The Bitterroots, page 20
Ben: Are you doing all right?
Erin: Not really. I feel weird. Everything is just weird right now.
Ben: Is there anything I can do?
Erin: The best thing you can do is stay away from me. I’m toxic. It’s for the best.
He sat back, his mind spinning in a dark swirl. He started to text “What did I do?” and deleted it before he sent it. Finally, he settled on:
Ben: I’m sorry you feel that way. I don’t think you’re toxic.
He fought the urge to say he found her wonderful and enchanting and really, really hot. But he didn’t. He wasn’t sure how she’d take it.
Erin: ♥
Ben: Really. Did something happen today?
There was a long pause. So long, he began to fear that she had moved on.
Then:
Erin: It’s best for you if you keep your distance. There are things going on that aren’t good.
In the “things I should have asked her about” department, he realized he knew absolutely next to nothing about her family situation. Erin rarely spoke of her parents and he didn’t even know if she had siblings. He assumed she didn’t. He did remember her once referring to staying with relatives, but he didn’t know if that was a temporary or permanent situation.
Ben: Is the situation bad at home?
Erin: Not really. Boring, but not bad.
Ben: Same here. Isabel is in the other room watching a doc on a band called Jefferson Airplane.
Erin: ☺
Erin found Ben’s stories about his grandmother hilarious, so he kept her updated on things Isabel did and said. Erin said she kind of admired Isabel’s strike but wasn’t sure why other than it showed she wasn’t a pushover.
Erin: I may have to go away for a while.
Ben was stunned.
Ben: Why? Where would you go?
Erin: I don’t know.
He wasn’t sure if she didn’t know about why or didn’t know about where.
Ben: How long would you be gone?
Erin: Maybe a week. Maybe forever.
He tried a different tack.
Ben: My mom is a private investigator. She used to be a cop. Do you want me to ask her to help?
Erin: God no. 😦
As if triggered by some psychic cue, Ben’s phone lit up with an incoming call. Mom.
He moaned. Her timing was horrible. He refused the call. He’d call her back later.
Ben: Is there anything I can do?
Erin: Probably not.
Ben: Does this have something to do with that truck thing yesterday?
There was a very long pause, and several text balloons that appeared and were then cancelled by her.
Erin: It might.
Ben: What does that mean?
Erin: Please, dude. This doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s my problem.
Ben: It doesn’t have to be. Did you see that truck again?
Erin: Didn’t see it. Heard it outside my house last night.
Ben: You’re fucking kidding me.
Erin: Wish I was.
Ben: What time?
Erin: 2
Ben: Maybe we should call the cops.
Erin: And say what? Come on, dude. I’ve got to go.
Ben: Can I call you now?
Erin: No.
Ben: You’re scaring me a little.
Erin: Don’t worry. You’re fine if you stay away from me. I just want to be friends.
Ben: What does that mean?
Erin: Good night.
After thrashing around on his bed for a moment, he punched Erin up on his phone and placed the call. It was the first time they’d ever talked on the phone instead of texting.
It went straight to voice mail. Erin’s dreamy voice said she wasn’t in and to leave a message.
He didn’t.
twenty
Cassie took the exit to Corvallis impulsively because she realized she was starving and she needed food. As she turned off the highway into the small town she checked her mirrors to make sure that her quick turn hadn’t attracted the attention of Deputy Grzegorczyk or any other of Lochsa County’s finest. Since she’d been to the Iron Cross Ranch in her new rental, she assumed the word was out on what kind of vehicle she was now driving.
Yes, she thought, she was getting paranoid. Justifiably so.
The Corvallis Tavern was an aged stand-alone structure lit up with neon beer and liquor signs in the window. Small floodlights lit the hand-painted outside sign that was lettered in orange and blue and mounted on a sheet of plywood above the overhung porch roof. It was the only business open on the short block but the parking places along the street were filled with four-by-fours and pickups. The plates were all from Montana. That was a good indication, she thought.
*
Before going in, she sat in her Ford and breathed deeply, trying to regain her bearings. Every interaction she’d had with a member of the Kleinsasser family had been unpleasant and vaguely threatening, even though it didn’t seem they were in cahoots with one another. All indications were they hated one another with the exception of John Wayne and Rand. Rand, as Blake had indicated, seemed to revere John Wayne. But he was also a loose cannon and Cassie didn’t want to encounter him again.
Cheyenne was a mystery wrapped in a riddle. Horst II was cruel, damaged, and vindictive. Margaret was either an enemy or a secret ally. Cassie couldn’t decide.
And she wouldn’t be able to sort it all out until she got some food and rest, she thought. She’d barely slept the night before in jail and she hadn’t eaten anything the entire day. She was punchy and not at her best.
There was a text message from Rachel saying she’d arrived back in Bozeman.
Made it back. Blake is in IC and surgery is tomorrow.
Be careful and come home.
Cassie thanked her and left it at that. She didn’t have the energy to fill Rachel in on her day at the Iron Cross Ranch.
She was frustrated that her call to Ben had gone to voice mail. She texted him that she was at dinner for thirty to forty minutes but she would call after that. She asked him to please pick up.
*
The tavern was much smaller than the Hayloft, and moderately busy. Local cowboys in hats and boots played eight-ball on the pool table and several locals swiveled on their stools to check her out as she slipped into a chair at a small table. The menu was hand-lettered on a board above the bar and she was grateful there weren’t many choices.
She was pleased that the wine list had more options than “red or white” and ordered a glass of Pinot Noir, a CT burger, and a glass of water from a heavyset waitress with a thick helmet of black hair and a raccoon’s mask of heavy mascara. None of the staff had been there the previous afternoon when she’d stopped by. Which meant, if she had the gumption, that she should ask them if they knew Hawk.
After some dinner, though.
The place was warm and intimate, and the customers seemed to be locals and they were comfortable with one another. University of Montana Grizzlies posters and paraphernalia were everywhere, and someone had stolen and mounted a street sign for BRETT FAVRE BOULEVARD.
As the waitress delivered her wine an older man with a full white beard and red suspenders over a long underwear top came in and asked her, “Has Jody been in?”
The waitress shook her head. “He usually comes in around eight for his nightly martini.”
The man looked at his watch, then seemed to contemplate whether to wait a half hour or come back. He decided to wait. He took a stool at the bar and rotated it toward her.
“Beer and a shot,” he said to the waitress.
“Please,” she corrected.
“May I please have a glass of beer and a shot of Jim Beam at your lovely establishment?” he asked. Cassie couldn’t tell if he was grinning through the beard.
“That’s better,” the waitress said. Then to Cassie, “Never let ’em treat you like shit.”
Cassie toasted her, and fought the urge to ask the waitress if she’d ever met any of the Kleinsassers. Because that’s how they treated everyone.
*
Cassie wolfed down the burger and ordered a second glass of wine although she knew she probably shouldn’t. The first glass had gone to her head because there was nothing on her stomach to absorb it. She could already feel warm tendrils of alcohol extending through her body.
The old man at the bar kept checking his watch. He was obviously waiting for eight o’clock to come around.
He gestured toward a poster board behind the bar. It was a hand-lettered weekly football pool where patrons could pay a few dollars and guess the sum of the scoring for the University of Montana game, the Montana State game, and either the Seattle Seahawks or Denver Broncos contests.
“Well, look who won,” he said to the waitress.
Cassie followed his index finger to the pool results to see that “J. Haak” was circled in red. She guessed the “J” stood for Jody.
“I guess I know who will be buying a round for the house,” the man said.
“Yeah,” the waitress said. “I think that’s two weeks in a row.”
“Lucky bastard,” the man grumbled.
“Oh, yeah,” the waitress said with sarcasm. “Jody is really a lucky guy.”
The old man snorted as they shared a joke Cassie wasn’t privy to. She looked at the name on the football pool and formed an idea.
When the waitress delivered her second glass of wine and the bill, Cassie asked her, “I heard you two talking about Jody. How do you pronounce ‘Haak,’ his last name?” Cassie said it like “Hack.”
The waitress looked at her skeptically. “Hawk. Like the bird. Why?”
Cassie tried not to react. “Just wondering. I’ve been trying to find a man called Hawk for a couple of days. I need to talk with him. Am I correct that he’ll be here at eight?”
“Most nights,” the waitress said. “Not all.”
“Do you know where I can reach him if he doesn’t come in?”
Something passed over the waitress’s face, a kind of subtle mask.
“Who’s asking?” She was obviously protective of Haak, which Cassie found interesting.
“My name is Cassie Dewell,” she said, fishing in her purse for a card and handing it over. “I’m a private investigator.”
“I’ve heard you were around asking questions.”
“ Really?”
“I work in a bar,” the waitress said with a grin. “I hear everything.”
“So, about reaching him,” Cassie prompted.
“I’m not the one to ask. When he comes in for his martini I serve it to him. He doesn’t talk to me a lot and I have no idea where he lives.”
“Would the man at the bar know?”
The waitress looked over at the bearded man. “Yeah,” she said. “Frank might know where he lives.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem,” the waitress said. She’d been helpful, although Cassie always bristled when a service employee said “no problem” instead of “you’re welcome.” But it was a thing these days, she recognized.
*
“Hey, little lady,” the bearded man said to her as Cassie took her
wine and sat down next to him at the bar.
“I’m Frank,” the old man said.
She introduced herself again. “I’m looking for Jody Haak. The waitress said you might know where I can find him.”
Frank took a long time to draw a pocketwatch out of his jeans and look at it. “He’s late. Maybe he’s not coming in tonight to collect his winnings.”
“But do you know where he lives?”
“Kind of. But I’ve never been to his place.”
“Is it around here?”
Frank chinned vaguely toward the mountains to the southeast. “Jody lives off the grid,” he said. “No phone, no internet, nothing like that. He makes a point of it. That’s why I’m here trying to run into him. I want to ask him if I can borrow his flatbed trailer so I can take my ATV into the shop in town.”
“Are you friends?”
Frank shrugged. “Not really. Jody is a hard guy to get to know. He doesn’t talk much. He’s not like me—a guy who never knows when to shut up.”
She smiled.
“Hell,” Frank said, “he left the state a while back. Never said a word to anyone, he just up and vanished. It was when he got kicked off the ranch where he worked, but he’s obviously back now. From what I understand, he’s got a cabin up there somewhere.”
“What’s he hiding from?” Cassie asked.
“You’ll have to ask Jody. But my guess is he wants to steer clear of his old employers.”
“Do you mean the ranch he worked on?”
Frank nodded.
“Let me guess,” Cassie said. “He used to work for the Iron Cross.”
“For something like twenty years or more,” Frank said. “He knows where all the bodies are buried out there on that place, or so I take it. When they run him off it wasn’t a pleasant experience for Jody from what I understand. Not that he told me outright. It’s just bar gossip. And here at the CT, there’s plenty of that. You can probably believe about half of it.”
As Frank talked, he took several baleful looks at his empty beer glass. Cassie understood the signal, and ordered him another.
“Thank you kindly,” he said.
“Here,” she said, giving Frank her card. “If you see him please ask him to give me a call. If I’m not here in Lochsa County I’ll be at my office in Bozeman. I’d really like to talk with him.”
Frank studied the card as if he’s never seen one quite so interesting before.
“Are you working for Blake?” he asked.
“I’m working for his lawyer.”
“Blake is a hard man to figure out. I can’t say I like him.”
“No one does.”
“Except maybe Jody,” Frank said.
“Did you see them together?”
Frank nodded. “Blake came in here on a toot last summer. The two of them spent a couple of hours having some kind of big discussion right in that booth over there,” he said, pointing toward an empty booth near the back. “It was pretty animated and pretty unusual because Jody isn’t usually much of a talker. I stopped by to say hello to Jody and he gave me a look like, ‘please get the hell out of here,’ so I got the message and left. Blake wasn’t friendly at all, but I guess he’s that way with everyone.
“A couple of days later I heard what happened to Blake’s niece. So, I guess I saw them together the night before the, um, incident.”
“Interesting,” Cassie said. “Do you have any idea what they were talking about?”
“Some kind of secret ranch shit, I imagine. They both were on the outs with John Wayne and Horst, so I figure they had plenty in common.”
“Was Blake drunk at the time?” Cassie asked. The story corroborated Blake’s telling.
Frank shrugged. “I guess he was, but I couldn’t tell at the time. He wasn’t falling down or spilling drinks, but there was a real glassy look to his eyes. I’ve seen it on other big drinkers, where they don’t even look like they’re three sheets to the wind but they’re actually blotto. Blake had that look, I’d say. Like he was there listening to you but he really wasn’t there at all.”
That also supported Blake’s account.
“Was Blake by himself with Mr. Haak?”
“Nah,” Frank said. “He came with that barmaid from up in Lolo. Now she was drunk as a skunk. She had her head down on the table sawing logs the whole time Blake and Jody were talking.”
“Was it Lindy Glode?”
“That’s her name,” Frank said, snapping his fingers. “I’m pretty sure that’s who it was. Cute and busty, but really out of it that night.”
“I’m trying to find her, too,” Cassie said as much to herself as to Frank. “Any idea where I could?”
Frank’s eyes twinkled and she assumed he was smiling again. “Believe it or not, little lady, I don’t really run with a crowd that includes cute and busty young women.”
“Got it.”
Frank’s eyes slid from her face to over her shoulder. He said, “Well, speak of the devil.”
“Lindy?” Cassie said. She could feel a breath of cool air from the open door on the back of her neck.
“The man himself,” Frank said.
*
Cassie spun around on her stool. Jody Haak was short, solid, and stout. He had a long face with jowls and eyes that looked to have seen it all. He wore a stained cowboy hat with a short brim, a week’s worth of silver whiskers, and scuffed cowboy boots.
His eyes shifted from Frank to Cassie and he seemed to know who she was by the tightening of his mouth.
Haak turned on his heel and walked straight out of the bar.
“Jody, can I borrow your trailer?” Frank called after him. Haak never looked back.
“Doesn’t seem like he wants to talk with you,” Frank said to Cassie.
She thanked Frank, quickly settled the bill, and strode across the Corvallis Tavern and out the door behind Jody Haak.
All she saw of him were the taillights of his pickup headed southeast.
*
She was exhausted when she got to her room at the Whispering Pines. Her plan was to talk with Ben, have a nightcap, and go to sleep early. She closed the door behind her and eyed the bed.
She’d not even kicked off her cowboy boots before there was a gentle knocking on the door. Cassie rose, fetched her handbag with the Glock in it, and peered out through the peephole.
Linda Sue Murdock stood a few feet away in a brown cloth coat. She was looking over her shoulder as if suspicious that someone had followed her.
Cassie slid the bolt and opened the door.
“I’ve been waiting for you to show up. May I come in?” Murdock asked.
“Of course,” Cassie said, stepping aside.
Murdock entered quickly and waited for Cassie to close the door.
Cassie asked, “Is someone following you? You seem nervous.”
“I am nervous. I shouldn’t be here. I need a drink.”
“All I have is wine.”
“That’s fine.”
Cassie poured some into two thin plastic motel room glasses.
“Do you have any ice?” Murdock asked.
“It’s red wine,” Cassie explained.
