J. Jance - Minor in possession

"To call the sheriff's department."

She bared her teeth in a forced smile. "Oh, do tell. We're not going to go through all that again, are we, Mr. Beaumont?"

"We sure as hell are," I muttered.

Instead of backing away from me, Lucy Washington stepped forward until the top of her head almost touched my chin. There was no getting past her on either side. Lucy Washington was almost as wide as she was tall. Her ample breadth filled up the hallway.

"Now you listen to me, and you listen good. Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw gave orders that they are not to be disturbed. Period. By you or anybody else. And if you pull the kind of stunt you did last night, if you go near a telephone without permission, I'm calling the cops myself. I'll have you ass thrown in jail. Understand?"

I tried to be reasonable. "Look," I said "Somebody put a snake in my room, a rattlesnake. Shorty Rojas just now got it out."

Santa Lucia smiled. "Sure he did, and Jesus Christ himself is out in the kitchen helping Dolores Rojas wash all the dishes."

Out of nowhere, Kelly appeared at my elbow. She was evidently ready to let bygones be bygones.

"Daddy, where were you? We got you a plateful of food, but if you don't come right now, there won't be time enough to eat before we have to leave for Wickenburg."

"That's right," Lucy Washington said, flashing me another smile, square-toothed and insincere. "You just do that, Mr. Beaumont. You go have yourself some dinner with your family and get yourself all calmed down. You'll feel better once you have something to eat."

"What's the matter, Daddy?" Kelly asked. "This has been such a terrible day already, how could anything else go wrong?"

Santa Lucia had me right where she wanted me and she knew it. I wasn't about to say anything more about the snake in front of Kelly or Karen or Scott. It would have scared them to death.

"Nothing's the matter, honey," Lucy said. "You take your daddy along with you, feed him his supper, and take him to the meeting. If I happen to talk to either Mr. or Mrs. Crenshaw, I'll let them know you want to talk to them. They might call in."

Provoked but letting it pass, I turned and marched away with Kelly following close at my heels. Karen and Scott were still waiting at a table near the center of the almost deserted room. A plate full of cold roast beef and mashed potatoes sat at a clean place setting next to Scott. I wasn't hungry, and I didn't want to have to sit down and make some kind of phoney excuse or polite conversation. It was far easier to avoid the situation entirely.

Halfway across the room I stopped abruptly and turned around, catching Kelly by surprise. "I've got to go see somebody, Kelly. Thanks for getting my food, but I just can't eat right now. I'm not hungry."

Hurt, she looked up into my eyes. "You can't? Daddy, tell me. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," I said. "Everything's fine."

Unfortunately, I've always been a terrible liar. Kelly knew it, saw through what I said, but I hurried away before she had a chance to call me on it. Once outside the ranch house, I half walked half ran back down the muddy path to Shorty's mobile home. He was standing outside, hat pulled low on his forehead, smoking a cigarette, and peering through the inky darkness in the direction of the roiling flood.

"Still hasn't crested," he said, looking up as I stopped next to him. "But I think we're going to be fine. Those sandbags will do the trick."

"I didn't come to talk about the flood, Shorty. Where do the Crenshaws live?" I asked.

"In town. Why?"

"That damn nurse again, Lucy Washington. She won't let me near a phone to call the sheriff. What about you? Would you let me use yours?"

"Would if I could," Shorty replied, "but the phones are out of order. Have been for a while. Half an hour or more. I tried calling Jaime just as soon as I got back from your cabin. I wanted to ask him what to do with your friend."

"What do you mean what to do with it?"

Shorty tossed his cigarette. "Hell, man, if I turn it loose here, the damn thing will die. It's probably never lived in the wild. Besides, it doesn't belong here. This isn't its territory. I thought maybe Jaime could keep it in the museum, but I couldn't reach him. Incidentally, you want to see him? Not Jaime, the snake, I mean. I put him in one of Dolores' big gallon jars."

I didn't much want to see the snake, and yet I did, too. Shorty led me inside. On the floor just inside the door sat a commercial mustard jar with the snake coiled up in the bottom. A series of air holes had been punched into the jar's lid. The snake must have been at least three and a half to four feet long. Folded back upon itself to accommodate the shape of the jar, its exact size was difficult to discern. It was a deep charcoal gray, black almost, with no markings of any kind. The rattles, somewhat lighter in color, stood upright almost like an antenna in the center of the coil. The snake regarded me malevolently while its wicked-looking forked tongue flickered in and out.

An involuntary shudder shook me, bringing me back to the problem at hand. "I've got to talk to the Crenshaws," I said. "Would you take me to their place?"

Shorty glanced at his watch. "You're not going to the meeting? The vans will be leaving in a few minutes."

"Goddamnit, Shorty. Person or persons unknown tried to kill me this afternoon. It's about time someone at Ironwood Ranch took that news seriously. I sure as hell do."

I doubt Shorty Rojas had ever quite come to grips with the essential differences between wrangling horses for a dude ranch and doing the same thing for a rehab joint. He hailed from a simpler, less complicated time long before the red-taped vagaries of the Louise Crenshaws and Lucy Washingtons of the world reigned supreme. People were people to Shorty Rojas, regardless of whether they were dudes or drunks.

I'm sure he shouldn't have, but when I asked him for a ride, he looked at me appraisingly, then shrugged. "Don't suppose it'll hurt nothin' if I take you there. When you finish, I can still drop you off at the meeting later."

I followed Shorty outside to an elderly Ford pickup parked ten yards up the hill. "Get in," he said. "She ain't pretty, but she'll get us there."

The pickup fired up after only one try. It slipped and slid some in the muddy track. As we started up the hill, an unopened can of Coors rolled out from under the seat and banged against the side of my shoe. When I reached down to pick it up, it was icy cold.

"Sorry about that," Shorty said sheepishly as I handed it back to him and he returned it to its place under the seat. "I like to have a cool one of an evening."

"No problem," I returned.

We sailed out of the parking lot just as people were beginning to climb into vans for the ride to the meetings in town.

The Crenshaws' house was located near the outskirts of Wickenburg, on a high bluff overlooking the highway. When we pulled up in front, Shorty stopped the pickup and turned off the engine. "Wait here," he said, climbing out of the truck and starting up the walk. There was no porch light shining on the flagstone patio, but there were lights on inside the house. The porch light came on moments after Shorty rang the bell.

Calvin was the one who came to the door, stepping back in surprise when he saw who it was. They talked for a few moments before Shorty motioned for me to get out of the truck and come to the door.

"Mr. Beaumont, what are you doing here?" Calvin Crenshaw demanded when I stepped into the light.

"Who is it, Cal?" Louise Crenshaw called from out of sight somewhere inside the house.

"It's nothing, hon. I'll handle it," he said, moving as if to close the door behind him before Louise got a look at who it was.

"Please," he began hurriedly, "my wife has been through too much already today. She can't handle any more…" But he was too late. Louise Crenshaw appeared in the lighted doorway before he managed to pull the door shut behind him.