Winterkill - C. J. Box [47]
“You’ve heard from Pastor Robbins about the life of Lamar, and I’m here to let you know that he didn’t die in vain. No Sirree Bob.”
No Sirree Bob? Joe felt Marybeth squirm next to him. And he felt it again when Melinda Strickland paused and forced a blazing, inappropriate smile.
Joe felt a cold shiver run through him. Was it just Strickland, he wondered, or was it Romanowski’s manipulation?
“Cassie,” Strickland said to Carrie Gardiner, getting her name wrong, “your dutiful husband was the casualty of a war that we must, and will, stop. When citizens turn against their federal government it will not stand, ya know?”
Joe tried to attribute Melinda Strickland’s words, gestures, and behavior to nervousness. She was certainly making Joe nervous. And Marybeth seemed to be trying to shrink into her chair.
“Ya know, this little war some citizens have with federal employees has gone too far, don’t you think?” She seemed to be looking straight at Joe, and she nodded conspiratorially.
“Ya know, a group of extremists have set up a compound on federal land. That’s kind of ‘in your face,’ don’t you think?”
Melinda Strickland went on for another five minutes. Her thoughts seemed random and disconnected, sound bites in search of a paragraph. Joe barely heard her, but he did hear Marybeth groan.
When she was through, Strickland approached Carrie Gardiner and her children, and grasped both of Carrie’s hands in hers.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Cassie,” Strickland said.
Joe noticed that Elle Broxton-Howard was scribbling furiously in her notepad. As Strickland rejoined her employees, she turned and handed her speech to Broxton-Howard, who accepted it with a grateful smile.
The reception/wake was held at the Forest Service building. Joe noted right away that the Gardiners hadn’t come. He felt sorry for Carrie, and especially for her children. The other mourners stood in the reception area, drinking punch in paper cups and eating cookies from plates on the office desks. USFS employees stood uncomfortably behind the desks, urging mourners to have another cookie with a lack of enthusiasm that led Joe to believe that they had been instructed to be good hosts by their immediate supervisor, Melinda Strickland.
Elle Broxton-Howard approached Joe and Marybeth and introduced herself. She wore a high-collared Bavarian wool jacket over black stretch pants. She handed Joe a card.
“Rumour Magazine,” Joe read aloud. He gave her his card, and she slid it absently into a pocket without looking at it.
“It’s very popular in the U.K,” Broxton-Howard explained. “It’s kind of a cross between your Maxim and People, with a little of The New Yorker thrown in for highbrow literary content. I also freelance.”
“I think my mother reads it,” Marybeth said, making conversation.
Broxton-Howard nodded at Marybeth, but turned again to Joe. Joe knew how well this would go over with his wife.
“I’m doing a long-form story on the battle between the rural militia types and the U.S. government,” Broxton-Howard said, “And I plan to feature Melinda Strickland as my protagonist. I see her as a strong-willed, independent woman in a man’s world. A Barbara Stanwyck of our time.”
She was interrupted, however, as Melinda Strickland joined them wearing her wide, inappropriate grin. Her cocker spaniel trailed behind her.
“I’m Marybeth Pickett, Joe’s wife,” Marybeth said, extending her hand, and smiling with a hint of malice, Joe thought.
“Joe’s been working very closely with our effort, and we appreciate that immensely,” Strickland said, looking at him. “He’s been such a help.”
“I didn’t get that impression when you called me on my cell phone,” Joe said.
Strickland reacted as if Joe had slapped her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she said. Then her expression softened once again into her hostess face.
Wow, Joe thought.
“So tell me, Joe,” Strickland asked,