“It’s Bill Wiltse. He says he wants to talk to you about this Gaskell character.”
I punched line one. “Hello?”
“Have you got Leo Gaskell?”
I raised my eyebrows and looked at the phone for my own entertainment. “Hi Bill, how are you?”
He was quiet for a minute; I think for emphasis. “Do you have him?”
“No, actually I don’t.” I looked in at the coffee pot, but it wasn’t quite full. “You wanna tell me what this is all about? He doesn’t seem to have any outstanding…”
“He assaulted one of my off-duty officers at the Lander Saloon about two weeks ago and broke the orbit around his left eye and dislocated his jaw.”
The coffee was ready, so I turned over one of our rare official mugs with the sheriff ’s star, poured, and watched as a few drops sizzled on the warming pad.
“What’s this all about, Walt?”
I took a sip of the coffee, a little strong but it would do. “Oh, I ID’ed a Datsun pickup last night, and we’ve had someone over here attempting to do that thing that ends all other deeds.”
“What?”
That’s what I got when I quoted Shakespeare to other sheriffs. “You wanna fax over a copy of your files and a photograph of Gaskell?”
“You bet. Hey, Walt?”
“Yep?”
“Be careful with this jaybird, he’s bad news.”
Leo Gaskell fit the bill, but what connection could he have with the Barojas or Lucian? I would have to deal Leo around like a bad card and see what came up. Just for the luck of the draw, I had put out an all points bulletin last night.
I started up the stairs with my cup of coffee. “Anything on that APB with the HPs?” Ruby shook her head. “Add the plate number.” I called back to her as I made for my office. “You find anything on the priest?”
“He lives at the rectory over at St. Mathias. Father Thallon looks after him.”
I could go find the old priest but, without Saizarbitoria, I couldn’t do much. I could check on Lana, Isaac, or Lucian at the hospital, head over to the home and ask around, or maybe even call in the Baroja twins and have a little chat. The opportunities were endless.
I swiveled my chair around and looked at the orange mountains that paled to lighter shades in the morning light. The sun was out, but it was doubtful we’d get much higher than the teens during the course of the day. The foothills were covered with a deep drift of snow that had piled on from the northwest so that the whole county looked as if it were leaning to the southeast.
I knew better than to call the greatest legal mind of our time before noon on a day she wasn’t billing on an hourly basis. It was still relatively early, and I needed company for breakfast. I figured the Log Cabin Motel was a good place to look.
“What if I want the special rather than the usual?”
Dorothy crossed her arms and smiled at me like a magician forcing a card. “The special is the usual.”
I nodded, looked at Maggie Watson, and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have the usual special.”
She looked to Maggie. “Me, too.”
Dorothy opened the waffle iron, set up for Belgian. It wasn’t the usual usual. I looked at the menu absentmindedly and wondered, if I were a breakfast, which one I’d be? Probably the usual. “So, how are our abandoned safe-deposit boxes measuring up?”
She sipped her coffee. “Pretty boring, actually.”
“How much longer do you think you’ll be?”
“Maybe two days.” It was quiet in the little cafe. “How’s your case going?”
“Don’t ask.” A thought occurred to me, and I looked at the chief cook and bottle washer. “Hey Dorothy, who in this county is bigger than me?”
She was still but didn’t turn. “Bigger in what way?”
“Taller.”
“Brandon White Buffalo.”
I took a sip of my coffee, glanced toward Maggie, and dismissed that suggestion. “Anybody else?”
She sat the bowl against her hip and tilted her head. “There was a guy in here about a week ago, construction worker, really big.”
“Not a local?”
“No.”
“Working around here?”
“Maybe. Outside work; wearing those big arctic Carhartts.” She motioned to the farthest stool at the end of the serving counter. “Sat down there, kept to himself.”
Maggie was watching me prime the pump. “Did he say anything that might’ve given you an indication as to who he was or where he was working?”
She shook her head. “No, he hardly said a word, and it was busy.”
I decided to go with the big indicator. “What’d his hat say?”
“I don’t read every ball cap that comes into this place, life’s too short.” She poured the batter into the waffle iron, closed it, and then turned back to look at Maggie. “Asks a lot of questions, doesn’t he?”
When they had stopped steaming, she flipped the Belgian waffles from the iron, drenched them in maple syrup, and dressed them with confectionary sugar and a few strawberries for good measure. She slid the hot plates in front of us, reaching back for the pot after noticing our cups were about empty.
I started eating as she watched. Dorothy liked to watch me eat, and I’d gotten over it. Maggie seemed to be enjoying her usual usual. “You ever hear of Jolie Baroja, the cousin?”
She poured herself a cup. “Some talk about the ETA. He was over there for a few years during and after the war.”
“That’s a nasty little terrorist group for a priest to be tied up with.”
“Like I said, just talk.” She took another sip of her coffee. “He must be older than dirt. He did the mass at the Basque festival a few years ago in Euskara. As a matter of fact, I don’t think he speaks English, at least not anymore.” She glanced at Maggie, who was doing her best to ignore us. “You know what they say about the Basques; like a good woman, they have no past.”
I dropped Maggie off at the Durant State Bank and picked up Sancho at the office.
St. Mathias is near the creek where the giant cottonwoods tower over the aged stone buildings that make up the abandoned portion of the Pope’s compound. They built a new church back in the sixties, a really ugly one, the one I always associated with Pancake Day, but the old rectory and chapel still stood by the creek where they always had.
I froze as Saizarbitoria dipped his fingers in the water, knelt, and crossed himself. I stroked my beard and felt like a Viking, there to raid the place. I followed him down the aisle and passed through the sunlight that skipped onto the hardwood floor. The stone pillars stretched to a small gallery where there were ornate stained-glass windows. They were not the usual Jesus lineup but were odd, with strange depictions of biblical passages foreign to me; at least I couldn’t remember any parts of the Bible where Goliath stacked rocks or tiny angels flew around people’s heads.
We shook hands with the amiable blond-bearded priest and followed as he led us to the kitchen where Father Baroja was seated at a table with some hot cocoa. He paid us little attention as Father Thallon put the kettle on and pulled out a few more mugs. “Jolie, you know you’re not supposed to operate the stove without Mrs. Krauss.” The old priest gave no response. “We had a little accident about a month ago.”
I sat at the end of the table and studied the old man. He continued to look at his hot chocolate and pulled it a little closer as if we might take it away from him. He had a long face with a bulbous nose, dangling earlobes, and wrinkles that all congregated at his mouth. He looked like some ancient monk with a heavy wool cardigan that buttoned up around his neck. He could have been any of the hard men I’d seen on horseback in Mari Baroja’s photographs.
Gene Thallon had warned us that Basque was not his second language, or his fifty-seventh for that matter, but that he knew that the language had four distinct dialects, and that the vast number of grammatical tenses included a subjective, two different potentials, an eventual, and a hypothetical. I looked over at my secret weapon and hoped we could get out of there before Father Thallon had us diagramming sentences.