A minute later, Paul had walked himself to the elevator and Mary was on the phone telling Bennie what had happened to her law firm, between apologies. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. The reception area looks like -”
“Are you nuts, DiNunzio? I don’t care about the reception area!” The boss was shouting so loud Mary had to hold the phone away from her head. “I care about you! I care about Carrier! I don’t like the sound of any of this!”
“Bennie, I know, I’m sorry.” Mary had told her everything except for the newspaper part, and now didn’t seem like an opportune moment. The boss had screamed at her before, but never like this. She must really care a lot. “I didn’t realize that -”
“No, I didn’t realize that you were in danger! That a car was following you? I can’t believe Premenstrual Tom’s behind this, but Carrier will deal with him right away. Nothing is worth your getting hurt! Or her!”
“Bennie, honestly, I don’t think I’m in any real danger.” Mary heard the words coming out of her mouth and even she wasn’t sure she believed them. “I mean, if somebody wanted to hurt me tonight, they could have come to the restaurant.”
“And tomorrow they will. Or the next day. Did you tell the cops you were being followed? What did they say?”
“They said I could fill out a report -”
“That’s a waste of time! I want you safe and I can’t come down there until the trial’s over. You have to protect yourself, DiNunzio, until I get back. First thing, shut up about everything. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. Don’t tell anyone about Brandolini or any of your other cases.”
Would that include blind dates and major metropolitan newspapers?
“Second, you have to get out of town.”
“That’s what the cop said, but I have so much work to do.”
“No case is as important as your safety! Get out of town!”
Then it hit Mary. Get out of town? Get out of town!
“Take a vacation until I get back and can deal with whatever’s going on!”
“I can’t, Bennie.” Mary couldn’t seem too eager or the boss would get suspicious. “I have to take that dep for you in Reitman tomorrow, remember?”
Judy’s ears lifted like Penny’s.
“No, you can’t take that dep,” Bennie was saying. “Why can’t Judy do it?”
“I think she can -” Mary started to say, just as Judy caught on, frowning deeply. “She says fine, no worries, she can take the dep for me.”
“Excellent! Let her do it. You get yourself a plane ticket. Go to Miami. Get out of town for a week.”
“Bennie, if you really think I should, I guess I could go away for a while.”
“Call the office when you get there. As soon as you get there, you hear?”
“No, Bennie wait!” Judy yelled, grabbing the phone, but Mary wrenched it back.
“Sure, right, bye!” she said quickly, then pressed down the hook with a well-timed index finger, coming nose to nose with her best friend.
“Oh no you didn’t!” Judy said.
“You said you’d take the Reitman dep before. Now you have permission. What’s the problem?” Mary asked, but she knew the answer. She could see it in the fear in Judy’s face.
“The difference is that I believe you now, about Brandolini. Something really is going on here. What happened tonight couldn’t be any clearer. Whoever they are, they want you off the case.” Judy’s mouth went grim, but Mary’s went grimmer.
“Then I don’t have a choice. Somebody wants me off the case, then I want on. I want to know what they could possibly be hiding. I owe it to Amadeo.”
Judy met Mary’s gaze. “I can call Bennie back, you know. I can bust you. Tell her the whole thing. Then she won’t let you go.”
“Would you really do that?” Mary asked.
The two lawyers had a Girl Standoff over the telephone.
And Mary swallowed, waiting for Judy’s answer.
Fourteen
Fort Missoula was a quaint edifice of soft red brick topped with a red tile roof, which was situated on a preserve on the fringe of Missoula, Montana. Mary scanned the remarkable surrounding landscape. The Sapphire Mountains soared to the left, forested with green trees that seemed to glow in the bright sun. The Bitterroot Range lay to her right, its jagged peaks poking holes in the proverbial big sky, which sheltered the scene like the Marist-blue cloak of the Virgin. Cool air wafted across the verdant valley, smelling sweet and pure, and acres of green grass stretched like nature’s own carpet to Mary’s loafers. Bella vista, she thought, realizing the nickname wasn’t government propaganda after all. She was glad she’d braved the airplane ride to get here, not to mention Northwest’s trail mix.
She approached the fort’s front door, passing a flapping American flag that made her feel like a schoolgirl on a field trip. It thrilled her to be here, walking where Amadeo had walked, seeing what he had seen. She felt the same tingle she’d gotten from his wallet, that he was with her somehow. On the way to the entrance, she walked past five old log houses and passed a sign: THE WESTERN MONTANA GHOST TOWN PRESERVATION SOCIETY.
So many ghosts here. One of them, Amadeo.
It sped Mary’s step through the grass. Dew soaked her shoes and the cuffs of her khaki pants, which she’d coupled with a navy blazer and white T-shirt for this out-of-town phase of her investigation. She hadn’t had much luck with the in-town phase yesterday, leaving messages for Frank Cavuto and the reporter, Jim MacIntire, during her layover. Neither man had returned her call.
She entered the museum and found herself in a tiny entrance room with low ceilings, waiting while her eyes adjusted to the darker interior. The museum was small and contained not a single soul. There was a cashier’s desk but no cashier, so Mary put five dollars in a donation basket. Beyond the desk was a gift shop stocked with Missoula T-shirts, Montana calendars, and something called Moose Drool Soap, which she passed up in favor of a room that read HEATH EXHIBITS in stenciled black letters. Again, nobody was inside, but black-and-white photos of the camp buildings lined the walls, showing the conditions as they had been in internment days. Mary went to the first panel and drooled like a moose.
The panel displayed group photos of the internees, and she scanned the grainy and unfocused pictures for Amadeo. He wasn’t there. She went to the next panel, then the next, and ended up spending an hour in the exhibit, watching a documentary and eyeing every still photo futilely. Still she couldn’t shake that tingle and she needed answers. She left the room and went in search of a human being. Happily, a cashier with soft gray hair had returned to her post by the museum door, and she looked up when Mary approached.
“Did you enjoy your tour?” she asked, pleasantly. She wore small silver earrings with a long denim dress, and stood behind a glass counter covered with color postcards, a dishwasher safe Fort Missoula mug, and a stack of BITTERROOT MEMORIES jigsaw puzzles.
“Yes, thanks, but I have a question. I’m doing some research on an internee. He died here, by suicide, and I was curious where he was buried.”
“Oh, my.” The cashier flushed. “Wouldn’t you know it? You asked me the one question I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” the cashier replied, and Mary fell in love with her instantly. They could have apology wars. Guess who would win. “I’m sorry to say, I don’t know that. The only cemetery on the grounds is for officers at the fort. But there’s another man who helps out here as a handyman, and he may be able to tell you for sure. He wasn’t a border guard, but he worked in the motor pool at the camp, as a mechanic.”