Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“Good venison steaks tonight, Vera. You use butter or lard?” Tookie took another long gulp.

“Bacon grease. Add a little butter and a pinch of flour to the pan, make you a thin gravy, then pour it over the steaks.” Vera drank again. “And if you have a bottle of J.B.’s brandy open, you can add a splash of that, too.” She smiled.

“Mighty, mighty good,” Tookie said. “Don’t s’pose there’s any extra bottles of that brandy laying around.” Her glance at Dulcinea was earnest to hide the teasing. “The rate we’re going these days, there won’t be any brandy left in Cherry County.” Dulcinea lifted her glass and drank, appreciating the smooth, smoky-sweet flavor on the back of her tongue. Honestly, that man had an unusually fine palate for a person raised without the niceties in life. Another pang of regret traveled the nerves of her arms and settled in her hands, made the bones ache, as if she struggled to hang on to something that tugged hard to get loose. She shook her hand like it had fallen asleep, and ignored Vera’s inquiring gaze. Again, she had to wonder, who was her friend and who her enemy: Graver? Chance? Frank Higgs? Drum? Her boys? Judge Foote? Larson Dye? No, she didn’t think the other ranchers were deeper into this than she was. Drum had shown the same shock. Cullen, well, he was an angry child, but surely, he was open about what he was doing. Hayward was much too young. Chance had admitted what he was doing. The ranch was big enough that all kinds of people could be wandering around unless one of the men came across them by accident. What about the men, now that J.B. was gone? Were they loyal? Drum’s men? He was so hated, maybe one of them. She’d have to conjure a way to question Drum. She recognized that her worst enemy had to become an ally for the time being. But was he using the Eastmans to get his hands on her ranch? Maybe there was no threat, maybe she should just sell the damn ranch and move away. Drum would be furious. Someone was the betrayer, and she intended to find out who, and then they would discover her true nature, the one people kept underestimating.

It was early the next morning when Rose met Dulcinea in the kitchen. They eyed each other after a night troubled by dreams, muffled voices, and creaking saddles. The sun was nearly up, yet Vera was nowhere to be found. Rose quickly set about making coffee and frying bacon while Lily set the table. It wasn’t until after breakfast that they found a moment to sit.

“We’re not any closer to finding the killer, are we?” Dulcinea asked.

Rose turned the cup in her hands, tilted the coffee up one side, then the other until it was on the verge of spilling. Setting it down, she placed both hands flat on the table.

“Last night, while I was serving your guests”—fhe paused, showing her irritation—“this locket slipped out of my blouse.” She pulled the chain over the neck of her dress and cradled the locket in her palm. “Hayward couldn’t take his eyes off it.”

Dulcinea frowned.

“Later, after the dishes, he tried to stop and talk to me, but Lily and I slipped away.”

“What do you think he wanted?” Dulcinea’s tone was flat.

Rose shrugged and opened the locket, revealing two faces. Dulcinea bent to examine it, then sat back stunned. Rose thought the man looked like a younger version of Drum. The woman was a stranger.

“You think my son’s involved, that he killed his own father?”

Rose glanced away as she tucked the locket back in her dress, and the women sat there considering the implications. “Could be the boys. Or Drum.”

Rose thought back to how Jerome had found Star’s body. When he was a boy he could see the ghost herd that ran alongside their Indian ponies, all the animals slain in battle galloping stride for stride with the few half-starved animals left. When he described his vision, the tribe named him Some Horses, because he saw this world and the other, as Yellow Leg, an elder, promised years ago. Now, the ghost horses led him to find the missing. That night he let their horse loose and followed for hours until it led them to Star’s body.

Last night she saw her husband watch from the barn as Vera slipped out of bed to meet someone and the oldest son rode off to town. A while later the youngest slipped out of the house, past his grandfather dozing on the porch, and followed his brother. Then the judge came down and sat with the elder on the porch talking for a long time. Jerome said three ghosts lingered around the men. J. B. Bennett, who never left the house, an Indian woman—a Mandan in traditional dress who stayed closest to the old man—and a limping white man in tattered clothes he didn’t recognize. That was the angry one.

Sometimes she wondered if he imagined the spirits, as he did when he drank liquor and told people what they wanted to hear. “My name,” he said, “means I was a rich chief until we lost the war. I had many wives,” he lied, “and now only this poor one.” He shook his head in mock grief and she wanted to knock his brains in and cure his hide with them. “Is this not the dress of a warrior chief?” He pulled on the headdress he bought at the trading post pawn in Rushville for two buffalo skulls, a cavalry saddle with a rusty iron seat and rotted leather, and a broken U.S. Cavalry pistol he found in the hills, and stood, sweeping his arms dramatically along his sides to show off the beaded, fringed white deerskin leggings and arm cuffs he’d won in a cutthroat game of stones last powwow. The bone and brass breastplate was actually given to Rose by her mother when her father died, and was older than any of them. The spear was a piece of crooked cottonwood tied with red felt, trade beads, and rotted deerskin. The stone point wouldn’t scratch a dog, it was so clumsily shaped and blunt, but the whites didn’t notice these details when they asked for the postcard or to take his picture. On good days he charged a nickel, on bad days he made them buy him a drink. He was a good man, better than most, and if she saw all those ghosts standing around she’d need a strong drink to blind her, too. It was hard enough with Star’s tiny teeth chewing her flesh from the inside out. Rose had to send her spirit home before it ate their whole world.

Was it the locket that lured him to her, as he was now drawn to Rose? Before she died, Star told her she had set a trap for their mother’s killer, and was selling him handmade goods. Rose told her to wait for Some Horses and their cousins before she went to meet him. Star said she would, then didn’t. The boys were too young to be part of the massacre, though, so Star must have arranged to meet an older man. This story was like a snake eating its own tail. Every time she thought she’d found the end, it led her back to the beginning. Tears filled her eyes.

Dulcinea placed her hand over Rose’s. “I’m so sorry.”

Rose shook her head and wiped her eyes with her arm.

“It comes down to three possibilities as far as I can see.” Dulcinea stood and brought the coffeepot to the table and poured a splash in each cup. “Drum, Graver, or Chance.” Rose picked a cold biscuit from the platter, broke it open, and covered it with Vera’s mulberry jam. “Not my husband.” She stole a glance at Rose. “And not my boys.” She set the pot down on the table.

Rose shook her head. She knew Dulcinea would never consider her sons capable of murder, but on her own list she placed them pretty high. After last night, Hayward was at the top and maybe Cullen, too, despite their age. Drum Bennett she didn’t know about.

“Maybe there’s more than one killer,” Rose said.

Dulcinea chewed thoughtfully and sipped her coffee. Her hands shook, and she steadied them on the table.