Killing Custer (12 page)

14

F
ATHER JOHN LEFT
Osborne and Veraggi sunk in webbed folding chairs, sipping beer and staring into space. He fished his keys out of his jeans pocket, got into the pickup, and slammed the door. Nothing they had said changed anything or would send Detective Madden onto a different track, away from the Arapahos. Edward Garrett was a loner. Not much chance for a loner to antagonize people.

The engine coughed into life. He looked across the hood and along the dirt road to the white trailer on the right, trying to grasp the shadowy thought at the edge of his mind. Edward Garrett, who had thought he was Custer, had fought in the first Iraq war. He'd been wounded. Father John had counseled vets from wars in Iraq and Afghanistan with post-traumatic stress disorder. Men and women who spent sleepless nights watching the horror movies in their own heads, looping through the fear and terror and exploding roadside bombs and pieces of their buddies pasted all over them. He wondered about Garrett and what he had gone through. Maybe it was easier to be George Armstrong Custer, cushioned by the years, than it was to be Edward Garrett.

He shifted into first and started down the road, then swung right and jerked to a stop on the dirt apron in front of the white RV. Even if Garrett had found a way to deal with his nightmares, that didn't explain the other troopers here. All veterans? All suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? Unlikely. He walked up the metal steps and knocked on the green door that bisected the trailer. A thin-lipped woman with brown curls escaping around a blue bonnet flung open the door and beckoned him inside.

“Been watching you with those drunks,” she said. “I got you figured for the priest that was with Edward at the end.” She nodded toward the red plastic benchlike sofa attached to the wall and sat down on a wooden chair.

“Father John O'Malley,” Father John said. He perched on the bench. The trailer was small and closed-in with faint smells of roses mixed with odors of coffee. “I'm sorry about your husband.”

The woman gave a noncommittal shrug. She wore a yellow dress with puffed sleeves that camouflaged the narrow shoulders and the wide hips spreading over the sides of the chair. “Everybody calls me Libbie.”

“Is that your name?”

“On my birth certificate?” She shook her head. “Belinda Clark is the so-called legal name, but we all name ourselves in a way, wouldn't you agree? We all wear a mask and pretend to be whoever we want to be. I happen to be comfortable in the role of Libbie Custer. Such a strong, confident, and tenacious woman! Oh, if she lived today, she would be president.” The woman stared off into space, as if the thought had taken her somewhere else. “I should thank you,” she said, bringing her eyes back to his, “for your efforts on Edward's behalf. I heard you brought the news to his horrible daughter. What I wouldn't have given to have seen her face! Now everyone will know the truth.”

“I'm not following,” Father John said.

“Isn't it obvious? She wanted him dead. How else could she get her hands on his money? She arranged this whole charade. I'm sure she's in cahoots with the Indians.” She leaned forward, one hand gripping the edge of the table. “I'm surprised you didn't see it in her, you being a priest and all. You must talk to all kinds of people. Listen to their sins. Seems to me you should've seen her for what she is, a scheming, grasping witch.”

“She seemed shocked by her father's death.”

“She's a very good actress.” Belinda Clark threw her head back and laughed at the ceiling. “Ironic, wouldn't you say? She detested what Edward did, running around the country impersonating Custer. And so good at it! Why, one newspaper reporter at a reenactment of the Little Bighorn asked him if, in some way, he believed he was Custer. Reincarnated.” She smiled at the memory. “That's how good an actor he was.”

The woman dipped her head toward the door and the RVs across the road. “They're almost as good as he was. Playing their roles, both of them. How they hated my husband! They could have saved him, but they refused. Just sat on their horses and let my husband die! Their commander. The man they had sworn to follow and obey and protect!”

For a second, Father John wondered who she was talking about. Edward Garrett or George Armstrong Custer? “You're saying that Veraggi and Osborne hated Edward?”

“Yes, of course. They were always jealous, because he outranked them. My husband was the commander, the big cheese. Nobody could measure up to the general.”

“You mean Edward? I understood he was a colonel.”

She squared herself toward him and gave him a slowly developing smile that made the muscles around her mouth resemble spreading glue. “The difference between outsiders, like yourself,” she said, “and reenactors is that we can move back and forth. In and out of characters, if you like, or historical persons. We can come back any time we like, or we can stay where we feel the most comfortable. Where we belong. It's as if we were born in the wrong time. As if some cosmic catastrophe occurred that kept us away from our own, natural time and thrust us here.” She opened her arms and waved them about, as if she could take in the whole universe. “You're a philosopher.”

“I'm a priest,” he said.

“Whatever. Priest, philosopher.” She leaned forward and shook a schoolteacherish finger at him. “You live with invisible realities every day, the things that can't be seen under a microscope. You must understand what I'm talking about.”

“You believe that in some way you are Libbie Custer? And Edward was Custer?”

“It's not that simple.” She was shaking her head, rolling her eyes. A particularly dense student! “What I know is that I could have been Libbie, and maybe”—she stumbled over the rest of it—“maybe I was. But I'm fully aware that I can step back into Belinda Clark and the present any time I wish. That is what outsiders don't understand. You think we're all a bit crazy. Edward's daughter thought her father was a nut. She didn't have the capacity to realize he was different. He could move from one person to another. He had a great capacity to imagine Custer. He could bring him back to life. Is that really so hard to understand? So impossible?”

Father John was quiet. Pavarotti as Calaf, becoming the character, singing him to life in
Nessun dorma
. Caruso as Pagliacci. He had listened to the recording of
Vesti la giubba
a hundred times, caught up in the imaginary world. So many plays and movies with great actors. Laurence Olivier as Hamlet, the prince of Denmark himself stalking the halls of Elsinore, alive. Meryl Streep becoming Margaret Thatcher.

He got to his feet, cowboy hat in one hand. There was barely room to step toward the door past the woman's white boots crossed in the middle of the aisle. “I stopped by to see if there was anything I could do for you,” he said.

“You can tell that detective to release my husband's body.” She rose alongside him. “I intend to have his body cremated, then I'll spread his ashes across the plains in the unspoiled spaces he loved. Wyoming, Colorado, Montana, South Dakota. All the places where he felt most at home. Free.”

Father John wondered again who she was. The wife of Edward Garrett or a very good actress playing a role. “I can ask him when the body will be released.”

“You do that,” she said. “Maybe the detective has figured out that Dorothy stole her father's money. Ask him what he intends to do about it.”

Father John waited for her to go on, something he had learned from counseling. People seemed to throw away something important, then went after it because they hadn't really meant to throw it away. All he had to do was wait.

“Edward sold his ranch in Laramie,” she said, spitting out the words. “He had a lot of money in the bank account. A half million dollars. He was set to buy another ranch near Dubois, though for the life of me I never understood why. Edward preferred to roam.” She shrugged. “‘Why do you want another ranch?' I asked him. ‘You just got rid of one. Let's go off, live in the trailer, sit outside under the sunshade, and read and write. You can write your memoirs.
My Life on the Plains with Custer
by Edward Garrett.' Oh, for a while I thought I had convinced him. I could tell he liked the idea of having his name on a book, connected to Custer forever. Next thing I knew, he announced he found a ranch he really liked. Close to Dorothy. My God! Dorothy, who hated his guts and only wanted his money.”

“What makes you think she took his money?”

“It's gone. Disappeared into thin air. Who else could have gotten hold of it? That conniving witch talked him out of every last cent.” She was still standing so close that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. The brim of her bonnet cast a faint shadow across her eyes. “Detective Madden should investigate the theft of Edward's money.”

“Have you told him about this?”

She gave him another slow smile. “Naturally. It did little good. It's so simple, I don't know how he could miss it. Like shooting at a bull's-eye as broad as a barn and hitting the trees a hundred feet away. Dorothy got hold of his money somehow, and hired those Indians to create a disturbance at the parade and shoot Edward while nobody could make out what was going on. Brilliant, when you think about it. I'm sure she didn't have to work too hard to convince them. Flashed a little money around. Besides, they hated Custer, all the Indians did. They could sense something about Edward, sense Custer in him. They were happy to do her bidding. She still has the bulk of the money.”

She stepped back and tilted her head even further. “Make him understand,” she said.

“Look, Mrs. Garrett . . .”

She interrupted. “You can call me Libbie, or Belinda, if you insist.”

“Belinda,” he said, “Madden is investigating anybody who might have wanted your husband dead. If the money is part of it, he'll find out. We have to wait until the investigation is complete.”

“We? We? It wasn't your husband who was shot by those filthy, marauding Indians who should have been chased back to the reservation. What were they doing off the reservation, anyway?”

Father John stared at her a moment, unsure of what she was talking about. Custer, sent out with the 7th Cavalry to round up Indians and force them onto a reservation? Edward Garrett, pretending to be Custer? “They're not captives,” he said. “They're free to move about like any other U.S. citizen.”

She shook her head. “Well, some things about the present do not make sense. We must agree to disagree, but I can tell you that my husband . . .”

“Edward,” he said.

“Yes, Edward, and Custer, both believed there was a place for Indians and a place for whites. They should be separate, free to go about their own lives on different sides of a border.”

“Edward believed that?” Father John was thinking that the man had imbibed nineteenth-century prejudices. Playing the role of Custer. Thinking like Custer. Maybe they went together.

“I can see that you don't.” She was shaking her head hard. “It doesn't matter. What I want is justice. I want the Indians that killed my husband and the woman who put them up to it to pay for what they've done. Do you understand? I want them to pay!”

* * *

FATHER JOHN DROVE
back through the RV camp, past troopers sitting about on canvas stools, smoking cigars and drinking beer out of aluminum cans, then turned onto a paved road. In a couple of minutes he was on Main Street. It was as if he had stepped out of a time machine. People sauntering about, some with Styrofoam cups of coffee. Everybody dressed in jeans or shorts and tee shirts and high-soled running shoes. Tourists and townspeople, and all of them from the present. He didn't spot any Indians.

He swung onto 789 and followed the curves along the Popo Agie River into Hudson, then crossed the border into the reservation and drove down Rendezvous Road, trying to make logical sense out of what Belinda Clark had said. A daughter who hated what her father did for a living, willing to have him killed for his money? It was difficult to reconcile the Dorothy Winslow he had talked to—the sadness and reflection in her eyes—and the picture her stepmother painted. People could assume roles, play parts. He had heard enough confessions and counseled enough people to know the roles people played. Some were better than others. Some were professionals. But Garrett's daughter was not a professional actress. Even so, that didn't mean she couldn't be very good.

He stopped at the sign on Seventeen-Mile Road, then turned right. Ahead, the blue billboard with St. Francis Mission in large white letters winked in the glare of the sun. Something Belinda had said nagged at him. Veraggi and Osborne had hated her husband. They were jealous of him. Why? Did he make more money playing Custer? Get more attention? No doubt that was true, but was that enough to cause them to hate him?

The logical conclusion spun in his mind like a tumbleweed in the wind. Logic, so relentless, so unforgiving. Hatred could lead to action. If Veraggi and Osborne hated Garrett, what action might they have taken?

Father John turned into the cottonwoods, the thick branches blocking out the sun and leaving the road in deep shadow. He shook off the conclusion. Sometimes logic only made sense in a syllogism, not in the actual world. Hatred enough to kill the man who made their own roles possible? Without Garrett, Veraggi and Osborne would have to wait for another Custer impersonator to take part in the Battle of the Little Bighorn reenactment.

Without Custer, there were no roles for Benteen and Reno.

15

THE REAL
-ESTATE OFFICE
sat between a barbershop and a Chinese take-out in a low-slung building with yellowing white paint. Plastered across the plate-glass windows were white cards with photos of houses and lines of black text. Above the cards, black letters spelled out Hometown Realtors.

Vicky parked in the middle of the lot and threaded her way around the other parked cars to the sidewalk. The burning asphalt worked through the soles of her sandals, the sun beat through the cotton of her blouse, and a dry wind whipped at her skirt. Sounds of traffic from Federal drifted on the wind. She let herself through the glass door. It was like stepping into a refrigerator, and she fought the impulse to grab her arms and hug herself against the cold air blowing out of vents in the white tiled ceiling.

“Howdy!” The man with the wide grin and mop of curly black hair behind the reception desk looked about thirty, close to Lucas's age, she thought. But there was something unfinished about him: thin shouldered and long necked, skinny arms that protruded from his blue short-sleeve shirt, and long fingers that grasped a ballpoint pen, which he tapped on a pile of papers. “How can we be of service?” he said, hope and curiosity in his tone. The metal nameplate at the front of the desk read Eugene Carmody.

Vicky walked over. “I'm here to see Deborah Boynton.”

“You have an appointment?”

“I'm afraid not.” She slipped the small leather envelope out of her bag, extracted a business card, and laid it on the pile of papers.

The grin dissolved as Eugene Carmody studied her business card. “Lawyer? Any problem?

“I'm here on behalf of a client,” Vicky said. “Is Deborah in?”

The man stared at her a long moment. “Sorry. I haven't seen her today. She comes and goes. You know how it is in the real-estate business. Half your time is spent out showing properties. I can leave her a message.”

“Perhaps you can help me,” Vicky said. “I represent the widow of Edward Garrett. She needs to know whether her husband closed on a ranch he was interested in before he was killed.”

Eugene Carmody rolled his chair back and jackknifed to his feet, long arms and long legs in motion like a puppet's. “You'd better talk to our broker.” He stumbled around the side of the desk. “Linda Lewin,” he said over one shoulder as he disappeared through a door into the rest of the office. Footsteps reverberated off the thin-partition walls. A door opened and closed, followed by the muffled noise of voices that sounded strained and deliberately low pitched.

Vicky walked across the reception area and studied the portraits on the wall. Deborah Boynton, third photo, second row: red curly hair that brushed the shoulders of a blue blazer, green eyes, and a wide smile turned toward the camera. Thirty or thirty-five, Vicky guessed, confident and wary looking at the same time. So this was Skip Burrows's former girlfriend. The same Realtor who had represented Edward Garrett.

Several minutes passed before the footsteps pounded again, coming closer, and the door swung open. Eugene Carmody stood with one arm extended, urging her forward. “Second cubicle on the right,” he said.

Vicky stepped past him into a narrow corridor that resembled a maze through the warren of small cubicles with half-glass walls. Inside the cubicles, Realtors sat at desks that looked like counters, heads curled over computer screens, phones jammed against ears. The tap tap of keyboards punctuated the soft buzzing undercurrent. Ahead, standing in a doorway, was a tall woman with brown hair smoothed back into a bun with strands that flowed down her neck. The smile that creased her face was filled with impatience, as if she hoped the interview would be brief.

“Linda Lewin.” She held out a hand with red-tipped fingers.

Vicky shook her hand, then followed her into the small cubicle. With one foot, the woman guided a chair across the floor until it stood at a right angle to the narrow desk. “Have a seat.” She perched on the chair in front of the computer screen.

“I was hoping to speak with Deborah Boynton.”

The woman gave a slow, understanding nod. “Deborah's been very busy lately. What is it you want to know?”

“I represent Belinda Clark. I'm sure you know her husband, Edward Garrett, was shot to death Sunday afternoon in Lander.”

“In front of hundreds of people! Who would have thought the Indians would be so bold.”

Vicky could feel her skin prickling, her cheeks flushing. She waited a beat before she said, “The killer hasn't been identified.”

“Well, excuse me,” Linda Lewin said, the smile frozen on her face. “You ask me, Garrett took a big chance coming to Indian country pretending to be Custer.”

“The investigation is still open.” Vicky emphasized each word. “My client needs to know if her husband completed the purchase of a ranch near Dubois.”

“Deborah would be the one . . .”

Vicky held up one hand. “You're the broker, and Deborah isn't here. I have Mrs. Garrett's power of attorney and I have filed a probate action.”

Linda Lewin lifted a hand and turned toward the computer. Head down, hunting for the keys, fingers crossing one another. Finally, she looked up at the monitor. “The Stockton Ranch. One thousand acres, twenty-five-hundred-square-foot ranch house, one story, three bedrooms, two baths, barn and two outbuildings, fenced corral. Very well priced at five hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Garrett made a cash offer, which the owners accepted. Sale contingent on buyer producing payment.” She made a quarter turn toward Vicky. “Appears the sale was not final. Too bad the poor man was killed.”

“Cash offer?” That tallied with what Belinda Clark had said. Her husband had sold the ranch near Laramie. The money had been in the bank, unless he had invested it somewhere else. “Did Deborah say why the sale was delayed?”

“This is a busy place.” Linda Lewin waved a hand at the cubicles around her and the low rumble of noise and ringing phones. “Realtors work on lots of deals at once. No one has time to stand around and jawbone about the details.”

“When do you expect Deborah?”

“I never expect Deborah or any other agent.” The woman gave a quick shrug. “They're here when they're here. Deborah often works at home. I believe she plans to work at home all week. On the other hand, she could pop in at any minute, but I wouldn't suggest you wait.”

“Where can I find her?

“You expect me to give you her address?”

“My client has the right to know the exact status of the real-estate deal and why it didn't close,” Vicky said. Running through her head were the words of Belinda Clark:
Five hundred thousand dollars. Where is the money?
“I can get a subpoena . . .”

“No. No. No.” The woman lifted both hands, then let them fall against the edge of the desk. “No subpoenas. Pardon me, but we don't need lawyers, either. Deborah lives three blocks west of here. Turn left at the corner. White house with wrought iron fence in front. Keep ringing the bell. Sometimes she gets so engrossed in work she doesn't hear it.”

* * *

VICKY WAITED FOR
a line of pickups and SUVs to lumber past before she pulled onto Federal. Air rushing across the opened windows battled the stifling heat inside the Ford. The voice of LeAnn Rimes rose over the hum of tires on asphalt.
Through the laughter and the madness and every moment in between. Oh, I want you with me.
She took a left into a neighborhood of identical houses. Bungalows painted white with front door stoops that mimicked small porches. In the middle of the block was the house with the wrougt iron fence and flowers spilling out of window boxes and a ragged sidewalk with grass growing in the cracks. A large elm threw shadows over the lawn.

She pulled to the curb, let herself through the small iron gate that whistled on its hinges. She picked her way up the sidewalk to the porch. The doorbell button felt limp and unattached when she pushed it. No sounds inside, only stillness. She knocked hard and listened for a disturbance of some kind, footsteps or scraping chairs. Nothing. She knocked again, then glanced around. The neighborhood was almost as still as the house. Branches of the elm swayed in the wind, causing the shadows to ripple like water in a creek.

Vicky turned back and knocked again, a perfunctory rap, like an exclamation point that merely emphasized she was there. She didn't expect an answer. If Deborah Boynton was inside, she had remained quiet, answering the intrusion by ignoring it.

Vicky retraced her route down the uneven sidewalk and through the gate. A young woman behind a baby stroller stood at the corner of the wrought iron fence. Small, fat white legs protruded from the stroller. Inside, Vicky could see the blond head drooped in sleep.

“Hello,” she said, walking over. “Do you know Deborah Boynton?”

The woman was probably in her mid-twenties, serious and nervous looking at the same time, with long, blond hair that straggled over the front of her black tee shirt, and thin white legs below cutoff jeans. She wore flip-flops that made a little squishing noise as she stepped from one foot to the other. “We live next door.” She shrugged toward the rectangular house that looked like a clone of the Boynton house.

“I understand she often works at home,” Vicky said. “I was hoping to find her.”

“She's gone.”

“Gone? When?” She might have just missed her. On the other hand, if Deborah Boynton had been gone awhile, she might return soon. Vicky looked back at the quiet house, a sense of emptiness about it, debating whether to wait or come back later.

“She left Sunday.” The baby started to stir and made little crying sounds. The fat white leg bucked up and down.

“She hasn't been back since then?”

“She went on vacation,” the woman said, jiggling the stroller back and forth. “I seen her wheel her suitcase out and put it in the trunk of her car. She drove off and hasn't come back. I been picking up her mail and keeping it for her.”

“How long will she be away?” It struck Vicky as odd that the broker hadn't seemed to know about any vacation plans.

“It's not like we're best friends,” the woman said, a hint of regret in her tone. “We visit sometimes. She picks up our mail when we leave. Me and Dale don't go away much, only to see his folks in Cheyenne. I get Deborah's mail when she goes off. Usually just for a weekend. Don't blame her none for wanting to get away. Clients calling all the time, expect her to drop whatever she's doing and take them around. I hear her phone ringing all day. Been ringing since she left Sunday. Like I say, can't blame her for getting out of here.”

“Did she happen to mention where she was going?”

The woman shook her head in a long, careful motion, as if a sudden memory might cause her to nod. “She never said. But . . .” She hesitated. “You her friend?”

“Vicky Holden,” Vicky said, putting out her hand. The woman took hold of Vicky's fingers and gave them a little shake. “I'm an attorney.”

“Attorney.” The woman bit at her lower lip. “Is Deborah in some kind of trouble?”

“I don't believe so.”

A look of relief flooded the woman's face. “Oh, that's good. You never know . . .”

“Is there some reason to believe she might be in trouble?”

“Oh no. I wasn't saying that. It's just that, you know how boyfriends can be.”

“How can they be?”

The woman shrugged, then leaned over and patted the baby, who had begun to stir again. White legs jumping. “Best not to cross them,” she said, looking up. “Just do what they want. Everybody gets along real good then.”

“Do you know the boyfriend's name?”

“Seen him around from time to time. Don't know how serious they are. But whenever he said ‘Let's go someplace,' she packed up and went. Like I say, mostly for a weekend. Never asked his name. None of my business, when it comes right down to it. Between you and me, I never liked the looks of him. One of them happy, smiling guys that'll punch you out, you say the wrong thing.”

“Was he around when she left Sunday?”

“She usually went off with him, but not Sunday. She got in the car alone and drove off. Come to think of it, maybe she wanted to get away from him.”

Vicky dug in her bag and extracted another business card. “If Deborah comes back,” she said, handing the card across the top of the stroller, “please give her this and ask her to call me?”

“Yeah, sure.” The woman stared down at the card, then folded it between her fingers.

As Vicky drove away from the curb, she watched the woman in the rearview mirror slip the card into the pocket of her cutoffs.