I was still holding the phone in midair, staring at the sheriff, who gave me a reassuring little nod.
Things began to heat up pretty fast after they arrested Joe Threestalks and Charlie Onehorse. After hearing the story of my confrontation, the sheriff put out a broadcast to bring them in for questioning. One of the county units spotted Joe’s pickup at the Wigwam, a local Pueblo bar, and they grabbed him and Charlie as soon as they got back in the truck. Mr. McKitrick’s nine millimeter Sig Sauer was found wrapped in a rag under the front seat. Joe and Charlie swore up and down that they didn’t know how it got there, but they were both charged anyway.
The next day, when he heard about the arrests, Jim Buck drove into town and demanded custody of the Indians because the crime had occurred on the disputed tribal land. Sheriff Gunther practically threw Jim out of the jail, and Indian/White problems began to escalate all over Pueblo, the reservation, and at the university. Uncle Dede and I closed up the gun shop, which we normally did in tense times, and put the Gone Fishin’ sign in the window. I went out to Carol’s and helped her and Christene with the funeral arrangements and notifications. Mason Gilbert handled everything else. Carol’s trust fund was safe. Christene, who’d married McKitrick nearly twenty years after Carol’s mother drowned on vacation with McKitrick in Cancun, had signed a prenuptial agreement and would receive a substantial one-time cash settlement. She seemed to be taking it better than Carol, who seemed listless and depressed.
“It’s so sudden,” Carol said, the tears brimming in her eyes again. “So abrupt. Just like when Mom died.”
I held her close and let her cry, searching for the right words, but unable to find them.
Christene came in and asked Carol to help her pick out some of her father’s clothes for the undertaker. Figuring that it’d be better if she was occupied, I urged her to do it. I told them I had to go feed Bolo, after which I’d come back. I got into the Jeep and sped down the long asphalt roadway that intersected with the highway. As I slowed to a stop at the end of the road, Fred Perks, the mailman, pulled up beside me in his mail car.
“Sorry to hear about Mr. McKitrick,” he said, handing me a stack of mail through the open window.
“Yeah,” I said, slipping the mail into the inside pocket of my jacket. Fred knew everything about everybody and could talk the legs off a chair. I had no desire to engage him in a long conversation. “I’ll give them the mail when I get back, Fred.”
“Sure thing, Rick. And tell ’em that I hope they fry those dirty red bastards.”
“We’ll have to see, Fred,” I said, pushing in the clutch and putting the Jeep in first gear. “They haven’t been convicted yet.”
“They will be. They did it, didn’t they?”
As I drove back to town I couldn’t help wondering if Fred was right. The case did seem pretty open and shut.
When I got to the shop, I went in the back way. Uncle Dede was leaning over the table with the works of a shotgun spread out in front of him. Sonny sat across from him, elbows on his knees, holding a cup of coffee. He grinned and nodded.
“Figured with the way things are heatin’ up I’d better get the sheriff’s gun fixed,” Uncle Dede said.
“How’s Carol?” Sonny asked.
“As good as can be expected,” I said. “She lost her mother a number of years ago.”
“Yeah,” Sonny said. “I remember.” Then he shook his head with a wistful smile. “Her mama, she was something.”
“You knew her?” I asked. To me, Carol’s mother was only an exceptionally beautiful woman in some old photographs. Carol’s recollection wasn’t much more complete.
“Everybody did,” Uncle Dede said. “Pueblo wasn’t as big back in them days. Didn’t have the university. She was the town beauty. Everybody dreamed about her.”
“And McKitrick got her,” I said.
“Yeah,” Uncle Dede replied. “Always said she married for love, and he married for money. They produced a good girl, though. Carol’s a winner.”
“She took after her ma,” Sonny said caustically. “Not McKitrick.”
Uncle Dede looked up with a sly smile.
“Why, Sonny,” he said, “if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that you ain’t gonna miss him.”
“Oh, I’ll miss him all right,” Sonny said slowly, letting the implication of his sentence drop. He stared at me over the rim of the coffee cup as he drank the rest of the liquid.
Things remained tense in the town and Sheriff Gunther moved Charlie and Joe to the county jail, which was about thirty miles away. The judge had ordered them held without bond until the preliminary hearing. The wake for Paul McKitrick was held the next day. I got out my one decent sport jacket and stayed at the funeral home with Carol and Christene. To make things more tragically ironic, Christene confided to us that she was two months pregnant.
“I don’t know what to do now,” she said.
“I’ve always wanted a baby sister,” Carol told her reassuringly.
Practically the whole town showed up for the wake, and it was early evening when we got back to Carol’s. As I pulled into the driveway, everything looked normal. But when we got to the door, I saw that the jamb was splintered.
“What’s that?” Carol asked.
“Stay here,” I said. “Somebody must have broken in.”
I cautiously pushed the door open and looked inside. The drapes had been drawn and it was pretty dark. I reached for the light switch and flipped it on. Nothing seemed out of place. The only damage I found was in the main study, which McKitrick had used as his office. Everything was turned upside down. Papers were strewn everywhere, and the locked desk drawer of McKitrick’s big oak desk had been pried open.
When the sheriff got there, he chastised me for going through the house before calling him.
“I’ve got enough problems without somebody surprising a burglar and maybe getting shot,” he snapped. “Now go stay in the kitchen, all of you, till we can process the scene.”
Christene suddenly began to feel ill, and Carol helped her upstairs to her room. As I sat at the kitchen table, the phone began ringing. After about five rings I figured that the women were still busy, so I answered it.
“McKitrick residence,” I said.
“This is Dr. Frank Hardy,” a masculine voice said. “To whom am I speaking?”
I identified myself, and asked if I could help him.
“I was out of town for a few days,” the caller said, “and I just heard about Mr. McKitrick.”
“I see, Doctor. Did you know him well?”
“Not really,” Hardy said. “My practice is located in Buffrington. Mr. McKitrick sought out my services about a month ago.”
Buffrington was the next large city to the north of Pueblo. It was a good fifty miles away.
“I see,” I said, somewhat perplexed.
“In fact, I just sent Mr. McKitrick a letter he requested a few days ago. You can imagine my surprise when I found out he’d passed away.” He exhaled loudly, then continued. “I do have a slight problem, of a somewhat sensitive nature. You see, the bill for the tests I did for Mr. McKitrick has not been paid.”
I rubbed my hand over my forehead and asked him for his address and phone number. “I’ll have the family attorney get in touch with you,” I said.
“The invoice was enclosed in the letter,” he said genially.
“I’ll look for it,” I said. And as I hung up, something stirred in the back of my memory.
Hours later, I found Dr. Hardy’s letter in the pocket of my jacket, which I’d absentmindedly hung over the back of a chair in my room. I remembered pocketing the McKitrick mail the day after the murder. The call from Hardy had seemed annoying at the time, but my curiosity as to the nature of the tests kept gnawing at me. Why would McKitrick have gone all the way up to Buffrington when he had a family doctor right here in Pueblo? Was the letter something that was going to cause more grief for Carol and Christene?