Faye Kellerman - Double Homicide

The place was no bigger than Katz’s shack, with the same space heater, hot-plate setup, and a bathroom in the back. But the lower ceilings and tiny windows cut into what looked to be real adobe walls gave it a prison-cell feel. Some attempt had been made to warm it up: worn pillows on an old clumsy Victorian sofa, dog-eared paperbacks in a cheap bookcase, threadbare but nicely dyed Navajo rugs flung across the stone floor, a few pieces of Pueblo pottery on the kitchenette counter.

A photo over the bricked-up fireplace showed scrawny-looking cows grazing in a yellow meadow.

A toilet flushed in the rear bathroom, but the door stayed closed.

Emma Skaggs cleared newspapers off two folding chairs and motioned the two detectives to sit. She was a short, lean, sun-whipped woman who looked her age, with dyed-red hair and wrinkles deep enough to hide gemstones. Blue jeans stretched over hard hips and a knitted wool sweater. It was cold inside. Her chest was flat. Her eyes were gray.

“You’re here about Olafson,” she said.

Katz said, “You heard.”

“I watch TV, Detective. And if you think you’re going to learn anything valuable here, you’re wasting your time.”

“You had conflict with him,” said Darrel.

“No,” said Emma Skaggs. “He had conflict with us. We were doing fine until that bastard came along.”

“No love lost.”

“Not a flicker. Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks, ma’am.”

“Well, I’m gonna get some.” Emma made the two-stride journey to the kitchenette and poured herself a cup of black. Dishes were stacked in a drainer, cans and bottles and canisters were ordered neatly, but still the place was cluttered. Too much stuff for too little room.

The bathroom door swung open, and Bart Skaggs came out drying his hands. Bandy-legged and broad with a potbelly that hung over his rodeo buckle. He wasn’t much taller than his wife, with the same broiled, burnished look to his skin that comes from decades of UV abuse.

No doubt he’d heard the detectives’ voices, because he registered no surprise.

“Coffee?” said Emma.

“Yeah, sure.” Bart Skaggs came over, offered a sandpaper left hand, remained on his feet. A bandage was wrapped across his right hand. Swollen fingers extended from the gauze.

“I was telling them,” said Emma, “that they wouldn’t learn anything from us.”

Bart nodded.

Two Moons said, “Your wife says life was going along okay until Olafson came along.”

“Him and the others.” Bart Skaggs’s tongue rolled around in his cheek, as if dislodging a tobacco plug.

“The others meaning ForestHaven.”

“ForestHell is more like it,” said Emma. “Buncha do-gooders wouldn’t last two hours in the forest if you dropped them there without their cell phones. And he was the worst.”

“Olafson.”

“Until he came along, they were mostly talk. Then all of a sudden we’re getting court papers.” Her skin took on a rosy hue and gray eyes turned stormy. “It was so wrong that the poor kid who served us apologized.”

Bart Skaggs nodded again. Emma handed him a cup. He bent a knee, flexed a leg, drank. Over the rim, his eyes appraised the detectives.

Emma said, “If you came here expecting us to lie about being all choked up, you wasted your time.”

“We do a lot of that,” said Katz.

“Bet you do,” said Emma. “But we didn’t used to. Back when we were allowed to work an honest day. We stayed busy every minute, and it wasn’t ‘cause of no plans to get rich-you don’t get rich running beef. Any idea what they’re paying on the hoof nowadays? All those vegetarians lying about good, healthy meat.”

Yet another nod from her husband. Strong, silent type?

“But still,” she went on, “we liked it. It was what our families did for generations. Who were we hurting, grazing down weeds and plants that needed to be trimmed anyway for fire risk? Like the elk don’t do the exact same thing? Like the elk don’t deposit their manure right in the streams? That’s something we never did, no matter what anyone says.”

“What’s that?” said Darrel.

“Pollute the water. We made sure the herd always did its business away from the water. We respected the land, a lot more than any do-gooder. You want your healthy environment? I’ll give you your healthy environment: ranching. Animals doing what they’re supposed to be doing, where they’re supposed to be doing it. Everything in its place: That’s the way God intended it.”

Katz said, “Larry Olafson ended all that.”

“We tried to talk to him-to be logical. Didn’t we, Barton?”

“Yup.”

“I telephoned him personally,” she went on. “After we got the court papers. He wouldn’t even take my call. Had some snotty young snip answering the phone who went on like a broken record. ”Mr. Olafson is occupied.“ That was the whole point. We wanted to be occupied with our God-given jobs. He had other plans.”

“You ever reach him?” said Two Moons.

“I had to drive over to Santa Fe, find that art gallery of his.”

“When was this?”

“Couple of months ago, who remembers?” She snorted. “If you call that art. Occupied? He was hanging around, drinking foamy coffee. I introduced myself and told him he was making a big mistake, we weren’t the land’s enemy or his or anyone’s, all we wanted to do was bring our beef to market, all we needed was a few more years and then we’d probably retire, so could he please lay off.”

Katz said, “Were you really planning on retiring?”

She sagged. “No choice. We’re the last generation interested in ranching.”

Katz nodded sympathetically. “Kids have their own ideas.”

“Ours sure does. Kid, singular. Bart Junior. He’s an accountant over in Chicago, went to school at Northwestern and stayed there.”

“He does good,” said Bart. “He don’t like getting dirty.”

“Never did,” said Emma. “Which is fine.” Her expression said it wasn’t.

“So,” said Two Moons, “you told Olafson you needed a few more years before retirement. What did he say?”

“He gave me this look. Like I was a slow child. Said, ”None of that is my concern, dear. I’m speaking for the land. ‘“ Emma’s voice had dropped to a baritone parody- the snooty voice of a sitcom butler. Her hands were balled into fists.

“He didn’t want to listen,” said Katz.

“Like he was God,” said Emma. “Like someone died and made him God.”

“Now he’s the one who died,” said Bart. Pronouncing the words quietly but distinctly. It was the closest he’d come to an independent statement since the detectives had arrived. They turned to him.

“Any ideas about that, sir?” Two Moons asked.

“About what?”

“Mr. Olafson’s death.”

“A good thing,” said Bart. “Not a bad thing at all.” He sipped coffee.

Darrel said, “What happened to your hand, Mr. Skaggs?”

“He got ripped by barbed wire,” said Emma. “We had some old rolls of it left over and he was trucking them off to the surplus dealer and he slipped and the edge caught his hand. Big rolls. I told him it was a two-person job, not a one-person job, but as usual he didn’t listen. He’s a stubborn one.”

“Like you isn’t?” Bart snapped back.

Two Moons said, “When did this happen?”

“Four days ago,” Bart answered. “Never ended up taking the wire to surplus.”

“Sounds painful.”

Bart shrugged.

The detectives let the room go silent.

“You’re making a mistake if you’re thinking he had anything to do with it.” Emma shook her head. “Bart never done a cruel thing in his life. Even when he slaughters an animal, he does it with kindness.”