Dead in Hog Heaven (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Three) Page 2

  "Max?" I yelled, rolling down my window. "What are you doing here?"

  "Thea..." The rest of his words were lost on the wind. I eased to the side of the road, stopped, and the truck pulled up behind me. We both jumped out.

  He wrapped his arms around me. "Who in hell did you think I was? I thought you'd never stop."

  "A girl can't be too careful," I said lightly, filled with relief at the sight, sound and feel of him. His kiss tasted wonderfully of heat, salt, and dust. I leaned back to get a good look at him. It had been four months since we'd last seen each other. He looked great. Tall, sun-browned and darkly handsome, if you leaned toward five o'clock shadows and crooked noses. His black hair was dampened with sweat and matted to his forehead from his hat, tendrils clinging to the white strip of skin across his forehead where the sun didn't reach. I smiled, my heart filled with warmth for this gritty Wyoming Max, who bore little resemblance to the sleek, well-dressed oilman/geologist who occasionally left the wilds to visit me in Chicago.

  We'd met on my first Wyoming venture when I'd mistaken him for a scheming hired hand. Since then we'd done our best to keep the fires lit in a long-distance relationship. It hadn't always been easy.

  "I thought you were going to check out Hog Heaven," he said.

  "I did. Kind of. I just didn't stay very long. And what are you doing here? Why aren't you in Rock Springs? I thought you had an important meeting there?"

  "Something came up."

  A gleam sparkled in his eyes and his face was alive with animation. Joy at seeing me? That might be part of it, I thought, but there was something else there as well. His skin fairly leapt with restless energy. Excitement seemed to ooze from his pores.

  "What's going on, Max?"

  "You, my dear." He picked me up in a big bear hug and swung me around. "I'm so glad to see you. I thought you'd never get here."

  "Well, I'm here," I said, still suspicious. Frisky was not a word anyone would use to describe Max Holman. What was going on? I kissed him lightly and stepped away. "At least I'm glad to see you're not full of holes."

  "Holes? What do you mean?"

  "Do you know someone named Ronnie Mae?"

  "Lorenzo?" There was a note of wary caution in his voice.

  "I don't know her last name, but she's tall, blond and extremely angry." I told him about what I'd seen at Hog Heaven.

  To my surprise, Max threw his head back in a great burst of laughter. If I thought he'd radiated excitement before, he fairly danced with it now, his lazy-lidded eyes sparkling with the fire of what? Delight? Mischief? Devilment? Or was it something darker, more dangerous?

  "Yeah, I know Ronnie Mae. She's Bodie's niece, or rather Clyde's wife Opal's niece." He threw a heavy arm across my shoulders, and smiled at me indulgently. "And you figured she was after me?"

  "The thought occurred to me. And the shotgun was very real."

  With another hoot of laughter he planted a big smacking kiss on my mouth. "Come on," he said, dismissing the threat of Ronnie Mae as if it didn't exist. He walked me back to my car and opened the door. "Let's get out of here. We can talk later. Big things are happening in Garnet Pass and you don't want to miss the excitement."

  "Like what?"

  "A town meeting." He faked a wry drawl. "We got us a new-age range war brewing. Craziest stuff you ever heard of. Right up your alley, and if we hurry we can catch the tail end of the meeting."

  "Who's fighting whom?"

  He brought the drawl back into play. "It's the black powder bunch agin' the incense burners. Muskets at two." He urged me into my car.

  I laughed. "Can I guess that Clyde Bodie has something to do with this?"

  "You certainly can. But New Sedona is only part of the fray."

  "What do they—"

  "Later." He closed my car door. "Follow me."

  I did, my mind a-buzz with the prospect of more article ideas. There's nothing like a good, contentious small-town feud to produce fodder for newspapers. Fertilized with humor, I could end up with some butt-kickin' feed, I thought, inordinately pleased with my country analogy. Getting right in the swing of things, old girl.

  I hadn't, however, forgotten the shotgun-toting woman. If Max thought he'd diverted my attention away from her he was sadly mistaken. His evasion of my question had been slick, but not quite slick enough. My antennae were up and waving.

  We passed a sign announcing a business fair to be held this weekend in Garnet Pass, and another for the Mountain Man Rendezvous, also this coming weekend. Behind the smaller signs loomed an enormous, brightly-colored billboard that proclaimed, Garnet Pass, Gem of the West, Population 2,600 and Growing! The "growing" was in huge, flaming bright letters. I loved it.

  Making the big decision to become a freelance writer and move permanently to Wyoming had been a piece of cake compared to deciding what town I actually wanted to settle in. I was looking for a small town, but one with energy, and not so set in its ways that all newcomers were regarded with suspicion.

  I didn't want to choose wherever it was that Max was currently staying, as he never settled anywhere for long. I felt I needed to be independent and establish my own Wyoming existence while we decided if marriage was really the step we wanted to take. Caution is my middle name, sad to say.

  But in the end I succumbed to Max's campaign for Garnet Pass. His tales about the town's new mayor, who was reviving a dying town with not much more than boundless enthusiasm and a good head for business, had caught my imagination, and so here I was.

  I rubber-necked as much as possible as we drove up Main Street—what else?—headed for an imposing hewn-rock building at the end of the street. The City Hall.

  People were everywhere. Families lounged around on the lawn in front of the building while their kids raced back and forth between the coolers, picnic baskets, and the park next door. People dressed in the old-time garb of mountain men, cavalry soldiers, and pioneers mingled with everyone else gathered on the long cement stairs. Others leaned against or sat on car and truck fenders. The building's wide double doors were propped open in the heat. It looked more like a festival than a town meeting.

  I followed Max into a parking lot filled with dust-coated cars and trucks. We squeezed our vehicles into a back corner next to a couple of horses tied to a neighboring fence, and hurried off to join the fun, dodging kids on Rollerblades and skateboards.

  "Hey, Max," a man said, working a toothpick around his mouth, "you gonna risk your neck in there with all them wildcats?"

  While Max stopped to talk, I joined two small boys watching a huge man with a grizzled beard pour powder from a horn into the muzzle of a long rifle. He wore a fringed leather shirt that must have come from a moose in order to cover his enormous barrel chest.

  He rolled something around in his mouth, then pulled the wad out. He winked at me and addressed the boys. "See, you gotta get this patch soaked up real good with spit so's to make a tight seal on the powder." He spread the patch over the end of the muzzle and placed a round lead shot on it. "This is where I'd put the ball if I was going to use one, but I'm not, for safety's sake. I'll just shoot off some powder for you so you can see and hear what it was like in the old days." He dropped the lead shot back into a pouch. "Anyway, now you got to tamp the wad in real tight," he said, suiting action to words with a metal-tipped wood ramrod. The boys watched, enthralled. As did I, until I heard a female voice, filled with delight, call out to Max.

  I turned and watched a girl with the most gorgeous amber-colored hair I'd ever seen hurry across the lawn to Max. Tall and willowy, she looked cool in a sleek beige-and-white linen sheath. Her glossy, shoulder-length hair swung with each step, catching the sun.

  The woman with her was equally impressive. Large silver barrettes caught up her prematurely gray hair on both sides of her thin, aristocratic face. She reeked with elegance and had the confidence to wear one of those flowing Southwestern outfits loaded with a ton of Indian silver jewelry. She hung back a bit as they approached Max. />
  "Hi," the amber-haired beauty said, touching Max's arm lightly with her fingertips. She smiled up at him with such a look of radiant adoration that my heart sank.

  "Hi, Jennifer," he said, and, nodding to her companion, "Yvonne."

  Of course her name would be Jennifer, I thought sourly. Aren't they all?

  "I have some more plans for you to look at, Max," Jennifer said. "When can we get together again?"

  Instead of answering her, Max turned to look for me and motioned me to join them.

  "Here's someone I'd like both of you to meet." He drew me to his side. "This is Thea Barlow, my fiancée. She's just in from Chicago. Thea, Jennifer Wilcox, and Yvonne Sullivan."

  The older woman held out her hand and said with a big smile, "A new face is always welcome around here. I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

  I took an instant liking to her and knew she was someone whose friendship I'd enjoy. And, to be honest, Jennifer made a real effort to be cordial, too, though I thought I'd seen startled hurt in her eyes when Max had said "fiancée."

  "Jennifer helped me get your house ready for you," Max said.

  Yvonne Sullivan gave me a wry smile. "Strange as it might seem, Garnet Pass actually has an interior designer, and a good one at that."

  Jennifer made a face. "Well, that's what I went to school for, but if it weren't for Max, I wouldn't be doing much of it around here. What I really do is work for Yvonne in her gallery. She has a fantastic gift store. I end up spending more than I earn."

  Max shifted his weight, impatient with the small talk. "Haven't you two been taking in any of the meeting?"

  "Plenty," Yvonne offered, rolling her eyes. "It's been going on forever. We took a lunch break. It's hotter than hell in there."

  "Well, we're going to see what's happening," he said, easing me away. "See you later."

  I murmured the awkward goodbyes of new acquaintances and moved on, passing the mountain man patiently showing his fans the contents of all the pouches and packets dangling from his belt and bandolier.

  "Hi, Monty," Max said. "See you've got a crowd, as usual."

  Monty smiled and stretched his hand out for a shake. "Good to see you, Max. Yeah, somebody's got to show these young whippersnappers how the real world worked."

  Max hurried me by before I could get distracted again.

  As we headed up the stairs to the Town Hall, an old duffer propped against the railing said, "You better git in there and defend yourself, Holman." He wore a dirty, black and gray-striped mechanic's jumpsuit that pulled tightly across his thin, wiry frame.

  Max glanced at him with a mild double-take of recognition. "Pussyfoot," he said with a note of distaste. "What are you doing around here? Last time I saw you, you were holed up in Sundance."

  He grinned and I could see he'd jammed the end of the cigarette he was smoking into the space left by a missing eye tooth. He didn't respond to Max's comment. Instead he jerked his head at the building and repeated, "You better get in there. The mayor's got you lined up with the incense burners."

  "Me?" Max said over his shoulder, propelling me up the steps. "How'd I get involved?"

  Pussyfoot snorted. "That damn fool house you're building. What else?"

  House? I thought. Max is building a house? He hadn't said anything to me about a house.

  Chapter 3

  I caught Max's eye and raised a questioning eyebrow. He ignored it, intent on getting us through the door and into a meeting room crammed with folding chairs, all occupied. We joined the overflow that milled around the edges then found a few inches of standing room not far from the door.

  A man's cranky whine filled the room. "...but I heard they're building a Tibetan monastery out by Soda Creek."

  I craned my neck, but couldn't see the speaker.

  Another man called out, "We don't want any turbaned yahoos around here!"

  "They don't wear turbans," a weary voice said through a microphone. "And I haven't heard anything about a monastery."

  "That's the mayor, Chet Overbeck," Max murmured in my ear, indicating the good-looking man who stood on a dais in front of the room. "He has a sporting-goods store downtown. Does some real estate, too."

  Late thirties, maybe forty, I thought, with the stocky look of an athlete even though he wore one of the few suits seen in the room. His smile sagged. He switched the mike to his other hand and tugged at his tie, loosening the knot.

  "I'm just telling you," the whiny one piped up again. "I don't want my herd stampeded by a bunch of damned gongs."

  "Come on, guys," the mayor said. "Wait your turn if you want to be heard. The floor's yours, Elton."

  "Thanks, Mayor." A trim, middle-aged man with styled hair stood patiently by his chair. Dressed in dark pants and a white short-sleeved shirt he looked more like a businessman than a rancher.

  "Elton Rydell," Max murmured again. "He owns the trading post. Hotshot. Born and raised around here."

  "Mr. Mayor, Chet," Elton said, his voice dripping with condescension. "We all know you've had a rough time, what with your wife's death and all, and we're plumb sorry..."

  It was hot. A ceiling fan reeled lazily above us trying its best to stir up the air. I felt suddenly tired and a bit queasy, and wished there was at least a piece of wall to lean against.

  "...I, for one," Elton droned on, his down-homey speech sounding as overdone as his carefully combed hair, "can understand how you might want to get messed up with all this weird... phenomena." He drew out the word as if trying to impress the crowd. "Trying to find solace, I'm sure, but that doesn't mean we want that kind of thing in this town. We have our Western image to uphold. I'm sure everyone here agrees."

  A heavy-set woman jumped to her feet, nearly knocking over her chair. "Speak for yourself, Elton Rydell, you old hypocrite," she roared, much to the crowd's appreciation.

  Max chuckled. "That's Opal Bodie, Clyde's wife," he said as the woman moved awkwardly past the people sitting beside her to stand in the aisle. "I didn't know she had that kind of fire."

  She was a big woman, not fat, just large, with an impressive bosom and heavy shapeless legs. She used a cane to help her maneuver on ankles thick with edema that left mounds of angry-looking flesh puffing over the edges of her loosely tied shoes.

  She accepted the traveling mike that no one else had bothered with, and spoke into it. "How many years have I tried to get some help from this town to restore the old Four Mile? That hog ranch is even in the history books, but you fought me all the way, Elton. Western image my foot! You just don't want any competition for your Lynching of Honest Smith pageant. Well, it's my turn now. I'm dealing with the Institute of Astral Projection. They're going to set up out at Hog Heaven—I mean New Sedona—and refurbish the Four Mile as—"

  "Opal," the mayor broke in, trying to calm things down. "Opal, I'm sorry, but you're mistaken. The Astral Projection Institute has already agreed to buy the old Cooper school building here in town. They're—"

  "That's what you think, young man." Quivering with outrage, Opal Bodie dismissed the mayor with a wave of her hand, and turned back to Elton Rydell, whose face had turned an alarming shade of red.

  I poked Max in the ribs. "Astral Projection?" I asked in an astounded whisper. "As in out-of-body experiences?" Max grinned and nodded and started to say something.

  "Just a minute here!" a big booming voice reverberated through the room, and all eyes flew to the costumed contingent making its way down the center aisle. Monty the mountain man led the group, clutching his long rifle in one hand and making calming gestures with the other. He was followed by a stocky man with a round, roguish face dressed as a French voyageur in baggy pants, short vest, and a tasseled cap. A holster belt hung on his hip with an enormous knife on one side, a hatchet on the other, and a tin cup dangling down the back. Behind him came a scrawny, loin-clothed, pseudo-Indian brave, the band of his Jockey undershorts plainly visible above the rawhide thong that tied his breeches on. I grinned at Max. He was right
: I wouldn't have missed this for anything.

  "May I speak, Mr. Mayor?" Monty asked, raising his voice above the general uproar.

  The mayor gave a weary sigh. "Yes, Monty. Go ahead."

  "But it's my turn," Opal Bodie piped in.

  "Give him a chance, Opal. We'll get back to you. Keep it brief, Monty."

  "We all know that the mountain men, French traders and trappers were the true fathers of this area."

  The voyageur clapped a hand on Monty's shoulder. "Right on, mate. Us Frenchies," he said in a practically impenetrable Australian accent, "us Frenchies sowed a fair bunch of seed around here." He raised his arms, encouraging the laughter with a leer.

  "Shut up you jabberin' fool," Monty said.

  I turned my head, trying to stifle an onslaught of giggles, and saw Yvonne Sullivan and Jennifer standing against the back wall. I caught Yvonne's eye. She made a funny grimace of dismay, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Jennifer stood beside her, eyeing the crowd, not paying much attention to what was going on. Unconsciously, she brushed the lovely strands of amber hair back from her face. When she caught sight of Max and me, she began to inch her way toward us.

  Monty continued his discourse, a frustrated orator.

  "We don't need a lecture, Monty," the mayor broke in. "Get to the point or give the floor to somebody else."

  "The point is, Chet, it's the likes of us here"—Monty gestured expansively at his costumed buddies behind him—"who are going to bring prosperity back to this town."

  "Right on, mate," the voyageur encouraged him.

  "We're going to put on the biggest damned Mountain Man Rendezvous in these parts. Right here in Garnet Pass. Why, we'll bring in tourists by the—"

  "You're missing the point, Monty," the mayor broke in again. "Year-round businesses and jobs are what will pull us through, not more tourist attractions. New blood, new ideas. We need to compete if we're going to survive as a town."

  A sullen voice behind me grumbled, "All the mayor wants is his picture in the paper."