At Ease with the Dead (17 page)

According to Brewster, Carl Ardmore had been a big, bluff, blond man who walked with a limp. He had greeted Lessing enthusiastically, shaking his hand, clapping his back.

I asked Brewster, “Do you think he suspected the relationship between Lessing and his wife?”

Brewster's smoky chuckle came down the line. “Suspected? He's the one introduced them. The whole thing was his idea.”

“He
knew
they were having an affair?”

“Sure he did. He couldn't have kids, see, and he wanted them. Physical problem—wounded during the war. That's the First World War, in France. Anyway, he liked Lessing. And he could tell, straight off, that his wife did too. He told her he understood. Told her he approved. Made her promise two things, though—that she wouldn't leave him and that if she had a child, they'd raise it together. He told Lessing the same thing, asked him to honor the promise.”

“How do you know all this, Mr. Brewster?”

“Professor Lessing told me. About a week later. The day after she came to our camp. Came on horseback. Rode forty miles to see him.”

She had shown up at sunset, fifty yards away, a small figure atop a large dapple gray mare standing against a background of pink mountain. Without a word Lessing had left his students and walked off toward her. The two of them had disappeared, Lessing not returning till just before dawn.

“I was awake by then,” Brewster said, “tending the fire. The rest were still asleep. Professor Lessing comes up to the fire, squats down, warms his hands for a minute. Then he turns to me and he smiles, this sad little smile, never forget it, and he says to me, ‘I love her, Brew.' That's what they used to call me. Brew for Brewster.” The chuckle again. “Also I had what you might call a fondness for beer back in those days.”

“And he told you about the arrangement?”

“Shoot. Arrangement? You make it sound like a real-estate deal. Those two folks loved each other. And love's got all kinds of ways to work itself, my friend. Not just the ways the preachers and the politicians say is right.”

“What did the other students think about this?”

“Don't know. Didn't ask, and they never said, not to me.”

“Why didn't Lessing leave his wife? Why didn't Mrs. Ardmore leave her husband?”

“They gave their word to Ardmore, didn't they. Both of them. And back then, people put stock in their word.”

“Did Lessing see her again before he left the Reservation?”

“Expect so. I never asked. Wasn't my business. But there were a few times he was gone all day. Then, of course, we all saw her when we were leaving, after Lessing found the body in the Canyon. We stopped by the trading post for him to say goodbye. I remember she was standing on the porch as we drove off. She had on the blue gingham dress again, and she was waving a white handkerchief.”

He cleared his throat. “Pretty as a picture,” he said, his voice farther away than Michigan. “I watched her till I couldn't see her through the dust. Waving that handkerchief back and forth.”

“Mr. Brewster, do you think it's possible that Carl Ardmore killed Dennis Lessing?”

Irritably: “Now, why in hell would he do a thing like that? I told you, he knew what was going on. He encouraged it. He liked Lessing, he respected him.”

“All right. Another question. What about Mrs. Lessing, Dennis's wife?”

“What about her?” Grumpy still.

“Do you think she knew about the relationship?”

“Don't know. Wouldn't think she cared if she did. Don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but she was a cold woman.”

He hadn't been a member, evidently, of the group of students who felt otherwise. “All right, Mr. Brewster. Thank you for the help. I'm grateful.”

“You're welcome. Listen—what's your name again?”

“Croft. Joshua Croft.”

“Well, Joshua Croft, you're going to try to find her, that right?”

“If she's alive, I'll find her.”

“Well, if she is, you say hello for me, all right? You tell her Brew says hello.”

“I'll do that.”

He was silent for a moment.

I thought I knew what he was thinking—that probably she was dead. I said, “I'll let you know what I find out, Mr. Brewster.”

“Appreciate it,” he said. “Appreciate it.”

It was eleven—over an hour on the phone—when I ended the call to Brewster.

I dialed Peter Yazzie's number. Still no answer.

I dialed the Ardmore number. Still busy. I rang the operator, asked for a verification check. She got back to me after a few moments and told me that there was trouble on the line. Out in the desert, where the trading post sat, this could mean almost anything, from a phone left off the hook to a pole left across the road. I didn't really think twice about it.

I should have. Things might've turned out differently, might have turned out better, with less pain, if I had thought twice about it.

I called Rita. She said that Daniel Begay had been there and gone, and that he expected to see me at noon. I asked her if she'd told him what had happened in El Paso. She said the subject hadn't come up. I didn't ask her which subjects had. Not right away.

I told her what I'd learned from Lamont Brewster.

When I finished, she said, “I like the idea of her riding forty miles on horseback just to see him.”

“Probably not a lot else to do out there, that time of year. Punch cattle. Yodel.”

“Joshua.” Mildly reproving. “I like this Elena Ardmore. I think it's a nice, romantic story.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Terrific.”

“It couldn't possibly affect a realist like yourself, of course.”

“Nah. We mountain men got hearts of stone.”

“Brains, too.”

I smiled. “Sounds like you're feeling better today.”

“I am.”

“So what did you and Daniel Begay talk about?” Casual, chatty, just shooting the breeze.

“This and that. Do you think Brewster was telling the truth?”

Still tricky. “Well, he hasn't been answering the phone for a couple of days. I suppose he could've been down in El Paso killing Alice Wright for reasons we don't know anything about.”

Patiently: “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

“Far as he knew it,” I said.

“Lessing could've been lying to him, you mean. He could've invented that arrangement with Carl Ardmore.”

“Yeah. I'd like to know where Elena and Carl Ardmore were on the night Lessing was killed.”

“I think you're stretching, Joshua. And what about Alice Wright? If the Ardmores are still alive, they're both in their eighties. Like everyone else involved in this. You don't really think they dashed down to El Paso to deal with her?”

“
Someone
dealt with her. And the cops, remember, found a piece of paper with the name
Ardmore
on it.”

“From what you told me, she had to write that note sometime between the time you left her house and the time she was killed. You said she was killed around one in the morning. When did you leave?”

“Around nine.”

“Suppose, for whatever reason, she got in touch with someone at the trading post after you left. There's no way anyone could've gotten from the trading post to El Paso in time to kill her.”

“They could've called someone who was already in El Paso. Had him do it.”

“Who? Why?”

“Beats me. But it's a possibility.”

“Before we leap to any conclusions, let's wait until Grober gets the record of outgoing calls from her phone. Let's see if she did call the trading post.”

“Maybe she recognized the killer, and wrote down
Ardmore
to point us in the right direction.”

“Like in the Charlie Chan movies? Very good, Joshua. When did she write it down? While he was beating her to death?”

“Well,” I began.

“And if she recognized him, why didn't she write down his
name
?”

“He might've seen it, and then taken the note with him.” Warner Oland would've delivered this with a lot more conviction. Hasty man drink soup with fork.

She said, “And if there were a connection between him and the Ardmores, he wouldn't take a note with
Ardmore
on it?”

Infuriating woman. “You just don't like the idea,” I said, “that Elena Ardmore could be involved.”

“And you're just grumpy because I won't tell you what Daniel and I talked about.”

“I? Grumpy? Surely you jest.”

“I promise you that I'll tell you about it sometime, Joshua. All right?”

“Come on, Rita. You really don't think that I'm silly enough to get grumpy just because—”

“Yes. Do you have your gun?”

“I have my gun. Would you like me to shoot myself?”

“I'd like you to be careful when you're out there on the Reservation asking questions.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I'm serious, Joshua.”

“I said okay. You can't take
yes
for an answer?”

“Call me when you get there.”

“Right. Rita?”

“Yes?”

“Are you really okay?”

Her voice softened. “I'm fine, Joshua. Really. You take care, all right?”

“You too.”

After I hung up, I swiveled the chair around, hooked my feet on the windowsill, and stared up at the snow in the mountains, blue-white against the clear blue sky. I sat there thinking about Carl Ardmore. Wondering just exactly how you went about telling someone it was okay to sleep with your wife.

Daniel Begay showed up at quarter after twelve, his cane silently swinging, silently tapping along the office carpet. No suit today; he was back in jeans and the gray wool coat. We shook hands and he placed his black Navajo hat carefully in one chair and sat down carefully in the other. He held the cane upright between his legs, hands resting atop its knob.

I didn't ask him anything about Rita. That impenetrable calm of his made personal questions seem like simple nosiness. Which of course they were.

I told him what I'd learned, and he listened without any expression on his face.

Finishing up, I said, “Carl and Elena Ardmore. At the trading post. Do you know them?”

“Used to,” he said. “Good people. They died.”

“When?”

“Carl Ardmore, he died in the fifties. His wife died 'sixty-three or 'sixty-four.”

So much for their rushing down to El Paso to dispatch Alice Wright.

I asked him, “Did you ever hear any stories about Elena Ardmore having a relationship with Dennis Lessing?”

He frowned slightly, shook his head. “I don't listen to stories like that.”

And so much for stories like that.

“Who owns the trading post now?” I asked.

“John Ardmore.”

“Who's he?”

“Their nephew, I heard. Carl and Elena, they couldn't have kids. John's parents died when he was a baby, and Carl and Elena adopted him.”

“Anyone else there?”

“He's got a son. The son helps him out at the store. John's getting to be an old man now.”

I nodded. Had Alice Wright called John Ardmore on Thursday night? And, if so, why?

Daniel Begay asked me, “You think the body of Ganado is gone? For good?”

“Finding it doesn't seem very likely. I'm sorry, Daniel.

He nodded. “The woman down in El Paso. Mrs. Wright. You think maybe she got killed because you asked those questions?”

I shrugged. “It could've been a coincidence. Could've been a burglar.”

“But you don't think so, right?”

“I honestly don't know.”

He smiled his small, barely perceptible smile. “You don't know, maybe, but you think.”

I shrugged again. “What I think doesn't really count.”

“Okay,” he said, and nodded once. “What I think, myself, is that maybe we should quit this now. It's not good what's happening. People getting killed.”

“Fair enough, Daniel. No problem. We've got your address, we'll mail you a statement at the end of the month.”

He was watching me, faintly smiling again. “Your friend, Mrs. Mondragon, she says you're a real stubborn person.”

The pot calling the kettle black. “She's a great little kidder,” I told him.

He nodded. “You're not going to quit on this, right?”

I shrugged once more. “Why not?” I said. “No client, no case.”

He nodded again. “So when are you going to the Reservation?”

17

I
frowned. It was a pretty good frown, I thought. “Why would I go to the Reservation?”

“The Ardmore Trading Post is there. And yesterday, Mrs. Mondragon asked me about Peter Yazzie.”

I grinned. “Well, Daniel, you know, I thought I might take a drive out there today.”

He looked down at his hands, looked back up at me. “It's a good idea, you think? What if someone else gets hurt?”

Good question. “I'm going to do my best to make sure that doesn't happen.”

Another nod. “Okay,” he said. “You got a client.”

“Uh-uh,” I said.

“You're gonna keep doing this, you got to get paid.”

I shook my head. “I'm going to do it anyway.”

“So I'll pay you anyway.”

“Nope. You hired me to go down to El Paso and ask some questions about the remains of Ganado. I did that. Mrs. Wright's death may have nothing to do with the remains. Right now, I'm more interested in Mrs. Wright's death. I'm sorry, Daniel.”

He nodded. “Okay. Can you give me a ride?”

Talk about non sequiturs. “Where to?”

“Gallup.”

“Gallup?”

“Truck's not running right. I got something I need to do in Gallup later today.”

I wondered if this were true; he'd given up, I thought, fairly suddenly on the idea of paying me.