Dead Point (Maggie Blackthorne Book 1)

by LaVonne Griffin-Valade

  I started to tell him I planned to ship his report to the sheriff and town police, so any new info should go to them, but I decided to let that go. “Any suspicious activity or people hanging around lately?”

  “The shop’s been busier than usual. People gearing up for lambing season, getting in repairs while they can, that kind of thing. Nobody out of place or anything strange that I noticed.”

  “Your nephew works for you, right?”

  “Yeah. He helps part-time. On Saturdays. Sometimes during the week after school.”

  “And Frankie Jacoby works at the feed store too, right?”

  Duncan nodded. “You know Frankie. He’s not capable of theft. And he’s worked for our family for a dozen years or more.”

  “Do you keep your storeroom locked?”

  He removed his broad bull rider hands from his pockets and placed them palms down on the counter in front of me. “No, but it’s right behind the cash register. I’d likely notice somebody going in there.”

  I contemplated asking how someone might have managed to steal from the storeroom, then. But decided to let that go, too. “Out any cash?”

  “I reconcile nightly. Never been short.”

  I studied the permanent tan lines where his wedding band used to be and the patch on his wrist where he must have worn a watch at one time. The man had clearly spent too much time out in the weather.

  I entered his contact info at the store, along with the list of stolen merchandise, on the report form and angled my computer screen toward him. “Is everything correct, and can I send it to you electronically?”

  He read over the theft report and placed a McKay Feed and Tack business card on the counter. “Looks good. My email’s there on the front.”

  I typed in the address and sent him the document. “Done.”

  Duncan put on his cap and directed his green eyes my way again. “I appreciate your help tonight.” He shifted his gaze toward the stained ceiling tiles and slowly scratched his day-old beard along the jawline.

  I found the gesture of looking up and crabbing at his chin whiskers charming. “I’ll be in touch if any of the stolen merchandise turns up.”

  After Duncan left, I wrote the name and model number of the two missing cattle prods along with a list of the cheaper items on the blank side of his business card and slipped it into my pack. After filing his report and sending copies to the sheriff up at the courthouse in Canyon City and to the town police station a block west of my office, I vacuumed the dinky waiting area.

  I scarfed down a bologna sandwich with mustard and a side of low-fat Ritz crackers and tried calling Dan and Joseph’s mother and father. Lynn didn’t answer, and Farley’s number had been disconnected.

  I secured the back door and the cranky, rusted lavatory window for the night and bolted shut the front door. I decided to go on a late-night tavern tour—the Den, the Cave Inn, the Gold Nugget Saloon, the Rifleman Club—and look for signs of the Nodine brothers and their Ram 3500. But I suspected even those boys weren’t that stupid or conspicuous.

  I parked in the rear lot at the Rifleman Club, where Farley Nodine tended bar. The air, clear and brittle, held the sweet odor of dry snow. Taking in the patch of stars burning through the roaming clouds, I lingered before entering the dank, rancid-smelling tavern.

  Ariel Pritchett, a woman I’d known since elementary school, slouched awkwardly toward me dressed in once-white sneakers and a baby-blue server’s uniform. “Maggie. It’s slow tonight. I was just gonna lock up,” she said.

  “Is Farley here by any chance?”

  “Nah. Already left.”

  Ariel had always been quiet, squirrely, with the same square face and deep-set eyes as her siblings, cousins, uncles, and aunts who all lived in a complex of trailer houses up along Dog Creek. The Pritchett clan, or what remained of it.

  “Have his sons come by the bar lately? Maybe this evening?”

  She massaged her neck with her right hand. “Danny and Joey? Nah. They don’t get along too well with Farley.”

  “Have you ever seen them driving a large red crew cab pickup?”

  Ariel paused. “I know they still got that old green army jeep.”

  “Would you mind giving me a call next time they drop by?”

  She stroked a grungy tabletop with her wet bar rag. “Sure, I guess. Long as I don’t get too busy and forget.”

  “Thanks, Ariel. Nice to see you.”

  She would never have told me a thing, not even if the Nodine boys had been hiding in a back room three feet from where the two of us stood talking, let alone give me a call if they showed up at the bar. It didn’t pay for people like Ariel to help any cop, childhood acquaintance or not.

  Bone-tired, I drove to the Castle Thrift Store. I lived upstairs in the dumpy studio apartment I shared with Louie, my sixteen-year-old tabby. Before I reached the steps, Dorie Phillips, white hair cut crisp around her pocked face, waved from the window of her thrift store. Dorie had been tight friends with my mother, had taken Zoey’s suicide hard. That shared hurt was the bond that would forever tie me to Dorie.

  She opened the door and moved outside. “Maggie,” she whispered hoarsely, the vapor of clove cigarettes drifting across the space between us. “You’re home late tonight.”

  Dorie was definitely a lot more than a landlord to me. She rented to me for a song and dropped by at least once a week with a home-cooked meal. She was a comfort, for sure, until the talk turned to Zoey, or my choice in men, or all that cussing. Well, not so much that last thing, it being more of a character flaw than a memory of heartbreak or wretched stupidity.

  “Sorry if I was too noisy just now,” I told her.

  “Heck, I’d welcome more noise from you. Some laughing, some singing, even some thudding around from a little hanky-pank would make me think you were finally getting back to normal.”

  Dorie was one of those rare Christians who see the Bible as a giant allegory meant to teach humankind that lust is the embodiment of divine joy. Or something like that.

  “Maybe I can train Louie to knock over the furniture occasionally. Or yowl instead of purr.”

  “Har har. You’re too young to be an old maid with a pet as your only companion. You’ve been living back in town more than two years now and never even had a date as far as I can tell.”

  “Let’s just say, the pickins are mighty slim around here.”

  She patted my arm lightly. “And maybe you’re just too particular.”

  “You didn’t say that about the last husband I brought around for a visit.”

  “I knew that was a rebound romance. You were the one who figured it out too late. But you did figure it out.” Dorie pulled her terry robe tighter and pushed her hands into its pockets.

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “How about Zach Davis?” she suggested.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Or Sean Mayhew? He’s a nice guy. Smart. And not entangled. Not gay either.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She winked. “I’ve got a sixth sense about these things.”

  “Why didn’t you warn me when I brought the first husband around?”

  We laughed and sat down on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to my place.

  “Oh, that Morgan. He’s such a sweet man. Just fooled me is all,” Dorie said.

  “Fooled himself for a long time, too.”

  She lifted her hands from the robe pockets and clasped them around mine. “I’m serious about you finding somebody to date.”

  It struck me as not like Dorie to leave Duncan McKay’s name off of her list of possible suitors. I might’ve even been open to it, but I wasn’t about to let her know that. “You’re going to freeze your ass off out here.”

  “Don’t change the subject, and don’t cuss so much. Cripes, I know you better than you think. You need a lover to share your hurts with, laugh with. You need a man. A good man, but a man,” Dorie said, tapping her temple. “Sixth sense, remem
ber?”

  “What I need most right now is sleep.” I stood, extended a hand, and helped Dorie rise from the step. “I’ll give your dating suggestions some thought, but I’m not much in the mood these days.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, we’re talking about your mental health here, Maggie. Anyway, you know where I live if you need to chat.” She stepped inside the thrift store, retreating to the separate rooms in back where she took up residence.

  Upstairs in my compact living space, Louie greeted me with his best cat pout. I hunted around in the kitty cabinet and found a fresh packet of Feline Greenies, which seemed to appease him. I put a frozen entrée in the microwave and opened the county library’s copy of Libbey vs. Chase. I’d renewed the dueling-cop-duo novel twice already and still hadn’t made it past page eighty. The timer finally dinged, and I drew back the steamy coverslip and nibbled away resolutely at the desiccated meal.

  Close to midnight, Louie padded to his tattered cat pillow at the foot of my bed, and I climbed under the covers. Before dousing the light, I picked up the photo of my mother and father propped on the nightstand, one taken long before all the heartbreak began. In it, Tate displayed his cowpoke swagger, a long arm around Zoey’s small waist. She wore the high platform sandals fashionable in the day and barely reached the height of his shoulder.

  Tate had passed down to me his thick, black hair, but otherwise, I was much the image of Zoey. I placed their framed photograph back on the nightstand and shut off the lamp. At my feet, Louie’s engine rattled under the luminous curtain of winter’s waning moon.

  2

  Morning, February 21

  Tate stroked the palomino’s ivory mane, loaded the animal in our busted-down horse trailer, and drove past the decrepit little cemetery with its forgotten dead relatives, toppled grave markers, and overgrown patch of wild yellow roses. At the gate, he lifted a fifth of Sonny Brook to his lips, looked out across the simmering black river and the broad alfalfa plain. He tipped back the bottle, drank its golden liquid, saluted the basalt rune of Aldrich Mountain, and moved his old truck onto the highway.

  I wrenched awake, leaving that old dream in the murk of sleep. I knew how it ended. Tate sold off his horse and traded in a life with Zoey and me for booze full-time. I switched on the lamp and pulled the comforter around my shoulders. From the other side of my apartment, the oven clock beamed fluorescent.

  “God. Four thirty,” I rasped.

  Through the cracked window above the sink, I watched a juniper toss in the bitter wind while the old furnace battled to heat the apartment. I wished for more sleep, but I was wide-awake. “Might as well get your ass in to work, Blackthorne.”

  It was close to six when I stepped inside our trooper station. Hollis was already there, plowing through more LEDS data, searching for some clue about the Nodine twins. I was used to his tenacity, the ardent expression he wore peeling back the layers in a trove of data. A set of furrows had lined his brow years before, the payoff for all that deep digging.

  “Those two are in here somewhere,” he said.

  “You know what they say about the early bird. Speaking of early?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “I had the same problem. Maybe it’s this mud we drink all day.” I poured warmed-over coffee into a heavy blue willow mug and sipped. “This shit’s awful.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll speak to the help about it.”

  I opened my computer and waited for it to roll through its near-death rattle. “How’s Lil this morning?”

  He stopped slapping his keyboard. “Still eight-and-a-half months pregnant. You’re going to talk to her, right?”

  “Right after I pay a visit to the Nodines’ mother and father.”

  I drank my coffee, checked agency updates online, and listened to Hollis grouse at his computer—the State server’s slow speed, the ignorant browser, the even dumber spellcheck feature.

  “Okay, I’m leaving you to your love-hate relationship with that old Dell. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  Lynn Nodine had raised her rowdy boys in a sweet little place up Canyon Creek near the courthouse. As a girl, I’d wanted to live in a house like that, one surrounded by green grass, a patch of purple iris and snowball bushes, not alkali mud, cheat weed, and seven busted-down dog kennels.

  The blinds were shut tight at Lynn’s. “Mrs. Nodine? It’s me, Maggie Blackthorne,” I called out, knocked at the door.

  Through the leaded glass window, I saw a light switch on at the rear of the house. After a few minutes, she moved into view. She always had been an attractive woman. That and pretty surly, demeanor-wise.

  Lynn Nodine stood behind the locked door. She checked her watch. “What is it, Margaret?”

  No other local had called me by that name since back before Zoey drove off Widow’s Creek Bridge a quarter century ago. “I need to talk to your sons, ma’am.”

  She slowly slid the lock pin and opened the door a crack, leaving the chain in place. “I haven’t spoken to those boys in nearly a year.”

  “I was hoping you might have their contact information.”

  “We don’t stay in touch. Why do you need to see them so bad?”

  “They poached a deer yesterday and took off before I could issue citations.”

  Lynn’s piercing glare contained not one whit of subtlety. “I seem to recall a supper of fresh venison, biscuits, and gravy at your mama and daddy’s house one New Year’s Day. Even years ago, January was a ways from hunting season.”

  I remembered it exactly. Zoey and Lynn in the kitchen frying up Tate’s illegal meat—the animal’s prized, tender backstrap, in fact—the three of them drinking highballs and arguing politics. In the next room, the twins and I played Pig, a kid card game invented by Zoey. Later we watched a rerun of The Dukes of Hazard and competed for best ten-year-old belching artist. Memory might be a trickster, but it seemed for a while back then things would turn out fine for all of us.

  “Like you say, ma’am, that was years ago.” When I was a girl and before his liver gave out, Tate always hunted game out of season, some combination of subsistence lifestyle, renegade mindset, and poverty.

  Lynn pressed an open palm to leaded glass. “You call me ma’am one more time, and I’ll come out there and pop your smart lip.”

  I could see she dyed her hair that deep auburn, the trademark of her well-known temper.

  “Try their cousin Jess Haney. Lived in Burns, last I knew.” Nothing else to say, she shut the door, slid the lock pin in place, and ambled back to the rear of the house.

  I glanced around for signs of her sons having paid a recent visit. No heavy-duty truck tracks, and the garage, listing to one side, stood wide open and empty except for Lynn’s old orange VW bus.

  Using mobile comp from my police vehicle, I checked DMV and LEDS for the cousin. No licensed driver in Oregon had the name Jess Haney no matter what spelling I tried. I searched the internet on my phone. Again, nada.

  I phoned Hollis. “The mother says she hasn’t spoken to the Nodine men in about a year. Suggested I talk to a cousin. Jess Haney. Might live in Burns, but I found no one by that name in the system. Gone into the ether like Dan and Joseph, I guess.”

  “Is Haney a male or female?”

  “Shit. Didn’t ask. I could barely get a name out of the woman.”

  “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “I’m off to Mount Vernon to check with their old man.”

  As I pulled into Farley Nodine’s place, a bluster of rain and snow mix kicked up. He opened the door and signaled for me to pass through into his low-lit kitchen. We sat at the massive wooden spool that once held yards of barbed wire and now served as his dining table. It was garnished with an old hubcap filled with cigarette butts. None too pleased to see me, he was still more hospitable than his ex-wife.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  Farley was a faded man, skin and hair the color of beeswax. Good thing he had to wear that long black apron at the Riflema
n Club, otherwise the sheer filthiness of his clothing might have driven away even the most indiscriminating of drunks. Evidently he wasn’t making much on his bartending wages, living as he did in a broken-down shed probably built for tool storage.

  “I need to get in touch with your sons.” My visible breath took up space in the unheated room.

  Farley’s head bobbed just above the tabletop. He picked through the collection of butts cradled in the hubcap until he found one with a surviving nubbin of cigarette. He lit it, sucked in the nicotine and particles of tar.

  “Did you hear me?” I asked.

  “I don’t know where they live, let alone got a phone number. Maybe their mom?”

  “No. Lynn says she hasn’t talked to them for some time.”

  His cigarette now burned to the filter, he threw the remains back in the hubcap. “You asked Ariel, right?”

  “I did.” But I hadn’t learned a lot. Clearly I needed to ask her again.

  He shrugged. “Then I don’t know what to tell you.”

  I handed him my card. “Call me if you hear from your boys. Top number’s my cell.”

  Farley placed the card on the spool table. “That everything?”

  “For now,” I said, rising to leave.

  He stared blankly, his lips dredging forth the tobacco leavings of a new cigarette butt.

  “You have a good day, Farley.”

  On the way to Hollis and Lil’s house up on Airport Road, I considered Farley and all the people I’d known like him. Despondent and defeated, blaming their dark fortunes on some underhanded twists of fate. Forever poor of spirit and means and losing hope fast. That was about the time some folks got religion, if they were ever going to.

  Lillian Two Moons sat in a rocker on her front porch, bundled in a wool blanket. We shared a few traits in common, including having a bit of an attitude and a romance with the arid expanse of eastern Oregon, despite everything else that came with calling the place home.