friends, exactly. Let’s just say they had a working relationship.” Meaning that Mary Alice didn’t complain about the procession of suburban white boys who cruised the street in their parents’ SUVs, barely slowing to a stop for transactions made through windows opened just wide enough to pass cash out and take never-mind-what in. In return, nobody ever vandalized Mary Alice’s car—or Lola’s either, when she visited—despite the robust level of street crime that served as a sort of welcome wagon for newcomers.
“Any reason why anybody would want to kill her?”
“She’d have told me if there were.”
“What about a boyfriend? I never heard about one, but maybe you did. Or, maybe”—he slid his gaze away from hers—“more than one? Sometimes that happens. Two guys, one woman, and for reasons I’ve never understood, the woman pays.”
Mary Alice had occasionally disappeared for long weekends and returned smiling and maddeningly silent, in contrast to Lola, whose liaison with her colleague between and during his various marriages had been open newsroom knowledge for so long that it ceased to be fodder for gossip. Afghanistan had put a stop to that, just as Montana had presumably halted Mary Alice’s flings. But maybe not.
“From what I can tell about this place, everybody here would know more about that than I do. She was no nun, but she was the most discreet person I’ve ever met.”
“Girlfriend?”
“I’m straight,” Lola snapped. “Short hair just makes my life easier in the field.”
The sheriff’s pencil added another line to his pad, more words than a simple “no.” “I wasn’t asking about you.” Before the rebuke could settle in, he followed it up with another question. “What about someone mad at her for something she wrote?”
“You’d know more about that, too. Have you talked to the people at the newspaper here?” On surer footing when she was the one asking the questions.
“I called them last night. They were in a tough spot. Trying to deal with what I was telling them, and then needing to write a story about it, too. They’re coming in today to talk some more. She’d been spending a lot of time up on the rez—the Blackfeet reservation. There’s a guy up there campaigning for governor. Johnny Running Wolf. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
Lola shook her head. “No. Wait. I think I saw a billboard on the way up here.”
“He’s gotten himself some national press. Indian candidate in cowboy country, that kind of thing. He’s some sort of long-lost cousin of mine.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I hadn’t realized you were Blackfoot.”
“Not Blackfoot. You all named us Black feet . Singular or plural, you’re sorry that I’m Indian? I didn’t know it required an apology.” The same challenging tone he’d taken with Verle.
Beneath her own chagrin, Lola again saw Verle and the sheriff facing off from their respective vehicles, the bristling that accompanied their conversation. She wondered what Verle had said during his own interview with the sheriff. She threw a wild pitch. “What about Verle? Is he a suspect?” The clock’s second hand clicked its measured progress. Lola wanted to climb up onto her chair so that she could reach high enough to stop it. Then she registered the nod, the words that followed.
“Yes,” the sheriff said. “Verle is a suspect.”
Her stomach did a slow revolution, an ungainly fish turning in too-deep water. She hadn’t given nearly enough consideration to the fact that Verle had been loitering by the road not two miles from where Mary Alice lay freshly dead. Fear and shock had muffled her reason. Lapses like that got people hurt. Killed.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Her voice rose.
“No.”
“Because?”
He drew a circle with the pencil and slashed lines across it, dividing it into quarters, eighths. “Sit down.”
She hadn’t realized she was on her feet. He wrote something
“Any reason why anybody would want to kill her?”
“She’d have told me if there were.”
“What about a boyfriend? I never heard about one, but maybe you did. Or, maybe”—he slid his gaze away from hers—“more than one? Sometimes that happens. Two guys, one woman, and for reasons I’ve never understood, the woman pays.”
Mary Alice had occasionally disappeared for long weekends and returned smiling and maddeningly silent, in contrast to Lola, whose liaison with her colleague between and during his various marriages had been open newsroom knowledge for so long that it ceased to be fodder for gossip. Afghanistan had put a stop to that, just as Montana had presumably halted Mary Alice’s flings. But maybe not.
“From what I can tell about this place, everybody here would know more about that than I do. She was no nun, but she was the most discreet person I’ve ever met.”
“Girlfriend?”
“I’m straight,” Lola snapped. “Short hair just makes my life easier in the field.”
The sheriff’s pencil added another line to his pad, more words than a simple “no.” “I wasn’t asking about you.” Before the rebuke could settle in, he followed it up with another question. “What about someone mad at her for something she wrote?”
“You’d know more about that, too. Have you talked to the people at the newspaper here?” On surer footing when she was the one asking the questions.
“I called them last night. They were in a tough spot. Trying to deal with what I was telling them, and then needing to write a story about it, too. They’re coming in today to talk some more. She’d been spending a lot of time up on the rez—the Blackfeet reservation. There’s a guy up there campaigning for governor. Johnny Running Wolf. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
Lola shook her head. “No. Wait. I think I saw a billboard on the way up here.”
“He’s gotten himself some national press. Indian candidate in cowboy country, that kind of thing. He’s some sort of long-lost cousin of mine.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I hadn’t realized you were Blackfoot.”
“Not Blackfoot. You all named us Black feet . Singular or plural, you’re sorry that I’m Indian? I didn’t know it required an apology.” The same challenging tone he’d taken with Verle.
Beneath her own chagrin, Lola again saw Verle and the sheriff facing off from their respective vehicles, the bristling that accompanied their conversation. She wondered what Verle had said during his own interview with the sheriff. She threw a wild pitch. “What about Verle? Is he a suspect?” The clock’s second hand clicked its measured progress. Lola wanted to climb up onto her chair so that she could reach high enough to stop it. Then she registered the nod, the words that followed.
“Yes,” the sheriff said. “Verle is a suspect.”
Her stomach did a slow revolution, an ungainly fish turning in too-deep water. She hadn’t given nearly enough consideration to the fact that Verle had been loitering by the road not two miles from where Mary Alice lay freshly dead. Fear and shock had muffled her reason. Lapses like that got people hurt. Killed.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Her voice rose.
“No.”
“Because?”
He drew a circle with the pencil and slashed lines across it, dividing it into quarters, eighths. “Sit down.”
She hadn’t realized she was on her feet. He wrote something
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