Carnosaur Crimes Page 13

  Cullen had always kept an eye on his only nephew after his brother Colm died. It was the Irish way to overlook your clan be they sparrow or hawk. As Cullen’s friend and confidante, there was no doubt in her mind that her father was informed the minute Rusty returned. The paternal betrayal of trust bloated her rage. What if she’d accidentally run into Rusty during her travels?

  “I didn’t mean to rile you,” Permelia assured. “I thought you knew. Let’s forget about it. How about something to drink? What’s your pleasure? Coffee, iced tea, soda pop, water?”

  . “A Coke would be fine, if you have it.” Ansel said, feigning joviality.

  “I believe I do. I’ll be back. Make yourself at home.”

  Starr quit howling and went into stage three of her disgruntled repertoire. This consisted of fierce, low-level growls and claws scratching against wood. The howls could have been her own, Ansel thought, stewing over Permelia’s news. She ignored the dog and tried to calm herself by observing the mementos around her. The old fashioned gray wallpaper with festoons of old- rose daisies with green foliage supported a passel of framed black and white photos. The pictures showed horses, mules, cattle, and scenic views of mountain ranges or large river bends.

  There were some other photos of men setting along an ancient sideboard table against a wall. Each was distinctive in his own way. One clean-cut, young blond man wore a 1940’s Marine Corps uniform. Another long-haired, older man wore his best cowboy dress, and a third brown-bearded man wore a nice suit and tie. Permelia’s three husbands, Ansel surmised, each as different in face and stature as the other.

  Elsewhere Indian pottery lining ceiling shelves around the room added more gay colors to the mish-mash of busy floral fabrics covering the old furniture. A corner shelving unit beside a window was crammed with verdant succulents; aloe, flowering cactus, or hen and chicks.

  Everything was neat and orderly, what she’d expect from Permelia who was well known for her simple and punctilious business practices. The woman was a whiz at investment foresight or market speculation. She had to be or she would never have survived keeping the original Diamond Tail land parcels intact amidst the predatory circling of government officials or nature conservancy advocates who had great disdain for the old ranching traditions like open range grazing and private water rights.

  Permelia returned bearing a small wood serving tray with two tall glasses filled with ice and a quart glass pitcher filled with fizzing brown Coke, forks, and two dessert plates, each containing a freshly cut square of home-baked crumb cake. She set it on the white coffee table. “Help yourself. I quieted Starr down. Gave her a dried cow hoof.”

  Ansel noticed that the house was quiet. Hands shaking from anxiety, she poured Coke into her glass, and said, “I brought my portfolio so you could see my artwork styles which include pen and ink, watercolors, acrylics, oils, or air brushing. I wasn’t sure what you had in mind for the medium, composition or design of your book cover.”

  Permelia poured herself a drink and grabbed one of the plates. “When it comes to style, I’m not picky about the fixings, just want a full belly. I’m sure you know best about those things, Ansel. What I’m looking for in a cover is something that looks like Montana and will grab your eye like a fish hook when you’re passing by it at the store. Let me see what you’ve got.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find a technique you’ll like,” Ansel assured. “What I’ll do today is concentrate on the underlying picture, not the lettering for title, name, etc. I’ll design that later. Keep in mind that these are mostly dinosaur subjects, but I can do any landscape or animal you’re interested in. Portraiture takes me longer because I don’t do much work in that area.”

  Ansel unzipped the case and pulled out drawings she’d done over the years which reflected her different styles. She passed them one by one to Permelia in-between sips of her drink and bites of her delicious-tasting crumb cake. They ran through twelve pictures very quickly. Permelia was decisive about what types of perspective, shadowing, and detailing she liked. She didn’t care for line drawings at all, no matter how detailed the subject. Nor did she like black and white. She wanted full color and tended toward realistic textures and methods rather than abstract or surrealistic techniques.

  Knowing this, Ansel pulled out a recent full color acrylic test drawings of an Argentinosaurus that was rendered on smooth illustration board with dry brushed paints and air-brushed watercolors.

  “Now this is what I want,” Permelia declared. “This critter looks like you could touch it and feel the bumps. How’d you make it look so real?”

  “That’s an old painting technique called gouache. The Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans painted with the precursor of modern gouache. This style relies on carefully controlling the painting of colors from dark to light or light over dark. Special paints and colors are used as very thin opaque layers continually placed on top or around each other. I often intermix gouache with watercolors as stains and air-brushing with regular acrylics in my projects that require absolute, photo-like realism.”

  “Pharaohs and Caesars? You don’t say. That settles it. This is the brand of paint I want on Montana Chaps.”

  Ansel grinned and took the illustration board from Permelia’s tan, wrinkled hand. “Great,” she said, muscling the large stiff board into her case, “Gouache it is.” As she fumbled with the preliminary drawing, the open end of the portfolio dipped off the sofa toward the floor. A whole sheaf of materials piled out, including one pen and ink drawing she didn’t know was in there.

  The sketch of the Giganatosaurus she’d drawn the morning after the museum robbery flew across the floor directly in front of Permelia. Ansel cringed. Somehow she had unknowingly grabbed it when she filled the case with drawing samples from her workroom. She should have thrown the damn thing away.

  “Oh, I like this,” Permelia crowed, grabbing the drawing off the rug. “Somebody rang the grub bell. Look at them jaws. Hey, I got an idea. Let’s use this for Montana Chaps except replace the little lizard with a cowboy on horseback. You know, a wrangler back-trailing from this critter. That cover will get attention, all right.”

  Ansel’s eyes widened. “I thought you wanted a very realistic cover. Perhaps a photo-like drawing of your homestead with longhorns or a collage of images. Maybe even something more symbolic? Maybe the Diamond Tail brand,” she offered hopefully.

  “You can make this look real,” Permelia countered. “You’ve sure got the talent, gal. And this idea has the grit and gristle I’m looking for, especially with my family being involved with dinosaurs. Kinda draws the bones and broncos together, don’t you think?” She leaned back and stared at the painting, her eyes sparkling and a grin stretching her lined face into a younger version of herself. “Can I keep this?”

  Just the thought of the drawing circulating the local dump annoyed Ansel, let alone that Permelia wanted to put such a garish creation on a book stand. But what could she do? It was a work for hire. Maybe she’d even get a quirky new following of art fans who would be into Phoenix Studios comic book art. Yeah, fat chance. Could this week get any worse?

  “Of course,” she said, clenching her teeth and pushing the remainder of her artwork into the portfolio.

  “So what will I owe you?”

  “I’ll do some figuring and send you an estimate within the week. We’ll talk again. I can’t start the cover art until after I finish a prior book deadline next month. Is that agreeable?”

  “Surely is.” Permelia rose and put the drawing down tenderly on the dining room table. “Now that we’re done talking business, I’ll show you that hodgepodge I’ve got from Barnum Brown’s dig that my daddy left me. Bet your itching to see it.”

  “I certainly am,” Ansel enthused, a bright spot shining on her gloomy day at last.

  “Did I tell you that my second husband, Elam Gruell, bought quarry land outside Jordan?”

  Ansel nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well, Elam got the bone bug in 1950 and
bought four-hundred acres of range in the Badlands. Said it was part of an ancient creek bed and bursting with potential. Thought he could run it as a sideline besides ranching Herefords. He worked it for a year, then lost interest. After Elam died in a farming accident in 1954, I married Loren Chance, you know.

  “Loren decided in 1963 to switch from Herefords to Longhorns, which is what my first husband, Kenny Knox, started the ranch with after World War II,” Permelia continued as they walked past the kitchen. “Anyway, in the sixties, Loren found out that the Texas breed was on the brink of extinction with only fifteen-hundred left in national parks or zoos. Before the open ranges disappeared about six-hundred thousand were driven to market every year. People talk about the buffalo going extinct, but Longhorns stampeded that dead-end trail first. Loren died from cancer ten years ago, and I’ve been herding the critters alone.”

  Ansel barely focused on Permelia’s words because the kitchen they passed held her enthralled. She took in the vintage, black iron gas and wood-burning stove, white kitchen cabinetry with old porcelain sinks, and original 1940’s Linoleum flooring with amazement. She wondered what the bedrooms and bathrooms looked like.

  “Did Elam ever find anything good in the quarry?” she finally asked.

  “Oh, he found a lot. Big bones and little. Plenty more left behind, I reckon. Still own that parcel. Don’t know why I keep it. Maybe you’d like to putter around on it some day.”

  “I’d love that, Permelia. Thank you for offering.”

  “Now what I’m going to show you is the stuff my daddy, John Reading, helped Barnum Brown with from June to July 1908 around Big Dry Creek. That’s where Brown found the most complete Tyrannosaurus out of three, plus a lot of other bones. Daddy was in charge of the horses they used to prospect for bones and to haul the wagons carrying out the plastered bones.”

  They’d walked along a narrow hall with dark gray wallpaper and stopped at a thick, white door. “Here you go,” Permelia exclaimed. She grabbed a white porcelain doorknob and pushed the portal open.

  Ansel nearly tripped when Starr, wearing a hand-sewn outfit of matching blue denim shorts, vest, and bandanna bolted between her feet. She was barely able to brace herself against the wall with one arm as the ten pound dachshund keened like a canine wraith, then raced around her legs in toe-scrabbling circles on the tongue and groove floorboards.

  “Shut up, Belle Starr,” Permelia hollered loud enough to split firewood.

  Starr quit but began an incredible, two-foot high rabbit-hop against Ansel’s knees. The dachshund’s tail wagged like a joy meter and cow hoof drool sprayed her boots.

  “You two are sure gonna have fun,” Permelia cackled. “Go on in.”

  Ansel dared a step forward. She suddenly felt like she was entering a temple of doom.

  Chapter 17

  “There is nothing as eloquent as a rattlesnake’s tail.”

  Navajo

  Detective Odie Fiskar shifted his massive, muscular body against the driver’s seat, exhaled loudly, and adjusted his bear paw hands on the steering wheel. Reid Dorbandt looked up from his small leather notebook. Odie had been trying to find his saddle seat for the last thirty minutes. Compact sedans weren’t designed with giants in mind.

  “Almost there,” Reid said, staring through the gumbo-dusted windshield at the crispy sheep land surrounding them. “I’ll fill you in on Flynn’s nephew. His parole officer says he works the midnight to eight shift at Swoln Stockyards. Best to corner him when he’s home for shuteye.”

  “Worth a try, I guess. The jailbird nephew is all we’ve got,” Odie said woefully. “Sheriff Combs will keep busting our chops until we find the Chief.”

  Reid stared at his notebook again. He was actually thinking of Chloe Birch. He hadn’t had a moment to call her since he got back from Billings, and she’d been on his mind a lot. Hopefully He hoped to go back into town to reclaim the Indian’s head and see her again. Out of nowhere, Ansel’s scowling face popped into his head like a subconscious chimera.

  Yesterday had been a roller coaster of emotions. First he was furious with her, then he was practically making a pass at her. And last but not least, he’d driven her to tears with his insensitive actions with the windshield wipers. He’d never meant to upset her. What a disaster.

  Odie’s voice slammed through his wall of confusion. “Hey, you napping on me?”

  Reid blinked and blew air out his mouth. “Hokay, here we go. Flynn, Cyrus Kelley, thirty-three, white, male, five-foot-eleven, one-hundred eighty pounds, red hair, green eyes. No wants. No warrants. Now, that is,” he added. “Possession of drugs, 1984. One year probation. Possession of drugs, 1985. Thirty-six months. Possession of drugs with intent to sell, 1988. Thirty-six months. Criminal Mischief, 1991. Thirty-six months. Theft, 1995. Twenty-four months. Burglary, 1997. Thirty-six months. Burglary, 2000. Thirty-six months. Prison release from Wyoming Honor Farm in 2003 with two year probation.”

  Odie guffawed, sending a deep boom across the front seat. “He’s like a Bosch painting done with finger paints. Sounds like a simpleton.”

  “Bosch. Isn’t that a soup?”

  “Not Borscht. Heironymous Bosch. He was a famous artist who portrayed the evil of man in scary images – demons and half-human animals and machines.”

  Reid closed his notebook with a snap. “Stop it, Odie. You’re the one that scares me when you flex your brain muscles. You’ve been doing too many New York Times crossword puzzles again.” He peered through the windshield. Ahead was a disintegrating, wood house. “Here it is.”

  Odie parked the car next to a green El Camino in the dirt drive and killed the engine. Then he reached for the radio mike and called dispatch, notifying dispatch of their arrival. Meanwhile, Reid got out and surveyed the place: an overgrown yard with a gray-white house sporting a badly leaning porch and broken windows.

  Reid walked around the sedan and surveyed the area for signs that other vehicles had been there recently. Hard to tell because the long, dead vegetation in the drive was constantly crushed by Flynn’s car going in and out. Nothing else looked amiss.

  He wandered over to the El Camino in front of the sedan. The doors were locked and the windows up. Nothing on the inside except holey, gray fabric seats and faded blue carpeting on relatively clean floorboards. Unusually fastidious for a con driving a junk heap.

  The same wasn’t true for the outside. The flatbed was empty but badly dinged and rusting. Reid surveyed the truck body which was caked high up with gumbo dust and dirt. The wheels undersides, and chassis however, were gummed over with globs of black mud. That intrigued him. Where in the middle of a drought did you find mud? Against the dark splatters, something pink on the right rear undercarriage caught his eye. He squatted and peered closer. A tiny speck of fluffy material was pinched in-between the decorative metal molding and the wheel well.

  “Find something?” Odie stood behind him.

  “Maybe.” Reid used his fingernails to pinch the fibers up, then stood.

  Odie moved in closer. “Looks like shotgun wadding.”

  “I’d bet it is.”

  It wasn’t unusual to find such wadding in areas where a shotgun had been fired. He pulled a small glassine envelope stored inside his suit breast pocket for just such treasures, and bagged it. They looked at each other and silently headed across the knee-high weeds to the house.

  Once up the rotten porch steps and onto the creaking, warped planking, Odie pounded on the green door with a sledgehammer fist. Reid wandered toward an adjacent window with cracked glass and peered around the dirty sheet doubling as drapes. He could see a small living room containing cheap furniture and unpacked boxes. Odie knocked again.

  The front door whipped open and a man with wet, long red hair, beard, and moustache glared at them. He wore blue jeans and a baggy, red pullover sweater more suitable for fall temperatures than summer. “Yeah?”

  Reid stepped quickly to the door. “Cyrus Flynn?” he asked as the distinct smells of mildew,
rotten fruit, and human waste wafted past him.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Dorbandt. This is Detective Fiskar. We’re from the sheriff’s department. We want to ask you some questions about your uncle, Chief Cullen Flynn.”

  Reid kept smiling and took in Flynn’s sallow face, red-rimmed eyes, and puffy nose. Cyrus looked like he was either strung-out or had one doozy of a cold. He made a mental note to check Flynn’s jacket for a list of drugs the con had used and dealed.

  Cyrus casually placed one hand on the door frame, effectively blocking the entrance. His face morphed into a mask of dire sadness. “Oh, man. My uncle. I’ve been worried sick about him. Have you found him?”

  Reid doubted the sentiment but held his friendly expression. “We’re working on it. We need to come in.”

  “I’m trying to sleep. Just got home from a job about fifteen minutes ago. Anyway, to be honest, I can’t tell you much. I haven’t seen or heard from Uncle Cullen since last April. Given his line of work, he’s not too fond of me.”

  “To be honest with you Mr. Flynn, because of your record, we’ve got to probe a little deeper into what you’ve been doing lately,” Reid said. “We can do that here and now,” he said, looking pointedly at the door, “or we can do it at the sheriff’s office.”

  “It would be more expedient to do it here, Mr. Flynn,” Odie added, towering over the smaller man.

  Cyrus coughed, sniffled, and then pulled the door open. “Sure, okay. Excuse the mess.”

  Odie went in first, entirely filling the doorway. Reid didn’t really want to enter, but he did. The place was worse on the inside. It looked like Cyrus had quit housekeeping months ago. The carpet was full of dirt and the dingy, fading wallpaper swallowed what little light came in through the makeshift curtains. It was hard to tell whether Cyrus had gotten stalled moving in or out with all the boxes. There was no air conditioning either. The room was a miasma of stale air.