Page 70 of South of Nowhere (Colter Shaw #5)

70.

Colter parked the Yamaha outside Mrs. Petaluma’s house.

Mary Dove’s pickup was nearby, as was Dorion’s SUV.

There was another vehicle too. Annie Coyne’s Jeep Wrangler, back to its topless state. The forecast was in. No rain was predicted. One weatherman said that the recent inundation would have virtually no effect on California’s drought.

Colter walked to the front door and rang a bell.

“Come in.” It was his mother’s voice.

He slipped off his shoes—protocol, it was clear—and stepped inside. He studied the cozy place, filled with mismatched furniture, in many different styles, from mission to JCPenney house brand to contempo black leather. Family pictures and Indigenous decorations and paintings and drawings. Comfortable in the way that Annie Coyne’s house was, and in a way that his house—he actually owned one, in Florida—decidedly was not.

He smelled cooking fish and upon entering the kitchen he found Mary Dove in charge of the stove, and Dorion, Mrs. Petaluma and Annie at a round table that dominated the space. Mrs. Petaluma was shelling peas. It wasn’t harvest season, but Colter had seen a hothouse on the south side of the property. Crops all year round.

Annie looked his way. She was pleased to see him, as he was her, but there was a pall in her eyes. He recalled the slim piece of paper that foretold the likely end of her generations-old farm.

He whispered to Dorion, “Tony’s text.”

She nodded. “I saw it. We’ll have to warn her before we go outside again. At least she’s got her weapon.”

Colter noted the big Ruger on their mother’s hip.

He wondered again. What was their half-sister’s mission?

Mary Dove took the colander holding the peas and boiled them, then drained the pan, and added butter and some herbs from a small window garden. Mrs. Petaluma removed a potato casserole from the oven. Colter asked about the location of the china and utensils, as he, Coyne and Dorion set the table.

The plates were handed out and each person filled theirs to near the breaking point.

“Need a levee to keep the sauce in,” Dorion remarked.

Laughter.

Mary Dove occasionally said a type of grace in the Colter household before meals. It was not spiritual, but simply a recognition that the family was together. It often ended with “And another day has passed, and we’ve survived.”

This often drew a smile from everyone, even—until his last months—Ashton.

Today, though, the meal was ceremony free, and they dug in. The hamburger had dented but not derailed Colter’s appetite.

“The fish is great,” Coyne said to Mary Dove.

“Fresh as can be,” the woman responded.

And Colter wondered when on earth his mother had found the time to go shopping.

They talked about the cases against the suspects and how Colter and Debi Starr had deduced that the real estate developer was the ultimate perp.

“He was stupid. His triggerman, Waylon Foley, went through burner phones every six hours or so. Gabris kept the same one he’d had for days. The call log has dozens of other numbers the police are checking out. Mostly untraceable burners, but there’s a landline in Calexico.”

Annie Coyne gave him a questioning look.

“Town on the, yes, California-Mexico border. Small place, not much happening there. The only thing of note is that it’s near the All-American Canal. That’s the only source of water for all of Imperial County, east of San Diego and L.A. Runs from the Colorado River to the Salton Sea. Eighty-two miles. Longest irrigation canal in the world. If that canal’s sabotaged, or the Colorado runs dry, a billion tons of agricultural products disappear. FBI and Homeland are very interested in what Gabris’s connection is to the place.”

“Water,” Annie Coyne whispered, as if the word were an obscenity. She had eaten the least of all of them.

After they had finished and were clearing the dishes, Mary Dove’s phone lit up with a text. She looked at Mrs. Petaluma and asked, “Can I use your computer again?”

“Of course.”

Mary Dove said to the others, “Come with me.” A curious tone in her voice. Mysterious and important.

Dorion and Colter shared a glance.

They all walked into the den, which was even more jam-packed than the rest of the house with memorabilia and art, most of it involving Native people and sites. Mrs. Petaluma sat at her crowded but orderly desk and turned on a computer. A large flat-screen monitor came to life. She began typing quickly.

The woman glanced up at Colter, who stood nearby. She said, “I see that expression, Mr. Shaw. Is this where you tread into a minefield, thinking, oh, an elderly Indigenous woman using the internet?”

“No,” he said, gently pushing back. “What I’m thinking is, you don’t often see anyone running Linux as an operating system.”

A shrug. “Open source. So much better than Windows or Apple. Mary Dove? What’s the URL?”

Their mother held up her phone, displaying the text she’d just received.

It turned out to be a Zoom invitation. Mrs. Petaluma typed in the URL and then rose, giving her seat to Mary Dove, who sat and, seeing herself in the camera, smoothed an errant strand of hair.

A moment later they were looking at a man wearing a pale shirt with the top button undone and the collar spread wide, a loosened gold and black tie hanging low. His hair was the opposite of Mary Dove’s—frizzy and disordered.

“Mrs. Shaw.”

“Mr. Grossman. I have some other attendees.” She gave the names of those present.

“Hello, everyone.”

The office was that of a lawyer, Colter could see. The back wall was lined with case reporters—in their distinctive beige and red hue that every law student and lawyer in the country would recognize instantly. He could see too that the man was in San Francisco; Colter caught the Bay out one of the man’s windows. The view featured a sliver of the Rock—Alcatraz.

Mary Dove said, “Barry handles many of my legal matters. Now.” Nodding to his digital form. “Your text said you have some information for us.”

“I do. Now, no lawyer on earth is going to give you a one hundred percent answer to a legal issue, but I think we’re in the ninety-fifth percentile on this one.”

Again, Shaw and Dorion shared a questioning glance. She lifted her palms, as if to say, “I have no idea.”

Their mother said to the lawyer, “I haven’t said anything to my friends and family. Perhaps you could fill everyone in.”

“Of course. Mrs. Shaw became aware of a potential legal situation today, and she asked me to look into it. Now, you mentioned Ms. Coyne’s presence. Where are you hiding, Ms. Coyne?”

The woman frowned in curiosity and stepped in front of the camera.

“Hello.” Her voice was uncertain.

“Greetings. Now, have a seat. If there’s a seat to have.”

Mrs. Petaluma pushed one forward and Annie sat.

“Mrs. Shaw was explaining that until today your farm and Redding Mining Company had an informal arrangement to divide the water in the Never Summer River fifty-fifty since neither of you could prove superior rights.”

She sighed as she repeated, “Until today.”

“Mrs. Shaw told me a lawyer for the mine found a certificate of first use that predates your family’s arrival in Olechu County.”

“That’s right. And it looks authentic.”

“It probably is. The water board records don’t go back that far, but those certificates were not uncommon and the board and local authorities have upheld them unless there had been an obvious forgery.”

“It didn’t look forged.” Her voice was filled with discouragement.

Grossman absently brushed his crazy hair, making it all the crazier. “Now, a little history about Hinowah. It was originally populated by a settlement of Native Americans from the Miwok Nation. By the way, I have to thank my paralegal for this. Rashid is a miracle worker. He dove into records going back hundreds of years. Found a treaty between tribal elders and the army. The tribe would supply fruits and vegetables for the soldiers, and the army would protect them from warring tribes.

“And do you know what else Rashid found? Maps of irrigation ditches from the Never Summer to the Miwok farmland, as part of that treaty. Dated 1841. I understand from Mrs. Shaw that you’re Miwok, Mrs. Petaluma.”

“Yes. And my family has been on the land here since 1837.”

The exact date seemed curious to Shaw, until she continued with an edge to her voice. “The year our family ancestors fled—after the Amador Massacre. Mexican colonists attacked their village and executed two hundred of our people.”

Colter, Dorion and Russell had been homeschooled, and as part of the history “track,” Ashton had taught how, throughout the 1800s, the California government, as well as white settlers, engaged in systematic genocide and ethnic cleansing, forced labor and child separation. The Indigenous population was 150,000 in the 1830s. In 1900, it was around 15,000.

The woman scoffed bitterly. “Fort Pleasant …it was anything but.”

Grossman grew somber. “I am very sorry for that, Mrs. Petaluma. Now, to the matter at hand. According to the Law of the River, the Hinowah Miwok tribe can claim first use of the Never Summer. And since you appear to be the sole successor in interest, Mrs. Petaluma, that water’s yours. Every drop. One hundred percent.”

The woman took this news without any emotion. After the briefest moment of hesitation, she tilted her head toward Annie Coyne. “So if I want, I can give her as much as she needs.”

Coyne gasped. Her mouth was agape.

Grossman nodded and said, “It’s yours to do with what you want.”

“Can we get a ruling on that?”

“I’ll draft the petition today.”

“And also a codicil in my will to make sure my heirs do what I direct with the water.”

“Of course. Just send me a copy of your original will. Mrs. Shaw will give you my email.”

“ Mi’we’lu takmu , sir. Thank you.”

The call ended.

Then Annie Coyne was on her feet and throwing her arms around Mrs. Petaluma, who—Shaw was not surprised—endured the gesture awkwardly. Mary Dove received the next embrace.

Then, instantly, it was back to business. Mrs. Petaluma rose and headed for the kitchen, saying, “We have peach pie and rhubarb. I commend them both.”

As if anyone who dined in her house would be committing a sin to forego dessert.