Winterkill

“I’m Marybeth Pickett, Joe’s wife,” Marybeth said, extending her hand, and smiling with a hint of malice, Joe thought.

“Joe’s been working very closely with our effort, and we appreciate that immensely,” Strickland said, looking at him. “He’s been such a help.”

“I didn’t get that impression when you called me on my cell phone,” Joe said.

Strickland reacted as if Joe had slapped her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she said. Then her expression softened once again into her hostess face.

Wow, Joe thought.

“So tell me, Joe,” Strickland asked, “have the extremist tendencies in this area affected the job you’re trying to do?”

Joe thought for a moment. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure what you mean by ‘extremist tendencies.’ There are a few bad apples, but the community is generally supportive.”

Strickland cocked her head skeptically at Joe. “Really?” she said, in a way that indicated that she didn’t believe him, but didn’t want to cause a scene.

Joe shrugged. “Some folks might get a little eccentric and hardheaded when it comes to land policies and rules and regulations. But I’ve found you can deal with them, if you’re reasonable and fair across the board.”

“ ‘Eccentric’ is an odd term for the murder of a Forest Service supervisor, I would think,” Strickland said, looking to Marybeth and Broxton-Howard for confirmation.

Joe waded in, taking advantage of the moment, wanting to make a point while Melinda Strickland was in front of him.

“I want to let you know,” Joe interjected, “that I met a man named Wade Brockius a couple of days ago. He’s the spokesman of sorts for the—” But before Joe could get any further, Melinda Strickland suddenly noticed that the cookies were gone from the nearest desk and excused herself to admonish the employee. Broxton-Howard faded into the crowd.

Joe and Marybeth looked at each other.

“Well, she’s interesting,” Marybeth added. “In a bad kind of way.”

“Remember what Nate Romanowski said,” Joe added.

“You’re quoting a murder suspect, Joe,” Marybeth smiled.

“I’ll stop doing that,” Joe said sourly.

“But did you notice how Melinda was acting with you?”

Joe shook his head.

“She wasn’t talking with you or even listening to you. She was assessing you,” Marybeth said.

“Why?”

“To see if you’ll be any value to her personally; if you’ll buy into her agenda, her career path, or hurt it. Remember when you told me she almost turned back on the mountain? It sounds to me like when it got tough physically, she looked up and saw that probably nobody in that party really mattered to what was important to her. She saw a bunch of local yokels and the state DCI. A bunch of losers. The only person in that group who mattered was the journalist, and she was already in her camp. The rest of you meant nothing. She’s a user, and she’s dangerous.”

“You got all that from a two-minute exchange?”

“Yes.”

Marybeth nodded toward Broxton-Howard, who now commanded the attention of McLanahan and Reed.

“She’s nice-looking,” Marybeth said in a flat tone. “It takes hours to make your hair look that casually wind- tousled.”

Joe wisely said nothing.

While Marybeth searched for the bathroom, Joe sought out County Attorney Robey Hersig.

“What are your plans tonight, Joe?”

Joe rolled his eyes. Their New Year’s Eve plans were the same as they had been since Sheridan was born eleven years ago: They would go to bed early. Missy had asked about parties and celebrations in town, and hinted that she might want to go. Joe had offered her the use of their minivan, and she had wrinkled her nose, but accepted.

“Got a minute?” Joe asked. Hersig nodded and motioned Joe into an office behind them. He entered and sat on a desk and loosened his tie. Joe eased the door closed behind them. The office had been Lamar Gardiner’s, but was now, obviously, occupied by Melinda Strickland. A framed photo of her cocker spaniel stood on the desk. Joe hadn’t realized that she’d already moved in.

Hersig was from one of Twelve Sleep County’s oldest ranching families, and after a bout of college rodeo he had gone into law at the University of Wyoming. His first term as county attorney would end in the coming year, and there was speculation as to whether he would run again. Although almost brutally cautious when it came to prosecuting a case, Hersig had an impressive track record of convictions. The summer before, Hersig and Joe had discovered that they were both fly fishermen, and had floated the Twelve Sleep river together in Hersig’s flat- bottomed McKenzie boat. They got along, and made plans to do it again. To both, fishing together successfully created a special bond.

Joe had called Hersig earlier in the week to talk about April, but their conversation had been brief; Hersig’s phone was full of static, thanks to damage from the storm.

“We’re not sure what we can do about Jeannie Keeley,” Joe said. “Can we ask for a restraining order or something?”