“Well, I wouldn’t call it that. Don’t know what I would call it. Maybe putting together atrocities. Huge, horrible things that’re a mishmash of what he drags home from the dump. Let’s see if he’s there.”
I wouldn’t’ve let that barn stand two minutes on my ranch in Mono County. Of course one good windstorm, and it probably wouldn’t be standing here much longer. The door was open, hanging crooked on weak hinges, and a rust-spotted pickup was nosed inside.
“Galway’s?” McCone asked Mrs. Mallory.
The landlady nodded and called out to him. There was no answer. Quiet there. Only the rustle of eucalyptus windbreak and flies buzzing under the eaves. And a feeling of wrongness. I felt the hair on my neck bristle, looked at McCone and saw she was getting the same warning sign. Together we moved through the door and stopped by the truck.
The clotted shadow was broken by shafts of light from holes in the high roof. They filtered down on a couple of eight-foot towers shaped like oil derricks made of metal, wood, glass, and plastic. Their components were all different pieces of junk: beercans, chair legs, bottles, parts of a baby stroller; an automobile bumper, fence rails, barbed wire, a window pane, a refrigerator drawer.
“My God,” McCone said, she didn’t mean it reverently.
My eyes had adjusted to the gloom now, and I saw other towers that were toppled and broken, lying on their sides and canted across one another as if an earthquake had hit the oil field. The one at the top of the heap was crowned by the blades from a small windmill.
“Stay here,” McCone said to Mrs. Mallory. Then she started moving through the wreckage.
I followed, because I’d spotted what she had-a pair of bluejeaned legs sticking out from under the bottommost tower. Bluejeaned legs and feet in shabby cowboy boots. McCone squatted down and shoved at the debris while I lifted. Together we cleared enough room so we could see the man’s face.
Glenn Farrell, aka Nick Galway.
His neck was bent at an unnatural angle, the back of his head caved in and bloody. McCone felt for a pulse, shook her head, pulled her hand away quickly.
“He’s cold,” she said.
I heard a noise behind us, swiveled, and looked up at Mrs. Mallory. Her eyes moved from the body to us, shocked but unflinching. Yeah, a tough old bird like Ma.
“How did this happen?” she said.
I shook my head and stood up. Like he told the dump lady, Farrell’s art was junk-or in his junk-and now his lifeblood mingled with it.
I glanced at McCone, who had stood up too. Her expression was as unflinching as Mrs. Mallory’s, but I knew what was going on behind those steady dark eyes. She’s seen a lot of death, my woman, but she’s never grown indifferent to it, any more than I have. By all rights we should both be pretty callous: In her years as an investigator she’s had more than her share of nasty experiences, and my own past still gives me nightmares. But inside we’ve got that essential spark of humanity-which was why we drew closer together now as we stared around at the wreckage.
Broken lamp globes. A vacuum cleaner bag and part of a rusted wheelbarrow. Curved chromium chair arms. A 1973 Colorado license plate. Mason jars-shattered. Broken mirror-bad luck proven. Chipped head of a grinning garden gnome and some paperback romance novels with holes drilled through them. A toaster’s innards. Moth eaten stuffed dear head. Busted axe. The top of the windmill, one blade missing…
Behind us Mrs. Mallory asked again, “How did this happen?”
Hands-off attitude be damned! I said, “I know how. Let’s call 911.”
“It was an accident!
The deputy, whose name was Evans, rolled his eyes at McCone and me.
“Why the hell couldn’t he just’ve stayed in bed?” Delmar added. “I’d already found the windmill blade. Why’d he have to come out there?”
Evans said, “Where is the windmill blade?”
Delmar collapsed on a bent lawn chair and put her hands over her eyes. “Why do things like this always happen to
McCone tapped the deputy’s arm, motioned at the refuse bin where we’d seen Delmar toss the thing that at first glance looked like part of a plane’s prop. He went to check, came back shaking his head. “Ms.Delmar, where is it?”
“Oh hell! All right! It’s in there.” She moved her shoulder at the shed behind us. “I had to paw through all that junk, scraping paint off everything till I found it. For all I know, it’ll never clean up right.”
Evans sighed. “I’ll have to read you your rights now.”
“My rights? Why? I already told you it was an accident. His fault anyway, runnin’ out there and attackin’ me.”
Evans gave up, motioned to his partner, who was standing by their car, to take over. Right off Delmar started yowling about calling a lawyer.
Evans took McCone and me aside, muttering, “Galway-Farrell-is dead, but she’s the injured party.”
McCone said, “Nowadays, it’s always the other guy’s fault.”
“One thing bothers me: this woman’s not very bright, and she doesn’t strike me as an art expert. What tipped her to who Farrell was?”
“He told her he used to be a famous sculptor under another name.”
“But did he tell her what name?”
McCone hesitated, frowning. “I don’t know. Maybe. But he certainly wouldn’t’ve told her about the gold.” She looked at me, raising her eyebrows.
I shrugged, then spotted the sign advertising recycled merchandise at low prices. “Well,” I said, “maybe she’s a reader.”
“Oh?” From both of them.
“Come on.” I headed for the shed where the books were. Maybe I’d come across an old western or two while I was hunting.
Plenty of romances, best sellers, self-help, and cookbooks, but no old westerns. On the back wall, though, there was a pictorial set:
I found the index and flipped to “Farrell, Glenn.” There were several notations, but the most interesting was “theft and disappearance.” I showed it to McCone and Evans.
“So,” she said, “Mary Delmar
“Yeah, she is. She spotted this set, decided to see if she could find out who Galway actually was. Read about the stolen gold, and figure out what he a meant about his art being junk.” To my astonishment, McCone hugged me. “Ripinsky, what an absolutely fabulous birthday present!”
I leered down at her. “You like that one, wait till you see what else I’ve got for you.”
She narrowed here eyes at me, then flicked them toward Evans. She’s a very private woman, one of the many reasons I love her. And now I’d gone and said something that would make her all prickly.
