Free A Nose for Justice by Rita Mae Brown

a very effective one. You know, these days Nixon would be considered too liberal by his own party.”
    Lonnie thought out loud, “Someone bombs Pump Nineteen. Eventually claims that this was done to protect water rights for all individuals or something like that. Everyone is shocked, right?” Jeep nodded, so he continued. “The politicians push harder to limit Silver State’s control of water.”
    “Seems to me if that’s the drill, it’s better than one well-trained person acting alone.” Pete wiped his hands on a napkin.
    “It is. There’s governance within the group, but one person alone does whatever they want. Even if they aren’t mentally unstable, one person without any feedback from others ultimately presents a greater danger. At least that’s how I see it.” Jeep tapped her forefinger on the table.
    “Last thing we need, another self-righteous bastard.” Pete said low, then blinked. “Excuse me, ladies.”
    Jeep smiled. “As I recall, I used that very same profanity to describe this creep.”
    Walking the men to the back door, Jeep put her hand on Pete’s shoulder. “How’s Rebecca?”
    “Good. She goes every six months for her checkup and she’s great. Thank you for asking.”
    “Give her my love.”
    “I will.”
    As they drove away, Mags asked, “Who’s Rebecca?”
    “His mother. Had a bout with colon cancer. I don’t remember this much cancer when I was young, but don’t worry: I’m not going to sing that tiresome tune about the good old days.”
    Mags said, “No. I agree with you about cancer rates. It’s like an unacknowledged epidemic.”
    King looked down at Baxter.
“He liked her.”
    Baxter twitched his neatly trimmed moustache.
“She liked him, too.”
    “They don’t know it, of course.”
    “Can’t smell a damned thing. The odor is quite sweet. No wonder they make such a mess of it.”
Baxter plopped down on the kitchen floor.
    “Kind of sad, isn’t it?”
    “King, if Mags would have listened to me, or if she had any kind of nose, she’d know the last fellow she liked wasn’t worth an old Milk-Bone.”
    “You like Milk-Bones?”
    “Not as much as Greenies,”
Baxter promptly replied. Nothing was better than gnawing on those dog biscuits.
    “Greenies really are the best, but expensive. Mom complains about the cost.”
King laid down next to Baxter, a sign of acceptance.
    “Jeez, your mom has more money than God.”
    “Doesn’t stop her from complaining.”
King laughed, put his big handsome head on his brown-tipped paws, and fell asleep.
    J eep and Mags sat in Jeep’s office, paneled in cypress. The cypress, at four hundred pounds a tie, had been used for railroad ties in the 1930s in Mississippi. When some were torn up, Jeep—who was beginning to see some return on her business—bought the lot of them and had them shipped to Reno. She took them to a sawmill to be cut into planks for her office. She’d always loved the soft platinum glow of cypress.
    Unlike many offices, hers was shorn of plaques and displayed no degrees (she had none) or photographs of so-called important people. A large Frederic Remington painting hung over the fireplace. That was trophy enough. A small Frederic Remington sketch hung on the wall and onewas in the hall, too. The smaller ones were often overlooked. People not conversant in the arts did not recognize this important artist’s distinctive gift.
    In her bedroom, photographs of Danny Marks; Dot; Jeep’s beloved sister, Sarah; Mags; Grandmother all reposed in silver frames on a table near her bed. A large picture of Glynnis Rogers; John, her husband; Mags and Catherine as grade-schoolers sat on her dresser, along with a photo of a wonderful old quarter horse she had purchased with the first profits she made from the mines. Framed photos of various deceased beloved dogs and cats filled a table, along with a picture of Thor, a now-deceased attack goose, who lived in the memory of everyone who’d had the occasion to be chased