Frogskin and Muttonfat (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Two) Read online

  “Wyoming? Well, honey, some of the finest jade in the world is, or was, found in Wyoming. All of this, of course, is top gem quality,” she said, indicating everything in the case. “And Wyoming’s the only place where you find the real black jade.” She took a full ring of keys from her pocket. “Here, let me show you.”

  She unlocked the case, took out the black goblet and handed it to me. The bowl was eggshell thin.

  She said, “Hold it up to the light. Thin as it is you can’t see a trace of green. Russia’s got some jade they call black, but it’s really a dark, dark green. You only find this quality here in Wyoming. It’s prized all over the world.”

  I checked the price on the bottom and gasped. “Is that for the set?”

  “No, honey,” she said with a broad grin. “That’s just for that black beauty. They’re each priced separately. A man from Gumps was here a while back and offered me a pretty penny for the set, but I’m not quite ready to give them up yet.”

  She put the goblet back with its mates and took out a strand of apple green beads. She placed them against my cheek. They felt like drops of ice on my overheated skin. “You can wear jade beads on your bare skin all day and they’ll still feel cool. Don’t absorb body heat like other things might.”

  She returned the beads to the case, and I picked up a hunk of rock from the top shelf and examined it with curiosity. There was nothing pretty about it.

  “That’s a piece of rough, honey. That’s how it’s found in the wild.”

  “But how would you know it’s jade?”

  “You soon get the feel for it. It all has this ugly rind on it, unless it’s been weathered away by water. But out in the field it usually doesn’t look like nothing. You have to knock a piece off and see what’s inside, or touch it to a grindstone.” She took the rock from my hand and turned it over. On the bottom was a bright green polished spot. “That’s a good forest green, top quality. Worth two, three hundred dollars.”

  “And you can just go pick this stuff up?”

  “No, no.” She chuckled. Her small blue eyes disappeared when she laughed, pushed shut by her plump, rosy cheeks. “Not anymore. It’s pretty much picked over. Back when I was a kid we used to go jade hunting every weekend. The whole family. We’d take a pickup truck and a couple of tents. Everybody in town’d be out in the fields looking for the best spot, staking claims, you name it. Jade fever. You could find boulders then, fifteen hundred pounds or more. Trying to get them home was something else.” She slapped her knee, laughing brightly at the memory. “Once found, you ran the risk of having someone steal it out from under your nose, particularly if you had to leave to get equipment to move a big piece. Worth a fortune. All kinds of skullduggery went on. But it was sure exciting.”

  “This is fascinating. I had no idea…”

  “This is only a small portion of Daddy’s jade. I’ve got the best stuff put away, and quite a bit of my own, too.”

  “I’d love to see more. I’m kind of pressed for time right now, but I’d love to come back.”

  “You’re staying in town then?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m right across the street at Racy Ladies.”

  “You’re staying there?” Her boundless good humor disappeared and she gave me a hard look.

  “Is there something wrong with the Racy Ladies?”

  She gave a snort of disgust. “Well, Rocky Dunn’s all right I guess, but Florie, I’d sure like to know where she got the money to buy that place. And don’t turn your back on that Kid. He’d slit his mother’s throat if he had a chance.”

  “What kid?” I asked uncertainly.

  “Web Corcoran.”

  The eighty-year-old kid. “Kid Corcoran?”

  “Who else? He—”

  The bell jangled again and a voice boomed through the store. “Hey, Hildy. What’s up? I got news.” A big beefy man burst through the door, spotted us, and charged forward.

  “Watch that shelf, Buster, you old fool.”

  Everything about the man was oversized. Tall, with ham hands, a large bulbous nose and a huge belly that preceded him like the prow of a ship. He swept off an enormous cowboy hat, revealing a bald head with a fringe of gray hair that traveled from ear to ear at the base of his skull. His elbow hit a rack of postcards and set the stand rocking.

  “Watch out,” Hildy yelped, steadying the rack. “For Pete’s sake, Buster, you’re worse than a bull in a china shop.”

  “Sorry, but I only got a minute. Finally caught up with Deefy out to Jeffrey City. Could have saved me some lookin’ time, though; he’s in town this weekend. Doing his mountain man bit at the fairgrounds. Anyways, by golly, you were right, Hildy. He said that piece of mutton fat was—”

  “I was just showing this young lady Daddy’s jade,” Hildy cut him off mid-sentence. “She’s real interested. She’s staying over to Racy Ladies.” Obviously, she didn’t want his earth-shattering news about mutton fat blurted out in front of a stranger. I held back a grin.

  He swung his great bald dome around to look at me. I could practically see his mind—hell-bent on forward action—attempting to shift gears, trying painfully to backtrack.

  “This clumsy galoot is Buster Brocheck,” Hildy said, by way of introduction, then realized she didn’t know my name. She was quicker on her feet than her friend, though, and switched tack nicely. “Buster here knows his jade, too, and has some dandy specimens.”

  Buster was having problems keeping up. He stared blankly from me to Hildy and back again. He nodded, as if to acknowledge the introduction that hadn’t been made, but evidently decided to give up on the rest of it. With a bewildered, shy smile, he ran a hand over his bald pate, and started to back away down the aisle.

  “Watch out for those pots, Buster! They cost me a fortune.”

  He nodded to me again and pointed a finger at Hildy, saying, “I gotta talk to you big time. Okay?”

  About mutton fat, I thought, this time unable to suppress a smile.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” Hildy answered. “Don’t worry.”

  He went out the door. Wordlessly, she locked up the display case. Evidently my lesson was over.

  “So,” she said, finally. “I take it you’ve already run into the Kid. That old bastard’s a murdering thief. Why they let him back in this town I’ll never know. Some of those snot-nosed kids running the Chamber of Commerce even wanted him to ride in the parade this morning. ‘Give our Wild West Days a touch of authenticity,’ they said. But not all of us ‘round here’ve got short memories.”

  “And you’re talking about Web Corcoran? Kid Corcoran?”

  “You better believe it.”

  “A murderer?” I asked with some disbelief. “I thought he was just a small-time crook.”

  She made a disparaging sound. “You must have been reading those old papers. All that newspaper crap was just a bunch of cow pucky. We knew Kid Corcoran around here for what he really was a long time afore the press got hold of him. If you have business with him, you better get it done fast.”

  “Is he that ill?” I said, surprised.

  She gave another inelegant snort. “Are you kidding?” she said, her voice filled with bitterness. “Sick or not, that’s one man who’s not going to die a natural death.”

  Three

  A sudden spate of customers stopped our conversation, but I definitely wanted to hear more. Were her murderous accusations simply a manner of speaking, or was there something more to them? I hung around the store awhile, purchased a small secondhand book on jade, but the tourists were persistent lookie-Lous. I finally left, figuring I could catch Hildy later in the afternoon.

  I knew there were no murders connected to the thefts, robberies and con activities that Corcoran had finally been caught and sent to prison for. Besides, those crimes had all been committed in California. He’d been long gone from his outlaw beginnings in Rawhide by then.

  Even so, Hildy’s ranting seemed more personal than simple complaints of a mor
ally indignant citizen against an ex-con moving back into the neighborhood. Corcoran, released a year and a half ago, had been in the pen for forty years. How long had he lived in California before that? Whatever Hildy had been so indignant about had to have happened in the Kid’s early, myth-making days here in Wyoming. Hildy wasn’t old enough herself—somewhere in her sixties, I figured—to have been directly involved with him in the earlier days. She couldn’t have been much more than a toddler at the time. Others in her family could have been involved, though, and the tales passed down.

  It was senseless to speculate when I could ask some direct questions later. I might even talk to the Kid first. See what he had to say for himself.

  I hurried back to Racy Ladies. I didn’t want to miss Max. A note stuck on my door said Max Holman had called twice. I was to call him at the number included and could use the phone downstairs in the sitting room.

  When I dialed the number some cretin answered whom I could barely understand, but I kept yelling for Max until he finally showed up on the other end of the line. The connection was lousy and kept cutting in and out.

  “Thea? Is that you? Where in hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you.”

  I smiled. Yes, this was the Max I remembered. Max could face any adversity life might throw at him—and he’d caught his share—with grit and aplomb, but minor inconveniences irritated him enormously.

  “Well, hello, yourself. I was out. Where are you?”

  “I’m still at the damn rig, and I’m not going to be able to get in for a while. The drilling’s going faster than I expected. We’re close to a primary zone, and I’ve got to be here to look at the samples. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I said, trying to ignore a rush of disappointment so strong it took me by surprise.

  We spoke a bit longer, hampered by the static and cutting-outs. I told him not to worry, there was plenty for me to do. I’d take in the rodeo and barbecue, and he said something about getting a car for me and that he’d be here as soon as possible.

  “I’m sorry as hell, sweetheart. I’ll make it up to you, okay?” he repeated for the third time before we finally hung up.

  Ah, true love. Is this a test? Well, I wasn’t about to sit around and mope or, for that matter, twiddle my thumbs waiting for Max.

  I finished unpacking, and changed into a T-shirt, shorts and Keds. It was one o’clock and I was starving. I locked the door and put the key in my pocket. The locks were the old-fashioned kind with big brass plates on the door and didn’t lock automatically when the door was closed, something I’d have to remember.

  The house echoed with my footsteps as I trod down the well-worn stairs. As usual, nobody was around downstairs, which heightened the eerie sense of desertion that hung around the old house. I thought momentarily about looking up the Kid for an interview, but my stomach said barbecue was more important. I’d never had buffalo before, and man, was I ready. One humpburger to go! I headed out the front door, then a second thought sent me back inside to the telephone in the sitting room.

  Max had said something about a car for me. The details were lost among all the apologies and the bad connection, but a car would be convenient. I wondered what he had in mind. I dialed the number for Max again.

  After innumerable rings the phone was answered by the same gracious receptionist I’d had before.

  “Yeah?” The line crackled with static.

  “Max!” I hollered. “May I speak to Max Holman?”

  “Not available. Whaddaya want?”

  “What?” I asked, thinking I’d misheard.

  “He’s fishin’.”

  “Fishing?” I yelped. “He’s gone fishing?”

  “That’s what I said, lady. You got a message?”

  “No.” I slammed down the phone. Fishing! I couldn’t believe it. Here I had traveled hundreds of miles on a stupid little plane, at his invitation, and he was too busy to meet me as planned, but had plenty of time to go fishing!

  I stomped out of the house, and ate up the few blocks to the main business district at close to a jog. Viewing the small town hoopla with a jaundiced eye, I flew by the sidewalk sale tables and the clerks garbed in various takes on Jesse James or dance hall girls. Banners flapped in the wind. I ignored it all, too busy devising various scenarios by which I’d reduce Max Holman to a sorry piece of repentant manhood.

  Having passed the fairgrounds on the way into town from the airport I knew the general direction, and headed for the edge of town. An easy walking distance, or at least a therapeutic one. I gave in to the heat and slowed my pace. By the time I caught up with the crowds who had parked their cars and were headed in the same direction, I actually found myself nodding and smiling at all the friendly people who spoke, thinking they should know me, uncertain why they didn’t, but willing to take the blame. I was enormously pleased to be taken as one of them, not the obvious tourist.

  A steady stream of cars and trucks, most with horse trailers attached, drove slowly through the fairground entrance. I pushed through the pedestrian gate with my fellow walkers, deftly dodging a very small boy on a very fat pony. Children of all ages and sizes were everywhere, all of them running and screeching with excitement. The adults strolled more casually, one eye on their kids, evidently reveling in the thought of a relaxing day away from the usual chores and a chance to visit with friends. I paused to let a battered old flat-bed truck carrying a country band move slowly through the crowd. Stucky Bros. Cowboy Rhythms read the banner hanging from the truck’s bed. Another announced in bold letters they were Strummin’ for Jesus. I hoped He wasn’t too critical.

  I moved on. No one else but me seemed alarmed by all the horseback riders prancing around among everyone else. I headed for the grassy picnic spot where the cooking was taking place, keeping a wary eye out for flying hoofs.

  Odors of barbecue and frying potatoes vied wondrously with that of horse and cow. I took a place at the end of the long line, then saw the couple I’d met earlier at Racy Ladies, or at least the male part of the couple, waving at me.

  “We saved you a place,” the George Hamilton wannabe called with a wide smile. I popped in line with them and eagerly grabbed a plate.

  “We meet again,” the man said with a chuckle. “I’m Garland Caldwell and this is my wife, Trish.”

  “Thea Barlow. Thanks for letting me in. I’m starving.”

  We smiled at each other with the self-consciousness of strangers searching for common conversational ground. I filled the awkward pause with, “Did you get settled in another room all right?”

  “Yes. We’re at the Cattleman’s Inn. Nice rooms.”

  “With good air conditioning,” Trish added.

  I laughed. “I’ll probably envy you in a couple of days. All I’ve got is one of those window jobs which sounds like it has asthma.” They shook their heads pleasantly, as if amazed at my wanting to stay in such a place as Racy Ladies.

  “We usually go the bed-and-breakfast route, but that place didn’t seem up to snuff,” he said. “You really think you can hack it with that old man?”

  “I doubt he’ll be a problem. I think we just got there at a bad time.”

  “I understand he’s some kind of ex-con. Have you heard anything about him, or met him yet?”

  Again I noticed that eagerness about him, an avid gleam in the eye that implied much more interest than he indicated. Men are indeed bigger gossips than women.

  “No,” I lied. “I haven’t.”

  “Well,” he said, laughing, “I’d watch my back if I were you. You can’t be too careful these days. And if it gets too scary over there, I suggest you try the Cattleman’s.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said. Fat chance.

  “Where are you from?” I asked—Trish—I remembered. She looked like a Trish, still flawless and cool-looking in her green silk, while I could feel my hair, dampened with sweat, spronging around doing its own thing.

  “Cal—” she began, only to be cut off by her
husband.

  “Caldonia, Oregon,” he finished for her, obviously one of those men who felt he had to control every conversation. “This is our first trip to Wyoming. I understand the fishing and hiking are outstanding.”

  I nodded noncommittally. He didn’t want to know what I thought about fishing at this point.

  “We’ve already got a date with some brown trout set up for tomorrow,” Garland Caldwell said. He motioned Trish and me ahead as a server held out sandwiches dripping with rich sauce. I took one on a limp plate and passed on the beans and potato salad.

  “I’m not going fishing,” Trish announced, emphatically plopping a glob of the salad next to her sandwich.

  Garland’s face darkened with anger. He began to say something, then shut his lips grimly and filled his plate. This had the feel of an old argument, I thought.

  “I,” Trish said cheerily, fully aware of the effect she was having on her husband, “will go shopping instead.” She gave him a taunting smile and licked her fork.

  His ill-contained fury seemed excessive to me, as did her delight in provoking it. There was a glitter about her that made me think she enjoyed probing the edges of danger. And where on earth she thought she’d go shopping in Rawhide was beyond me.

  We moved out of the line. All the picnic tables were occupied, so we wandered, looking for a place to perch, eating as we went.

  A motley group of trucks and trailers sporting huge water tanks filled the open area in front of the large Quonset exhibit building. Garland and I sat on a bumper and leaned over our plates. Trish eyed the dusty truck and chose to stand instead.

  “Why on earth would they display old stuff like this?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

  Garland looked around. The food had diffused his anger, at least for the moment. He smiled at me and rolled his eyes. “Read the sign,” he said with just the slightest amount of sarcasm. Then, to satisfy his own curiosity, he strolled over to the huge poster propped on an easel. “County fire fighting equipment,” he said, pointing his fork at the sign. “Shows all the ranches where this stuff is stored.”