Innocence Slain: The Anderson Chronicles, #2

1

Nestled in the pine forests of the Moonlight Mountains, overlooking meandering Flint Creek and the valley it waters, Anderson, Montana held itself apart from typical mining towns in that it began as an outpost for a vast ranch. The historic Anderson Ranch encompassed most of Stone County. So widespread were the holdings that hired hands on the far end of the valley were forced to spend days riding a well-worn trail to the home place for supplies and tools. Charles Anderson, family patriarch, saw the wisdom in keeping his hired men working rather than running errands. He had a blacksmith shop built on the far side of the valley to handle horseshoes, broken wagon wheels, and the like. As cowhands continued beating the trail in search of supplies, he added a dry goods store. In a wild land with provisions scarce and towns few and far between, neighboring ranches, homesteaders, and passers-through took notice of the outpost.

Ever the businessman, Charles opened his private store to the public. Soon after, he built a roadhouse and hotel, offering food, lodging, and, of course, libations. A man of morals, Charles drew the line at loose women. Saloon girls and harlots were not allowed. Unbeknownst to him, his own daughter, Clara, ran a brothel in the hotel he built for her. Charles lived out his life on the other side of the ranch, secure with the delusion that the town bearing his name was nothing less than virtuous, and no one told him any different.

While Charles found his fortune in land and cattle, others searched for treasure beneath the surface. The quest for gold and silver brought riches to a lucky few, defeat to most, and left mountains scarred inside and out. In modern times, treasure hunters come to Anderson in search of sapphires.

Formed in the depth of the earth by the melding of titanium, corundum, and iron in boiling cauldrons of magma, the beautiful gems flowed to the surface on rivers of lava. Rarer than diamonds, and some would say more desirable, sapphires are found in only a few special places. One of these is Anderson, Montana.

Modern-day Anderson offered much more than sapphires. Ski bums replaced treasure hunters in the winter months and beer enthusiasts flocked to the brewery year-round. In spite of throngs of tourists, Anderson remained a peaceful place. As head keeper of the peace, Stone County Sheriff Peter Elliot felt more than a small amount of pride for the tranquil little town.

As Peter sat, window open to the fresh summer breeze, feet on his desk, enjoying the peace, several phone lines in the sheriff’s department lit up within seconds of each other.

Boss! Travis—the blond and buff department clerk—shouted from the front office. We have an incident in the basement.

Peter dropped his paperback onto his desk, stood and reached for his required Stetson. What sort of incident?

Something about Nancy May and a skunk.

Peter smiled. He could always count on Nancy to spice up a quiet day.

Nancy May, beloved resident of the local senior apartments and frequent source of incidents for the sheriff’s department, always came out smelling like roses after each episode of the Nancy May show. She may have met her match this time, thought Peter.

Where is everyone? he asked.

Tom is out at the Geary ranch checking on a trespassing complaint. Helen’s on traffic duty.

Call Helen and tell her to head this way. We might need her for… something.

Peter left his hat on his desk and instead took a hand towel out of the jail linen closet.

Stay, Zack! he said. The last thing he needed was a skunk-sprayed dog.

He held the towel over his mouth as he hustled his six-foot-five, 200-pound bulk down the hallway. Already the familiar, putrid scent of skunk hung in the air. He hesitated on the top step of the wide central stairway, swallowed a gag, and two-stepped his way into the cloud. Workers, coughing and gagging, pushed past him, rushing to the door and fresh air. A breeze blew up the stairway as he descended, carrying a faint scent of vomit underlying the musk of skunk. By the time Peter got to the basement, the hallways were bare, and the offices empty of people. Every door and window appeared to be open in a desperate attempt to clear the stench. Seeing no immediate threat, he walked to the end of the hallway and out the back door into a scene of chaos. People were gagging, puking, crying, and moaning in individual torment across the courthouse lawn.

He said in his loudest voice of authority, Can anyone tell me what’s going on here?

Nobody stepped up to answer. Helen arrived in her patrol car, astonishment on her face as she surveyed the pandemonium. She rolled down her window.

Is it safe to get out? she called to Peter.

He nodded and motioned for her to join him.

What happened?

Something to do with Nancy May and a skunk.

Oh boy.

That’s the story, but I don’t see Nancy May or a skunk, said Peter as he searched the grounds.

EMS parked behind Helen and began unloading gear.

What do you do for skunk spray? asked Helen.

Not a clue, replied Peter. Maybe EMS carries emergency spray canisters of tomato juice.

Helen snorted as the EMTs unloaded canisters of… something.

Peter laughed until he had tears streaming down his face.

Do you need an eye rinse, Sheriff? asked an EMT, mistaking his tears for a reaction to the skunk.

No, thanks. I’m good, said Peter, wiping away the tears.

Rick Jones, Stone County animal control superintendent, had his office in the basement of the courthouse. Peter watched as Rick made his way across the lawn. Obviously disgruntled, he rubbed his eyes and coughed into a towel.

Glad we could amuse you, Sheriff.

Oh, boy, thought Peter, I’m going to be hearing about this for the next decade.

What happened here, Rick? he asked.

Nancy May is what happened.

Helen disguised a giggle with a fake cough, earning her a dirty look from Rick.

I don’t see Nancy anywhere. Is she okay?

Oh, she cleared off before the skunk had a chance to spray the first time.

Okay, Rick, start at the beginning. How and why did Nancy May happen to catch a skunk and transport it here?

Rick sighed and blew his nose. She walked in this morning with this black cage and started going on about catching something in her garden. I was on the phone and not paying attention. I told her to leave it by the door and I would take care of it later.

Then what happened?

I got off the phone and went to have a look. I brought it into the holding cell we have for strays and opened the cage to see if it had an ID collar.

You opened the cage without knowing what it was? asked Helen.

Rick glared at her. It only had a narrow opening on top. All I saw was black and a little flash of white. I thought it was a cat. It wasn’t hissing or anything. Tabitha has that black and white cat, and you know how Nancy and Tabitha are always going at each other.

So, you opened the cage? prompted Peter.

Yeah. I opened the cage, and the skunk ran out and sprayed me right in the face.

Where did it go?

I don’t know Peter. Why don’t we have a skunk spray you in the face and see if you can track where it runs?

Peter bit his lip to keep from laughing. A DMV clerk, eyes swollen and red, walked over.

That miserable rodent ran down the hall. Every time someone opened a door to see what all the commotion was about, he let off another squirt.

Did you see where it went? Did it make it outside?

Don’t know. Don’t care. Not going back in that building until someone says it’s safe.

Sounds like a job for animal control, said Peter. He nodded toward Rick and then turned to Helen. I’m going to find Nancy May. She’s usually in the library. Care to join me?

I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

The Stone County library sat a block down and across the street from the courthouse. As they made their way down the sidewalk, they could see library patrons gathered on the front lawn, gawking toward the courthouse, and speculating on the brouhaha.

What’s going on, Sheriff? called one of the spectators.

Standing front and center in the middle of the excitement was Nancy May, looking the genteel lady in her typical dainty flower-covered sun hat and matching blouse and skirt.

Hey, Nancy May, said Peter. Do you know anything about a skunk in the courthouse.

Oh, yes. I dropped one off in a Skunkinator this morning. Rick said he would take care of it. She put a hand to her mouth. Oh, no! Did it get loose?

Yes, it did, and the basement of the courthouse is, well, skunked.

Nancy gave him a horrified look. Why did he take it out of the Skunkinator?

He thought it was a cat.

That’s silly. Why would I put a cat in a skunk cage?

Long story. What exactly is a Skunkinator, and how and why did you put the skunk in there? asked Peter.

There was a skunk in my garden every night outside the apartments. The dogs would bark at it and scare it and make it spray. You know how people let their dogs run free at night. You really should do something about that, Peter.

I know, Nancy. Unfortunately, animal control doesn’t have a night shift.

The crowd muttered and complained about the loose dog issue.

So, what is a Skunkinator? asked Peter.

I found it at the hardware store. You put cat food in the box in front. The skunk waddles in to eat and the door closes so he can’t get out. There isn’t room for him to lift his tail and spray. She leaned toward Peter and whispered, He couldn’t resist. I sprung for the premium cat food.

Chicken and gravy?

No, even better. Seafood pâté.

I’m sure the skunk appreciated the special thought.

Could you tell Rick I need my Skunkinator back? That one might have a wife come looking for him since he didn’t make it home last night. Tell Rick if I catch another one, not to let it out in the courthouse.

Sure, Nancy, chuckled Peter. If Rick doesn’t get that back to you right away, you let me know.

I surely will.

Where do we go from here? asked Helen.

Lunch at Dixie’s Diner?

Not issuing any tickets?

I can’t see where anybody did anything wrong.

Lunch it is then.

Helen and Peter avoided the courthouse and walked to Dixie’s.

2

Tourists packed the streets these days and shops, including the brewery, catered to them. But the beer still tasted the same, so the old man came and sat and drank and watched. He didn’t need a fancy degree from a university to read their mood. Nearly all the outsiders could be sifted into two categories, happy or miserable. Folks in the brewery, surrounded by friends and beer and—most nights—good music, tended toward the happy side. The old man looked outward. Bored teenagers, resigned husbands, hands shoved in pockets, shoulders slumped. Why are you here? Wives and mothers collecting quality time bragging points. At least the little ones were happy, giant ice cream cones and hours of digging through pails of dirt for sapphires. What kid wouldn’t go for that?

The old man watched the couple, first on his side of the street and then the other. Just kids themselves, early twenties. Her long blonde hair, worn lose, curled down her back. She was slim, but curvy. The girl he remembered from long ago.

Ruggedly handsome described her beau, well built, and beachy blond. They would be mistaken for siblings but for the touching. To the casual eye, they were a well-matched pair, not so much on closer look. Her hair was loose, but cut well, salon colored and styled. Her clothes, tailored. Both toe and fingernails salon fresh. The old man had an eye for these things. The boyfriend wore last year’s hiking boots and a faded T-shirt. His nylon shorts had seen more than one season fishing or hiking or rock climbing. She hung on his arm, laughing and talking and stopping every few feet to gaze into a shop window. He looked like he wanted to slit his wrists. How long will this last? thought the old man.

Not long, for as he watched, the girl turned to enter a gift shop. The boy shook his head. The girl insisted and pulled on his arm.

The boy stopped short, wrenched his arm from hers and yelled, Enough!

The rest was lost in cross-traffic and passers-by, but when the street traffic cleared the old man saw the boy stalk down the street and climb into a battered Jeep Wrangler. The boy sat, uncertain, eyes on the girl as she stood on the sidewalk, wearing the astonished look of a spoiled child, spanked, but stubbornly refusing to leave her spot on the sidewalk. Eventually, the boy started the Jeep, backed out of his parking space, and made his way toward the highway and home. The girl stuck her bottom lip out in a pout, shrugged, and scanned the sidewalk up and down. Her eyes passed the brewery and then quickly turned back. She smiled, waited for traffic to pass, and stepped off the curb.

Like a moth to the flame, thought the old man and he sipped his beer and made the decision. Not my usual place for capturing moths, but I’ve been waiting a long time for this one. And he waited.

3

Being a popular tourist destination didn’t necessarily guarantee an abundance of enthusiastic local employees. This held true for the Anderson sheriff’s department. Helen Ferguson, the only full-time deputy, covered night shift call. Barely halfway through July, endless calls dealing with summertime revelers already had her worn out. The stress of the job and issues in her personal life contributed to her burgeoning waistline and growing apathy toward a beauty regime. A long gray braid required no maintenance.

After being pummeled by fugitives and accidentally pepper sprayed by Helen in a recent apprehension, part-time deputy Tom Edwards was less inclined to sign on for shifts that could possibly involve more than routine traffic stops.

Angus McLeod, oft borrowed deputy from nearby Deer Lodge County, was well aware of need for full-time deputy help in Anderson when he walked into the Deer Lodge County courthouse.

Although he never bothered to look up the history, Angus would’ve bet the court houses in Rumsey and Anderson were designed by the same architect. The layout of his Uncle Jake’s office, minus the notched out back corner hiding Peter’s secret stairway exit, were exactly the same. Any similarity ended there. Peter’s office, with a well-worn, but comfortable leather sofa along the far wall and vintage western art covering faded paint, was cozy. Angus felt at ease there, even if he was sitting in front of the sheriff’s desk getting his butt chewed for some dumb thing he’d done. Uncle Jake’s office, not so much. The furniture was top-of-the-line executive suite collection and, truth be told, more pleasing to look at than it was to sit on. Jake, ever worried about blemishes whether on his walls or his reputation, ordered the room painted a snowy white every other year. Instead of Western art, pictures of Jake covered the walls. Jake with the governor. Jake with celebrities. Jake with the president on a Montana fishing trip. Jake. Jake. Jake.

It’s an election year, Angus. I can’t give you that promotion. What would my constituents say?

You’re not ‘giving’ me the promotion, I earned it, and you can tell your ‘constituents’ I earned it.

That’s not how they will see it. I’m running against a tough opponent. He’ll use anything he can to smear my good name.

Angus stared at the glossy white walls and the endless framed handshakes. What was that his grandma used to say? Fight the battles you can win, Angus, and walk away from the rest. Angus, red-haired, slight and wiry, was full of energy, all focused on his job. He’d trained every deputy in the department, and he was still treated like low man on the totem pole. Seniority didn’t count if you were the sheriff’s nephew. His eyes wandered to a pad of notepaper laying on Jake’s desk.

Can I borrow a pen?

Sure, Angus. Whatever you need, said Jake, lifting a rosewood pen out of a matching holder and handing it across the desk. The governor gave me that for helping him on his last campaign, he bragged.

Angus wrote two words on a piece of notepaper, signed his name, and handed it to Jake.

What’s this?

My resignation letter.

The note read, ‘I quit.’

Now, now, Angus, said Jake. This is not a good time for you to go off half-cocked. We’re short of help as it is, and I need you to train that new deputy. Hang tight until after the election and we’ll look at doing something for you. Maybe a new patrol car.

You said that before the last election, thought Angus, and I’m still waiting.

He stood, unpinned the badge on his chest and laid it on Jake’s desk.

Take a couple days off and think about it, urged Jake.

Angus pulled his duty gun out of its holster, emptied the chamber and magazine, and laid them next to his badge. He reached into his pocket for his patrol keys and laid them next to his gun.

Tell you what,