Plains Crazy Page 4

  “We haven’t been trading shots with them, just verbal barbs,” Judy said. “Besides, I’m not going there to make a statement. I’ve wanted to see Paris all my life. It may not be the politically correct time, but, thanks to that, prices are finally where I can afford them. If I don’t go now, I never will.”

  “They do say it’s a beautiful city,” Millie conceded, offering Judy the chair she’d been occupying as well as a flowered cloak to protect her clothes from clippings. Business probably wasn’t good enough to let patriotism stand between her and the price of a haircut and a bleach job.

  “Englishman going with you?”

  “I hope so,” Judy said.

  “You’d go on your own without him?” Millie paused in her selection of shears and chemicals.

  “Yeah,” Judy declared, unable to hide her anger. “And if he doesn’t come, I may not be back.”

  ***

  “You’re right, of course,” the sheriff told Deputy Parker as Doc’s Buick, in its role as county mortuary transport (or meat wagon), disappeared in its own dust on the way to Buffalo Springs.

  “I’m not the one who should question Mad Dog. If he’s been out running around these back roads, taking pot shots into the bushes with a homemade bow and arrow, he’s got to be held responsible, even if he had no idea anyone was down by the stream. I can handle that, but folks will think I’ve been too soft on him. Since I know my brother would never hurt anyone on purpose, I probably would be.”

  “But you want me to start with this pipe bomb Mrs. Kraus found at the courthouse?”

  “Yeah. I need a quick heads up to tell me how serious that is. I mean, are we dealing with some kids’ prank, or might there be a legitimate terrorist in Benteen County?”

  The sheriff ran a hand over his chin and realized he’d neglected to shave this morning. He wouldn’t worry about it. He and Mad Dog were part Cheyenne. Mad Dog took that part a lot more seriously, but it was the sheriff who had inherited the high cheekbones, the dark complexion, and the relative lack of facial hair. It was likely to be evening before anyone noticed his second day shadow…and by evening, he was supposed to be on a plane to Paris.

  He ushered Parker to the county’s black and white, a high-performance Chevy that was old enough to vote. The last of the curious onlookers had packed up and driven off after the body left. All that remained were the black and white, the sheriff’s pickup, and Deputy Wynn’s Lexus. Daddy had paid for the Lexus.

  “Wynn’s probably confused enough witnesses by now. I’ll send him along to the courthouse. You can put him on temporary guard duty, if you think there’s any need, or send him home to rest before his next shift. I’ll take a whack at this film crew and our celebrities. See if I get a hint of behind-the-scenes problems that might have something to do with the shooting.”

  Parker slid behind the wheel.

  “Update me as you go, Deputy. If Buffalo Springs is safe and Mad Dog’s not clearly guilty, I need you back out here as soon as possible.”

  Parker dipped her chin in a crisp affirmative. “We could use outside help if there’s anything to this bomb.”

  The sheriff agreed. “If we can get any.” He knew his own budgetary problems were echoed in law enforcement agencies throughout the state. Parker nodded again, more doubtful this time. She wasn’t used to the reality of rural Kansas policing yet.

  Parker created her own dust cloud and the sheriff headed back toward the creek. Deputy Wynn was climbing up the path beside the bridge to meet him, followed by a spectacularly built young woman wearing tight shorts and a tighter halter. Pretty face too, the sheriff thought, but vacuous.

  “I know who done it,” Wynn proclaimed, breathing hard, from excitement or from the effort of walking back to the bridge.

  “Mad Dog?” The sheriff’s question took the wind out of Wynn’s sails.

  “How’d you know?”

  The sheriff shrugged. How hard was it? Bald jogger out running with a wolf-like dog. They were less than two miles from Mad Dog’s place and he ran with Hailey almost every morning. Add to that Mad Dog’s commitment to all things Cheyenne and you had narrowed the list of suspects.

  “Well, big thing is we got a witness who can identify him. Sorry, Sheriff, I know he’s your brother, but Daphne here says she saw him clear as day. Can pick him out of a lineup, no problem.”

  The sheriff thought that was probably true, unless they came up with a group of similarly large men who also shaved their heads. It didn’t matter, though. He was already convinced the jogger was Mad Dog.

  “That true, Miss?”

  The girl seemed to expect to be the focus of masculine attention. The sheriff watched her blossom as she got it.

  “That’s right. I saw super clear. The moonlight was like real bright.”

  “Describe him for me, please.” The sheriff pulled out his notebook.

  “Big guy,” she said. “Several inches more than six feet, I’d say. Bulked up. Big dog, long legs, like a wolf.”

  “Hair?”

  “That was what made the guy unforgettable,” she said. “He didn’t have any. I mean, he wasn’t just some baldy. There was no hair on his head at all.”

  Mad Dog, sure enough. “How was he dressed?”

  “Just running shorts and a sweatband,” she said. “No shirt, that’s how I could tell he was so buff.”

  “He carrying the bow and arrows, or were they strapped across his back?”

  “Oh wow!” she said, looking suddenly puzzled. “You’re right. He wasn’t carrying anything.”

  Wynn looked disappointed.

  “Then somebody else shot Michael.”

  ***

  “I’m still thinking about it.” The Chairman of the Benteen County Board of Supervisors frowned at the flier Jud Haines had thrust between him and the platter of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and sausage Bertha had just delivered to his table by the window overlooking Veterans Memorial Park. Chairman Wynn would prefer to concentrate on breakfast, but Jud Haines was a supervisor, an up-and-comer in a big hurry—maybe in a big hurry to take over as chairman.

  “I tell you, Mr. Chairman,” Haines enthused, “opportunity knocks, we gotta answer. This is the biggest thing to hit Benteen County since wheat.”

  The chairman folded the flier and slipped it into the inside pocket of his sports coat. “Why don’t we talk about this at the office,” he suggested, pointedly reaching for the ketchup. He liked it on practically everything.

  “I’ll be there,” Haines said. “But you think about this. We’re talking jobs for everybody who wants them. Lord knows, Benteen County hasn’t got many of those just now. Especially good paying jobs.”

  The chairman looked wistfully at his breakfast. “Yeah,” he agreed, “good jobs, for a while. Then most of them will go away.”

  “But not all.” Jud Haines was a natural politician. He was good-looking, well-groomed, and well-dressed, at least by Buffalo Springs standards. With his artfully rumpled shock of blond hair and his winning smile, he had the look of the all-American boy every mother wanted her son to grow into, or the All-American man every girl in search of a mate hoped to hook. Chairman Wynn recognized the type. Jud Haines was himself, a couple of decades and a lot of energy back. But Haines was also a contradiction. He was a college graduate who had moved to Benteen County, not from it. Haines had had his fingers in every scheme for a quick buck that had wandered through the county since he arrived. And, surprisingly, he’d made just enough of them pay off to fund a successful run for the board of supervisors. Now, he’d hooked his star to this latest scheme, though so had lots of others, the chairman among them. Maybe Haines was right. Maybe there were fortunes to be made in wind power.

  “Even a few good jobs that stay here would be a big improvement. But after construction, when most of the jobs go away, plenty of benefits remain. For those smart enough to invest in this, it’s gonna be a money tree. I mean, big, big returns on every dollar.”

  The chairman noticed a
lot of people in Bertha’s were eavesdropping. Some of them had already bought in. Most of the rest were probably thinking about it—if they had anything to invest. The average household income in Benteen County was just under $20,000 a year, rising that high only because the top ten percent were so far above everyone else—America in microcosm, with less of a middle class.

  “The way we’re writing this up,” Haines continued, “a percentage of our profits will flow into the community for improvements in perpetuity. We’re talking street lights, sidewalks, street maintenance, replacing washed-out bridges. Hell, even a new courthouse. And this thing’s sure to draw tourists, but we got to get those last few sections of land tied up. Got to put pressure on Ed Jacques and Mad Dog and the Eismingers. Show them the light. Help them get rich while they help the rest of us do the same.”

  Bertha elbowed past, carrying a couple of platters of bacon and pancakes, refilling coffee cups in her wake. The chairman knew his breakfast was rapidly cooling.

  “All right, give me fifteen minutes and we’ll talk. See about getting this on our agenda.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman.” Haines prevented Wynn from picking up his fork by reaching out and grabbing his hand and pumping it like he expected to draw water. “God bless you, sir. You won’t be sorry. It’s for the community.” Haines’ voice was rising as he finally let go and headed for the door. “Everyone in Benteen County is gonna sing your praises, sir, cause everybody in this community is gonna profit from the Benteen County Energy Cooperative Wind Farm.”

  He got to the door. Opened it, turned back for the exit line the chairman had been sure he would deliver. Haines grinned and smiled at Bertha’s customers. “Got wind?” he called to them. Then he was gone.

  Chairman Wynn studied the congealing grease on his plate. He picked up his fork and tasted it. Not bad. And given the copious use of onions and garlic in Bertha’s breakfasts, wind was something her customers could count on before the day was over.

  ***

  Mrs. Kraus was on the lookout for small dark men with thick eyebrows, five o’clock shadows, and box cutters—or maybe pipe bombs. What she got instead was Mad Dog.

  Good Lord, what was he doing with war paint streaked across his face? Could the county’s born-again Cheyenne actually have shot that boy?

  “Morning, Mrs. Kraus,” Mad Dog greeted her. He was flushed with excitement, and as he got closer she could see it wasn’t war paint after all, it was grease. The war paint Mad Dog used was flavored body paint that came from a sex shop in Wichita—she knew because she’d picked some up there herself a time or two. Yeah, grease, and a little dust maybe.

  “What, that new car of yours break down on you already? You look like you’ve been exploring your engine from the inside.”

  He brushed at the cheek that was still clean. The grease on his hand left a new streak that almost matched the other side.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I helped some folks fix a flat tire on my way to town. I was in a hurry to see you, so I haven’t stopped by a mirror yet.”

  “What do you want to see me about?” Considering what the morning had brought, and Mad Dog’s possible involvement in some of it, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be the person on his agenda. She glanced down to check the open drawer of her desk and make sure her Glock was right where she’d put it.

  “Well,” he said. “I got this phone message. Somebody coming to town and wanting to talk to me, and I didn’t know who it was until I stopped to help fix that tire. Did you know Janie Jorgenson has a granddaughter and she’s in Benteen County?”

  Mrs. Kraus breathed a little easier. Janie Jorgenson. That explained the state Mad Dog was in. He and Janie had been quite the item back when they were in high school. Most people thought Mad Dog had never gotten over her. After all, he hadn’t married. Never even dated seriously since, not that there were many women in the county willing to share a house with a wolf, or go on vision quests and perform other heathen rites.

  “Yeah,” Mrs. Kraus admitted. “Seems like I heard that.”

  “It was Janie who called. Said she wanted to see me. That it was important. And then it turns out her granddaughter is working on this PBS project they’re filming just down the road from me. You know what this is about?”

  Mrs. Kraus made herself look wise. “I might,” she said. “But Janie could be here any minute. You should go over to the restroom and clean up a bit. Then come back to the office and I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “Coming here? She’s coming here?” Mad Dog looked flustered again.

  “Yes, and she wants to talk to you something awful,” Mrs. Kraus said. It was a different she—Deputy Parker, not Janie Jorgenson—that Mrs. Kraus knew was heading his way. Still…Mrs. Kraus had heard Janie was expected in town today, and that she had been asking whether Mad Dog was still around. Maybe Janie was divorced or widowed or wondering if she might find a spark with her first true love all these years later. Maybe she just wanted to spit in his face one more time. But Deputy Parker was coming to investigate a pipe bomb and a killing. Mrs. Kraus thought it would be helpful if Mad Dog stuck around and made himself available for questioning.

  “Maybe she’ll let me apologize,” Mad Dog said. “Maybe I can try to explain.” He was backing across the sheriff’s office toward the door, wiping at his face with his hands again and smearing the grease around even worse.

  “Only how do you apologize for murder?”

  And then Mad Dog was gone down the hall and Mrs. Kraus had the Glock out because his last words had just registered.

  ***

  The sheriff parked his Chevy behind a Dodge pickup that was being unloaded by a crowd of young workers.

  “They part of the PBS crew?” he asked Daphne as they got out of his truck.

  “Yeah. Most of them are college students doing this for course credit. You need me for anything else?”

  “Not now, but I may have more questions after I talk to the others. Where will you be?”

  The college kids pulled a tarp off the load in the Dodge’s bed. The sheriff was surprised to see a stuffed buffalo in there. Daphne was more interested in one of the workers, a blond guy who had peeled off his shirt and revealed washboard abs.

  “I’m gonna see if I can use somebody’s computer,” she said. “Check my email, maybe watch some music videos. I mean, it’s been like a week.”

  The sheriff didn’t ask for further clarification. He was sure any of the young men who crowded this camp would be able to tell him where Daphne was if he needed her again.

  The sheriff turned back to the Dodge. “A stuffed buffalo, huh?”

  The man he addressed was older, but not old, hair dark but graying dramatically and prematurely. The sheriff guessed he wasn’t a student.

  “Wow! You must be another example of local law enforcement, with powers of deduction like that.”

  The sheriff was wearing jeans and boots and a cotton shirt, as well as his Stetson. His badge was pinned over his heart. Wise guy, he thought. He was still upset about what had happened with Judy this morning. He briefly considered inviting the man to visit the Benteen County jail until his attorney, wherever he might be, maneuvered through local legal channels and forced him to be charged or released. Too bad he didn’t work that way. Besides, the guy had obviously had to deal with Wynn Some.

  The sheriff decided to give him a second chance. “It doesn’t take deductive powers so much as getting enough votes every four years. I’m Sheriff English. Who are you and what’s the buffalo for?”

  “Sorry, I’m having a bad day.” The man had the good sense to seem faintly embarrassed. “I’m Bradley Davis, Brad, director of this mini-series turned major disaster. I’ve filmed all over the globe—including in the middle of civil wars—and never lost a cast or crew member until now. Then one of your deputies spent the morning asking everyone here, including me, why we killed the kid.”

  “Good help is hard to find on our budget. What’s with the buffalo?”


  “Uhh, target practice, actually.”

  “Bows and arrows?”

  “Yeah.” The man brushed some dirt from his cargo pants and adjusted his polo shirt. “That’s probably not a good thing to admit right now, is it? But look, you know what we’re trying to do out here, right?”

  “Pretend I don’t.”

  “You get PBS?”

  “With a satellite dish,” the sheriff said. “Or cable, if you can afford to pay them to run you a hook-up. Most people have one or the other. Not much else to do here after dark, unless you’re young and in love.”

  “Have you seen our program Manor House? It ran just a few weeks ago. Or Prairie House last year?”

  The sheriff nodded. “I saw Prairie House, and some of that last Upstairs, Downstairs thing.”

  Davis bobbed his head. “Then you know the concept. This is just like those programs. We take modern people, give them some basic training, then set them down in a historical lifestyle to see how they manage. It’s high-brow reality TV. Survivor for people who wouldn’t be caught dead watching Survivor.

  “We’re stretching things further with this one. Taking people back to the 1860s, sticking them into the daily routine of the people who shared these prairies with our ancestors.”

  “Cheyenne Indians, in this case.”

  “Exactly! And we thought it would be fun to find actual Native Americans, people who trace their ancestry to the way of life we’re trying to recreate. Only finding westernized Native Americans willing to try the old ways didn’t turn out to be easy.”