A Nose for Justice (29 page)

A table with the Cerulean Collection of notebooks arranged in concentric circles were beautiful and expensive. The blue covers jumped out at you.

“Sorry to bother you. They are unique.” Pete picked up one and saw the price of $850. “You might help us with a case we’re working on. We’ve found pieces of a notebook, white lined paper with a red ripstop cover.”

Pencil behind her ear, the lady put up her forefinger. “Hold on one minute.” She went behind the counter, pulled out two large catalogs. “I have a few catalogs from companies we don’t carry. Now let me look.” She thumbed through one from New York. “Here you go.”

Pete and Lonnie stared down as she turned the book toward them. “That’s close.”

“Here, let me grab their largest competitor’s catalog. Companies will order glasses with their logo on them, fleece blankets, all kinds of things. Calendars are always big and they offer low prices based on volume.” She thumbed to the correct pages. “Here you go.”

“That’s it.” Pete checked the available colors.

“Would you like the catalog?” she offered.

“Ma’am, that would be helpful. And thank you.”

Back in the car, Lonnie asked, “Why didn’t you just call the president’s secretary at SSRM?”

“Because, like I told you, I think this is an inside job. Why let anyone in the company know we’re considering that?”

“Right. It’s not much to go on.” He flipped through the catalog. “Hey, I can buy trolls and put your name on them.”

“You’re too good to me.”

“Too bad we can’t examine bank accounts.” Lonnie fiddled with the window button. “Can’t do that without a blizzard of subpoenas and crap.”

“Something tells me whoever is behind all this is too smart to put their eggs in one basket.”

“He could have put the money in an offshore account, have Wade Properties or whoever is kicking back send it direct,” Lonnie suggested.

“That’s not as safe as it once was and it would mean a bunch of people would have to be in on it.”

“Don’t the presidents of companies have discretionary funds?”

“They still have to report them to accounting.”

Lonnie thought a moment. “I still think Oliver just pissed someone off. Why are we going north on three ninety-five?”

“To look over at Sierra County and to turn right onto Red Rock Road, come back down from the north.”

“Some nice ranches over here,” Lonnie noted. “More water.”

The difference in terrain and moisture was obvious.

“Yep.”

When they turned right and headed down Red Rock Road, the Peterson range was now on their right.

“We know this,” Lonnie remarked, looking at the landscape.

“Doesn’t hurt to be reminded.”

T
hat evening, Pete brought Mags a dozen pink roses and a DVD of a PBS show called “Fly Girls.”

Jeep clapped her hands together. “I can’t wait.”

“Aunt Jeep, we’ll watch it together.”

Mags had made pork chops with applesauce and a big salad. Carlotta had made crème brûlée with a delicious topping of raspberry sauce to help Mags since she wasn’t too good at making desserts.

“I hope she remembers to give us the bones.”
Baxter loved the odor of pork.

King sat at Jeep’s feet, looking up at her adoringly.
“Try this.”

At the end of the main meal, the dogs got their pork chop bones.

After dessert, Jeep excused herself and King followed. Mags, Pete, and Baxter repaired to the living room.

“Would you like an after-dinner drink?” Mags asked.

He looked over at her. “I’m pretty much a beer guy and then I wait until summer.”

“That’s smart.” She sat across from him as he settled in the comfortable sofa. “What a wonderful gift, ‘Fly Girls.’ I’ve never seen it. The flowers are beautiful, too.”

“Every time I drive under the gate and look up at that propeller, I imagine what it must be like to fly one of those old planes.”

“Aunt Jeep loved it.”

“Can you shoot a gun?”

“I can pull the trigger, but if you’re asking me about my marksmanship skills, I don’t have any.”

“Will you allow me to take you to the shooting range and teach you? There’s paperwork to fill out. I know Jeep has guns. Maybe she’d let you use one and then we could put it in your name.”

“Are you worried about me?”

“Every woman should know how to use a gun. And, well, yes, I am a little worried. Pump Nineteen isn’t that far up Red Rock Road and a murder victim was found at the southern edge of your aunt’s property.”

“I’ll protect her.”
Baxter spoke quite clearly.

Mags reached down to put him in her lap. “Actually, the shooting range sounds like something I’d enjoy.”

“If you’re free Saturday, I’ll pick you up. If you find you like it, there are things like shooting clays, stuff like that. For some people it’s a real passion. Takes good hand-eye coordination.”

“I’d rather shoot clays than birds.”

“Me too. I don’t really want to kill anything.”

She curled her feet up under, having kicked off her shoes. “I’m still on the trail of Nicholas. I have the names of all the Russians who rode for Buffalo Bill. One curious thing: An English officer who was part of the show was a friend of Colonel Wavell, the rich baron who married the Fords’ daughter. It seems Felicia’s husband attended every show he could and the
ones in England, too. Colonel Wavell was an officer in the elite Household Cavalry. I don’t know to what unit the officer in Buffalo Bill’s show belonged.”

“That’s more than you knew yesterday.”

She laughed. “Progress comes in little steps, for the most part.”

Later, he checked his watch. “It’s ten-thirty. I had no idea. Why didn’t you throw me out?”

“I didn’t know what time it was, either. We haven’t yet run out of things to talk about.”

She walked him to the door and gave him a hug and big good-night kiss. He returned it and didn’t want to let her go.

She watched his taillights as he drove down the road.

Baxter watched, too.

J
anuary 14, Thursday, was the Festival of the Ass, much celebrated in Europe during the Middle Ages. Back then every village mounted a theatrical representation of the holy family’s flight into Egypt. The part of Mary, always hotly contested among local beauties, was usually awarded to the one who pleased the priest the most or the one attached to the most powerful man in the community—say, a count’s daughter. The part of the ass was never hotly contested.

Since 1955, Jeep had rented a casino banquet hall to celebrate this festival. On the bottom of the printed invitation was a quote, “We are celebrating a different kind of ass.”

Jeep had long ago realized that in the dispirited season after Christmas, with cloudy skies and the bills rolling in, everyone needed a pick-me-up this time of year. Any veteran of World War II in Washoe County was invited. Some years past, when so many World War II vets were still alive, the party cost her close to $200,000. These days, the gathering was still large, but smaller nevertheless, the men as old, some older, than herself. The bulk of the partiers were friends, family, those with whom Jeep did business—neighbors like Jake Tanner, whose big appetite was more than satisfied by the bountiful menu.

A band with the big band sound always played, for that was Jeep’s favorite music. When they’d take a break, as a concession to youth in attendance, another more an courant band would fill in with the latest music.

As Mags put on her mascara, looking in the mirror above her bedroom dresser, her cell rang. At the foot of her bed, Baxter barked in response, as if alarmed.

“Mags.” Catherine’s voice sounded crisp and clear. “Are you aware that
the Nevada Supreme Court is going to reconsider a decision from 2007 that could affect water rights back to 1947?”

“Well, that’s a warm and welcome greeting,” said Mags. “But to answer your question, yes. Aunt Jeep was talking about that. She said it might take a year.”

“All the way back to 1947!” Catherine exclaimed.

“But Jeep’s rights go back to 1880,” Mags argued, suddenly suspicious about the subject of this conversation.

“Not purchase of land whose water rights don’t fall back that far. Jeep might have to refile on Wings. She bought it in the fifties.”

“Catherine, I’m getting ready to go to a party. Get to the point.” Mags’s distrust rose.

“If she refiles, put some of those properties in my name.”

“Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—I can’t do that! I’d have to go through her battalion of lawyers.”

“Jeep loves you. She might do it for you if you asked. I’m owed part of that estate.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Fuck you!” Catherine slammed down the phone.

Mags shut off her cell. “Baxter, that is the most selfish bitch God has ever put on earth.”

“I’m sorry.”

She kissed his head, then returned to the mascara.

S
ix hundred guests came to this year’s party. The veterans who could still fit into them wore their uniforms. Jeep wore her dark blue uniform and looked fabulous. The fitted jacket had notched lapels. On each top lapel was a gold-tone pair of wings sprouting from what looked like a vertical propeller. On the bottom notched lapels, in bold metal letters was “WASP.” She stood at the door greeting everyone, King by her side. Even though the casino had a no pets policy, it was waived for Jeep’s annual party. Wives at their side, men who’d fought Zeroes over the South Pacific, men who’d survived the Battle of the Bulge, sat in chairs with poodles,
Yorkies, and mutts in their laps. Every wife received a corsage with ribbons in the colors of her husband’s branch of the service.

A special potty area was roped off for the dogs and Jeep paid handsomely for a casino employee to scoop up the results. The dogs had bones and treats. The humans gorged on delicacies. Chef Egon Utrecht made sure no one would ever forget this menu and the casino. As a tribute to the veterans, he had an ice sculpture made in the shape of an unfurled flag. This greeted everyone in the main lobby, even those nonguests who were headed for the gambling areas. The casino also did a great job of decorating, placing over the party room’s entrance a propeller with a sprig of evergreen behind it.

Most folks in attendance who had not done military service wore jeans and shirts—belt buckles being an indicator of status, as well as fancy boots, which always drew comments of approval. Some men sported monstrous horseshoe rings, most were a bit more conservative. The ladies, regardless of age, wore jeans or long, brightly colored skirts with cowboy boots also in bright colors. Jewelry ranged from turquoise necklaces to Cartier. One thing was for sure: When you stepped into this room, you knew you were in Nevada.

Apart from Jeep, three other women wore uniforms. Pauline Winters, Navy, rolled around in a wheelchair with a little horn on the arm.

Pete attended with his parents. Lonnie at his side, too, was slack-jawed at the attendees, the band, and some very hot women. He thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

In the receiving line, Mags stood next to Jeep. Enrique was on her other side with Carlotta. With all the jewelry she wore, Carlotta had to have weighed ten more pounds. As always, she carried it off. Enrique wore a tux coat with jeans, his boots were peanut brittle–colored ostrich. Baxter and King sat by their humans, overwhelmed by the food smells and suspicious of other dogs until those animals lowered their eyes. King could be very commanding.

Despite their clashing ideas about Reno’s future, Jeep had invited the upper management of SSRM, as she did other corporate leaders. She also invited Twinkie and Bunny because she liked them, and Jake especially
liked them. She wanted to keep her neighbor happy. Reno in particular, Nevada in general, was a great place to do business—all thanks to no taxes and a climate conducive to business. Big national companies like John Deere were in Reno. Four thousand eight hundred and sixty-two businesses in Washoe County were women-owned, which made Jeep proud; back in the day, when she had just returned from the war, you could count them on your fingers.

Darryl Johnson and Lolly attended, as did Craig Locke and his wife. George W. and his wife also were there and were warmly welcomed in the receiving line.

Jeep was glad to see SSRM’s president. “Thank you so much for coming, Darryl, I know this has been a difficult time. Perhaps tonight will raise some spirits.”

“Thank you, Jeep. Lolly and I wouldn’t miss this. It’s a great way to start the year.”

Lolly enthused, “You look wonderful in your uniform. Must have driven the men wild in the day.”

“Still do.” Jeep laughed. “But now they run away in fear because they don’t want to be corralled by a mean old woman.”

As the SSRM people went down the line, some partiers noticed. Many expressed their sympathy to Oliver Hitchens’s colleagues, others were just nosy.

Guiding Lonnie toward one of his high school classmates, Pete paused a moment, nodding in the direction of the SSRM people. As he did, a photographer from the
Reno Gazette-Journal
and the
Reno News & Review
, the weekly paper, snapped photos. Within seconds all three of the SSRM employees were cornered by curious reporters from those papers.