Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) (12 page)

“It’s so hard to know who knows who,” said Trudy.

The world around Allison screeched to a halt. The voice, in its utter meekness, commanded her total attention.

“Do you want to know if I’ve seen somebody?”

Another pause.

“I know it shouldn’t be that big a deal. It seemed all right to ask the others who work with my husband. Now, I feel like ...” She stopped.

“Where are you calling from?” said Allison.

“My home.”

If she remembered correctly, Grumley had tucked his home up at the end of a long driveway near the mouth of the canyon. Weaver had pointed out the driveway but she had never been up there. She was having a hard time imagining this voice as belonging to anyone in Grumley’s orbit; it didn’t match his gruff, rough-edged world.

“Who’s missing?”

“
Missing
isn’t for sure.”

“Overdue.”

“I don’t know if you know him. Rocky.”

“Rocky Carnivitas?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. Everyone knows him.”

Trudy waited for the answer.

“No, I haven’t seen him,” said Allison.

Allison had nearly finished her work for the day. There was a saddle repair that could wait; minor surgery. And Slater was off on one of his backcountry treks. It could be a day or three, depending on what he encountered or how long he felt like being gone. She was never sure how he decided to stay out or return home.

“Oh well,” said Trudy. “Thanks, I’m sorry—”

“I did see something, but ...”

“I know about that.”

“How do you know?”

“The blotter. You must have filled out a police report.”

She had done that, as much an exercise in accuracy as anything else. Sandstrom had insisted on a written record.

“The newspaper picked it up, ran a few paragraphs. It was probably straight out of your report, I don’t know. They stuck it in their weekly police blotter.” The voice had gained a bit of courage. “That’s one reason I called you. Rocky isn’t usually so late. I was wondering if the police figured out what it was that you saw.”

“No, they haven’t. How long has he been overdue?”

“A few days. He wasn’t due back at any set time.”

Now it was Allison’s turn to pause.

“Is your husband worried?”

Rocky, after all, was George’s worker. He was a legendary guide, skilled hunter and notorious loner.

Allison remembered Rocky on the trail the first time. She was heading up on a training mission with her boss, Pete Weaver, and a crew from Minnesota that oozed “golly gee” all about them. They were true young bucks on their first hunt. Weaver had them wide-eyed and mesmerized with his expertise. Rocky was heading down on his own with supplies and a three- or four-horse string.

Weaver stopped to chat with Rocky. Weaver introduced Allison, who had been bringing up the rear, from thirty or forty yards away. But then Weaver signaled her to climb down and come up to see how not to pack a saddlebag. Rocky sat smiling as Weaver, known throughout the valley as an overly fastidious know-it-all, unpacked one of the bags on Rocky’s string and showed her how the weight was all wrong: bad knots on the manty rope, no quick-release knots on the basket hitches that connected the string, slipping D-rings. The loads weren’t balanced. A case of Mountain Dew here, boxes with canned food there, a bow case thrown here, a duffel bag tossed there. The trail was littered with stuff. Weaver was busy showing her what he meant about the science of a well-packed horse. Rocky was watching, amused.

Allison thought, then and there, that Weaver’s outfit had been a bad choice all around. Rocky worked for Grumley’s Double X Ranch and she should have held out for a slot, even though they said they were all full. Weaver had taken her “on spec.” Too many city folks, he’d said, had come up on a whim and couldn’t stick it out through all the barn duties, wrangler business and odd guide jobs. But Weaver’s treatment of Rocky at the time—it wasn’t until later that she got a peek behind Weaver’s cool exterior—had sent her sympathies to this hapless kid and his badly packed train.

Rocky eventually got restarted and the next time she met him was in a bar over in Eagle. Off his horse, Rocky was smaller than she’d remembered. He had deep-set brown eyes surrounded by a weathered face that had the ability to flash an off-center but slight grin. There was a bare glimpse of mangled teeth. They finally got around to a dance by the jukebox and Allison tried to come up with one solid reason why she should not encourage him.

When she moved to the mountains, she had made a promise to not be so picky. But she found it puzzling how the personal electricity between them turned cool, like a switch, after hours of talk and several rounds of bourbon and beer. She felt sobered up and disinterested. She always felt as if she was peering around the next corner, doing everything possible to look into the next room in her life. All she could picture was his likely hairy back and no emotional connection. It was easier to change your handwriting than your attitudes.

Rocky pressed against her as they stood by the hood of her secondhand Blazer. She let him grope for a minute and gave him a good kiss or three and wriggled out, said something about another date down the road. She left him in the dirt parking lot with a bulge in his pants and nothing but hope on the brain.

“If he’s worried, I wouldn’t know,” said Trudy. “I’ve probably taken up enough of your—”

“Could I stop by?”

“I suppose.”

“Is anybody looking for him?” said Allison.

“Not that I can tell, no.”

“Where does he live?”

“Well,” said Trudy. “That is one thing I need help with. And, if you won’t mention it, I happen to have a key. Can you stop by and pick it up?”

****

Trudy hung up, shaking.

She hadn’t been able to say good-bye and realized she had expected Allison Coil to know where she lived. They hadn’t discussed directions. Perhaps everyone in the whole valley knew. Maybe this was all stupid, unnecessary. Maybe she had gone too far, stirring up questions. Maybe Rocky would slide through the door at any second. But Trudy knew better.

Trudy busied herself by straightening the house. She plucked a few not-quite-yellow leaves, fed the cats and topped off their water trough. She paced in the darkened living room. She badly wanted to hop in her car and go find Rocky. But being out and about alone was a scary prospect. What if she had a seizure? How could she explain it if she wound up stuck where she wasn’t supposed to be? She remembered the key to Rocky’s trailer. He had given it to her “in case” she ever needed a quick hiding place that was not too far away. She dug it out of her dresser drawer and clutched it in her hand.

The trees down the road caught a glow and a pair of headlights worked their way up the drive. Trudy stepped back to the kitchen so there would be appropriate waiting time after the doorbell sounded. She stood with her arms folded, making a mental note to keep the visit brief. It was possible George could return, which would really screw things up.

****

“Trudy?” The door opened a crack. “Allison Coil.”

“Come on in,” Trudy said. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Really, not a problem.”

Trudy Grumley had extraordinarily long hair, thick and flowing. She was trim and pleasant looking, earthy. Allison noted her tentative movements, her hesitant way of moving. She and Trudy were identical in height, neither of them very tall, but Trudy carried more femininity. Her features were soft. For someone who lived in the mountains, she looked like she could use a bit more sun.

“I probably sounded like a weirdo on the phone.”

“Hardly, please.”

Trudy led her into an oversized living room as a swarm of cats came to check out the visitor. Trudy and the cats led the way to the kitchen, as if they knew the routine. A table and waited for them. The back of the kitchen opened to a lush greenhouse.

“I’m more comfortable here,” said Trudy. “Tea?”

“Sure.”

“I think I can spare only a few minutes. I really—forgive me— don’t want George to see I’ve got a visitor. He’s a little funny like that.”

“He and I have met. I applied for work at his ranch, but ended up with Weaver.”

Allison had wondered if they might have a glass of wine, or something stronger. A drink was routine after a day around the barn. Nothing about Trudy suggested this would be a time to linger over a cocktail. She was on edge.

Trudy poured hot water into two cups to steep the tea. Allison smelled orange and herbs.

“So you read the police blotter? A regular thing?”

“Sometimes. It’s a glimpse at the state of mischief.”

Breathing the humid air of the greenhouse reminded Allison of the spas in the $175-per-night hotels from her old traveling days. Trudy’s graciousness in person stood in stark contrast to the disjointed telephone conversation. Trudy looked so tame. She was a portrait of the word “meek,” with long, slow blinks of her eyes and a too-easy smile. She was a true flower child, frozen in time.

“Nobody has checked Rocky’s place?” said Allison.

“Not that I know of,” said Trudy. “I myself don’t get out often.”

Allison listened with increasing respect as Trudy described her personal health and general situation. Trudy looked into the steaming tea more than anywhere else, but she spoke with clarity and purpose.

“And George hasn’t gone to look?” said Allison.

“We’re husband and wife, I suppose,” said Trudy, “but not that close. Anymore. Rocky was one of several who came around to help me out with groceries, errands, whatever. Fix this, carry that. But George doesn’t know that we’re good friends and I don’t want him to. George has his secrets, believe me. This one’s mine.”

Given everything else, Trudy was certainly justified.

“Where does he live?”

“In a trailer about halfway back up the canyon. You’d never see it from the road unless you were looking, but it’s right there before the road forks. I’m going on memory, having seen it only from the road. I’ve never been there.”

“I’ll ask around,” said Allison. “Least I can do.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard to find, I wouldn’t think.”

“You haven’t even asked your husband about Rocky?”

Trudy took a breath and sighed slowly. “I can understand why it would seem a bit awkward—to help,” she said.

“No, look, I’ll stop asking questions. I do want to help. Rocky—we were friends for a while, although I haven’t seen him around much. We went out a couple of times. I liked him; he’s a helluva hunter. You know, he could be absolutely anywhere.”

“Sure.”

“But you have reason to believe—”

“He hasn’t stayed gone for so long. And, well ...”

Another one of those telephone pauses.

“George’s airplane.”

“What about it?” said Allison. Word in the valley had it that George would fly certain clients up over the Flat Tops to Meeker, give ’em an aerial buzz of the herds, whet their appetite.

“I have a friend at the Eagle-Vail airport. He calls whenever George comes back. It’s a favor. It puts me on alert that he’s in the area. It seems to change my whole view of the world, even my rate of seizures, so it’s helpful to know. Anyway, I called over there today because sometimes Rocky would go with him, on a long hunt. But George’s plane hasn’t budged in weeks.”

“Could George have used another plane?”

“Why would they use a different plane? And anyway Rocky would have told me he was going off for days and days. He would have, believe me.”

On cue, a guttural rumble from a car—or something—cut through their quiet space. Allison guessed pickup truck, maybe an older model.

“I believe you,” said Allison. “Do you have the key to Rocky’s place?” said Allison.

The engine sound cut abruptly.

As Trudy stood up, the side door to the garage opened and slammed with authority. Trudy didn’t flinch. She handed Allison the key.

“George,” she said under her breath. “No mention of this.”

“Of course,” said Allison.

Trudy looked down. She was steeling herself.

George came through the door, a dumbstruck look on his red face. Trudy turned and offered a smile.

“Hello,” she said, as if the world had suddenly started to spin on an endlessly cheery axis. “We have company.”

****

Allison drove toward home up the dark canyon, knowing she should wait for morning. What did one more night matter? She wasn’t about to return to Trudy’s as long as George hovered around. George had been spooked, no question. Allison had said hello and then good-bye—“Just leaving.”

She drove slowly down the stretch of dirt road where Trudy had indicated Rocky lived and she found an opening in the thicket. Her well-used Blazer, painted a custom gray and black by the Gypsum kid who sold it to her, was nicked and rough-hewn. The plunge through the thicket, with both sides of the body scraping branches, was the equivalent of a soft-touch car wash.

Her headlights found a silvery trailer, dead and dark. It could wait until morning, until she had daylight for bearings and nerve. It would wait until morning.

Allison slept fitfully in her A-frame, painfully aware of Trudy’s predicament. There was no sign of Slater. She might have to go into Rocky’s place alone, without a semi-official wing of authority to protect her.

Open the door, see Rocky wasn’t there, tell Trudy.

Open the door, find him drunk, tell Trudy.

Open the door, find him dead, tell Trudy.

Open the door, find something, tell Trudy.

Why did this seem so daunting? It wasn’t as if she was breaking in. It was a passed-along key, surely a sign of trust.

In the morning, feeling a bit woozy, she awoke thinking she’d steal a half hour from her personal routines and a half hour from her boss before showing up for work. She was, by far, the most punctual guide in the bunch. Old city habits. She drove down to Rocky’s trailer in a bit of a mental fog, letting her promise to Trudy pull her along. At the entrance, she noticed that one other set of car or truck tracks headed into the clearing, but the tracks looked old and stiff.

She parked next to the trailer where the previous vehicle had stopped. The feeling of quiet and cold was pervasive. A layer of snow clung to the trailer’s roof. Certainly, with someone here and the heat running, it would have melted.