“There’s a lot going on here,” he said, gesturing toward the museum and the Scarlett Wing, but meaning the county in general. “We can’t see it happening because we’re too close. I think it’s right there in front of us, but we’re not seeing it because we’re looking for something else.”
Marybeth stopped and searched his face. “What are you talking about, Joe?”
“Where does Bill Monroe fit into all of this?” Joe said. “I can’t figure out his role in it. He’s Hank’s thug, but he seems to be working with Arlen too. How do you square that deal?”
“I don’t know.”
“Something struck me during those speeches,” Joe said. “I was wondering if you picked up on it.”
“What?”
“Think back. What was the biggest difference between how Arlen spoke and Hank spoke?”
“Arlen was articulate and Hank was not?” Marybeth said.
“Hank spoke of his mother in the present tense,” Joe said. “He said, ‘When Mother asks you to say something you say “okay.”’ Remember that?”
“Yes.” The realization of what Joe was getting at washed across her face.
“But Arlen spoke of his mother in the past tense: ‘Opal Scarlett was more than a mother, more than the matriarch of the Thunderhead Ranch. . . .’”
“So what does it mean?”
Joe shrugged. “I’m not sure. But clearly, when Hank thinks of his mother she’s still around. That’s not the case with Arlen. As far as he’s concerned, she’s gone.”
JOE GLANCED UP and saw Arlen making his way through the crowd straight for them.
“Here he comes now,” Joe said, trying to get a read on what the purpose of Arlen’s visit might be.
Arlen ignored Joe and greeted Marybeth. “It’s so good you could come,” he said. He threw an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze, then stepped back. “Thanks to your wife,” he said to Joe, “we are now within sight of making the ranch rightfully ours. She cracked the code in regard to Mother’s accounting system on the ranch.” Arlen gestured with his fingers to indicate quote marks around “cracked the code.”
“I heard,” Joe said.
“She’s quite a woman,” Arlen said.
“I agree.”
“You should be proud of her.”
“I am.”
Arlen stepped away from Marybeth, who had been grinning icily the entire time he was next to her. Arlen’s face was suddenly somber, the look he showed just before he commenced with a speech.
“I heard what happened at your home,” Arlen said. “I heard about those town elk. It’s a damned shame.”
Joe nodded, eyeing him carefully. “I decided this morning to involve myself in the investigation of your mother.”
“Oh?”
“Yup,” Joe said. “My boss said stay away from it, but I’m going to anyway. I have this idea that maybe things aren’t what they seem, Arlen. While I’ve been sitting on the sidelines, no progress I’m aware of has been made on the case. And at the same time, somebody has targeted my family. I think everything that’s happened is connected to Opal’s disappearance.”
Arlen had listened with hooded eyes and a blank expression, offering no encouragement. “Really,” he said. Arlen looked at Marybeth to gauge her opinion, and she stared back impassively. Joe noted the exchange.
“Really,” Joe said.
“Are you telling me this in the hope that I won’t inform Director Pope?”
“I don’t care what you do,” Joe said. “Pope knows about everything I do. The sheriff makes sure of that. Maybe someone else does too.”
“I see.” Arlen’s expression hardened, as if he were concentrating on giving nothing away.
“So I hope you can clear up a couple of things for me.”
Arlen didn’t respond.
“It would help if you told me what your relationship with Bill Monroe is,” Joe said. “I’m trying to figure . . .”
“That’s confidential,” Arlen interrupted.
Joe sighed. “He seems to work for Hank, but Sheridan saw him . . .”
“It’s confidential,” Arlen said in his most stentorian voice, cutting off debate, looking around to see if anyone had overheard them. No one appeared to be listening.
Joe stared at Arlen, taking new measure of the man. At his chiseled profile, his silver hair, his big lantern jaw and underbite, his darting eyes.
“You see that earthmover behind me?” Joe asked.
Puzzled, Arlen glanced over Joe’s shoulder. Marybeth looked at Joe.
“Yes, what about it?”
Joe said, “If I find out you’re playing me, which I’m beginning to believe you are, I’m going to get in that thing and knock this building down. And then I’m coming after you.”
Arlen’s mouth dropped open. He was truly surprised.
“I got a message on my cell phone this morning,” Joe said. “From forensics. The knife that was stuck in our front door matches the collection of knives in your own kitchen. Same model, same manufacturer. ‘Forged German CrMoV steel, ice hardened and glass finished,’ forensics said.”
Arlen said, “Many people have access to my home—employees, ranch hands . . .”
“Right,” Joe said. “And it appears Meade Davis seems to have changed his story to one you liked better. Anything to that? Do you think Meade Davis would stick with the latest version if I brought him in?”
It was amazing how icy Arlen’s eyes had become, Joe thought, how frozen the expression on his face. This was a different Arlen than the glad-handing speechmaker. This was the Arlen Joe had glimpsed in the sheriff’s office baiting his brother into violence, but acting as if he didn’t know what he was doing.
Jabbing his finger at Joe, Arlen said, “You have crossed the line making accusations like that. Do you realize who you’re talking to?”
“I realize,” Joe said. “It’s getting old.”
Arlen shook his head, contemplating Joe, but saying nothing. As if Joe was no longer worth his words.
Arlen turned to Marybeth. “You’ve lost my account. If you can talk some sense into your husband, you might have a chance to get it back.”
Marybeth’s eyes were fiery. “He has plenty of sense, Arlen. We can live without your money.”
ON THE WAY back to the Longbrake Ranch, Marybeth broke the silence.
“So you really think she’s still alive,” she said to Joe as they drove past the town limit toward the Longbrake Ranch. Sheridan and Lucy were touring the museum with Missy, so Joe and Marybeth had the truck to themselves.
“Yup,” Joe said. “I think she’s holed up somewhere on the ranch, just sitting back and watching what goes on. I can imagine her seeing what lengths her sons will go to to get the ranch. Seeing how much they love it and therefore how much they love her. Everything she’s done over the years fits the theory—the secret wills, the internalized accounting, her obsession with her legacy. It came to me when I thought about Tommy Wayman claiming to have seen her, and Sheridan’s dream. Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all. In both cases, they described the same thing. They said she was smiling.”
Marybeth was lost in thought for a few moments, then she asked, “Do you think Hank knows?”
“No.”
“Arlen?”
Joe shook his head. “Maybe, but I can’t be sure. I was hoping to smoke him out back there, but he’s too damned wily for me.”
After a few miles she turned to him. “There’s only one thing about your theory that might be wrong.”
“What?”
“I don’t think it’s about love at all,” she said. “I think it’s about hate.”
Joe said, “I don’t understand.”
“Look at them,” she said. “She raised them to hate each other and love her. What kind of mother does that?”
23
ON MONDAY MORNING, JOE PULLED ON HIS RED UNIFORM shirt and jeans for perhaps the last time, called Maxine, and drove out into the breaklands to finish up the mule-deer trend count he had started weeks before.