A Nose for Justice (6 page)

“What in God’s name is he doing in your barn?” Mags asked.

“Wasn’t my barn when he was laid in it. Was the Ford brothers’ barn. He could even have been buried before the barn was built, though I doubt it. I don’t know why, but I doubt it.” Jeep turned to Enrique. “If we can carefully exhume him, we may find out how he died. Dollars to donuts, his was not a natural death.”

Mags eyes widened. “And why not?”

Jeep took back the ring and slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand. “Odd. It fits perfectly.” She took it off. “I don’t have the right to wear it.” Then she suddenly slipped it back on. “But I will.”

The Star of Guard stood out on the flattened silver nailhead. Jeep felt
as she had felt before flying a mission: a sharp current of excitement, laced with an undertow of joy. Once she and her copilot were strapped in, if flying a big bomber to its last stateside destination, once she cranked the great engines, she always turned to Laura and said, “Tits to the wind.”

T
hey started at six in the morning on December 8, the birthday of Mary, Queen of Scots in 1542. Jeep kept a calendar in her head of such events. Enrique and Mags finally exposed the entire skeleton by one that afternoon. While it remained embedded in the soil, the entire human figure could be clearly seen. Jeep feared if they tried to pry him loose, they might destroy the bones or damage something that could later provide a clue to his identity.

Carlotta helped by feeding the cattle, chopping ice, and checking and feeding the horses.

Jeep, her beloved Hasselblad in hand, took careful photographs. She had learned about photography while in the service, though she’d been so poor upon discharge she couldn’t exactly afford it as a hobby. Many of the WASPs, when mustered out, had to pay for their own bus tickets home. That ticket from Texas to Nevada had depleted her little nest egg. Still, she had built her own darkroom to help with costs, taking great pleasure in snapping what she called “Nevada-scapes”—especially from the air. She flew an old World War I Curtiss JN-6H, called “the Jenny”—a plane she shared with Danny Marks, another young World War II vet. You might even say it was because of this hobby that she made her fortune. It had been her day to crop dust over Lassen County, California, a far more fertile area than around Reno. That day in 1949, Jeep had just enough fuel left to indulge herself and laze over the Kumina Peak area. A seam of land caught her attention.

Later, the large two-inch images taken by the Hasselblad further intrigued her. She drove to the desolate area in her old truck, along the way every filling in her teeth rattling. She then pinpointed what she had seen
from the air. Even more barren than the usual high desert acreage, the land was privately owned. Quietly, not even telling her folks—still alive and hardworking back then—she investigated. An elderly widow, living in Sacramento, owned five thousand acres. The adjoining pieces were also privately owned. One by one, Jeep tracked down the owners of these properties. Ultimately she pieced together ten thousand acres of what was considered pure trash. Without a cent of her own, but enormous drive—the same drive that sent her into rolling thunder in the skies—she pushed onward. She sold the old truck, sold anything she could, except her one-eared dog, a many-times grandmother of King. No one would have wanted Daisy anyway. She borrowed from friends who had a bit put away, making them wealthy, too. Not that anyone knew that then. Jeep never forgot a favor nor forgave an insult.

Not one of the owners wanted to hold on to their land. When she offered a modest sum, in one case offering only to pay back taxes, Jeep became the proud owner of what most folks would have considered nothing. Even Danny, who knew her well and loved her, was shocked when she showed him her recently acquired land deeds. He shook his head in wonderment that such a smart woman could be so dumb.

The land—now called the Reed tract—contained a deep vein of gold with many offshoots, some of which contained silver. As methods of harvesting had improved by the 1950s and continue to improve, the find was monumental. That was only the beginning of her fortune, but it gave notice that Magdalene Reed was ready to take more than physical risks. Funny, though, how some people think. Jeep, ignorant about mineral extraction, studied and made a deal with a mining company. She owned the land and took thirty percent of the profits. The mining company paid an annual rent. Once operations began, it took two and a half years for profits to materialize. Jeep was often discounted because she was young, quite pretty, and feminine. Rather than become overtly angry at this treatment, she used it to her advantage. Over the decades she got even with those who’d insulted her. Conventional thinkers can usually be defeated by unconventional thinkers. Jeep was unconventional.

She piled Pelion on Parnassus. Once she had money, she founded, with
Danny, a salvage company called Marks and Reed. She graciously put Danny’s name first. He put up sweat equity. Marks and Reed dismantled defunct mining sites, tore down wooden buildings—dismantled anything useful. Then they bought a few acres near Reno, Carson City, Virginia City, and Elko. People flocked to the salvage yards for below-cost, good materials. A recession followed the war. Everyone was looking for a bargain. By 1955, double-digit millions in profit showed on the books of Marks and Reed.

In Nevada people began to say, “The Reed touch” instead of “The Midas touch.” By 1960, no one thought to discount the slender, still very attractive Jeep born in 1924. Most people liked her. Those who didn’t were generally those who had been stupid enough to belittle her way back when. And people being loyal to their own tragedies, bewailing of their fate—a fate they created but would never accept responsibility for—became part of the family jewels, so to speak. Every one of the Filberts, Isadores, and Larsons hated her. At least now they had sense enough to fear her. Good thing.

The war taught Jeep Reed that anyone who acts like an enemy is an enemy. Kill the enemy. That’s the job of a soldier, sailor, airman, marine. Remove the threat to your people. That kind of thinking is now considered antiquated, but Jeep still believed it. She wouldn’t kill her enemies physically but she crushed them otherwise.

Peering down at the skeleton before her, she thought,
This man had been someone’s enemy
. Three ribs on the left side bore distinct, smooth, deep incisions. He’d been stabbed twice by someone powerful. The deceased had heavy bones, was around five foot ten inches tall, and symmetrical in form with large good teeth.

He lay faceup.

“Must have had a killer smile.” Jeep steadied the camera box with both hands, focusing on his skull.

“If he graduated in 1887, he would have been what, twenty-one or twenty-two at graduation?” Mags, like Jeep, was falling under the spell of this long-dead man.

“Somewhere around that. To make it easy, let’s say twenty.” Jeep placed the camera on the broad, cold seat of the ATV parked next to the grave. “He
was probably in his thirties, at the most early forties, when he met his Maker. His teeth are all there. Given the time in which he lived, most people lost a few or all by the time they reached middle age.”

“Here’s the thing.” Mags looked down, then at the surrounding earth where the other stalls once stood. “When a body decays, it blows up full of gas. He was only three feet down. Why didn’t the earth swell up? And dogs would smell him down there. We can’t, of course.”

King, laying near the heater, raised his head.
“She’s not so dumb.”

“I trained her.”
Baxter barked on the other side of the heater.

In his four years of life, King had somewhat gotten to known Mags on her visits, which were usually just long weekends. He liked her just fine but he figured she was like most of her species: limited senses, limited sense, and appallingly self-centered.

From down below in the hole, Enrique considered Mags’s point. “Well, the horse, shod, moving around in the stall, that would keep tamping the earth down. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

Jeep knelt at the edge of the grave for another shot. “The boys should be back to work tomorrow. Roads have to be a little better now that the storm’s passed. I’ll call Pete. I imagine at this point we’ll be low on his to-do list, but that’s fine with me.”

“Wouldn’t be fine if it was a crisis.” Mags teased her.

“Then I’d be number one.” Jeep smiled back.

“Whoever killed this guy laid him out with respect.” Enrique stepped up and out with a hand up from Mags. “He wasn’t dumped facedown or rolled onto his side. He was laid flat, faceup, legs straightened and arms by his side. Respect.”

“Curious.” Jeep sighed.

Mags studied her old great-aunt for a long moment. “You’ve seen so much death. Isn’t this just one more body?”

Enrique looked at his mother. He’d never really thought of that.

“You get used to death as you age. Doesn’t mean I like saying goodbye, but I’ve learned to celebrate the lives of the departed. Do the same for me when my time comes.”

“Mom, don’t say that.”
King loved his human.

“I guess we should enjoy the interludes between goodbyes,” Mags said.

“They seem fewer and farther between as you get older, but grab what you can, Babycakes.” Jeep looked at these two people whom she loved beyond measure, even when saddened by them at times. “Here I am, about two years older than dirt and I can’t tell you why but I feel young; I feel this incredible rush.” She looked down at the skeleton. “He speaks to me. I must find out who he is.”

“What does he say?” Enrique felt a pull, but not as strong as Jeep’s.

“Find my killer.”

“Well, his killer is long dead, too.” Mags stated the obvious.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t find him.”

Baxter whispered loud enough so King could hear.
“More old bones.”

King couldn’t help it. He laughed.

T
hat same evening, the icy roads of downtown Reno could be negotiated if a driver rolled along slowly. Fourth Street, seedy but not without edgy energy, was denuded of pedestrians as was all of Reno. The topless bar called Jugs, however, did entertain some patrons.

Teton Benson lived in a sparse apartment walk-up next door to Jugs. The doorway to both the apartment building and the bar was recessed. Neither landlord wasted money on good lighting—an advantage for the bar; a disadvantage for the residents of the walk-up. Teton carried a small flashlight.

He knew most people on the block. He was friendly and good-looking in a worn-down fashion with his sandy hair, straight teeth, clean jeans and sweater. He sat at the bar.

Next to him, tenuously perched on a barstool, sat Egon Utrecht, towering above Teton at six foot four.

“Thought you’d be at work.” Tets sipped a Coke.

“Bare bones crew. It’s a good night to take off. And it gives Lisa”—he mentioned his assistant chef—“the chance to run the show without too much stress.”

“She’s good-looking.” Tets smiled and nodded at one of the working girls, a triumph against gravity, as she teetered by on high heels.

She kissed him on the cheek. “Sweetheart.”

As Teton never had money to lure the girls or buy more drinks, he knew Lark, her stage name, had purposefully sauntered by because she wanted an introduction to this prosperous-looking man.

“Lark, this is Egon Utrecht.”

She squealed, “The famous chef!”

Egon nodded. “The same.”

“Oh, my God, oh, my God, I can’t believe you’re here.” She moved her most prominent feature closer to his chest.

“Teton and I know each other.” Egon fished a twenty out of his pocket. “Next time I’m here, I’d like to know you better, but for now I need to talk to Tets.”

Smart girl, she took the money, then ran her right hand suggestively up his forearm. “You’re very generous. Thank you.”

She left with Teton’s eyes following her. “Lark’s a good girl. This is a tough place to be.”

“If the heating ever fails, it will be more than tough.” Egon half smiled. “Thank you again for the business tip. I’d like to do more business. I’d like to meet your contact.”