On the Run (3 page)

“I’m fine. I just overslept a bit, I guess.”

“That’s good. I was getting worried somebody might be sick in there. Maybe even dead.”

“I was tired, and it looked like a good place to stop for the night.”

We peered at each other through the crack. I was curious about her. That looked like a lot of truck for a lone older woman to be driving. Koop inserted himself into the crack and inspected the small dog. The dog put its feet up on the step, and they warily touched noses.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked impulsively.

“Hey, I sure would! I usually get coffee down at the Lariat, but theirs tastes like it could dissolve brake linings.”

“I’ll get some chairs, and we can sit out there.”

I stepped outside, unlocked the storage compartment, dragged out a couple of webbed lawn chairs, and put the awning down for shade because the day was already getting warm. She dropped into a chair, and I went inside and returned with two mugs of coffee. By then Koop, apparently having made a non-aggression pact with the dog, was using his one good eye to study a white-faced steer on the far side of the fence at the edge of the parking lot. His stub of tail twitched, as if he was undecided as to whether the creature was friend, foe, or food. I think Koop was a city cat, where cow creatures are not part of the landscape, before he took to the road with me.

“I guess I’m curious what you’re doing here,” the woman said in her straightforward manner. “You don’t look like our usual tourists.”

“Which are . . . ?”

“Oh, you know. Families camping. Guys fishing. Macho young males looking for the roughest, muddiest places in the mountains to go four-wheelin’ or dirt biking. Hunters in the fall.” By now she’d apparently figured out there was no man with me because she added, “Not a woman alone.”

While I contemplated how to explain myself, she suddenly leaned forward. “Maybe you’re here to work for the Northcutts?”

“Are the Northcutts looking for someone?”

“I suppose so, since that guy from California left.”

“Why was that?”

She leaned back in the chair. My diversionary technique hadn’t fooled her. She knew I didn’t know any more about the Northcutts than Koop knew about that steer. “I guess you’re not here to work for the Northcutts.”

“No, but I could be.” Yes, indeed. I looked around. Dulcy had a certain understated appeal. The country scent of hay mingled with the piney scent of woods, and unseen birds trilled from a clump of oak trees beyond the stream dancing in the sunlight. A truck hauling logs went by, trailing another scent of fresh-cut wood, and the driver and the woman sipping my coffee exchanged waves. On impulse I waved too, and a second friendly wave came in return.

Maybe it was time to lay low for a while. If I could get a job here, I’d be out of sight, not out on the road where the Braxtons could spot me. I’d also save money on gas if I stayed in one place for a while.
Is this why I’m here in Dulcy, Lord, to
work for the Northcutts?

“What do the Northcutts need someone to do?” I inquired.

“I think that was one of the problems with the guy from California. He was in the Lariat a couple times when I was there. Had a chip on his shoulder the size of a big old pine log. He was griping to Tom Cole that he was hired to be a researcher, not a housekeeper or gofer or caretaker for weird birds.”

Researcher/housekeeper/gofer/weird-bird-caretaker. An unlikely job description, true. But not totally out of my realm of expertise. Before retirement, I’d been a librarian for thirty years back in Missouri, and I knew something about book research. Grandniece Sandy had taught me how to find my way around on the Internet. I’d briefly held a housekeeper’s job in Arkansas, and I had a lifetime of experience keeping house for Harley. I saw no problem with gofering. And weird birds? How weird can a bird be?

“Perhaps I could apply for the job,” I suggested.

“Well . . .”

“Too old?”

She laughed. “Too normal. I don’t know the Northcutts personally, but from everything I’ve heard they’re . . . different. That guy from California sure was.”

“Different how?”

“Well, not my idea of a ‘researcher,’ that’s for sure. He always wore those baggy camouflage clothes. You know, the kind that look as if they could conceal anything from a machine gun to six months’ supply of survival rations? Sunglasses too, day or night. He wouldn’t eat a hamburger at the Lariat. He told Tom he preferred to eat only meat he’d killed himself because you never know what’s in commercial meat. He had some kind of symbol tattooed behind one ear, and his head was shaved. The only name he’d give anyone was Ute.”

“Ute?” I repeated doubtfully.

“Ute.”

“And what about the Northcutts? How are they different?”

“Ummm . . .” Here she seemed to waver. “They’re Californians too. Not that being from California is a crime or anything,” she added hastily. “But they’re also movie people.” Her tone wasn’t derogatory, but it suggested that being “movie people” could explain almost any peculiarity.

“Movie stars?”

“No. Writers or something like that.”

“Why in the world would they be here in Dulcy?”

“Good question. Actually, they aren’t right here in Dulcy. Their place is about twenty miles out toward the mountains. They bought the old Morris place. Buck Morris used to take guided hunting trips out in the mountains, but they sold out after the lodge burned about five years ago. Well, half burned, and the Northcutts had the part that was still standing remodeled to use as a house.”

Perhaps my look said none of that sounded terribly “different,” because she added, “They never come to any local doings. Never shop at Gus’s. They drive a Hummer. Which a lot of us might like to have,” she admitted, “but none of us can afford. They have an unlisted phone number, which no one else around here has. About as friendly as a pair of rattlesnakes, from all I’ve heard. A friend at a bookstore—”

I peered down the road, empty except for that circling neon lariat in front of a nondescript brown building with a tall false front. “Dulcy has a bookstore?”

She laughed and made room for the little dog wanting to jump into her lap. “No. Except for a rack of old romances and westerns over at the secondhand store. The real bookstore is down in Hugo. It’s about sixty miles. Anyway, this friend says they’re always ordering books. Everything from Civil War and Old West history to books on soap making, edible insects, time and space travel, and how to avoid shark attacks. I guess no one ever told them we don’t have a big shark-attack problem here in Dulcy.”

“Maybe the Chamber of Commerce should advertise that fact. Who knows? You might have a big influx of rich tourists once they realize it’s a shark-free zone.”

Her blue eyes twinkled. “It’s also a Chamber-of-Commerce-free zone.”

“So you think it would be a waste of time for me to go see the Northcutts about the job?”

“Not necessarily. If you want something, my theory is, go for it. Just be prepared to get run off, if they’re in that kind of mood. That’s what they did to Link Otterly when he went out there to see if they wanted to sell some timber off their place.”

“Run off how?”

“Mrs. Northcutt came out with a bow and arrow. One of those high-powered kind that looks half medieval, half science fiction. A crossbow, I think they’re called. I guess she didn’t actually let fly with an arrow, but Link said he skedaddled because it sure looked like that’s what she had in mind.”

The Northcutts did sound a bit eccentric, but, when you get right down to it, aren’t we all? Maybe the residents of Dulcy just didn’t take to outsiders. Perhaps the man who thought he’d been threatened had misinterpreted the woman’s actions. I tend to feel kindly toward anyone who invests in books, for whatever reason.

“Can you tell me how to get out there?”

“I’d better draw you a map. Most of the roads around here aren’t marked, and they’re really out in the boonies. But the road dead-ends at their driveway, so you can’t miss it. And you sure can’t miss their sign.”

I got paper and pen, and she sketched a map, with directions about various landmarks. We also exchanged names. She gave hers as Margaret Rau and said she was driving the hay truck for her husband because he was recuperating from hip replacement surgery. “And this is Lucy,” she added, giving the dog snuggled in her lap an affectionate pet on her slick black hair. “She’s a Boston terrier.”

I thought, even as I was telling her that I was Ivy Malone, that perhaps I should have given a phony name, just in case someone came inquiring. But being up-front and honest is a hard habit to abandon.

“Here, I’ll add my cell phone number,” Margaret said, scribbling a number at the bottom of the page. “Call me if you get lost.”

“Actually, I don’t have a cell phone.”

“You don’t?” She straightened in the chair, her expression alarmed. “A woman on the road alone should never be without a cell phone. You do carry a gun, don’t you?” she added, as if she assumed everyone did.

I’d thought about getting a gun, but I figured I’d probably shoot my own foot or disable the motor home in some disastrous way before I managed to hit any bad guys.

“I have Koop the Attack Cat here.” I gestured to where he was now atop a fence post looking down on the steer. I smiled. “But mostly I put my trust in the Lord.”

She nodded. “I believe in trusting the Lord too. But I figure it doesn’t hurt to have a gun, in case someone needs convincing the Lord is looking out for me.”

An interesting concept, I decided.

“Well, time to get back to work. Ben is taking care of the grandkids while I’m driving the truck, and they’re a handful.” She laughed, and I had the impression from the tanned lines on her face that she laughed a lot, no matter what the adversity. “I think he’s counting the days until school starts.”

I was curious about why they were raising the grandchildren, but she set her coffee cup on the dusty ground and stood up to leave.

“It’s been nice meeting you, Margaret,” I said.

“You too, Ivy. I hope you get the job. Maybe I’ll see you around again. There’s a little community church you’d like down there past the Lariat.” She hesitated. “But you really should have both a cell phone and a gun. Get a nice little .38.” She sounded knowledgeable on the subject.

“Dulcy doesn’t look like a center of crime.”

“No, but we had something terrible happen just a few days ago.” Her voice turned somber. “A young guy was shot out by the lake. Bullet to the back of the head, just like some gangland execution. It’s got everybody shook up.”

“They don’t know who did it?”

“No, but he was the sheriff’s nephew, and the sheriff has every man on the force running around with a fine-toothed comb looking for clues.” She smiled wryly. “Not that our local sheriff’s department
has
all that many deputies or fine-toothed combs.”

“No motive?”

“Rumors, of course. Mostly about Eddie being mixed up in drugs. You wouldn’t think kids would turn to drugs way out here in the middle of God’s green earth, would you? But they do.”

A hint of sadness in her voice made me wonder if she had personal knowledge of kids and drugs, but she didn’t elaborate.

“Anyway, be careful,” she added.

The news about a local killing was worrisome, but logic said that whoever targeted a young guy involved with drugs wouldn’t be concerned about a gray-haired LOL and a one-eyed cat in a motor home.

Margaret started back to the truck, then turned to call in a more cheerful tone, “Don’t let the Northcutts weird you out. That’s the kind of advice my grandkids give, whatever it means.”

I put the chairs away, rolled up the awning, gathered up my cat, changed to tan slacks and white blouse—this was, after all, a possible job interview—and headed for the Northcutts’ place out on Dead Mule Road.

I kept Margaret’s map on my lap, turning at the crossroads where I saw the dinosaur made of welded pieces of junk, and turning again at the pond with birdhouses on an island. Out here the road was washboard gravel, and some of the potholes looked large enough to bury a small dinosaur, but the wooded hills sloped green and beautiful to bubbling creeks. The mountains made hazy blue silhouettes basking in the sunshine. Here and there land had been cleared for pastures, although none of the places looked overly prosperous.

I saw rural mailboxes occasionally, but there was none at the Northcutt driveway. I knew I was at the right place anyway because the road ended here. There was also the sign, the one Margaret had said I couldn’t miss. She was right.

Keep Out
No Trespassing
This Means You!
Violators Will Be Prosecuted

All in red letters big enough to warn off low-flying airplanes. I paused, second thoughts rampant. The Northcutts were making no bones about a hostility toward visitors. Perhaps I should have called ahead. . . . No, couldn’t do that. Unlisted phone number. Which, in combination with the sign, now suggested something more deep-rooted than a mere preference for privacy.

There was a gate, metal. I got out to look and wasn’t surprised to find a padlocked chain linking gate to solid iron post. No buildings were visible from here. Dense trees tangled with underbrush crowded the barbed wire fences leading away from the gate on both sides. A canopy of overhanging branches turned the driveway into a green tunnel leading into mysterious depths.