text: "La Femme Fatale of the Frontier" By AJ Lemos “La Femme Fatale of the Frontier” is what she calls herself. Or maybe that’s what “they” call her. Not entirely sure. Either way, she’s causing quite a stir, from what I hear. “I swear she owns the town,” the young female ranch hand Bobbi Sue semi-giggled as she uttered the words, and I continued our interview. We strolled along on horseback along the long, dusty dirt trail. “How she ended up here, I got no idea. Don’t figure a town of this size would show up on any of them maps they sell in the downtown shops, know what I mean?” I was a middle-aged investigator in my second year at the local county sheriff’s department who had been assigned to look into reports of what appeared to be organized crime involving a young, up-and-coming female who was making quite a name for herself in our small-town community. To investigate someone like this deserves - and requires - multiple perspectives. This young rancher named Bobbi Sue was a lead I had gotten from a local women’s social club. Apparently, Bobbi and “la femme fatale” were seen socializing together a time or two. “Acquaintances...nothing more, I can assure you,” was Bobbi’s response to any assumption there were any social or other ties between the two. I think Bobbi is aware of “La Femme’s” criminal ties. “How did y’all meet again?” She paused for the first time during our interview. Her horse was stopped abruptly in its tracks. I highly doubt she stopped to let a deer cross the path. Sudden stops like these are usually not a good sign in my line of business. Bobbi Sue looked down at the ground. Her golden blonde braids of hair fluttering in the breeze under her chocolate brown wide-brimmed hat. “We both belong to the same women’s social club, but I honestly don’t exactly remember,” Bobbi tried to recall, as she and her horse came to a complete stop on the path. “We were never formally introduced, if that’s what you mean.” “Seems to me you would remember having met someone like this person...” “Sorry; don’t remember.” We continued as the day got hotter. The unforgiving high country heat out here in this part of the west can put a beating on even the most healthy of humans, which I admit I am not one. “She just showed up one day at one of our meetings, acting like she was all in charge,” Bobbi Sue continued, in an annoyed tone of voice. “You know, like she was the president or whatever.” “I’m guessing that was not a welcome sight?” “Noooooo.” “Then I saw her a few nights later in one of our gambling halls, talkin’ all sorts of crazy things about, like, her husband and stuff.” “What sorts of crazy things? Care to explain?” “Oh, like, how he don’t say much, especially ‘round her. Almost like she was braggin’.” “And that’s crazy?” “Well, out here, in the frontier culture and such, a lady kind of needs to know her place. Not always male-dominated necessarily, but a wife shouldn’t be talkin’ such negativity and down on her husband like that.” I could tell by her facial expressions and gestures that these words were driven as much by personal belief and conviction as they were by societal norms. “Do you know when she came to town and where she came from?” “When I have been around her, I have noticed a slight Irish accent, I’d say. Maybe she was born in Ireland? My family came here from Scotland originally, so we know a little about western European history. She reminds me a little of the stories I’ve heard about Anne Bonny, that famous lady pirate. Heard of her? “I have.” “Yeah, just the attitude and stuff. Nah, you’d have to ask someone ‘round here who knows her better about when she came to this town. I’d guess a few years back.” “Her nickname...’La Femme Fatale’...given to her or she created it herself?” “Ahhh, now that’s one I can help you with!” Bobbi almost seemed appreciative that that was my next question. “Come to find out, anyone who spends any more than, say, 20 minutes talkin’ with her will learn that her nickname is self-proclaimed.” “....And the reason....or reasons?” “Hah!” There was an unexpected long silence that followed. Perhaps our interview on horseback had reached its conclusion, albeit abruptly and without warning. Perhaps I had crossed a line I didn’t know existed. Or perhaps my guest was thoughtfully considering her response. Either way, patience was my ticket to the answer I so craved. That much I knew. “She breaks all the rules, that one.” “Huh? Would you care to....” I didn’t even have time to finish asking my.... “We all know it’s not a matter of ‘if,’ but how many? You know, men, I mean. Don’t take the ‘fatale’ part literally. From what I hear, she’s being funny with that part. But she goes through them. Some married, some not.” Her tone of voice ranged from that of a stern, no nonsense courtroom judge to a high-pitched, Sunday morning church pew gossip. “Affairs you mean?” I asked her. “Adultery?” “And her charm...my god, that charm!” Bobbi Sue said with her voice rising, as she looked out over the horizon. “Not to me, but to them...those men. I feel so sorry for their wives, girlfriends, and such!” “So, she’s a homewrecker, I take it?” “More than that! She has money. Or her husband does. She’s bought 2-3 businesses here locally. She’s driving out the originals, too. Disgusting! Business savvy, I tell ya! Out for blood, more like it!” “Wow, doing damage both publicly privately. And she’s younger, yes?” “Um, wanna say early 30’s maybe? So, yes. I’m in my mid-20’s.” Whatever the reason, this interview felt at this point more like casual conversation between old friends or two family members. Maybe it was because we were on horseback? Maybe it was the scenery....the landscape...not much to offer that was pleasing to the eye. Patches of brown grass. Cactus scattered about. Old, wrought iron fences that indicated property boundaries and wind direction with its creaking noises as it responded to the wind’s gentle push. I continued my interview. “So....know anything about her supposed ties to criminal activity?” “Nope! Can’t help ya there, friend,” her response as quick as the weather patterns change where we live. “’Cause I’ve heard...” “Look, she hangs out with ‘em in gambling halls, know what I mean?” “From what I’ve heard and what you’ve said, yes.” “All I can say is...she probably shouldn’t run for public office ‘cause of all the dirt they’ll dig up on her, know what I mean?” “Any specifics?....” “You don’t give yourself the nickname ‘la femme fatale of the frontier’ if you’re sitting around your home all day, doin’ the dishes, lookin’ after the kids, cleanin’ the house, and such.” “Probably not....” Another long pause. I continued the interview. “So, anything else I need to know before I head off?” “I don’t know. Is there? Like I said, I swear she owns the town,” Bobbi Sue semi-giggled yet again as she uttered those now eerie words again, and I finished our interview. We strolled along back to her ranch so she could get back to her afternoon job duties. As I was leaving to head back to my office, I know my search for “La Femme Fatale of the Frontier” was far from over. And I was also determined to find out who “they” are. Not entirely sure. Either way, she’s causing quite a stir, from what I hear.