Payne & Misery Page 22

  Silverthorne held up both hands. “Be patient. We’re aware there are many problems with Will’s statement. We’ll have to keep digging.”

  They’d been laying down answers like tile setters, one little tile at a time. But they’d come to the end for the day. Once again, the more we learned, the less we knew. Fugitive pieces of the puzzle multiplied like fleas, the outer edges of the picture pushing farther out to include more disturbing possibilities. Where could we go next for answers?

  33

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Fuzzy feelings about Jesse’s new attentiveness coerced me into accompanying him on his next shoot. A weekend away would be healthy, although I had doubts about whether I could keep my mind off the investigation for a whole weekend. At any rate, I could wear a cowboy hat over my hair and no one would suspect that a disaster hid underneath.

  So we loaded Ranger into the trailer, left the cats and other horses in Zora Jane’s care, and set off with Molly for the cowboy mounted shooting event in Ceres. The four-hour journey proceeded pleasantly enough in the warm afternoon sun, but the quiet gave me too much time to think. While I jostled along in Jesse’s Dodge dualie, I couldn’t keep my mind off the investigation. Far too many unresolved details tangled the puzzle.

  Jesse beamed at me. “This is awfully nice of you, Christine.” I knew he could hardly contain his excitement about my proposed venture into his world. “These are nice people. You’ll really like them.”

  I tried to reflect his enthusiasm. “At least the weather isn’t too hot. I don’t know how you can stand getting dressed up in all that leather with the temperature so high. Like in the summer.” As soon as I spoke, I wished I could take the words back. I sighed. After the progress we’d made in our relationship, why couldn’t I think of something positive to say?

  He threw me a wistful glance. I’m sure he wished I understood how much he loved doing this. Deflated by my own lack of progress, I returned to my dark reverie.

  A couple of hours later, we exited the freeway, pulling the horse trailer onto a frontage road. After a few more turns, Jesse slowed to pass under a lodge-pole entrance where a wooden sign announced our arrival at Willowbrook Ranch. In the back seat of the double cab, Molly perched beside the back window to watch.

  Dust tornados swirled around us as we drove past the ranch house toward a weathered barn. A banner proclaimed the upcoming event: “Shootout at Willowbrook Ranch.” A man in an old-time cowboy costume waved us to a stop with a clipboard. Jesse rolled down the window.

  The cowboy asked, “You folks here for the mounted shoot?”

  Jesse nodded. “We are. Where do you want me to park this rig?”

  “What’s the handle?”

  Jesse provided his shooting name. “Buckaroo Bob.”

  The cowboy consulted his clipboard. “Stall ten for your ride. Keep going straight down the road. When you see the other trailers, pull in anywhere you find a space.” He lifted his leather-cuffed arm to send us onward.

  Farther down the dirt road, we passed the arena. Rough wooden bleachers overlooked the middle of the field, with oaks and cottonwoods providing shade. Next, we came to rows of stalls for the horses and then the camping area in a field across from the stalls.

  All sizes and shapes of horse trailers and recreational vehicles lined the pasture—old, new, aluminum, and rusty steel—some with pop-outs extended and some with hardly any room for anything but the horse. Elaborate decals decorated a few, while the sides of others were bare. Around these trailers, contestants toiled to set up temporary housekeeping like a swarm of worker bees getting ready for the queen bee. Jesse deftly backed into a small space between two trailers he recognized, parked the pickup, and jumped out.

  While he and Molly greeted friends, I stretched and began unloading.

  Jesse’s three-horse trailer contained a tiny apartment in the front, with a bed over the back of the pickup. Although it had barely enough room for two grown-ups to pass each other, somehow a minuscule kitchen and compact bathroom fit into the space as well. An undersized built-in couch provided the only furniture in the unit. Beside the couch, a plastic table attached to the floor to create a dinette or detached when company required seating.

  Jesse unloaded Ranger and led him to pen number ten. Supplied with hay and water, Ranger settled in. His cohorts in the other stalls appeared just as grateful as he to be out of the confines of their small trailer spaces.

  I rearranged several items that had shifted in transit. Jesse bustled in carrying a box of sodas and bent to start up the mini-refrigerator so I could unload the ice chest. While he worked, he sang:

  I gotta woman, mean as she can be.

  Why don’t you love me, baby?

  Like you used to do?

  Tell me that you care,

  Tell me that you’ll always be there.

  I spent a lifetime, looking for the right one

  The one I’m dreamin’ of…

  I smiled, wondering how many songs completed his repertoire.

  When we’d almost finished unloading, a loud rap-tap sounded at the door, followed by several cheery voices. Molly perked up.

  “Anybody home?”…“Knock, knock.”…“Hey, Buckaroo. You in there?”

  Jesse opened the door and stepped out. He introduced the greeting party, using their riding pseudonyms. Express Man’s crumpled black hat sported a rebel emblem. Dust covered his clothes as if he just rode in from carrying the mail on his pony. Cactus Kelly, a fit cowgirl attired in a split riding skirt, suspenders, and high riding boots, stood next to him. Her husband, Dirty Dan—a grizzled ranch hand—leaned against her. He extended a sweaty handshake. Calamity June chose jeans and a men’s floppy shirt for her costume. Diamond Spike’s clothes—creased black pants, a clean white shirt covered by a black satin vest, and a rounded bowler hat with a narrow brim—identified him as a card-playing dandy.

  In great excitement, they all spoke at once. Molly added a cheerful greeting yelp, tail wagging. The clamor of voices overwhelmed me, but I appreciated the sincerity of the welcome. Jesse produced folding chairs from a side compartment of his trailer, and we set them out beside the front door of our miniature domicile.

  The group had much to discuss: guns and ammunition, horses and their speed, upcoming events, new sources for period costumes, even a touch of club gossip. Mostly I listened.

  Cactus Kelly tried to include me. “So, do you ride?”

  “I did, when we lived down south. Owned a great horse too, but she died. Have you been competing long?”

  She sent her husband a loving look. “It’s not really my deal. Dan got us into this. He always loved horses. He rode fast … getting real good until his accident two years ago. Ended up with a broken pelvis and back pain so bad he can’t ride anymore. Still loves coming out, though. Loves the camaraderie. Loves the camping. Now he’s the official photographer and cook. You’ll see. He rustles up a pretty mean barbeque.”

  “You still come, even though he doesn’t compete? You do all this for him?”

  “Well, at the beginning I just wanted to keep the family together. The kids were still young enough that they’d come with us. One of our daughters rode too. It used to be a fun family thing. We did it together.”

  “You’re a better wife than I am, that’s for sure.”

  She smiled. “We all get away from the routine. I’m not much good, but he loves teaching me.” She winked. “That’s a win-win.”

  Jesse rose at dawn, whistling and singing while he made coffee. He bathed with uncharacteristic speed in the tiny shower and got dressed. From our perch on the bed, Molly and I watched the transformation from Jesse to Buckaroo Bob.

  First, he donned a striped western shirt and heavy western pants. Wide black suspenders snapped on next. He strapped his leather gun belt on his hips and pulled on long leather boots with jingling spurs attached. A fringed leather vest decorated with touches of red and blue Indian beading went on over the shirt. He tied a yellow scarf arou
nd his neck and secured it with a silver scarf slide. An extra-wide brimmed black hat completed the costume.

  “I thought good guys only wore white hats,” I mused.

  “What about Hopalong Cassidy?”

  He had me there.

  With Ranger outfitted in fancy leather reins, halter, and red wool blanket under a vintage Visalia saddle, Buckaroo Bob swung onto his steed. The two of them could’ve come straight out of an Old West movie.

  I settled on the splintery bleachers with a steamy cup of coffee, picking a spot in the shade of a spreading cottonwood tree. A colorful array of contestants warmed up in the arena—thirty-some riders. Men and women of various ages and sizes—men outnumbering women by about two to one—pranced and trotted. And the costumes! From the stands, spectators cheered and called out pseudonyms as the shooters rode by. A feathery saloon girl outfit clothed Belle Pepper, Tiger Lily wore a leather-fringed Indian-princess dress, and cavalry officer duds transformed Captain Crunch into a military man. In addition, assorted cowboys and cowgirls in colorful costumes sported imaginative names like Herr Trigger, Buck N. Wyld, and Robin Banks. The horses were varied as well—tall ones, ponies, and everything in between—black, brown, gray, white, some with manes and tails the same color as their bodies and some two-toned.

  After about an hour, they completed their warm-up and gathered for a riders’ meeting. Jesse assisted several other range officers setting up the first course in the center of the arena. They arranged four white balloons attached to orange highway cones in a V-shape with a barrel at the tip holding a fifth white balloon. A line of five blue balloons attached to orange highway cones intersected the V like an arrow shaft. After considerable conferring and rearranging by the cowboys in the field, everyone approved the spacing. The match would be composed of seven different configurations of balloons, or stages, over the next two days.

  The head range officer spoke to the assembled riders. “Course number one is stage one today. Shoot all the white balloons first before rounding the barrel. Remember to stay on the outside of the white balloons. Then come back and shoot the rundown. Any questions?”

  None were voiced, so the riders dispersed to the outside of the arena. A covered box above the far end housed timekeepers and announcers. A garbled welcome squawked from the loudspeaker, followed by the proposed lineup of the first five riders. The event kicked off with level one and continued through level five.

  A cowboy on an Appaloosa stallion rode into the arena. The announcer introduced him as Ben Shot riding his horse, Freckles, and gave a short bio on the rider. She ended with a witty comment about Ben being on the lookout for a filly. Ben removed his beat-up black cowboy hat and waved it at the announcer. Replacing the hat, Ben led his horse in a couple short circles to gain momentum before tearing through the timer at maximum speed. He rode to the outside of the V formation, slowing to shoot the first four balloons without a miss, but rode too fast to hit the last one. Without pausing to express disappointment, he pivoted around the barrel and trotted toward the rundown, hooting while he kicked his horse in the belly. He shot all five of the blue balloons before spurring his horse back to his starting point.

  The announcer proclaimed, “Time: 26.35 seconds. One missed balloon for a five-second penalty. That’s a score of 31.35 for stage one. Good ride, Ben.”

  The small audience applauded.

  Level ones entered the arena and ran the stage in turn, then level twos, and level threes. The times gradually decreased as the level of expertise increased.

  Dirty Dan set up his camera at the far end of the arena. Barbeque and photography. He couldn’t ride anymore, but his wife kept coming because he enjoyed the shoots. Maybe someday I’d become that kind of supportive wife.

  Jesse’s turn came at last. He entered the arena, sitting tall in his saddle. A surge of pride and excitement swept over me. Jesse did look good on a horse.

  Ranger pranced and tossed his jet-black head, looking excited to begin. Jesse led him in warm-up loops. The announcer read their bio, but I couldn’t hear it over the static. Jesse watched for the range officer’s signal to begin.

  Several riders sat nearby in the bleachers. One lady glanced my way. “Is that your husband?”

  I nodded.

  “He never misses,” she told the lady next to her. They smiled.

  Ranger galloped toward the V, long black tail trailing straight in the wind. Jesse shot the five white balloons in an exemplary manner, rounded the barrel like a pro, and commenced to the rundown without a moment’s hesitation, shooting all five balloons in turn. He raced back through the timer. “Time: 19.5 seconds. No misses. Good job, Buckaroo! That’s the time to beat, ladies and gentlemen: 19.5.”

  A lanky cowboy in a white Stetson and white shirt with extra puffy sleeves lowered his lean frame to sit beside me. I acknowledged his presence with a nod. He tipped his hat. “You must be Buckaroo’s wife.”

  “Yes, I’m Christine.”

  “Around these parts I go by Nevada Slim. Pleased to meetcha.”

  We watched the next contestant begin his run. He rode fast but missed two blue balloons on the rundown.

  Without looking at me, Nevada Slim asked, “This your first time?”

  “Yes. Well, I’ve seen him practice at home, of course. I just haven’t been to a shoot before.”

  “What do ya think?”

  “It’s interesting.”

  Jesse arrived just then, beaming like a boy who hit his first home run in Little League. He sat on the other side of me.

  “That was great,” I said, patting his leg. “You’re ahead!”

  “Well, it’s early for a victory dance. We’ve got six more stages to run. Nevada hasn’t shot yet. Wait ’til you see him.”

  Nevada grinned at Jesse. “I don’t know, Buckaroo. You’ve been coming up every shoot. I gotta watch my back.”

  Jesse nodded toward Nevada. “I see you’ve already met one of Nevada County’s finest. He works for the sheriff’s department in Nevada City.”

  I glanced at Nevada. “Is that a fact?”

  He inclined his head. “’Fraid so, ma’am.”

  Jesse leaned over to catch Nevada’s eye. “Tell her what you told me earlier about the tramp in the woods.”

  “Oh, the vagrant. We got several complaints about someone illegally camping out your way. Thought they were just rumors. But last week we caught a guy building a fire in the woods. Had enough supplies to stay a week. We questioned him, let him sleep in the holding area one night, and released him. Told him he couldn’t camp out there, but who knows if he’ll listen. Seemed confused but harmless.”

  Jesse grinned. “Nothing to worry about. Just a confused pyromaniac.”

  I painted on a weak smile. “So you know about the investigation into Lila Kliner’s disappearance.”

  “Sure. I’m not on the investigating team, but most everyone in the department has been involved on that one in some way.”

  Penelope Pink-Paynt, a tiny cowgirl, braids hanging long underneath her pink hat, rode a diminutive gray pony with a pink-painted tail into the arena. In a flash, she zipped across the timer. She rode like a cyclone toward the white balloons, braids and pink tail flying. Her guns looked too large for her little hands, but she didn’t miss a single shot. She rounded the barrel in a tightly executed turn and headed for the run down.

  I said, “She was our neighbor. Lila Kliner.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Nevada shook his head. “Can’t seem to get a break on that one. Or the other one, either.”

  “What other one?”

  “The hit-and-run in Nevada City. The little boy. They happened the same night.” He watched Penelope speed to the rundown, shooting all five blue balloons as the spectators cheered. “I think they may be connected.”

  Connected? As in, whoever drove the Buick hit the little boy?

  I opened my mouth to ask for more, but he spoke first. “Well, my turn’s coming up. Been a pleasure, ma’am.” He tipped his hat again as h
e stood. “Watch this, Buckaroo. I’ll show ya how it’s done.”

  34

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Our weekend away proved great marriage therapy, and we even stayed an extra night so we could participate in the group barbeque and bonfire, although I never got another opportunity to grill Nevada Slim about Lila. Jesse won his division, which seemed to please him.

  Monday we took our time getting home. In the early afternoon, I rode next to Jesse, cuddled against his shoulder, but raised my head to stare at Will’s house when we passed. I didn’t see his white truck in its usual place, so chances were good he’d gone to town.

  “We’ve got to fix that gate so Molly can’t open it anymore,” Jesse said. “She’s obsessed with getting out.”

  “Curious, isn’t it? Wonder what’s calling her to that pile?”

  Jesse jerked his head to look me in the eye. “No, Christine!”

  “Come on, Jesse. Will’s still gone and—”

  “No more snooping. Do you hear me? Will has a gun, remember? We hired a professional. He can handle this from now on.”

  Jesse turned in at the barn and unloaded Ranger. Feeling disgruntled and deflated, I climbed the hill and marched petulantly into the house. Molly followed.

  When I made laundry piles, I found the little burned chunk Molly retrieved from the fire pit. I had apparently tossed it into the pocket of the robe I threw on when I raced down the hill after Molly and Jesse. I turned it in my palm, trying to deduce its message.

  It might be leather, part of a box. No. A suitcase. A brown suitcase sat above the rafters in the open garage the first time I looked in, but it wasn’t there anymore. So Lila didn’t pull that suitcase down to transport her clothes.

  I picked up the phone and punched in Silverthorne’s cell number. When he answered a moment later, I relayed my latest insight.