Stony Mesa Sagas. Chip Ward
what did you find out?”
“Sorry, Otis, but not much that will help you out of the jam you’re in. Bo didn’t have any real enemies. He wasn’t particularly liked but I couldn’t find anyone who would want to murder him.”
“What’s in the folder? You must’ve learned something.”
“I did.” He pushed the cream and sugar jars away and laid the documents in the folder across the table. Out of habit, he subtly peered over each shoulder and scanned the café for suspicious-looking people who might be spying but only found the usual mix of hungry tourists in walking shoes and ranchers with dirt on their boots. One boomer-aged couple in floppy hats and sunglasses wandered by in that semi-zombie state of tourists that sometimes follows serial over-gawking. A cowboy in the corner watched them with a bemused smirk hiding behind an unkempt handlebar mustache. Elias continued.
“For one thing, did you know that the name Bo is from Boris? His grandfather . . .”
“Cut to the chase, Elias, gimme the dirt. Someone out there had it in for him. Who?”
“Bo’s business lobbies and does consulting work on various management problems for various financial outfits—high rollers mostly, from back east.”
“Yeah, I know that. I looked him up, too. He’s written a bunch of corporate management guides that are used for training. How to lobby, how to negotiate and all that stuff.”
Elias thumbed through the pile of papers in front of him and pulled one page out and passed it to Otis. “That’s right. Here is what is not apparent. The real money is made by one division of his business that he never publicized. You might say he did his best to hide it. That operation is hired by corporations when they downsize or close an unprofitable business. Firing a bunch of people at once is risky and hard to do. There’s always the chance for hysteria, confrontations, or even sabotage. So the termination management consultants—that’s what they call themselves—go into a workplace or office and take care of the dirty work. The people who are being laid off are notified at their workstations individually by these hired guns. Their keys and computers are confiscated and they are escorted to a room where counselors stand by. Papers are presented that explain why they are losing their jobs, the terms of their being let go, resources that will be made available to them to deal with the crisis . . . they have all these brochures with titles like ‘Job transition as an opportunity for growth.’ If anyone freaks or becomes violent, these termination consultants are trained to deal with that. When the building is cleared, they change the locks and then secure all the computer files. Bo Hineyman found a way to profit from misery. After the financial meltdown in 2008 he couldn’t keep up with all the business that came his way.”
Otis was hopeful. “Well, if that’s the case, Bo Hineyman had lots of enemies, lots of serious enemies, I’d guess.”
“Not really. Bo never appeared at those places. He sat in his office in Miami and went to lunch with lobbyists and other venal cretins. The people who were fired never even saw his name.”
Otis’s face drooped. “What about his family? Maybe he has a crazy nephew, or a sibling or ex-wife who’s jealous. Something!”
“If that’s the case, I failed to find anyone. I’m sorry, Otis, but it’s not looking good. If I had access to his personal communication I might pick up on something but I don’t have that kind of power. But I did talk to one of Dunk Taylor’s deputies. The guy has a business on the side installing rain gutters and was over at my place two days ago. He’s not supposed to say anything but I buddied him up and after a second bottle of beer he became talkative. He said they went in and scoured Bo’s place and didn’t find a single incriminating fingerprint, a hair, a piece of fabric, footprint, nothing.”
“No shit, they won’t find my prints in there. I’ve never been in that log mansion he calls a cabin. Never.”
“They don’t have a case against you, Otis. It’s all very circumstantial. We just have to sit tight and hope that something else shows up.”
The two men stared at the table, not knowing what to do next. Buchman gathered his research and put it into the folder. “If I find anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Elias. I appreciate your effort on this. It feels good to just have someone on my side.”
“Grace made a casserole for you. She’s concerned about your health. She wants you to come over and get a massage, too. You gotta keep yourself well, Otis, despite the stress. Walk me out to the car and I’ll give you that casserole.”
Otis smiled. “Grace. What would we do without Grace?”
Chapter 9
Crazy Kitty heard about it at the post office. Bo Hineyman was murdered and Mayor Otis Dooley was the prime suspect. She knew it! Hadn’t she told everyone that Mayor Dooley worshipped Satan? Hadn’t she warned them? “What do you think he’s doing under your houses all day? Plumbing, right? Well, you can go on believing that but I know better. He drinks three six-packs a day. Get it, 666? And he takes pictures of birds with that huge lens he lugs around. Hangs out with those radicals who turned the Wheeler place into a bird sanctuary. You can find all about their kind on the Internet. No-people zones, that’s what they’re after. One of these days the buses will come—black ones—and then you’ll find out too late. They’re building secret prison camps in the mountains. Underground with UN guards at the gate, Kenyans and Muslims mostly.”
Kitty frowned and squinted as she muttered to herself. It was a loud simmering mutter that could easily escalate to a full-boil rant. Those waiting in line at the post office counter pretended they didn’t hear her and hoped she wouldn’t become even more agitated. The Stony Mesa post office was small enough without Kitty in it.
“Once they take all the guns away from us we don’t stand a chance! That’s why I keep mine in this big purse. People think I’m just carrying around my precious little pug, Hoover, but there’s a loaded 45 in there, too. One of those Satan lovers like Dooley tries any of that hocus-pocus bird stuff on me he better watch out!”
Right on cue, Hoover the pug barked twice and concluded his cameo with a low growl. Like his mistress, he would snap at you if you ventured too close. Perhaps riding in a bag with a loaded gun made him a tad nervous.
Elias Buchman tried to avoid Kitty, especially on days when some current event or imagined slight set off a mumbling rant, but this morning there was no avoiding her. He needed stamps and was waiting for a package to be weighed when she cornered him in the glorified closet that served as the Stony Mesa post office. As he walked out, she walked in and blocked his path. Known for her creative attire, Kitty was wearing a man’s suit jacket, a ruffled blouse, and a bow tie. A stained pair of gray sweat pants and red sneakers completed her ensemble.
“Excuse me, Kitty,” he said as politely as he could, “but I have to get going.”
“Oh sure,” she responded, “you’re one of those.”
“One of those what?”
She shook her head, smiled smugly and cast a disdainful look directly at his eyes. “Liberals!”
Elias had a theory. Pollution was a kind of information. Smog, acid rain, toxins in drinking water, pesticides on fruit, all spoke volumes about the way we regard life, the way we grow food and make things, our priorities, our mistakes, who has power and who is powerless. In an age of digital information overload where we are saturated with multiple stimulations, distractions, and feedback during all of our waking hours, noise had become the new pollution and paranoia was the new cancer.
“Turn off the Rush Limbaugh, Kitty, you’ll feel better.”
Elias was there to mail a jar of jam that Grace had made from plums she grew in their backyard. It was a birthday present for their daughter, who lived in Europe. It cost a fortune to send jam across the sea by mail but you couldn’t put a price on Grace’s jam.
Sheriff