All the Old Lions (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book One) Read online

  The blue pickup truck was parked beside the barn and Max was loading equipment in the back. He looked up when I approached, but didn’t speak.

  “I’m supposed to go with you.” I said, sounding rather ill-tempered, I suppose. I climbed awkwardly onto the seat, fully aware that I was probably the only person in the whole world who had never ridden in a truck before. Under other circumstances a drive around the property would have been enjoyable, but Max Holman made me uneasy. I hadn’t forgotten the pointed interruptions, nor that he’d succeeded in his purpose. I hadn’t told Minnie about our middle-of-the-night encounter.

  Without a word, he got in beside me and drove off down the slope in back of Halfway Halt. Finally, he broke the silence.

  “Sorry I gave you a scare last night. I met an old high school buddy I hadn’t seen in years, and we kind of hung one on. Can’t take it like I used to. If I’d known you’d be wandering around well, I’d probably have come for water anyway. I am allowed; water is not one of the luxuries of the bunkhouse.”

  “Then you don’t sleep in the house?”

  “No. I use the bunkhouse out back when I don’t stay in town.”

  At least I wasn’t responsible for his having to sleep under a tree or something. I tried to think which building might be the bunkhouse and finally decided on the one I’d thought was a storehouse.

  He took his eyes from the road and glanced at me from under those heavy lids. “I hope you understand that I expect a return apology,” he said dryly. “You scared the living hell out of me.”

  “Why didn’t you want me to tell Minnie about it?”

  “About what?” His puzzled frown looked genuine.

  “Our little midnight run-in. I got the distinct impression this morning that you were purposefully interrupting me every time I broached the subject.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. Didn’t you tell her last night? You made enough noise to wake the dead.”

  “She’s a heavy sleeper. A bad ear,” I added wryly.

  Was that it? Had he simply come in to wash, and run into me, who promptly over-reacted and had hysterics? My dignity didn’t want to accept the logical answer, but I gave in with a laugh.

  “All right. Apologies accepted and given, besides, I owe you for the eggs.”

  His smile when it came was devastating, softening his harsh, somber features with a brilliant flash.

  “Anytime. I like to eat.”

  “You must have a cast iron stomach.”

  “Minnie would make a good army cook.” Then, apropos of nothing, “You’re from the city, aren’t you?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I said, back on the defensive. “You’re the second person who’s accused me of being from the city as if I’d sprung foamy-mouthed from Sodom and Gomorra. What’s so great about country life?”

  He grinned, then turned his concentration to crossing a rocky gully. I clung to the dashboard and armrest, amazed that the large truck could be maneuvered—even with a great deal of gear grinding—in and out of such a deep, narrow crevice.

  While I hung on for dear life, he was apparently mulling over my cursory question.

  “Country life,” he said, urging the truck up the bank as if it were a horse, “is closer to the bone. Isolation brings out the best and the worst in people. Reality on a pinhead.”

  “Oh, come on now, a day in a city will show you more ‘reality’ then you’d find here in a month.”

  “I’m not talking about murders and muggings. It’s the inconsequentials that count, the trivialities that reveal people for what they really are.” His words seemed drawn from a deep well of cynicism.

  “And you don’t like what you find?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “As a rule, no. But the exceptions are worthwhile.”

  Heady ranks, I thought, with a cynicism of my own. I doubted I’d qualify as one of the exceptions. And anyway, it was a strange conversation.

  “Who else accused you of being a city girl?” he asked.

  “Potts. I barely escaped being his next human sacrifice. Let me tell you, I’d as soon run across a stranger in Chicago’s Grant Park at midnight, as run into your Parson Potts again. So much for your grand country life.”

  Again I was rewarded with the flashing smile and its accompanying shock wave. It gave him a wicked, piratical charm that made one overlook (or appreciate?) the heavy beard-shadow, strong, slightly crooked nose and overpowering eyebrows.

  “Let’s try again. You’re with Minnie’s publishing company aren’t you? What do you do there?”

  “Oh, a little of everything.” The airy answer sounded bitchy even to me. I tried to unbend a bit. “Actually, I’m an editorial assistant, but I do more typing and gofering than I like. I’m hoping Minnie’s book will change all that. I intend to show Roger Sweeney that I can handle a manuscript with the best of them.”

  With my usual finesse, I’d sunk from condescension to sophomoric bravado. Who did I think I was—Alfred A. Knopf? Proofreading was one thing, I’d corrected papers for years. But what about putting a book together? Was a lifetime of reading really enough? Could I bully my way through this as I’d bullied the neighborhood kids when I was young, making them sit in make-shift desks while I played teacher and got to write on the blackboard? And what if I discovered I disliked publishing as much as teaching?

  I hated wallowing in the endless morass of doubts and uncertainties, hated feeling like a silly little wimp stuck in a quagmire. I needed that success, but what if I didn’t get it?

  An unexpected sensitivity, or perhaps monumental disinterest, allowed Max to let me ruminate in silence. He drove casually with one elbow resting on the open window frame. Squinchy wrinkles fanned the corners of his eyes, an indication that the constant business of scanning the countryside was a life-long habit.

  A light, aromatic breeze drifted across my face. The air was hot, but not the damp, sluggish heat of Chicago that left a person limp and exhausted. This heat was harsh and dry, something you could lean into and survive. Even the dust that swirled behind us seemed clean and fresh in the brilliant light.

  “What’s that delicious smell?” I asked.

  “Sage.” He stopped the truck, leaned out the open door and stripped silvery leaves from a rough branch. He dropped them in my hand. We drove on. The bruised leaves filled the cab with perfume.

  “Minnie shouldn’t be writing that book,” he said, taking me by surprise.

  “What?”

  “Minnie shouldn’t be here and writing that book.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s talk enough about her as it is. If she goes ahead with that damned book everybody’ll be down her neck.”

  “Everybody? Who’s everybody?” I couldn’t believe he was serious.

  “The town, the community, the whole damn area.” He was in deadly earnest.

  “But why? I don’t understand. What she’s writing is ancient history. Who would care?”

  “Some of the people concerned are still around.”

  “Oh, come on, how many hundred-year-olds do you have around here?”

  “Eighty-year-olds; Lil Darrow was run out of town in the early thirties. And there are more of them left then you might think. To say nothing of their children. There are plenty who remember those days.”

  And what about you, I wondered, recalling his vehement reaction to Minnie’s remarks about a hanging in Hijax.

  “Minnie’s book ends in the eighteen nineties and doesn’t concern Lil Darrow at all. It’s about Jersey Roo and her reign. Really, Max,” his name kind of rolled off my tongue accidentally, “it’s the old, Wild and Woolly West Sweeney’s interested in, not what happened in the thirties.”

  An accurate statement, but of course, by now, I wasn’t entirely sure myself what Minnie was writing. Had she turned her book into a paean to her sister instead of the rowdy frontier history I was expecting? I needed to see that manuscript, I thought, suddenly uneasy.


  “This is a close-knit community,” Max continued. “They don’t like outsiders nosing around their family business. In town last night all anyone could talk about was your arrival. They want to know who you are and what you’re doing here. Is Minnie really writing a book and does she really have Jersey Roo’s diaries? They want to know what’s in them and what Minnie’s going to put in her book. It wasn’t pleasant chit-chat.”

  “Of course she has the diaries, that’s what prompted her to write the book in the first place. Is that so awful?”

  He shrugged, and I wished he wasn’t driving, that he didn’t have a legitimate excuse to turn his face away. I wanted to see his expression.

  He was still gazing out the side window when he spoke again. “I didn’t know much about Jersey myself until last night, but believe me, I got an earful. A real hard-case woman. Came to town with the tents and established a thriving business right from the start. Her establishments got shut down and quietly reopened on a regular basis. One of those times, bankrolled by the leading lights in town, she bought Halfway Halt from old man Darrow. He was an ornery old coot. The story has it that he sold out to Jersey for the same reason she bought the place; to irritate Black Enright, Helby Enright’s father. The Enrights live five miles up the road. This place cuts their land in two.”

  “But how did Lil get it back?”

  “I guess she worked hard and saved her money.” His laugh was grim. “All I really know is that Lil bought Jersey out and ran the place until she was shut down for good and moved away. But she hung onto her land. After Black Enright died, Lil leased the place to his son, Helby Enright; that’s in the courthouse records. Helby held the lease until six months ago, when Minnie didn’t renew and decided to live out here herself.”

  “And what is everyone afraid that Minnie will reveal?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. That their grandpas bankrolled a whorehouse? That a hallowed family name might be sullied by connection with Jersey or Lil, or ridiculed by tales out of Halfway? I don’t know what they’re afraid of; I just know that feelings are running high. Things are starting to get ugly.”

  But he had lost my attention. I was in the throes of an IDEA: Controversy. Whether the townspeople’s fears were based on fact or fiction was of little concern if the squabble could be turned to good purpose, right? Like some nation-wide publicity. An article in People magazine, maybe. Small Town Explodes Over Whorehouse, or something. Wasn’t that the kind of thing that sold books? I needed to talk to Roger. If the idea was as good as I thought, maybe he could get something going from his end.

  “There’s nothing for anyone to worry about.” I said absently, remembering that Minnie didn’t have a telephone.

  Then came the eruption.

  “Great!” He pounded his fist against the steering wheel and managed to hit every rut and rock with jarring emphasis. “Tell the ignorant peasants there’s nothing to worry about, the world’s going to love their dirty linen—think it’s funny as hell.” He rocketed in and out of another dry creek bed.

  His anger gave way to exasperation. “I don’t give a damn whether you think it’s ridiculous, or not. I’ve been trying to tell both you stubborn women that you’re playing with fire. That’s dangerous, remember?”

  “How? In what way?” Surely nobody was going to start bashing heads because of something their grandpa or great-grandpa did a hundred years ago.

  He started to answer, then swore and jerked the truck into a sharp turn that threw me against the door. He left the track and sped across the rock and brush strewn field, braking to a halt in front of a barbed wire fence. The fence was down for about six post lengths, nothing that seemed to warrant such a reckless dash across rough terrain.

  He jumped out and surveyed the wreckage, lifting the strands of wire to look down their length. I got out too, and walked over.

  “Damn it, don’t touch anything,” he snapped. “Get back in.”

  Furious, I stomped back to the truck and slammed the door behind me, convinced the only source of danger around here was Max Holman himself. He swung into the truck and took off across the downed fence.

  “Look for cows,” he said.

  I didn’t deign to answer, but found injured silence difficult to maintain while bouncing around like a jumping bean.

  “There they are.” He swung the truck toward a small group of cows and calves. “Can you drive this thing?”

  “I doubt it,” I answered stiffly.

  “Then get out on foot. Circle around behind them a bit so they don’t run the wrong way. When they’re between us we’ll move them back across the fence. All right? Do you understand?”

  I gave him a withering look and climbed out. The last time I saw a cow was back in the days of visits to the kiddie zoo. They were not my favorite animal. However, I was prepared to go down under thundering hooves before letting Max Holman suspect I was frightened.

  Circling behind the cows, I matched them stare for stare, glad, as I dodged clumps of cactus, that some flicker of sense had made me put on tennis shoes this morning rather than my usual sandals.

  I reached the far side of the animals without mishap and heard the truck rev up. Max stuck his head out the window, whistling, shouting and banging the side of the cab with his hand. To my surprise, the cows jerked into movement, heading in the right direction. I stayed to the rear on my side as Max was on his, though he, of course, was riding in the truck while I was jogging on foot, shooing the dumb animals with my voice until they crossed through the downed fence.

  Huffing, and still miffed, Max’s brief, “Good,” was hardly the praise I craved. He chased the cattle further away with the truck, then drove back to where I sat, leaning against a post to pick cactus needles from my Reeboks.

  He drew on a pair of gloves—black, of course—stuck a few tools in his belt and began to issue orders.

  “Grab that next post and hold it up.” He wired and pounded the post he held until it stood firm. Then, “Straighten up the top strand and hold it as tight as you can.”

  I grabbed for the wire and caught a barb in the flesh of my thumb. I winced, but wouldn’t give him the pleasure of hearing a “city girl” yell, or curse, for that matter. The stupid wire kept sliding through my sweaty hands, cutting jagged paths across my palms, but I wasn’t going to let him know about that, either. So we proceeded down the ruined length of the fence.

  “There.” He gave a final smash to the top of a post. “That should hold ‘til I get a chance to do it right. Come on, I’ll have to take you back. I’ve got to get a horse and make sure there aren’t any more cows in that pasture.”

  I climbed back in the truck. Pain snaked across my hands as I cupped them carefully in my lap. I rested my head against the seat and closed my eyes. They opened wide again when Max took one of my hands and turned it over to expose the cuts and scratches.

  “Silly fool,” he said. “Why didn’t you say something? There’s another pair of gloves in here.” He turned back to his driving, but kept my hand in his, absently rubbing his thumb over the palm, which did nothing for the pain. For some reason the small show of sympathy brought tears to my eyes. I snatched my hand away.

  “Sorry again,” he said to my silence. “This is the third time in the last ten days that fence has been down. I was suspicious before, but this is definitely one time too many. There’s a bit of sabotage going on, with the wells and the fences.”

  “And I gather Minnie doesn’t believe you,” I said, remembering the breakfast table conversation.

  “Right. She thinks I’m an alarmist.” He cast me a telling glance. “Along with some others I could mention.”

  I ignored the remark, honing in on the thought of sabotage. More headlines to play with. Community Harasses Little Old Lady: Fears She’ll Reveal Family Secrets. Rather tame, but Roger could spice it up.

  “Why would someone tear the fence down?” I asked. “If that’s what you think they’re doing.”

  He gave a hefty sigh.
“I don’t have proof. The wires haven’t been obviously cut. I’ve got no solid evidence of tampering, just this gut feeling.”

  “What would be gained?”

  “Discouragement. Make things tough for Minnie; run her off. She’s grazing the cattle for the Enrights. It’s in the contract that the cows remain open. If they get accidentally bred Minnie will lose a bundle of money.”

  “But you said it’s the book everyone is worried about. What good will running her off do? She can write anywhere. And if someone did want to run her off—scare her—wouldn’t they be a little less subtle? I mean, she doesn’t even believe anything’s happening.”

  “Could be. I hadn’t thought of it that way. But there’s still that feeling.”

  “I know. How accurate is your gut? Got any references?”

  He was not amused. He scanned the countryside, looking everywhere but at me. I hadn’t the faintest idea what he really thought.

  “You said there has been talk about Minnie. What kind of talk?” I asked, fishing for more usable information.

  “Well, for one thing,” he said with a quick grin and a wicked gleam in his eye, “they say Minnie plans to open Halfway Halt for business again, help out us poor country boys.”

  Five

  I had to laugh. The thought of Minnie trying to run herd on a bunch of “girls” was too ludicrous for words. Or was it? She already had me dancing on eggshells.

  “When folks heard that Lil’s little sister planned to restore Halfway Halt, well, that was enough of a two plus two for them to add up to four. You can imagine the excitement. The church held battle meetings, the old men licked their lips and dredged up the ancient yarns for us young pups to savor. Lil Darrow was a town legend, anyone who hadn’t heard of her before, soon did. Anticipation ran high, let me tell you.”

  Indulgent fondness replaced sarcasm as he warmed to his story, and I wondered how he fit in. What was Max’s connection to these people, this community?

  “And when Minnie arrived?”

  “A major anticlimax. There was as much disappointment as disbelief when Minnie didn’t pick up where Lil left off. The militant ladies refused to let loose of the bone, and sent the sheriff out to question her intentions. Things quieted some then. That was one of the early rumors; it’s about died down. Until you showed up,” he added blandly.