Plains Crazy by J.M. Hayes Page A

one?” He’d love to savor the feel of a real Cheyenne bow, test its pull, see whether he was a natural archer the way he sometimes thought he was a natural shaman. Except that he didn’t think Parker could find him one. Besides, he was curious why she kept fooling with that piece of pipe and treating it like it could be some sort of critical evidence.
    â€œActually,” she said, “I do.”
    ***
    It felt more like stepping inside a luxury suite at a resort hotel instead of into a glorified Greyhound. There was a door to the driver’s compartment, closed at the moment. It appeared to be made of carved mahogany and was flanked by papered walls on which hung a pair of original oils. Modern in style, they resisted the sheriff’s efforts to determine whether they were erotic nudes, as he first thought, or, on second glance, whether they were even human.
    Brad Davis led the way between a plush sofa and a pair of easy chairs across carpet thick and green enough to mow. He was followed by the sheriff and a young man who, but for costume, was so athletic and sun bronzed he might have stepped right off the set of
Baywatch
. Davis had introduced him as his associate producer, Sean, and the man who’d provided such heroic efforts in trying to get Michael Ramsey’s heart restarted that morning.
    â€œI hope you don’t think PBS is paying for accommodations like this,” Davis said as they exited the living room and entered the kitchenette. There were two ovens, in case you needed a multi-course dinner. “But it is a benefit of working for PBS. We have some wealthy and generous benefactors. The use of this RV was donated to us for the duration of our filming here. And as director, well, I got first choice.”
    Just past the kitchenette was a hall that ran along the starboard side of the vehicle, off which a number of equally ornate doors led to what might include a master bath, or even a formal dining room. Davis stopped at the second one and pulled out a set of keys.
    â€œCloset,” he said, before selecting the key he wanted. He turned to his associate. “Sean, you took them from the guy who picked up the bows and arrows and brought them in last night, right?”
    â€œMust have been about nine,” the man said. “I brought them here and we locked them in this closet.”
    Davis opened the door. It was a walk-in closet with cedar walls that perfumed the air, further evidence that the director of
This Old Tepee
was living in very different circumstances than the subjects of his program. The garments within, though, including plenty of furs, appeared to belong in the encampment instead of the RV.
    â€œSpace is at a real premium,” Sean explained. “So Mr. Davis let us appropriate this as a spare wardrobe. Since we aren’t going to have our subjects actually go out and kill anything to make their own clothing, we’ve got at least one back-up costume for everyone. One of the ladies has already discovered you can’t launder a leather dress the way you would fabric.”
    A stack of bows lay on a shelf across from the furs and leathers. Several bundles of arrows were layered on the shelf just above. Below stood an assortment of moccasins. Shoe shelves, the sheriff guessed, with nearly enough space to have satisfied Imelda Marcos.
    â€œThis is where we left them,” Sean said.
    â€œYeah,” Davis agreed. “They don’t look disturbed. I might never have noticed any were missing unless we needed all six bows.”
    The sheriff counted. There were only five. “Then one of the arrows ended up in Michael Ramsey’s back and you came to check?”
    â€œRight,” Davis said. “Just got to it a few minutes before you drove in. I was trying to decide what I should do about it. Frankly, your deputy didn’t seem like the guy I’d admit something like that to, not unless I’d already contacted my