“I can’t.”
“Quiet!” Byron yelled. There was a knock on the window. Lonnie rolled it down.
“Your sticker says February,” Dalton said.
“Oh, man. That’s right. I did it online. I guess I forgot about it.”
“For three months? You have the paper?”
“You mean the one from the website?”
Dalton nodded.
“No, I don’t have that. I mean I did it, but I don’t have it now.”
He handed Byron the ticket.
“Will this violate my parole?” Byron asked.
“It might.”
“No, it won’t!” Lonnie said. “A ticket is a petty offense.”
“Shut it!”
“Your lawyer is right, but if that rifle is loaded,” the sheriff said, sliding his pen back into his breast pocket, “then you could be headed back to the big house.”
Lonnie began rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. Dalton took note and directed Byron and Lonnie to both get out of the truck and move to the front and place their hands on the hood. He cuffed Byron and said, “You are not under arrest, but I’m detaining you while I check that rifle.” He opened the bolt and checked inside. When he saw that it was empty, he replaced the weapon, knocking the maps out of the rack so they bounced from the seat to the floor. Byron went rigid, then stamped one foot on the ground. Dalton replaced the maps and returned to the front of the vehicle. “Mr. Ashdown, you’re clear on the gun, but a little advice. A person in your legal situation is going to want to cross his t’s.”
“Sure,” Byron said.
“‘Yes, sir’ is good enough,” Dalton said, then he removed the cuffs and walked back to his car, got in, and switched off the lights.
___
Dalton waited for the turquoise pickup truck to drive off, then he followed it to the light, where it turned north, then turned again into the grocery store parking lot. There were only seven thousand people in the county, so Dalton recognized the brothers, but he only knew bits and pieces of their story. They were Ashdowns. The short one was a prodigal and a cipher. The taller one was more familiar but still mostly someone who kept to the sidelines.
Dalton turned south and drove to the public safety building, turning his thoughts to the moving parts of the Bruce Cluff suicide. He knew Bruce was always fighting with the Bureau of Land Management and the Park Service about something, and he knew Bruce had a reputation with collectors. He was retired and set for money after he sold his dental practice, so he didn’t do anything he didn’t want to. If Bruce took his own life, it came from a secret he wouldn’t want to face in a town that knew everything about everybody.
When Dalton pulled into the public safety building, Stan Forsythe, the editor of the Red Rock Times, was leaning against the wall next to the front doors in running shoes, with a purple golf shirt tight across his belly. There was one pair of glasses on his head, another on his face, and a third hanging from a cord around his neck. Stan straightened up when he saw Dalton pull in, which made Dalton want to back out and leave, but as he put the car in gear, another car drove in slowly behind him and tried to park in the spot alongside his. The car stopped and adjusted and started again and adjusted, then started again, boxing Dalton in.
He got out and walked toward Forsythe, who moved into his path.
“Sheriff?” Forsythe said. “There was some pretty interesting chatter on the shortwaves last night. I’ve got questions.”
“About?”
“Don’t play coy with me.”
“I don’t even know what that means, Stan. Some kind of goldfish, right?”
“You’re a riot. But why don’t you ask yourself why a man Cluff’s age would off himself?”
“Been asking that question for the last twenty-four hours.”
“So, you’re confirming it’s a suicide?” Forsythe said, lowering his head so he could see over his glasses. He pulled a small notepad from his pocket.
Dalton massaged both of his eyes and said, “You know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“Yoo-hoo!” a voice called out from behind them. “Sheriff Dalton, yoo-hoo!” It was Janey Gladstone. He turned around and saw her coming toward him in a large-brimmed straw hat and gigantic round sunglasses. She was wrapped in a flowing paisley gown that settled around her when she stopped moving.
“If you don’t give me something, people will just make up whatever they want and send it out on social media. You won’t be able to get that genie back in the bottle. The internet is dry grass and people are setting off fireworks,” Forsythe said.
“Sheriff?” Mrs. Gladstone said. “What are we going to do? It’s all so horrible.”
Dalton spun around. “What are we going to do about what?” Dalton said, turning again to make sure he knew where Forsythe was.
“About Bruce and Raylene. Mostly Raylene. I mean Bruce is, well . . . there’s nothing to be done.”
Forsythe raised his eyebrows to say, that’s what I’m talking about.
Dalton tried to get to the door, but Forsythe stepped in front of him like a defensive end. He sort of wished he could handcuff the guy to the flagpole.
Mrs. Gladstone said, “I could go to the house and help clean up.”
“No, Janey. You can’t do that.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble, Sheriff. I know where Raylene keeps the—”
“It’s a crime scene, Janey. The investigators will be there all day.”
“That’s good. They need to be thorough. But eventually she’ll need some things.”
“I think she’s covered for today. Please don’t go to the house.”
“Janey, the sheriff doesn’t think we should know what’s going on,” Forsythe said.
“That’s not it.”
“Oh, Sheriff, everybody knows,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “It doesn’t take long.”
“Look, both of you. Somebody is going to give a statement, but it’s not going to be right now, and it’s not going to be me who does it.”
“Oh, this is all too much,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “Our little town. What makes a person so sad?”
“People are thinking this suicide might be connected to the Feds coming back to shake people down for the artifacts they’ve collected fair and square. Once bitten, twice shy, Sheriff,” Forsythe said.
“Look, don’t print that, okay? People are amped up enough already. Last thing we need is one of your don’t-tread-on-me rallies. This has nothing to do with federal overreach. And it would be a great idea if you wouldn’t stir the pot.”
“A free press keeps the windows of democracy from getting fogged up,” Forsythe said.
Dalton’s shoulders drooped. “I’m not going down that road with you.”
“It’s a shame when people are so scared of their own government. Cluff didn’t do anything wrong. He just collected arrowheads and pots and whatnot. He didn’t steal anything, but I’ll bet he was getting heat over it.”
“Nobody is investigating Bruce Cluff for stealing artifacts, Stan. I need you to be the kind of person who won’t say that.”