Robert B Parker
Potshot
Chapter 1
SHE WAS WEARING a straw hat, pulled down over her forehead, a short flowered dress, no stockings and white high heels. A lot of blond hair showed under the hat. Her face was nearly angelic and looked about 15, though the fact that she wore a wedding ring made me skeptical. She marched into my office like someone volunteering for active duty, and sat in one of my client chairs with her feet flat on the floor and her knees together. Nice knees.
'You're Mr. Spenser.'
'I am.'
'Lieutenant Samuelson of the Los Angeles Police Department said I should talk to you.'
'He's right,' I said.
'You know about this already?'
'No,' I said. 'I just think everybody should talk to me.'
'Oh, yes… My name is Mary Lou Buckman.'
'How do you do Mrs. Buckman.'
'Fine, thank you.'
She was quiet for a moment, as if she wasn't quite sure what she should do next. I didn't know either, so I sat and waited. Her bare legs were tan. Not tan as if she'd slathered them with oil and baked in the sun-tan as if she'd spent time outdoors in shorts. Her eyes were as big as Susan's, and bright blue.
Finally she said, 'I would like to hire you.'
'Okay.'
'Don't you want to know more than that?'
'I wanted to start on a positive note,' I said.
'I don't know if you're serious or if you're laughing at me,' she said.
'I'm not always sure myself,' I said. 'What would you like me to do?'
She took a deep breath.
'I live in a small town in the foothills of the Sawtooth Mountains, called Potshot. Once it was a rendezvous for mountain men, now it's a western retreat for a lot of people, mostly from L.A., with money, who've moved there with the idea of getting their lives back into a more fundamental rhythm.'
'Back out of all this now too much for us,' I said.
'That's a poem or something,' she said.
'Frost,' I said.
She nodded.
'My husband and I came from Los Angeles. He was a football coach, Fairfax High. We got sick of the life and moved out here, there actually. We run, ran, a little tourist service, take people on horseback into the mountains and back-nothing fancy, day trips, maybe a picnic lunch.'
' `We ran a service'? ' I said.
'I still run it. My husband is dead.'
She said it as calmly as if I'd asked his name. No effect.
I nodded.
''There was always an element to the town,' she said. 'I suppose you could call it a criminal element-they tended to congregate in the hills above town, a place called the Dell. There's an old mine there that somebody started once, and they never found anything and abandoned it, along with the mine buildings. They are, I suppose, sort of contemporary mountain men, people who made a living from the mountains. You know, fur trapping, hunting, scavenging. I think there are people still looking for gold, or silver, or whatever they think is in there-I don't know anything about mining. Some people have been laid off from the lumber companies, or the strip mines, there's a few left over hippies, and a general assortment of panhandlers and drunks and potheads.'
'Which probably interferes with the natural rhythm of it all,' I said.
'They were no more bothersome than any fringe people in any place,' she said, 'until about three years ago.'
'What happened three years ago?'
''They got organized,' she said. 'They became a gang '
