Frogskin and Muttonfat (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Two) Page 6

  “It was my first rodeo,” I said, still trying to bring him out. “I would have asked to sit with you, but a friend took me off to inspect the bucking horses. I understand you were quite a horseman in your day.”

  More silence. The odds seemed good that Corcoran wasn’t going to say a word to me. I pushed away from the porch, hunting for an exit line.

  I said, “It’s not good for you to sit out here in the heat, you know. You should be on the front porch where there’s some shade.” A cheap shot, referring to his poor health, but I didn’t want the stubborn old coot to think he could jerk me around.

  He made a little huff of disgust, flicked his cigarette onto the gravel and said, “I’m not allowed out front this time of night. Afraid I’ll scare off their precious dinner customers.”

  That Florie, what a bitch she was. “Oh?” Unsure of what tack to take, I chose a light one. “I thought you were a big attraction around here.”

  “Ain’t you scared?” he asked sarcastically.

  But he didn’t fool me. Behind the hard eyes and bitter words I could see the lonely old man huddled in a corner.

  “No,” I said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “I’m not scared.” Whatever he might once have been, he was now an eighty-some-year-old man in precarious health. I might not trust him, but he didn’t frighten me.

  “Let’s meet in the morning around ten,” I said, feeling much more kindly toward him. “I’m looking forward to hearing your stories. Will that be all right with you?”

  He nodded, took another drag from the cigarette, then asked, “You got a car?”

  “Not right now, but I will by tomorrow. Why? Do you want to go somewhere?”

  “Maybe.”

  I wondered if he hadn’t gotten along with Phoebe Zimmerman. Maybe she wasn’t as tractable as he wanted. Or was he afraid he’d wear out his welcome with her?

  I wasn’t going to promise anything. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said noncommittally, waved, and headed off.

  I could feel his eyes on my back. I turned to wave again. He stood now, one arm resting on the railing, eyeing me with such intense concentration that I quivered much as a rabbit does when an eagle wheels above. The hair on my arms prickled. Run!, instinct told me. Then he waved, a heartrending, timid little movement of his hand. Feeling ten times a fool, I managed to stroll casually around to the front of the house.

  The number of cars lining the street and parking lot should have given me a clue, but I was totally unprepared for the number of people who filled the downstairs area of the bed and breakfast.

  A portable bar had been set up just inside the wide doorway of the sitting room, and a man with a hawk nose and a Lyle Lovett haircut was mixing drinks with a flourish. People sat on chairs, chair arms, footstools, the stairs, the registration desk, anything remotely sitable. Some of the more agile hunkered down and leaned against odd pieces of wall, while still others stood in the more conventional cocktail party clusters. A very few sat at tables in the dining room, but that clearly was not the place of choice for the moment.

  I myself stood in the hallway gaping, stunned by the noise and the transformation made on the old house by a crowd of happy people in a party mode. Florie Dunn bustled past me importantly, carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

  “Hi, Thea,” she said, turning back. “Look, I’m really sorry that we’re all filled up for dinner tonight. We like to give our guests first chance at reservations, but this morning,” she made a wry grimace, “I forgot to mention it.”

  No wonder. She was busy terrorizing her grandfather. “That’s all right,” I said. “I’m going out, anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

  “But here, help yourself to the hors d’oeuvres. They’re wonderful.” She stuck the tray of tiny puff pastries under my nose. “And you get a drink on the house.”

  “I’m a mess,” I protested, holding out my grimy hands.

  “Oh, nobody cares.” She waved away my concerns. “You see everything here, particularly on rodeo night. Come on.”

  I squeezed around two men swigging Red Dog from bottles. Bits of conversation drifted by, laced with laughter. “Found a whole vein of apple green in a uranium mine out by Jeffrey City. Damned stuff was radioactive, sent a Geiger ‘way to hell. Government tried to shut the mine down, but the guys dug it all out anyway.”

  A movement at the far end of the dining room caught my eye. A shadowy figure stood in a doorway, neck craning around to peer intently at the few people sitting at the tables. My jaw dropped. It was Sheila Rides Horse, the Indian fortune-teller. She wore a white apron over blue sweat pants and a matching sweat shirt with the sleeves cut off. What was she doing here? A dishwasher, maybe? She looked up, saw me staring, and ducked back through the door.

  “Thea,” a voice called. “Over here.” Florie Dunn stood by the little bar, beckoning me.

  “This is my husband, Rocky,” she said when I worked my way over to her. “Give her a drink on the house, hon. See you.” And before I could ask her about the Indian woman, she hustled off, proffering her tray. In her element, I thought, watching her for a moment. More affable than I’d seen her, she seemed to enjoy making everyone feel welcome and at home. Except her own grandfather, I thought, finding it difficult to like the woman.

  Tall and rangy, and as thin as Florie, Rocky Dunn exuded a kind of alert, shifty-eyed charm. The perfect host, even though his eyes were circled with smudges of tiredness, and his deep auburn hair appeared as if its wild styling owed more to fingers than to fashion.

  “What’ll ya have?” he asked, patiently enough for one being bombarded from all sides.

  “A gin and tonic, lime. Long on tonic.” I wanted to ask him about Sheila Rides Horse, but decided to wait until the noise subsided a bit and his pace slowed. “This place is a madhouse,” I said, raising my voice. “How do you stand it?”

  He gave me a sardonic, knowing smile. “Money in the pocket makes it music to my ears,” he answered before his eyes darted across the room, acknowledging more orders from hand signals while he made my drink with one hand and something else with the other.

  “How about you, Buster?” Rocky said over his shoulder as he handed me my drink. “You ready for another?”

  I sidestepped a bit to see who he was talking to. Buster Brocheck sat in an overstuffed chair deep in conversation with none other than Garland Caldwell, who huddled out of sight in the corner, a captive audience.

  Buster leaned over the chair arm toward Garland; his big haunches rested sideways in the seat. I caught a bit of his earnest conversation, “—over by Douglas. Found a lot of it there, nothing but frog skin, though.” I grinned. First mutton fat, now frog skin. What was it with this guy? I needed to find out more. Garland’s glazed-looking eyes skittered around the room, looking for rescue from any avenue, no doubt. I ducked back out of sight.

  I wanted to talk to Buster Brocheck myself. Find out what made mutton fat a subject for conversation, if nothing else, but something told me he’d also be a font of information about Kid Corcoran. I just didn’t want to risk being monopolized by Garland right now.

  I spotted Trish Caldwell across the room deep in conversation with an elegant woman loaded down with enough silver Indian jewelry to finance a reservation casino. I found it interesting that the Caldwell’s were out for a bit of slumming. Evidently, Racy Ladies was beneath their touch until they discovered it was the social hot spot, then of course they had to be included. About the way I’d pegged them.

  Slumming probably wasn’t the right word. Trish had changed into a slim beige and white outfit that made me feel like the little match girl.

  “Okay if I take this to my room?” I asked Rocky, holding up my not-quite-finished drink. He nodded. It was time for a serious clean-up on my part, then I’d come back down and see if I could corner Buster, and maybe meet some of these other people.

  For the first time I wondered how Max handled this part of his life; much of his time was spent in one small town after another, always
a stranger. Did he try to become a part of a community, or hold himself aloof? How did he fight the loneliness?

  Starting up the stairs, I caught a glimpse of Kid Corcoran hovering in the doorway at the end of the hall behind the reservation desk, peering out at the crowd much like a small boy yearning for the delights of a grown-up’s party. I felt a pang of sadness for him and stepped back to go talk to him, but he faded from sight as quickly as he had appeared.

  “Make way, everyone,” a bright voice trilled from the top of the stairs. “Here I come!”

  I looked up, as did everyone else. Phoebe Zimmerman was making an ENTRANCE.

  Seven

  Phoebe picked her way down the narrow staircase with cute little maneuvers around the couples sitting there or struggling to stand and get out of her way. She wore one of those long, retro rayon dresses with tiny sleeves and slinky trumpet skirt. Purple pansies sprinkled on yellow. One of those silly billfold-sized purses with a long thin strap hung from her shoulder, bright purple and hardly large enough to hold a Kleenex. A lock of hair flopped coyly over one eye.

  Her face was flushed, eyes bright and flashing, wired with excitement. She laughed and executed an elaborate little jump off the bottom stair, then trailed her fingertips across the chest of a cowboy-type enraptured with her performance.

  I didn’t need this. I slid behind her to get to the stairs but she spun around and grabbed my arm.

  “Well, hi, Mavis,” she said with a smart-ass lilt that irritated me. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Sorry,” I snapped, trying to shake off her grip. “I’m going to change.”

  Her fingers tightened urgently around my wrist. She smiled brightly at everyone; all eyes were still glued on her. “Oh, come on,” she said, pleading sweetly, then faked a little trip and fell into me long enough to say under her breath, “I’ve got to talk to you. It’s important.”

  I sighed. What on earth was this all about? “All right,” I said, grudgingly.

  She dropped my wrist and tucked her hand through the crook of my elbow as if we were the best of friends. I could feel the energy coursing through her body; her skin nearly sparked with it. I wondered if she were on drugs, but then I remembered how my little brother used to look, standing on the sidelines, so pumped up he could hardly stand still, waiting to be sent in for his first football game. Yeah. All pumped up. That’s what she was.

  We went to the bar. I held my glass up to Rocky for a refill. Phoebe stepped farther into the room, instantly establishing eye contact with every man there—an amazing trick; I wish I could do it.

  “And you?” Rocky asked her.

  “Jack and a little spritz.” Not wasting her time on the bartender, her gaze flittered back to where I knew Garland Caldwell sat, hidden in the corner. Of course. He was the best looking man in the room and, if appearances count for anything, the most prosperous. She moved artfully, putting herself in his line of vision. Our little Phoebe was a piece of work all right. Impatiently, I handed her her drink. Rocky could charge it to whomever he pleased.

  “Come on,” I said, ready to listen to what she had to say, but not willing to stand around watching her work a room and all the men in it. We could find a quiet place to sit in the dining room for a few minutes.

  A stone skittered across the floorboards and stopped at my feet. I bent to pick it up. When I rose, Sheila Rides Horse stood close beside me, carrying a tray in one hand. Puzzled, she peered at the small rock in my palm.

  “Stones,” she muttered. “Everywhere I go, stones.” Then her piercing glance examined my face, flashed to Phoebe’s, then back to me again.

  “Oh, cool,” Phoebe squealed, eyeing the tray. “I’m totally famished.” She took a toast point glistening with bits of asparagus and egg en gelée, popped in into her mouth and reached for another. Sheila offered me the tray, then Buster Brocheck spied her and jumped clumsily to his feet, an event that nearly rocked the room.

  “Sheila!” he cried. “It’s you. What’s for dinner tonight?” At the mention of her name most of the others in the room converged on her as if she were the celebrity of the moment.

  “Read the menu, Buster,” Sheila said dryly, nodding at a chalkboard propped in a corner out of danger’s way. I hadn’t noticed it before. Handwritten in a mixture of English and French, I thought I made out a turtle soup, some kind of pate and a main dish that I swear was rabbit in some kind of guise. My word! I thought, and this was Wyoming, land of the chicken fried steak!

  “Best cook we’ve ever had around these parts,” I heard Buster tell Garland Caldwell, who had seized his opportunity to escape from the corner and was now trying to disappear into the crowd at the other end of the room. “Some fancy place in New York City has been trying to hire her, but she don’t like cities much.”

  Sheila seemed oblivious to the commotion. She motioned the tray at me again and I took one of the exquisite toast points. “You’re the cook…chef?” I didn’t even try to conceal my astonishment.

  “Yeah,” she said, with a grin that softened her face becomingly.

  I smiled, too, if a bit sheepishly. I knew we were both thinking about my earlier surprise at finding an Indian reading Tarot. Now this. At least she didn’t know I’d assumed she was the dishwasher.

  As quickly as it came, the sunshine left her face. “Are you okay?” she asked softly, a note of real concern in her voice.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Why?” I looked down at my shorts, wondering for a moment if I looked that disgusting.

  She shrugged. “All I can do is warn you.”

  “Warn me?” This again? “Of what?” I demanded.

  But she moved on, wielding the edge of her tray like a shield to fend off those who invaded her space too closely. She scrutinized each face with an intensity that seemed out of place and quite strange.

  An uncontrollable shiver coursed through my body.

  Florie appeared with another tray. “Sheila,” she said with an expression of utter astonishment, “what are you doing out here? You don’t have to do this kind of work. Here let me.” She took Sheila’s tray in her free hand. “I’ll get one of the girls to do this for you.”

  Sheila shrugged, looked around the room once more and headed for the kitchen. “Come see me in the morning,” she said sotto voce as she passed by me. “I’ve got a room in back by the kitchen. Just be careful.”

  I felt like I was in a bad movie and was suddenly angry. I’d had enough of this high woo-woo stuff. And where was Phoebe and all her urgent information?

  I found her cozying up to Garland Caldwell, who looked like the Cheshire Cat anticipating a plate of cream. He also appeared a bit jumpy, peering uneasily around the crowded room. I could have told him that his wife had already seen him eyeing Phoebe. I figured there wasn’t much her husband did that Trish Caldwell didn’t notice. It was a wonder she hadn’t killed him.

  Garland handed Phoebe a drink, and hustled her off to an out-of-the-way table in the dining room.

  “Phoebe,” I said, stopping her. “You wanted to talk?”

  “Later,” she said, mouthing the word silently.

  Later, my foot. Little twit. Who did she think she was? She must have sensed my anger. She broke away from Garland, waving him on to the table and actually whispering in my ear, said, “I have something to show you. You won’t believe it!”

  “What?” I said in my regular voice. “And when?” This was all too High School stuff for me.

  “Shhh,” she breathed, not letting her lips move. But it was the sudden cast of real fear in her eyes that surprised me, as she turned, smiled brightly at anyone interested, flittered back to where Garland waited for her. Puzzled, I drained my glass, set it none too gently on the bar, and started for the stairs, barely noticing that Kid Corcoran had abandoned his post in the hallway and was now peering through the far door of the dining room, watching Phoebe and Caldwell settle at a secluded corner table. As good as a soap opera, I thought, sick of the lot of them. I’d have to
hurry now to be ready by the time Jimmy Chin got here. I dodged around the stair-sitters and ran up to my room.

  I saw the Queen of Swords as soon as I opened the door.

  The card, depicting a stern, determined-looking woman on a throne holding a huge saber upright, was stuck in the frame of the mirror at the upper corner. Underneath the picture were the words, Queen of Swords. I knew the card was part of the Tarot deck, but what was it doing here? Obviously, though, the work of Sheila Rides Horse. Who else? But how did she get into my room? Or was she the housemaid as well as the cook, with free access to all the rooms?

  I looked around. The bed had been turned down and a pink candy rose on a long stem was placed on the pillow. A quick check through my belongings showed nothing else had been disturbed. So the maid had been here, I thought, but why would she have left a Tarot card? And if the maid were Sheila? Still, why the card? A reminder that I was supposed to come and spend more money with her? But I hadn’t given her any money. Maybe this was just the big build-up, the warnings, the whispered, “Come see me in the morning”, then I’d be asked to cross her palm with a couple hundred to save me from some dire nemesis. Wasn’t that the usual fortune-telling scam? Whatever it was, it felt like a damned cheap cat-and-mouse game and I wasn’t going to take any part in it.

  I took off my dirty clothes, threw them on the floor in the closet, and ran water in the tub. The card could be an advertising gimmick, I thought, still puzzling over the stupid thing. Maybe they put one in every room. “Tarot readings available, inquire at the desk.” I padded into the bedroom, got the card and padded back. There was no printing on the back of the card, just a nondescript blue and white design. Whatever, I thought with disgust, and tossed it in the wastebasket.