in one of the slices of the pie, gave the pad a small turn, and wrote something else. He pushed the pad toward her. “Here’s Verle’s name. And here’s yours.”
Disappointment tugged her back into the chair. “Of course,” she said. At this stage, everyone was a suspect. She’d have been dismayed by her own lack of judgment if the sheriff considered Verle a strong possibility. Still, it would be a relief to leave Montana with Mary Alice’s killer behind bars. The sheriff turned the pad again and wrote another name. “Here’s Jolee, over at the store. When I stopped by for coffee this morning, she told me that Mary Alice drove down there a couple of days ago. Said she was stocking up on stuff for your visit. Way it looks now, Jolee was the last person to see her”—those fleshy lips spat the word —“alive before she got killed. I’m interviewing her next.”
“Speaking of Jolee,” Lola said slowly.
“What about her?”
“There was a guy outside her store last night. It’s probably nothing.”
The sheriff tensed. “Everything counts at this point.”
“He said something about Mary Alice. ‘Poor Mary Alice,’ he called her. It seemed like a strange thing to say. Especially in retrospect.”
“Do you know who he was? Would Jolee know?” The weariness had fled his voice.
His enthusiasm, along with the thought that she could be useful, was infectious. “I can’t remember his name. But he didn’t have any teeth.”
The sheriff’s pencil jerked, trailing a long jagged line across the pad. “That’s Frank. He didn’t have anything to do with this.” He rubbed at the page with his eraser.
“You just said everything and everyone counted. Why not Frank?”
The sheriff tilted the pad, letting the crumbles of eraser fall into a trash can. “Because he wouldn’t have done it, that’s why. I know him.” Lola started to speak but he cut her off. “Technically, I suppose he’s a suspect, just like Verle. But face it. Until I get some more information, half the people in this town are suspects, and I haven’t even started talking to folks on the rez. Maybe one of them stopped by her place yesterday. Then I could add another name to my little pie chart.”
“What was that guy’s name again?” Lola asked. “The one Mary Alice was writing about? Where’s his name on this thing?”
“Johnny Running Wolf. He’s been down in Denver for a few days, doing some sort of fundraising with rich white-men. Mary Alice wrote about his trip. He’ll be in town for a meet-and-greet at the VFW the day of the funeral. He’s probably one of the few people I don’t have to worry about.” He handed her a business card. “Take some time. If you think of anything, you can call me. Here’s how to reach me. We should touch base again after the funeral.”
She shook her head. “I’m on a plane out of here as soon as it’s over.” She reached into her pocket and thumbed one of her own cards, printed in blocky English letters and Arabic curlicues of Pashto and Farsi, from beneath the rubber band and held it out to him. “Call me and let me know the minute you catch whomever did this. Or maybe”—she looked around the office again, at the cheap plastic clock, the government-surplus desk—“you can email me if you can’t afford the international call.”
The sheriff blinked rapidly. His hands pawed at the keyboard. “I’m afraid not.” He angled the computer screen so that she could see it, showed her the standard bulletin that would go to law enforcement departments around the country, as well as to airports, Border Patrol, Homeland Security. She watched him type her name in the blanks. Then he unlocked a steel door behind the desk and walked her down a short hallway and pointed out the cell where he could, if necessary, house her as an uncooperative material witness if she in any way, shape or form attempted to leave Magpie before his investigation was complete. A woman lay on the lower
Disappointment tugged her back into the chair. “Of course,” she said. At this stage, everyone was a suspect. She’d have been dismayed by her own lack of judgment if the sheriff considered Verle a strong possibility. Still, it would be a relief to leave Montana with Mary Alice’s killer behind bars. The sheriff turned the pad again and wrote another name. “Here’s Jolee, over at the store. When I stopped by for coffee this morning, she told me that Mary Alice drove down there a couple of days ago. Said she was stocking up on stuff for your visit. Way it looks now, Jolee was the last person to see her”—those fleshy lips spat the word —“alive before she got killed. I’m interviewing her next.”
“Speaking of Jolee,” Lola said slowly.
“What about her?”
“There was a guy outside her store last night. It’s probably nothing.”
The sheriff tensed. “Everything counts at this point.”
“He said something about Mary Alice. ‘Poor Mary Alice,’ he called her. It seemed like a strange thing to say. Especially in retrospect.”
“Do you know who he was? Would Jolee know?” The weariness had fled his voice.
His enthusiasm, along with the thought that she could be useful, was infectious. “I can’t remember his name. But he didn’t have any teeth.”
The sheriff’s pencil jerked, trailing a long jagged line across the pad. “That’s Frank. He didn’t have anything to do with this.” He rubbed at the page with his eraser.
“You just said everything and everyone counted. Why not Frank?”
The sheriff tilted the pad, letting the crumbles of eraser fall into a trash can. “Because he wouldn’t have done it, that’s why. I know him.” Lola started to speak but he cut her off. “Technically, I suppose he’s a suspect, just like Verle. But face it. Until I get some more information, half the people in this town are suspects, and I haven’t even started talking to folks on the rez. Maybe one of them stopped by her place yesterday. Then I could add another name to my little pie chart.”
“What was that guy’s name again?” Lola asked. “The one Mary Alice was writing about? Where’s his name on this thing?”
“Johnny Running Wolf. He’s been down in Denver for a few days, doing some sort of fundraising with rich white-men. Mary Alice wrote about his trip. He’ll be in town for a meet-and-greet at the VFW the day of the funeral. He’s probably one of the few people I don’t have to worry about.” He handed her a business card. “Take some time. If you think of anything, you can call me. Here’s how to reach me. We should touch base again after the funeral.”
She shook her head. “I’m on a plane out of here as soon as it’s over.” She reached into her pocket and thumbed one of her own cards, printed in blocky English letters and Arabic curlicues of Pashto and Farsi, from beneath the rubber band and held it out to him. “Call me and let me know the minute you catch whomever did this. Or maybe”—she looked around the office again, at the cheap plastic clock, the government-surplus desk—“you can email me if you can’t afford the international call.”
The sheriff blinked rapidly. His hands pawed at the keyboard. “I’m afraid not.” He angled the computer screen so that she could see it, showed her the standard bulletin that would go to law enforcement departments around the country, as well as to airports, Border Patrol, Homeland Security. She watched him type her name in the blanks. Then he unlocked a steel door behind the desk and walked her down a short hallway and pointed out the cell where he could, if necessary, house her as an uncooperative material witness if she in any way, shape or form attempted to leave Magpie before his investigation was complete. A woman lay on the lower
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