, almost blond. She wore her Forest Service uniform. Sheriff Barnum and his two deputies occupied a single row of chairs, but they all kept empty chairs between them. Elle Broxton-Howard, with her notebook in her lap, sat alone behind them all.

The ferocity of the wind outside made something flap and bang on the roof while the pastor spoke. Kenneth Siman, the earnestly sober funeral director and county coroner, appeared
from a door near the front of the room, looked up to check that nothing within the building had been damaged, and silently disappeared.

When the pastor was done, Melinda Strickland approached the dais and withdrew a folded piece of yellow paper from her uniform pocket. Her demeanor was oddly melodramatic, and she consciously tried to meet the eyes of all of the mourners before she spoke.

“You’ve heard from Pastor Robbins about the life of Lamar, and I’m here to let you know that he didn’t die in vain. No Sirree Bob.”

No Sirree Bob?
Joe felt Marybeth squirm next to him. And he felt it again when Melinda Strickland paused and forced a blazing, inappropriate smile.

Joe felt a cold shiver run through him. Was it just Strickland, he wondered, or was it Romanowski’s manipulation?

“Cassie,” Strickland said to Carrie Gardiner, getting her name wrong, “your dutiful husband was the casualty of a war that we must, and will, stop. When citizens turn against their federal government it will not stand, ya know?”

Joe tried to attribute Melinda Strickland’s words, gestures, and behavior to nervousness. She was certainly making Joe nervous. And Marybeth seemed to be trying to shrink into her chair.

“Ya know, this little war some citizens have with federal employees has gone too far, don’t you think?” She seemed to be looking straight at Joe, and she nodded conspiratorially.

“Ya know, a group of extremists have set up a compound on federal land. That’s kind of ‘in your face,’ don’t you think?”

Melinda Strickland went on for another five minutes. Her thoughts seemed random and disconnected, sound bites in search of a paragraph. Joe barely heard her, but he did hear Marybeth groan.

When she was through, Strickland approached Carrie Gardiner and her children, and grasped both of Carrie’s hands in hers.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Cassie,” Strickland said.

Joe noticed that Elle Broxton-Howard was scribbling furiously in her notepad. As Strickland rejoined her employees,
she turned and handed her speech to Broxton-Howard, who accepted it with a grateful smile.

T
he
reception/wake was held at the Forest Service building. Joe noted right away that the Gardiners hadn’t come. He felt sorry for Carrie, and especially for her children. The other mourners stood in the reception area, drinking punch in paper cups and eating cookies from plates on the office desks. USFS employees stood uncomfortably behind the desks, urging mourners to have another cookie with a lack of enthusiasm that led Joe to believe that they had been instructed to be good hosts by their immediate supervisor, Melinda Strickland.

Elle Broxton-Howard approached Joe and Marybeth and introduced herself. She wore a high-collared Bavarian wool jacket over black stretch pants. She handed Joe a card.

“
Rumour
Magazine,” Joe read aloud. He gave her his card, and she slid it absently into a pocket without looking at it.

“It’s very popular in the U.K,” Broxton-Howard explained. “It’s kind of a cross between your
Maxim
and
People,
with a little of
The New Yorker
thrown in for highbrow literary content. I also freelance.”

“I think my mother reads it,” Marybeth said, making conversation.

Broxton-Howard nodded at Marybeth, but turned again to Joe. Joe knew how well this would go over with his wife.

“I’m doing a long-form story on the battle between the rural militia types and the U.S. government,” Broxton-Howard said, “And I plan to feature Melinda Strickland as my protagonist. I see her as a strong-willed, independent woman in a man’s world. A Barbara Stanwyck of our time.”

She was interrupted, however, as Melinda Strickland joined them wearing her wide, inappropriate grin. Her cocker spaniel trailed behind her.

“I’m Marybeth Pickett, Joe’s wife,” Marybeth said, extending her hand, and smiling with a hint of malice, Joe thought.

“Joe’s been working very closely with our effort, and we appreciate that immensely,” Strickland said, looking at him. “He’s been such a help.”

“I didn’t get that impression when you called me on my cell phone,” Joe said.

Strickland reacted as if Joe had slapped her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she said. Then her expression softened once again into her hostess face.

Wow,
Joe thought.

“So tell me, Joe,” Strickland asked, “have the extremist tendencies in this area affected the job you’re trying to do?”

Joe thought for a moment. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure what you mean by ‘extremist tendencies.’ There are a few bad apples, but the community is generally supportive.”

Strickland cocked her head skeptically at Joe.
“Really?”
she said, in a way that indicated that she didn’t believe him, but didn’t want to cause a scene.

Joe shrugged. “Some folks might get a little eccentric and hardheaded when it comes to land policies and rules and regulations. But I’ve found you can deal with them, if you’re reasonable and fair across the board.”

“ ‘Eccentric’ is an odd term for the murder of a Forest Service supervisor, I would think,” Strickland said, looking to Marybeth and Broxton-Howard for confirmation.

Joe waded in, taking advantage of the moment, wanting to make a point while Melinda Strickland was in front of him.

“I want to let you know,” Joe interjected, “that I met a man named Wade Brockius a couple of days ago. He’s the spokesman of sorts for the—” But before Joe could get any further, Melinda Strickland suddenly noticed that the cookies were gone from the nearest desk and excused herself to admonish the employee. Broxton-Howard faded into the crowd.

Joe and Marybeth looked at each other.

“Well,
she’s
interesting,” Marybeth added. “In a bad kind of way.”

“Remember what Nate Romanowski said,” Joe added.

“You’re quoting a murder suspect, Joe,” Marybeth smiled.

“I’ll stop doing that,” Joe said sourly.

“But did you notice how Melinda was acting with you?”

Joe shook his head.

“She wasn’t talking with you or even listening to you. She was
assessing
you,” Marybeth said.

“Why?”

“To see if you’ll be any value to her personally; if you’ll buy into her agenda, her career path, or hurt it. Remember when you told me she almost turned back on the mountain? It sounds to me like when it got tough physically, she looked up and saw that probably nobody in that party really mattered to what was important to her. She saw a bunch of local yokels and the state DCI. A bunch of losers. The only person in that group who mattered was the journalist, and she was already in her camp. The rest of you meant nothing. She’s a user, and she’s dangerous.”

“You got all that from a two-minute exchange?”

“Yes.”

Marybeth nodded toward Broxton-Howard, who now commanded the attention of McLanahan and Reed.

“She’s nice-looking,” Marybeth said in a flat tone. “It takes hours to make your hair look that casually wind-tousled.”

Joe wisely said nothing.

W
hile
Marybeth searched for the bathroom, Joe sought out County Attorney Robey Hersig.

“What are your plans tonight, Joe?”

Joe rolled his eyes. Their New Year’s Eve plans were the same as they had been since Sheridan was born eleven years ago: They would go to bed early. Missy had asked about parties and celebrations in town, and hinted that she might want to go. Joe had offered her the use of their minivan, and she had wrinkled her nose, but accepted.

“Got a minute?” Joe asked. Hersig nodded and motioned Joe into an office behind them. He entered and sat on a desk and loosened his tie. Joe eased the door closed behind them. The office had been Lamar Gardiner’s, but was now, obviously, occupied by Melinda Strickland. A framed photo of her cocker spaniel stood on the desk. Joe hadn’t realized that she’d already moved in.

Hersig was from one of Twelve Sleep County’s oldest ranching families, and after a bout of college rodeo he had gone into law at the University of Wyoming. His first term as county attorney would end in the coming year, and there was
speculation as to whether he would run again. Although almost brutally cautious when it came to prosecuting a case, Hersig had an impressive track record of convictions. The summer before, Hersig and Joe had discovered that they were both fly fishermen, and had floated the Twelve Sleep river together in Hersig’s flat-bottomed McKenzie boat. They got along, and made plans to do it again. To both, fishing together successfully created a special bond.

Joe had called Hersig earlier in the week to talk about April, but their conversation had been brief; Hersig’s phone was full of static, thanks to damage from the storm.

“We’re not sure what we can do about Jeannie Keeley,” Joe said. “Can we ask for a restraining order or something?”

Hersig shook his head. “Joe, she has to do something first. Just her presence isn’t enough. And legally, since April hasn’t been adopted, Jeannie has a damned good chance of getting her back.”

Joe winced. “How could a judge possibly give her back to that woman after what she did?”

“Judges do things like that, Joe. Birth mothers carry a lot of clout, even when it’s clear that you and Marybeth care for April. In Wyoming, if the mother’s maintained contact in some way—even with the judge—the child isn’t considered abandoned.”

“We love her,” Joe said firmly. “She’s one of ours.”

“Too bad the adoption got delayed so long,” Hersig commiserated. “That’s where the problem lies.”

Joe cursed, and looked away for a moment.

“I wish this punch had a kick,” Hersig said idly, looking into his cup as if willing a shot of bourbon into it. “It’s New Year’s Eve, after all.”

“How’s the case against Nate Romanowski?” Joe asked. “You know, he called me the other day—I met with him and he told me he was innocent.”

“I heard about that,” Hersig said, shaking his head. “Imagine a man in jail claiming
that
.” Hersig threw down the last of the punch.

“I wish our case against him was stronger,” Hersig confided. “It’s compelling, but largely circumstantial. I’d be
nervous taking it to a jury without more direct evidence. Did he tell you anything of interest?”

Joe relayed the story about Mrs. Longbrake and what Marybeth had told him about the women at the library, but nothing about what Romanowski had said about Melinda Strickland, or the supposed incident in Montana. Joe wondered why he felt guarded about what Romanowski had said. Joe’s allegiance, after all, was supposed to be to Hersig and the law.

“I’ve got to admit that I found myself questioning his guilt,” Joe said.

Hersig turned his head to look at Joe.

“Questioning his guilt, or being taken in?” Hersig asked.

Joe shrugged and admitted, “I’m not sure.”

“Mrs. Longbrake is out of the country,” Hersig said. “The sheriff checked. So we can’t confirm that part of his story yet although now maybe we’ll interview the women she played bridge with.”

Joe nodded. “What do you know about Nate Romanowski? What’s his background?”

“It’s pretty mysterious.” Hersig raised his eyebrows. “He’s a Montana boy, from Bozeman originally. He was appointed to the Air Force Academy and played football for them. Middle linebacker for the Falcons . . .”

“Falcons?” Joe repeated, thinking about Romanowski’s birds. He hadn’t fed them yet; there had been no time. He
had
to get out there soon.

“Then he vanished off the face of the earth from 1984 through 1998. Nobody can vanish like that unless they’ve got special help from the Feds.”

“Special Forces?” Joe asked. “He said something about that when I saw him at the jail.”
Two of Romanowski’s claims—about Mrs. Longbrake’s dalliances and his Special Forces background—were now much more likely true than false,
Joe thought.