“It ain’t rocket science.” Emma glared at them. “You oughta be ashamed of yourselves… making two old-timers like us feel like criminals.”
Two Moons shrugged. “All I’m saying is I’d be pretty sore at Olafson. The man took bread out of your mouths.”
“He did worse than that. He took bread out and burned it. Knowing we were barely treading water and making sure we drowned.” She waved an arm around the cramped, close room. “Think this is the way we want to live? The man’s dead and gone. True, I’m not shedding any tears. But we sure as heck didn’t harm a hair on his head. With him dead or alive we’re no better off. The court says we can’t run the herd, end of story.”
“Like you said,” Two Moons countered, “before Olafson joined the group, they were all talk. With him gone, couldn’t you go back to court?”
“With whose money?” She peered at Darrel. “You’re an Indian, right? I got Choctaw in me, from way back. Maybe that’s why I loved working the land. You should understand what I’m talking about. That man accused us of raping the land, but he raped us.”
“Revenge can be sweet,” said Katz.
“Don’t be an idiot!” Emma snapped. “Why would I ruin my life for him? I got my health and so does Barton.” Her smile was sudden. Vaguely poisonous. “Besides, I got a check from the U.S. government, rolls in every month whether I lie around in bed or get up. That’s heaven, right? That’s your promised land.”
The couple took the detectives outside, over to a storage shed behind the garage that looked ready to collapse. Freezing inside, the chill from the ground going right through your shoes. Bart showed the detectives the offending barbed-wire roll, along with other junk, including a towing winch. Big, heavy thing, rusted at some of the points. If there was blood there, the detectives couldn’t see it.
Without warning, Bart unwound the gauze on his hand and showed them the jagged gash, two or so inches long, that ran from the webbing between his thumb and his forefinger down to his knobby wrist.
It had been stitched together with the thickest surgical thread Katz had ever seen. The edges of the cut had begun to scab, there was some leakage around the sutures, and the skin had gone puffy and inflamed. It looked to be a few days old.
Katz asked the name of the doctor who’d done the sewing.
Emma Skaggs laughed.
Bart said, “You’re looking at her.”
“You, Mrs. Skaggs?”
“None other.”
“Are you trained as a nurse?”
“Trained as a wife,” said Emma. “Been patching him up for forty years.”
Bart grinned and brandished the wound.
Emma said, “I got veterinary needles and thread left over from the ranch. For him you need it, the big-gauge stuff. He’s got the hide of a bull. Got vet antibiotics, too.
Same stuff they make for humans, only for animals it’s a whole lot cheaper.“
“What’d you use for anesthesia?” said Katz. “On the other hand, maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Crown Royal, ninety proof.” Bart broke into loud guffaws. It took him a moment to settle down. “You fellows seen enough?” He started rewrapping the hand.
Darrel said, “Looks to be a little infected.”
“Little‘s the key word,” said Emma. “You can’t get hurt by a little of anything.”
“Unlike Mr. Olafson,” said Katz. “Know of anyone else who resented him?”
“Nope,” said Emma, “but if he treated others like he treated us, there had to be plenty more out there.”
Katz said, “Would you mind if we made an appointment for a print tech to come by to get both your fingerprints?”
“Wouldn’t mind a’tall,” Bart said.
“Treating us like criminals,” Emma muttered.
“It’s routine,” Two Moons answered.
“His got to be on file, somewhere,” said Emma. “From when he served in Korea. Mine aren’t, but suit yourselves. Must be nice to have all that free time.”
Darrel said, “Meanwhile, it would be good if you folks don’t take any long road trips or the like.”
“Sure,” said Emma. “We were just about to fly off to El Morocco, or wherever it is.” She turned to her husband. “That place where they gamble and wear monkey suits, like from the James Bond movies?”
“Monaco,” said Bart. “Sean Connery plays baccarat there.”
“There you go,” she said. To the detectives: “He was always one for the movies.”
On the drive back, Katz said, “Pour some whiskey down my gullet, Maw, and stitch away.”
“You like ‘em for the murder?”
“They hated him enough and they know how to deliver a good head smack, but if Ruiz is right about the angle of impact, they’re too short.”
“Maybe they brought a ladder.” Even Darrel smiled at the thought.
“And funny little clown shoes and a flower that spurts water,” said Katz. “If they were going to be that prepared, they’d have brought a weapon. The use of a pickup weapon says maybe it wasn’t premeditated. I guess art galleries do keep ladders around, for hanging pictures high, so theoretically there could’ve been one already out. Except the walls of Olafson’s place aren’t that high, and the idea of either of them scrambling up on a ladder to bop Olafson sounds pretty ridiculous.”
“You’re right,” said Darrel. “If those two wanted him dead, they’d have come ready to do it. What about the son?”
“The accountant in Chicago? Why him?”
“He didn’t like getting his own hands dirty, but he could’ve felt real bad about Mom and Pop losing the ranch. Maybe he figured as a white-collar guy he could have a one-on-one with Olafson. What if he flew out to meet with Olafson and Olafson treated him the way he’d treated Mom? One thing led to another, Olafson blew him off, walked away from him in that arrogant way of his, and Bart Junior lost it.”
That arrogant way of his. Like Darrel knew something Katz didn’t. Katz said, “Insult someone’s mother and you never know. Let’s check the son out.”
7
They hit a traffic snag just outside the city limits and made it back to the station at 1:45 p.m. The drive from Embudo back to Santa Fe had taken them past the turnoff for the Santa Clara Pueblo, but Two Moons didn’t seem to notice.
Not that he was likely to mention it. The one time Katz had tried to talk about his partner’s Indian roots, Darrel had changed the subject. The next day, though, he’d brought in a tiny ceramic bear. Kind of crude but the animal did have a cute look.
“What my father did during the last months of his life,” Two Moons explained. “He made about five hundred of ‘em, stored ’em in boxes. After he died, his pottery teacher gave them to me. She said he wasn’t proud of ‘em, that he had wanted to wait until he mastered the art to show all his work to me. That my approval had been important to him. She figured I should have them. You can keep it if you want.”
“It’s nice,” Katz had said. “You sure, Darrel?” “Yeah, it’s fine.” Two Moons had shrugged. “I gave a few to my girls, but how many do they need? If you know any other kids, I got plenty more.”
Since then, the bear had kept Katz company while he cooked, more like warmed stuff up. It sat next to his hot plate. What it symbolized, he really didn’t know, but he supposed it had something to do with strength.
The two detectives grabbed sandwiches from a station vending machine and plugged Barton Skaggs Jr. into the databases.
No criminal record but the accountant did merit a couple of Google hits. Junior was listed as a partner in a big Chicago firm, and last summer he had given a talk on tax shelters. After some fiddling with the reverse directories, they found his residence-an address on the North Shore of the Loop, not far from Michigan Avenue.