Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel

blame him none. He’s going through hell. That woman, she had no right to put him through that kind of hell.”
    Quiet descended over the kitchen, and Vicky could feel the eyes of the other women turning toward them. She took Vera’s hand. The woman was trembling. “I’m going to take T.J. to my place to rest,” she said, her voice low. “I’ll take him to Gianelli this afternoon. Will you get his things?”
    Vera drew in a long breath. The trembling seemed to recede intowhatever recess it had erupted from. “Wait here.” She withdrew her hand and headed into the living room.
    â€œWant some coffee?” one of the women asked. The others had turned back to the counters, cutting casseroles and cakes, stacking paper plates and Styrofoam cups. Another woman was at the stove, turning chunks of fry bread in a pan. Drops of grease spattered the adjacent counter.
    â€œNo, thanks,” Vicky said. Vera stood in the doorway, holding out a canvas bag that bulged at the sides. A plaid wool jacket was folded on top.
    â€œTry not to worry about T.J.,” Vicky said, taking the bag and jacket. The load was heavy in her arms. She slipped past the woman and made her way through the knots of people to the front door.
    T.J. was asleep, she thought, opening the passenger door. Then she realized that he was awake, eyes closed, staring at some image on the back of his eyelids, clasping and unclasping his hands. The inside of the Jeep was like a freezer. She set the jacket on his lap, then shut the door.
    He was pushing his arms into the sleeves as she got in behind the steering wheel and tossed the canvas bag over the front seat. The stale smell of whiskey hung in the space between them.
    â€œWhat else does the fed want from me?” T.J. asked, a plaintive note in his voice that made her heart go out to the man.
    The Jeep plowed over the barrow ditch and out onto the road before Vicky glanced over, struggling to ignore the uneasy feeling that clung to her like the odor of whiskey. “Maybe you’d better tell me what you told Gianelli last night.”
    It was a moment before T.J. said anything. The rhythm of his breathing—in and out, in and out—was like a soft drumbeat punctuating the sound of tires crunching gravel. “Told him how I came home from the office and found her,” he said finally.
    â€œWhat time was that?”
    â€œLate, Vicky. I don’t walk around looking at the clock.”
    Vicky glanced over again. Shades of wariness and distrust were working through the man’s expression. “No one is accusing you of anything,” she said.
    â€œAround nine,” he said after a few seconds. “Maybe nine-fifteen. Council meeting ran late. Some of the councilmen are starting to think that maybe we shouldn’t go against Senator Evans on the methane drilling, since he might be the next president. Maybe we oughtta withdraw the request for more studies that we sent the BIA.”
    Vicky stopped herself from commenting. This wasn’t her business. Surely the law firm in Cheyenne would discourage the council from backing away.
    â€œFound her in the bedroom,” T.J. pushed on. “Blood all over the floor. God, I knew she was dead, but she still had her eyes open. I started screaming. I don’t even remember calling 911, but I must’ve, because pretty soon the police were pounding on the door. Then the fed showed up and started asking me all kinds of questions. Father John came over.”
    John O’Malley. She’d been working at putting the man out of her mind. No more phone calls with some lame excuse about how somebody was doing, just to hear his voice. They’d worked together on a lot of cases since she’d come back to the area five years ago—DUIs, divorces, drunk and disorderlies, drug possessions, and homicides—more homicides than she wanted to remember. He would’ve been one of the first people