Chapter Twenty

The next morning, with an almost desperate need to get out of town, I loaded my fancy SUV with all the “observation” equipment I’d need to visit the Whitlash area where the Martin, check that, my farm was located. I wanted out of Prairie View and all its memories. I figured a drive in the country, whatever information it produced, would be a balm for my agitation. I also called Sylvia McCutcheon, my lawyer in Great Falls, to get an update on the status of the legal process surrounding the Martin mess.

Sylvia assured me things were moving, glacially, but they were moving, with a court date scheduled for eight weeks hence.

“I don’t want to be here for another eight weeks. I was hoping to get back to Seattle in two, maybe three weeks, at the most.” I think I heard either an exasperated sigh or a choked chuckle on the other end.

“Ms. O’Hara, I know—”

“Call me Jill, Sylvia.”

“Okay, Jill, I know you have a timeline, but the judicial system has its own timeline. And that’s something even God can’t push. What I can do, however, is make an assessment and determine how much of your participation is necessary. In the meantime, my roommate and I would like to invite you for dinner.”

And there it was, the clue to handsome and distinguished Sylvia’s availability. And I was slightly disappointed. “Roommate” is intimation for “lover or partner,” terms which were avoided by in-the-closet dykes. Closeted lesbians made good friends, to a point, but have snubbed me in public places. I was too “open” according to them, a threat to their equanimity.

“Your roommate? Do you mean your girlfriend?”

“No, he’s my housemate and a fabulous cook. I don’t have a live-in girlfriend at the moment, but we’re working on it. My lover is an attorney for the Air Force, stationed here at the base. She’s in Korea right now and won’t be back for another month. You can meet her then, well, after we’ve had a few days of ‘debriefing.’” That cleared things up for me. Sylvia was not homophobic, unlike many rural professional dykes. She had earned my trust.

“Sounds great, Counselor. We’ll arrange dinner. Now, what do you know about the goings-on at the Martin place? I get the feeling there’s more there than we know about.” I waited several seconds for her reply, which finally came, circumspectly worded.

“Jill, as your legal advisor, I’m encouraging you to eschew any intentions of investigating that farm. If there are activities on the farm that are questionable, the less you know about it, the better. You are the legal owner and liable, but deniability can help you in a court of law. We must remove the Martins from the property with the full force of the law supporting us. It’s possible it could be dangerous, otherwise. Have you discussed anything with the sheriff?”

“Well, um, I did have a visit with her, but it didn’t go very well.” I felt like a kid caught picking the neighbors’ flowers without permission. “She’s holding back information about the Martins. I can’t trust her, can I? Talk about conflict of interests, her diddling around with Josh Martin.”

“Sheriff Terabian is a law officer to her core. Whatever her…relationship is with the Martins, I doubt it will cloud her judgment. In fact, I don’t think the rumors are true. I just hope you haven’t alienated her, because she can be useful.”

“It sounds like you know more. Care to let me in?”

“Like I said, deniability is your shield, and let’s leave it at that.”

I ended our conversation with a hearty promise to drive down to Great Falls for supper in a few weeks and a leaden promise to stay out of the Martin mess. My leaden promises are meaningless. My instincts screamed, “Story!” and I was loath to let any part of the Martin situation get away from me. If I was going to be stuck on the Hi-Line for a few weeks, I might as well be doing something amusing.