could never solve Jimmy Porter’s murder—it’s just not as easy as those lil’ mysteries you solved out East.”
“I’ll do you a favor,” she said, “and not take you up on that bet.” Then she turned her attention to the photos. They included longer shots of the crime scene. Shots of the ranch, with its rugged rock outcroppings. The blacksmithshop, the old sawmill, the wall of cow skulls. A photo looking down from the top of the steep cliff that backed the ranch property that gave Louise a renewed sense of vertigo. The picturesque gravestones. A glimpse of the back range.
Pete reached over and put his finger on the shot of the piney woods. It appeared to be a landscape shot, and nothing more. “See that white spot? That’s why the sheriff had to see this one. There’s a face in the pines—someone wearing a dark hat, with a bandanna or something pulled over the bottom of the face.”
“The murderer?”
“Who else?” asked the cameraman, challenging her. “Why would someone be standing in the woods when all of us were gathered in the ranch driveway watching the police do their thing? Why didn’t that person come over and join us to find out what was going on? Maybe Tatum is right and it was a poacher.”
Marty called to them to hurry it up.
“There’s no tellin’ what Tatum’ll do with this—probably nothin’. I’m busy as hell workin’ on a couple of specials for Channel Six, but I’ll have time pretty soon to make some big prints on fine-grain paper, and we’ll see better what we’ve got.”
“But I don’t really want to—”
“Yes, you do,” said Pete. “You want to know who did it as much as I do. Anyway, how are you goin’ to count on our goofy sheriff to find out?”
“Goofy is right. How did a man like that win the sheriff’s job in a place like this?”
“You’ve gotta know the county. It isn’t all Boulder sophisticates. There’s lots of farmers and down-to-earth working folks who
prefer
a guy like Earl. He campaigns really well. Has big barbecues and invites all the registered voters he figures punched a ballot for him one time oranother. And when it comes down to it, he knows how to do the job.”
As if transfixed, Louise continued to stare at the print of the figure in the woods. She didn’t need a blown-up picture. She could already see the person in the picture was staring right at her and Pete. Had to have known they’d been snooping and taking pictures.
Marty and the others were already far below them on the path. The producer turned around, gesticulated wildly, and called to them again, but his words blew away in the wind. He looked like an excited actor in a silent film. Louise waved reassuringly. Pete had shoved the pictures back in his bag. He grabbed her hand and they hurried down the mountain path together.
The wind subsided as mysteriously as it had risen, allowing them a less eventful shoot near a streambed in the wildflower meadow. It was so peaceful that Marty said he felt like lying down and taking a nap, like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
. But Pete, arms akimbo, warned him, “It may be peaceful now, but there’s your warning.” He pointed to the dramatic cigar-shaped clouds floating in the porcelain blue sky. “We’ll have more heavy winds tonight.”
By practically burrowing into the ground, the cameraman got the clouds, the flowers, and the stream in the frame with Louise. “Streams are good,” he told her amiably, “but clouds are even better, better than everything—well, almost everything: old fences, barns, mines, tombstones, and rusting buggies also are good. But clouds, now, they’re one of Colorado’s endearing attractions. Gotta get ’em, even if you don’t get the talent in the picture.” A big grin, to assure her he was kidding.
The moist riparian land burgeoned with flower species, each more enchanting to Louise than the next. She andDerrell walked among masses of rose crown, with its elongated pink flower
“I’ll do you a favor,” she said, “and not take you up on that bet.” Then she turned her attention to the photos. They included longer shots of the crime scene. Shots of the ranch, with its rugged rock outcroppings. The blacksmithshop, the old sawmill, the wall of cow skulls. A photo looking down from the top of the steep cliff that backed the ranch property that gave Louise a renewed sense of vertigo. The picturesque gravestones. A glimpse of the back range.
Pete reached over and put his finger on the shot of the piney woods. It appeared to be a landscape shot, and nothing more. “See that white spot? That’s why the sheriff had to see this one. There’s a face in the pines—someone wearing a dark hat, with a bandanna or something pulled over the bottom of the face.”
“The murderer?”
“Who else?” asked the cameraman, challenging her. “Why would someone be standing in the woods when all of us were gathered in the ranch driveway watching the police do their thing? Why didn’t that person come over and join us to find out what was going on? Maybe Tatum is right and it was a poacher.”
Marty called to them to hurry it up.
“There’s no tellin’ what Tatum’ll do with this—probably nothin’. I’m busy as hell workin’ on a couple of specials for Channel Six, but I’ll have time pretty soon to make some big prints on fine-grain paper, and we’ll see better what we’ve got.”
“But I don’t really want to—”
“Yes, you do,” said Pete. “You want to know who did it as much as I do. Anyway, how are you goin’ to count on our goofy sheriff to find out?”
“Goofy is right. How did a man like that win the sheriff’s job in a place like this?”
“You’ve gotta know the county. It isn’t all Boulder sophisticates. There’s lots of farmers and down-to-earth working folks who
prefer
a guy like Earl. He campaigns really well. Has big barbecues and invites all the registered voters he figures punched a ballot for him one time oranother. And when it comes down to it, he knows how to do the job.”
As if transfixed, Louise continued to stare at the print of the figure in the woods. She didn’t need a blown-up picture. She could already see the person in the picture was staring right at her and Pete. Had to have known they’d been snooping and taking pictures.
Marty and the others were already far below them on the path. The producer turned around, gesticulated wildly, and called to them again, but his words blew away in the wind. He looked like an excited actor in a silent film. Louise waved reassuringly. Pete had shoved the pictures back in his bag. He grabbed her hand and they hurried down the mountain path together.
The wind subsided as mysteriously as it had risen, allowing them a less eventful shoot near a streambed in the wildflower meadow. It was so peaceful that Marty said he felt like lying down and taking a nap, like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
. But Pete, arms akimbo, warned him, “It may be peaceful now, but there’s your warning.” He pointed to the dramatic cigar-shaped clouds floating in the porcelain blue sky. “We’ll have more heavy winds tonight.”
By practically burrowing into the ground, the cameraman got the clouds, the flowers, and the stream in the frame with Louise. “Streams are good,” he told her amiably, “but clouds are even better, better than everything—well, almost everything: old fences, barns, mines, tombstones, and rusting buggies also are good. But clouds, now, they’re one of Colorado’s endearing attractions. Gotta get ’em, even if you don’t get the talent in the picture.” A big grin, to assure her he was kidding.
The moist riparian land burgeoned with flower species, each more enchanting to Louise than the next. She andDerrell walked among masses of rose crown, with its elongated pink flower
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