A Nose for Justice (17 page)

A
fter picking up odds and ends her great-aunt requested from town, Mags pulled into Wings just as the sun set behind the mountains. A few long diffuse rays pierced the valley through the Vs in the mountains. The winter light, so soft, faded as a thin gold line above the range slowly turned a lavender blue.

How beautiful
, Mags thought to herself, a shopping bag in each hand as she stepped onto the porch. She paused to drink in the various shades of blue, pink, mauve, and deep purple—all in straight lines across the sky as though painted by a giant using a straight edge. The moment the sun dropped so did the mercury. She’d rarely seen a sunset when she lived in Manhattan, but had enjoyed the sunrises over the East River. After her gym workouts she’d return to her apartment in the east seventies and get Baxter. The two would run as close to the river as they could. The buildings in Queens would turn from light gray to soft pink, the East River tagging along in the same colors. But when the sun finally crested, a path shone over the East River, deep red, then scarlet, and finally molten gold. By the time she and Baxter would turn back toward home, the windows in all those east-facing Manhattan buildings shone gold, too.

She wasn’t morose but she missed the city; its steel canyons, the traffic lights blinking, headlights, lights in shop windows, the wonderful colored lights atop the Empire State Building changed to celebrate various events, but always red, white, and blue on July 4. Other big buildings, too, sported tops awash in colors. She loved the brashness of it. She did not, however, miss the noise. As to the famed rudeness of New Yorkers, Mags never found them any more rude than anyone else. The pace meant fewer extraneous chats, but most New Yorkers were matter-of-factly kind and helpful.

It was pretty much this way in any American city and, observing the changing shadows, the slashes of Prussian blue now over the range, the darkening gray shadows on the steep sides of those Petersons, Mags thought she knew why. The first emotion the early settlers felt, whether they came on their own hook or as slaves, was loneliness. They encountered a vast land filled with wildlife and other strange humans, with not one castle, crossroad, or livery. Virgin. Even when the East Coast hosted one million people in 1776, one had only to go a few miles west of any city to again be facing deep forest. As the decades wore on, American settlers moved west but the loneliness followed. To see another person, to find out the news, to offer what little you had as hospitality, for you must, created what we are. Hold out your hand, and another American will grasp it and pull you up.

A lick of wind brushed her face, tears welled up. Seeing Catherine had brought small arrowheads of emotion to the surface. She wondered why she’d never given much thought to that core of loneliness. She’d felt it in herself, even on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street. No amount of urbanization could eradicate it.

Nevada, seemingly barren itself, stripped you bare. In a place like this, it was up to each individual to find their inner riches.

Mags knew crime and old prejudices still existed. The prejudices were fading like the light, but there remained pockets, like those deep-gray slashes on the east side of the Peterson range. Every society had them. Didn’t matter if it was the Athens of Pericles, a rollicking London in 1664, or today; still, she thought, We are a great people. We are a good people. We’ve lost our way. I know I did. We’ll find the road again.

The tears streamed down her cheeks, stinging cold. If only she didn’t love Catherine, then she’d never be betrayed, hurt, wretched. That was another revelation: Pain is a purifier. Mags reckoned she was getting quite pure in every area. Wiping her tears, she heard Baxter barking, King, too.

She opened the front door, her little fellow on his hind legs, front legs pawing in the air, so happy to see her. She set down the shopping bags, lifted him up, hugged him and kissed him.

Then she bent over and solemnly petted King. “You’re too big to pick up, King, but I’m so glad to see you.”

“Likewise,”
King replied.

“Jeep, where are you?”

“Hiding.” Her great-aunt’s voice filtered down from upstairs.

“I’ll put your bags on the kitchen table.”

“Be down in a minute.”

And she was. Jeep opened the shopping bags wide.

“Ready for your scotch and water? Sun’s down.” Mags volunteered to make it for her.

“Excellent idea. Let me take this upstairs and I’ll be right back.”

“I have a better idea. I’ll carry the bags upstairs. You make your drink.”

“No. You can’t go in my bedroom. I have presents on the bed. Still have two to wrap.”

“You weren’t supposed to get me Christmas presents.”

“Who said they were for you?” Jeep winked at her, looked in the bags again. “Oh, you found those socks. The ones were you can pull down that little extra layer on the top of your work boots. Hooray.”

“Right where you said they’d be, on Kuietzke Lane. Prices are good in that store, too. The other good thing is the sales people actually want to help and know the merchandise. How refreshing.”

Jeep laughed. “I’d be naked if it weren’t for them. You know, old as I am, I’m in good shape.”

“You’re in fine form.”

“You’d better believe it. Had some success today. Tell you about it after I make my drink. Are you having one?”

“Blanton’s.”

“Good. A lady hates to drink alone.”

“Which one of us is a lady?” Mags handed her the bags, which Jeep handed back.

“Touché,” Jeep said. “Go ahead. Take them. Just leave them at the top of the stairs.”

“I’m going with you.”
Baxter padded after Mags.

“Careful you don’t scrape your belly on the stairs.”
King followed Jeep.

“One of these days you’ll be glad I’m made the way I am.”
Baxter made a swift retort.
“I can do things you can’t.”

“Name one.”

On the stairs now, Baxter poked his long nose through the railing.
“I can go into dens and kill varmints. You can’t.”

Stumped for a moment, King trotted to the base of the stairs for the two had already reached the top.
“You can go in. Can you get out?”

Saucily, the little dog barked.
“I can do anything!”

Mags looked down. “You’re talkative.”

Back in the living room, drinks in hand, dogs by the fireplace, Jeep asked, “Well? Let’s get a report.”

“The usual, charming, funny, self-deprecating Catherine.”

“How’d she look?”

“Drop-dead gorgeous.” Mags took a swig. “Don’t worry, I know the leopard doesn’t change its spots. Well, I suppose some do or those rehab clinics wouldn’t stay in business.”

“Still on drugs?”

“Seems to be under control, but she’s never going to give up partying, Aunt Jeep. She was a social butterfly when we were kids. Catherine lives to be the center of attention.”

“She’s succeeded in some ways.” Jeep put her feet up on the hassock. “I can feel the cold in my hip. Funny. Anyway, thanks for taking the bags upstairs. I’ll climb them when I have to.”

“Hurt?”

“It’s just the damn cold goes so deep. Why I waited so long to get my hip replaced I’ll never know. I thought I’d magically rebuild my joint through willpower. Anyway, that was”—she paused—“six years ago. I do have a little hitch in my giddyap.”

“Not noticeable.” Mags fibbed, for there was that slight roll to Aunt Jeep’s walk now.

“Um. Want to hear about my day?” She held up her drink.

“She sat at the desk all day. Boring. Boring. Boring.”
King grumbled.

“She hummed while she did it,”
Baxter added.

“Humans can’t sing.”
King spoke with authority.
“They try but who sounds better than a dog? Be honest.”

“They do rather squeak.”
Baxter agreed, which made King happy.

“What worlds did you conquer today?” Mags meant it.

“Pulled out my old books, early Nevada history stuff. Studied the
photographs and colored drawings. Our beads were probably part of clothing or a swagger piece. I think of them as swagger pieces. You know, a fellow has a crop and a beaded tail hangs from it. The beads are Lakota. I have no idea what specific tribe. If we had the entire artifact, we might be able to figure it out.”

“Isn’t that something?”

“Our Russian, let’s call him Nicholas, may have worn or owned this piece, or the beads dropped from whoever buried him. Maybe there was even a struggle before Nicholas was killed. Curious, but we are learning a little more.”

“He was stabbed from the front. The marks on the ribs were right where his heart would be.”

Jeep studied her. “Yes.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m afraid I often underestimate young people. It’s the sin of age.”

“Just because I noticed where the marks were on the rib cage?”

“Uh-huh.”

Mags continued, “Now whether or not he struggled, I didn’t see anything else. No broken jaw, knocked out teeth. I wonder if he knew who killed him? I hope, for his sake, Nicholas landed at least one blow. And, in a way, I have some sense of his killer.”

“Why do you say that?” Jeep raised her eyebrows.

“He didn’t sneak up on him from behind.”

“Ah.” Jeep exhaled. “Could have been an explosion of tempers. Want to hear what else I discovered today in my research?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“You know Ralph Ford lived in this house with his wife, Antonia. His brother Michael lived with his wife, Pauline, in Enrique and Carlotta’s house.”

“They got the short end of the stick?” Mags said.

“No. That’s a nice house, but Michael and Pauline were childless. Ralph and Antonia had four children. Two survived childhood. The remaining son was killed in a ranch accident at twenty. The daughter, Felicia, married an English colonel, a baron, and moved to England. He was posted all over and she often followed him. The English side of the family would come
for a visit every year. They had more money than Croesus. Felicia Ford Wavell—her married name—seemed to love her mother and father, but had no wish to settle back here. I guess when you marry a baron, Nevada dims by comparison. Anyway, I’m getting off track. When I was young, I used to really hate it when old people would do that, and now here I go. It’s just awful.”

“Aunt Jeep, this is fascinating.”

“Antonia Ford kept a visitors’ book from the day she married Ralph. She kept everything: letters, photographs, theater programs, tickets to the rodeo. Anyway, I went up to the attic and rooted around in the old trunks and found six visitors’ books.”

“Any Russian visitors?”

“Haven’t gone through all of them. But in book two, you’ll never guess whose name I found.”

“Who?”

“Buffalo Bill.”

“No kidding.”

“The book’s on the desk. Would you bring it here?”

Mags put down her drink and hurried across the wide hall, returning with the gilt-edged Moroccan bound book. She handed it to Jeep.

Jeep opened to the page where she had placed a Post-it note. There in florid, masculine handwriting was “Buffalo Bill and Boys. September 5, 1902.”

“Just a few lines above is Colonel and Mrs. Wavell. Felicia met the old showman. Must have been quite a gathering,” said Jeep.

Mags ran her forefinger over Buffalo Bill’s signature. “He was something, wasn’t he?” She returned to the deep, inviting chair. “Somehow, those days seem more vivid than now. Things have gotten tepid.”

“In some ways.” Jeep enjoyed the taste of her scotch. “If you are passive, allow yourself to be entertained, that’s tepid. If you go out and make your own fun, that’s still plenty vivid.”

“You’re right. ’Course, Buffalo Bill entertained all over the world.” She stroked Baxter’s back on her lap. “He brought the romance of the West. If you think about it, by 1902 the frontier had vanished. It was nostalgia that
sold, I guess. That and showmanship. Wish I could have seen it.” Mags looked at other signatures. “Wonder what Buffalo Bill thought of the Wavells?”

“Buffalo Bill had hobnobbed with princes and kings. I’m sure he could handle a baron who was a colonel. Plus, I believe he had English officers in his show.”

“The Fords must have been the social hub of Reno.”

Jeep laughed. “Think they were.” She wiggled her toes, switched gears. “Thursday’s Christmas Eve. Carlotta always cooks with her daughter-in-law. The little ones are really too little to do much. But it will be fun.”

“I look forward to it.”

“I bought everyone presents and put your name on the tags. Don’t worry about it.”

Again, tears moistened Mags’s green eyes. She couldn’t control herself. She’d never thought of herself as a particularly emotional person, but lately she was feeling a bit tender.

“Aunt Jeep, I’m so sorry. Let me pay you.”

“With what?” Jeep sighed. “Kleenex in the porcelain painted box. Next to you.”

“Oh. That’s pretty. Does everyone cry who sits here?”

“No, but in winter we get a lot of runny noses. Now look, sweetie, remove your ego and what do you find?”

The lovely young woman thought a long time. “A spoiled person who basically means well.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. Even those raised without the luxury that you two had—I mean your whole generation—look horribly spoiled to those of us left in mine. I didn’t think it could get any worse than those loudmouthed protestors in the late sixties and early seventies. I was wrong.” She clinked the cubes in her glass. “Those awful tie-dyed clothes and wild hair but, you know, they did end the war. I’ll give them that. It was so different for my generation. Our purpose was so clear. Sometimes the execution was terrifying, at times exhilarating, but we were never in doubt. I knew that I wanted to help end the war and I wanted to fly. Most of us girls ferried planes. I envied those Soviet girls for being in combat. When I
came back home, I didn’t expect a damned thing. I knew I’d figure it out. When I look back on it, in so many ways, we had better lives. Maybe everyone thinks that when they start singing, ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee.’ ”

At this, they both cracked up.